MacCallister, the Eagles Legacy: Dry Gulch Ambush

by William W. Johnstone

  Chapter Eight

  Fort Laramie

  The dining table at Old Bedlam was set with enough silver, crystal, and china to do credit to any formal dinner anywhere. Adorning the menu were delicacies recently received by the sutler: Champagne, German chocolates, and tinned brandied peaches. The meat was elk, supplied by a recent hunting party.

  “I’ll be glad when we can have beef again,” Kathleen said. “John, how much longer do you think it will be before the herd arrives?”

  “I imagine it will be here within the week,” Gibbon said.

  “Good, I am so tired of wild game,” Kathleen said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m appreciative of the soldiers who have managed to keep meat on the tables. But how much I would love to have a pot roast beef with potatoes and onions.”

  “Tell me, Lieutenant, are your quarters agreeable?” Colonel Gibbon asked as he carved his meat.

  “Quite agreeable, sir,” Pershing replied.

  “You live in the BOQ up at Fort Assiniboine, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How do you like duty . . . up there?” Gibbon asked, pausing briefly before finishing the question.

  Pershing smiled. “Sir, are you asking me how I like serving with the colored troops?”

  Gibbon chuckled, self-consciously. “I suppose I am.”

  “I was serious when I told Clay Scott that I was very much enjoying my assignment. The buffalo soldiers make exceptionally good troops.”

  “Why are they called buffalo soldiers?” Kathleen asked.

  “It’s a name the Indians have given them, and there are several different explanations given. I suppose you can accept the one that suits you best. Some say it’s because the hair of the colored soldiers remind the Indians of the fur of the buffalo. Some say it’s the color of their skin, and some say it’s because the Indians respect the fighting ability of the soldiers, and are honoring them with the name, because the Indians have such respect for the buffalo.”

  “How do the soldiers feel about the name?”

  “They take great pride in it, sir,” Pershing said. “I’m also proud to be a buffalo soldier.”

  “What do you mean, Lieutenant Pershing?” Kathleen asked. “How can you be a buffalo soldier if you aren’t colored?”

  “No, I’m not colored, but I am a member of the Tenth Cavalry, and that means I am a buffalo soldier,” Pershing said proudly. “I must confess, though, that I have a personal reason for feeling such a strong attachment to the buffalo soldiers.

  “A couple of months ago some renegade Sioux attacked a ranch near Fort Assiniboine. I led a patrol of seven men out to the ranch, where we found the body of Tom Pryor, who was visiting the ranch owner, burned in the ruins of the smoldering house. We were just getting him out of the house when the Indians returned. We had left our mounts with one of the troopers, and the Indians started after them.

  “I asked Sergeant Kendall to cover me, and I started across an open area to try and get back to the horses. The Indians started shooting at me, and I went down. Sergeant Kendall and the others thought I had been hit, so they came out to rescue me and, with accurate fire, killed three of the Indians and drove the others away.”

  “Had you been hit?”

  Pershing chuckled. “No, I had just tripped over the rough ground. But the fact that those men risked their lives to save me when they thought I had been hit is all the incentive I need to be proud of the Tenth Cavalry, and the men in it.”

  “I don’t blame you, John,” Colonel Gibbon said. “I don’t blame you one bit.”

  Pershing and Gibbon talked for a bit longer, exchanging stories, and laughs about their days at West Point. Then Pershing excused himself, and started back to the BOQ. A gentle breeze was blowing from the south and it carried upon its breath the smell of lye soap from Soapsuds Row. From one of the married NCO houses, Pershing could hear the sound of a crying baby. From the nearest barracks, he could hear a group of soldiers singing.

  Halfway across the parade ground, a soldier appeared, carrying a trumpet. The bugler raised the instrument to his lips, and blew air through it a couple of times as if clearing it out. Then he pursed his lips to play, and Pershing stopped to listen to the clear melodious notes of the call.

  “Taps” was the official signal that it was time for everyone to be in bed, and the mournful notes filled the air. Sweeter in sound from the cavalry’s trumpet than they ever could be from the infantry’s bugle, the music rolled across the flat, open quadrangle, hitting the hills beyond the walls of the fort, then bouncing back a second later as an even more haunting echo.

  Of all the military rituals, the playing of “Taps” was the one that most affected Pershing. He never heard it without feeling a slight chill.

  Day is done.

  Gone the sun

  From the lake

  From the hill

  From the sky.

  Rest in peace

  Soldier brave,

  God is nigh.

  The last note hung in the air for a long, sorrowful moment, and Pershing thought of the things about the army he liked: the loyalty of men to their country and their officers, the responsibility the officers felt toward their men, the feeling of belonging . . . and he knew there would never be another thing in his life that he could love more than he loved being a member of this elite band of men.

  “Corporal of the guard! Post number six, and all is well!”

  The plaintive call from the furthermost guard came drifting across the post.

  “Corporal of the guard! Post number five and all is well!”

  The second call was a little closer. They continued down the line until post number two’s call, and his call was so close that Pershing felt a moment of embarrassment, as if he had intruded upon the quiet, lonely moments that were part of a sentry’s privilege and duty.

  Pershing stepped into the BOQ, then into his room. As “Taps” was officially the call for lights out, he lit neither candle nor lantern, but undressed in the moonlight that spilled in through the window.

  With the Scott detachment

  The night creatures raised their songs to the stars as Lieutenant Scott’s detail made their night encampment. A cloud passed over the moon, then moved away, bathing the prairie in silver before them. The soft hoot of owls, the trilling songs of frogs, and the distant howl of coyotes created nature’s concert.

  Scott was sitting on a rock in front of the Sibley tent that a couple of the privates had pitched for him. He was sole occupant of the tent, whereas the other tents were small, two-man pup tents.

  “Sergeant Caviness, do you think we’ll run into the Indians?” Scott asked.

  “Yes, sir, but it’s more ’n likely that they’ll run into us,” Caviness responded.

  “You have fought Indians before, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, me ’n’ Sergeant . . . that is, Private,” he corrected, “Jones. We was with Crook durin’ the war with the Apache.”

  “The Apache,” Scott said with a dismissive grunt. “Rabble. You can hardly call skirmishes with Apache warfare.”

  “Yes, sir, maybe that’s so. But Geronimo and just a handful of bucks held off the United States Army for quite a while. And they had their women and children with ’em, too.”

  “Nevertheless, they are hardly the equal of the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Shoshone. And we, should we be fortunate enough to encounter them, will be engaging Shoshone.”

  “Lieutenant, these here Injuns we’re goin’ after ain’t exactly like the Injuns Custer and the boys of the Seventh run into. From what I’ve heard, these ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of renegades that have left the reservation on their own. They ain’t even got their own tribe behind ’em.”

  “Nevertheless, Sergeant, I intend to make my mark with this very scout. It may not be much of a war, but it’s the only war we’ve got. And once General Winfield gets wind of what I’ve done, I expect good things to happen.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, I do hope
it all works out for you.”

  Bordeaux, Wyoming

  Although Bordeaux was on the map, it could scarcely be considered a town. It consisted of exactly eight buildings, and four of them were outhouses. The other four buildings were two private homes, a general store, and a saloon.

  Despite the modest size of the town, the saloon was surprisingly busy, filled as it was with nearly two dozen men: cowboys, trappers, and some who were just passing through. Inside the saloon, Muley Harris stood at the bar nursing a beer. He had come in with just enough money for a beer and a plate of beans. He wished he had enough money to go into the back room with one of the two women who were working the bar, but he didn’t. He didn’t even have enough money for a second beer. If everything worked out though, that would soon change. He was here to meet a man to plan a job. After that, his pockets would be full again. He looked over at the wall clock.

  “Is your clock right?” he asked the bartender.

  The bartender, who was busy polishing glasses, set the towel down and pulled out his watch. He flipped open the case and looked at it, then glanced back at the clock.

  “Yeah, it’s right,” he said. “It is lacking five minutes of nine o’clock.”

  “Thanks,” Harris grunted.

  “You ’bout ready for another beer?”

  “No, I ain’t finished this here beer, yet,” Harris said.

  “I was just thinkin’, you been nursin’ it so long, it’s prob’ly gone flat by now.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m the one that’s a’ drinkin’ it, not you,” Harris said.

  “Very good, sir.” The bartender went back to wiping glasses and Harris raised his nearly-empty beer mug, just enough to wet his lips.

  Harris was supposed to meet someone at exactly nine o’clock. He wished he hadn’t come so early, as he was getting tired standing here for so long.

  Harris took another swallow of beer, and then made a face. The bartender was right. He had been nursing the beer so long now that it had gone flat on him. He looked back toward the clock and saw the minute hand move to the twelve. It was now nine o’clock. Nine o’clock and the man he was to meet wasn’t here.

  Damn it, where the hell was he? He stared into his glass.

  “Mister, you think if you just stare at the mug long enough, it’ll fill itself back up with beer?” someone asked.

  Harris smiled at the question, because he recognized the voice. The speaker was Ira Adams, and Harris turned to greet him.

  “Adams, you ugly old polecat, how come you ain’t been shot yet? Wait, don’t answer. There ain’t nobody shot you, ’cause you ain’t worth the price of a bullet.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “What do you mean, I ain’t worth the price of a bullet? Why, I’m a genuine Injun fightin’ hero.”

  “What do you mean you’re a Injun fightin’ hero?”

  “Both of us is. We was both at the battle of Sand Creek, wasn’t we?”

  “Hell, they’s some folks don’t think that was much of a battle. Chivington ain’t exactly a hero.”

  “What the hell? We kilt us a bunch of Injuns, didn’t we? And as far as I’m concerned, a dead Injun is a good Injun,” Adams said.

  Harris laughed. “You want to call us heroes, who am I to fight it?” He lifted his glass. “Here’s to us Injun fightin’ heroes.”

  “To us,” Adams replied, taking a drink from his own glass.

  Harris finished the rest of his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, you said meet you here, I’m here. What you got in mind?”

  “I got two thousand dollars in mind,” Adams said.

  “Damn! A thousand dollars apiece? That sounds good. That sounds damn good.”

  “Oh, hell, it’s better ’n that,” Adams said. “What I’m actually talkin’ about is four thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars apiece. Are you interested?”

  “Damn right I’m interested. Who do we have to kill?”

  “Nobody. All we got to do is run off a few head of cows.”

  “How many head are you talkin’ about for four thousand dollars?”

  “A hunnert head,” Harris said. He smiled. “And I’ve already got ’em sold. All we have to do is deliver the cows.”

  “All right, sounds interesting enough to me. Where do we go to find these cows?” Adams asked.

  “That’s the beauty of it,” Harris said. “We don’t have to go nowhere. All we have to do is wait for a couple of days, and they’ll be brought to us.”

  “What do you mean, they’ll be brought to us?” Adams asked.

  “There’s a rancher deliverin’ two thousand head to the army at Fort Laramie, and he ain’t got nothin’ but a handful of drovers with ’im. He’s comin’ up the Chugwater. I’ve got it figured out that he’ll be at North Laramie two nights from now. We’ll just wait, then when they make camp, we’ll sneak in and pull a hunnert head out of the herd, more ’n likely without them even a’ knowin’ about it. Are you with me?”

  Adams took another swallow of his beer before he replied. Then he flashed a broad smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m with you.”

  “We need to go over the store and get us some vittles for campin’, then get on out there. I don’t want to take a chance on them gettin’ by us without even knowin’ they was there.”

  “Uh, I ain’t got no money for vittles. Truth is, I ain’t even got enough money to buy myself another beer,” Harris said.

  Adams smiled. “The fella that I’m sellin’ the cows to has done give me forty dollars. Here’s twenty for you. That’ll do us till we get us some real money.”

  Chapter Nine

  It was mid-morning of the next day and the horses were being watered and the men were dismounted for a break. Again, Sergeant Caviness and Trooper Jones climbed to the top of the highest knoll, looking toward the east.

  “There they are,” Jones said. “Do you see ’em?”

  “Yeah, I see ’em,” Caviness said. “We’d better tell Lieutenant Scott.”

  The two men half walked, and half slid down the steep incline, then hurried over to Lieutenant Scott. Looking toward them, Scott could tell by the expressions on their faces that they had something to report.

  “Have you seen anything?” Scott asked, hopefully.

  “Yes, sir. We seen the Injuns from the top of the rise there,” Jones said.

  “Come back up with me. I want to see them, too.”

  “Yes, sir, the hill’s kind of a steep climb, Lieutenant. But we’ll go up with you if you want to.”

  The three men went back up the hill, which was so steep that it couldn’t be walked up, but had to be climbed. After about five minutes, they were once again on top.

  “Now, where are they?” Scott asked. He was gasping for air, out of breath from the climb.

  “They’re a couple of miles over that way,” Jones said, pointing.

  Scott raised his binoculars to look, but a moment later, he lowered them with a frustrated sigh.

  “I don’t see a damn thing,” he said.

  “No, sir, more’n likely they’ve gone behind that long ridgeline there, but if you look close, you can see the dust still hangin’ in the air,” Jones said.

  “Dust? You brought me up here to look at dust? Anything could have caused the dust, Private,” Scott said angrily.

  “Yes, sir, anything could, only this wasn’t just anything. It wasn’t just dust that me ’n’ Sam seen. We seen actual Injuns.”

  “Sam?” Scott said, challengingly.

  “No, sir, what I mean to say is that me ’n’ Sergeant Caviness both seen the Injuns,” Jones said, correcting himself for using Sergeant Caviness’s first name.

  “Is that true, Caviness?” Scott asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scott nodded. “All right, Sergeant, if both of you saw them, I’ll take your word for it. Let’s get back down and get the men mounted. It’s time to get started.”

  “Sir, I volunteer to ride as point ma
n,” Jones offered, as they started back down the slope.

  “We won’t be using a point man.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but we have to use a point man,” Sergeant Caviness said. “If we’ve seen the Injuns, it’s a damn sure thing that they’ve seen us.”

  “Did you get that from Lieutenant Pershing?” Scott asked.

  “No, sir, it’s somethin’ I learned on my own,” Caviness said. “Same as Lieutenant Pershing I reckon, I mean what with him being down in Arizona with Cook, like he was. That’s why I’m sayin’ that we need a point man. Without a point man, why, we could be riding right into an ambush! And I can’t think of anyone in our detachment that I’d rather have riding point that Jones.”

  “We are riding into an ambush, Caviness. That’s the whole point, don’t you see?” Scott said. “An ambush for the Indians.” He laughed.

  “Sir, with all due respect, we have to have someone riding point,” Jones said. “We’d be absolute fools not to have one.”

  “Trooper Jones, you are forgetting your place,” Scott said. “You may have been given the Medal of Honor for fighting the Apache, but right now you aren’t wearing that medal or sergeant’s stripes. Here, you are just a private, and as such, you don’t presume to tell an officer what to do. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir, I do,” Jones said.

  “Any more disagreements from you and I’ll have you on charges when we return.”

  “Sir, I don’t think Trooper Jones meant any disrespect,” Caviness said. “It’s just that he’s been around a long time and—”

  “I’ve heard quite enough,” Scott interrupted. “Now, get back down there and be prepared to get mounted!”

  “Yes, sir,” Caviness said as he and Jones started back down toward the others.

  “All right, to horse!” Caviness shouted as he was coming back down from the hill, and the soldiers moved quickly to their mounts.

  With Yellow Hawk