“But they can’t do that!”
Preacher could no longer stifle the guffaw that climbed his throat in a rush. “Oh, but they can and do, Colonel. They have always followed their way— it’s their law, for want of a better word.”
Colonel Danvers made it clear that he was unimpressed and definitely not amused. He addressed Preacher with dismissive authority. “We’ll push on. The scene of this massacre would be too depressing a place to camp.”
Hump Jaspar had survived the fury of the mountain men by the simple expedient of running like the devil was after him when the ambush failed. He had headed north, robbing folks occasionally to build up a stake. When he reached the North Platte, after running three horses to the ground under him, he took passage on a riverboat for as far as it would take him. Then he started out West on horseback.
Jaspar stopped in his quest only long enough to inquire at trading posts about Praeger and his partners. He had to find them. No matter that the news he brought would probably send them up like July Fourth rockets, he knew he might receive some benefit from it.
Hump had never heard of the old tradition of kings killing the bearers of bad news. So, when he found Branson Naylor, one of his friends who had joined the gang run by Blake Soures, at a trading post far up the Platte, he learned that Praeger could be found in a Blackfoot camp not far from the Bighorn Mountains and rode there with all speed. Only to face the fury of Quinton Praeger.
“You got away? Only you? How many men did you say sided with Preacher?”
“Two.” The smallness of his voice startled Hump Jaspar.
“Impossible! Three men killed twenty-five?”
“Yeah. But it was in two fights.”
Sarcasm enveloped Praeger’s words. “Only two fights? Only two? Why in hell did it take more than one to finish off three men?”
“The first fight wasn’t against Preacher.”
“Then kindly tell me about its purpose?”
“We . . . ah ... we decided to rob this train of freight wagons.”
Quinton Praeger went white. “In the name of all that’s holy, what in hell possessed you to do that?”
“We ... thought we’d make some quick money.”
Praeger could not suppress the shudder that came from a foretaste of doom. “I see. Yes, I really do. But you said you fought Preacher there?”
“Yes, sir. He and these two fellers came along and broke up our attack on the wagons. Only at the time we did not know it was him.”
Eyebrows arched, Praeger ran a finger along the knife scar on his left cheek. His voice purred with feigned reasonableness “That explains it all. And the next time you met, he finished off all the rest, right?”
Hump Jaspar forced an expression of wide-eyed innocence. “Yes, sir. All except me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jaspar. Now that everything is in a shambles around my feet, I feel constrained to correct the one error Preacher made.”
Puzzled, Hump Jaspar asked a fateful question. “Uh, what’s that, Mr. Praeger?”
Praeger drew a compact .60-caliber, Miquelet Spanish pistol from under his coat and cocked the hammer. “Killing you,” he replied a moment before he squeezed the trigger and shot Jaspar through the heart.
Praeger was still furious when he reached the council lodge. Iron Shirt showed his usual irritation at being summoned forth. He stood with arms folded over his chest, face black and in a glower.
“I was discussing important matters. What is it you want? We hear soldiers are coming. Is this true?”
“Yes. They are all a part of the plan. Right now I must speak with you and the war chiefs. It is an important issue.”
“We will meet with you when we are ready.”
Anger flared again in Praeger’s chest. “Listen to me. I made you what you are. I gave you that iron shirt. I made up the ritual you use. Without me, you are nothing. When I want a meeting you will see that it happens. Is that clear?”
Iron Shirt’s lips curled in contempt. “White man, you are a flea trying to bite a bull bison. When we are ready to listen, we will send for you.” He turned on the heel of one moccasin and stomped back inside the lodge.
White, shaking with rage now, Quinton Praeger fought back a hot burst of profanity. Slowly he realized that his time with Iron Shirt had come near the end. Every day, every hour, had to be balanced with utmost care. Starting with regaining the dependency of Iron Shirt, he acknowledged. So, he smiled and waited.
Three hours went by before a young warrior came to summon him to the council. When he entered and went through the formalities, Praeger quickly explained the situation with Preacher. He concluded with a suggestion that when Preacher arrived with the squadron of Dragoons, the Blackfoot kill him themselves. To their credit, Quinton admitted, the war chiefs listened politely and with interest. Then they began to respond.
To his surprise, Praeger soon began to understand that the ferocious Blackfoot did not seem the least eager to face the living legend. When the last speaker’s words had been translated for him, Praeger could not contain his profound exasperation.
“But we can’t let him interfere with your war to drive out all whites,” he blurted.
Two Moons rocked forward and came to his moccasins. “Why is it,” he asked, “that you and the other two white men are so anxious to stir up war between our two peoples?”
Praeger worried that question a while, then made an oily, evasive answer. “I have learned your ways and have come to love and respect them. I wish to live as one of you after the whites are gone from this land.”
Two Moons, as did the other chiefs, carefully kept his features neutral, in order not to reveal that they did not believe a single word of what they had heard. If it is true that ignorance is bliss, Quinton Praeger left the council lodge a misinformed but happy man.
TWELVE
Lieutenant Colonel Danvers had even less reason to be happy the next day. Antoine Revier came fogging back to the column at a quarter past ten with news that electrified the battalion commander and his officers.
“Colonel, we cut sign of a Pawnee war party about three miles ahead.”
Danvers blinked and took a backhand swipe across his forehead. “Preposterous. We are at peace with the Pawnee.” The last thing he wanted was to have a hostile force at his back when they settled in to build a fort.
Antoine gave him a mischievous eye. “Maybe this bunch don’t know that. Preacher recommends that the tro— ah-Dragoons be mounted ’til this is worked out.”
“We shall proceed afoot,” Danvers decided aloud, ignoring the good advice. “Please inform Mr. Preacher that I wish him to extend his scouting activities over a much wider area.”
With that dismissal, Antoine rode back to the point. The colonel waited until he had ridden out of hearing, then turned to call over his shoulder. “Captain Dreiling, flankers out, if you please.”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Brice, take Sergeant Holcomb and twenty men to form flankers.”
“Yes, sir. Holcomb, divide the platoon. You take the right flank, I’ll take the left.”
“Right, sir. First and Third Squads, follow me.”
Lieutenant Brice wasted no time. “Second and Fourth, you’re with me. Platoon . . . prepare to mount.... Mount.”
With a flurry of dust from two hundred hooves, the flankers moved out smartly. Danvers watched them go in grim-lipped silence. He did not want to stir up trouble with the Pawnee. His orders were explicit. They were to proceed to the Bighorn Mountains, avoiding hostile engagements, and establish a cantonment area sufficient to house a regiment when completed. He had other orders as well, which he preferred not to think of. Sighing, he took up his reins, raised his arms and signaled for the column to advance. The Dragoons remained on foot twenty minutes later when the Pawnee raised up, seemingly out of the ground, and attacked the column.
Blind Wolf looked to the west, down the shallow slope of the rolling prairie. How foolish these white men. To go afoot when they had perfect
ly healthy horses to ride. More so for doing it in this country where death awaited them at every turn. This would be easy. Once his hidden warriors had them halted and confused, he and the rest of his brave Pawnee would sweep down on them at a gallop and ride the length of the column, killing many. He squinted to see the lead soldiers start up the next swell. He raised his feather-decorated rifle and gave the shrill call of a hunting eagle.
Responding to the signal to attack, Pawnee warriors came out from under their dirt-covered blankets and quickly sent a flight of arrows into the unsuspecting whites. Here and there a rifle cracked. Other braves, risking certain death, rushed forward to flail with their blankets and bison robes to frighten the horses of the white men. Even at his distance of a quarter mile, Blind Wolf saw several mounts’ forehooves pawing the air.
Two even broke free of their owners’ hold and bolted away from the noise— war whoops, shots— and the ghostly song of arrows. Any time now, he thought. Some of the soldiers had recovered and began to fire at the attackers. Blind Wolf knew he could wait no longer.
Raising his rifle again, he looked left and right, then brought it down smartly. At once he and twenty-five mounted warriors streaked forward. Swiftly, they closed on the wagons at the rear of the column.
An arrow made its uncanny moan past the ear of Lieutenant Colonel Danvers. Another thudded into the valise cover behind the cantle of his Grimsley saddle. A third bounced off the pommel of his adjutant’s saddle. Instinct drove Danvers to take cover behind the stout forequarters and neck of his horse. This gave him a clear view of his holster, with its sheepskin cover.
To his credit, the Dragoon commander was the first to get off a shot. He threw back the tube of sheepskin and drew one large, unwieldy .44 Dragoon pistol and fired two fast rounds, one of which entered the screaming mouth of a Pawnee warrior who rushed at the horses with a flopping blanket.
Off went the left rear quarter of the brave’s head as the flattened ball, now approximately .60-caliber in size, burned through brain and blew away bone and scalp. A Model 43 Hall, breech-loading carbine went off close by and Danvers flinched involuntarily. The hot wind of expanding gases from the foreshortened rifle brushed his cheek. Another flight of arrows seethed through the air.
One found a home in the forearm of Private Sawyer, who screamed as the point pierced the skin of his inner arm and protruded toward the forestock of his Hall. Corporal Collins, who’d gone back for the wagons left behind, came quickly to Sawyer’s side, Danvers noted.
Deftly, the NCO broke off the shaft of the projectile and pulled the remainder through the wound. He quickly had Sawyer bound with a light blue neck scarf he had pulled from the open collar of his uniform jacket. Seemingly unfazed, Sawyer calmly reloaded his weapon, seated a percussion cap on the nipple and took aim on another screaming savage. Sergeant Simmons and the other lead NCOs bellowed commands to restore order among the milling, confused troops.
Gradually more of the Dragoons unlimbered their weapons and returned fire. For a moment, the Pawnee rush faltered. Then the thunder of pounding hooves attracted the attention of everyone to the rear of the column.
Gunfire crackled out as another swarm of hostiles raced along the eight freight wagons, rifles blazing. Unable to reload on the run, the Pawnee slung their rifles over their shoulders and resorted to more conventional weapons. Now the teamsters and their swampers plied their firearms. At a rate of fire three times that of muzzle-loaders—three per minute— the breech-loading carbines poured a steady stream of lead in the direction of the Pawnee attackers. In a short time, the scene became obscured to the Dragoons and their enemy alike.
Blind Wolf had seriously underestimated the firepower of these flashily dressed soldiers. He had never encountered a breech-loading weapon before, had no idea of the speed with which they could be loaded and fired repeatedly. When the moan and crackle of balls thickened, and the reports of the short rifles grew to a deafening volume, he gave the signal for his warriors to pull back.
“We have hurt them. We will come again,” Blind Wolf told his son, Tall Raven, a boy of sixteen winters, who rode at his side.
Fired with the excitement of his first raid as a warrior, Tall Raven showed his disappointment. “Why not now, Father?”
“They are too many. They have shoot-fast guns we know nothing about. But, see, two of them are down, never to rise again. I count two hands of those who have felt the sharp teeth of the Pawnee. Soon again they will be off guard. It is then we will hit them.”
Lieutenant Colonel Arlington Danvers rode the length of the column, inspected the damage and spent a minute with each of the wounded. Upset over the losses and the speed and surprise of the attack, he wore a deep frown. Beyond him, the flankers appeared over the swells to north and south while the Pawnee streamed away to the east. Danvers watched with mounting anger as the security details drew closer.
When Lieutenant Brice reported, the colonel icily cut him off in mid-recitation. “Explain yourself, mister. Why did you not get here in time to strike the hostiles from the rear?”
Brice stiffened. “No excuse, sir. But, for the record, we were pretty well spread out, screening for hostiles, sir, and it took some while to regroup and return, sir.”
Realizing the correctness of this explanation, though loath to admit it, Danvers delayed his response. “Quite right, Lieutenant Brice. We will maintain flankers, only this time, they are to remain within visual contact of one another, and work in teams of two.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll go out at once, sir.”
“Keep a sharp eye. Those savages caught us quite by surprise the first time,” he grudgingly added.
“You expect them to come again?”
“Oh, yes, Lieutenant. Indians never give up with a single attack.”
Brice and his platoon of flankers rode off to their assigned areas. A moment later, Preacher and Three Sleeps Norris cantered over the rise ahead of the column and located Lieutenant Colonel Danvers.
“We heard the ruckus, Colonel. Thought we’d best come see what went on.”
“We were attacked by hostiles. Pawnee, I believe.”
Preacher bent and retrieved an arrow. “That’s what this says. Pawnee markin’s right enough. They’re fierce devils. Can’t figger why they broke off so soon.”
Danvers produced a satisfied smirk, recalling the surprised and confused expressions of the enemy. “I imagine they had never encountered breech-loading weapons before. We put out a volume of fire nearly triple that of older arms. I have flankers out. I think we can expect a return call from the Indians.”
“Oh, yes, that you certain can. You want us to stay back with you, Colonel?”
Danvers considered it. “The warriors seemed to rise up out of the ground. Total surprise for us. I think it best if you do stay with the column, work out to the edges. Maybe you can detect another such shock tactic.”
Preacher had more bad news. “One thing sure, Colonel, they won’t play the same trick twice. The Pawnee have a whole bag full.”
Blind Wolf bided his time for the second attack. The soldiers had made another five miles before the mounted Pawnee rushed over the lip of a ravine to the left of their route. Driving hard, they rushed down on the flank of the column. From his vantage point, Blind Wolf watched with satisfaction as the soldiers once again reacted slowly.
Faint shouts in the white man’s language, which Blind Wolf understood only poorly under the best conditions, came to his ears. The soldiers wheeled left and lifted short rifles from where they hung on the saddles. A faint smile lifted his full lips and flickered momentarily. Then he raised his arm and waved it left and right.
A flight of arrows soared upward from beyond the edge of a high creek bank to the right of the mass of soldiers. Before they landed, the left flank disappeared behind a wall of smoke. A moment later, another volley crashed across the prairie. Blind Wolf’s lips compressed and his eyes narrowed. He had expected this. Yet, he ached for each of his brave men who fell in
the withering fire.
Short of the soldiers by only three pony lengths, the Pawnee reined in, those with rifles fired, then they wheeled and galloped away. Another flight of arrows went aloft from the creek bank. Orders shouted in a thin, high voice, turned half the mounted troops in that direction. Two heart-stoppingly fast volleys ripped into the verge and chewed chunks out of the bank. Rifle in hand, Blind Wolf extended his arm and pumped it up and down.
Again his mounted warriors charged. Their ponies pounded down on the stationary ranks. Shrill whoops came from strong, young throats. The short rifles crashed again. Several braves flew from their saddles. Inexorably, the opposing forces grew closer together.
Then three buckskin-clad, white demons cut diagonally across the advancing warriors. Their gunfire rippled across the waving grass, the aim incredibly accurate. First one, then a second of Blind Wolf’s leaders slipped from the backs of their ponies. In a flash, the surprisingly disciplined charge of the Pawnee warriors dissolved into a confused, milling mass.
With hardly any pause, the soldiers changed the shape of their defense. Alternating groups turned their horses left or right and began to move toward their attackers at a walk. In five heartbeat intervals, the walk became a trot, then a canter, then a gallop. With a raw roar from parched throats, the Dragoons charged.
By sheer volume of fire, the Dragoons stopped the Pawnee in their tracks. Then, while the men reloaded, Preacher and his companions dashed between the contesting forces, firing with their multiple-shot weapons. Preacher downed a leader, then wounded another. Antoine Revier killed a second subchief. That did it. The leaderless warriors turned, scattered. Cursing the show-off stunt of the mountain men, Lieutenant Colonel Danvers suddenly realized that it gave him the opportunity he sought. Now he could bring a decisive end to this. He stood full in the stirrups and issued commands in his high-pitched voice.
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