Costigan felt better about things, but that didn’t mean he’d gotten careless. His pale gray eyes constantly scanned the landscape around him.
McGinty was just as watchful. “Think we’ll see those redskins again today, Ward?” he asked.
“They’re liable to be fifty miles away by now,” Costigan replied.
McGinty chuckled. “That’s not really the same as answerin’ my question, now is it?”
“I hope we don’t see them,” Costigan said. “I hope we just kill some buffalo and don’t run into any trouble.”
“Amen to that,” McGinty said. But the words had barely left his mouth when he said, “Uh-oh.”
Costigan stiffened in the saddle. “What is it?”
“Dust to the south.”
Costigan turned and looked. Sure enough, McGinty was right. A column of dust curled up to join the clouds in the sky.
It wasn’t nearly as innocent as those clouds, though, Costigan thought. Riders were on the move, and if they kept coming, their path would soon intersect that of the hunting party.
“Ride back and tell the colonel,” Costigan said to McGinty. “Might be a good idea to circle up the wagons.”
“What are you gonna do?”
Costigan reached for the telescope in his saddlebags. “Thought I’d see if I can tell for sure what we’re dealing with.”
“Blast it, Ward, don’t go riskin’ your life—”
“I don’t intend to,” Costigan said. “Not any more than any of the rest of us are. Don’t worry, if I spot feathers and war paint, I’ll hustle back to the wagons on the double.”
“You’d better,” McGinty said. He turned his horse and galloped toward the wagons.
Seeing that something was going on, the other shooters rode over to find out what it was. Costigan waved them away.
“Head for the wagons!” he called to them. “Might be Indians coming!”
A couple of the men hesitated, but not for long. None of them stayed around to argue. The biggest safety was in numbers, so they headed for the wagons.
In a matter of minutes, Costigan found himself alone, half a mile ahead of the others.
He found that oddly satisfying. He didn’t like being responsible for anyone’s safety except his own.
With a cluck of his tongue, he heeled his horse into a run that would take him closer to the oncoming riders.
Despite what he had told McGinty, a part of him felt the urge to charge those riders if they turned out to be a war party of Indians. That would mean certain death, of course. But Costigan had heard that the Indians had a saying about a day being a good one to die.
Nobody would ever find a more beautiful day to die, that was for sure. A man could do worse than to draw his last breath looking up at that Kansas sky.
He was getting ahead of himself. He didn’t know who the men on horseback were. However, they were close enough now that he could see them as dark specks at the base of the dust cloud their horses were kicking up.
Costigan reined in, extended the telescope, and lifted it to his eye.
Blue uniforms leaped to vivid life. Costigan grunted in surprise as he saw them. The morning sunlight glinted off brass buttons and fittings. He even spotted a guidon fluttering in the breeze as the standard bearer rode a short distance behind the two men leading the group.
Costigan watched them for a few moments, then closed the telescope and tucked it away. He turned his horse and sent it in a gallop toward the wagons.
Bledsoe had taken his advice, brought the caravan to a halt, and had the wagons drawn into a loose circle. There weren’t enough of them to make a strong defensive formation, as wagon trains full of immigrants did when they were attacked by Indians, but it was still better than having them stretched out in a line.
As things had turned out, the maneuver wasn’t necessary, but Costigan was glad to see that Bledsoe had done it anyway.
He might not care that much about his own life anymore, but he didn’t want to see his friend Dave McGinty and the other men massacred. Not even the colonel.
The horses were milling around inside the circle of wagons. Men crouched behind each of the vehicles, rifles at the ready.
With their deadly aim and those long-range weapons, the hunters could hold off an attack for a long time even though they would be outnumbered, if it came to that. Whether they survived or not would depend largely on how stubborn the Indians were.
But not today, Costigan thought. Not now, anyway.
Colonel Bledsoe straightened up from his crouch and called, “Costigan! Costigan! Are they Indians?”
Costigan didn’t answer until he reached the wagons. He saw every man in the party looking at him with faces taut from fear.
“Rest easy, Colonel,” he said. “It looks like we’re about to get a visit from the United States Cavalry.”
Chapter 10
Bledsoe’s eyes widened in surprise at that news. “The cavalry!” he repeated.
“That’s right,” Costigan said. He couldn’t resist adding, “You know, Colonel, the sort of men you commanded a regiment of during the war.”
It wasn’t that he doubted Bledsoe’s service. He had no reason to think the man hadn’t commanded a cavalry regiment.
But something about the colonel never had seemed right to Costigan. His hunch was that Bledsoe never had seen as much action as he claimed in his stories.
Bledsoe must have sensed that Costigan felt that way, too, because his face flushed even more than usual. He said, “That’s splendid. Perhaps if any of them were in the war, they might have served under my command.”
“Maybe,” Costigan said. “You want me to ride out and meet them?”
“An excellent idea. Take McGinty with you and guide them back to us.”
Costigan didn’t figure the troopers would need much guiding. Out here in this big, flat, mostly empty landscape, the wagons were pretty easy to spot. He was glad for the excuse to ride out again, though.
“Come on, Dave,” he called. “You’re with me.”
All the men had heard Costigan report that the riders were soldiers, not Indians on the warpath. They stood up from where they had been kneeling and crouching behind the wagons and looked visibly relieved.
A big grin wreathed McGinty’s bearded face as he led his horse out of the circle and mounted up to join Costigan in welcoming the troopers.
“You reckon those soldier boys are out on a routine patrol?” he asked as the two of them rode away from the wagons.
“Could be,” Costigan said. “On the other hand, they’re a long way from anywhere out here. Maybe they’re looking for something in particular.”
“Like an Indian war party?”
Costigan shrugged. “Could be. We ought to know pretty soon.”
The soldiers were closer now. Costigan didn’t need the telescope anymore to make out the blue uniforms and the flapping guidon.
He and McGinty rode on until they were about fifty yards from the troopers. Costigan reined in to wait for them, and McGinty followed suit.
The cavalrymen closed that gap to twenty yards before the officer in the lead held up a hand to signal a halt. The sergeant right behind him turned around and bellowed the order.
As the troopers pulled their mounts to a stop, the cloud of dust that had been following drifted over them, blurring them in Costigan’s sight for a second. His brain leaped to an unaccustomed flight of fancy.
What if it was all an illusion, and the soldiers continued to shimmer and fade until they disappeared like one of those mirages he had read about in books?
Then the dust blew over Costigan and McGinty, too, and it stung Costigan’s eyes and nose. He blinked away the grit. The troopers were real, all right, and the officer in charge of them was walking his horse slowly toward the two buffalo hunters.
He reined in a short distance away and nodded to them. “Gentlemen,” he said. “I presume you’re with that hunting party I can see over there?”
; The man’s tone was crisp, the words bitten off curtly. He was an easterner, Costigan thought, and might not have been out here on the frontier for very long.
The sergeant appeared to be a grizzled veteran, though, and if this wet-behind-the-ears captain had any sense, he would rely heavily on the noncom’s advice.
“That’s right, Cap’n,” Costigan said. “We saw your dust and didn’t know but what you were hostiles.”
“You’ve heard about the Pawnee, then.”
Costigan and McGinty traded a surprised glance. Costigan told the officer, “No, sir, we’ve been out here for a while. I thought all the Pawnee were on the reservation down in Indian Territory since they were moved from their lands in Nebraska a while back.”
“That’s where they’re supposed to be. However, a large number of braves led by Chief Spotted Dog slipped away from the reservation and have gone on the warpath.”
“And you’re looking for them?”
The captain drew in a sharp breath and didn’t look pleased. “No, our orders are to warn the settlers in this area. We’ve been visiting the towns and farms and ranches and letting people know about the possible threat. I believe the hostiles to be a considerable distance west of here.”
He didn’t sound happy about that, either. The man was probably a glory hunter, thought Costigan.
He had seen plenty of officers like that during the war, ambitious men who had visions of fame and promotion dancing in their heads. Men who didn’t care if they had to sacrifice some of their troops if it meant a good write-up in Harper’s Weekly.
Costigan swallowed the bitter taste that came up in his throat. He hated to tell this captain what they had seen the day before, but the man needed to be aware of it.
“There’s no way of knowing if it’s the same bunch you’re talking about, Captain,” Costigan said, “but we saw Indians a couple of different times yesterday.”
The captain sat up straighter in his saddle. His narrow face grew animated.
“You did? How many?”
“Just three, the first time. They were sitting off on a bluff yesterday morning, watching my friend and I while we scouted for the herd our party’s been following. Then later in the day we spotted a lot more of them in the distance.”
“They didn’t attack you?”
Costigan shook his head. “Nope. In fact, they were making a wide circle around us. It looked like they were doing their best to steer clear of us.”
“That doesn’t sound like the Pawnee war party,” the captain said. A disappointed frown creased his forehead. “They’ve raided several ranches and attacked a train since they escaped from the reservation. And that’s just what I’m aware of. They may have carried out other atrocities since we left the fort.”
McGinty said, “Could be the same bunch, and they just didn’t want to tangle with us. It’s pert-near suicide to come after a group of buffalo hunters. We can shoot the whiskers off a gnat at a hundred yards, and we’ve got the rifles to do it, too.”
“Yes, well, I’d like for you to show me where you saw these savages. I think they warrant investigation.”
The tone of the captain’s voice made it clear he was issuing an order, not asking a favor.
The sergeant cleared his throat and said, “Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n, but we weren’t actually supposed to be huntin’ those hostiles.”
“But we have every right to engage them in defense of our own lives should we happen to encounter them, don’t we, Sergeant?”
The middle-aged noncom shrugged. “I reckon we do.”
“Very well.” The captain turned back to Costigan and McGinty. “Show me.”
Costigan kept a tight rein on his temper. There had been a time in his life when he had to take orders from stiff-necked jackasses like this officer, but that was more than a decade in the past.
“You’ll need to talk to our boss first,” he said. “He tells us what to do.”
The captain didn’t like that. He glared at Costigan and asked, “What’s your employer’s name?”
“Colonel William Bledsoe.”
The rank seemed to take the captain by surprise. It didn’t take him long to figure out, though, that it was probably honorary. A colonel on active duty wouldn’t be bossing a bunch of buffalo hunters.
“I shall be sure to speak to Colonel Bledsoe about your attitude, sir,” he said. “Now, if you’ll take me to him…”
“Sure,” Costigan said. “Come on.”
He and McGinty turned their horses and rode toward the wagons. Behind them, the captain ordered, “Sergeant Hutton, bring the men forward but hold them a hundred yards away from those wagons.”
The hunting party had come out of the circle and gathered in front of the wagons to wait for Costigan, McGinty, and the soldiers. Colonel Bledsoe strode forward to meet them, looking as dapper as usual in his suit and derby hat…or at least as dapper as any man could after spending nearly a week out on the prairie in a dusty buffalo camp.
Bledsoe stopped. “Colonel William J. Bledsoe, Fifth Pennsylvania Cavalry, retired,” he announced himself.
If he was expecting the captain to salute him, he was going to have a long wait, thought Costigan. The officer dismounted and gave Bledsoe a curt nod.
“I’m Captain Timothy Stone, Mr. Bledsoe.”
Costigan saw a flash of anger and hurt in Bledsoe’s eyes, and in that moment he almost felt sorry for the man, even though he didn’t like him in the slightest. Bledsoe set a lot of store by his former rank, and Captain Stone couldn’t have offended him much more if he’d taken the derby off Bledsoe’s head and relieved himself in it.
Mister. That had to hurt.
“As I was explaining to this rather insolent individual who works for you, there is a Pawnee war party at large, having escaped from the reservation in Indian Territory, and you should consider yourself duly warned that you and your men may find yourselves in danger from these hostiles.”
“Pawnee,” Bledsoe repeated. “Why, they haven’t given any trouble in—”
“They’re giving trouble now,” Stone said. “And you should take all necessary precautions. I’m told you encountered the savages yesterday?”
“We saw some Indians. We don’t know if it was the bunch you’re looking for.”
Costigan hadn’t really expected Bledsoe to take the same reasonable stance he had. He’d assumed the colonel would jump to the conclusion that the Indians they had seen were the ones who had raided those ranches farther west.
“We’ll determine that,” Stone said. “I’d like for your man to show me where the Indians were yesterday, but he seems to think you need to approve that.”
Bledsoe glared at Costigan. “What the hell? Do what the captain wants, Costigan. You don’t argue with the cavalry.”
“Fine, if that’s what you want, Colonel.”
“I’ll go with you, Ward,” McGinty said.
Bledsoe shook his head. “I can’t afford to lose two shooters. You stay with us, McGinty. And you get back as soon as you can, Costigan.”
Captain Stone had heard enough. He said, “Come along, Mr. Costigan,” and swung back up into his saddle. “That is your name, correct?”
“Yeah.” Costigan turned his horse and fell in alongside the officer as they rode back toward the rest of the cavalry patrol. “Ward Costigan.”
He thought about adding Corporal, Twelfth Ohio Infantry, but he didn’t want to sound like Bledsoe.
Anyway, it wasn’t like he had spent all that much time with his regiment. Not after his commanding officers had found out what he could do with a rifle.
After that he was always posted up at the front lines, or even out ahead of the front lines, hidden in a tree or some brush or a bunch of rocks, his telescope trained on the enemy camps, waiting for some careless Confederate officer to step out where Costigan had a clear shot at him…
Costigan looked over his shoulder. The wagons were already rolling again. Bledsoe was eager to get to the herd an
d start the day’s killing.
For the next hour, Costigan led Captain Stone, Sergeant Hutton, and the rest of the cavalrymen at an angle to the northwest, toward the area where he had seen the Indians the day before.
The only real landmarks he had to go by in this mostly featureless landscape were the two small hills between which the Indians had ridden out of sight. Costigan knew he could pick up the trail there, and Stone could follow it, backtrack the savages, or do whatever the hell he wanted to. What the cavalry did was none of Costigan’s business, and he intended to keep it that way.
The hills were visible for a long time before the men got to them. Gradually, they seemed to grow larger as Costigan and the patrol approached. Finally, Costigan slowed his horse to a halt when the hills were only about half a mile away.
He pointed to them and said, “You’ll find the trail right up there between those hills, Captain. The group of Indians we saw was large enough that you shouldn’t have any trouble spotting the tracks their ponies left. There was no rain last night to wash them out, and there hasn’t been much wind.”
“You’re supposed to show me where the Indians were, Costigan,” Stone said.
“I am. I told you, they rode right through there.”
“Take me to the tracks. Remember, Colonel Bledsoe ordered you to cooperate with me.”
Costigan bit back the angry response that tried to spring to his lips. He supposed another half a mile didn’t matter. He was about to nod and agree when he heard some very faint noises in the distance. They were coming from the south, Costigan thought…from the area about where that buffalo herd ought to be grazing today.
Sergeant Hutton heard the sounds, too. “Shots,” he said. “That huntin’ party must’ve found those buffs.”
Costigan thought so at first, too, but then something twisted inside his guts as he realized the shots were wrong.
When all the hunters were set up and firing into a herd, they fell into a steady rhythm that Costigan knew as well as he knew the beating of his own heart.
These shots were coming faster, at a more ragged pace, and interspersed with the dull booms of the heavy-caliber buffalo guns were the sharper cracks of Henrys and Winchesters.
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