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Lieutenant Gavin Ross and his US Dragoons were ordered to escort a wagon train of Russian settlers from Fort Leavenworth to their new spreads deep in the Kansas Territory. Expecting trouble from renegade Kiowa and Comanche war parties, Gavin had to move fast when ruthless Comanchero leaded Guido Lazaro and his gang of killers attacked by surprise. Outnumbered and surrounded, the US Dragoons had to beat back the half-breed desperadoes before the territory was soaked in Comanchero blood!
THE DRAGOONS 2: COMANCHERO BLOOD
By Patrick E. Andrews
First Published by Zebra Books in 1993
Copyright © 2016 by the Andrews Family Revocable Trust
First Smashwords Edition: December 2016
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Our cover features Show the Flag, painted by Don Stivers.
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This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
This book is dedicated to my uncle and aunt,
ED AND RUBY ANDREWS
One
Winter moved in fast during that short fall of 1854 at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas Territory. The cold swept down from the north in an invisible curtain of murderously frigid air. The cruel weather locked the prairie in a long season of windswept sleet storms and howling blizzards that dumped weighty blankets of snow across the plains country.
The soldiers at the post settled in for a long, dreary winter’s routine, a monotonous life dominated by guard duty and only the most necessary of fatigue chores. One of the least popular of these tasks was going to the Missouri River to saw out cakes of ice, which were invaluable in the hot summer months. To make the ice last as long as possible, it was kept in the post icehouse, insulated by sawdust collected during construction work conducted during warmer times.
In the stables of the dragoon regiment, the horses spent most of the time in confinement. The animals’ natural energy was pent-up, finding release only in carefully orchestrated exercise sessions that consisted mostly of being led around in circles by trotting soldiers. This could only be done during rare moments of winter stillness when the roaring winds quieted down for brief periods.
The human element suffered, too, during off-duty hours because of the confinement. Violent outbreaks of brawling in the barracks by the bored, weather-imprisoned troops was accompanied by long bouts of drunkenness by equally jaded officers.
Noncommissioned officers pulled rank to have their bunks moved close to the squad room stoves, causing disgruntled privates to occupy the draftier areas near windows. The one advantage to winter as the army saw it was the large drop in the desertion rate. Not many soldiers, no matter how discontented, would risk their lives by attempting an escape from the military in weather that could freeze a man to death in a horribly short time.
Out in the open country, the Comanches, Pawnees, and Southern Cheyennes huddled in their lodges, the tribal warrior-hunters unable to venture outside for any great length of time. The Indians lived off the dried buffalo jerky taken during the previous summer. Now and then one of the tribes’ many stray dogs was allowed to move into a lodge to enjoy a generous feed of scraps for a period of time. The grateful curs were unable to fathom the change from receiving kicks and angry shouts to good treatment and affection. The animals, showing their canine gratefulness with wagging tails, did not realize they were being fattened up to provide fresh meat. The usual end came from an unexpected blow across the dog’s skull to end its short life. Then the women of the tepee skinned and butchered the animal, thus breaking the monotony of dried buffalo.
There wasn’t much else to do in the lodges. The young children played with handmade toys, the old folks told legends of the tribe’s mystic past, and warriors relived battles and dangerous hunts with long-winded descriptions. At night, the lusty younger men and their women spent long periods wrapped together in buffalo robes. This guaranteed many births nine months hence.
Winter did finally go away, but it wasn’t until April of 1855, after the final cold blast caused ice to form on the thick buffalo grass. When those last crystal bubbles melted and dripped down to the deep, dark prairie dirt, balmy breezes began to play across the open country. Meadowlarks appeared in their mysterious way to sing and make their nests as other wildlife, long gone south, returned to the land in their annual migrations.
Indian warriors could now venture out, not to fight the white men or other tribes, but to track and make the first kill of buffalo. The tribes’ people hungered for fresh meat and the gamey taste of raw liver from the freshly slain bison. Dog meat was all right for a while, but when it came to real eating, only the buffalo would suffice.
Fort Leavenworth, too, had its own way of greeting the warmer weather. Now the sergeants and corporals moved their bunks back to the breezier areas of the barracks by the windows. Yet they weren’t the only ones to take advantage of the gentler clime. Several soldiers, fed up with army life, deserted and headed east to the sanctuaries of their home states, where there would be no more howling prairie winters to confine them to the less-than-gentle discipline and routine of a frontier military station. Also, back home, there were no scalp-hunting hostiles waiting to end a soldier’s life in a lightning-quick raid or cleverly laid ambush.
One member of the U.S. Army who also welcomed the spring weather was Lieutenant Gavin MacRoss of the dragoon regiment. He was a slim six-footer with sweeping blond sideburns and a well-trimmed moustache. The young officer, a bachelor in his late twenties, was a favorite of all the young ladies at both Fort Leavenworth and the nearby town where he constantly received invitations to soirees and other social events.
While enjoying feminine company, he was an officer who had willingly gone into military life in the wilds of the frontier. What he craved the most was excitement and plenty of activity.
Gavin had almost been driven crazy by the long months of confinement to quarters. He was anxious to get away from boring garrison duty and head out into the field. He knew well that when the Indians had filled their bellies with fresh meat and satisfied the gastric yearnings built up over the winter, they would soon turn to their usual war making and plundering.
People who were well acquainted with Gavin MacRoss knew he was no ignorant rookie with an unrealistic attitude toward Indian fighting. He was a veteran of three years of warring against the plains tribes, and the warrior’s heart was something he had in common with his adversaries.
But the military still thrived on routine, and it was Gavin’s unhappy duty, assigned to him by his company commander, to see to it that his dragoon unit greeted the coming summer with a vigorous cleaning as the debris dumped on the post by wind, sleet, and snow was swept away. Damaged buildings needed repair, the horses had to be properly and fully exercised to be shaped up for the coming campaigns, new recruits arriving in levees from back east had to be trained, and there was always the monotonous, ever-demanding paperwork without which an army could not feed, clothe, or count its soldiers.
Gavin worked with his company’s first sergeant in the orderly ro
om that served as the administrative center of their unit. He was able to but occasionally glance through the windows at the wide-open wilderness that beckoned so longingly to him from the prairie to the west of the post. His only break from that wearisome chore came when it was his turn to serve as officer of the day for twenty-four hours and take command of the post guard.
The evening’s guard mount was an established, formal ceremony that included the regimental band’s performance. The affair was quite a magnificent sight and always attracted an audience of soldiers as well as civilians from town. Everyone liked the music and the sight of the blue-and-yellow uniforms of the soldiers as they went through the ritual of relieving the old guard and posting the new.
After the pomp was done and everyone had drifted away to other evening pastimes, Gavin, the sergeants and corporals of the guard, and the sentries settled in for the chore of guarding the post. The long night dragged by with a couple of inspections of posts, and Gavin then had breakfast with his company commander and his wife. They were Captain and Mrs. Francis Hanover, a middle-aged couple whose children had moved away to live their own lives. They looked upon Gavin somewhat as a son and saw to it that he was given the opportunity to enjoy a good meal now and then.
After a good feed of potatoes and eggs with the Hanovers, Gavin returned to the guardhouse to sit out the rest of his shift. He had just begun to doze off with a fresh newspaper only a couple of months old, when a call from Post Number One at the front gate was passed from sentry to sentry back to the guardhouse.
“Corporal of the Guard! Post Number One!”
The corporal on duty, a tough old soldier named Steeple, started to respond, but Gavin interrupted him.
“Finish your coffee, Corporal,” he said. “I’ll see to this.”
“I thank the lieutenant,” Steeple said gratefully.
“If I sit around much longer, I’ll start gathering dust anyhow,” Gavin said. He hooked his saber into place on his belt and set his cap on his head, walking from the building across the parade ground to where the sentry on duty at the gate waited. He took the man’s salute, asking, “Now who’s calling on us, soldier?”
“It’s a small wagon train out there, sir,” the guard explained.
“The first of the season,” Gavin said, happy at this further break in the routine. He opened the door in the large gate and stepped through. A wagon train of a dozen vehicles stood in an orderly row with a man sitting on the seat of each one. Women, all wearing kerchiefs on their heads, and a lot of kids were riding the wagons as well. Every one of them was dressed rather strangely. At least, their attire was not in a fashion familiar to Gavin MacRoss.
“Where’s the wagon captain?” Gavin asked loudly.
A large, older man with a thick gray beard stepped forward, holding out his hand. “The leader of this group, that is me,” he said in a thick accent. “I am Vladimir Aleksandrovich Valenko. Most pleased to be meetink vith you, I am sure.”
“How do you do, sir,” Gavin said. “I am Lieutenant MacRoss of the U.S. Dragoons.” He looked at the well-made wagons, impressed by their sturdiness. “Your group is the first to arrive here at Fort Leavenworth.”
“Ha!” Valenko said with a loud laugh. “Is because ve Russians do not be bother vith the cold. Ewerybody else on the trail, they vaitink for the varm veather, but to us it already wery varm.”
Gavin was slightly nonplussed with the man’s mixture of “v”’s and “w”’s. “So, you are from Russia? Would that be all of you?”
“Each and ewery one,” Valenko said.
Gavin began walking down the line of wagons, taking a close look at both the vehicles and their occupants. Most seemed humble sorts, who removed their hats and bowed to him. When he reached one wagon, the young woman on the seat caused him to stop and stare.
She was a beautiful honey blonde in her late teens. Her bright blue eyes were cast down in a properly shy way, but she did steal a glance at the young officer every moment or so.
“Is my daughter Natalia,” Valenko said. He indicated Gavin. “Is army lieutenant by name of—forgiff, please. I am forgettink your name.”
“MacRoss,” Gavin said with a smile. “Lieutenant Gavin MacRoss at your service, Miss—” He laughed. “Now I forgot your name.”
“Valenko,” the Russian said. “Our name is Valenko.”
“How do you do, Lieutenant. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance,” Natalia Valenko said in perfect English.
“She had tutor back in Russia,” Valenko explained. “English fellow, very delicate and small. I think he like to read books better than do active thinks.”
“I’ve heard of fellows like that,” Gavin said, unable to keep from looking at Natalia as he fell in love with her.
Another Russian, this one a slim, morose-looking fellow with large, dark and sensitive eyes, came around the wagon. He stopped in front of Gavin. Unlike the others, he neither bowed nor doffed his cap.
Valenko said, “This is Basil Karshchov, my assistant. He is also the fiancé of my daughter Natalia.”
Gavin’s heart broke then and there. But he forced a smile and offered his hand. “How do you do?”
“I am pleased to be making your acquaintance,” Karshchov said.
Gavin allowed himself one more delicious glance at Natalia; then he became official. “There is a campground you can use just to the north, Mr. Valenko—”
Karshchov interrupted. “He is not a mister. He is Count Valenko, a nobleman.”
“I see,” Gavin said. “Well, I must remember that. I don’t believe I’ve ever met a member of the nobility before.”
“Of course,” Valenko said.
“Well, Count, after you’ve settled in—”
Again Karshchov interjected. “He is addressed as Your Grace.”
“Fine,” Gavin said. “Your Grace. I would be pleased if you would come back to the fort and register with us. The army must keep records of immigrant groups passing through.”
“I be back most qvick,” Valenko promised.
He wasted no time in turning and shouting orders in Russian to his party. They all immediately reacted, preparing to move out as Valenko and Karshchov motioned them the direction in which they were to go.
Gavin returned to the guardhouse and dispatched Corporal Steeple to the gate to wait for Count Valenko. Then he walked toward post headquarters to arrange for the registration of the wagon train of Russians. On the way he met his company commander’s wife, Mary Hanover.
“Our first immigrant train has arrived, Mary,” Gavin said. “They’re a bunch of Russians, and the head man is an honest-to-God count. Count Valenko, and you call him Your Grace. At least that’s what one of his men told me.”
“A member of the nobility!” Mary exclaimed. “Why, we’ve not had such elegant callers in all the time I’ve been out here with Francis.”
“Well, you have one now,” Gavin said. “Excuse me. I must hurry to headquarters so they can be properly registered.” He continued on his way with fleet but wonderful images of Natalia Valenko dancing in his mind. A quick notification to the sergeant major was all it took to get a proper desk and registration log set up.
“I never expected any of ’em so quick, sir,” the sergeant major said. “I figgered the first of ’em would be showing up in a month or so.”
“These fellows evidently don’t worry much about cold weather,” Gavin said. He checked his pocket watch. “The head men should be here soon.”
They had less than a quarter of an hour to wait before Count Valenko and Basil Karshchov came through the front door with Corporal Steeple. The count was gracious as he answered the questions posed to him by the sergeant major. The information he gave was not so unusual for a wagon train.
“Is fourteen vagons ve got,” the count answered the first question.
“How many adult males and their marital states, please, Your Grace?” the sergeant major asked. Gavin had already told him the proper way to address a count. Suc
h things were of the utmost importance to sergeants major.
“Is tventy-fife men,” Count Valenko said. “All marry, but not this man and me. I am vidover, but he engage to ved vith my daughter.” He went on, anticipating the next questions. “And ve got tventy-two vifes and four young ladies and four young men too young to be marry. Then ve got thirty children altogether.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the sergeant major said. “What is your destination, please?”
“Ve got place out on prairie in Kansas Territory,” Valenko said. He pulled some documents from a leather pouch he wore. “Is map vith the place marked. Also here is paper for your commander. Is special from my government.”
Gavin noted the official document the man had pulled from his pouch. “Excuse me, please,” he said, taking it. He saw it bore a seal and the address of the Imperial Russian Embassy in Washington. “I will be pleased to present this to our post commander.”
“I thank you, Lieutenant MacRoss,” Valenko said. He laughed. “You see? Your name I remember.”
Gavin nodded with a smile. He went to the adjutant and was given permission to speak directly to the post commander. This was Colonel William Benton, an old campaigner, who had been through just about everything a field-grade officer could experience—or so he thought. The letter set him back.
“Damn me, sir!” he exclaimed after wading through the pompous and lengthy wording. “Damn me, sir!” he repeated.
“Yes, sir?” Gavin said.
“This is a direct request that we grant military escort to this wagon train and all its people led by Count Vladimir Aleksandrovich Valenko out to the spot in the middle of the Kansas prairie where they have decided to establish themselves.”
“Are we obligated to do that, sir?” Gavin asked.
“Since this request is countersigned by no less than Major General Winfield Scott, I would say we are more than obligated, Lieutenant. We are ordered to do so,” the colonel said. “Damn me, sir!”
Comanchero Blood (A Dragoons Western Book 2) Page 1