He rode with the air of a man who is making a journey that his heart is not in.
His sallow cheeks were sucked into the sides of his face; the cast in his right eye gave him a distorted view of the land he covered.
Bradley was tired, disenchanted. After his years of command in the south-west he had wanted nothing more from his posting to Fort Rice than the opportunity to end his lifelong career in the Army with a semblance of quiet and ordered dignity.
But life was not like that.
The trouble that had erupted on the reservation should have been ended there and then, could have been if things had been handled more efficiently.
Lieutenant Patten was a young fool, an upstart. Parading about with his uniform clean enough to eat a meal from and a look on his face which announced that its owner was so superior. The Wakpala Agency had shown exactly how superior he was!
Bradley’s report had made the officer’s inexperience, his sheer ineptitude, clear. It would serve him right for all the smarmy looks and the patronizing speeches the boy had forced him to endure.
As for Sergeant Lattimer!
The man was a braggart and a bully. Always had been and always would be. Yet Bradley had seen him rush a band of six Apache singlehanded and walk out of it without so much as a scratch on his own body.
And the business at the reservation, the shooting of the Sioux women and children—it was wrong of course. Very wrong. But far worse had happened in the history of the United States Army and been whitewashed over. Had, Bradley thought, and doubtless would be again.
He pulled off his long gloves and tucked them into his belt, taking the rein between fingers that were surprisingly long and very white.
Now he had to ride out into these blasted hills himself to deal with a bunch of renegade Indians.
Colonel Bradley made a face as if he had that moment tasted something decidedly unpleasant. Sour. He would see to it that not one of the Sioux was left alive. Not one. That would teach the savages a lesson, all of them. It would teach them to accept the subjugation that was all that they deserved—an inferior, uncivilized people with their petty superstitions and primitive ways.
After this they would not dare to rise up again.
At least, thought Bradley, not while I am still in command here. They won’t disturb my peace again.
He looked up at the sound of a rider approaching fast.
One of the men who had been sent on ahead was returning at the gallop.
Colonel Bradley reined in his chestnut and peered out into the middle distance, beyond the rider. He saw in silhouette a man and a girl, walking slowly side by side; with them there was a horse which appeared to be limping and to have something bulky stretched across its back.
They had made their camp within half a day’s ride from the foothills that were the beginnings of the Badlands. Colonel Bradley gave orders that both Herne and Carey attend him as soon as the men had erected his tent. He had sent Ali Henderson back to Fort Rice with a small escort and had half-heartedly tried to persuade Herne to go with her. But Herne had refused. He had wiped away most of the dried blood that still clung to the graying hair at his left temple and pronounced himself fit to carry out his duties as Army scout.
The skin on the left side of Herne’s face was brown, yellow and purple with bruising; underneath his hat his scalp bled a little from time to time.
But like the Colonel—though in a different way—Herne wanted it finished and he knew he had to be there when that happened.
‘Gentlemen,’ Colonel Bradley said, inclining his head towards them both. ‘Tell me how you read the situation.’
Carey glanced round at Herne, who gestured for the older man to go ahead.
Carey cleared his throat, thought about spitting, thought better of it and started in. ‘Seems there’s two choices. We can stay where we are an’ wait for ’em to come out on one of their raids.’ He looked up quickly. ‘Or we can go in after them.’
‘Go on.’
‘If they come out and we catch ’em on the plain these boys’ll cut ’em to pieces. The Sioux are good horsemen and they’re damned good at fightin’ on horseback, but so far we outnumber ’em at least three to one. If’n we go in, things’ll be different. Up there in them canyons bein’ trained cavalry ain’t goin’ to mean too much. They can make use of all the cover there is an’ we’re likely to lose a lot of men.’
Bradley rubbed his chin with the knuckles of his right hand, looking at Carey with his head on one side so that he focused through his good eye.
‘And you?’ he said across to Herne.
Herne nodded slowly. ‘What Carey said’s right, only...’
‘Only what?’
‘They’re goin’ to know we’re out here waitin’ on ’em. I don’t see this White Eagle comin’ out an’ riding right into us. Not in strength. Might send a couple of small war parties out at night, see if they can whittle us down a little. Other than that he’ll wait and try an’ break us that way. He may be one Hell of an angry, violent Indian but you got to remember there’s no one like an Indian for bein’ patient if’n it suits him.’
‘So you’d go in after them?’ asked Bradley, leaning forward as if trying to shake the tiredness out of his voice and body.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You implied it.’
‘Maybe. The Sioux chose the Badlands on account of they know it’s damned difficult to get in after ’em. They sure ain’t there ’cause they like it. This White Eagle he wants to get back on to the plain, you can bet, but he wants a whole lot more white scalps before he does that.’
Bradley rubbed his chin again. ‘That’s the one thing I can’t allow. Part of the responsibility out here, the major part of it, is to protect lives and property.’
‘White lives an’ property,’ said Herne quietly.
‘Of course. Are you suggesting that’s wrong?’ The words came hard from the Colonel’s thin, small mouth.
Herne shook his head. ‘Course I ain’t.’
Bradley leaned forward again, looking first at Herne and then at Carey. ‘You two men, how accurately can you lead the troop to where the Sioux are?’
‘I can take you to their camp more or less straight,’ said Herne, ‘but you can bet that by the time we get there, they’ll have gone.’
‘Best if Jed an’ I slip in ahead,’ said Carey quickly, ‘an’ see what they’re up to. We’ll track ’em down an’ see what chance there is of leadin’ you in.’
He glanced at Herne before continuing.
‘What I recall their camp’s set well back into the hills an’ there ain’t too many ways out. If we can get in close enough to block them off...’
‘Deploy the men, you mean?’
‘Some of ’em, Colonel. We might get ’em bottled up real tight.’
Bradley thought about it, white fingers pressing against his sallow cheeks.
‘What do you think, Herne?’
‘I reckon it’s possible. Sounds better’n just chargin’ up an’ down those hills an’ drivin’ them in front of you.’
Bradley stood up. ‘Gentlemen, I thank you for your sound advice. I shall tell my officers that we move in at first light Carey, you and Herne had best make a start an hour earlier. That’s all.’
The two scouts got up and left the tent. Outside the air was even heavier, the promised storm had still not broken. The two men looked at one another, up at the sky and then at each other again. Neither needed words to show what he was thinking.
Herne’s fingers slid through gray dust until they gripped the firm edge of the rock and held. Slowly he pulled himself up, inch by difficult inch. Strain showed in the lines of his face. He got high enough to transfer the balance of his weight and lever downwards, his arms straightening. Now he could lift his right foot and ease the scuffed toe of his boot into a narrow fissure in the almost sheer face.
Bareheaded, his shirt and pants were coated with the same grayish-white film that shrouded his s
kin. Shrouded everything, living or dead.
His boot slipped and for an instant his arms began to give: Herne held his breath and recovered himself, setting his toe back into place.
Eighty feet below him Carey winced in anticipation of the fall that didn’t come.
Sweat dripped from Herne’s forehead, streaming into his eyes and making them smart, half blinding him.
Herne leaned forward, resting his body on the rock; moments later he looked upwards and sought a fresh hold. The pinnacle pushed up into the lowering sky above him and as he stared at it, the whole cliff face seemed to start tumbling over towards him so that he must be hurtled to the ground underneath it.
‘Damn it!’
Herne cursed himself and looked down again. He glimpsed Carey’s face staring back up at him. Okay, he thought, okay. I know, I know.
He shifted his right hand and sought, then found, a new grip. He was some twenty feet from where he needed to be. It took him the best part of fifteen minutes to make it.
Short of the slender needle of rock, a section of the limestone flattened out and enabled Herne to ease his body over and shimmy along until there was nothing but clear sky ahead of him.
With extreme caution he peered over the edge.
The Sioux camp was still down in the hollow. The corral had been rebuilt and there were more tipis than before. Herne counted the Indian ponies. He reckoned White Eagle had a further ten braves with him already.
Two of them were thirty feet below him, sitting cross-legged on ledges that were themselves twenty feet apart.
Herne could see the tops of their heads, their shoulders in buckskin shirts, the rifles held across their knees.
He knew that if he moved too quickly and sent even the tiniest stone over the edge they would look round and see him.
He studied the movements of the Sioux below. They didn’t seem to be making any preparations for leaving their camp that day. At least, if they were it was without any hurry or anxiety. He made a fresh count and reckoned there to be between twenty five and thirty men, depending on how many were keeping out of sight.
Once he caught sight of White Eagle talking with another Sioux, a tall brave with what looked to be a slightly withered left leg which he favored when he walked.
At first he didn’t notice the guard high in the trees at the other side of the level ground but when he did he held his breath and swallowed hard. From where the man was, high in one of the red cedars, he should have been able to see Herne’s head.
But he made no move, gave no sign.
They had guessed that White Eagle would not leave the approach through the trees unguarded again. There would probably be another brave further back into the tree line.
He had seen enough.
Herne pushed himself back along the ledge and began the long descent, careful not to look down too soon, setting feet and hands in place with caution,
He didn’t speak to Carey until they had moved well clear of the rock.
When he’d heard Herne’s report Carey nodded.
‘You reckon we can get ’em bottled up in there?’
‘Not tight. But we can make sure they don’t just run free.’
Carey looked back at the wall of rock, then at the heavy sky above it. The air was so humid that both men’s clothes were sticking fast to their skin.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s get to it.’
They found Colonel Bradley bad-temperedly rebuking one of his junior officers for some breach of discipline that wasn’t clear to either Herne or Carey. But the Colonel’s mood didn’t change overmuch when they interrupted him.
‘You were so long I began to think you weren’t coming back.’
‘No point in blunderin’ around …’ Herne began, but the Colonel waved him silent.
‘Just make your report.’
They did so.
The Colonel didn’t hesitate for thought. ‘That’s fine. Take a detachment of Lieutenant Patten’s men and seal off the trees. If the Sioux have got guards in there you can deal with those yourselves. I’m leading the rest of the men in between the tree line and that needle-shaped rock. I’ll drop some men back to pick up any Sioux who manage to squeeze past us.’
He gave the scouts a cursory glance.
‘That clear?’
Herne hesitated a couple of seconds and then spoke quietly. ‘We could take a little more time. Get the men in up real close on foot and surround the camp. Let Carey or me sneak in an’ run off their horses like we...’
‘No. I don’t like your thinking. My men are trained cavalry soldiers; I don’t want them bellying through the dirt and dust of this place and, to use your own word, sneaking up on the Sioux. Besides, man, look at the sky. The storm is going to break very soon and then where will we be?’
He coughed several times into the back of his hand; a tight, brittle cough.
‘We shall ride in full and fast and I shall be leading the charge myself.’ He stared at them with his good eye. ‘You had best be moving if you are to be in position in time.’
On their way over to the Lieutenant, Carey asked Herne what he thought.
‘Tell you, I think he’s an old man whose judgment ain’t as good as maybe it once was.’
Carey half-smiled: ‘Could talk ’bout me in the same way, I guess.’
Herne slapped him on the arm. ‘Damn, Carey. You know I don’t think that.’
The older man’s smile broadened out and he scratched at his beard to cover his embarrassment. ‘Thanks, Jed. I’ll say one thing though...’
‘Yeah?’
‘He’s right about that blasted storm.’
Herne raised his right hand round behind his neck and halted the other men in their tracks. He could see the first guard, maybe a hundred yards away, partly shielded by the beginnings of the cedars.
He turned and threw his Sharps back to Carey who caught it cleanly and watched as Herne started to make a wide curve to the left. Forty yards away, Herne stooped down and lifted his bayonet clear from its sheath.
There was at least one other Indian back in the trees, closer to the camp and silence was essential. The least warning and the entire operation would be thrown away.
Herne moved evenly, pausing every now and then to check his position. He could see the brave’s head now, unmarked and young. Wearing a plain buckskin shirt and leggings under his breech cloth. There was a bow resting against the tree trunk next to him and a quiver half full with arrows. A knife and a war club hung at opposite sides of his beaded belt.
When Herne was ten feet off, the first rolling of thunder moved across the sky from the north east. He waited until the Indian, unsettled, had resumed his position.
Herne moved again: so close now that he could hear the man’s breathing.
At the beginnings of the next boom of the thunder, Herne leaped forward. Bayonet tight in his right hand, held low, blade pointing upwards, he threw his left arm about the Sioux’s neck and squeezed with intense pressure. A second later the bayonet blade was being driven into the brave’s body, underneath the rear of the rib cage and twisting upwards.
Herne clung to him, feeling the lithe body buck back against him. He kept up the pressure on the neck, the force on the bayonet. Finally he felt the Indian relax and slump downwards. Only then did he slide the blade out from the flesh and slowly, almost gently, lower the man to the ground.
Immediately he was moving forward again, silently between the trees.
There was only one other guard, he was certain. He also knew that the Colonel wasn’t going to hold up his charge much longer, especially not with the frequency of the thunder increasing.
The necessity for speed made Herne less cautious than he would have liked. The Sioux was right on the far side of the trees and behind the outline of his head and shoulders Herne could glimpse the movement of the camp.
He took a zigzag path and then went into an arc which would bring him almost level. Twenty yards; fifteen; ten … something made
the Indian turn, his hand bringing up the rifle that rested against his side.
A bolt of lightning sliced the sky apart.
The Indian saw Herne and moved the rifle higher, opening his mouth to shout a warning.
Herne swiveled so that his weight was thrown on to the ball of his left foot, bringing back his right arm as a counter balance. Left arm forward he whipped the other back, throwing the bayonet with all of his strength and letting his body fall with the follow through. As he neared the ground he ducked his head down and went into a roll that brought him up again almost by the Indian’s side.
The blade of the bayonet had embedded itself in the brave’s neck immediately beneath the bulge of the Adam’s apple. His dark eyes were forced wide as he struggled to focus on his attacker. Blood was beginning to flow from either side of the entry wound and to run down from one side of his mouth.
Between the thunder Herne could hear a constricted gargling sound from inside the dying Indian’s throat. He stood and leaned his weight forward on the hilt, pressing down. Then he released the pressure and slipped the long blade free.
The Indian looked at him for a moment before his pupils rolled upwards underneath his eye lids and he fell forward into Herne’s arms.
There was a second streak of lightning and Herne turned, recognizing the sound of something that might have been thunder, but wasn’t.
Then through the sound of galloping horses he picked out the bugle sounding the charge, its notes being plucked away and distorted by the wind.
Herne stepped up to the edge of the trees and was immediately confronted by one of the Sioux running directly at him. Herne’s body dropped into the familiar crouch and his right hand blurred faster than the eye could follow. The Colt .45 came up in a fluid arc of speed and fired. The Indian stopped in his tracks, arms thrown up, then he turned and fell on to his side, the shell having torn a passage through his left side, close to the heart, and exited below the left shoulder blade.
After that there was nothing but the crack of carbine fire and the shouts of frightened, fiercely angry men and the slashing of the rain.
Herne turned and saw Carey and the four soldiers hurrying through the trees to join him. Carey passed Herne his Sharps and immediately took up a position close to his right. The soldiers spread themselves to the left.
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