Wolf Creek

by Ford Fargo

  “The deputy is quite right,” Munro said, “though I feel it is my duty to stay.”

  “And mine,” Cora said. “It’s possible that I can be of some help to you.”

  “What if the Kiowa come back without running into Putnam and his soldiers?” Quint said. “They’ll kill you without a second thought.”

  “I’m willing to take that gamble,” Cora said.

  “And so am I,” Munro said.

  “Well, I can’t force you,” Quint said. He shook his head. “I wish there were more we could do to help.”

  “Go on back to town,” Munro said. “Give the warning.”

  “I will,” Quint said.

  As the deputy marshal started back toward his horse, Cora looked over toward the soldiers. Hix was in earnest conversation with Putnam, making his case to ride with the regiment, no doubt. Putnam was nodding as if in agreement. He’d be happy to have another gunhand riding with him, Cora thought, even if it was a barber.

  Putnam turned away from Hix, and yelled some orders. The soldiers went to their mounts, and the two guarding Charley Blackfeather and Captain Dent were momentarily distracted. Blackfeather slammed into one of them, knocking him to the ground, and made an awkward run for a horse. The other guard raised his rifle, but Dent bumped him as he fired. The bullet sailed far above Blackfeather, who was nearly to the horse when three other soldiers caught up with him. Because of the shackles, there was little he could do to fight them. One of them hit him in the back of the head with a rifle, and as he started to fall, the other two grabbed his arms. He sagged between them, and they dragged him away. He was a big man, and he wasn’t easy to handle.

  “Charley’s going to need my help,” Munro said. “If that blow didn’t kill him, that is.”

  “He’s not badly hurt,” Cora said. “I believe the rifle butt hit him on that thick braid he wears.”

  Munro looked at her. “You have very good eyesight.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  At that moment one of the wounded women cried out in pain.

  “See to her,” Cora said. “I’ll attend to Charley Blackfeather, if Major Putnam will allow it.”

  Munro nodded, and Cora got some clean bandages and carbolic acid and went to here Blackfeather lay on the ground, with Putnam standing over him, cursing.

  As Cora neared, one of the soldiers nudged Putnam. Red-faced, he clamped his mouth shut, gave Blackfeather a kick in the ribs, and stalked away.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that, ma’am,” the soldier told Cora.

  “Hear what?” she asked.

  The soldier grinned, and Cora knelt beside Blackfeather.

  “You don’t have to pretend you’re dead,” she said. “You scalp isn’t even laid open. You have a knot on your head, but your braid cushioned the blow. I won’t need these bandages.”

  Blackfeather turned his head and looked at her. “You aren’t being much help.”

  “I have no idea what you were trying to achieve, and I’m sorry if I hindered you. However, even if you’d gotten to the horse, I don’t believe you could have mounted it, not with the shackles on you.”

  “Putnam’s crazy,” Blackfeather said. “I thought I could get away and warn the Kiowa and Cheyenne chiefs.”

  “What he did here is terrible,” Cora said, standing up. “He’ll be judged on that account. She looked at the soldier who had grinned. “So will you.” She waved a hand around to indicate the regiment. “So will you all.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” the soldier said. “I was just following the Major’s orders.”

  “Speak of the Devil,” Cora said, seeing that Putnam was coming back.

  “Get that black-skinned ʼbreed back on his feet,” Putnam said. “Throw him on a horse. He’ll ride with us or be shot.”

  Two soldiers grabbed Blackfeather’s arms and jerked him to his feet. He shook them off easily but made no further move to escape. For a moment Cora thought he might throw himself on Putnam. Putnam’s hand rested on his pistol, and Cora realized that the major hoped Blackfeather would do just that. If he did, Putnam would kill him.

  Blackfeather must have realized it, too. The fire died in his eyes, and he stood quietly until the soldiers took his arms again, leading him over to where Dent had been mounted on a horse.

  Cora started to tell Putnam again that he’d made a mistake, but she knew it was no use. He was blind to anyone’s view but his own, misguided as it was. She turned away without speaking and returned to see if she could be of any help to Doctor Munro.

  The woman who had cried out was dead. Doctor Munro had left her to deal with another woman, who had been badly burned. The burns must have been terrifyingly painful as the doctor spread some kind of salve on them, but the woman made no sound.

  Cora couldn’t bear to watch. She turned to see the soldiers, all of them mounted now and formed up into columns. Putnam waved his arm and gave a command. The columns moved out, their guidons fluttering. It was a stirring sight, not menacing at all, but Cora knew that the appearance did not mirror the reality or Putnam’s intentions.

  Cora stood there for several minutes. After a while Munro joined her, and both of them watched as the columns rode toward the horizon and dwindled in size.

  “Do you think we’re safe here?” Cora asked.

  “I don’t know,” Munro said. “I do know I’d rather be her than under Putnam’s command. I expect his men are in more danger than we are. But we shouldn’t be thinking of that. We need to attend the wounded.”

  “How many of them will survive?” Cora asked.

  “A few,” Munro said.

  Cora wondered what their lives would be like even if they lived. She stared after the soldiers for another moment.

  No matter how many people you help, here or elsewhere, you can never atone for what your brother did, she thought. You can’t atone for the men he wounded or for those who died.

  “Are you all right?” Munro asked, concern in his voice.

  Maybe I can’t atone, but I’ll do what I can.

  “I’m fine,” Cora said, and the turned back to do whatever good she could.

  Chapter Three

  When Quint Croy turned his sorrel away from the site of the massacre, he was sickened by the tragic waste. It just didn’t seem fair, even if was the Army that did the killing. He was angry with the Army and that Major Putnam. As far as he was concerned, Major Putnam, whether he ordered the attack or not, still had allowed his men to shoot down and trample the defenseless villagers. Quint figured that the Major and his numbers were a tough acting force but if any one of them were ever caught alone against a rabid Kiowa, out to slit his throat, he wouldn’t last five seconds.

  Quint didn’t feel good about leaving Doctor Munro and Cora Sloane out on the prairie without someone to watch over them. Quint sighed thoughtfully after agreeing with the others, that what had happened here was finished. The folks back in Wolf Creek needed to know the marauding Kiowa, led by Stone Knife, could possibly spring an attack of vengeance on the town. It was up to him to ensure that the citizens knew and prepare as best they could. He rode away solemnly disheartened.

  ***

  Quint reckoned by the sun’s travel that he had been riding for about two hours. The terrain was mostly flat, broken only by low rolling hills. It was a lonely land where a man could die from an accident or at the hands of others and no one around to ask the why of it.

  Quint spotted the tops of some cottonwood trees off in the distance perhaps half a mile ahead. He’d ride over and see if there was any water to be had for his horse. He could use a break himself, to stretch his legs a little.

  When Quint brought his horse to a halt beneath the cottonwoods, he found just a trickle of water in the streambed. He dismounted and let the sorrel work on sucking what he could from the shallow water. Quint chose to take a drink from his canteen. Doing everything one handed was tricky. His wound ached a little from the riding, but he was confident the injury would not cause
him any real trouble. He’d slept badly last night but that wasn’t anything new, his sleep had been restless ever since that bullet had put a hole in his arm when those Andrew Rogers hands had bushwhacked him at the marshal’s office. Quint was more worried now about what lay ahead. Worried but dogged in his determination to get on back to Wolf Creek and do what needed done. He reflected on the words of Marshal Sam Gardner, “Always be ready for anything.” That was fine for disturbances occurring in Wolf Creek where there were plenty of willing hands to assist. Out here on the prairie was a different story. He knew he was poorly equipped to do much in the way of defense and there was no one around to call on.

  Quint looked back south toward the massacre site but the distance now was too great for him to see anything. He swept his eyes around to the other directions. There was a faint breeze stirring the cottonwood leaves. That breeze did little to disguise a rise of dust in the distance to the northeast. His heart jumped a beat. He cupped his good hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. He muttered a curse for not having a field glass; there was no sence in him thinking that the dust was rising under a wind. The soldiers had ridden off south, so it most likely was not them. That left the possibility that Indians were riding on a course that would intersect with his intended route. He was not going to wait around to say hello. Quint was grateful that it had not rained recently. Even a brief shower would have kept the dust down and the Indians would have been on him before he spotted them.

  He hurriedly unbuckled his saddlebag flap and took out a second six-gun and holster then strung it over his saddle horn. He stuck another six-gun from the other saddlebag into his waistband. Eighteen shots was his total arsenal. He doubted that, once the shooting started, he would have time to reload even if he could manage it. He had not brought along a long gun. He had figured that attempting to jack a fresh round into the rifle’s breech, one handed, would be time consuming and awkward when he could be firing a six-gun.

  Quint snatched the dangling reins and swung up on the sorrel. He needed to put distance between him and the bunch headed toward him. He pulled the reins to guide the horse away. He held the horse back for now; saving for a hard run later, if need be. He did not want to create a dust cloud himself. If he could see their dust cloud then it was reasonable that they could darn well see the one he made as well.

  Quint had little personal experience with Indians prior to coming to Wolf Creek. A couple years ago, when trailing a herd to Abilene, was the first time he had occasion to be up close to an Indian. He and others in the crew stood by while the trail boss, Jack Wells, negotiated with three braves. When done with the talking, Wells ordered a couple trail riders to drive two footsore steers to a nearby group of twenty Indians. It was a peaceful meeting.

  Some of the older men in camp talked of past skirmishes with both the Southern Kiowa and Comanche, who had joined forces when prodded off their ancestral homelands to the Indian Territory in the north. One man noted that the Kiowa were notorious for long distance raiding.

  Quint figured the group of Indians coming his way was most likely a mix of Northern Kiowa and recently allied Cheyenne, led by Stone Knife, and he didn’t believe the gathering was intent on peace. The Northern Kiowa’s homeland was just south of Wolf Creek near the Arkansas River and close to the border of Kansas.

  When he looked back, he could see the dust cloud had changed direction a little and now headed straight toward him. Figuring he had been spotted he kicked the sorrel into a run. If only this horse would last, not fold up and send him flying to the ground then gouged by a spear point or at least run over by a screaming Kiowa’s horse.

  The sorrel stretched out his long neck and lengthened his powerful stride, muscles flexing with machine precision. Quint knew though that a sustained long horse race would end in disaster. The game gelding would not be able to keep up the pace for any long length of time. He prodded the animal no more, letting the horse run at his own comfortable speed.

  Before long, his horse was starting to flag a little after the hard run across the prairie. Quint reined the sorrel back to a walk. It was frustrating, knowing that the Indians might be gaining considerably on him, but it would be even more disastrous if he ran his horse into the ground. A man who galloped his mount until it quit and died beneath him most likely stood a good chance of winding up dead alongside the horse.

  He pulled rein near some cottonwood trees, hoping to give the animal a little respite. Before he could dismount, he picked up the distinctive sound of hoof beats growing closer.

  Quint believed his death was inevitable and imminent. He did not even consider that any one of those braves would kill him without remorse. He just palmed his six-gun, figuring to take a few with him, but first he would ride as far and fast as this tired horse would take him.

  He wheeled his horse and urged the lathered animal on while muttering oaths under his breath. You’d think the savages’ horses were just as tired and could use a rest but they were close now, smelling blood, intent on catching him.

  When the tops of the buildings came into view, Quint didn’t know for sure whose place it was, most likely the old Nickerson place. He had heard that Irishman Kelly O’Brian and his group were dealing to buy it. He’d seen O’Brian and the others on the streets of Wolf Creek a while back. At least it gave hope for a possible sanctuary.

  A rifle cracked and a bullet sliced through the air over Quint’s head. He turned for a quick glance. None of the Indians had come in striking distance to him yet, but they were sure getting closer.

  Maybe, just maybe his horse could make it to the ranch up ahead. He hoped who ever lived there could see what was going on and give him some assistance. As he got nearer, he could see a barn, corral and the rectangular main house out on a treeless plain. The folks that lived here had to be in fear because of the recent Kiowa raids and the killings that had taken place.

  Quint could see a man outside between the house and barn. The man began running towards the house when he recognized that a group of Indians were chasing and firing upon a lone rider.

  Quint could now hear the yipping and howling of the braves behind him. They were close enough to curdle a soul with fear. An arrow seeking his life whizzed past his ear. He cocked his six-gun then turned in the saddle and fired the .44 colt at an advancing warrior scarcely ten yards away. The brave threw his arms out then tumbled backwards off his horse. The other Indians were twenty yards or so behind the fallen one.

  Quint leaned over his saddle then turned and fired his six-gun until empty toward the horde of screaming warriors charging toward him.

  As Quint neared the ranch, a volley of rifle fire from the house whistled past him and into the charging Indians. The Indians reversed their dust, bringing their ponies to a halt. The leaders of the group turned the horses away to assess the situation. They had not caught the lone rider on the open prairie, but still intended to finish the job. Some stilled their mounts then took aim with their rifles and sent some lead hornets toward Quint. Fortunately, though close, none of the bullets hit him but gave the message that the two-legged wolves were not about to desert their prey.

  Quint holstered his empty .44 then took in hand the spare six-gun from the holster on the saddle horn. He rode right up to the front of the house then whipped a leg over and slid from the saddle before the horse had even stopped. Despite trying to keep his balance, Quint lost his footing then pitched forward, twisting at the last moment, to land on his good shoulder and making a dust cloud with the impact. He was briefly stunned but not out. Kelly O’Brian rushed from the doorway of the house to Quint’s side. He grabbed Quint under his good arm and half dragged him inside the building. Someone kicked the door shut as rifles boomed from the windows.

  Quint’s horse, his sides heaving, still had the sense to shy away from the thundering rifle fire and headed out of the line of fire toward the corral.

  Despite what many whites believed, Indians were not stupid. They would not just throw their lives away b
y riding into the barrage of lead coming from the house.

  They would assess the situation, then use the best strategy available to them to get at those in the building. With numbers, along with time and possible stealth on their side, they could take their time.

  At a distance, the Indians drew their horses into a group while one, their leader, began giving out instructions…

  Chapter Four

  Kelly O’Brian unlocked his office with a skeleton key. The door was located on the side of the adobe and stone house. He sat down and began going over the ranch ledgers, following the request of his partner, Claude Barber. The atmosphere in the tiny office was stifling. After a half hour of concentrating on the account books, he had all he could take. Fresh air was what Kelly needed, and he needed it now. Standing up from his desk, the big man opened the heavy wooden door and stepped outside. One could not say that the view was breathtaking, but it was certainly interesting. The stone and adobe ranch house was built on a rise overlooking a wide sweep of flat ranch land that extended out for miles and miles. The land was virtually treeless, as most of Kansas was. Below was a small lake, and around it cattle gathered. Some lay upon the rich green grass, others stood with their backs against a gentle wind, and several were knee high in water, quenching their thirty gallon a day thirst.

  Kelly looked up at the large wide open sky, and then back at the distant horizon. What he saw before him filled him with great pride. In fact, it brought a smile to his face that made the worry lines fade. The miles of grassland belonged to him and his two partners. All his life he had wanted a ranch to call his own and this place was it. It made all that he had gone through: escaping Ireland, the coffin ship, the Great War, the railroad, hide hunting, escape from slavers—all he had struggled and fought against, worthwhile. Now that he had procured this ranch, he would never allow anyone to take it away. Here he would live out his life, building up the spread as best he could.