Wolf Creek

by Ford Fargo

  "So?"

  "I saw nothing. Old Mountain's band has settled in well. Along the bank, away from the Kiowa, a small band of Cheyenne have pitched their camp."

  "Warriors?"

  "I saw only peaceable people."

  "Time to report to the major." Dent got to his feet, then froze. Charley stood and rested his hand on a knife sheathed at his belt.

  Major Putnam came from the darkness, the commanders for A and B Companies a step behind him.

  "You were ordered to report directly to me, Mr. Blackfeather."

  "Got turned around in the dark."

  The two captains snickered. Putnam barked at them to be silent.

  "I trust your skill in the field exceeds your ability to follow orders."

  Charley fingered his knife, then took his hand away. Arguing with this self-important man accomplished nothing. The sooner he gave his report, the sooner they could return to the fort or even go out on patrol and do some good. Dent had mentioned a gang of road agents sighted over Ulysses way.

  "Sir, you're here now. Charley can let us all know what he found." Tom Dent nudged Blackfeather.

  "I saw no sign of hostiles. The Cheyenne are near the Kiowa settlement."

  "What do you mean you saw no hostiles?" Putnam spoke with a slow, cold stream of words. "Were the braves preparing for a raid?"

  "I saw nothing of that. If anything, the camp was empty of braves." He related what he had overheard of the two young women talking of their lovers.

  "So, they are not in camp?"

  "It wouldn't seem that they are, sir," Dent said.

  "That means they are out raiding."

  Charley started to speak, then clamped his mouth shut. Even Dent was struck speechless.

  "That's it. They are out marauding. This gives us the perfect opportunity to quell their rebellious spirits."

  "That's a mighty good line, Major." Wilson Marsh came over, scratching himself. He yawned wide. "Mind if I use that as a caption for a photograph?"

  "Shut your mouth, Marsh." Dent interposed himself between the photographer and commanding officer. "Sir, Charley didn't mean that the men were out raiding. They could be hunting."

  "Oh, yes, they're hunting. I know it. I feel it." Major Putnam thumped his belly. "Instincts, Captain. They are away from their camp taking scalps."

  "Old Mountain signed a treaty. He gave up the warpath and his hunting grounds for our protection. We're supposed to protect the Kiowa, sir."

  "Captain, you are out of line. The presence of the Cheyenne shows an unholy alliance has been forged. They will murder women and children in their sleep."

  "The Kiowa might have done that before. Not now," Charley said. "I know Old Mountain. He keeps his word."

  "Your report has been received, Mr. Blackfeather." Major Putnam stepped away so he could address all his officers at the same time. "Gentlemen, prepare for battle. A Company will ride directly through the settlement. B Company will come up from the south and prevent escape any way except across the river." He fixed his pale eyes on Dent. "C Company will circle about, and attack the Cheyenne from the east." He glanced at Charley, then back. "Is that understood?"

  The other two captains agreed. Putnam pushed Charley to one side and shoved his face within inches of Dent's. "Are my orders clear, Captain Dent?"

  "No, sir, they aren't. I want your orders in writing."

  "Very well, Captain."

  "What about me, Major? I can't get my wagon around to keep up with Captain Dent's troopers."

  "Remain here, Mr. Marsh, until the fighting is over."

  "What fighting's that, Major?" Charley tried to get an answer, but the officer spun about and walked away with the other two company commanders. Charley turned to Dent. "What fighting, Tom?"

  "There's not going to be any. We'll wait for his written orders, then get ourselves into position. When the major sees there's no resistance, he'll back off."

  Charley Blackfeather silently went to get his horse. Dent had more faith in the major than he did.

  ***

  "With the major's regards, sir. Your orders." The private handed Captain Dent a folded sheet of paper.

  "As you were, soldier." He returned the private's salute and pulled open the orders. He held it up to get a better look at the cribbed writing in the darkness. Dent finally took out a match, struck it and read quickly before he burned the tip of his fingers.

  "What's it say?"

  Charley Blackfeather had watched the private approach. From the expression on the youngster's face, he knew the contents of the orders. The private had likely read them on his way from the major. Or he might have heard Major Putnam discussing his plans with the other two company commanders.

  "Crazy, Charley, this is pure craziness. The major's been eating loco weed to want us to do this."

  "Attack?" Charley saw the horror on the captain's face and knew the answer. He had known it from the instant Putnam left them an hour earlier.

  "No quarter. We shoot anyone opposing us."

  "That means shoot anyone moving. This is going to be slaughter."

  "We don't know that," Dent said. "I might be reading this wrong. The major's writing isn't too clear." Charley heard no confidence in the man's denial. "We do a long curve to the south, come up and keep the Cheyenne from joining battle with the Kiowa."

  "Battle." Charley spat. "Isn't he going to powwow with Old Mountain?"

  "He must. He has to know how Vine has struggled to get the treaty with the Kiowa. But what's he going to palaver about? The Kiowa haven't done anything. I don't understand what we're doing here."

  "That's not a good way to start a campaign. Might be to your benefit to ask for the major to explain better."

  Charley looked at Wilson Marsh strolling up. The photographer looked from him to Captain Dent.

  "Maybe I can shed some light on this, Captain." Marsh held up a lantern.

  Charley saw a dozen emotions flow across Dent's face, none of them reflecting confidence in his orders.

  "I interpret his orders for us to watch over the Cheyenne camp while the major deals with Old Mountain." Dent tucked the page away into his jacket without actually reading the orders again in better light.

  Charley started to protest, but Dent cut him off with a hard look.

  "Get into your wagon and wait for the major to give you further orders. Do you understand that, Marsh?"

  "I do, Captain. I'll get my equipment ready."

  "For what?" Charley felt his belly knot up. It sounded as if Major Putnam had told the photographer more than he did his company commanders. "Why are you here at all?"

  "Don't get your dander up," Marsh said. "I'm just like you boys, doing what I'm told."

  Silence fell. In the distance came faint hoofbeats as A and B Companies began movement. Dent looked straight ahead, took a deep breath that Charley thought was going to get held until the man exploded, then, "Sergeant Holmes! Mount the troop."

  A distant, "right away, sir," came the sergeant's acknowledgment. Charley wanted to argue with Dent but knew it would do no good. Orders were orders, and Dent was a good soldier. Still, Charley knew that Dent had risked his career several years earlier by refusing to participate in the massacre at Sand Creek. Maybe the captain was just refusing to recognize that such a thing could happen twice.

  C Company galloped hard away from the camp, circling south and coming into position so the Cheyenne were pinned into place by the river. They either swam or stood their ground.

  "Form a skirmish line, Sergeant, and do not advance. Our mission is to contain the Cheyenne—" Dent bit off his orders when a fusillade came from the Kiowa camp. Hot on the heels came a new volley and the thunder of hooves.

  "They're shooting." Charley glanced toward the far horizon. The sun barely poked up to announce a new day. The Kiowa would still be asleep.

  "Charley, go see that's what's happening."

  He put his heels to his horse and rocketed toward the Kiowa settlement. Head down,
he rode until his horse faltered from the pace, but he had to reach the major. If necessary, he'd cut the man's throat to stop the attack. And attack it was. A new round of firing came. All the reports came from cavalry carbines. His keen ear strained to hear any discordant sound that showed the Kiowa fought back. Every new thunderclap of firing spoke only of carbines.

  The smell of gunpowder and dust reached him before he got to the village.

  He saw how Major Putnam had carried out the attack. A Company rode through, firing, creating disorder. Once at the far side of the settlement, they wheeled about, reloaded and waited for B Company to sweep through, picking off the Kiowa poking out of their tepees. He struggled to find the A Company commander to stop him for racing back through the Kiowa. He was too late. The company whooped and hollered and fired at anything moving. Women, children, it didn't matter. The third pass through wiped out most of the Indians.

  A fourth pass, the second by B Company, would have been useless. The Kiowa village had turned into a ghost town—into a bloody graveyard.

  "Captain Stewart, break off your attack. They're surrendering. Look!" Charley pointed to an old brave coming out of a tepee, dragging his left leg and waving a white flag.

  Charley exploded in rage as a soldier galloped past the Indian, firing as he rode. One bullet broke the flagpole. Another robbed the old man of his life. He crumpled to the ground, kicking feebly. Charley swung his fist and connected with the soldier's arm. The soldier, off balance, tumbled from the saddle and landed hard. Riding past, Charley wheeled about as the soldier got to his feet. A second pass and a kick knocked the soldier to the ground again.

  Then a new threat reared its head. Captain Stewart bellowed for his men to keep riding east toward the Cheyenne village. The Kiowa were defeated. It was time to duplicate this dubious victory elsewhere.

  After scouting earlier, Charley knew the quickest route to the Cheyenne village. His horse faltered from being pushed to the limit of endurance but gamely kept galloping through the dark. This heart brought about the horse's demise. The right hoof sank into a mud hole and caught on a tree root. Charley somersaulted over the horse's head and landed hard along the riverbank. The shrill whines told him his horse's fate before he regained his senses and went to the animal. The leg had been damned near torn off.

  A quick knife slash across the horse's neck sent dark blood gesyering. A part of the spray caught a beam of light filtering through the trees. Bright red amid the black. But it was all blood.

  The sounds from the Cheyenne village sent him running as hard as he could. Sporadic gunfire convinced him the Cheyenne had been warned by the sounds of slaughter among the Kiowa and had brought out their weapons. Mingled with the ragged fire he heard Captain Stewart order his men to halt. Killing defenseless men, women and children was one thing. Fighting against aroused Indians was another.

  Panting harshly, Charley reached the edge of the Cheyenne camp. He saw that he was right. The warriors formed in such a way that any frontal attack would be met with a wall of lead. His heart sank when he saw that Captain Stewart charged straight into the rifles. Whether he only followed orders or couldn't see the ambush in the dim morning light was a poser.

  The first charge through the Cheyenne camp went poorly for the horse soldiers. But Stewart regrouped and charged back through. This time he joined a squad from B Company. With such relentless attacks, the Cheyenne stood no chance.

  The soldiers began another assault. Coming from a tepee not a dozen yards away, Charley saw a young woman stumble out. She fell to her knees and caught herself on one hand as she looked up at a soldier bearing down on her, carbine ready to fire. Not even thinking what he was doing, Charley scooped up a rock and flung it with all his strength. The rock missed the soldier but hit his horse. The impact caused the horse to shy, throwing off the trooper's aim. His bullet kicked up a tiny dust devil a few inches away from the Cheyenne girl.

  Charley yelled in Kiowa for her to run. She got to her feet and stared at him, as if she didn't understand. He closed the distance. She saw his clothing more clearly as he reached her. She grabbed for a knife at her belt. He batted it away, circled her waist with a strong left arm and swung her around off her feet. Together, they staggered along, she trying to get her feet under her and Charley striving to keep moving away from a new pass of bluecoats through the encampment.

  He switched from Kiowa to Creek. She shook her head. He knew a few words of Cheyenne but hesitated to utter them. They were all curse words. Then he uttered them, pointed toward the soldiers, and this calmed her. She understood.

  He herded her toward the river, hunting for a raft or canoe to get her to safety on the other side. The Cimarron flowed too swiftly to swim, but that might be her only way to get away alive. Already the sharp crack of carbines died down. There was no answering fire from the Cheyenne.

  "Can you swim across?" He pointed. She shook her head. Using sign language, he hastily told her what had happened.

  "You are not one of them?" Her fingers flew like small birds, delicate and sure.

  "I am Blackfeather."

  "I am Little Spring."

  She continued signing. He sucked in his breath when he realized how lucky Putnam had been—and how unlucky the Cheyenne and Kiowa had been. Little Spring's father and a large band of braves had left with the Kiowa. If they had been in the camp, Putnam would have lost most of his soldiers after the first sneak attack.

  "Are you with them?" She repeated her question.

  Charley tried to explain how his friend Tom Dent refused to attack—he hoped that was so—but this was not a sanctuary for her. The only hope she had was to get away from those who remained in her camp and find her father and others in her tribe.

  He considered swimming the river, pulling her behind. Then he realized this wasn't possible. A rider approached from the camp. The glint of sunlight off brass warned that a trooper come to clean up any who might have escaped.

  "Got one, Trooper!" Charley pushed Little Spring to the ground, uttered another Cheyenne curse, glanced toward the soldier and then hoped she understood what he intended. When she sat and glared at the approaching soldier, he knew there was a chance.

  "You the ʼbreed what rides with Captain Dent?"

  "Come on over and take her prisoner."

  "Now, Mr. Half-breed, them's not the major's orders. He—"

  The soldier guided his horse into position so he could shoot Little Spring. Charley moved like an attacking cougar. He wrapped his arms around the soldier's waist. His upward leap unseated the trooper. Charley grunted as he fell belly down over the saddle, then writhed like a snake to get over the horse's back and land atop the soldier. Before the bluecoat recovered from the unexpected assault, Charley's hard fist drove squarely into his temple. Without even a sigh, the soldier fell back, knocked out.

  Swinging around on his knees, Charley grabbed and caught a dangling rein. He was jerked to his feet but snared the second.

  "Get up. Ride!" He thrust the reins toward Little Spring. She hesitated, then took them and lithely mounted.

  Astride the Army horse, she looked at Charley. For a moment their eyes locked. Then she said, in English, "Thank you." Leaning to the side, she turned the horse's face and galloped along the riverbank. Charley wondered how much more English she knew; once she started responding to the sign language he had given it no further thought. He waited until she was out of sight before stepping over the fallen soldier and going to hunt for his own horse.

  ***

  The stench of death made Wilson Marsh's nose twitch and drip. He wiped the snot off on his sleeve as he worked. The strong burnt odor bothered him, too, but that was only from the tepees and belongings set ablaze by the soldiers. With a quick look around, he stepped away from the tripod and shoveled as much of the beadwork and blankets as he could into a large gunny sack. Selling this wouldn't bring him as much as the loot he had traded for with Short Finger, but it would bring him a tidy sum in addition to what the major pa
id for the photographs.

  He hefted his tripod and worked his way through the smoldering village, taking pictures of stacks of Indian bodies. At first the sight of so many dead had bothered him, but he got used to it as he finished with the Kiowa settlement and headed for the Cheyenne. More than once, he stopped, looked around, then stole knives off the slain Indians. They hadn't been given time to put on their full war gear, so the beadwork, necklaces and the rest went wanting.

  At the edge of the village, he set up his tripod and carefully sighted in. The image was upside down, but he had learned to frame and get the best possible photograph. The sun highlighted the scene perfectly. He took the picture, then hurried to load another plate in and expose it as he hid the first plate in his pocket.

  "You, Marsh, don't take a picture of this!" Major Putnam stormed over and placed himself squarely in front of the lens to block any further pictures.

  "Looks like part of the enemy action, Major." Wil leaned around and saw Captain Dent and Charley Blackfeather all trussed up and guarded by a half dozen men. He didn't have to be familiar with cavalry insignia to know the guards weren't from Dent's company.

  "Inaction, I should say."

  "So the captain and his pet ʼbreed showed a yellow streak?"

  "They did not obey orders."

  "Not taking part in this fine massacre is a court-martialing offense, isn't it?" He tried not to gloat. Neither Dent nor Blackfeather had shown him any kindness. The times he had made overtures to win their friendship, they had scorned him. Mockery came easily to their lips, and now they were in hot water. "Heard tell Blackfeather helped one of the squaws escape. Any truth to that?"

  "Your job is not to spread rumors, sir. I hired you to take photographs."

  "Why, Major, that's what I'm doing."

  Putnam took a quick glance over his shoulder. The guards poked and prodded Dent and Blackfeather away. He turned back.

  "You took a photograph. Give it to me."

  "It's like this, Major," Wil said, "you might need photographic proof come the court marital."