Oushata Massacre

by Robert Vaughan

  “Reach down and touch a couple of them,” Missouri Joe said. “That way the other dogs will smell them on you and won’t think you’re a stranger.”

  Marcus reached down, intending to pet one of the dogs, but the dog snapped at him. Then he saw Missouri Joe push one of the dogs’ heads down in the snow and run his hands up and down the dog’s back. When he let go, the dog was glad enough to get away. Marcus did the same thing, then the two men were able to walk through the pack without difficulty.

  Marcus could hear the rhythmic thump of the drums, the high-pitched tweet of an eagle- bone whistle, and the monotone chants of the songs. He could see the golden wash of light on the sides of the lodge, but from here he could see none of the actual dancers.

  The two men suddenly heard women’s voices and Missouri Joe held up his hand, signaling a stop. When Missouri Joe dropped down to one knee, Marcus did the same thing, and they moved close to the side of one of the tepees. Three women walked by just in front of them, so involved in their own conversation that they paid no attention to what was going on around them.

  When the women were gone, they moved a little closer. They finally made it to the center circle, where a large bubble of golden light from the big bonfire lit the faces of the young warriors who were dancing. In the shadows around the outside of the fire light, the very young and the very old, who were not permitted to take part in the dance because of their ages, sat in twos and threes, quietly watching. Missouri Joe pulled the robe over the top of his head, then sat on a fallen log, and Marcus sat beside him.

  The music stopped and one of the dancers moved to the center of the circle. He stood facing the fire for a moment, then raised both his hands over his head. His robe slid down and Marcus saw that he was bare-chested, except for a necklace of bear’s teeth. One half of his face was painted red, the other half yellow.

  “That there is Two Eagles,” Missouri Joe said quietly.

  It began snowing again, but the snow didn’t stop Two Eagles. He stood like a statue under the great white flakes and continued to stare into the fire. Finally he turned away from the fire and began speaking. Marcus couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he could tell from the reaction of those listening to him that Two Eagles was a powerful speaker, a man who could move his listeners.

  “Know anything about the town of Willow Springs?” Missouri Joe asked.

  “Yes. That’s the next terminus of the railroad,” Marcus said.

  “How many folks live there?”

  “Two or three hundred, I would guess,” Marcus said. “And it’s growing every day.” “Yeah, well, it ain’t gonna grow much more. Two Eagles is plannin’ on attackin’ it.” “When?”

  “A couple of days yet,” Missouri Joe said. “They’re waitin’ on a few more to join them. ’Course, if this snow keeps on, that might hold ’em back, too.”

  “We’ve got to get back to the fort,” Marcus said. “Colonel Pettibone must be told of this.” “That mean you’ve seen enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad of that,” Missouri Joe said. “The way you are, I wasn’t sure but what you’d want me to go up an’ talk to the fella. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  The two men retraced their steps back through the camp. The snow was falling even heavier now, though it had not yet covered their footprints. Unfortunately, someone else had also noticed their footprints, and when Marcus and Missouri Joe reached the edge of the village, they saw two Indians standing there, looking at the filling, but still-deep scar which led down from the nearby woods. It was obvious to the Indians that someone had just come into the camp, and they looked as if they were on the verge of sounding an alarm.

  “Oh, oh,” Missouri Joe said. “We’d better take care of these two before they have the whole camp down on us.”

  Missouri Joe said something in a low, guttural voice, and the two Indians turned around toward them.

  “Get your knife out, boy. You’re gonna need it,” Missouri Joe hissed. Missouri Joe dropped his robe to give him freedom of movement, and Marcus did the same.

  Marcus had never been in a knife fight in his life. He pulled his knife, then looked over at Missouri Joe and assumed a stance similar to the scout’s. He was crouched a little, right arm out, blade projecting from across the upturned palm between the thumb and index finger, with the point moving back and forth.

  The Indian lunged but Marcus dodged him easily. Then Marcus realized that the techniques he had learned in fencing could be applied here; precision, speed, timing, and distance. The fencing attack coordinated hand and footwork with a minimum of wasted motion. Success depended on split-second timing; fractions of an inch in distance; and sound, tactical judgment.

  Foiled on his first attempt, the Indian danced in for a second, raising his left hand toward Marcus’s face to mask his action. He feinted with his right, the knife hand, outside Marcus’s left arm as if he were going to go in over it. In the same movement, when Marcus automatically reacted against it, the Indian brought his knife hand back down so fast it was a blur, and caught Marcus under his arm.

  The knife went through Cavanaugh’s heavy clothing, but the layers of cloth protected him from any serious wound. Even so, he could feel the knife searing like a branding iron along his ribs, opening a long gash in the tight ridges of muscle. He could also feel the blood down his side, and for the moment, he had no idea how badly he might be hurt.

  Marcus brought his left hand down sharply and knocked away the Indian’s knife. He jabbed quickly with his right hand, sending the blade of his knife into the Indian’s diaphragm, just under the ribs.

  They stood that way for a few moments, Marcus twisting the blade in the wound, trying to make certain his stab was fatal and struggling to stay on his feet in spite of the pain burning in his side.

  Finally the Indian began to collapse, expelling a long, life-surrendering sigh as he did. As Marcus felt him going he turned the knife, blade edge up, letting the Indian’s body tear itself off by its own weight. It cut deeply along the ribs, disemboweling him. When the Indian hit the ground, he flapped once or twice, then lay still while blood and the contents of his opened stomach stained the white, then was covered by the new snow.

  Marcus looked over to see Missouri Joe finishing off his own opponent.

  “You all right?” Marcus asked.

  “Yeah, how about you?”

  “I’m fine. Let’s get out of here.”

  It wasn’t until later, when they had made it back to their horses and Missouri Joe saw Marcus wincing with pain while he was getting mounted, that he realized Marcus was hurt.

  “Let me take a look at it.”

  Missouri Joe opened Marcus’s shirt, then chuckled.

  “You was some lucky,” he said. “The cut don’t go deep at all.” He started scooping up snow.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m gonna pack snow in between your shirt and the wound. It’ll stop the bleedin’ and ease the pain.”

  At first the snow was so cold that Marcus could barely stand it, but after a few minutes a numbing warmth began to spread around his side. And, as Missouri Joe promised, it completely killed the pain. The two men rode off into the snowstorm, swallowed up by the swirling flakes of white before they went more than fifty yards.

  It was just after dark the next evening when the guard at the front gate of Fort Reynolds challenged Marcus and Missouri Joe. Marcus saw that in addition to the guard on the ground, there was another on the parapet. That meant that Colonel Pettibone’s order to double the sentries was still in effect.

  “Who goes there?” the guard on the ground challenged.

  “A friend,” Marcus responded. “I’m Lieutenant Cavanaugh, this is Missouri Joe, a scout for the United States Cavalry.”

  “Advance, friend, and be recognized,” the guard said, continuing the formula for challenge.

  Marcus and Missouri Joe rode on up to the gate, where a small lantern was burning. The soldier t
urned the lantern to cast a light and he looked at them closely, then came to attention.

  “Christ, Lieutenant Cavanaugh, it is you! You look awful, sir!”

  “I must see Captain Forsyth and Colonel Pettibone at once,” Marcus said.

  The guard pointed across the quadrangle to the brightly lit suttler’s store.

  “You’ll find ’em in there. Fact is, you’ll find ever’one in there. Case you forgot, sir, this here is Thanksgivin’ an’ the regiment is havin’ a Thanksgivin’ party for all the officers and the men. That is, ’ceptin’ those of us on guard.”

  “Don’t let it bother you any, soldier,” Marcus said. “I don’t think they’ll be there much longer.”

  Marcus and Missouri Joe rode across the quadrangle, then tied their horses at the hitching rail in front of the sutler’s store. Someone was singing inside, and Marcus recognized the high,-clear voice of Sergeant Patrick O’Daigh, the best tenor in the regiment. Like many singers and musicians, Sergeant O’Daigh had used his talent to get his stripes, for such men were good for troop morale, and commanders would go to any length to keep them. O’Daigh was singing “The Dew Is on the Grass Lorena.” No one was dancing at this precise moment, for this was the entertainment part of the program.

  “Boy, when we go inside there, you reckon I could slip over an’ get me a little drink of whiskey without bein’ noticed?”

  Marcus laughed. “Believe me, there is no way we’re going to go in there without being noticed,” he said.

  When they stepped up onto the porch, Marcus glanced through the window, where he saw the bunting and party decorations, the bright dresses, and the clean, blue uniforms. With his ten-day growth of beard, his dirty clothes, and rancid smell, he was going to make quite an intrusion on this party. He took a deep breath, then pushed in through the door.

  One of the laundresses, not recognizing either of the men, screamed. Lieutenant Humes, who did recognize Marcus, spoke aloud what everyone was thinking.

  “My God, Cavanaugh, you are disgusting!” Colonel Pettibone turned and bellowed out loudly, “Lieutenant Cavanaugh, what is the meaning of this?”

  “Colonel Pettibone, Captain Forsyth, I must speak with you at once.”

  “You go over to the headquarters room, mister,” Pettibone said. “I’ll deal with you when this dance is over.”

  “Sir, this is an emergency!” Marcus said. “Captain Forsyth?” Marcus added, pleading his case with his next higher commander.

  “Colonel, if you will not receive this officer now, I shall write a report to General Sheridan registering my protest,” Forsyth said.

  Pettibone looked at Captain Forsyth, who, in his full-dress uniform, cut quite a formidable figure, then contrasted him with Marcus, who looked like a destitute trail bum.

  “Very well, Captain Forsyth,” Pettibone agreed. “But it had better be important or it is I who will be writing the letter to the general.” Pettibone looked back over the curious faces of those at the party, then toward the bandstand. “Bandmaster, if you would please, continue the music.”

  The bandmaster turned to his musicians, tapped his baton a couple of times, then started a song. The music was “Put Your Little Foot,” but Marcus couldn’t help but wonder if he had just stuck his big foot right into it.

  The officer of the day looked up in surprise when he saw the four men come into the regimental headquarters building . . . two in full-dress uniform, and two barely recognizable as civilized men. The officer of the day stood as Colonel Pettibone swept by his desk, leading his little entourage into his office. Once inside the office, Pettibone, his eyes still blazing in anger, turned toward Marcus.

  “Mister, how dare you present yourself before the officers, ladies, and men of the Fourth Cavalry Regiment in such a . . . a . . . disgraceful condition!” he said. “What is so important that you could interrupt a regimental celebration?”

  “They are related, Colonel,” Marcus said. “I am dressed like this because last night Missouri Joe and I sneaked into Two Eagles’s new war camp. We listened to Two Eagles and his bunch plan an attack on Willow Springs tomorrow.”

  Marcus studied Pettibone’s face. This was it . . . the moment of truth. Was Colonel Pettibone a petty tyrant, or was he a good officer? If he was a petty tyrant, he would continue raving at Marcus. If he was a good officer, he would turn his concern to the news Marcus brought him.

  “How long would it take this command to reach the village?” he asked.

  “We were slowed quite a bit by the snowstorm this morning,” Marcus said. “Although it was a blessing, because we killed a couple of their warriors, and the storm that slowed us kept the Indians from finding us. I think if we left within the hour we could be there sometime tomorrow morning.”

  “If we leave within thirty minutes and push it hard, can we reach the village before dawn?” “Yes, sir,” Marcus said. “I believe we can.” Pettibone stepped out of his office and spoke to the officer of the day.

  “Lieutenant, send your runner for the trumpeter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the trumpeter came in a few moments later, Pettibone asked that he blow officers’ call. The effect of the call was immediate, because they could hear the music stop from the sutler’s store.

  “Lieutenant Cavanaugh,” Colonel Pettibone said as they were waiting for the officers to assemble, “as of now your leave is canceled and your suspension of duty is lifted.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “When the officers arrive, I want you to tell them just what you told me.”

  Twenty-seven minutes later, Marcus had scrubbed himself clean with a rag and cold water, shaved, bandaged his wound, and was in uniform at the head of D Company. He was filling this position because Captain Forsyth was acting as battalion commander.

  Marcus was shivering, though he didn’t know if it was from the cold, or from excitement. This was to be a battle, not merely an encounter, nor even a skirmish of the type they had fought a few weeks earlier when the Indians escaped. This would be a planned attack on an enemy-held position. Such an operation, he knew, could only result in a full-scale, set-piece battle. It would be his first.

  There was a great deal of activity going on right now. Men rode at a gallop through the snow from one end of the formation to the other to deliver messages or attend to last- minute details. Aside from the rustle of horses and the murmur of the men, the parade ground was quiet.

  It was dark, but the white snow and the bright moon rendered the entire post visible. Marcus could see to the farthest end of the formation and he saw that the regiment was nearly in place. A few horses were still slipping into position, with clumps of snow dropping from their prancing hooves and clouds of vapor issuing from their nostrils.

  On the porch of the sutler’s store, all the women had gathered: officers’ ladies and enlisted men’s wives, along with the handful of unmarried women on the fort. Their dresses were covered now with coats, blankets, and robes as they fought the cold to watch their men depart on this strange, dangerous middle-of-the-night scout.

  Finally, the clear, sharp notes of assembly played by the regimental trumpeter cut through the night air.

  Now the shuffling around stopped, and the regiment grew quiet. Colonel Pettibone rode to the front of the formation, stood in his stirrups, and called to his battalion commanders.

  “Form into line of march, column of fours, to the right.”

  The order of march given, the battalion commanders issued the commands and the regiment turned to the right.

  “Guidons, post!”

  Colonel Pettibone slapped his legs against the side of his horse, and it broke into a quick gallop to get him to the front of the formation. The regimental colors bearer rode with him, the colors snapping in the wind thus created.

  Marcus was too far back to hear the marching order given, but he did hear Captain Forsyth issue the battalion command, and he passed it on to his company. He pulled his watch from his pocket and looked
at it as they got under way. It was exactly thirty-three minutes from the time Colonel Pettibone dismissed the officers. From stand-down to mounted march in thirty-three minutes! He would have to write his tactics professor about that. It would be worth noting for the cadets who were just learning.

  10

  Marcus had been a cadet at West Point when Abraham Lincoln was killed. With other cadets, he had traveled to New York to take part in the great funeral parade, marching to the measured beat of the muffled drums. Memories of that sad occasion returned to him now as he rode through the harsh winter plains.

  Although Colonel Pettibone had given orders that all loose equipment be tied down: sabers, canteens, cartridge belts, and the like, so that there would be no telltale jangle, that didn’t mean that the movement was silent. In fact, quite the contrary was true, for the regiment’s movement was accompanied by a continuous muffled beat as strong as the drumbeat had been on that sad day in New York, three and a half years before. But it wasn’t the regimental drummer that provided the beat, though. It was the horses themselves, as their hooves broke through the hard crust of the day-old snow.

  The colonel had given strict orders that no one was to speak above a whisper. There were to be no matches lit, nor pipes smoked, for even if the glow of pipes was concealed, the smell of tobacco could carry a great distance. Silently, for miles piling onto miles, the 4th Cavalry rode in the direction of Oushata.

  Finally, as the regiment drew close to the place where Marcus and Missouri Joe had tied their horses when they sneaked into the village a couple of days earlier, a rider came back along the column, moving quickly. He stopped at the head of D Company and saluted Marcus.

  “Colonel Pettibone’s compliments, sir,” the rider said. “And he asks that you join him at the head of the column.”

  “Lieutenant Culpepper, take command,” Marcus ordered.

  “Yes, sir,” John answered.

  Marcus rode back up along the column, following the messenger until he reached the head. There he saw Colonel Pettibone, Major Conklin, Captain Forsyth, and Missouri Joe.