Black Crow was startled when he saw a woman take off her clothes and walk out into the water. Getting down from his horse, he tied it to a tree and then walked, quietly, down to the river’s edge. If he killed the woman, then waited until her body was discovered, the men who were tending the herd would be drawn to the site of the dead woman, leaving the herd unwatched. Then it would be easy for him to get away with one of the cows.
Black Crow carried, not his rifle, but a bow and quiver of arrows with him, because whatever he did, would have to be done quietly. He moved down to the water’s edge and saw her standing in the water, lathering herself with soap. He would wait for a few more minutes before shooting her.
Duff was riding nighthawk, and as he came around the front of the herd he thought he saw someone slipping through the line of trees near the edge of the herd. Whoever it was, he saw only briefly in the moonlight. It concerned him, because he realized that it might be another attempt to rustle the cattle.
Dismounting, Duff ground tied his horse, Sky. Then, pulling his pistol, he climbed to the top of the knoll, then slipped down on the other side. He advanced along the edge of the water, ready for whatever was ahead. Suddenly, he stopped and stared in disbelief. There, clearly visible in the bright splash of moonlight, was Meagan Parker.
What in the world was she doing here? Then, he answered his own question. Obviously, she was taking a bath, for she was standing in the water, lathered with soap and, at the moment, stark naked!
His first thought was, what was she doing taking such a chance? What if someone happened onto her? And his second thought was, wait a minute, someone had happened onto her. He had.
Even as he was considering this, he found himself mesmerized by the scene of a beautiful young woman with long, lean limbs, high-lifted breasts, and small, budding nipples. He stood there for a long moment, enjoying the beautiful scene before him, thinking of a painting he had once seen, “Aphrodite Bathing.” Then, realizing that his undetected observation was a vulgar invasion of her privacy, he turned his back to the water, and called out to her.
“Meagan?”
“What?” Meagan shouted, shocked at being discovered. She spun around toward the sound of the voice, crossing her arms across her breasts in a vain attempt to cover herself as she did so. She saw a man standing on the bank of the stream and, though she couldn’t make out his features because he was standing in shadows, she had recognized his voice.
“Duff, you—you should have made your presence known.”
“I did,” Duff replied. “I called out to you.”
Meagan chuckled. “Yes, I guess you did at that, didn’t you?”
Duff could hear the ripple of water from behind him as Meagan walked out of the stream. “Would you mind keeping your back to me until I am dressed?” she asked. “Although, I suppose it’s too late now.”
“Too late for modesty perhaps, but ’tis nae too late for me to be a gentleman and keep my back turned.”
“Just how much of a gentleman are you?” Meagan asked, a touch of seductiveness in her voice.
“And what is it ye would asking me, lass?”
“You can turn around now,” Meagan said.
Duff turned back around just as Meagan was packing her shirttail into her pants. Not fully buttoned, the shirt gapped open, and he could see droplets of water glistening on the globes of her breasts. He stared, unabashedly.
“I thought you said you were a gentleman,” Meagan said, with a lilting laugh in her voice. “But here you are, staring.” She continued to button up her shirt, gradually denying the view that had been afforded him when first he saw her.
“I’m a gentleman, aye, but ’tis also a fact that I’m a man.”
“That’s good to hear,” Meagan said as, fully clothed now, she came walking up the side of the berm. She held her hand out for him to help her to the top.
“Now what do we do?” Meagan asked.
Duff smiled. “Well, we could . . .”
At that moment, Duff saw on the opposite bank of the river an Indian. The Indian was holding a bow and he had it pulled back, aiming toward Meagan. Acting quickly, Duff jerked Meagan toward him, then pulled her down to the ground, just as the arrow was released.
“What are you . . . ?” Meagan started, and then she saw the launched arrow vibrating in the tree into which it had just been shot. She realized then that if Duff had not brought her down, the arrow would be sticking out of her, rather than the tree.
The Indian was fitting a new arrow into his bow for a second shot, but Duff, who had put his pistol back in his holster, pulled it again and fired. The Indian fell and rolled down into the river. Duff ran across the river, then climbed up to the bank on the other side and looked in both directions, but he saw no more Indians.
Returning to the river, he pulled the Indian’s body out of the water, and dragged it up onto the bank. By now Elmer, Jory Bates, Jimmy Sherman, and Jeff Ford were running up, all with pistols in hand.
“What is it?” Elmer asked. “What was the shot for? More rustlers?”
Duff pointed to the body of the dead Indian, lying on the near bank.
“This rather unpleasant fellow had it in his mind to stick an arrow in me,” Duff said. He pointed to the arrow, sticking out of the tree.
“Or else me,” Meagan added.
Elmer walked over to the Indian’s body. Then, with his foot, he rolled him over.
“He’s a Shoshone,” Elmer said.
“You can tell by looking at him?”
“Look at the paint on his face,” Elmer said. “Bright red, with white and yellow. That’s the way it is with Shoshone.”
“Well, Sergeant O’Riley told us there were some Indians on the prowl,” Duff said.
“Yeah, but this is a little strange,” Bates said. “I recollect that it’s always been said that Injuns don’t like to fight at night. It’s got me a’wonderin’ what this buck was doin’ out here, all alone.”
“Are we sure he’s all alone?” Ford asked.
“Aye, I’ve looked, and see nae more of the devils.”
“Like as not, he wasn’t out makin’ war,” Elmer said. “I figure he was prob’ly plannin’ on runnin’ a couple head of cows off for food. If this group really has gone out on their own, I don’t think they’re likely to be gettin’ much help from the people back at the reservation. I’m thinkin’ the reservation Injuns don’t want nothin’ to do with them.”
“Do you think we’re likely to be bothered with them again?” Meagan asked.
“It could be,” Elmer said. “I reckon that all depends on how hungry they are, and how much they’re hankerin’ for a little beef.”
“We’ll be at the fort in about three more days,” Duff said. “For the rest of the drive we’ll sleep in our clothes, with weapons handy. And ’tis thinkin’ I am, that we’d best keep two on at night.”
“We don’t have four of us for that duty, boss,” Ford pointed out. “And that’s countin’ you. That means we’ll all be pullin’ duty half the night, ever’ night.”
“But only for two more nights,” Duff said. “I’m thinkin’ we’ll reach Fort Laramie by mid-afternoon, three days from now.”
“When we get there, I plan to sleep for about three days,” Ford said.
“I plan to have about three beers,” Bates said.
“Yeah . . . me, too. Then sleep,” Ford said.
Chapter Fifteen
Fort Laramie
By order of the post commander, when the colors were raised the next morning, they went to the top of flagpole, then were lowered to half-mast. The funeral was held in the post chapel as the three coffins, which were made of polished and shining pine, were on sawhorses at the front of the church, separated from the chancel by the communion rail. Because the bodies had been mutilated, the coffins were closed, but the hats and tunics of each of the three soldiers were placed on top of the coffins.
In the case of Jones, Colonel Gibbon had given him a posthumous p
romotion, and the three stripes of a sergeant had been sewn back onto the sleeves of his tunic. Pinned to Sergeant Jones’s tunic was the Medal of Honor.
The burial rite was read only once, so that, when it came time to insert the name of the deceased, all three names; Jones, Travis, and Calhoun were spoken. There was no eulogy, but Colonel Gibbon did get up to speak to those assembled in the chapel.
“During the late war, there was a poem that appeared in the February 7, 1863, edition of The Poughkeepsie Telegraph. The poem spoke to me and I think, being as we are all soldiers, that it will speak to you as well. With your permission, and with a nod of recognition to the unknown author, I would like to quote it now.
“Breathe not a whisper here,
The place where thou dost stand is hallowed ground;
In silence gather near this upheaved mound
Around the soldier’s bier
“Here, liberty may weep,
And freedom pause in uncheck career,
To pay the sacred tribute of a tear
Over the pale warrior’s sleep.”
After the service in the chapel, Pershing went with the others to the soldiers’ cemetery and stood by as the three coffins were lowered into graves that were dug side by side. Seven soldiers, carrying carbines, stepped up to the graves, with Sergeant Caviness in command.
“Ready!” Caviness called, and the seven soldiers brought the weapons to their shoulders as one and, aiming them up at a forty-five-degree angle, held them.
“Fire!”
The seven carbines cracked as one.
“Reload.”
The seven soldiers opened the trapdoor breech which ejected the empty cartridge and reloaded, doing it very quickly.
“Ready!”
Again, the soldiers raised the carbines to their shoulders and at the command fired a second time. Then the whole procedure was repeated a third time.
After the three volleys, which represented a salute of twenty-one rounds, the post bugler stepped up to play “Taps.” There was, it seemed to Pershing, a difference in tone and tint to the character of “Taps” when it was played over a deceased soldier, as compared to what put the soldiers to sleep at night, even though the notes played were exactly the same.
The soldiers were dismissed then, and given one hour to change into their work uniforms. Pershing and Holbrook returned to the supply room to resume their work on the TO&E.
“John, do you think you’ll stay in the army?” Holbrook asked.
“I don’t know,” Pershing said. “To be honest, I went to West Point because I thought it offered a better education than the college I was attending in Missouri. And, I do think the education was better. I didn’t intend to get so involved with the army in the beginning, but there are things about it that I very much like. And you can sum it all up in the motto of the Academy.”
“‘Duty, honor, country,’” Holbrook said.
“Yes. Somewhere along the line, they became more than just words for me. They became the core of my being. Like today, burying these three soldiers. They weren’t just soldiers to me. They were my family, my brothers, and I was very moved by the service.”
“You know what I think, John? I think I had better call you by your first name while I still can. One of these days, I’ll have to call you General Pershing.”
Pershing laughed. “Right now, I’d settle for first lieutenant.”
Holbrook joined him in laughter. “You and me both, John. You and me both.”
The two officers heard the distant sound of rolling thunder, and Holbrook walked over to the window to look outside.
“We’re going to have some rain,” he said.
With the troopers in the field
On this, the third morning they were out, A Troop was up and on the go by six a.m. It began raining just before noon, and the rain turned into a thunderstorm, including hail, by early afternoon. The ice pellets stung and bruised man and beast alike, but there was little the men could do about it except hunker down in their ponchos and ride it out. The inclement weather was hard on the soldiers, for despite the ponchos they wore, the rain managed to get through to soak their wool uniforms. As a result, even when the rain stopped in the late afternoon, the men were still miserable in their water-soaked, heavy, chafing wool uniforms.
“All right, we’ll make camp here for the rest of the day,” Captain Kirby said.
“Cap’n, would it be all right if we stripped out of these uniforms and spread ’em out to dry?” First Sergeant Cobb asked.
“Sure,” Captain Kirby said. “Go ahead.”
They made camp then, and for the rest of the afternoon the men were half naked as they had their wet uniforms spread out on the grass to dry.
“Hey, Sarge! What if the Injuns attack us while we’re near ’bout nekkid?” one of the solders asked. “They won’t know who’s the officers and NCOs and who’s the soldiers.”
“Maybe the sergeants should sew their stripes on their long handles,” one of the other soldiers suggested.
The others laughed.
“Trooper,” First Sergeant Cobb said, pointing to the sleeve of his long handles. “What do you see here?”
“I don’t see nothin’ there, Top.”
“Yeah, you do,” Cobb insisted. “What you see are stripes and rockers.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t see nothin’ there.”
“Let me put it this way. You either see stripes and rockers, or I see you doing three days of mucking the stalls.”
“Oh. You mean those stripes and rockers,” the trooper said. “Well, sure, I see them now. I just wasn’t lookin’ close enough.”
Again, the other soldiers laughed.
The next day was an easy march. The trail was wide, flat, and free of any obstacles. The weather was hot and dry, but there was plenty of forage for the animals, and they were near water. They made twelve easy miles, then stopped for camp at two o’clock that afternoon. By now the novelty of going out on a scout against Indian warriors was beginning to wear off, especially as they had not encountered any Indians.
With Yellow Hawk
The fact that the cavalry troop had not encountered any Indians didn’t mean they weren’t there. Yellow Hawk and his men had seen the soldiers and were keeping track of them as they were on the move. Yellow Hawk had but eighteen men with him, and he had counted nearly one hundred soldiers.
There were far too many soldiers to attack as a body, but he was hoping they might split up into smaller groups, and if they did that, he would merely pick the smallest group to engage.
That is exactly what did happen the second day when ten soldiers broke away from the main group to take the bodies back to the fort. Yellow Hawk considered attacking them, but the soldiers were well armed and, Yellow Hawk perceived, better led than had been the first group he had attacked. Also, the soldiers stayed on flat open ground and never presented an opening for an attack, so Yellow Hawk followed a tried and true tactic. He would not engage the soldiers unless he had such superior numbers that victory was assured.
He let the smaller body pass, and kept the larger body under constant observation. Yellow Hawk and the others laughed at how easy it was for them to keep track of the soldiers. Many of the Indians with Yellow Hawk had attended the agency school that was on the reservation, as had Yellow Hawk himself. There they learned not only to speak English, but to read as well, and one of the stories they could remember was about some mice who had managed to put a bell on a cat. That way, the cat could never sneak up on them.
They made jokes, saying that it was not necessary to put bells on the soldiers, they were already wearing bells. The Indians were referring to the metal bridle bits and harness accouterments, the canteens, mess kits, and sabers. In fact, it was the cacophony of sound that warned them of the approach of the soldiers, and that allowed them to keep track of them.
Then, midway through the third day, the soldiers turned around and started back. Yellow Hawk was disappointed that
not once, during the entire time, had there been an opportunity to attack. The best they could do now was follow along behind and hope that one or two soldiers might, for some reason, drop out of the march.
But that didn’t happen, and when they got too close to the fort, Yellow Hawk broke off the contact.
With the herd
As Duff had predicted, he and his herd reached Fort Laramie by mid-afternoon of the third day after their encounter with the single Indian.
“Where do we go from here?” Elmer asked.
“To tell you the truth, Elmer, I’m not all that sure. I agreed to bring the cows to the fort, and here we are. I think I’ll ride in and speak to the commander of the establishment and see what he has in mind. I’d like you and the men to stay here and keep an eye on the herd.”
“We’ll keep ’em here,” Elmer said.
“Meagan, would you be for wanting to ride into the fort with me?”
Meagan smiled. “I thought you would never ask,” she said. “But if I had known I was going to meet the commanding officer, I would have brought something so I could dress as a lady, and not a cowboy.”
“Sure’n it makes no difference what ye be wearing, lass, for ’tis pretty enough ye are that t’would be for making a blind man look twice.”
Meagan chuckled. “You do have a way with words about you, Duff Tavish MacCallister.”
An hour later, Duff and Meagan were challenged at the gate of the fort by the guard on duty.
“Halt, and state your business,” the soldier said, bringing his carbine up to the port arms position.
MacCallister, the Eagles Legacy: Dry Gulch Ambush Page 12