That evening, he and Mordecai Flint stood on the boardwalk in front of the marshal’s office, each of them sipping coffee from a tin cup.
Fresh volunteers were on the roofs of several buildings in town, and a new crop of outriders patrolled a large circle around the settlement. Bill looked along the street at the barrels that had been stacked up here and there, as Flint had suggested, and he was comfortable with the thought that he had done all he could to get ready for trouble, at least for now.
That comfort didn’t last long, because Flint sighed and said, “I got a bad feelin’ in my bones.”
“Rheumatism, maybe?”
Flint snorted. “You know danged well what I mean, Marshal. Somethin’ bad’s out there, and it’s headed this way. My bones ain’t never wrong.”
Even though Bill had known Mordecai Flint for only a day and a half, his instincts told him to trust the old man. He said, “Do those bones tell you when it’s gonna get here?”
“No, and that’s the problem. But it’s like the same feelin’ I get before it rains. Just a damned annoyin’ ache that tells me somethin’s wrong.”
“Maybe it’s just another thunderstorm on the way.”
Flint shook his head. “I wish it was, Marshal. I surely do.”
Chapter 15
Sergeant Jasper Hutton had been in the army nigh on to thirty years and had lived through the Mexican War and the War between the States.
He had smelled more powder smoke and felt the hot breath of more musket balls and rifle bullets passing close to his head than any man ought to have to.
But in all those times, he had never felt closer to death than he did right now.
When Captain Stone called a halt to rest the patrol’s horses, Hutton approached the commanding officer and said, “Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n, but are you sure—”
Stone didn’t let him finish. “Have you ever noticed, Sergeant, how many of your comments are prefaced by the words, ‘Begging your pardon, Captain?’ It’s as if you know you shouldn’t be making them.”
Hutton tightened his jaw against the anger that threatened to boil up inside him.
“It’s my job to take care of these men, sir. That’s why I speak up.”
“Well, you’re certainly incorrect about that. Your job is to follow my orders.” Stone fixed him with a hard stare. “That’s your only job, Sergeant. And as for whether or not I’m sure about whatever you were going to ask me, the answer is yes. I’m sure. Otherwise I wouldn’t be doing it. And that is all you need to know.”
Stone turned away, making it clear that the conversation was over.
Hutton sighed and went back to the men, who had dismounted and stood holding their horses’ reins. One of them, a young trooper named Watson, said, “The captain’s gonna get us in trouble, isn’t he, Sarge?”
“Keep your voice down,” Hutton said. “In this man’s army, enlisted men don’t go around questionin’ officers. They know what they’re doin’.”
“But if they don’t, they’re liable to get us killed.”
Hutton glared at Watson. “What’d you think signin’ up for the army meant, boy? That you’d just sit around smellin’ rosewater and pickin’ daisies all day?”
“I never said that, Sarge. But what if there’s a whole mess of Indians out there waitin’ for us?”
“Then we’ll engage the hostiles at Captain Stone’s command.”
Hutton’s flat tone made it clear there wasn’t going to be any argument.
A few minutes later, the troopers mounted up again and rode west after Stone lifted his right hand above his head and waved it forward in a dramatic gesture.
Sergeant Hutton’s gaze roamed constantly over the mostly flat landscape around them. At least if they met the Pawnee, they ought to have some warning, he thought. A man could see for a long way out here.
But Hutton was experienced enough to know how skilled Indians were at concealing themselves. Because of that, he stayed alert.
Not that it would do any good, he thought. If the Pawnee wanted them, the painted devils would find a way to get to them.
The cavalry rode for several hours, putting the site of the massacre far behind them. As Hutton’s horse plodded along a short distance behind the captain’s mount, Stone turned his head and said over his shoulder, “I don’t think there are any hostiles out here.”
He sounded both disappointed and disgusted.
“Might not be a good idea to say somethin’ like that, Cap’n,” Hutton replied.
“Why? Because it’s tempting fate?”
“Well…that’s sort of what I had in mind, sir.”
Stone snorted and said, “I don’t believe in fate, Sergeant. I believe in preparation and strategy. Those are the things that win the day, not blind luck, which is what most people mean when they talk about fate.”
“Every man has a destiny, Cap’n.”
“Nonsense. Each man makes his own destiny.”
Hutton didn’t believe that for a second, but he didn’t see any point in continuing to argue with the captain, either. No noncom ever won an argument with an officer.
And if that wasn’t destiny, he didn’t know what was.
At least Stone didn’t seem to have brought down any bad luck on them by speculating that there weren’t any Indians out here. The patrol rode on without seeing anything more threatening than a prairie dog.
Hutton couldn’t relax, though. He kept looking around, searching the landscape for any sign of trouble.
Despite the sergeant’s vigilance, it was Captain Stone who had the first inkling that something was wrong. “What’s that?” he said abruptly.
Hutton was checking their back trail when the captain spoke. His head jerked around and he looked ahead of them again.
A lone rider had popped up on the prairie about two hundred yards ahead of them, seemingly out of nowhere. Hutton had looked up there just a few seconds earlier, and no one had been in sight then.
“Cap’n, better hold it,” he warned.
“There’s no reason to be afraid, Sergeant. It’s only one man on horseback.”
But even as Stone spoke, another rider appeared next to the first one, then another. From the way they climbed into view, Hutton knew the ground had to drop off up there, even though they couldn’t see it from here. Might be a little gully, or more likely a wider arroyo, maybe even an actual valley.
Whatever it was, it was big enough to hide quite a few riders, because now a steady stream of mounted figures was appearing in front of the patrol. A dozen men were in sight already, with more showing up every second.
“Halt!” Hutton bellowed. “Halt!”
Stone reined in and whirled his horse. “Sergeant Hutton!” his voice lashed out. “How dare you give an order without me telling you to?”
“Cap’n,” Hutton said, and his voice sounded strained and hollow in his ears, “you better take a closer look up yonder.”
Stone watched the riders appear for a moment. They numbered more than two dozen now.
“All right, so there are slightly more of them than there are of us,” Stone admitted. “We’re better armed, and we’re the United States Cavalry, for God’s sake! You don’t honestly believe that we’re not a match for a bunch of ragtag savages straight off the reservation, do you, Sergeant?”
Hutton heard the frightened muttering from the troopers behind them. He snapped his head around and yelled, “Quiet back there!”
“Oh, dear,” Stone said.
At least fifty Indians were in sight now, forming a line across the prairie in front of the patrol. They continued to appear. The breeze that blew across the plains made the feathers stuck in their hair move back and forth. Hutton thought their faces were painted, but he couldn’t be sure about that.
At least he couldn’t confirm that with his eyes.
He knew in his heart that the Pawnee were painted for war.
“Sergeant, what should we do?” Stone asked.
Now h
e wants my advice, Hutton thought.
“Should we attempt a retreat?”
“Wouldn’t do any good,” Hutton said. “Their ponies are probably fresher. We can’t outrun them. They’d just pick us off one by one.” He looked back at the men. “Dismount and form firing lines.”
“But there are too many of them!” Stone said, his voice breaking with panic now. Close to a hundred Pawnee warriors sat waiting for the signal to attack. “We can’t hope to defeat them.”
A faint smile touched Hutton’s lips as he said, “Then I guess that’s our destiny, isn’t it, Cap’n? And I reckon you’re right after all. We made it ourselves.”
The hunting party made steady progress across the plains and reached the main camp at midafternoon. Colonel Bledsoe told the men who had been left there to guard the hides to gather their gear and get ready to ride.
Bledsoe sighed in regret as he looked out over the prairie that was dark with drying buffalo hides.
“I’d bet you anything they won’t be there when we get back,” he said to Costigan in a bitter voice.
“I think they will be,” Costigan said. “And even if they’re not, you’ll be alive to hunt more buffalo, Colonel. Isn’t that more important?”
Bledsoe nodded. “Of course it is. But I can’t really afford to lose that much money, either. Damn those Indians!”
The colonel was directing his curse the wrong way, Costigan thought. They wouldn’t be in any danger if the hunters hadn’t gotten trigger-happy.
But it wouldn’t do any good to point that out, so he didn’t.
When the other men were ready to go, the group moved out again, wagon wheels creaking as they rolled across the ground. The party now numbered thirty men, a good-sized force.
As tough and well-armed as they were, anybody would think twice about tackling them.
But Costigan knew they wouldn’t be any match for a large band of Pawnee warriors. He wished he had gotten a better look at those riders he had seen the day before. If they had been closer, he might have been able to estimate how many there were.
As it was, the possibility that there could be fifty, sixty, maybe even a hundred of the hostiles out there looking for them gnawed at Costigan’s guts. Even with the young men dead, the hunting party could still be vastly outnumbered.
As far as he could remember, Captain Stone hadn’t ever mentioned how many of the Indians had slipped off the reservation with Spotted Dog. And there was no guarantee that they hadn’t joined up with other renegades since then.
Costigan wondered where Stone and the rest of the cavalrymen were now. He hoped for the best for them—even though Stone was a stiff-necked jackass—but he had a hunch they were heading straight into trouble…if they hadn’t found it already.
“Ward, you look like somebody just kissed your wife and kicked your dog.”
Costigan hadn’t noticed McGinty riding beside him. He looked over, summoned up a smile, and said, “I don’t have either one of those things, Dave. Had a dog when I was a boy, but no woman’s ever been foolish enough to marry me.”
“I was married once, you know.”
McGinty kept looking behind him as he spoke, and Costigan knew the man was trying to distract himself from worrying about the Pawnee.
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah.” McGinty scowled. “She up and ran off with another fella. A telegrapher, of all things. Hell, he wasn’t even a gambler or a gunfighter or anything like that. He was more borin’ than I was!”
Obviously not to Mrs. McGinty, Costigan thought. He was too fond of the bearded man to say that.
“I’m just glad we didn’t have any kids,” McGinty went on. “I was able to pick up and head west. That helped me to forget all about her. Only I ain’t. Forgotten about her, that is.”
“It’s hard to forget the things that make us what we are.”
“Ain’t that the damned, disgustin’ truth.” McGinty looked back again. “We’re gonna die, aren’t we, Ward?”
“Hard to say.”
McGinty cleared his throat and said, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about those redskins. I shot at ’em, too, you know. Everybody did. Once the guns started goin’ off…I just couldn’t stop myself from pullin’ the trigger. I know it ain’t no excuse…but I never got a good look at ’em and saw how young they were until…until it was all over.”
Costigan didn’t look over at his friend. He thought tears might be glistening on McGinty’s weathered, bearded cheeks, and if that was true, he didn’t want to see them.
“Everybody makes mistakes,” he said. “I joined the army thinking I was gonna go off and do something good. But most of the time it was just killing. Both sides stood there and shot each other like they were buffalo instead of boys in blue and gray.”
Before Costigan could dwell any more on the past, he heard a shout from somewhere in the group behind him. He and McGinty reined up and turned in their saddles to look.
“It’s the Injuns!” Tolbert bellowed. “By God, the redskins are back there!”
The wagon drivers yelled and lashed at the teams with their whips. Riders slashed their mounts with their reins. The animals lunged ahead and broke into gallops. Riders held their hats on while the drivers struggled to control the rattling, bouncing wagons.
Costigan and McGinty were swept along with the flood. Costigan tried to look back to see what they were fleeing from, but it was hopeless. Dust and terror clogged the air and made it impossible to see anything.
After a few minutes at a dead run, the horses had to slow down. Costigan pulled his mount back to a walk, then a stop.
“Ward, what’re you doin’?” McGinty called as Costigan swung down from the saddle with his Henry rifle in his hands.
“I don’t feel like running today,” Costigan said. His eyes narrowed as he squinted back in the direction the hunting party had come from.
McGinty had stopped as well. The others were pulling away from them.
“Ward, come on,” McGinty urged. “We can’t take on the Pawnee by ourselves!”
“I don’t see any Pawnee.” Costigan swept a hand toward the western horizon. “Do you?”
Now that the others had moved on, the dust began to clear. As McGinty peered to the west, he saw what Costigan did…nothing but empty plains.
“There’s nobody chasin’ us,” McGinty said.
“Not right now, anyway.”
“But then what was all the yellin’ and runnin’ about?”
“Fear,” Costigan said. “But a man can’t outrun that.”
He mounted again, and he and McGinty rode after the others and spread the word that the Pawnee weren’t behind them after all.
When the group stopped a short time later to rest the horses, Bledsoe gave them all a disgusted look and said, “I don’t know who let out the first yell, but next time make sure there’s something to be alarmed about before you open your mouth. We can’t afford to run these animals into the ground.”
The colonel was right about that. When they pushed on again, it was at a more deliberate pace.
When the sun went down, there was no discussion of stopping because it would soon be dark. Everyone wanted to push on and put as much distance between them and the vengeful Pawnee as they could.
“You can steer by the stars, can’t you, Costigan?” Bledsoe asked as the pinpricks of light began to appear in the blue black heavens above the Kansas plains.
“Yeah, pretty well. I can keep us going east.”
“You do that, then,” Bledsoe said. “You’ll take the lead. Eventually we’ll have to stop for a few hours to let the horses rest for longer, but right now I want to keep moving.”
Costigan knew everyone in the group felt the same way. He nodded and heeled his horse into a trot that carried them out in front of the hunting party.
McGinty didn’t accompany him this time, and Costigan was glad. He was a loner by nature, and even a semblance of solitude was welcome right now.
/> He could still hear the men coming along a short distance behind him, though, and the night breezes were out of the west as well, carrying not only the thud of hoofbeats, the squeal of wagon wheels on axles, and the clink of bit chains, but also the stink from the wagons.
There was no peace to be had. Not tonight, and probably not anytime soon.
Maybe when they reached that town called Redemption, Costigan thought.
Chapter 16
Bill slept better the next two nights. A fella can only stay keyed up and on edge for so long a time, he thought. Then his body takes over and makes him rest.
It wasn’t just that. Nothing had happened. Redemption was as peaceful as ever.
More peaceful than it had been when he first came here, he told himself. People weren’t getting shot in the back now.
But despite the outward calm, the citizens were still worried, even fearful. Bill heard it in their voices when he talked to them. They still thought something was going to happen.
He stopped in at the marshal’s office on the evening of the third day, after making rounds. Mordecai Flint was there, dozing on the sofa. The old-timer’s eyes snapped open as Bill came in.
Flint sat up and said, “I wasn’t asleep. I was just restin’ my eyes.”
“There’s nothing wrong with getting a little shut-eye when you can, Mr. Flint,” Bill told him. “You’ve been staying up all night, every night, and most of the day, too. You must be worn out by now.”
“Not a bit,” Flint insisted. “I’m fine as frog hair. Told you, I don’t need much sleep.”
Bill hung his hat on the nail beside the door. “Whatever you say.”
“Darn right whatever I say,” Flint responded with a snort. “Anything goin’ on out there?”
Bill shook his head. “Not a blessed thing.”
Flint rubbed his left shoulder with his right hand and shook his head. “I don’t understand it. My bones are still pitchin’ a holy fit. Somethin’s gonna happen, I tell you.”
“I think everybody in town feels the same way. I know I do.”
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