“Don’t be stupid!” Kenshaw snapped.
“Hey, that ain’t a stupid, Rollo,” Bolkey protested. “A lotta them soldiers is just kids that join up outta towns or cities. Some of ’em ain’t never rode a horse ’til they got in the Army.”
“We’re gonna have to be more careful now, that’s all,” Kenshaw said. He looked closely at Bolkey. “How’s your nose?”
“It’s broke,” he said, gingerly wiggling it back and forth. “But it ain’t bleeding no more.”
Glotz spoke up, saying, “You want I should make that nose bloody some more, Rollo?”
“Leave him in peace, Bruno,” Kenshaw ordered. “You can go now.”
“I be going, then,” Glotz said. He gave Bolkey a friendly nudge, now that he wasn’t supposed to be mad at him anymore. “You want some coffee, Otto? I be going to fix some right quick like.”
“Sure, thanks, Bruno,” Bolkey said ignoring the fact that the man had offered to break his nose again. “I could use some.” He glanced back at Kenshaw. “I’ll see you later, Rollo.”
“You just remember what happens to dumb bastards that rile me,” Kenshaw said. “By the way, which one o’ the boys shot at the soldiers first?”
Bolkey shrugged. “I ain’t sure. It was either Smitty, Dixon, or Pete.”
“Yeah,” Kenshaw said in a sarcastic tone. “I figgered it’d be one of ’em that got kilt. That makes it real easy on the rest o’ you, don’t it?” He watched Bolkey and Glotz walk away, then he went back to his bedroll and lay down.
The camp of liquor peddlers settled into a quiet routine as men napped, talked, or amused themselves with card games. It was a particularly beautiful day in the woods, with few insects buzzing around and light, balmy breezes making intermittent appearances in the trees.
Kenshaw had drifted off to sleep, muttering angrily to himself about the situation with the soldiers. He knew the incident had the potential of big trouble for him and his gang. He damned Otto Bolkey as a fool even as he dozed.
The steam whistle sounded in the distance.
Immediately everyone in the camp instinctively got to his feet. Even Kenshaw, still half asleep, stood on his bedroll.
Bruno Glotz called out, “The riverboat be coming!”
“No shit?” somebody sneered. “I thought a moose farted.”
Glotz glowered and tried to determine who had made the mocking remark, but the whistle’s second blast made him forget what he was looking for. “The riverboat be coming!” he yelled again.
“C’mon, boys!” Kenshaw said. “We got work to do. Get them furs on the boats.”
The whole gang, with the pelts in hand, walked down to the riverbank at a spot where several flatboats were tied up. After putting their goods aboard, the men split up into groups, each boarding one of the crude crafts. They poled out a few yards from the mooring spot, then came to a halt and waited. While they stayed there maintaining their positions in the flowing water, the riverboat’s whistle sounded twice more. Then the large vessel appeared around the bend, its paddle wheels immediately going into reverse.
“Let’s go, boys!” Kenshaw ordered.
Even as the liquor peddlers made their way toward the riverboat, the crewman were tossing grappling anchors into the water to hold the vessel steady. A man wearing a blue suit and the billed cap of a ship’s officer appeared on the upper deck just outside the wheelhouse.
“Ahoy, Kenshaw!” he called out.
“Howdy, Cap’n Hawkins,” Kenshaw called back. “We got a load o’ furs to trade. Anything for me?” He already knew the answer to that question.
“That I do,” Hawkins replied. “I’m carrying the goods you ordered.”
“All that I ordered?” Kenshaw asked, as he and his men came alongside.
“Ever’ bit,” Hawkins said. He walked down the steps to the lower deck and approached Kenshaw. The riverboat captain spoke under his breath, saying, “Maybe I should said ever’ drop.”
Kenshaw laughed. “Just don’t say it to nobody but me.”
All the passengers, including some army officers and enlisted men, began to gather in close to see what was going on. Hawkins waved to them and shouted, “We won’t be long, folks. We’re dropping off some goods for these fur traders and picking up some pelts. Won’t take more’n fifteen or twenty minutes.”
Kenshaw’s men muscled the load of furs onto the deck where the crew took charge and rolled the bundles to the cargo hold. They emerged with crates that were obviously very weighty. These were carefully loaded onto the flatboats that moved noticeably lower into the water.
A wag among the customers yelled out, “Whatcha got there? A load o’ iron?”
His question was ignored as the muscle-straining, sweat-producing labor proceeded. Each crate had to be carefully centered on its boat to avoid capsizing the craft. A couple of times Kenshaw and Hawkins both had to yell out warnings and threats to their men as the task progressed.
Hawkins, still speaking in a low tone, said, “I hear O’Dell lost a load o’ whiskey in these woods not long ago.
“He lost more’n a load,” Kenshaw whispered back. “A coupla o’ his boys got blasted for their trouble.” He spat into the water. “I warned that son of a bitch ’bout coming into the Black Hills.”
“Can’t say that I blame you for not wanting any competition,” Hawkins said. He pointed to the furs. “You’re doing damn good.”
“Speaking o’ good business, where’s my money from the last load?” Kenshaw asked.
“Here it is,” Hawkins said. He pulled a leather sack out of his pocket and handed it over. “All gold pieces.”
“I got some more to add to it,” Kenshaw said. “Some Sioux made a raid and ended up with more’n scalps.”
“They’re getting smart enough to get money when they can, huh?” Hawkins remarked.
“I teach ’em good,” Kenshaw said.
Bobby Slowfoot, on one of the boats, hollered, “Ever’thing’s ready, Rollo!”
“I’ll be right there,” he shouted back. He turned and shook hands with Hawkins. “See you next trip, Cap’n.” Hawkins, pointing to the army officers casually watching them, laughed. “They’d have a fit if they knowed what was going on right under their noses, wouldn’t they?”
“It’d give ’em one more reason to want to hang me,” Kenshaw said, remembering Bolkey’s encounter with the dragoon patrol.
“One more?” Hawkins said. “What’ve you been up to, Kenshaw?”
“Don’t you worry none about it,” Kenshaw said. “You just keep bringing whiskey and taking back the goods to turn into cash for me.”
“Sure,” Hawkins said in an agreeable tone. “It’s working out good for everybody concerned. Well, see you later.”
Kenshaw waved and stepped off the vessel into one of the flatboats. The paddle wheels of the larger craft started up as it resumed its trip to Fort Laramie. The water churned into foamy waves, causing the liquor peddler’s scows to rock in the wake.
“Let’s go, you lazy sons of bitches!” Kenshaw yelled at his men. “We ain’t gonna make nothing by staying out here in the river.”
The men began the task of poling back toward the riverbank, bearing the load of liquor destined to be sold and traded to the Indians of the Black Hills.
Seven
The double column of United States Dragoons rode slowly through the forest. Their horseback excursion, however, was not one of leisure or diversion. They kept busy ducking low branches on the trees. They followed the Sioux warrior Eagle Talons as their patrol’s mission continued through the upper reaches of the forested Black Hills.
Even though they were accompanied by a Sioux warrior, the horse soldiers were uneasy in that area, which could accurately be described as enemy territory. Each man, carbine ready, kept a close eye out as he peered through the trees for any signs of potential ambushers. They were well within the hunting and warring grounds where fighting warriors of the Sioux and Cheyenne tribes ruled and dominated eve
rything but nature.
Sergeant Sean O’Murphy, rather than follow directly behind Captain Darcy Hays and Lieutenant Tim Stephans, rode in the middle of the formation between the two columns. In that manner, if an attack was sprung on the dragoons that split their unit, he would take the rear half to begin whatever action was necessary to rejoin the two officers and the rest of the troopers.
This was a lesson learned hard during an attack on a
dragoon patrol a couple of years before. Indian tactics caused the dragoons to split up into several desperately fighting groups. The Indians, with their instinctive skill in tactics, defeated them piecemeal.
White soldiers learned the Indian-fighting profession slowly and methodically under the most dangerous conditions, but they did acquire the necessary knowledge eventually.
The hooves of the horses made little sound on the thick forest ground. Eons of fallen pine needles and other vegetation, mixed in with the soil, had created a thick natural carpet that kept movement in the woods nearly silent. The only noise made was that of snapping limbs, snorting horses, and the occasional whispered oath of an angry dragoon when the man in front of him allowed a limb or branch to snap back and strike him.
O’Murphy, peering intently into the forest, got a quick glimpse of movement within the foliage. Before he had time to yell out an alarm, a scattering of shots exploded off the side of the indiscernible trail and several arrows whipped across the column, doing no damage but thudding into tree trunks with sickening sounds.
“Dismount!” came Hays’s loud order.
The men swung out of their saddles, each side of the dragoon patrol facing outward. Since no order to return fire had been given, the highly disciplined soldiers refrained from shooting at the unseen enemy who had attacked. A few more shots followed, along with more arrows. One of the missiles struck Corporal John Grady’s Grimsley saddle.
His friend Corporal Tom Dickson grinned. “Another coupla inches and that’n woulda been in your ass.”
Grady failed to see the humor in the situation.
Eagle Talons’ high-pitched yell sounded eerily over the scene. He called out several times before the shots and arrows came to a halt. Another voice sounded in the woods in the Sioux language.
Up at the front of the column, Hays looked at his Indian escort. “Are those warriors of the Wolf Society?”
“Yes,” Eagle Talons answered. “I have called for Buffalo Horn. He answers me, and I say to him that you soldiers are with me and do not seek a fight with him.”
“Tell him I want to powwow,” Hays requested.
Eagle Talons yelled again. In a few moments an answering holler sounded. This was followed by several loud exchanges until Eagle Talons nodded. “Buffalo Horn will talk with you, and me, and one other soldier. That is all.” Hays nudged Tim. “You’re it.”
“I’m so happy to be invited to go with you, sir,” Tim replied, reholstering his pistol with a nervous grin. “I was afraid I would be left to loaf back here in the safety of the column.”
“No such luck for you,” Hays said.
“I am honored, however,” Tim said with a wink. “You’ll have to admit it is an exclusive function,” Hays said. He nodded to Eagle Talons. “Lead on.”
The Sioux warrior walked into the woods with the two dragoon officers closely following. He had to go only fifteen yards before he encountered Buffalo Horn, Wild Bull, Flying Hawk, and Iron Hatchet.
Hays and Tim came to a halt behind Eagle Talons. Hays closely eyed the Indians, able to recognize a couple of them from previous encounters. But there was something different about them: their faces did not reflect the savage glory of the fighting men of their nation. Rather, they seemed puffy and soft. Bloodshot eyes looked back at him. Hays leaned toward young Lieutenant Tim Stephans. “Those lads were drunk last night,” he whispered.
“Maybe more than just one night,” Tim replied. “Or something worse.”
“I think ‘extended drunk’ is the best description,” Hays said.
Eagle Talons, following tradition, called out the names of the other Indians. After Hays and Tim each introduced themselves, everyone sat down in a circle. A sullen anger existed on each side.
“Hello, Buffalo Horn,” Hays said. “I want to talk to you.”
Buffalo Horn grinned. “You don’t want to fight?”
“No,” Hays replied.
Buffalo Horn still smiled. “I know. You had a chance to fight. But you did not shoot back.”
“That's right,” Hays said. “I am looking for something besides a fight.”
“I like to fight,” Buffalo Horn said in an arrogant manner. He displayed a scornful grin. “Some sleeps ago I fight some white men and kill them.”
“Did they have a wagon?” Hays asked.
“Yes. We burn the wagon,” Buffalo Horn bragged. “I fight those white men at their wagon and kill them.”
“Were there white women there?” Hays asked. He held his temper at the arrogance of the Sioux warrior, but his teeth were clenched so hard his voice could barely be heard coming out from between them.
“Yes,” Buffalo Horn said.
“What happened to the women?” Hays inquired.
“We used them and killed one,” Buffalo Horn replied. “The other is in our camp.”
“I want that other woman returned to me,” Hays said.
“No,” Buffalo Horn said. “She is my wife.”
“Like hell!” Tim exclaimed.
Buffalo Horn looked at the young officer and sneered, then he snapped his eyes back to Hays. “No.”
Hays had to be both careful and diplomatic. He was in no position to make any direct threats. He had no idea how many warriors Buffalo Horn had with him. Even if they were badly hungover from heavy drinking, any wrong moves or words at that point could result in the entire dragoon patrol being massacred. It would take a hell of a lot more than upset stomachs and aching heads from rotgut liquor to take the fight of the men of the Sioux Nation.
Hays thought a moment, then said, “The soldier chief at Fort Laramie will be angry when he learns you have the woman.” He nudged Tim. “Give me that daguerreotype.”
Tim pulled the likeness from his tunic pocket and passed it over. “Here you go, sir.”
Hays said, “We have her spirit with us. Strong medicine will be used to get her back.” He handed over the tintype.
Buffalo Horn took the portrait and looked at it for just an instant before throwing it to the ground. “That is strong medicine,” he admitted in a nervous tone. He made himself take another glance at the photograph. “Is her spirit in this thing?”
“Yes. It has strong medicine and wants to return to her,” Hays said. He picked up the photograph and handed it back to Tim. He folded his arms and looked straight into Buffalo Horn’s face. “Give me back that woman.”
Buffalo Horn was thoughtful for several long moments. “I will trade her to you.”
“What do you want?” Hays asked. “I cannot give you guns or horses.”
“I want whiskey,” Buffalo Horn said.
Hays was hopeful. “I have a bottle in my saddlebags.”
“I don’t want a bottle,” Buffalo Horn said. “Lots of whiskey.”
“Well, God damn it!” Hays swore. “How much do you want?”
“Lots of whiskey,” Buffalo Horn repeated.
“A barrel?” Hays asked. He went through the motions of forming a barrel with his arms and hands. “Like that?” Buffalo Horn nodded, then held up three fingers. “That much whiskey.” Then he made a barrel through gestures.
“Three barrels of whiskey,” Hays said.
Then Buffalo Horn remembered hearing the word when spoken by Rollo Kenshaw. “Barrels,” he said holding up all the fingers on his right hand. “That many.”
“Fine,” Darcy said nodding his head in agreement. “Give me the girl and I’ll bring you three barrels of whiskey later.”
“No!” Buffalo Horn said. “You bring whiskey now!”
“I remember,” Buffalo Horn said. But he ignored the point of the army officer’s statement. “You bring me whiskey. I give you the woman.”
Hays studied the Indian’s features, noting the desire and yearning in them as they spoke of liquor.
Eagle Talons entered the conversation by speaking rapidly in his own language, using the word “whiskey” several times. Then he spat to show his contempt. He turned to Hays. “I tell him that whiskey makes him crazy and stupid.”
Buffalo Horn ignored the insult. “This much whiskey barrels,” he said to Hays, again holding up all the fingers on his right hand.
“I want to see the woman,” Hays said.
“No,” Buffalo Horn said.
“I won’t get any whiskey until I see her,” Hays snapped. He now felt reasonably sure that he could use the Indian’s weakness for liquor to his own advantage.
Buffalo Horn licked his lips as he pondered the request. Finally he said, “You alone. No him or him.” He pointed to Tim and Eagle Talons.
“Do I need my horse?” Hays asked.
“We walk,” Buffalo Horn said.
Tim was wary. “You be careful, sir,” he cautioned his commanding officer.
“Don’t worry, my boy,” Hays said with a wink. “This fellow wants whiskey in the worst way. He’ll let me return safely to fetch him some, believe me.”
Buffalo Horn got to his feet. “Come with me. I show you the woman. Then you go get whiskey.”
“Ow!” Hays exclaimed involuntarily, as rheumatic pain shot through his knees while he struggled to his feet. “I must be getting old,” he remarked with a grin. “I can’t seem to sit cross-legged without getting stiff.”
Buffalo Horn turned and strode into the trees. Hays, trying hard not to limp, forced himself to hurry after the Sioux warrior.
They walked for close to a hundred yards through the brambles and underbrush. Suddenly they stepped into a large clearing where an encampment was located. No tepees had been pitched, but various types of crude shelters were scattered haphazardly through the area.
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