by Ford Fargo
Kelly, intent on the safety of his two hired men, looked on with helpless anger. He did not see the warrior sneak up from behind and strike him on the head. Shane, who had remained at the open door was fired upon by several Kiowa. The last thing he saw before closing and barring the door was his brother being carried by a group of Indians. Running to a shuttered and closed window, he looked through a small opening and saw the unconscious man disappear into the barn.
Shane ran up the steps and through the open door onto the roof. Claude was there with a heavy bandage on his arm and holding a rifle. His son Billy was beside him.
“Did you see…”
“Yes, we did,” replied Claude.
“We couldn’t shoot,” said Billy. “First we thought we would hit Patrick or Aaron, and then that Indian came from nowhere and struck Kelly and we couldn’t…”
“I know,” said Shane. “I didn’t shoot either because I was afraid of hitting Kelly.”
“What do we do now?” cried Billy. “Patrick and Aaron are dead and Kelly is with those…”
“Why did he go out there?” asked Claude. “That’s not like Kelly to take such a risk.”
“No, even in the Great War me brother was a cautious one,” said Shane. “But in this case there were those two lads he hired and I’m sure…”
“Look!” exclaimed Billy. “There’s a warrior on a white horse and a band of men behind him. They have long black hair and they look different than Kiowa!”
Shane and Claude both looked out across the prairie, and approaching were the group of Indians Billy pointed out. The chief rode stiffly erect, on a blanketed white horse and behind him followed at least thirty mounted braves in single file.
“Kelly could tell what tribe they’re from, he was...” said Shane and stopped. “I bet they’re Cheyenne or…”
No one on the roof fired down on the band of warriors and they approached closer and disappeared behind the barn as a group.
***
Kelly awoke conscious of the pain in the back of his head. He could feel blood dripping down and onto his neck. The big man found his arms bound at the wrists and tied to a low hanging beam. Two separate ropes held wrist and arm and he dangled several feet above the barn floor. Someone had torn his shirt from him and he hung there, helpless, and at the mercy of the many warriors who stood around him. Kelly turned his bleeding head and looked awkwardly about, counting at least forty Kiowas. The many painted braves stared back at him with passive faces. Their features showed no expression, except for the burning hatred that came from dark eyes.
“Big man from the stone house, we will see how you like pain—and then you will die.”
Kelly didn’t know it, but the chief of the Kiowa was named Stone Knife, and it was he who spoken.
Kelly stared at the leader and thought hard on what response to give. It irked the big man to have come so far, survive the famine, the war, and so many other hardships, to die like this. To have this come at a time in life where he had so many desires filled, was especially hard to take. Kelly knew with certainty that he would die here, trussed up like a hanging pig, and he would never again be able to ride across his wonderful ranch. Worse, he never would have a chance to tell Elizabeth how he cared for her, and to ask her to be his wife. He had waited too long, and now there would never be time to tell her more.
“You better get to it, then,” was all Kelly could think of to say.
“You speak to me?” replied Stone Knife in pretty good English, his voice deep and resonant. “I hear nothing you have to say. White men like you promise, but never keep their word. The blue soldiers came and attacked our village. One of the survivors saved a horse and rode out to our party to tell us what happened. They killed our people without warning, without reason, while the men were away on a hunt. It makes no difference to them if it is women or children they kill. So we will kill, too. We take as we please, as your people have taken from us.”
With that comment, Stone Knife pulled a narrow sharp blade from a sheath at his waist and, with the tip, he reached up and slowly carved a long deep furrow across the chest of the man who hung suspended from ropes. Kelly winced with the pain of it but said nothing.
Stone Knife’s eyes blazed fire, as did many of the warriors Kelly was able to see.
“White man says nothing, but we will see. Before my men finish, we will hear your screams. Long and loud, they will…”
“Stop!” spoke a stern voice.
It was said three times, once in English, once in Cheyenne, and once in Kiowa. The speaker was Strong Horse, the Cheyenne Chief. The older dignified man came forward to greet Stone Knife. Behind their chief followed a group of armed Cheyenne, each carrying a Henry rifle or an older Springfield.
“You dare to tell me to stop?” questioned Stone Knife in English.
“This man is under my protection,” replied the Cheyenne chief. “I gave him an amulet the day he saved my daughter, Little Spring. I gave him my word.”
“I see no such sign,” replied Stone Knife. “This man will die.”
“No!” replied Strong Horse, and with that he gave a wave of his hand. The Cheyenne behind him raised rifles to the ready, but did not point them directly at any Kiowa.
“We agreed in counsel that we would…” began Stone Knife.
“We did, but this is different,” replied the Cheyenne chief. “Let no trouble come between us in this matter. What brave took my amulet of protection from this man? Many of your men do not speak English. Ask, and…”
Stone Knife, the Kiowa leader, spoke sternly and loudly in his own language. There was brief silence and then a young warrior came forward holding the amulet in his hands. Stone Knife took it, struck the warrior across the face with the back of his hand, and then handed the necklace to the Cheyenne chief.
“Cut him down,” said Strong Horse.
Another order was given by the Kiowa chief and Kelly saw two of his men carry a ladder and place it against the beam. One warrior climbed up and cut one rope loose. Kelly was held up by one arm. When the other rope was cut, he dropped to his feet. Landing hard, the Irishman caught himself and regained his balance. And then he pushed the remaining bits of rope down his wrists and rubbed where the hemp had burned flesh. Kelly stood erect, looking at both leaders and said nothing. Then the Cheyenne chief came near and, with one movement, placed the symbol of protection around the white man’s neck. Leaning close, the chief whispered in Kelly’s ear.
“So the Kiowa do not hear. You saved Little Spring once, perhaps you can again. Soldiers attacked Kiowa village where Little Spring visited. The survivor who brought us the news said he did not see her among either the dead or the living. I come to free you to help find her.”
The Indian chief whispered this message very quickly and then stepped back and this time he spoke loudly for the Kiowa’s benefit.
“Now go!” said the Cheyenne chief. “I keep my promise of protection.”
“Wait!” ordered Stone Knife, the Kiowa leader. “Know this, white man. This time you have your life, but next time you will regret the day you came to our land. Today, I take your horses, your cows, and someday soon, I will take your life!”
Kelly looked into the faces of both chiefs and nodded. And then slowly, with as much dignity as the shirtless Irishman could muster, he started to walk toward the mass of Kiowa warriors. None moved, and then their leader barked an order in his own language and the braves parted. Kelly left the barn and continued to walk towards the stone and adobe house. As much as he wanted to hurry, he did not. By the time he came to the door, he heard the bar removed and saw it open. There stood Shane.
“I don’t know what you did to get free, but whatever it was, God bless you, brother.”
Both Irishmen turned, and from the barn they saw mounted Cheyenne and Kiowa, each led by their chiefs, take opposite directions as they rode swiftly away. Flames were already rising from the sides of the wooden structure, and they watched as smoke rose, and more yellow f
ire began to rise toward the roof.
Deputy Quint Croy limped up to the door. “How come they’re splittin’ up?” he asked. “And how did you get loose?”
Kelly nodded toward the departing Cheyenne warriors. “The chief of that bunch realized I’m the one saved his daughter Little Spring a while back, and he wouldn’t let Stone Knife kill me. Now him and his Cheyennes are settin’ off to look for his daughter, seems like she ain’t still at Old Mountain’s camp.”
Quint started. “Little Spring? I know where she is, she’s back in Wolf Creek. She said Charley Blackfeather rescued her. Can I have the loan of a horse? I have to catch up to those Cheyennes and tell ‘em.”
“Are you crazy?” Shane said. “They were just trying to kill you a little while ago.”
“Maybe I am crazy,” Quint said. “But for some reason I feel like that chief knowin’ his daughter is safe might make a difference in how this whole thing plays out.”
Kelly clapped his shoulder. “Come with me, then, deputy, and we’ll get you mounted. The Kiowa got all our stock, but there’s several riderless Indian ponies still running around, between all of us we can surely catch one.”
Chapter Five
The tight ropes bit into Charley Blackfeather’s wrists. He knew he was still in better shape than Captain Tom Dent, who—effective an officer as he was—did not have a lifetime’s practice sitting a trotting horse without using his hands. Nor were the bonds as abrasive as the insult that lay behind them, and the fact that the preening jackass Major Joab Putnam was lording it over them, all while basking in the so-called glory of his unprovoked attack on Old Mountain’s village. Charley had not even had time, before being bound, to ascertain whether Old Mountain was among the dead or wounded. Either way, the prairie was going to burn now, Stone Knife would make sure of it. Putnam would get his chance to fight Indians—really fight them, not just slaughter defenseless women and children.
They were headed back to the fort. Tom would get a court-martial, but, as an independent Indian scout, Charley doubted he would even get such a mockery of justice. He would likely be put up against a wall and shot as soon as they got there, as a lesson to other Indian scouts who would witness the event. While Charley understood Lieutenant-Colonel Vine’s desire to use his accumulated leave to visit his family, he wished the man had chosen a better time; Putnam had only recently been transferred to Fort Braxton, and no one had known yet what an idiot he would be once he was temporarily in charge.
Charley wasn’t sure whether Putnam’s decision to divide his forces was more evidence of his idiocy, or rather that his sense of self-preservation had kicked in. The Major had sent companies B and C and part of A out into the prairie to patrol for hostiles, as per his original plan, but had decided to personally take a third of company A back to the fort to deliver the “prisoners” Dent and Blackfeather, something he had originally said he could not spare the men for. Now he was at the head of a column of twenty men, riding away from the glory he had been so intent on finding. No doubt he had come to the same conclusion as Charley—that the Kiowas under Stone Knife, the warriors, would be hell-bent on revenge. So now he was using the insubordination of Charley and Tom as an excuse to slink back to the safety of the fort, bringing along a sizeable bodyguard to protect him along the way. Charley found this behavior almost as disgusting as the things the major had done previously.
Charley hoped his friend Tom Dent made it out of this situation with his life. There was little hope of him getting out if it with his career intact, not with Putnam no doubt pushing for the harshest punishment he could get. This was the second time Dent had disobeyed orders and refused to engage the inhabitants of a peaceful village. The first time, at Colorado during the war at a place called Sand Creek, Dent had the advantage of the attackers being militia whose actions were condemned by the regular army. But times had changed; George Custer had cemented his fame by attacking the Cheyennes along the Washita in a manner very similar to Putnam’s.
If there was one bright spot, it was that at least the verminous photographer Wil Marsh was not accompanying them to the fort. Dying would be just a little more unpleasant when done in such worthless company. Putnam had insisted that the photographer continue along with the main body, in his wagon, in case there was another engagement and pictures to be taken to further preserve the regiment’s glory. Marsh had seemed torn between the desire to keep his scalp and his desire to make a dollar—the dollar won, but Charley was not quite sure if that qualified as bravery or not.
Marsh did insist, however, on making one more image of Charley and Captain Dent before the force divided, this time bound on horseback.
“I guess the joke’s on you, you uppity black Indian,” Marsh had said. “Here you are headed back to the fort to get your neck stretched, and here I am stealing your soul at this delicate juncture by taking your picture.” Marsh chuckled to himself. “No Happy Hunting Ground for you, I suppose.”
Charley had scowled. “Oh, I’m worried about you stealin’ my soul, all right,” he said. “But it’s more from just bein’ in your presence than any cameras you might have.” Then Charley’s scowl turned into a chilling grin. “And my last thoughts will be sweetened by one thing—whatever’s waitin’ for me back yonder, rope or bullet, is a whole lot better than what you’ll get from Stone Knife if’n he catches you out on the prairie.” The photographer blanched, and it was Charley’s turn to laugh.
“No Happy Hunting Ground for you, either, Marsh,” Dent chimed in. “And if there is, you’re sure going to look funny with all those parts missing.”
“Go to hell,” Marsh had said, and stomped away.
So there was no need to listen to his smug voice on their trip to judgment. On the other hand, they were still stuck with, not only Major Putnam, but the strange little barber John Hix. Hix had insisted on accompanying the detail going back to the fort. Putnam had given in to the man’s demands easily enough—the barber was a civilian, after all, and no one could really figure out why he had volunteered to come along on an Indian hunt in the first place. Those who knew him casually from frequenting his shop knew that Hix had missed the whole Civil War, having spent it fruitlessly in the California gold fields and now obsessed by stories about the adventure he had missed, always pestering his customers for war tales. Most of the troopers assumed he had come along on this trip for the same reason, to see the elephant, and that the prospect of actually doing so had made him lose his nerve and be anxious to get back to safety. He was a scrawny, scraggly man—for a barber—and seemed pretty harmless. There were people in town, though, who knew that—when the chips were down—Hix had proven to be hard as steel. He was a strange man, all right, and Charley knew there was much more to him than met the eye. And more to his story. Charley did not trust him.
They made camp for the night. They were about halfway to the fort. Charley and Dent were grabbed roughly from their horses and forced to their knees; their feet were bound together.
“Best to hobble skittish ponies like these two,” Major Putnam said. “Else they’ll steal away in the night, eh, boys?”
There were a few murmurs of nervous laughter. Putnam’s men were clearly not finding any of his actions very funny, but most of them were afraid to let that show.
The major stood over his prisoners, smiling. “Mister Hix!” he said. “Perhaps you should give our prisoners one last shave before they face their fates.”
Hix seemed as nervous as everyone else. “Well, sir,” he said, “it’s nigh onto dusk and the light ain’t real good.”
“Oh, I was only jesting,” Putnam said. “And it would be tragic if you were to cut their throats before they could be stretched!” He laughed, although no one else did. He cast an irritated look at Hix. “You are a wet blanket, sir. Why are you even along, if you will neither shave in the dark nor participate in civil conversation?”
Hix shrugged. “Fact is, Major, I’m much in favor of civil conversation, and in a way that is the very reason
I did come along.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The real reason I came along,” Hix repeated. “I’ve heard a lot about your exploits during the war, Major Putnam, and I have to admit I’m something of an admirer of yours.”
“You don’t say,” Putnam responded, suddenly very interested.
“Oh, yes,” Hix said. “And so youthful, just like Custer the boy general.”
“You flatter me, sir. Speak on.”
“Oh, for petesake,” Dent said under his breath.
Charley nodded. “The major could give Marshal Gardner a run for his money.”
“I hear that the company you commanded then sent many a Missouri bushwhacker to his grave, Major,” Hix said. “I heard you even dispatched one of Bloody Bill Anderson’s top lieutenants.”
Putnam’s chest had noticeably inflated. “Yes, that is true—more than one, in fact we caught half-a-dozen of the bastards in a crossfire and cut them down like dogs. I assume you’ve heard stories of how Anderson took the scalps of good Union men as trophies?”
“I’ve heard that, yes,” Hix replied. “How savage.”
“Savage, yes, but effective at striking fear into one’s enemies. Which is why, when we cut down those six comrades of the fiend, I had my men scalp each of them.” He leaned closer to the barber. “They gave one to me as a memento, in fact, Mister Hix. As a barber, I’m sure you’d appreciate such a close hair cut as that.”