The Stalkers

by Terry C. Johnston

  That twenty-fourth day of September, Captain Carpenter goaded his wagon-burdened command into another forty-five grueling miles. No man complained at the pace. Especially after coming across one of the hostiles’ hastily abandoned campsites that morning.

  “All orders will be given verbally here on out,” Carpenter told his two lieutenants as he climbed back atop his damp McClellan. “If we’re giving calls with our damned bugles, every Indian in a twenty-mile radius is going to know we’re coming. Mr. Banzhaf, keep your men closed up on the wagons … and the wagons close on my tail. Mr. Orleman, you’ll see the men stay together. We’re in Cheyenne country now, if there ever was one. Ride to the guidon, gentlemen.”

  He flung his arm forward as lieutenants and sergeants alike bawled their commands to move out at a trot once more.

  Reuben Waller posted to the guidon, a little right and to the rear, where he was supposed to be. And sensed the fatigue coming over his mount, the first creamy lather appearing along the animal’s flanks. His mother had talked to God a lot when he was a boy before heading off to war. But Reuben never had.

  He supposed it was about time to start. Asking God to give this old horse strength to keep going on until they found those men on the island.

  And as the afternoon wore on, Reuben got better at prayer. Asking God that Captain Carpenter and H Troop would get to that dry fork of the Republican River while there were still men alive to rescue.

  * * *

  Close to sundown army scout J. J. Peate drew up at the top of a ridge that sloped in an easy grade to the north. Behind them was bunch-grass and cactus prairie. Ahead of them lay a stretch of country verdant in buffalo-grass. The grass told a story any one-eyed, dim-witted man could read. And J. J. Peate was far from being dim-witted.

  “How many ponies came through here?” Carpenter asked his chief of scouts, some worry etched on his face.

  “Two thousand … at least.”

  “How many fighting men that make it?”

  “I can’t tell you for sure, Captain,” Peate replied, moving up to the group studying the trampled grass in a swath a good four hundred yards wide. “Five hundred warriors. Maybe as much as eight hundred.”

  Carpenter didn’t like that, J. J. could tell.

  “That many could eat us up, fellas,” the captain conjectured. Carpenter squinted, looking over a nearby hill, then turned to Reuben Waller. “Orderly, I’m sorry I’ve got to order you to the saddle. Ride back to Lieutenant Banzhaf. With the sun going down, he’s got to get his wagons in here at all costs.”

  They watched Waller ride off, spurring his weary mount.

  Carpenter looked at Peate again. “If those hostiles are still in the neighborhood, we’ve got a lot to worry about.”

  J. J. nodded grimly. “It’s certain Forsyth hurt ’em, Captain. But not near bad enough. Their scouts spot this little outfit of yours, they just might like to get some licks in on your brunettes.”

  The captain pointed to the nearby hill. “If need be, fellas, we can defend that high ground. Let’s go have a look, J. J.”

  While they saw no sign of the fleeing villages from the high ground, they did see a number of burial scaffolds on top of a nearby hill.

  “Lieutenant Orleman, post a picket here who will remain in view of us and the column. Then join us on that hill.”

  After the short ride, Peate dropped to the ground with the others, awe-struck at the feel this hilltop gave him.

  “They haven’t been here long, Captain,” he told Carpenter.

  “Let’s … let’s have a look,” Carpenter replied.

  A half-hour later, they had examined five of the scaffolds. In each case the blanket-wrapped body showed the warrior had died of gunshot wounds. Slain ponies lay alongside each scaffold.

  “Like you said, J. J., Forsyth did some damage,” Carpenter whispered quietly as the sun sank in the west, a chill wind whispering up the slope of this hallowed ground.

  “Those boys gave the Cheyenne back what they came for, Captain,” Peate replied.

  “Captain?” Lieutenant Orleman said as he rode up, dismounting. “Take a look down there.”

  At the bottom of a sharp ravine that led down to the river stood an elaborate buffalo-hide tipi.

  “This one isn’t all that old,” Peate explained at the bottom of the slope. “New lodge-skins. An important man.”

  “Someone inside?” the captain asked.

  “That’s why this ceremonial lodge was left here,” the scout replied. “A proper lodge burial for a special man.”

  “Chief?”

  “Most likely.”

  With the failing light, they hurriedly examined the body, stretched upon a low scaffold inside the lodge. A gaping hole over the heart had been bathed before the victim had been placed in his best buckskins.

  “Is this Roman Nose?” Carpenter inquired quietly.

  “I don’t know,” Peate replied, puzzled, and not feeling any good for standing in the medicine lodge.

  “Would you know him, J. J?”

  The civilian shook his head. “It could be. I don’t know. Don’t think any white man would know Roman Nose on sight.”

  He whispered, almost reverently. “Chances are good this is him. So I don’t want this body disturbed further. Lieutenant, you’ll take this drum back to camp for me. We’ve got preparations to make for the night.”

  Riding back to camp, Peate brooded that it was taking far longer than he wanted to reach the island. With every hour, every day, every sunset, he grew more scared Carpenter’s bunch would arrive at the island too late.

  If they were not killed by the Cheyenne warriors, then J. J. Peate was certain Maj. George A. Forsyth’s scouts would die of hunger, thirst, and … despair.

  Chapter 41

  Most of the men were already awake as the coming light shed itself on the valley of Arickaree. Nonetheless, the majority of them did not stir from the shade. Only a handful shouldered their Spencers and walked off the island in search of something that would fend off starvation just one more day.

  Seamus had carved a ninth notch in the butt of his rifle by the time Sharp Grover brought him a foul-smelling soup in a tin cup. “What’s this?”

  “Hold your nose and drink it,” Sharp advised.

  “Holding my nose ain’t going to help a’t’all,” Seamus replied. “My stomach knows it’s rotten horsemeat.”

  “I got some down Forsyth,” Sharp said, collapsing against the side of the pit. The seams on his weathered face appeared deeper than normal. “Major’s in a bad way. Comes and goes. Don’t know if he’s dreaming or not.”

  Seamus wagged his head, watching the sun inch off the horizon. “Do any of us know, Sharp. What’s the dream in this, or no.”

  “Forsyth’s ordered all the able-bodied to make their escape tomorrow. If no help arrives today.”

  He looked at Grover. “What are the chances of that?”

  “Slim,” he answered. “A relief column should have been here by now.”

  “You must be figuring Stillwell or the rest made it to Wallace.”

  He nodded, daring not look at Donegan. “I am, Seamus. I’ve got to keep hope alive. If not for you and the major. For myself.”

  Seamus reached over and squeezed Grover’s hand. “Thanks, friend. I want to help you keep hope’s candle burning as well.”

  The Irishman crawled up to his feet, weak and wobbly at first, leaning on the Spencer carbine. “What say we go hunting this morning, Sharp? You and me. Together. Maybe coyote. Perhaps some prairie dog. Might even run across a tasty morsel, say a side-dish like cactus.”

  Sharp rose as well, clamping a hand on Donegan’s shoulder, eyes fixed on the flies buzzing round the Irishman’s smelly wound. “I figured you had a mind to give up. Not tending your wound … not coming out of this pit for the past couple days.”

  “What’s to get out for?” Then Seamus shook his head. “No, you’re right, Sharp. There’s a lot of reason to keep that candle burning.�
��

  Together they clambered over the lip of the pit, pushing saddles and bulwark aside. No longer did any of them really fear a return of the hostiles. It had been too many days now since a shot had been fired. And the enemy feared most was a faceless thief, come to rob them of hope, leaving despair in its place.

  Seamus looked at Grover, smiling weakly. It felt good to use his legs again. The carbine was heavy at the end of his arm. For moments he felt light-headed, woozy, and once almost went down in the soft sand. But he was determined he would not fall, knowing how hard it would be to get back up.

  Donegan grinned again. “Glad you’re with me, friend.”

  Grover smiled back.

  They walked toward the rising sun.

  * * *

  “Captain!”

  Carpenter reined away from the long column of dusty blue and black troopers just then preparing to mount in the first light of dawn this twenty-fifth day of September. Reuben Waller tore up on his mount.

  “Our flankers report riders coming in on a gallop, sir.”

  “Indians?”

  Reuben shook his head, still a little out of breath. “Don’t look like it—what I can tell.”

  “How many?”

  “I figure half a dozen, Captain. Size of the dust.”

  “Let’s go have us a look,” Carpenter said, swinging into the saddle. “Lieutenant Orleman, you and Mr. Banzhaf have command here. Stand the men to horse and prepare to move out at once. Without any delays, I’m hopeful we’ll find Forsyth’s island by sundown.”

  Waller watched his captain remove his hat from his head as they loped up a nearby knoll.

  “Horsemen, sir,” the picket on the hill said quietly, pointing, as Waller and Carpenter reached him.

  Reuben shaded his eyes against the morning light stretching itself along the east. “Coming on fast, Captain.”

  “And out of the southeast as well,” Carpenter said as he reached into a pocket on his McClellan, pulling from it a pair of field-glasses. “Your guess was a good one, Corporal,” he said a moment later, bringing the glasses from his eyes. “Five of them.”

  “They aren’t Injuns then, Captain.”

  “No, look more like civilians. I’ll wait here. You go escort them in.”

  Reuben enjoyed the flush of pride that washed over him as he kicked his horse into motion, spurring into the cool morning air before the dust rose and the sun came up and the horses got tired and lathered.

  Up and down the rolling swales of the inland grass-sea he galloped, bearing on a spot he figured he would meet the five horsemen. When the group came within hailing distance he waved his hat at the end of his arm, seeing the men were dressed as civilians. No blue among them.

  “You with Carpenter?” the lead man hollered as he began to slow his snorting animal.

  “H Company, Tenth Negro Cavalry. Captain Louis H. Carpenter, commanding,” Reuben replied, grinning with a dusty smile, and a salute.

  “John Donovan,” the civilian replied, presenting his hand to Reuben.

  That surprised the Negro soldier. Even more the four other civilians who glanced quickly at one another.

  “By damn,” Donovan said, turning to his companions. “We done it, men! Made it to Carpenter’s troop.” He whirled on Waller, his horse restive and prancing. “Take me to the captain, boy. We ain’t got time to lose now.”

  By the time Reuben loped over the last rise with the five horsemen, Carpenter was ordering the mount. Banzhaf’s teamsters had their wagons and the ungainly ambulance stretched out across the prairie, ready to depart in the gray light of this new day. The entire company rose as one to saddle.

  The captain turned to greet the incoming riders. Introductions were made all around with the shaking of hands and the tipping of dusty hats. No man in that group much concerned with social amenities or military niceties.

  Donovan slapped some dust from his britches. “Captain, you’re taking the long way in to that dry fork where Forsyth is.”

  “Surely, mister—you’re aware of the wagons I’m escorting.”

  The civilian nodded. “I am. But, you must remember I just walked out of this country, and come across it on foot myself these last few days. I can take you there, directly—you want me to, Captain.”

  “Thank you, but I have some scouts assigned——”

  “Carpenter, if you’re not coming on now, we’re going by ourselves. The island ain’t far.”

  “How far?”

  “Twenty miles.”

  “Good Lord, man! Why didn’t you tell me?” Carpenter wheeled his horse, prancing.

  “Mr. Orleman, you’re in charge of the troops. Select thirty of the best horsemen from their number. They’ll ride with me.”

  Carpenter watched his first lieutenant trot off to break his troop. He turned then to Second Lieutenant Banzhaf. “Mr. Banzhaf, you’ll take your escort cross-country with the wagon-train as we have planned. I’ll leave half the scouts with you, taking Peate and the rest with me.”

  “What’s going on, Captain?” Banzhaf asked, his lips pressed.

  “We’re making a gallop for the island where this man says Forsyth’s men can be found.”

  “May I suggest you take the ambulance with you, Captain?” Dr. Jenkins Fitzgerald asked as he inched up.

  Carpenter considered a moment. “Good idea, Surgeon. Banzhaf, get four men to quickly off-load some rations into the ambulance … bacon, hardtack, and some coffee.”

  “God bless you, Captain Carpenter!” Donovan cheered. “Those boys been without decent food for over a week.”

  Carpenter grinned as he saw his command undergo an instant excitement. The thirty galloped up and halted, ready to ride. “It’s just army chow, Mr. Donovan. Too bad I don’t have decent food to give those men,” he said, smiling.

  The civilians chuckled.

  “I pray this army food will do in its place,” Carpenter added wryly. “All right, Mr. Donovan. Take us to Major Forsyth.”

  * * *

  Reuben posted to the guidon, though he wanted to be riding up ahead with J. J. Peate and his scouts.

  Carpenter was spurring his horsemen on at a fast trot. Waller knew there would be no slowing his captain now.

  From time to time, the civilian Donovan yelled out, pointing, on occasion waving his hat in the air. Reuben figured it meant the man had recognized something familiar in the dismal terrain they were racing across.

  They followed the wide swath of trampled grass for the most part. Crossing a narrow, dry stream, continuing north. Led by Donovan and Peate. Hurried on by Captain Carpenter himself. The sun peeked over the horizon as they nosed into some broken country and Reuben thought with some worry on his friends escorting Lieutenant Banzhaf’s wagons. The captain had ordered them to come on at all possible speed, but in this stretch of territory, scarred and rumpled like a tattered bedspread on an old tick mattress, it would be hard for those wagons to make good time, having to pick their way through and around the way the terrain demanded.

  The sun had just cleared the eastern prairie when Reuben noticed Peate and Donovan had reined up in a dusty halt. The rest of the army scouts clattered to a halt around them, sending up sprays of yellow dust in the new light. Their horses turning round and round. The white men were waving Carpenter and his thirty black horsemen on.

  Then from the top of that ridge, Reuben heard the shouting voices, excited by the men standing in their stirrups as Lieutenant Orleman ordered a halt for the column. Carpenter and Waller dashed the last ten yards up the slope to join the scouts at the crest.

  Down below lay a wide swath of sandy streambed. Through it a narrow sliver of water ran.

  Donovan was screaming like a man gone mad, so loud now Reuben could not make sense of it. Carpenter and Peate ordered the civilian to hold his water till they got the glasses out.

  “That’s it, goddammit! I know that’s it!” Donovan shouted.

  Carpenter handed the field-glasses to Peate.

  Th
e scout looked it over for himself, nodded. “Look to the far end of the valley … just this side of the bend.” He passed the glasses on to Donovan.

  Despite Donovan’s enthusiasm, Reuben didn’t like the feel of it. Whatever it was down there, it gave him an eerie feeling. Buzzards blacked the overcast sky. Swooping and circling. Circling slowly. A wolf loped by down below, disappearing into the cottonwoods at the bottom of the slope where the ridge itself bled into riverbed.

  Buzzards gave him the willies.

  “Told you, by God!” Donovan was shouting, pounding Peate on the back as he handed over the field-glasses. “They’re alive!”

  “Whoooeee!” Waller was shouting before he realized his mouth was open, waving his hat in the air. The rest of the shiny-faced horsemen downslope set up a wild cheer, nudging, jostling one another, slapping one another in congratulations.

  “You saw some movement down there, Peate?” Carpenter asked amid the noise.

  He nodded. “We got here in time, Captain.”

  “Praise God for his blessings,” Carpenter replied quietly. Then he twisted in the saddle. “Lieutenant Orleman! Select your best rider on the strongest horse. Dispatch him back to Mr. Banzhaf with word to come on at all possible speed now. We’ve located the major’s position … and his men! By God—we’ve found Forsyth!”

  Off the ridge, down a steep slope they followed Carpenter, driving their horses, spurring hell-bent. Suddenly there was such an electrifying tension shared among the columns. So much that Waller did not notice Carpenter signaling him forward at first. Reuben hammered his heels into the snorting mount. Dashing past the guidon.

  “Want you ride with me, Corporal!” the captain shouted, a smile of victory cutting his face. “Let’s share this together.”

  “Thank you, sir!” he flung his voice into the dry wind.

  Along the beaten grass beside the sandy riverbed. Stringing out a bit more now, the stronger horses lunged ahead, their riders restraining them no longer. Whoops and hollers from the civilians. J. J. Peate tall in the stirrups. Donovan waving his hat, then whipping the flank of his horse with it.

  Reuben sensed the hair stand at the back of his neck, his skin prickling. What seemed like so many years since he had been among fighting men celebrating such joy.