Brings the Lightning (The Ames Archives Book 1)

by Peter Grant

  “It’s done,” Tad reported softly, accepting the plate of food Rose handed him. “Thanks, ma’am. I don’t expect ’em this early. I reckon they’ll wait another two, three hours until they’re sure we’re asleep.”

  The time passed agonizingly slowly. Tom Jones came over to join them, but they didn’t dare sit around the fire and yarn. That would destroy their night vision, as well as alerting any intruders to their presence. They moved further into the center of the circled wagons, talking in soft, low voices, leaving one of their number to listen for any sound from the tin cans. They swapped the listening duty frequently to keep everyone sharp.

  At last Tad said, “Must be about eleven now. If they’re comin’, it’ll be soon. Let’s get set.”

  Walt handed shotguns to Tom Jones, Tad, Samson and Elijah, keeping one for himself. Rose had the sixth shotgun, with its lethal buckshot load, just in case she needed it. “We’ll space ourselves along our two wagons an’ listen carefully,” Walt told the others. “Tad, you know the prairie sounds better than any of us, so you give the word. As soon as you hear the stones rattle in those cans, or see movement, aim at it. Those with you will follow along and shoot with you. Samson will be with me behind the ambulance. We’ll wait to find out if there’s more than one of them. The muzzle blast from your shotguns should light up the area enough for us to see. If there’s more of ’em, we’ll fire at them.”

  “Fair enough,” Tad acknowledged. “Tom, you warned everyone not to die o’ fright when the big bangs begin?”

  “Yeah, I told ’em,” Jones replied. “I had a real problem persuadin’ ’em to stay by their wagons an’ look after their own teams. They all wanted to come and watch!”

  Samson stood beside Walt in the darkness. It was useless to peer out into the pitch black, overcast, moonless night. Everything would depend upon their ears. They strained to hear, listening intently, but for almost half an hour the silence was broken only by the faint rustling of the long grass in the soft breeze.

  Without warning, there came the rattle of stones in a tin can close to the other wagon. Walt and Samson nearly jumped clean out of their boots as two massive tongues of fire erupted from shotguns in the hands of Tad and Elijah, streaking out at least ten feet beyond the far side of the wagon. The double charges boomed like two young cannon. In the sudden cascade of light, Walt saw an Indian youth kneeling in the grass, his face contorted with shock and pain as he was peppered with dried peas.

  There was a sudden movement to one side of the young Indian. Walt shouldered his gun and aimed at it. As the curtain of darkness fell abruptly once more, he pulled the trigger. Another huge fountain of fire vomited forth from his shotgun as it kicked hard against his shoulder, accompanied by a cry of pain from the dark shape in front of him. The Indian had jumped up and turned to run, and Walt’s charge must have struck him full in the buttocks. Even as the light from his shotgun faded, Samson fired at a third Indian, producing another bright flash, a third blood-curdling scream and the sound of rapidly running feet moving away as fast as possible into the safety of the night.

  The horses and mules within the circle of wagons were plunging, braying, neighing and protesting their sudden awakening. Walt was just beginning to wonder why Tom Jones hadn’t fired when they all heard, through the ringing in their ears, the sound of the tin cans jangling again. The company owner’s shotgun went off with a monstrous bang. The muzzle blast illuminated an Indian charging towards them holding a knife, close enough that the flash almost seemed to wrap around him. The charge of peas struck him full in the face. They saw his hands start to rise towards his blinded eyes as the curtain of darkness fell once more. He moaned, and they heard his staggering footsteps rustling in the grass as he blundered away into the night.

  “Should we go after him?” Walt called across to Tad.

  “Stay put. You probably wouldn’t find him in the dark, but his friends might find you.”

  They picked up their rifles and stood ready. Some of the teamsters around the circle of wagons did likewise, while others circulated among the animals to calm them down. There was no further sound or movement out in the darkness. After a while Tom Jones went round the wagons, advising the teamsters to stand guard in pairs. One could sleep while the other kept watch for a couple of hours, then they’d change places.

  The light of dawn showed nothing where the figures had been the night before. Tad commented, as he came back into the circle of wagons after collecting his twine and the tin cans, “I didn’t expect to see any blood, but I thought the one Tom shot might have dropped his knife. No sign of it, though. Maybe one of his friends picked it up.”

  “Most likely they had to pick him up, too,” Tom Jones said unsympathetically. “I doubt we’ll have any more trouble from them.”

  “I think you’re right. Look over yonder. The Cheyenne camp’s gone. They left durin’ the night. It was prob’ly their youngsters who tried to raid us, so they wanted to be long gone in case we went lookin’ for ’em today.”

  Sure enough, in the growing light they could see that the group of tepees that had stood nearest to the fort had vanished. Only the camp of the Arapaho hunting party was still there.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Walt pointed out, frowning. “I know they’re some way off, but surely we’d have heard at least some noise as they broke camp?”

  “Not if they did it quietly as soon as the light was gone, ready to leave with any horses they managed to steal.”

  A patrol from the Fort soon made its appearance. “What the hell were you shootin’ last night?” the sergeant in command demanded. “You got cannons out here?”

  “I cut down six old, worn-out smoothbore muskets to make short shotguns,” Walt told him. “Last night I put a double charge of powder in them, and a half-charge of dried peas. It looked and sounded even more impressive than I thought it would.”

  The NCO threw back his head and laughed. “I bet you scared the pants off whoever was out there. I was on duty last night, an’ the tongues of fire those things threw out scared even me! It looked like lightnin’ bolts were goin’ sideways out o’ your wagons.”

  He examined one of the shotguns closely. “Y’know, we got a few old smoothbores at the fort. I wonder if the cap’n would let us convert ’em like this? Be real handy to have ’em stuffed with buckshot if we got into another fight with a bunch of Injuns tryin’ to steal our horses. Mind if I borrow this to show him?”

  “Sure, as long as you bring it back within half an hour. We’re heading out for Pond Creek as soon as we’re ready.”

  Tad was talking to Walt about their plans for the day’s scouting when the sergeant came back. He detoured to talk to a small group of Arapaho who’d approached and were standing close by, then cantered up to Walt. As he handed him the shotgun, he said, “Those Injuns want to talk to the man who made the lightnin’ last night.”

  For a moment Walt was nonplussed, but Tad understood at once. “They mean those gigantic muzzle flashes. They must’ve looked real impressive from their campsite. Quick, Walt, get that bear claw necklace, an’ your Sharps rifle an’ that buckskin cover. This’ll be a good time to impress ’em. They’ll spread the word. Injuns can do that faster than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  “Damn right!” the sergeant agreed. “They call it the prairie telegraph. It’s amazin’ how, when something happens a week’s ride away, they somehow know about it the day after it happened.”

  “Yeah, I’ve run into that afore,” Tad acknowledged as Walt took the necklace, buckskin sleeve and his Sharps rifle from Rose as she handed them down from the ambulance.

  Mounting their horses, Tad and Walt rode slowly towards the group of Indians. As they approached, Walt saw them repeatedly glancing at him, then looking at each other and talking softly. Tad said quietly, “They’re tryin’ to act casual, but you can see how taken they are with that rifle cover an’ your necklace. They reckon you’re big medicine. You ain’t good enough at sign language yet, so let m
e handle the talkin’.”

  They halted their horses in front of the group, and Tad began signing with both hands. “I’m tellin’ ’em that you’re the man who made the lightnin’ with your medicine gun last night. I didn’t tell ’em what the medicine gun was, o’ course.”

  Walt managed to stifle a grin at the thought of the old, cut-down muskets being described as medicine guns. “Of course.”

  One of the Arapaho, an older man, pointed at the necklace of grizzly bear claws and signed what appeared to be a query. Tad said, “He wants to know where you bought it. Remember what I said?”

  “Yeah. Tell him I didn’t buy it, I killed for it.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  After another rapid-fire exchange of signs, Tad said, “He wants to know whether you also killed the man who owned that rifle cover.”

  “Tell him I didn’t kill whoever first owned it. I found it on a white man who was a thief and murderer. He attacked me last year. I killed him and his men, then I took it from his body.”

  More signs were exchanged.

  “He says he’d like to see it. Take your rifle out of it, keepin’ it pointed up into the air, and hand it over to him. Don’t worry, you’ll get it back.”

  Walt complied. The Indians fingered the buckskin cover, pointing to the beadwork, muttering among themselves, then returned it as the older man began signing again.

  “He says this was made for a Kiowa Dog Soldier. He says the other Dog Soldiers will be very interested to hear about it. I get the feelin’ he knows more about it than he’s sayin’.”

  “Will you ask him about that, please?”

  “Sure.” More signs. “He thinks it was owned by a famous Kiowa warrior and medicine man, but he can’t be sure. Only a Kiowa who knew him could confirm that. He says we may meet some of them in a few days. He seems real sure about that, which makes me kinda nervous.”

  “You and me both.” Walt shrugged. “Still, if we’re going to run into Kiowas, it’s going to happen whether I have the rifle cover or not.”

  Two days out of Fort Ellsworth they came to a well-watered camp site, and halted for two days to allow a last period of intensive training to the platoon from Fort Riley. Much gunpowder was burned as the inexperienced troopers were taught to use their weapons together as a unit.

  “Remember, when we fort up, work in pairs,” Sergeant Buell cautioned them, Walt and Tad nodding vigorously in agreement beside him. “One of you shoots while the other reloads his carbine. If they get real close and it comes to revolver work, guard each other’s backs. Do the best you can with the five or six rounds you’ve got in your revolver, then holster it an’ go back to your carbines. You can single-load a Sharps a lot faster than you can reload a cap-’n-ball revolver. That’s why you reserve your revolvers for a charge or last-ditch close-range defense.”

  Tad added, “Another thing. A lot of Injuns still use lances. If you shoot someone who’s carryin’ one an’ he drops it near you, grab it. If you run dry of ammo or don’t have time to reload, you can still hold ’em off with the lance. They’re usually anywhere from eight to ten feet long, which lets you keep Injuns from gettin’ into strikin’ distance with knife or tomahawk or club. Don’t bother pickin’ up war clubs, though, except as mementoes after the fight. You’ve got a carbine with a metal butt plate on the end of the stock. It makes a damn fine club just as it is.”

  The troopers laughed, but Walt could see they were taking the advice seriously.

  He worked with the men on their revolver technique while Buell and Tad concentrated on carbine work. “Don’t try to be fast,” he warned the troopers, just as he had Samson and Elijah the previous year. “That way you’ll jerk the trigger and miss your target. Try to be smooth. Speed will come with practice. Aim with your whole arm. Bring the gun up to head height so you can see the sights—and be sure to bring the gun up, not your head down. Don’t try to shoot from the hip, aiming by instinct. You’ll miss.”

  He picked up an already-emptied revolver. “Don’t waste time on big showy arm movements. When you fire, some of you are letting your entire forearm go up under recoil, rotating at the wrist and elbow; then you’re bringing the gun back down into line almost as if you’re trying to throw it at the target.” He demonstrated using the empty weapon. “That takes too long. While you’re wastin’ time doing that, the enemy’s shootin’ at you. Instead, keep your arm straight as you fire. Let the gun rotate upward in your hand—the plow-handle grip on a single-action revolver is designed to do that. Catch the hammer with your thumb as the barrel rises under recoil, then cock it as the gun falls back into line with your arm again. You’ll be on target and ready to shoot without wasting time.”

  “We’re just shootin’ at rocks an’ bushes,” one trooper complained. “They ain’t movin’. What happens if we’re tryin’ to hit an Injun who’s chargin’ in to spit us on his lance?”

  “Ever watched a man’s head as he gallops?” Walt asked.

  “No.”

  “Watch my head and body as I move.”

  Walt swung onto his horse, cantered out about two hundred yards, turned, and charged back at the men at a full gallop. He reined in his horse just before he reached them.

  “What did you see?” he asked as he dismounted.

  The trooper who’d asked the question was looking thoughtful. “Your body an’ arms were movin’ around, but your head was in pretty much the same place the whole time.”

  “That’s right. Everyone does that. It’s instinctive. If your head was bobbin’ around you couldn’t see straight, so instead your head stays steady and your body moves around it. If an Indian’s chargin’ you, look for his head. That’ll give you a steady point of aim. Don’t shoot at the head, mind you: it’s a pretty small target, easy to miss if you aren’t up close. Aim under the middle of the head. If you’re on target, your bullet will hit his body.”

  “What if you can’t see their heads? What if they’re hangin’ over one side of their horse? I’ve heard tell of that.”

  “So have I. In that case, just shoot the horse. They may keep coming on foot, but then they’ll be moving a lot more slowly, and you can take time over your next shot to make sure of your aim. If they’re hurt, their friends will have to pick ’em up, which stops ’em charging you until they’ve dropped them off clear of the fight.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done this afore.”

  “Not against Indians, but during the war, yeah, I have. So has your sergeant. He knows what he’s talking about. Listen to him, and do as he says, and you’ll likely make it through the fight.”

  On the afternoon of the second day Buell took his platoon out to practice mounted patrol work. Tad came over to Walt as he sat with Rose next to her ambulance. “Feel like puttin’ that fancy Sharps o’ yours to good use?”

  “Why d’you ask?”

  “We could use a good meal tonight, to put everyone in a good mood before we start for Pond Creek again tomorrow. There’s a small herd of buffalo about two miles away. I reckon we can bring down a couple, then have some of the teamsters field-dress ’em an’ bring the meat back for supper.”

  Tad brought along a shorter Sharps cavalry carbine. They took two of the teamsters with them, riding horses and leading two pack mules, and rode to a clump of bushes just below the top of a rise in the rolling prairie.

  Tad and Walt dismounted and handed their reins to the teamsters. “Don’t come any further,” Tad warned them. “We don’t want to spook the buffalo. Wait until you hear us call before you follow us over the rise.”

  As they walked up the knoll, Walt asked, “What’s the best point of aim on a buffalo?”

  “A heart shot’s tricky. It’s real low in their chest, protected by the foreleg. As they walk, you’ll see a patch of skin just behind their elbow that’s been rubbed clear of fur. Put a bullet right in the center of that patch from the side an’ you’ll hit the heart. If you can’t see it, aim about six inches above and just behind the elbow. With
a heavy bullet, you’ll shoot through both lungs. They may run, but they won’t get more than a couple hundred yards at most. Often enough they don’t run at all; they just stand there for a minute or two, then fall over.”

  Sure enough, the small herd of a couple of dozen buffalo were within a few hundred yards of the knoll. As they crested it, Tad nodded in satisfaction. “Wind’s from them to us, so they won’t catch our scent. We’ll crawl up on ’em slow an’ easy.”

  They dropped to their hands and knees and began crawling towards the animals through the long grass, going to their bellies as they got closer. Walt was winded and tired by the time they got close enough. “Dang!” he whispered shakily. “All this crawling’s hard on a man.”

  “Yeah,” Tad replied, “but if you shoot straight, we won’t have to do it again for a while. See that cow on the left? You take her. She’s young, wi’ plenty o’ tender meat. I’ll take the one next to her. Wait until I say before you shoot.”

  They came to one knee in the grass, leveling their rifles and taking careful aim at their targets. Walt settled his elbow on his knee and took a braced shooting position. “Ready,” he whispered as he levered the big side-hammer back to full cock and checked to ensure that the percussion cap was properly seated on the nipple.

  “All right. One, two, three, fire!”

  At Tad’s command both rifles cracked as one. Tad’s target staggered and fell almost at once, heart-shot, but Walt had fired at the lungs of his buffalo. She didn’t drop right away, but began to hook with her horns at her fallen herd mate. Her movements attracted the attention of the others, which began to move towards her curiously; then she bellowed, a strangely mournful sound, blood bubbling from her nostrils. At once the other buffalo whirled around and began to run for the horizon, leaving her calling plaintively after them. Twice more she sounded, then stumbled, went to her knees, and keeled over onto her side.