“Stands On The Prairie,” another young warrior admitted, pushing forward a youth, no more than a boy.
Clybor laughed. “This young fool wouldn’t know if one of those soldiers walked by and knocked him on the head.”
O’Neill wasn’t so sure. He stepped close to the youth, studying him beneath the starshine. Minutes ago the drizzle had withered off to the east. The mulatto had left the war-camp, leading the other renegade, Clybor, with half a dozen Cheyenne warriors curious on determining if Roman Nose’s powerful medicine had indeed been passed down to this adopted black-whiteman.
They had begun by prowling down the north bank of the river, looking first for any signs of the soldiers escaping before they would determine a way onto the island where the big, black Nibsi would gut him a soldier or two before morning shed its early, summer light on the plains.
Nearly opposite the upstream end of the island where the bullets had struck Roman Nose, the mulatto had ordered a halt as the excited youngsters had galloped up from the darkness.
“Stands On The Prairie,” the mulatto addressed the youngster, “you are sure one of the white ones passed you in the night?”
He turned sideways, flinging an arm across the river. “It was far, over there. Far from the other end of the island. On the south bank, Nibsi.”
“You saw him and did not want his scalp?”
The youth bit his lip. “I never saw him.”
Clybor laughed again, loud with the sound of a heavy rasp drawn across rusty iron. O’Neill wheeled on him, saying nothing. Not needing to. Clybor shut up.
Turning back to the youth, the mulatto continued. “You did not see the man. How is it you know he passed you?”
“My nose, Nibsi.”
“You smelled him?”
He nodded. “He stank of broiled meat. Cold sweat. Coffee.”
“One of our own could be doing the same as you out there in the dark,” O’Neill said reluctantly, because he wanted to believe the boy.
The youth ground a moccasin into the sand nervously. “Yes. But, the man I smelled stank of strong tobacco.”
O’Neill clamped a hand on the youngster’s shoulder, glaring over at Clybor as he spoke in English. “There you have it, my white friend. These bands have not traded with a whiteman in so long, there is no real tobacco left among any but the old men.”
“And no old man is going to be out there in this dark and rain, damned fools like us——”
“Go on back to your squaws, Clybor,” O’Neill hissed. “I’ll find the whiteman who sneaked off the island. And alone I will kill the tall one who killed my chief.”
“How you gonna find that soldier what sneaked off the island, eh? You ain’t got a good Injun nose. Your damned darkie nose ain’t no good smelling out——”
“You haven’t anything better than to twist my tail, Clybor—best you get before I show these strong-nosed boys just how to kill a whiteman.”
“A w-whiteman?”
O’Neill leaned close, almost in Clybor’s face. He spat his words like blacksmith’s nails into the drizzling rain. “I see only one white man here … don’t you, Jack Clybor?”
The white man swallowed, forcefully, like choking down some dry meat. “I … I see, Nibsi. Keep my m-mouth shut from here on out. And stay on your tail like you told me.”
O’Neill turned to the others who had ridden here with him. “You may choose to stay with me here on the north bank, or continue your search. But, if you want to hunt down the whiteman who smelled of strong tobacco escaping from the island … meet me on the south bank of the river come first light. Opposite the single, tall tree on that far end of the island.”
“I will come,” Stands On The Prairie said proudly. “Do not leave without me, Nibsi.”
His big, wide teeth shined in the dim light. “I would not leave you behind, young one. Nibsi is going to show you how to find the rats who have run from their gopher-holes.”
* * *
Sandy Forsyth couldn’t call it sleep. Whatever it was he did each time he closed his eyes through that long night, it wasn’t sleep. Something closer to passing out from pure, exquisite exhaustion. Closer still to passing out from the pain he had endured for so long already.
God, but for laudanum, this might almost be something I could put up with, Forsyth thought as he shifted position in the pit, inching weight off the broken leg, momentarily rolling weight onto the bullet-riven thigh. He caught his breath at the sudden wave of pain, letting the nausea roll over him, then ebbing like the retreat of breakers against the rocks.
“Billy?”
“I’m right here, Major,” McCall answered, inching up.
“Do we have a fire going?”
“We let ’em go out overnight,” the sergeant apologized.
“It’ll be dawn soon, Billy. They’ll be coming back.”
McCall rose above the major. “I’ll get a fire started.”
“Boil some of the water for the men. Have them go through saddlebags looking for coffee. If nothing else, hot water might perk them up.”
Grover watched McCall crouch off to start his fire. “One of these days, Major—I’m gonna quit scouting for the army.”
“Why you go and do that?”
“Getting damned tired of army cooking. Hot, muddy water ’stead of coffee … and a thick, tasteless strip of half-broiled horse’s ass for breakfast!”
Forsyth chuckled quietly in the chill pre-dawn air as the prairie to the east of them stretched itself with a thin, gray line that quickly grew pink. He was letting his head sink back against the sandy edge of his pit when he saw a strange look pass over Grover’s face.
Sharp slowly rolled to this knees, gazing intently upstream as he crawled over Forsyth. “We got us visitors, Major.”
“Already.”
“Yep. I figure they come for those three bodies they couldn’t get last night.”
“The three warriors that fell near the pit you share with O’Roarke and his nephew?”
Grover glanced down at Forsyth. “Figure I’m alone in that pit now. O’Roarke’s dead.”
“Bless his soul——”
“But he didn’t die of his wound, Major. Someone come on the island last night and killed him—stabbed with a knife. Donegan figures it was the Confederate.”
“Dick Gantt?”
“No, the older one. Strange fella.”
“Smith?”
“That’s what he called himself when he signed on,” Grover answered. “And now I figure Seamus Donegan is done as well.” He studied the pain etched on the major’s face a moment. “He left the island last night to search for his uncle’s killer.”
Forsyth clenched both his eyes and pressed his lips shut to keep from screaming as his head fell back in exasperation. “Damn him!” his whispered hoarsely, his brain once more beginning to throb like last night’s drums.
“I’ll go look for him, you want me to.”
He shook his head. “No, Sharp. No sense in me losing two marksmen.”
“Donegan’s a pain in the backside, Major—but he was about as good with a rifle as old man Farley——”
“Here I thought you was me friend, Sharp Grover!”
Both the scout and Forsyth whirled at the merry brogue. Donegan crabbed up, clambering over the wounded and skirting the wide water-pit Martin Burke had dug nearby.
“Damn you, Donegan!” Forsyth swore, his voice low.
Seamus halted, fingertips to his heart. “That any way to welcome this long-lost prodigal son back to your fold, Major?”
“Where you been all night?” Grover demanded.
“Under a willow-bush,” he explained, pointing to his damp clothing as he squatted down beside Forsyth. “Didn’t get no farther. That north bank was nasty with the h’athens. Could hear ’em talking a’times. Even heard me a loud scuffle between a few of ’em. A beating like nothing I’ve heard in my tavern escapades. One fella sure got the worst of it.”
“By damned if
you were in my outfit, I’d have your stripes for desertion, Donegan.”
“Custer got there ahead of you, Major,” Donegan replied. Then as he smiled himself, Seamus watched a smile grow in Forsyth’s weary, seamed face. “Besides, I didn’t desert. I was only out … on a little forward reconnaissance.”
“Glad you made it back,” Grover said, tapping Donegan on the shoulder. He turned to Forsyth. “No time to chat, Major. Them visitors is moving down the riverbed toward us now.”
Sandy Forsyth looked upstream through the inky light of false-dawn. He wasn’t sure how Sharp Grover could tell, but—if he really didn’t concentrate on the riverbed itself, he thought he could see some faint shadows bunching some distance away. Grover and Donegan slipped off wordlessly among the rifle-pits, headed toward the far end of the island.
“You see ’em, Major?”
He watched Billy McCall crabbing back close. “Think so. Not sure if I’m seeing warriors, or if it’s this aching skull of mine playing tricks on me.”
“Twenty or so of ’em,” McCall whispered, jamming his pistol back into Forsyth’s hand. “Keep this, in case they make a big rush on us, sir.”
The major saw that scowl of concern in the sergeant’s red-rimmed eyes. “You want me to keep the last bullet for myself.”
McCall nodded. “No telling what this bunch coming means.”
“Getting the day started early.”
He wagged his head, eyes locked on the shadows inching closer and closer to the island. “More’n half of ’em dropped from their ponies now, sir.”
“They’re searching, Billy.”
“More bodies?”
“No. Us. They aren’t sure if we’re still here.”
The familiar yammer of a coyote floated in from a nearby hill.
A single gunshot suddenly tore through the growing, gray light of pre-dawn darkness.
“Dammit!”
Forsyth recognized the anger in Sharp Grover’s voice somewhere on the upstream end of the island.
“Who fired that bleeming shot?”
That was Donegan, demanding.
There was a scuffle of boot-soles on the sand. A hurried pounding of moccasined feet beating a retreat back to their ponies accompanied by shrill warnings among the warriors. A hurried mounting.
Then the wild yelp of one brave Cheyenne intent on counting coup on the unsuspecting white men. His was quickly echoed by close to two dozen. The gray light erupted with the hammering of hoofbeats splashing up the shallow riverbed.
“Don’t let them ride over us!” Sharp was hollering, loud as he could.
“They’re coming!” Others took up the chorus.
All round Forsyth the island burst into a sudden flurry of motion, blurred by the lack of light, while behind them the horizon to the east grew from pink to a fiery orange, making strange shadows and stringing movement out behind the scurrying men.
Then Forsyth saw them. At least twenty. Dodging behind their ponies in their spontaneous charge on the island now that they had discovered the white men still burrowed in.
His chief of scouts was up, waving an arm.
“Fire!”
The sudden roar of the carbines in answer to Grover’s order caught Forsyth by surprise. He watched the small charge split itself not far from the island, horsemen yelping into the willow and out of sight.
Grover was there behind Forsyth in the next moment, gazing over the lip of the rifle-pit. “Some sonuvabitch got a case of itchy finger, Major.”
“I heard.”
“Just some young bucks. Skulking toward the island on foot. I figure they was looking in the sand for footprints, see if we’d left or not.”
Forsyth’s stomach rumbled as his head swam, pain flushing his pale cheeks. “S-Sharp,” he murmured, his eyelids falling. “Have one of the men … change my dressings.”
Grover hunkered over him, protective as a sage hen over her young. “I’ll do it myself, Major.”
As the first, gray light spread itself across the prairie, the Indian guns along both banks took to rattling. Snipers put out to keep the white men in their burrows for another day.
“Sonsabitches figure to starve us out,” Sharp whispered over the major as he went to work. He carefully untied the strips of cloth men had ripped from the long tails of their pull-over, four-button shirts for their commander’s wounds.
Forsyth gritted his words between his clenched teeth, swallowing down the pain best he could. “They won’t beat us, by damned.”
The first bandage came off with a considerable amount of struggle and pain for the major.
“That’s right,” Sharp whispered, as cheerfully as he could muster, studying the festering white ooze in the thigh wound.
Forsyth’s wound had already begun to smell. Almost as bad as the half-butchered horses.
“We got us enough prime U.S. Army steak on the hoof … and all the muddy water any man can drink.”
Forsyth caught his breath, glanced at the oozy wound, then looked away again before he threw up. He tried out a weak smile. “That’s right, Mr. Grover. We’ll just hunker down here and make ourselves to home with all these wonderful comforts … until Bankhead’s troops arrive.”
Sandy Forsyth sensed that Grover’s unknotting the bandage over his broken left calf was going to be a bit more than he could stand and turned his head just before his stomach revolted at the pain, throwing up the sour, brackish water they were drinking from the bottom of the pits.
He let his cheek rest against the side of the pit as he struggled to separate himself from the murderous pain in the leg Grover worked on. Rinsing out the bloodstained bandages. Retying the newly soaked strips of cloth back on their original wounds. Nothing more a man could do for any of the wounded.
“Oh, God…” he muttered under his breath, squeezing his mind down on the warming, soothing thoughts of Chicago and home.
He had taken four bullets in his time … three of them while serving with Phil Sheridan down in the Shenandoah during the war.
Oh, sweet … sweet Jesus, his mind sang as his stomach threw up more of the thick, yellow bile and the brackish, milky water.
But for the want of laudanum … my sweet, sweet morphine …
Chapter 30
Although that early charge broke off before it got anywhere close to the island, it was nonetheless enough to start hearts pumping among those men huddled in those grimy, bloody holes filled with seep-water.
When the angry sniping from both riverbanks withered into an annoying nuisance, Donegan slid down to the bottom of his rifle-pit once more. He gazed at the long, thin-bladed knife he had pulled from his uncle’s heart a handful of hours ago.
Before first light Seamus had unhooked the big, brass buckle on O’Roarke’s belt and pulled free the worn knife-sheath his uncle had evidently carried for many years. Trimmed with a center rosette of porcupine quills dyed greasy yellow and oxblood, the outer rim of the sheath had a narrow row of quillwork tracing its border.
He found the buckskin itself a pleasing tobacco color. And a sniff was enough to tell the Irishman the hide had been smoked by the squaw who made the sheath for trade. Perhaps even with her love for the old Irishman.
Seamus pulled Liam’s crude iron knife from the sheath and exchanged it with the dull knife he had carried at his side since arriving in Kansas. The thought yanked him back, there in the rising heat of that muggy rifle-pit. Kansas.
Seamus was helpless, made to think back on Sam Marr and the start of their glorious journey to Alder Gulch and the goldfields of Montana. The last he had seen of the captain was up the Montana Road, in the reeky infirmary at Fort Phil Kearny.
No such place now …
Just before Forsyth had ordered them out of Fort Wallace on their forced march a week or so back, rumor had it that the army was abandoning the Bozeman Trail posts. Signed a treaty with Red Cloud and was shutting down the Road.
Seamus brooded how could he ever hope to find Sam Marr again out here
in the middle of the big, big land.
Hell, only thing you’ve got to worry about now, you bleeming idjit, is how you’re getting off this island … finding that Confederate who killed your uncle—then you can think about Sam Marr and … and … Jennie——
“Goddammit!” Why did he have to go and think about her?
But he knew. Because they had some unfinished business between them. So many things left unsaid.
He thanked God for the moans of the wounded, the monotonous, troublesome buzz of the big, green-backed, September flies suspended like clouds over them all. Crawling in and out of the wounds. While they busily laid their eggs. At least their noisy drone kept Seamus from thinking too much.
Not good to think in this heat. Just wait it out. The old man and the boy will bring help.
Donegan knelt over Liam’s body, holding his breath. Already O’Roarke smelled of decomposing in this heat of midday. Seamus tucked in the edges of the blankets around the body so that no flies could trouble the bloody holes or the missing scraps of skull. Depositing their eggs.
Torment that only hours later would begin as the wriggling maggots squirmed from the oozy wounds.
* * *
That night of stumbling across cactus through the dark with old Pete seemed as if it would never end. Yet before young Stillwell knew it, the first bloody tearing of the dawn sky ripped itself away from the east in an explosion of orange and red.
“Gotta find us place soon, Jack,” Trudeau murmured at his side as they stopped, catching their breath.
As the light came up like a lamp-wick raised in a dark room, Stillwell could see they were crossing a bare scut of land naked of any vegetation that could hide them.
“They’ll be coming … won’t they, Pete?”
Trudeau glanced behind him. His red-rimmed eyes frantic on the skyline to the north. “Sure as you and me standing here.”
“We gotta move … find us something.” Jack tugged the old man along beside him, his feet swollen and bleeding inside his boots from the hundreds of cactus thorns broken off during their escape from the island.
And find something they did. As the early lip of a brilliant orange globe slipped itself over the eastern rim of the earth, the two stumbled upon a dry washout. Each spring the coulee would fill with prairie run-off. But right now there was enough loose rock and scrub-brush to cover their tracks off the open plains and into this narrow, shadowy laceration on the rolling breast of this endless land.
The Stalkers Page 27