His thoughts occupied with his frustration over the Indian’s actions, Will then remembered the troopers behind him. He turned around and started walking back toward the mound to get his horse. In a few seconds, Kincaid rode up to him and stopped. “Are you all right, Will?” he asked, genuinely concerned that the scout had gone loco. It would be a story that he would often repeat of seeing Will chasing the two Indians on foot, blazing away as fast as he could cock and pull the trigger. “Where’s your horse?”
“Yeah, I’m all right,” Will responded and answered the second question with a nod. Kincaid turned in the direction indicated to see Spades walking slowly toward them. “How far back are they?” he asked, referring to the company.
“ ’Bout a quarter of a mile,” Kincaid answered. “Oughta be showin’ up directly.” He waited for Will’s explanation for his bizarre behavior.
Aware of the questioning look on the corporal’s face, Will told him of the short standoff with the three hostiles. He left out the part where he had stood exposed while he had offered an implied truce. Eager to change the subject, he said, “That Cheyenne village was here, on the other side of the river, but looks like they cleared out about the time the war party got back.” He paused then when the point rider of the detachment appeared in the distance. “I expect this bunch here decided to move on up the river to join forces with another village. Don’t know how many warriors they can scrape up, but I expect it’ll be considerable more than Fischer was expectin’ to fight.”
“I ain’t paid to think,” Kincaid said, “but if I was, I’d be damn careful ’bout marchin’ on the next village.” Both men knew that the column of cavalry could be seen for miles on the open prairie. So if the Cheyenne decided to fight, it would be because they were equal to, or greater in number than the soldiers.
Captain Fischer and his officers listened to Will’s report and decided to rest and water the horses at the site of the former Cheyenne village. Since there had been no stop since starting out that morning, he ordered the men to prepare their noonday meal. After some consideration, he talked to Will. “Cason, I need to know how far that next village is, and their strength. Those two you say got away will report our strength.”
“Yessir,” Will replied, satisfied that Fischer was exercising some degree of caution, which wasn’t always the rule with some of the younger officers. “But I doubt if those two know how many men we’ve got. All they saw was the forward scouts.”
Fischer gave that some thought. “I hope you’re right,” he said. “Get yourself something to eat first.”
“Yessir, I will,” Will said. He wasn’t really hungry, but he felt the need for a cup of strong coffee.
The column crossed over to the opposite bank of the river and soon a couple dozen small fires were glowing. Will joined Kincaid and several others to make coffee and cook some salt pork. When the pot started bubbling rapidly, he pulled it away from the heat and let it simmer down at the edge of the flame. Filling the battered old metal cup he had carried for years, he sat back and let his mind wander. Released to float unhampered, it drifted to thoughts of Sarah Lawton and that brought him a sense of contentment. He thought about his farewell a few days earlier. There were no overt statements from her, but her manner told him that he would be in her thoughts as well. In all his life, he could never remember ever having thought about being married and having a family. He had always blown with the wind with no responsibilities beyond himself and his horse, and no worries about the day following the one he was in. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t change when the time was right, and that time was now. I can take care of Sarah and Emma, he thought. It’s time I settled down to be a more responsible man. He liked the sound of it. The image of Sarah when she took his coffee cup and said good-bye made him smile.
“What?” he blurted. Suddenly shaken from his reverie, he realized that someone was speaking to him.
“Damn, Will,” Kincaid said. “I thought you’d gone deaf for a minute. What the hell were you thinkin’ about—grinnin’ like a dog eatin’ briars?”
“Nothin’,” Will replied. “Just thinkin’ how good this coffee was.” With that he got to his feet and tossed out the dregs of his cup. Picking up his coffeepot, he swirled the contents around and said, “There’s a swallow or two left. You want it?” Kincaid stuck his cup out to accept the last bit of the bitter black liquid. “Well,” Will said, “I’d best get in the saddle and go see what kinda trouble I can find for you soldier boys.”
“Watch you don’t get an arrow up your ass,” Kincaid called out after him. The corporal shook his head as he watched the scout walk down to the water to rinse out his cup and coffeepot. Will had acted kind of strange at the fort, as if he didn’t have his mind on what he was doing; then he’d chased after those Indians on foot, and now, daydreaming with that simple smile on his face . . . In his line of work, he damn sure better be paying attention, or there was a good chance he could lose his scalp.
Chapter 7
An entire Indian village on the move leaves a wide trail, one easily followed by most anyone. Will was not concerned with actually scouting the trail. He knew the Cheyenne had followed the river west, staying close to water. It was just a matter of how far they had gone. The country the Smoky Hill wound through at this point was a vacant- looking prairie once you left the river, with barren bluffs of chalk in the distance, a land that looked incapable of supporting life, dotted with occasional formations of limestone and chalky towers. Yet he knew it sustained buffalo and antelope on its seemingly endless sea of grass and it had long been a favorite camping site for Cheyenne and Arapaho bands. Aware of the potential for ambush by the two hostiles who had just fled, he held close to the tree line along the river, cautious, although he thought the possibility unlikely.
Dusk came and then darkness. Still he pushed on, following the river under a starry sky, content to continue as long as Spades was showing no signs of fatigue. Finally he decided that he’d pushed his horse far enough and began looking for the best place to camp. It was then, after rounding a bend in the river, that he saw the rosy glow against the dark night sky, a glow caused by the many campfires of an Indian village. “Let’s get a little closer and have a look, boy,” he told the patient bay horse, and continued on. Closer now, he could tell that the village was on the same side of the river he was, so when he came to a place that looked to be a good spot to ford, he crossed over to the other side and continued to get closer still.
When within one hundred yards of the outermost lodges, he left Spades tied in the trees and made his way even closer on foot. It was a big camp. It looked to be larger than the band he had been following, and even though it was too difficult to count lodges from across the river, it stood to reason that it was the forty-two tipis he had counted downriver. And judging by the activity in the center of the village, it was easy to guess that they were getting ready for war. Those two I shot at back there have told them that the soldiers are coming , he thought. Determined to see how far along the river the camp extended, he moved farther along the bank until he came to an empty stretch of prairie some fifty yards wide that separated the two villages. Still the sky was aglow with more campfires for some distance beyond that. Knowing it important to give Captain Fischer as accurate a count as possible, he pushed on, aware now that his horse was several hundred yards behind him and darkness his only cover. Helluva way to make a living, he thought, but also confident that probably everyone was caught up in the dancing and preparation to go to war.
Still moving cautiously through a stand of willows, he worked his way along the bank paralleling the camp until finally deciding that he had a fair estimate of the number of warriors that C Company with its strength of seventy, counting officers and non-coms, would be facing. Making a conservative guess, he figured the soldiers were going to be outnumbered by more than two to one. Those odds might not be as critical if the Indians were armed with bows and a few muzzle loaders. But based on what had been the c
ase with Lieutenant Bordeaux’s patrol against some of these same Cheyenne, the soldiers would be facing well-armed hostiles, many carrying repeating rifles. Fischer might find himself dealing with a real hornet’s nest. Well, all I can do is tell him what I saw, he thought. Then, thinking of Kincaid, he smiled and murmured, “I ain’t paid to think.”
When the dancing finally came to an end, he turned to reverse his course and head back to his horse. He couldn’t tell Fischer what the Cheyenne had in mind, but they were preparing for something. They were no longer running, that much was apparent, so Will had to figure they somehow knew the strength of the cavalry troops looking for them and felt that their warriors were capable of defending the villages.
Making his way back the way he had come along the riverbank, he suddenly stopped short when he came to the stand of willows where he had left Spades. A Cheyenne warrior had untied Spades’ reins and was trying to calm the reluctant horse, but Spades wanted no part of it. Snorting a warning, the horse backed away, almost dragging the Indian as it did. Realizing that the man was not aware that he was behind him, Will remained dead still while he quickly glanced around the darkened thicket to make sure the warrior was alone. Convinced that the Indian had stumbled upon Spades by chance, he knew that he must act quickly before the warrior alerted the village, and he had to do it quietly.
He considered using his rifle as a club, but he decided against it because of the uncertainty of landing a solid enough blow on the back of the man’s head, allowing him to cry out. So he carefully leaned the rifle against a bush and drew his skinning knife from his belt. It’s gonna have to be quick and lethal, he thought, feeling the heft of the weapon in his hand, otherwise the man could still cry out. Carefully placing each foot, he moved silently toward the warrior, who was still trying to calm Spades, a task that was rapidly becoming more difficult because the horse now recognized Will approaching and looked for him to intercede. Unfortunately, the Cheyenne was astute enough to realize something had further excited the horse and just as Will was about to strike, he turned to discover the white scout.
Both men reacted instantly, rushing together with such force that the collision of their bodies caused them to go crashing to the ground. Rolling over and over, almost getting trampled under Spades’ hooves, they struggled for advantage with neither able to overpower the other. The Indian managed to draw his knife, but Will caught his wrist in one hand while trying to free his other hand to strike a blow. The warrior was strong. Both men strained mightily to force the other to drop his knife, but to no avail, each knowing that the penalty for yielding was death. In a desperate attempt to end the stalemate, and fearing that it might be only a matter of time before someone else from the village would happen upon them, Will forced the warrior over on his back. Trying to pin his arm to the ground with his knee, he suddenly released his grip on his wrist and smashed his face with a punch thrown as hard as he could manage. The warrior was stunned, but Will paid a price for his action, grunting with pain when the Indian’s knife slashed his arm. With no time to think about the wound, he hammered his face a second time, then grabbed the wrist again before the warrior could draw it back. The struggle continued, but this time, the Indian’s arm was pinned across his chest where Will held it jammed against his body. Slowly he forced the arm up until the knife blade was touching the warrior’s neck. For a full minute the life-or-death contest continued, until the warrior finally began to weaken, allowing the blade to penetrate his skin, drawing blood. In total panic, he released Will’s knife hand in an attempt to grab his other hand. With his knife free, Will struck instantly, sinking his knife in the Indian’s gut again and again until he finally lay still.
When he was sure the Cheyenne was dead, Will rolled away from the body and sat on the ground for a long time, gasping for breath, completely exhausted, knowing it could just as well have been him lying dead. Thankful that there had been no sound other than the grunting from the exertion of the struggle, he looked around him in the darkened willows just to be sure no one had heard them. Feeling sure that he was alone at the moment, he allowed his attention to focus on his wound, aware now of the stinging of the cut. It was just above his elbow and his forearm was dark with blood. It’ll have to wait till I can get to a place to tend it, he thought. Knowing that the important thing right then was to get out of there, he forced himself to move, pausing only briefly to give Spades an accusing look for causing the warrior to turn to confront him. “Whose side are you on?” Indifferent to the question, the bay gelding followed him back to the bush to fetch his rifle, and with legs still weak from the terrible strain, he climbed up in the saddle. Intent now upon putting some distance between him and the combined Cheyenne villages, he retraced his path along the river.
The moon was sinking lower toward the hills on the dark horizon when he decided both he and Spades needed rest. He selected a spot where a miniature cove had been formed by the water’s detour around a large tree extending from the bank. After unsaddling Spades, he pulled a piece of an old cotton shirt from his saddlebag and squatted on his heels by the water’s edge, cleaning the blood from his arm. With the dry end of the rag, he fashioned as good a bandage as he could, using one hand to tie it. It was not an easy task and he tried a half dozen times before he secured it to the point where he thought it would stay on. Thoroughly tired then, he spread his blanket and settled down to catch a couple of hours’ sleep, feeling secure in the knowledge that the ever-alert horse would warn him of any intruders. With no sound but the big bay’s occasional snort and the forlorn song of a lonely bull-frog on the opposite bank, he was soon asleep. The last image he remembered before drifting off was Sarah’s smiling face.
“Damn,” Harvey Bordeaux exclaimed. “Look what the cat drug in.” He got up from the blanket he had been seated upon to greet the rangy scout as Will walked Spades through the camp toward him. He waited before Will got closer before commenting, “You look like hell.” Eyeing the rude bandage and the bloodstained shirtsleeve, he asked, “What the hell happened to your arm?” He listened to Will’s accounting of the fight with the Cheyenne warrior in open-eyed astonishment. “Damn, Will,” he blurted when the scout finished with an indifferent shrug. “You want some coffee?”
“I sure do,” Will replied, “about a barrel of it.” He dismounted and got his tin coffee cup from his saddlebag. He helped himself to a cup from the pot resting in the coals. “I expect I’d better report to Captain Fischer right away, but I swear I need this first.”
Bordeaux wasn’t content to wait until Fischer heard the report. “Did you find them?”
“Oh, I found ’em, all right,” Will replied between sips, “about two hundred warriors if I had to guess. And they looked like they were gettin’ worked up to go to war.”
“Ugh,” Bordeaux grunted in concerned response. “That doesn’t sound too good. They musta joined up with a bigger village than this,” he said, glancing around at the site where the cavalry company had camped.
“That’s a fact,” Will confirmed. He was stopped from elaborating by the appearance of Captain Fischer striding toward them.
“The customary protocol is for a scout to report to the commanding officer as soon as possible,” Fischer proclaimed with a hint of irritation in his voice.
Bordeaux turned his face away for a moment as he tried to suppress a smile. Winking at Will, he turned back to address Fischer. “I’m afraid it’s my fault for stopping him, Captain. He was on his way to find you.”
“Indeed I was,” Will commented at once. “But I got tripped up by the smell of that coffeepot. I didn’t take time to make any breakfast this mornin’—figured you’d wanna find out what those Injuns were up to so I came straight on in.”
“Well, let’s have it, man,” Fischer responded impatiently. He tried to maintain a proper air of discipline among his officers whenever possible. But gazing at the rumpled, almost bedraggled, appearance of Harvey Bordeaux, he knew he was wasting the effort on the most unconcerned of
ficer in the entire army. As for Will Cason, the man was as wild and carefree as any of the Crow scouts the army employed. But, he conceded, the man was fearless and as sharp as any of the Indian scouts in the regiment, and maybe a bit more dependable.
The captain listened as Will made his report, giving him a complete picture of the situation facing him. Like Will, Fischer would not have been concerned about the disadvantage in numbers if the hostiles were not armed as well as his troopers. There was no way Will could give him a report on exactly how many of the two hundred or so warriors were armed with rifles—and how many of those were seven-shot repeating carbines, like the weapons used against Bordeaux’s patrol. To withdraw without engaging the enemy was not a palatable option for the conscientious officer, but he was also not eager to throw his men into a skirmish that would result in heavy losses. He could not lose sight of his orders to follow the band that ambushed the patrol out of Fort Larned and punish them. His decision was a difficult one, and he gave it a lot of thought before making it. “How far to that village?” he asked.
“About a day,” Will answered, “unless they’re thinkin’ about comin’ to meet you.”
War Cry Page 10