Nathan Stark, Army Scout

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  The soldier with the lantern came trotting up, followed by two more guards with rifles. The circle of yellow light from the lantern spread out over the ground and washed over the man lying there. Nathan’s jaw tightened as he spotted the black, high-crowned hat with the eagle feather in the band a few feet away. It had come off when its owner had knocked Nathan out of the way.

  Moses Red Buffalo groaned again and tried to get to his feet.

  “Damn it,” Nathan muttered under his breath as he holstered the Colt and stepped into the light. Kneeling beside the Crow scout, he told the soldiers, “Take it easy, boys. The excitement’s all over.”

  Red Buffalo turned his head enough to look up at Nathan. “Stark, were you hit?”

  “Just by you. How bad are you hurt?” Nathan told himself he didn’t care how badly an Indian was wounded, but Red Buffalo had saved his life... again. There was no denying that.

  “I think I’ll live. Seems most of the charge went above us. The fellow must have jerked the barrels up a little when he pulled the trigger. But it feels like I caught a couple buckshot in the back.”

  In the lantern light, Nathan saw the pair of bloodstains on the back of Red Buffalo’s vest and knew he was right. He looked up at the two soldiers who’d accompanied the man with the lantern and said, “You fellas help him up and get him over to the infirmary. Doc Lightner needs to take a look at him.”

  “We, uh, we can’t leave our posts,” one of the men said.

  “You already have,” Nathan snapped. “Now get moving. This man needs medical attention.”

  With a grim chuckle, Red Buffalo said, “I suppose I should be glad you called me a man and not a dirty redskin. Thanks, Stark.”

  I’m the one who ought to be thanking Red Buffalo, Nathan thought. He knew that but couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

  Standing up, he glared at the soldiers until they stepped in to grasp the Crow’s arms and help him to his feet. Steadying him, they started across the parade ground, the quickest, most direct route to the infirmary.

  “What happened here, Mr. Stark?” the remaining soldier asked.

  Nathan took out the Colt and began reloading the chambers he had emptied. “Somebody tried to ambush me with a shotgun. Red Buffalo knocked me down so the shot missed.”

  Crazy thoughts swirled. Why had Red Buffalo been so close? Had the Crow been following or just going in the same general direction? Maybe Red Buffalo had been sneaking up to put a knife in his back and had acted so swiftly to save him because he didn’t want anybody else to have the satisfaction of killing the white man. Delia would scold him for having such an ungenerous thought, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility. Where redskins were concerned, no treachery could ever be ruled out completely.

  “He saved your life,” the soldier said.

  “That he did.”

  “But who tried to kill you, Mr. Stark?”

  Nathan shook his head. He couldn’t answer that question. He had a vague idea, but the picture in his head was still far from clear.

  “When you make your report to the sergeant of the guard, tell him he can come see me tomorrow if he wants to know anything else. I don’t reckon I’ll be able to tell him anything I haven’t already told you, though. Right now I want to see how Red Buffalo is doing.” Nathan started across the parade ground before the soldier could say anything else.

  * * *

  Doc Lightner had turned in already. He was wearing a nightshirt when Nathan went into the infirmary and found the post surgeon digging buckshot out of Red Buffalo’s back.

  It was the first time Nathan had seen the Crow scout without a shirt on. The number of scars scattered around Red Buffalo’s torso testified to the adventurous, hazardous life the man had led. His face was set in stony lines as Lightner went after the buckshot using a probe and a pair of forceps. The doctor had cleaned the blood from around the wounds, but more crimson continued to seep out while he was working on them.

  “How bad is it, Doc?” Nathan asked.

  “The shot struck at an angle, so neither of them penetrated very deeply.” Lightner nodded toward a pan sitting on the table next to Red Buffalo. “I’ve already extracted one of them, and I’ll have this one any time now... Ah, there it is.” He extended the forceps over the bowl and dropped the second piece of buckshot into it.

  The small, bloody lead ball rolled a little and dinged against the other one before it stopped.

  “Now, I’ll clean these wounds a bit more and apply dressings to them. You’ll be fine, Moses.”

  Red Buffalo grunted. “Thanks, Doc.”

  Lightner looked over his shoulder at Nathan. “Moses was rather reticent about how he got shot. Maybe you can explain it.”

  “He knocked me out of the way of a double-barreled shotgun blast,” Nathan answered honestly. “You’d have had more trouble patching up the hole that would have left in me, Doc.”

  Lightner cocked an eyebrow and commented, “I daresay you’re right about that.”

  “So he’s in no danger?”

  “Very little, as long as he keeps those wounds clean.”

  Nathan nodded “All right. Reckon I’ll go, then.”

  Lightner stopped him by asking, “Have you expressed your gratitude, Nathan?”

  “It’s all right, Doc,” Red Buffalo said. “I don’t expect Stark to thank me. That wouldn’t set well with all the hatred he feels toward Indians.”

  “I’m obliged to you,” Nathan said stiffly. “I haven’t denied that you saved my life.”

  Red Buffalo looked back over his shoulder. “What I’d like to know is who was trying to kill you.”

  “That does seem like an important question,” Lightner agreed.

  Nathan shrugged more casually than he felt. “I’ve made my share of enemies over the years.”

  “Someone who’s posted here at Fort Randall?” Lightner asked.

  “There are several hundred soldiers here. I haven’t seen all of ’em... so I don’t really know.”

  Both of the other men appeared skeptical of that answer.

  Nathan didn’t offer any other explanation. He left the infirmary and walked toward his cabin, circling the parade ground and staying in the cover of the cottonwoods instead of cutting across. He didn’t want to make himself a target in all that open space. The person who wanted him dead might try with a rifle or a pistol next time.

  Nathan was accustomed to risking his life in battle, but he didn’t like the idea that somebody was skulking around and trying to kill him. That was harder to defend against. He’d been shot at from ambush twice in the past few days and didn’t believe the would-be killer was somebody with an old grudge against him, as he had hinted to Red Buffalo and the doctor. He thought the attempts sprang from something more recent.

  Sergeant Seamus McCall didn’t like him, and after the ruckus they’d had over Delia when they first met, Nathan wouldn’t put attempted murder past the brutal Irishman. The problem was that when he’d been shot at while on patrol, McCall had been with Red Buffalo, Lieutenant Pryor, and the rest of the soldiers. He couldn’t have done that... but he could have wielded the shotgun tonight.

  That would mean two bushwhackers, not one. For two different reasons, or did they share a motivation?

  Nathan didn’t know, but he didn’t like the murky waters in which he found himself swimming. It was much simpler to hate Indians and kill as many of them as he could. That had been his life for a decade and a half, and while it wasn’t much, he preferred it to all the complications plaguing him at the moment—dealing with a beautiful, strong-willed redhead, being forced to work with a savage, and having some unknown person trying to put him under. He would rather handle problems that he could put right in the sights of his gun.

  He made it back to his cabin without anything else happening, undressed, and turned in right away, but sleep was a long time in coming.

  He waited for it with the Colt right on a chair, close to the side of the bed where he could
reach it in a hurry.

  CHAPTER 25

  The next morning, Colonel Ledbetter summoned the three scouts assigned to Fort Randall to his office.

  “Come in, gentlemen,” the stocky, bespectacled officer greeted them. With a smile, he waved them into chairs that Corporal Cahill had lined up in front of the desk.

  Nathan didn’t believe for a second that Ledbetter’s cheerfulness was genuine, but the colonel had some reason for acting like it was. Nathan figured that if he was patient, he’d find out what it was sooner or later.

  Ledbetter pushed a wooden box across the desk. “Cigar?”

  “I do not mind if I do,” Bucher said as he took a cigar. “Danke schön, Colonel.”

  “Thanks anyway, but I prefer my pipe,” Red Buffalo said.

  “A peace pipe, eh?” Ledbetter said with a chuckle.

  The Indian scout explained, “Briar, actually, with a meerschaum bowl.”

  “Ah... of course.” Ledbetter got over his momentary fluster and went on. “How about you, Mr. Stark?”

  “Thank you, Colonel.” Nathan leaned forward and plucked one of the cigars from the box. He smelled it and then tucked it in the pocket of his shirt. “I’ll save it for later.”

  “Very well.” Ledbetter closed the box and clasped his pudgy hands together on the desk in front of him. “We dealt quite a blow to the Sioux yesterday, didn’t we? For all we know, Hanging Dog himself was among the dead out there.”

  “I would not count on that, Colonel,” Bucher said. “That verdammt savage is tricky. I would wager that he got away—if he was even among the members of that war party to start with.”

  Nathan said, “Calling it a war party might be stretching things a mite. They weren’t painted for war. Could be they were out hunting or just having a look around.”

  “With numbers like that?” Bucher shook his head. “If they were looking for anything, it was trouble.”

  Nathan couldn’t dispute that. The Sioux might not have known they were going to run into a patrol, but once they did, they acted quickly to take advantage of the situation. More than twenty soldiers had been killed in the fighting—a pretty hard blow—even though more Sioux had lost their lives.

  “What I want to do,” the colonel said, “is to strike while we have the hostiles off balance and on the run. I propose to take two companies out again and track those savages back to their village and wipe them out.”

  Red Buffalo frowned. “That might be difficult to do, Colonel.”

  Ledbetter’s tone sharpened as he replied, “I didn’t call you here to ask your opinion. I summoned you to tell you what we’re going to do. We will accomplish this task. All three of you will accompany my command. You will pick up the trail of the Indians who fled yesterday and follow it to wherever the rest of them have gathered. They do have a village somewhere out there, don’t they?”

  “I reckon they do,” Red Buffalo admitted.

  “If we attack that village and deal out severe punishment to the hostiles, that will break the back of their resistance,” Ledbetter said with arrogant certainty. “They will have no choice but to obey the treaties and move onto the reservations the way they’re supposed to.”

  “What will make the white men obey their treaties?” Red Buffalo muttered.

  Nathan understood what the Crow scout meant, but he wasn’t sure either of the other two men in the room did.

  “What was that?” Ledbetter snapped, proving that he hadn’t understood.

  Stark said, “Nothing, Colonel. When you attack the Sioux village—if we can find it—do you intend to spare the women and children?”

  “Scouts don’t decide tactics. They go where they’re told and follow orders.” Ledbetter shrugged. “But Captain Jameson and Captain Lucas will instruct their men to spare noncombatants to a reasonable extent. If a woman picks up a weapon and threatens our men, she will be dealt with the same as any of the male savages.”

  That sent Nathan’s mind back to the Battle of the Washita. Some people, especially those back east who didn’t know what they were talking about, called it a massacre, but it hadn’t been, not to his way of thinking. Some of the women in Black Kettle’s village had grabbed weapons to put up a fight, and they had been shot down before they could harm any of the soldiers. Although he hadn’t killed any women in the battle, Nathan couldn’t fault General Custer’s troopers for that. A man had a right to defend himself.

  Of course, to some people’s way of thinking, the Cheyenne had been defending themselves when the Seventh Cavalry rode down on their village. Deep down, Nathan couldn’t argue with that position either, but he had picked his side in the war—or rather, had it picked for him by those Pawnee renegades who attacked Badger Creek—and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.

  “The real question,” Ledbetter went on, breaking into Nathan’s thoughts, “is whether the three of you can do your jobs and locate that village.”

  “Certainly we can, Colonel,” Bucher said. “Those Sioux just wanted to get away. They were not concerned with covering up their trail. Later, after they’d escaped, they may have been more careful, but we can follow them.” He looked over at Nathan and Red Buffalo. “Is this not true?”

  Red Buffalo said slowly, “It’s a good chance to find Hanging Dog’s main bunch, that’s right. I can’t make you any promises, Colonel, but I believe we can locate the village, if that’s what you want.”

  “Of course it’s what I want!” Ledbetter thumped a fist on the desk. “Hanging Dog and the rest of those savages have been out there for weeks now, harassing wagon trains, murdering government surveyors, slaughtering innocent settlers, and laughing at me.” It was clear from the colonel’s voice which of those things he considered the most heinous crime. “I want them brought to heel.” He came to his feet. “We leave at first light tomorrow. Be ready for a long and dangerous mission, gentlemen... as long as it takes to bring those red miscreants to justice!”

  * * *

  Dietrich Bucher stood on the front porch of The House and puffed on the cigar Colonel Ledbetter had given him. After blowing out a cloud of smoke, he said to Nathan and Red Buffalo, “The colonel is putting all his chips in this pot, ja?”

  “A man who bets everything had better be prepared to lose it,” Nathan said. “I’m not sure he is. He seems to think this is going to be an easy job.”

  Red Buffalo said, “Nothing is ever easy about fighting the Sioux. They are good warriors.”

  “You sound like you admire them,” Bucher said.

  “I find something to admire about all the tribes. Except the Blackfeet.” Red Buffalo had a personal grudge against the Blackfeet, so his comment wasn’t surprising.

  If Nathan felt the same way, he would have gone after just the Pawnee instead of all Indians, but he had heard enough firsthand accounts of atrocities committed by all different breeds of redskins to know that it didn’t make any difference. They were all guilty as far as he was concerned.

  Slaves were no better than ponies, there was no telling which bunch might have Rena by now. That was another reason to hate all of them.

  He had to admit, though, it was getting a mite wearying, toting around that much hate. He went down the steps and started to walk off.

  Red Buffalo called after him, “Where are you going, Stark?”

  “We’re not pulling out until in the morning, the colonel said,” Nathan replied without looking around. “Until then, where I go and what I do is none of your damn business.” He started to add redskin but didn’t bother. Red Buffalo knew what he was.

  Honestly, Nathan wasn’t sure where he was going, but he found his steps carrying him toward the chapel. The night before, he had resolved to stay as far away as possible from Delia Blaine, for both their sakes, but he had an undeniable sense of leaving something unfinished between them and knew that was going to gnaw at his innards.

  Especially with him setting out on a major campaign against the Sioux the next day. On such a mission,
the odds were no better than fifty-fifty that he would come back alive. He figured he couldn’t actually settle things with Delia—they were too far apart on what they believed—but maybe he could leave things on a better footing between them.

  He heard singing as he approached the chapel—the sweet voices of children, but they weren’t singing a hymn. Rather, it was a sweet, wholesome popular song from a few years earlier. Nathan had never had much interest in music, but he vaguely recognized it. He supposed those were the children in Delia’s classroom doing the singing.

  He hadn’t been in too many houses of worship during the past fifteen years, so he felt a little uncomfortable walking into that one. His footsteps echoed hollowly from the sanctuary’s high ceiling as he walked between the two sections of pews to an open door at the front of the room. Looking through the door, he saw a smaller room with eighteen children sitting at tables while they sang. He propped a shoulder against the door jamb to watch them.

  There were a few more girls than boys, and they ranged in age from six or seven up to the middle teens. Delia stood facing them, with her back to Nathan, and clearly didn’t know he was there as the tune reached its conclusion.

  “That was very good,” she told them. “I think singing a song in the middle of the morning’s work breaks it up nicely. That keeps us from getting too tired ...” Her voice trailed off as some of the younger children giggled. Most of them were looking at Nathan, and the ones who weren’t had to make an obvious effort not to.

  Delia looked back over her shoulder, making a half-turn. “Nathan, I didn’t expect you.”

  “I shouldn’t have bothered you,” he said, straightening. “I can go—”

  “No need, now that you’re here.” Delia smiled as she turned back to the youngsters. “Children, this is Mr. Nathan Stark, an old friend of mine and one of the scouts assigned to the fort. Some of you may know who he is.”

  One of the younger boys asked, “Is he your beau, Mrs. Blaine?”

  “What? No, no ... not at all. We’re ... old friends, like I said.”

  The kids might have come closer to believing her if she hadn’t been acting so flustered. Oddly enough, he wasn’t her beau, even though they might have liked that if things had worked out differently.