War Cry

by Charles G. West

  After examining his leg the next morning, he decided that the wound was not as bad as he had first thought. The bullet was lodged in muscle and the stiffness caused him to limp, but it didn’t appear to be too deep. His focus returned to the man he had left beside the river and the potential possessions to be taken. He told himself that he didn’t care if the man was Will Cason, he was most likely dead by now, or so close to death that he couldn’t do much to defend himself. There were two saddles to be gained, and there was bound to be ammunition and weapons, maybe some food. It was too much to leave for some stray Indian hunting party to stumble over. “I need to settle up with that son of a bitch for puttin’ this hole in my leg,” he stated emphatically. With that, he decided to forget about the doctor for the time being, and go back to claim what he felt he had rightfully earned.

  He took his time looking over the spot on the riverbank where the camp had been before riding straight in. There was no sign of Will Cason, but Ned was still not eager to ride into a possible ambush, especially when he remembered the last time he thought it safe to rush the camp—he damn near lost his life. So he waited and watched for a long time, but there was still no movement of any kind in the camp. He musta crawled off someplace to die, he thought. Or he’s still backed against the roots of that tree, deader’n hell. Finally, after more than an hour hanging back and watching the camp, he decided that Will was dead. Even then he walked his horse slowly at an angle to the camp, with the purpose of using the cover of the trees downstream of the camp.

  Dismounting a couple dozen yards away, he limped through the cottonwoods that lined the banks, his rifle ready to fire, pausing for only a moment when he came upon Boley’s body. Picking up his late partner’s rifle, he continued upstream until he came to French’s corpse and the carcass of Cason’s horse. Here was the spot where he had barely escaped with his life. The memory of that caused him to lay Boley’s weapon down beside French in order to have both hands to use his own rifle. Looking now to the place in the bank where Will had leaned against the tree roots, he was alarmed to find no body. He was gone! But where? And what kind of shape was he in? Recalling the glimpse he had gotten of Will just prior to the shot that had sent him running, he was convinced that the man was nearly dead at the time.

  Kneeling on his good leg, he paused to look all around him, trying to stay low behind the protection of the bank. He inched over to the tree roots. There was a great deal of blood that had seeped into the ground there. That son of a bitch has got to be dead, he thought. He looked back at the dead horse, noticing for the first time the tracks that led into the water. “Well, I’ll be . . . ,” he muttered and went at once to examine them. They were no doubt the tracks of a man on foot, and looking across the creek, he could plainly see where they had come out on the opposite bank. “The bastard just won’t go ahead and die, but lookin’ at them tracks, it ain’t gonna be long before he does.” The thought brought a smile to Ned’s face when he pictured the wounded man trying to walk for help. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Will Cason, ol’ Ned’ll be along pretty soon to help you.” But first, he thought, I’ll see what kind of plunder you left for me here.

  Of the two saddles that he found on the ground, one was an army cavalry model, the other, he fancied for himself. Deciding it better not to have to explain the possession of an army saddle, he left it where it was and went back to admire the other saddle. With the assurance that Will was wandering around out on the prairie somewhere, he felt no panic to hurry, so he let the saddle rest for a few minutes while he continued searching the camp. Chewing on a piece of charred meat that he found in the ashes of the fire, he searched through the bags of cooking utensils and cups. Giving Will’s battered old coffeepot a brief glance, he tossed it into the bushes along with his cup. When he had plundered everything he could find, he returned to the task of swapping Will’s saddle for the one he owned. After putting his old saddle on French’s horse and discarding French’s, he took a moment to admire his new saddle—it was not fancy, but well made, and an improvement on the one he used.

  After saddling the horses, he collected the weapons and ammunition left behind on the bodies of his partners and packed them on the horses. Next, he searched the two bodies for anything he fancied. There was not much he wanted other than a pocketknife and Boley’s boots. “I always admired them boots of your’n, Boley. They oughta fit my feet just fine.” Satisfied that he had everything he could use, he stood up then and gazed at his ex-partners. “Well, boys, I reckon I’ll be goin’ along now. I wanna get upwind before you start smellin’.” He chuckled, amused by his sentiment. “Hell, Boley, you didn’t smell real sweet when you was alive.” He climbed in the saddle and hesitated there before moving on, trying to decide whether to head for Great Bend or track Will Cason down. He subconsciously reached down and laid his hand lightly on the bullet wound in his thigh. I would like to see the buzzards carving up that son of a bitch’s body, he thought. Besides, I don’t see that Henry rifle around here nowhere and that’s worth going after. His mind made up then, he turned his horse toward the creek, and leading his other two horses, he crossed over and climbed up the opposite bank.

  It was not a hard trail to follow. The footprints, labored and unsteady, scuffed the grass and dragged through the bare spots, causing a chuckle from Ned as he pictured the walking dead man, trying to make it all the way to Fort Larned on foot, knowing that he would overtake him before another night came. “He’s mighty damn considerate,” Ned allowed. “When he don’t drag his feet, he leaves a little trail of blood on the grass.”

  As he predicted, it was late in the afternoon when he spotted a circle of three buzzards hovering over the prairie beyond a low rise several hundred yards away. Didn’t get very far, did you? he thought, and smiled to himself. Coming to the rise, he noticed a change in the trail he followed. The blades of grass still bent over indicated that a saddlebag Will had carried was now being dragged behind him. Won’t be long now, Ned thought. Before crossing over the rise, he paused to survey the range ahead. He could see where the buzzards were circling, but was unable to spot the object of their attention. Prodding his horse, he rode to the top of the rise and paused to look again, and then he saw what he was looking for, a body lying still in a shallow gully just a few dozen yards short of a little stream. He shook his head and smiled. You almost made it to water, didn’t you? Too damn bad.

  Still unwilling to abandon all caution, he held his rifle up, ready to fire, as he walked his horse slowly toward the body. There was a saddlebag lying on the ground a few yards short of the gully, further evidence that the man was finished. Ned took his eye off of the body for only an instant to take notice of it. He stopped his horse beside the gully and sat there with his rifle aimed at Will’s back as he lay facedown, his rifle under him. After a few minutes ticked slowly by with no response from the body, Ned lowered his rifle and dismounted. “Will Cason,” he pronounced, thinking how much he was going to enjoy bragging about this moment. “Did you think I was gonna let you get away with killin’ my partners and shootin’ me in the leg? I swear, though, I am disappointed to see you died before I had a chance to put a bullet in your head.” His attention drawn then to the Henry rifle lying beneath the body, he reached down, grabbed Will’s arm, and rolled him over. The wicked grin on Ned’s face was suddenly replaced by a look of startled horror, caused by the .44 revolver in Will’s hand, the muzzle of which was pointed directly at his face. Too stunned to react rapidly, he wore the expression through eternity as the gun exploded in his face.

  Will had been nearly as surprised as Ned, for he had no notion the confrontation was going to occur. Weak and near exhaustion, he had stumbled toward the stream, but as Ned had observed, his body gave out before he reached it. With his brain spinning uncontrollably, he had not even noticed the gully before him until he tripped on the edge of it and fell heavily, facedown. Disoriented, and too tired to move, he made no effort to get up right away. He figured he must have passed out for a few
minutes, because the next thing he remembered was the sound of horses’ hooves padding toward him in the grass. Indians? White men? It was too late to react. So with no way of knowing if it was help or trouble on the way, he had chosen to play dead, wondering if he was about to feel the impact of an arrow in his back. His questions were answered when he heard Ned Spikes speak and he tightened his grip on the handle of the Colt .44 stuck in his waistband.

  Although free of further worry about Ned Spikes, the incident brought a new and immediate, although temporary, problem. With a bullet in his brain, Ned’s body landed on top of Will to lay across his stomach and hips. Weary to the point of exhaustion only a few short minutes before, Will’s disgust for having the body of the vile bushwhacker draped upon him was incentive enough to summon the energy necessary to shove the loathsome corpse from him. Calling upon all the reserve determination he possessed, he sat up and took a fresh look at his circumstances. There was new bleeding from his wounds, but it was not excessive. Ned’s horses had spooked when Will’s pistol went off, but they had not scattered far. This helped to bolster his determination now with the possibility of riding instead of walking. He was in no shape to chase after the horses, but hopefully one or more of them would wander back toward him.

  Two of the horses were linked together by a lead rope that Spikes had held, and they were standing twenty yards or so from the gully. The other, the one Spikes had been riding, was a speckled gray horse, and it was standing between Will and the others. Will tried to call it several times, clucking his lips, but the gray did not come, seemingly curious as he looked at the man seated on the side of the gully. After a few more attempts to call the horse, he decided he had to try something else. With painful effort, but new resolve, he got to his feet and walked back a few yards to recover the saddlebag he had dropped. Then he turned and began slowly walking toward the stream some fifty yards away. The horses remained still, watching him. After a moment, the gray turned and ambled casually after him as he had hoped. A moment later, the others followed the gray. All three horses passed him, walking slowly, and were peacefully drinking from the stream when he caught up with them.

  As soon as he got to the water, he took hold of the gray’s reins before dropping to his belly and drinking beside the horse. The gray didn’t seem to mind. When he had his fill, Will struggled to his feet again and stroked the horse’s neck while it continued to drink. Again, the gray seemed gentle enough. “I believe you’re gonna be all right, boy,” Will said, looking the horse over. “It ain’t none of your fault that your last owner was a sorry son of a bitch.” His next concern was climbing into the saddle. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to do it, but he told himself he was determined to die trying. Moving back to the stirrup, he put a hand on the saddle horn and reached over the saddle to slip his rifle in the empty saddle sling. “Damn,” he uttered, realizing only then that it was his saddle on the gray. It was time to climb on. He took a deep breath because he knew it was going to feel like he was tearing his side apart. Then, before giving himself time to think about it, he put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up. As he had anticipated, he felt a stinging fire rip through his side, so severe that he didn’t notice the pain in his shoulder caused by his pulling on the saddle horn.

  Once he was seated in the saddle, he decided that he was there to stay. He was not planning to dismount until he reached Fort Larned, for he figured it wasn’t worth the pain to go through it again. It felt good to be seated in his saddle again, but something didn’t feel right, and he realized that Spikes had shortened the stirrups a little. It’ll have to do, he thought, because I sure to God ain’t gonna change them now. He let the gray drink until satisfied; then he pulled over next to the other horses and was able to take hold of the lead rope and looped it around the saddle horn. There was no sense in leaving two good horses to run around in the prairie, all tied together. Ned Spikes’ rifle was another matter. A seven-shot carbine like the cavalry issue, the rifle was lying on the ground where Ned had dropped it. Will paused to look at it, but decided it was not worth the pain and trouble to dismount and mount again. His wounds were already bleeding anew from the effort the first time. He took a last look at the body of Ned Spikes. “There oughta be a big party in hell tonight,” he said. “One of the devil’s boys is comin’ home.” After taking a look at where the sun was in the afternoon sky, he turned the gray gelding toward a line of distant hills to the southeast and let the horse settle into a comfortable pace.

  He had traveled through this part of the territory a few times before, but not enough to recognize landmarks. In the weakened state he had been in, he could not accurately estimate how far he had walked before dropping in that gully. But he could well guess that it had not been very far, so he prepared himself for a ride of more than fifteen miles.

  His sense of reckoning, even in these dire circumstances, was dead on as usual. He struck the Pawnee fork of the Arkansas after dark and followed it into Fort Larned, barely able to remain upright in the saddle. One look at the blood-covered rider was enough to prompt the sentry to call out, “Sergeant of the Guard, post number three!” As the call was passed on by the guard at the next post and relayed back to the orderly room, the sentry tried to help Will down from his horse.

  “Hold on, soldier,” Will said weakly. “You’d best leave me be till I can get to the doctor. If I get down, I ain’t sure I can get back on.”

  The private stepped back away from his stirrup, not sure what he should do and wondering if he should lead the wounded man’s horse to the hospital while knowing that he was not supposed to leave his post. He was saved from making the decision, however, for the Sergeant of the Guard came running on the double. While the sergeant was assessing the situation, the officer of the day arrived to assume command of the situation. “He’s a scout outta Fort Dodge, sir,” the sergeant reported. “He’s the scout that lieutenant who showed up was talkin’ about.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” the lieutenant exclaimed. “He said you were dead.”

  “Might be I am,” Will replied. “I ain’t sure, to tell you the truth.”

  “Let’s get you over to the surgeon’s,” the lieutenant said. He took hold of the gray’s bridle and started leading him toward the hospital. “Sergeant,” he ordered, “get somebody to take care of the man’s horses.”

  Will was not in a state to remember much about what happened after that, except that he found himself on a hospital bed with the doctor probing about on his side and shoulder. He would be told that he had passed out when they got him off the horse and he was trying to pull his rifle from the saddle scabbard. Although dead to the world, he had still made a feeble effort to keep them from taking his rifle from him. Uncertain later if he had dreamed it or had actually heard someone say, “He oughta be dead,” he knew now that he had evidently survived. Blinking his eyes rapidly against the sunlight shining through the open window, he winced when the doctor probed a little too deep.

  “Well, I see you’re awake,” the doctor, Major Devlin, remarked upon witnessing his patient’s recoil. “All I can say is you must have one helluva strong constitution. I suspect you haven’t got a canteen cup full of blood left in you.”

  “How long have I been here?” Will asked, not really sure.

  “Just since last night.” He studied Will intensely for a few moments. “You feel like eating anything?”

  “I usually do,” Will replied, suddenly feeling hungry.

  Devlin smiled. “I’ll order some breakfast for you.” He shook his head, amazed. “Tell you the truth, I thought last night that I’d be ordering a burial for you this morning.”

  “I reckon they ain’t ready for me yet in heaven or hell,” Will said with a wide grin. Then the thought struck him that he had dreamed something about that, but he couldn’t recall the details of it. “There was a lieutenant ahead of me. Did he make it back here?”

  “That he did,” the surgeon replied, “and he’s already gone—on his way t
o Fort Dodge to get married. I looked at him briefly, but he wasn’t gonna stay no matter what I said.” He prepared to apply a fresh bandage, then paused to give Will a stern look. “I hope you’re not thinking about going after him, because you’re not in any condition to go anywhere for a good while yet.”

  Will shook his head, satisfied that his obligation for Braxton’s well-being had now been discharged. Go on back to your wedding, he thought, even though Sarah and Emma deserve better. To the doctor, he said, “Hell, no, I ain’t in no hurry to go anywhere.” He meant what he said, and his body was telling him that he had pushed it too far. He was content now to let it recover.

  Later in the evening, Lieutenant Chad Williams stopped by the hospital to see him. “I was officer of the day when Lieutenant Bradley rode in. From what he told me, you two had quite a battle on your hands. I know you must have been glad to hear that he made it here all right.”

  “Yep,” Will replied, “I’m plum tickled.”

  “He thought you were dead,” Williams said. “I don’t expect he would have left you if he’d known you weren’t. He’ll really be surprised to find out you made it—probably would have waited here for you.” He chuckled then at the image of Braxton. “Maybe not, though, he was mighty anxious to get back, and I expect his fiancée will be really happy to see him safely back in her arms.”