Rocky Mountain Warpath (A Crossed Arrows Western Book 1)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Nolan gazed at the miserable Métis. “You sure as hell have, Captain.”

  Inspector Nigel Watson joined them, giving the colonel a Canadian-style salute. “Inspector Watson, North West Mounted Police, at your service, sir.”

  Nolan returned the salute. “I take it you are in the United States by the authorization of Captain Hawkins.”

  “Yes, sir. That includes Sergeant Duff and Constable Turpin the two mounted policemen under my command.”

  The colonel turned his attention to the prisoners. “The first thing we must do is lock those fellows up. Then I will require a full written account from each of you gentlemen. These reports will be dispatched up through the proper echelons to the War Department in Washington. I’ll see that a courtesy copy is sent to the North West Mounted Police.”

  The sergeant major spoke, “I’ll call out the sergeant of the guard and his men to deal with the prisoners, sir.” He took another look at the Métis. “God Almighty! Look at all of ’em! Our poor little guardhouse is gonna be stuffed like a can of sardines.”

  The colonel was in agreement. “I think I’ll have to make room by pardoning a few of our own badly behaved soldiers.”

  Lieutenant Carl Graham, the quartermaster, joined them. He gave Hawkins and Ludlow a wide grin. “I would say you fellows came out winners in this situation. I’ll see that Mr. Pleasence is apprised of your success. He’s still staying at the hotel in Bismarck.”

  “This’ll put him in a good mood,” Hawkins said. “And tell Ken Plummer he can take his surveyors back up to their worksite. There’ll be no more problems with snipers.”

  “I certainly shall,” Graham said. “By the way, Mr. Pleasence told me to inform you that the Northern Plains Railway Systems is allowing you to keep the Winchester carbines they loaned you. That includes all the ammunition as well.”

  “Now that is terrific news!” Hawkins exclaimed.

  “Indeed!” Ludlow echoed.

  Graham shrugged. “However, I’m really embarrassed to inform you that the only billets we have for you remain to be our quartermaster warehouse.”

  “We consider it a home away from home,” Hawkins replied with a wink. Then he introduced him to Inspector Watson and his Mounties. “The inspector and I have reports to write up, so you won’t be seeing much of us. And Lieutenant Dooley will be in charge of turning in borrowed gear, weapons and Tony the mule.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to your chores,” Graham said, rendering a salute.

  Hawkins nodded to Ludlow. “You may carry on, Mr. Dooley.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Hawkins and Watson watched the lieutenant march the detachment off to the warehouse. The captain grinned at the inspector, saying, “You know there’s one thing worse than the grueling hikes, lousy rations and gunfights about these missions. It’s the goddam paperwork afterward.”

  Watson sighed. “Don’t feel too bad, ’ey? It’s the same in the North West Mounted Police.”

  A few days later, after all the reports of Captain Mack Hawkins and Inspector Nigel Watson had been turned in, international wheels of two governments — American and Canadian — began turning. The powers-that-be put several critical investigations and procedures into operation.

  The first was for the Canadians to send more Mounties to locate the settlement where the Métis lived. The discovery brought about a brief but bitter battle that finally ended when the rebel leader wisely decided there was nothing to be gained by having his people shed more blood in a lost revolution.

  The cache of gold taken from America was found and arrangements made to return it to the United States Government. The Canadians formed a heavily-escorted wagon train and hauled the precious nuggets down that same road to where the mining camp had been located.

  An American deputation that included a complete cavalry regiment met the Canadians and took possession of the treasure after a lengthy signing of receipts, depositions, statements of worth and other useless, bureaucratic paperwork. This was all supervised by the appropriate officials. With that complication completed, the gold was hauled down to where the road intersected with the Haut-Prairie Gap. The convoy continued from there down to Fort Terral.

  The Métis ended up being granted amnesty from prosecution of any kind and given land set aside for them. The prisoners at Fort Terral were escorted north to Canada by a special detachment of Mounties to join their families and friends.

  At that point, the Northern Plains Railway System resumed their undertaking of building a railroad through the Haut-Prairie Gap. The news cheered many a bucolic resident in the region; particularly the mountain entrepreneur Philip Morgan at Campbell’s Trading Post.

  A few days later, a rolling thunder storm moved slowly across the Rocky Mountains of Montana. It rained heavily as if to wash away the last remnants of the bloody skirmishes that had flashed across the geological grandeur of its peaks and valleys.

  Now the deaths in the area were those of predators and prey of the area’s animals. Of course, there were also a few killings between angered humans living in the locale. But the deaths of these common mortals counted for but little in the overall scheme of nature and the cosmos.

  Epilogue

  It was in the early evening two weeks after the Kiowa-Comanche Detachment had returned from the north, that Second Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley rode into Fort Lone Wolf. He went directly to the post trading store. He walked in the building, gazing studiously at the merchandise on display.

  Post Trader Gerald Weiser remarked, “I’ll be getting in some smoked oysters with the next shipment of canned goods. I’ll save you some.”

  “Thanks,” Ludlow said, heading for the officers bar. He walked through the batwing doors and ordered a mug of beer. When he turned to find an empty place at a table, he spotted Lieutenant Ted Biltmore the adjutant. Biltmore had been a couple of classes ahead of Ludlow at West Point.

  Ludlow joined him, taking a gulp of beer before speaking. “How’ve you been, Ted?”

  “Living the hell of being an adjutant,” the other officer replied, taking a sip of straight bourbon. “I hear your scout detachment pulled off another coup. That makes two in a row, right?”

  “Right. Two out of two actually.”

  Biltmore sighed. “I wish like hell I’d been able to volunteer for the U.S. Scouts. All I’ve been doing since graduation is garrison soldiering. Now, to make things worse, I’m on the post staff.”

  “Serving under Captain Hawkins is certainly not monotonous,” Ludlow remarked. He chuckled. “Most of the time it’s downright terrifying.”

  “Y’know, Ludlow, I recall you as a cadet. You were a bit on the awkward side, right?”

  “Yeah. I got gigs at inspections and walked off more than my share of demerits. It was never for anything adventurously wrong. Just petty misconduct like failing to salute a superior, missing class, dropping my rifle, etcetera.”

  Biltmore gave him a meaningful look. “But you’re not the same anymore, Ludlow. You’re harder now. You look strong and tough. And you’re serving in a detachment that is on its way to becoming an elite unit. You’ve been in battle. I imagine you’ve killed, and when — ”

  “I’m no different than any other officer who has fired his weapon in anger,” Ludlow butted in, becoming uncomfortable and wanting to change the subject. “I’m waiting for Captain Hawkins. We’ve been busy settling back in and decided to have a few drinks to relax. He had some matters to take care of first.”

  “Did anything special happen during your excursion north?”

  “Well, we fought some skirmishes with revolutionaries out of Canada,” Ludlow replied. “And recovered some gold the rebels had mined illegally in the United States.”

  “My God! Who were the dissidents?”

  “They were people of French-Canadian and Indian ethnicity. The Canadian government had been rather cruel to them and the unfortunate people fought back as best they could. I must admit I admired them somewhat for a righteous cause. But they
killed some Americans and attacked the detachment.”

  “That sounds a bit perplexing,” Biltmore stated.

  “It was,” Ludlow said. “There isn’t time now to discuss everything about the situation.”

  Biltmore knocked back the last of his bourbon and stood up. “Well, I’d better get home to the wife. I always stop here after duty for a couple of stiff drinks to relax me. I’ll see you later, Ludlow.”

  Ludlow finished his beer, went to the bar and got another. Hawkins had gone to visit Kristina Halverson. She had actually invited both of them to dinner to celebrate their return, but the captain wanted to have a serious talk with her. Ludlow declined the invitation and agreed to meet his commander at the trading post officers’ saloon later.

  The young lieutenant was well aware of his commander’s frustration about Kristina’s devotion to her teaching profession. During the train trip back from Montana, the captain had sunk into long dark moods. Ludlow knew a personal crisis for Hawkins was in the making

  He was halfway through the second mug when Hawkins walked in. He gave a wave to Ludlow, got a double whiskey at the bar, and joined him. When the captain sat down, it was easy to see he was not a happy man. Ludlow, knowing him well, wisely said nothing.

  A couple of minutes passed, then Hawkins uttered, “Godamn it!”

  Ludlow was aware the captain was going to talk about what happened at Kristina’s house. He mentally braced himself for what was to come.

  Hawkins began expressing his frustration at her devotion to teaching the Indian children in lieu of becoming his wife. “Mr. Dooley, d’you want to know something? It’s prob’ly best for a professional soldier to never marry.” He took a couple of deep swallows of his drink.

  “Good advice, sir,” Ludlow responded, noting Hawkins was sinking into that brooding frame of mind he knew all too well. He wanted to change the subject as quickly as possible. “Well, sir, do you think we might get another mission, soon?”

  Hawkins ignored the question. “How can a woman — a real woman — hesitate to marry because she’s devoted to a goddam job? I’m thinking hard about breaking off our engagement.”

  Ludlow knew things would get much worse before they got better as the evening lingered on. He was about to give his commanding officer some moral support when a soldier approached their table. Both recognized him as the dispatch rider from Fort Sill.

  The soldier saluted. “Compliments from the adjutant general, sir. I had a hell of a time finding you. Here’s a dispatch for you.”

  Hawkins took the package and dismissed the soldier. He opened the papers, then showed a wide, happy grin. “Great news, Mr. Dooley! We’ve been alerted for a coming deployment to Arizona! Orders will follow at a later date.”

  “Outstanding, sir!” Ludlow exclaimed, thinking there was a God in heaven after all. “Let’s hope that later date isn’t too far away.” He raised his mug and offered a toast. “Here’s to another exciting expedition with plenty of action, sir.”

  “Life is good!” Hawkins announced.

  Ludlow stood up, saying, “I’ll get us a couple of more drinks to celebrate.”

  “I’m drinking whiskey. Double whiskies, that is.”

  Ludlow showed a happy grin. “I think that’s what I’ll get for myself too.”

  The young lieutenant practically skipped over to the bar to fetch the libations.

  Historical Note

  In August of 1947 at Fort Huachuca, Arizona, the final formation of the United States Scouts was held to honor the retirement of the last four members of the Apache Detachment posted at that garrison.

  The crossed arrows insignia was retired but enjoyed a return to the uniform when it was authorized as the emblem for the United States Army’s Special Forces in the 1960s. It is still worn by today’s Green Berets with the same fierce pride as the brave Indian scouts of the past.

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