“Wait a minute—” Fleming began.
Bill ignored him and went outside. He trotted across the street to where the soldiers were and said, “The council’s ready for you, Captain Stone.”
The officer nodded. “Good. We’ve already spent too much time here.”
Bill had to hurry to keep up as Stone crossed the street with a brisk, long-legged stride. That made Bill’s limp more pronounced, but it didn’t slow him down. He was right behind Stone when the captain entered the town hall.
“Benjy was right,” Perry Monroe said when he saw the blue-uniformed officer. “This does have something to do with the cavalry.”
Bill performed some quick introductions. “This is Captain Timothy Stone,” he told the council members. “Captain, this is the town council of Redemption.”
“Gentlemen,” Stone said with a grave nod. “I’m here to deliver an important message from the commanding officer at Fort Hays. A Pawnee war party has left the reservation, and there’s every possibility that the savages may attack your town and attempt to massacre everyone in it.”
Chapter 5
Remembering the dramatic way Stone had announced the reason for his presence in Redemption earlier in the marshal’s office, Bill realized that the fella liked to cause a stir. Stone probably enjoyed the way the council members stared at him speechlessly for a few seconds, then erupted with excited questions.
Stone allowed the hubbub to continue for a few seconds, then said, “Please, gentlemen, please. I can’t deal with such confusion. Who’s in charge here?”
“I am, I guess,” the banker said. “My name’s Roy Fleming. I’m the mayor of Redemption.”
“Well, Mayor Fleming, I suggest that you act as spokesman for the group. If you have questions, you may direct them to me, but I warn you, my time is limited.”
“Limited!” Fleming exploded. “You mean you’re not going to stay here and protect us from those savages?”
“No, my orders were to visit the settlements in this area, along with the farms and ranches, and warn the inhabitants of the possible danger. Now that I’ve done that here, my men and I will be moving on shortly.” Stone glanced resentfully at Bill. “We’ve already stayed longer than I intended, thanks to your marshal here.”
“I figured you ought to hear the news from the captain himself,” Bill said.
“But…but what are we supposed to do?” Fleming asked. “What do we tell people?”
“I suppose that’s up to you,” Stone said. “You can inform the rest of the citizens of the situation or not, as you choose.”
“We can’t just not let them know they’re in danger of being scalped,” Josiah Hartnett said.
“Then tell them. Perhaps you can form a militia or something like that.”
“God Almighty,” Charley Hobbs said. He was a small, wiry man with thinning gray hair. “This is gonna be worse than when those outlaws attacked the town.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Judge Dunaway put in. “Captain, is there any actual evidence that those savages are headed this way?”
Stone shook his head. “Not really. According to the reports, they’re ranging rather far and wide across the western half of the state. We don’t know where they are at the moment or where they might strike next.”
“Then there’s no reason for us to panic,” the judge said as he leaned back in his chair. “They may not be coming in this direction, and even if they are, the army may have them rounded up and back on the reservation before they ever get here.”
“We can certainly hope so,” Fleming said. He took a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and blotted the beads of sweat that had popped up on his forehead. “The judge is right. We need to stay calm.”
“But we need to be ready for trouble,” Perry Monroe said. “That business with Norris, Rakestraw, and those other owlhoots proved that.”
Bill picked up one of the chairs, turned it around, and straddled it. He was glad his father-in-law had spoken up.
As much as Bill felt at home here and liked the people of Redemption, he knew they had a tendency to be complacent. He had seen the evidence of that with his own eyes when he first came here and found the town living in the grip of terror because of a string of mysterious killings.
Even when it became obvious who was behind the murders, people hadn’t taken action until they absolutely had to…and to be honest, Bill knew he himself was responsible for a lot of that. Born and bred in Texas, he didn’t have it in him to let anybody run roughshod over him.
“What do you suggest we do, Captain?” Leo Kellogg asked. Small and nimble-fingered, Kellogg had that in common with Charley Hobbs, but unlike the saddlemaker, who was a lifelong westerner, Kellogg was from Philadelphia. Bill knew from talking to him that Kellogg had a certain thirst for adventure at odds with his mild appearance. That was what had led the tailor to come west.
“I already told you, form a militia,” Stone said. “Assign men to stand watch outside of town. Make plans to establish defensive positions in case of attack. Didn’t any of you men serve in the war? Do you have no military experience whatsoever?”
“I was in the Union army,” Hartnett snapped, “and so was Perry here.”
“I was a colonel in a Georgia regiment,” Judge Dunaway added. Bill hadn’t known that about the judge. “We know something about fighting, Captain.”
“Then I suggest you put your knowledge and experience to good use.” Stone nodded curtly to the council members. “Good day to you.”
“You’re leaving, just like that?” Fleming said.
“I have my orders.”
With that, the captain turned and strode out of the town hall, leaving a worried silence behind him.
After an uncomfortable interval during which the soldiers mounted up and rode out of town with a clatter of hoofbeats and shouted orders from the sergeant, Fleming cleared his throat.
“What do you think? Should we form a militia like the captain suggested?”
“I’m not sure there are enough men in town we can count on to follow orders and work together,” Hartnett said. “It could just make things worse. They might start mistaking each other for Indians and get trigger-happy.”
“We have to do something,” Kellogg insisted. “I think we should send a letter to the commander at Fort Hays formally requesting protection.”
Monroe shook his head. “Wouldn’t do any good. The army’s already stretched too thin out here, what with most of the cavalry being sent up north to chase the Indians who wiped out Custer. I agree with you, Leo, we need to do something, but we can’t let ourselves get stampeded into it.”
Bill sat there listening while the council members tried to hash things out. Finally, Judge Dunaway said, “We’re forgetting that we have our marshal here, too. Bill, what do you think we should do?”
“You’re asking the wrong fella, Judge,” Bill said. “I never fought Indians in my life.”
“None of us have,” Hartnett said.
“But I never even saw very many until I helped drive that herd across Indian Territory with Hob and the rest of the boys, a few months ago. I’m just learnin’ how to be a lawman. No offense, but you gentlemen knew that when I hired on to be marshal.”
“But you’re in charge of maintaining law and order,” Kellogg said. “If we form a militia, maybe you should be in command.”
Bill’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, sir!” he said. “I mean, well, you’d be better off with the judge givin’ orders, or Mr. Hartnett or Mr. Monroe. They’ve got a heap more experience at such things than I do.”
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves again,” Fleming said. “The first thing we need to decide is whether to tell the citizens.”
“I vote no,” Kellogg said. “It’ll cause a panic if we do.”
“And I say we can’t keep it from them,” Hartnett responded. “We have no right to pretend that we’re not all in danger.”
Hobbs said, “Maybe we aren
’t. Maybe the judge is right and those redskins won’t even come here. I reckon there’s a better chance of that than there is of us bein’ attacked.”
“We can’t keep it a secret,” Monroe said. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t, I’m saying we can’t. A lot of people saw those troops ride in. Some of them probably talked to the soldiers. We can’t be sure nothing was said about the Indians. Even if there wasn’t, folks are going to be worrying and asking questions.” He looked around the table. “You really think those of you who are married are going to be able to keep this from your wives? And I’m including you in that, Marshal. I know how persistent my daughter can be when she wants to know something.” Monroe cleared his throat. “She’s, ah, forced me to admit things I rather wouldn’t have.”
Fleming sighed. “Perry’s right. We’re going to have to make an announcement. It’ll be up to you, Marshal, to maintain order and keep things from getting out of hand.”
Bill nodded. He knew the mayor was right, even though he wished there was some other way to handle this.
At that moment, the situation got even worse. The door of the town hall opened, and Eden walked in.
“Mr. Cobb told me there was some sort of emergency council meeting going on,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
Monroe glanced at Bill, as if to say, What did I tell you? He said, “Go back to the store, dear. This is council business.”
“Business that involves my father and my husband,” Eden said.
Bill stood up and walked toward her. “Your father’s right,” he told her. “We’re just about done here—”
“No, I can tell that something bad has happened. What is it?”
“Look around,” Monroe said. “I don’t see anything to worry about. Do you?”
“I certainly do,” Eden replied without hesitation. “I see all of you sitting around looking gloomy and scared, like we’re about to be attacked by wild Indians or something—”
She stopped short and her eyes widened at the looks of surprise on several of the council members.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Is…is that true? Is that why those soldiers were here? Redemption is going to be attacked by Indians?”
“We don’t really know that—” Bill began.
“But it’s possible? We’re all in danger?”
Bill saw the fear in her blue eyes and knew, as he had known all along, that he wasn’t going to be able to lie to her.
“Some of the Pawnee are on the warpath,” he said. “That’s why Captain Stone was here, to warn us that they might be headed in this direction. Might,” he added, emphasizing the word. “We don’t know where they’re going to turn up next or what they’re gonna do.”
“But don’t worry, Eden,” Mayor Fleming said. “We’re going to be ready if those savages show up here. If they’re looking for a fight, the good citizens of Redemption will give it to them!”
Bill saw the doubt in the eyes of Monroe, Hartnett, and Judge Dunaway. The three council members with military experience weren’t convinced that the townspeople could fight off an Indian attack.
To be honest, neither was he.
But as he looked at Eden, resolve grew inside him. Her beautiful blond hair was never going to decorate the lance of some Pawnee warrior.
He turned to look at the council again. They were right: he was the marshal here. It was his job to keep the settlement and all of its citizens safe.
“Go ahead and call a meeting of everybody in town,” he said. “If we’re gonna have to fight, we’d better start getting ready.”
But at the same time, he was hoping desperately that the Pawnee would pick somewhere else to go on their next rampage.
Chapter 6
“Three Indians are hardly anything to worry about,” Colonel Bledsoe declared with a dismissive snort when Costigan and McGinty told him what they had seen. “Such a small group would never dare to attack a large party like ours.”
“Yeah, but like I told Costigan, there could’ve been five hundred more of the varmints waiting on the other side of that hill,” McGinty said.
“If that was true, why didn’t they kill you?” Bledsoe wanted to know.
“Maybe because they planned on following us and finding out how many men there are in our bunch.”
Bledsoe scowled, clearly not liking what Costigan had just suggested. “You believe they’re going to come back with reinforcements?”
“I believe there’s no way to predict what they’ll do,” Costigan said. “We won’t know it until they do it.”
A stubborn look came over Bledsoe’s beefy face. “Well, by God, that herd’s right over there, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to take some more hides. Set up the stands.”
Costigan nodded. He dismounted, and McGinty followed suit. The other marksmen swung down from their saddles and gathered around the supply wagon to take out their shooting stands.
Some men preferred elaborate folding tripods to support and steady the heavy barrels of their rifles. Others made do with just a forked stick they could drive into the ground. As long as it did the job, it didn’t matter.
Costigan had made his own stand, carving it out of a piece of oak. It was as thick as a man’s wrist and slightly more than six feet long. He had bolted a couple of metal prongs on the bottom so it was easy to drive into the ground. Instead of the two legs at the top forking into a Y, he had fashioned them into a more gentle U-shape that cupped the barrel of whichever rifle he was using. It was fancier than some, not as much so as others.
Costigan didn’t care about any of that. The stand did a good job for him, and that was all that mattered.
He set up on the edge of the shallow bluff Bledsoe had chosen. The bluff rose about six feet over the surrounding terrain. Out here on these plains, that was enough height to give the shooters a good view of the herd several hundred yards away.
Costigan slid one of his Sharps from its sheath and unwrapped it from the layers of oilcloth and buckskin in which he had rolled it. The barrel and the breech had dull gleams to them, but Costigan hadn’t polished them to a high shine. They wouldn’t give off much of a reflection this way.
McGinty put his stand about fifty feet to Costigan’s right. The men were strung out along the bluff at similar distances. The deafening reports of the guns would be bad enough without them being closer together.
A gentle wind touched Costigan’s face as he placed the barrel of his rifle on the stand, settled the butt against his shoulder, and leaned his cheek against the smooth walnut of the stock.
The wind brought the strong, musky scent of the herd to him, and that was good. It would carry the smell of powder smoke away from the great shaggy beasts, as well as helping to muffle the sound of the shots.
The shooters chose their targets. They liked to pick off beasts on the outskirts of the herd and gradually work their way in. Less chance of spooking the others that way.
As Costigan raised his sights and settled them on one of the bulls, he heard a rifle boom farther along the line. A second later one of the other men fired.
Satisfied with his aim, Costigan squeezed the trigger. The Sharps roared and kicked against his shoulder. Costigan’s firm grip kept the recoil under control.
The gray powder smoke that erupted from the barrel drifted back over his head, and as it cleared he saw the bull he had targeted still standing there stolidly.
Costigan was patient. He knew he hadn’t missed.
A couple of seconds later, the buffalo took a step. Its short front legs buckled under its immense weight. The animal tipped forward, then rolled slowly onto its side. It didn’t move again.
Those buffalo were so big they had to be dead for a little while before they realized it.
Costigan worked the lever that also formed the trigger guard and opened the breech. He took out the empty shell and replaced it with a fresh cartridge from a pouch that hung at his waist from a shoulder strap.
He didn’t have to take the Sharps off t
he stand to reload. The process took only a few seconds. Costigan had done it countless times and could have reloaded in pitch darkness, even if he was only half conscious.
Other shots blasted, and more of the buffalo collapsed under the onslaught of lead. Almost unbelievably, the rest of the herd continued to graze peacefully.
When Costigan had first heard that buffalo would just stand there oblivious while their fellows were dying all around them, he had found it difficult to comprehend how any creatures could behave that way. He’d had to see the grisly spectacle with his own eyes before he fully accepted it.
His second shot brought down a hefty bull. He reloaded and fired again, then again and again and again. The day became a blur of noise and smoke and the Sharps’s recoil against his shoulder.
The rifle’s long, heavy barrel grew warm and expanded slowly from the pressure of the lead missiles traveling through it. Costigan knew from experience when the barrel got too hot for him to continue using the weapon. To keep from damaging the Sharps, he set it aside and unwrapped the second rifle.
By the time that one had heated up, too, the first Sharps would be cooled off enough to use again. All the buffalo hunters switched weapons like that during the long hours of slaughter.
Meanwhile the skinners sat on the ground or the wagons and waited for their turn. Later, when the smell of spilled blood finally became bad enough and the tiny brains of the surviving beasts began to figure out that something might be wrong, the rest of the herd would drift away. That was when the wagons and the skinners would move in.
As far as Costigan was concerned, there wasn’t a worse job in all of creation than skinning buffalo. The skinners had to cut through those thick hides, peel them off the gory carcasses, and load the stinking, blood-dripping things onto the wagons to be hauled back to the main camp.
There wasn’t enough money in the world to pay him to be a hide skinner, Costigan had often thought as he watched the men at their work.
Like any other task performed over and over, killing buffalo became routine. Costigan’s mind wandered. He didn’t have to think that hard to load, aim, fire, and load again while another of the shaggy beasts collapsed.
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