Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869

by Terry C. Johnston

  “Bill?”

  “Yeah—it’s me, Cody.”

  They rushed each other, hugging and pounding on one another as much as the weakened white man could take before he drew himself back.

  “Let me take a good look at you, Cody.”

  “Ain’t been all that long, Bill.”

  He wagged his head. “Didn’t know … if we’d make it.”

  “How you get mixed up with these brunettes?”

  The dark-haired man smiled, his teeth big in his shrunken face. “I’m scouting again. Like I done for Hancock and Custer last summer. Sheridan put me to work for Penrose, working out of Fort Lyon. And you’re scouting for Carr.”

  “Damn, if this ain’t good news. Say, I’ve got an Irishman you’ve got to meet. C’mon over here, Seamus.”

  Donegan strode over, holding out his big paw.

  “Seamus—want you to meet a fella smells almost as bad as you. Seamus Donegan, recent of Beecher Island, like you to meet an old friend of mine—James Butler Hickok.”

  “Cody called you Bill?”

  “That’s what folks call me mostly: Bill Hickok.”

  Cody smiled, inching between them to slap both men on the shoulder.

  Chapter 8

  January 1869

  “Keep your eyes open for any sign of Evans,” said Major Eugene Carr to his chief of scouts when Cody settled to his saddle. “He’s bound to be operating anywhere here on the Canadian.”

  Back on 30 December, when Carr reached Penrose’s camp on the Paloduro, he had immediately unloaded his wagons to establish a supply base. The following day the major turned Wilson’s civilians and their wagons back to Fort Lyon for more supplies. Through the next week, Carr and Penrose recuperated their outfits, readying them to continue the winter campaign. From both wings they chose five hundred of the strongest men, in addition to selecting the best of the surviving horses. Without the wagons, the soldiers outfitted a train of pack-mules to accompany the expedition. Those soldiers remaining behind would garrison the supply camp on Paloduro Creek.

  On the seventh of January a dispatch rider came in with news from Fort Lyon that the main column under George Armstrong Custer had struck the Cheyenne of Black Kettle in their Washita River camp back at the end of November. Other dispatches from Kansas stated that Custer’s regiment was at that point driving the Kiowa, along with more bands of hostile Cheyenne, back to their reservation at Fort Cobb.

  The day after those dispatches arrived, Carr led his handpicked five hundred away from Camp Carr, heading south toward the Canadian River in Texas, only forty miles away, hoping to find some sign of Major Andrew W. Evans, who was reportedly working his way east out of Fort Bascomb in New Mexico as the second arm of Sheridan’s pincer movement to aid Custer’s attack on the Cheyenne. Rumor out of Kansas had it that back on Christmas Day the Evans column had struck a large band of Comanches camped at Soldier Springs on the North Fork of the Red River.

  The Fifth Cavalry was drawing close to the center of the action.

  For three days now Carr had relentlessly pushed his men south under clear, cold skies of the new year. Nearing their goal, Cody and his advance scout reined up, awaiting Major Carr.

  “To a Mexican, that’s the Rio Colorado down there, General,” the scout explained.

  “The Canadian to us, Cody?”

  “Right. Not far downstream, you’ll find a place called Adobe Walls.”

  “A town? Out here?” Donegan asked.

  Cody laughed lightly. “Hell no. Nothing more than a group of low-roofed, mud buildings that leak when it rains or snows. Sometimes used by buffalo hunters.”

  “I take it you’ve been there, Cody?” Carr inquired.

  “I hunt buffalo, General.”

  “Right now, how about hunting us a campsite. Sun’s fixing to go down.”

  “Have your advance follow my trail down into the valley. C’mon, Irishman.”

  Donegan nudged the big mare into an easy lope behind Cody as they broke off the top of that hill. Down into the cottonwood and scrub timber they pushed, searching for suitable grazing for the many animals, enough open ground for so many men.

  “Look up there, Bill,” Donegan whispered, his eyes catching some movement just below the skyline of the ridge on the far side of the river.

  “They look like scouts, don’t they?”

  “Ain’t dressed like sojurs. You figure those three for Evans’s scouts?”

  “Yep. Let’s go pay our respects.”

  Cody took the lead, fording the icy river. From midstream they watched the trio halt as if they had spotted the two horsemen below in the valley. Donegan took the big hat from his head and waved it back and forth at the end of his arm. One of the three on the hill did the same before pushing their horses on down the slope.

  “You boys with Evans?” Cody hollered out as they closed on fifty yards.

  “That’s right,” answered one of the three. “Sure hope you fellas are from Fort Union.”

  Cody and Donegan glanced at one another, reining up as the trio halted before them.

  “No,” the Irishman answered.

  “We’re from Major Carr’s outfit—Fifth Cavalry,” Cody replied. “You expecting a supply train from Fort Union?”

  The scout laughed lustily, glancing at the two on either side of him. “Hell, more’n supplies. Major Evans is expecting a bull-train loaded down with Mexican beer. Something he’s been promising us ever since Christmas Day when we routed them Comanch’ at Soldier Springs.”

  Donegan glanced at Cody, finding in the young scout’s eyes the first flickers of some mischief. “You said beer?”

  “Yeah—Mexican beer.”

  “Never had any meself. Have you, Cody?”

  “A time or two,” and he licked his lips as a dry wind tousled his blond curls. “You say your supply train’s coming in from Fort Union?”

  “We figured we would find ’em coming in along the Canadian,” the scout answered. “Major’s gonna be disappointed to hear you ain’t scouts leading that beer to his outfit.”

  Cody winked at Donegan. “I can understand the man’s disappointment—what with you fellas stuck way out here, waiting for that beer all this time. Sure sorry I had to be the one to disappoint you.”

  “Where’s Carr?”

  Cody pointed. “Coming over the hill now.”

  “We’ll ride back and tell Evans about your column. You’re making camp?”

  “Downstream a bit. How far is your camp?”

  The scout pointed. “No more’n twelve miles on down the river. Place already named Fort Evans.”

  “Twelve miles, you say?” Cody replied, thoughtfully gazing upstream. “Ain’t far a’tall.” He turned back to the scout, nodded and tipped his hat. “We’ll sure keep a lookout for that beer train of yours.”

  “’Preciate that, fellas. Evans got a lot of thirsty soldiers.”

  “I’ll bet you boys are just as thirsty as them sojurs!” Donegan said.

  The three reined about to head back to the Evans camp as the leader said, “Shit, I was born thirsty!”

  Seamus watched the trio disappear into the timber before he turned to Cody. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

  Cody smiled, wiping his glove across his mouth, then licking his lips. “You’re sure the confusing one, Irishman. All I’m thinking about is you, me and Hickok having us a draft or two of that Mexican beer. I figure Carr’s soldiers deserve that shipment more’n those quartermasters running high-roll downstream at Fort Evans.”

  “By the saints! I was sure hoping you was thinking hard on that beer.”

  “Well, then—what are we waiting for? Let’s find us a camp for the general … so the three of us can get down to the business.”

  “Business?”

  “Planning how we’re gonna get our hands on that Mexican beer bound for Evans’s boys!”

  * * *

  “What the hell good are those greasers with Penrose anyway?” B
ill Cody asked of Hickok.

  Along with Seamus Donegan, the two of them were crouched in the willows thick along the bank of the Rio Colorado, watching upstream for the approach of the bull train from Fort Union. The beer it hauled would be a welcome diversion for the disappointed winter campaigners. While both Evans and Custer had gone into action and put victories under their belts, the Carr-Penrose command had yet to see a red hide or hint of a feather.

  Hickok wagged his head, then gave his grudging compliment. “About all the good they were is knowing some of this country. Still, I ain’t got no stomach for the sons of bitches.”

  “No better’n you know it,” Cody sneered. “Mark my words, Bill—them greasers gonna be trouble for you.”

  “They already are,” Hickok grumped. “They been wanting to crawl my hump ever since leaving Fort Lyon. I just stay away from ’em. Let ’em alone.”

  “That works as long as they leave you be,” Cody said.

  “But they ain’t.”

  “You need to kick the sun out of ’em, sounds like,” Donegan finally whispered.

  “It’s coming to that, Irishman. They keep pushing—one of these days, I’ll push back.”

  Seamus patted the dark-haired scout on the shoulder. “Call me if you want my help, Hickok.”

  Hickok looked at Cody, smiling. “You imagine anybody getting in a fight and turning down the help of this big ox of an Irishman?”

  “Sure as hell glad he’s on our side, Hickok,” Cody cheered, jabbing a glove at Seamus.

  “In fighting … or fun,” Hickok whispered. “Ho—here they come.”

  From upstream came the sounds of teamsters and bull-whackers, urging their animals and wagons down the Canadian. Without a word the three scouts rose, went to saddle, and pushed their horses from the timber.

  “Halloo!” Hickok called out, throwing up an arm as soon as the scouts could be seen by the teamsters.

  “Howdy!” yelled a horseman riding alongside the first team. He threw up his arm as well, putting the teamsters to their brakes. He loped his mount on up to the trio.

  “You got the beer from Union?” Cody asked.

  He smiled. “We do, by golly. You three must be from Evans’s outfit.”

  “Been waiting on that beer for some time, we have,” Cody replied, without lying.

  “Bet you have,” the outrider answered. “Only thing good about this trip is getting my money and getting back to Union to spend it.”

  “Sure as hell can’t spend it out here, can you?” Hickok asked, grinning.

  He wagged his head. “That’s for damned sure, son. Way out here.”

  “Army paying for the beer you’re hauling?”

  The rider looked at the three, sort of curious a moment. “Now, that’s a funny question to be asking. Don’t Evans know?”

  “He does,” Donegan answered. “But we don’t.”

  “You boys here to guide me into your camp, aren’t you?”

  “We’re here for the beer, mister. You been paid for your trip?”

  The man studied Hickok real carefully. “I will be, soon as I get back to Union. Now, why don’t you boys lead us on in to Evans’s supply camp.”

  “We was just hoping to save you some miles, mister,” Cody said, smiling engagingly.

  “Save me miles?”

  “Let you drop off the beer just a couple miles up the road.”

  “That Evans’s camp?”

  “No, his camp—the main camp—is still some fourteen miles on downstream.”

  “Why you want me to drop the beer off closer?”

  “Let’s say you’ll make one bunch of soldiers real happy you did.”

  The wagonmaster shook his head, then looked back at his bull-teams as he chewed on a lip. “Long as it’s a soldier camp—I done my job, I suppose,” he finally muttered. “Whyn’t you fellas lead on. I could use a drink myself.”

  “I’ll bet coffee would be the best thing for you right now,” Cody replied as the wagons were set in motion again.

  “Coffee, hell! The weather may be cold, son—but I’m wanting to wash my gullet with some of that Mexican beer. Strongest mule piss this side of the Rio Grande, I’ll tell you!”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Hickok replied.

  “Been doing any good chasing them damned Injuns, fellas?” the wagonmaster asked.

  “Not a dried tit’s worth of good, mister,” Cody answered. “This beer is bound to cheer the place up.”

  Which is exactly what it did.

  After unloading the beer kegs near the mess wagons, Carr’s men began lining up, ready to buy the beer from Cody a pint at a time with their huge tin cups in hand. But, as luck would have it, the beer was too cold for a man to drink that frosty winter’s afternoon. Cody and Hickok quickly put some picket-pins in the mess fires and heated them till they glowed. When these were dashed into the huge pint cups, the beer was warmed enough to give every happy soldier a toasty glow in his belly.

  “Been a pleasure doing business with you,” said the wagonmaster as he strode up later that afternoon, his hand extended.

  “This has turned into one helluva jollification,” Cody said, smiling, hoisting his cup as he patted his pocket, newly filled with army scrip from this windfall.

  “We’ll stay the night, boys—and start back in the morning.”

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, mister,” Hickok replied. “I’m never inhospitable when it comes to a man freighting the beer!”

  “I’d like to shake hands with Major Evans,” said the wagonmaster quietly. “You point him out.”

  “He ain’t here,” Cody answered, trying hard to keep from laughing.

  “Out on patrol?”

  “No,” Donegan answered, more able than the other two thieves to keep a straight face. “I suppose Major Evans is back in his camp.”

  “His … his camp?”

  Seamus threw a thumb over his shoulder. “About twelve miles, downstream.”

  “This … you mean to tell me … you’re not Evans’s men?”

  “No, mister—we ain’t!” Cody sputtered.

  “But,” Hickok grabbed the wagonmaster’s arm, pulling him away from the kegs, “we would like to introduce you to Major Eugene Carr—of the Fifth Cavalry.”

  “Is he the one put you up to this—this hijacking my cargo?” fumed the wagonmaster.

  Cody shook his head. “No, General Carr had no part in this. But you’ll be paid by the army when you get back, won’t you?”

  He squared his shoulders and shrugged Hickok loose. “I will—you can bet on that.”

  “And the beer went to soldiers, didn’t it?” Cody asked, pointing out the happy troopers gathered at their fires, singing and laughing.

  The teamster nodded his head reluctantly. “I suppose it did at that.”

  “Then what’s all the fuss?” Hickok asked.

  The man finally smiled, then swung a big hand and clapped Cody on the back. “Not a goddamned thing, boys! Not everyday three young whelps like you hijack an army quartermaster shipment—and get away with it! What’s for dinner!”

  Chapter 9

  Late January 1869

  “You greasers are women!” Hickok shouted out the worst, profane Indian curse he could think of, his voice ringing off the rafters of the campaign sutler’s high-walled tent. “Your bowels will run cold as winter rain afore I get through with you.”

  “We’ll cut you, Hickok! Then you run with blood,” shouted the biggest of the fifteen Mexicans arrayed against the three white scouts. “The same will do for your friends.”

  Bill Cody had been waiting for this to happen for some time. At long last the Mexican trackers had tired of Hickok’s slurs—being treated with laughter and derision. For the past three weeks Hickok had been watching his back. It seemed both sides had known that one day would come the reckoning that was now at hand.

  “You are water-hearted women!” Cody swore. “The spirits scowled on the day your bunch wa
s born. And it’ll be your blood we’ll spill on this dust today.”

  The big Mexican grinned, glancing over his companions. “Eh, there are five of us to every one of you gringos.”

  Cody bared his teeth. “Then it looks like we’re even on the odds, you yellow-hearted bastard.”

  The Mexican’s big knife flashed into the play of sunlight and muted shadow that was the high-walled tent erected by the sutler here at Camp Carr. It had been an unproductive winter. Freezing weather, swallowing snowdrifts, and no Indian fighting to relieve the boredom of bad food and rampant scurvy among the soldiers. For weeks the bad blood had festered simply because the antagonists brooded on nothing else.

  Licking wounds over imagined insults, planning revenge and ambush and assault, until the kettle finally boiled over and the sauce hit the fire.

  “Knives, is it?” Hickok dragged a big blade from his belt scabbard.

  “A man dies slow from a hundred knife wounds, Hickok,” replied a second Mexican scout.

  “I say we clean out this nest of vipers with handguns,” Cody whispered to his partners.

  “No time for cheap poker, Bill,” Hickok replied, “we’ve got to throw ourselves a decent hand this time out.”

  “Playing blades with this bunch will get us all killed,” Cody hissed.

  “Stop the talk!” ordered the Mexican leader. “Time to bleed, gringos.”

  “You boys must be afraid,” Donegan said, suddenly stepping ahead of Cody and Hickok, glaring back at the pack of Mexicans. “To have fifteen to three odds … and still you pull them knives. What’s the matter with you? Are you not men? Are you afraid to fight us with your fists?” He brought a clenched one up right beneath the Mexican’s nose.

  The man’s dark, marblelike eyes narrowed, the thick black eyebrows beetling together as they bore into the Irishman. It seemed as if he were weighing things a moment.

  “All right, gringo. You are right. We do not need knives. We will tear you apart with our bare hands—slowly.”

  Cody felt something sigh with relief inside him at that, and then watched the big Irishman’s shoulders tense as his right arm moved in a flash, like light in a mirror. Pop, crack, thud—three blows so fast that the biggest of the Mexicans fell back against his companions, his nose spurting blood, an eyelid instantly puffing. He was out as cold as a beaver dam in winter.