God help us, Jason thought. Nothing better happen to Lieutenant Anderson. He wasn’t sure he approved of Colonel Whitman’s method for training his administrative officers. He went back to the horses and sat down to eat a meal of hardtack washed down with a swallow of water, the order having been given to start no fires. Finished with his rather dry supper, he leaned back on his saddle and made himself comfortable. A few minutes later, Brady found him and sat down to talk.
“Mister, I’d really love to have a hot cup of coffee right now,” Brady started. “Hell, Jason, I’d even love to have a cup of that black buffalo piss you brew up.”
Jason grunted, then, “You better sit down here, old man, before you start having a fit. I don’t believe you’ve ever gone this long without coffee, have you? You might start foaming at the mouth and we’ll have to shoot you.”
Brady sat down and they talked awhile. Over by a large cottonwood, the officers were gathered, planning the morning attack. Jason was not looking forward to it. He didn’t have much enthusiasm for riding into a village where there were women and children, shooting everything that moved. It didn’t seem right to wage war that way and yet he knew that many a soldier had met his maker due to being shot by a squaw.
The officers meeting over, Thad returned to his troop. Spotting Jason and Brady lounging near the bank of the stream, he made his way directly to them. Brady started to get to his feet as the lieutenant approached but Thad waved him back down. He sat down beside them.
“We’re going to wait here until midnight. That ought to give us plenty of time to make the march.”
It was a statement but Jason caught the hint of a question behind it so he replied, “Sounds reasonable to me.”
Thad nodded in agreement with his own statement. “How many do you think there are in that camp?”
Jason shrugged. “About a hundred and fifty at the most.”
“We should be able to overrun them. We have the edge in numbers and the element of surprise.” He was looking for encouragement. “That is, if they don’t find out we’re coming.”
Jason stretched and shifted his position before replying. “They already know we’re coming. I’ve been spotting riders watching us for the last two days. What they ain’t sure of is when we’re gonna get there.” Thad looked alarmed so Jason tried to reassure him. “We can still surprise ’em by getting there tonight and hitting them at sunup in the morning.” He rearranged his bones for the second time and added, “And pray for a helluva lot of luck.”
This last remark was enough to worry the young lieutenant. “Jason, I get the feeling you aren’t overly confident in the success of our attack.” Jason shrugged. Thad pressed. “How would you plan tomorrow morning’s attack?”
“Well, in the first place, we may have them outnumbered when you count officers and men of five troops. But it don’t exactly stack up that way when it gets down to the fighting. There’s no way to know for sure until the shooting starts, but I’d figure they’re gonna be armed as well as we are, and maybe better if Tall Bull’s warriors have repeating rifles too. The thing that sorta sticks in my craw is they’ve known for two days now that we’re coming—and they don’t seem to be worried about it. Could be that whoever’s been furnishing rifles to those Cheyennes might be supplying Tall Bull too. If you make a sweep through that village, you’re bound to do a lot of damage. Trouble is, when you start to come back through, you may pick up a helluva lot of casualties yourself ’cause they’ll be firing while your soldier boys are busy reloading.”
Thad seemed perplexed. “As you pointed out, Jason, we do have the advantage in numbers. We’d be foolish not to take that advantage.”
“Maybe so.” Jason shrugged. “But you asked me how I’d do it, and I wouldn’t do it that way.”
“Well, dammit, how would you do it?”
Jason looked around him until he found a twig. With his hand, he swept a clean spot on the ground beside him and scratched out a map of the Sioux camp. “Look, here’s the river running this way. Here’s the camp on this grassy flat. All along here, on this side of the river, there’s a line of bluffs that will give good cover. Tall Bull’s camped in the bend of the river, where it makes a kind of horseshoe around him. If it was me, I wouldn’t go charging through that village with my whole outfit. I’d drop off one troop where the river bends south of the camp. The rest of the men, I’d send on around the bluffs to the north bend and have ’em dig in some rifle pits where they could volley.”
Thad didn’t quite see the strategy behind Jason’s thinking. “I don’t know,” he said. “It seems kinda queer to me to take up a defensive position in order to attack a village.”
Jason went on. “When the rest of your men are dug in and ready, then this troop down here would cross the river and charge hell-bent for leather through the camp and straight out the other end, right on across the river and right past the main body of soldiers.”
Thad saw his reasoning, to draw the hostiles into volley fire from his troops. “What if they run instead of coming after the troop?”
“I think this bunch is looking to fight. I think they’ll follow all right. ’Specially if they’re all armed like I suspect they are. Hell, if they run for the hills instead, it’s a pretty good sign they aren’t all carrying rifles and then you can charge after them.” He took the stick and scratched through his map. “Anyway, that’s what I would do if it was me. ’Course it ain’t.”
Thad sat there in silence for a few minutes, thinking as he looked at the crude map scratched in the dirt. Then he abruptly got to his feet and said, “I’m going to talk to the major.” And he left them.
Major Linebaugh at first had the same reaction that Thad had registered when hearing Jason’s proposed strategy. “How in hell can we attack by taking a defensive position?”
The more Thad thought about it, the more it made sense. He remembered the beating he had already taken from a band of Cheyenne who were better armed than his men. He reminded Linebaugh of this and pointed out that this way they would risk the least number of casualties while being able to fire from protected, stable positions while the hostiles would be in the open and firing on the run. Robert Linebaugh was not experienced in Indian fighting but he was smart enough to see the logic in Thad’s argument. “All right, Thad, we’ll do it your way. I’ll brief the other officers when we are ready to pull out.”
* * *
Jason awoke moments before the hand lightly touched his shoulder, his pistol leveled at the dark form bending over him. “What is it, Little Hawk?”
The Crow scout, talking softly so as not to wake the sleeping soldiers near them, told him that Bone had secretly saddled his horse and ridden out of camp.
Jason, fully awake, sat up. “Which way did he go?”
Little Hawk indicated northeast, away from the river. Jason considered this news for a moment. Bone running? Why? All at once, a thought crashed against his brain and he had a strong gut feeling that he knew where the Cheyennes had gotten their repeating rifles. Bone! What was the remark Sergeant Woodcock had made? Bone was a fair scout but he was gone a lot, sometimes for weeks at a time. If what he suspected was true, Bone was running out now because he feared the superior firepower he knew the hostiles enjoyed—or he was riding to warn the Sioux about the raid at dawn. Jason knew he had to find out which and he had to find out in a hurry.
Moving silently along the line of sleeping troopers, he found Thad lying beside his grazing horse. “Lieutenant,” he whispered, “I’m going on ahead. I’ll meet you south of the camp. Little Hawk will show you where.” He was away before Thad could rouse himself enough to question him.
Little Hawk led Jason to the spot where he had seen Bone steal out of camp. He pointed toward a large clay butte that glimmered faintly in the moonlight. Jason nodded and said, “You and Cross Bear stay with the lieutenant and meet me at the south bend in the river, where it wraps around the lower end of the Sioux camp.” Little Hawk nodded silently and Jason walk
ed Black out of camp, unseen by the picket guard.
When out of earshot of the bivouac, Jason stepped up on Black and rode out in the direction of the butte. While he rode, he considered the possibilities. Bone might have nothing more on his mind than quitting the fight and running to a healthier climate. Jason had tracked in the dark many times. It would be hard but not impossible—but it would also take time. On the other hand, if Bone was the son of a bitch who was supplying the Indians with rifles, as Jason now suspected, he could be riding to warn his customers of the impending raid. If that was the case, then it was a good possibility that he rode out toward the butte in case someone saw him and scouted his trail. Jason decided he would gamble on this possibility and figure that Bone would cut back around the butte and head straight for the Sioux camp. He pulled Black’s head around and aimed him in a straight line toward the bluffs of the Powder.
Jason urged the Appaloosa along as quickly as he dared through the dark ravines that shut out the moonlight, across naked bluffs and rolling hills. Black, as surefooted a pony as was ever bred, never faltered or stumbled as he carried Jason through a rugged maze of washouts and up onto a grassy plateau that extended to the bluffs before the river.
The moon was already dropping toward the distant hills and Jason figured the troops he had left behind would just now be preparing to mount up for the night march. He was confident that he had shortcut Bone with time to spare if indeed he had guessed right—if Bone was on his way to warn the Sioux of the morning attack. There was no way he could be certain Bone would loop around the large clay butte before changing direction and making for the Sioux camp. But if a man wanted to lose someone tracking him, it would be a sight easier to do it in the rocky terrain around the butte. Jason stayed with his hunch and slowed to the slow trot that seemed to be the natural gait of his Indian pony.
He had to figure he was no more than two or three miles from Tall Bull’s camp now so he started searching for a logical line of sight from the butte to the Indian camp. After surveying the land leading up to the river, it was apparent that the easiest travel, especially at night, would have to be along a wide ravine that began as a washout in the grassy plateau and expanded to about fifty yards wide where it reached the tree-lined bluffs of the Powder. If Bone was on his way to the village, this should be his route. Jason looked for a spot to intercept him.
He found what he was looking for, a hollowed-out gully with enough room to hide his horse, halfway up the side of the ravine where he could see a rider approaching the narrow point of the ravine. Nothing to do now but wait.
He peered out into the fading moonlight that lit the tips of the high buffalo grass, making the plateau almost glimmer like a great body of water. Another two hours and the moon would disappear and darkness would take over the vast empty space. While he watched and waited, he thought about the man he was ambushing. There had been a strong dislike between them from the first day they had ridden together for Captain Jim Riley out of Fort Cobb and the more he saw of Bone’s style, the more that dislike grew. I should have shot the son of a bitch that day I caught him skinning that Comanche, he thought, instead of bending my rifle barrel against his head. Bone seemed like an oversized buffalo with an undersized brain but Jason knew better than to count the man as dumb. He was conniving as a coyote, nurtured by a natural mean streak, and he would do you in if you made a mistake around him.
His thoughts were interrupted by a tiny puff of dust reflected by the moonlight. He stared at the spot for a long moment. Then, in a line from the butte, he saw another puff, barely visible from that distance but Jason knew it was Bone’s horse kicking up dust. That was all he saw and he knew Bone had moved into the thicker grass on the ridge. It was still a few minutes’ time before he could make out the form of a man on a horse. Jason drew his long skinning knife from the sheath at his side. He could not risk a rifle shot this close to the hostile camp. In a crouch, he made his way up to the edge of the gully, watching the dark form as it approached the mouth of the ravine.
“Damn!” Jason murmured. Instead of riding down through the ravine, Bone held a line right along the ridge. Cantankerous son of a bitch, Jason thought, I shoulda known he’d take the hard way. There was no time to lose now. Jason scrambled up the side of the ravine, clawing his way through sage and loose rocks, in an effort to reach the top of the ridge before Bone passed. In his haste, he tripped over a cottonwood limb that had more than likely been split from the tree by lightning. Catching himself with his hands, he silently cursed. Then, thinking it might be just what he needed, he picked it up and continued scrambling up the grade.
He could see the rider coming now, no more than a hundred yards from him, and he looked around quickly to pick out a spot to ambush him. Dragging the cottonwood limb behind him, he ran to a clump of bull berry bushes and waited. He often carried a bow that he hunted with when the sound of a rifle shot was dangerous. He wished he had it with him now. It would make things a whole lot easier.
Bone was within twenty yards of the bushes now. Jason could make out the huge bulk of the man, riding easy in the saddle, unconcerned that anyone might be following. Jason flattened himself against the ground as the horse approached. In a second, the horse was beside him. Jason came up to his knees and, with one sudden lunge, thrust the cottonwood limb between the horse’s legs. Had the horse not been caught by surprise, he might have simply broken the limb. But the sudden motion frightened the horse so that he bucked sideways, getting his feet tangled in the limb and fell on his side, throwing Bone out of the saddle.
“Gawdamn!” Bone swore as he rolled over and got to his feet with the intention of punishing the unfortunate animal. Just as he drew his foot back to kick the horse, he caught a glimpse of the body hurling through the air toward him. The two went down in a heap, rolling over and over until they slammed up against a tree trunk. Jason was on his feet first. Bone, still lying on his back, struggled to pull his pistol from his belt but Jason was back on him like a cat before he could draw it. They fought for possession of the weapon, rolling and straining against each other, grunting with the exertion, each man knowing that to be bested was a death sentence. Bone tore at Jason’s face with his free hand, gouging flesh from his cheek. Jason retaliated with a solid fist to the huge man’s stomach, causing Bone to cover his midsection with the free hand. When he did, Jason slammed the fist into Bone’s face. With the blow, he felt Bone’s grip on the pistol relax a fraction for just an instant. He tore the pistol from the bigger man’s grip and tossed it over the side of the ravine. Bone, seizing the opportunity when Jason threw the pistol, kicked Jason off and rolled over and over until he had room to get to his feet. Both men, near exhaustion from the struggle, stood there for a few moments, measuring each other.
“Going to visit your customers, Bone? You wouldn’t be thinking of warning them, would you?”
“Jason Coles,” Bone spat, his voice taunting and laden with contempt. “I been waiting for a chance to get aholt of you. I’m gonna cut you up in little pieces and feed ’em to the dogs in Tall Bull’s camp.” He pulled a long skinning knife from a sheath on his belt and slowly advanced toward Jason.
Jason backed up until he came to his own knife where it had dropped to the ground when the two men had collided. The sight of Jason armed now with a knife caused Bone to hesitate. Jason’s voice was low and even, with no trace of fear. “That might be so, Bone, but it ain’t gonna be without some of your blood in the dust.”
Bone’s homely features broke into a smile and he spit some blood from the cut Jason’s fist had caused. He moved to his left, circling Jason, his knife hand constantly waving back and forth in a slow rhythm, cutting little circles in the air. He had no fear of any man when it came to fists or knives. Although he was not quite as tall as the veteran scout facing him, he outweighed Jason by a good seventy pounds. As his breathing settled down from the struggle moments earlier, he became more confident than ever, to the point where he was enjoying the prospect of carving
the hated scout to pieces. “Them rifles your prissy lieutenant is gonna face this morning was paid for with solid gold.” He laughed as he continued to circle, taking pleasure in taunting Jason. “Rifles and the bullets to go with ’em! Them soldier boys are gonna have a hot breakfast waiting for ’em. But you don’t have to worry about that. You’ll be dead long before that.” He stopped circling, paused a moment, then lunged at Jason.
Jason stepped aside, easily avoiding the wild charge of the huge man. As he lunged by, Jason slapped him across the face with his knife, laying open a wide gash from his ear to his chin. Bone yelped in pain, then charged again, blinded in his rage and oblivious to the blood now streaming down his face. This time Bone anticipated Jason’s movements and the two collided like two mountain rams, the impact sending Jason backward for several steps. Bone stayed hard upon him, using the advantage of his weight in an attempt to overpower the lighter man. He soon found that the sinewy strength of his adversary was at least a match for his bulk.
They strained against each other with a force that only comes when the stakes are life and death and a man knows that if he weakens for an instant, that instant could mean his end. Finally Bone began to tire with the exertion and a worm of doubt began to gnaw away at his normal confidence. This man should have caved in by now. He had never gone up against a man who had defied his power this long. Suddenly he became desperate to end it and, with one mighty effort, wrenched his hand free of Jason’s grasp. Holding his knife at arm’s length, he sparred with Jason’s free hand for an opening. Then he lunged, aiming for Jason’s chest. Jason rolled with the lunge, dropping on his back with his feet in Bone’s belly, and threw the bigger man over him. Bone landed with a solid thump on the hard, rocky ground.
Scrambling to his feet, Bone paused for a moment. In a half crouch, set to charge again, he glared at Jason with eyes glazed from fatigue and anger. His breathing labored and loud, he swallowed hard in an effort to create some moisture in a throat gone dry. He measured the man standing before him, calmly waiting for his charge. Even in that scant light he could clearly see the look of casual contempt. That look infuriated him and suddenly he roared his frustration and launched his final charge. Jason did not move until Bone’s knife was inches from his face. Then he dropped to his knees and came up under the charging bull with his skinning knife buried to the handle in Bone’s belly.
Black Eagle Page 12