by Cotton Smith
Struggling to fully awaken, Lockhart thought he heard a command to restart his fire and wondered why Crawfish hadn’t already done that. The gruff voice walked away and another took its place. He felt something cool and wet on his face and looked into the piercing blue eyes of a tall, handsome man with a light brown goatee, long flowing hair and a confident, easy way about him.
“Good day to you, sir. Name’s Cody. Bill Cody,” the lead scout said, kneeling next to him and wiping Lockhart’s face with a wet bandana. “That sorry-talkin’ fella is Bull Sedrick. Better scout than he looks. Appears you’ve been through it. I count four down close by—and I reckon that lance of scalps is yours, too, and they relate to those two circles of dead Indians.” He shook his head and grinned. “There’s a few more strewn about. You flat tore those dog soldiers apart. Like something we did in the theater. With ol’ Col o nel Judson. Ah, Ned Buntline.”
Cody pointed toward Lockhart’s worn-out fire. “Sell, give Bull a hand and get that fire going—and get some coffee on. Find me something for ban dages.”
A young-looking scout, named Sell Morgan, leaned forward on his horse. “How come I have to do that? I made the fire last night.”
“You’ll do it ’til you get it right, boy,” Cody barked. “Sammy’s riding back to Merritt to tell him what’s going on.”
“Lemme go—an’ Sammy kin make the fire.”
Without another word to the young smart-aleck scout, Cody turned to the second mounted scout wearing a shapeless hat with a stampede tie-down under his stubble-bearded chin. Cody pointed toward the south. “Sammy, ride to General Merritt. Tell him about this. Tell him there are no hostiles left in the area. Make sure he understands that. A real fightin’ man has already seen to that, got it? We’re clear to those hills and to come at his own speed.” He motioned dramatically toward the far ridge. “Merritt will tell Crook. God knows what Crook’ll want to do.” He glanced at Lockhart. “The man’s choking on guilt. Should’ve been at the Little Bighorn.”
Without a word, the scout yanked his horse toward the south and kicked it into a run.
Not understanding the comment, Lockhart noted to himself that it was the place where the dog-soldier war party had descended upon him the day before.
The sassy Morgan muttered something as he dismounted and handed his reins to DuBois, the tall Frenchman holding Cody’s horse, his own and Bull Sedrick’s.
DuBois bowed deeply. “Oui.”
Morgan frowned and the Frenchman added, “Je vous en prie.”
Cody snorted, “He said you’re welcome, Sell.”
“Why doesn’t he say it in American, then,” Morgan snapped and moved reluctantly to obey the chief scout’s orders.
Cody walked over to a third rider, a long-faced man wearing Cheyenne leggings over his pants and boots and beaded cuffs with long fringe at his wrists. Quietly, he told him to find Major Frank North and his Pawnee battalion, indicating they should be somewhere west of Lockhart’s camp. His orders were to tell the famed Pawnee commander what had happened here and that they would meet up about three miles north of the closest ridge and decide their future course at that time. Or rather the generals would decide for them. He added to keep a watch out for a few Cheyenne hightailing it, probably north.
“After you catch up with North, see if you can find Grouard, tell him what we’ve got,” Cody continued, waving toward the northwest. “He’s out there somewhere.” He turned to Lockhart. “Frank Grouard is the chief of scouts for Crook, you know. Guess he’s the boss over us all.”
“What about Little Bat?” the scout asked, shifting in his saddle. “Should I look for him, too?”
“Naw, you’d never find him.” Cody waved his hand in a negative motion. “Baptiste Garner. Little Bat. He’s our best tracker. I’ll let him find us.” He winked.
The scout muttered his understanding and headed west, kicking his horse into a gallop.
Meanwhile, the other four white scouts were in various stages of inspecting Lockhart’s camp and the dead Cheyenne bodies strewn about the area. At the first circle of dead bodies, five Indian scouts, three Pawnees, a Crow, and a Shoshoni, were studying their placement, talking rapidly to each other, and pointing to the second circle of bodies with another big rock centered in it. Another Crow scout was leading three riderless ponies; their paint markings indicated they had belonged to the attacking Cheyenne.
Lockhart tried to stand and his stiffened right leg betrayed him. He staggered and dropped his rifle as he sprawled face forward.
“Get him! He’s hurt,” Cody yelled and reached for him unsuccessfully.
Bull Sedrick dropped his gathered sticks and hurried to the downed Lockhart.
Coming behind him, Sell Morgan stopped, holding a small gathering of sticks. “What’s the matter with him? Is he dead? Can I have his Winchester?”
Bull flashed the young scout a fierce scowl and leaned over to check on the downed plainsman. “Hold on, podnah. Thar’s no reason fur traipsin’ about. Rest easy.”
“I-I’m all right. It’s just stiff,” Lockhart said, shifting his weight onto his left leg. He pushed the shotgun quiver back on his shoulder, grabbed his rifle, and carefully stood.
“Good Lord, man. Looks like you’ve been in a one-man war,” the gruff-talking scout said. “These hyar are dawg soldjurs, ya know. They be the meanest o’ the mean. Looks like they dun were with Crazy Horse, Gall an’ Sittin’ Bull at the Little Bighorn by the looks o’ thar outfits—an’ shootin’ irons.”
“They didn’t introduce themselves,” Lockhart said, shaking off the remaining vestiges of his dream. It had been so real. He couldn’t help but look around the camp to assure his awakened self that none of his Indian friends were there. Seeing his recovering dun, he limped toward the grazing horse.
Cody laughed heartily. “Looks like you did the introducing. With bullets for calling cards. What’s your name, mister—an’ if you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing out here?” His hand went to his Vandyke beard and rubbed it.
Patting the horse’s back, Lockhart looked back at him. “Lockhart. Vin Lockhart. Of Denver.” He started to say “Denver City,” but caught himself, remembering Crawfish constantly reminding him the town wasn’t called that anymore. “I’m looking for some friends. Should be north of here.”
“Denver? Shoot, I was in Denver. A few years ago it was,” Cody said. “Sixty-nine, I think. Some boys stole Fifth Cavalry stock. Seven horses and four mules.” He shook his head. “Worst thing, they got General Carr’s fine thoroughbred. Yessir, that was real dumb.” He pushed back the hat from his forehead. “Caught ’em trying to auction ’em all off at the Elephant Corral. You know it?” He pulled his hat back in place to reinforce the statement. “Denver was a right busy place back then. Not like St. Louis or one of them Eastern cities, but plenty busy anyway.”
“Yes, it is a growing town. Freight wagons coming and going night and day.”
“What do you do there?”
“Oh, my friend and I own a saloon and a hotel.”
“Sonvabitch.”
Interrupting their conversation, a Pawnee scout in a cavalry shirt and leggings galloped over to Cody and began briefing him with a mixture of excited Pawnee and supporting sign. When finished, the Indian pulled back his horse and rode toward the other Indian scouts. After watching him ride away, Cody walked over to Lockhart. The tall chief scout’s manner could just as easily have been a stroll along the streets of Cheyenne, instead of moving through the site of a Indian attack on a lone man.
From under a pushed-up-brimmed hat, his light brown hair eased down along his shoulders. The chief of scouts for the Fifth Cavalry was dressed in a fringed buckskin jacket with beaver trimming, over-the-knee-length black boots, black trousers and a dark-red bib shirt with a now wet, pink bandana retied loosely at his neck. Around his waist were two pistols in formed holsters with exposed barrels and a war knife. His self-assured smile was contagious and the men around him obviously saw him as thei
r leader, with or without any title.
He stopped beside Lockhart who was leaning over to check the dun’s legs, using the butt of his rifle for balance. “Doesn’t look hurt. Can you ride him?” Cody avoided asking about the man’s health, judging Lockhart to be stronger than he first appeared.
“Not sure. I’m not going to push it, though. A few days, I suppose,” Lockhart said, looking up. In a few sentences, he explained what had happened.
Cody listened quietly, then observed that the dead Indians were, indeed, dog soldiers, an elite band of experienced, cruel fighters. He said they were a fierce fighting unit that had vowed to die fighting the white man or drive him from their land forever. They were hotamintanio, one of the select warrior societies with their own secret ways, ceremonies, and songs. Songs of daring and honor. He said the Fifth Cavalry had defeated them at the battle of Summit Springs seven years ago and that many of the remaining Cheyenne under Tall Bull had surrendered at Fort Sill, but the rest had ridden with White Horse to keep fighting.
Lockhart ran his hand along the dun’s back-left leg, nodding silently at the absence of flinching. Without looking up, he said simply, “I know about dog soldiers.”
“Figured as much. Didn’t mean any disrespect.” Cody frowned and pushed his hat brim once more from his forehead.
“You didn’t give any.”
“Well, let me try again.” He grinned. “Did you know about General Custer and his men bein’ wiped out at the Little Bighorn? By three or four thousand Sioux and Cheyenne,” Cody said, tilting his head to the side. “Him and some two hundred and sixty men. He was supposed to wait for Gibbons coming up the Bighorn. Instead, he sent Reno’s three troops toward the south end of this big village. About one hundred and twenty men. Benteen and his three troops stayed with the packs. In reserve. Custer took five troops to the other end. Too many redskins. They rammed Reno up the river bluffs and into a defensive position. An’ flat run over Custer’s boys. Every last man. Reno, he lost a bunch of men, too.”
“How long ago?”
“June twenty-fifth.”
“What day is it now?” Lockhart asked and stood, adjusting the rifle to hold it one-handed at his side.
Cody grinned again. “I know that feeling. Must be a few days into August. I think.” He wiped his hand across his mouth to remove the thin smile. “Scouting for the Fifth. We’re part of General Crook’s army. Headed north to join up with Terry. Looks like we’re going Indian hunting.” He rubbed his bearded chin. “I don’t think there’s much prospect of any more fighting, though. Crook wants it bad. After screwing up at the Rosebud. Some of his own men blame him for what happened to Custer. Not to his face, of course. Who knows?” He placed his hands on the butts of his revolvers. “But it won’t happen. All the Sioux and Cheyenne are down to small parties and moving fast. Every which way. Like the one you messed with.” He grinned again. “Me. I’ll probably be running dispatch for Terry—an’ then I’m going to organize a new dramatic combination, have a new drama written for me, based upon these Sioux wars.” He folded his arms in satisfaction. “Say, I could use a good man, like you. Quite a story, this fight of yours here. People in the East would eat it up.” He lifted his right hand to scratch his nose. “Fact is, I could probably get ol’ Buntline to write it up in one of his romance magazines. Make you a real western hero.”
Lockhart frowned and moved his right arm, testing its weakness from the gunshot. The sleeve was torn in several places and streaked red. “You’re sure Custer went down with all his men—at the Little Bighorn?”
“Yeah. You’re probably the only white man who doesn’t know about it.” Cody shook his head. “That’s three in a row for the red man. Reynolds at the Powder. Crook at the Rosebud. And now, Custer at the Little Bighorn.”
Lockhart shook his head. “Probably so. I knew about the first two. I’ve been on the trail—from Cheyenne—since late June. Guess I missed the Custer news by a few days.”
Cody hitched the heavy gunbelt. “Yeah. The whole country is wound up about it. Washington wants all the Indians dead or on the reservation. Preferably dead, I reckon. Army’s taken charge of the Sioux reservations. For awhile. Heard tell ol’ Red Cloud got so pissed, he took his tribe out of the reservation. A real mess.”
“Yeah, I suppose it is.”
“Everything’s changing. Everything. Some of those Indians we’re after, they were friends of mine. An’ Bull’s,” Cody said and brought up a different subject to avoid staying on one that was distasteful to him. “Say, did you happen to see my old friend Hickok when you were there—in Cheyenne?” Cody’s smile returned.
“I sure did. He was with…ah, Charlie Utter. Said you had been in Cheyenne, but left a few days before I got there.” Lockhart slowly returned the smile.
“Yeah, I had to report. For this.”
“They were headed for Deadwood. Said they were hoping to find gold.”
“Hell, the only thing Hickok’ll find is a poker game. Unless his luck’s changed, he won’t win much either. Maybe he’ll get lucky this time an’ win some gold for that sweet new wife of his back in Cincinnati.”
They walked together back to where Lockhart’s old fire was now blazing and his coffeepot was boiling. Morgan met them and presented a folded white cloth for use as ban dages.
“Did you get the salve?” Cody asked, receiving the material.
“You didn’t ask for salve,” Morgan said, sneaking a glance at Lockhart.
“You’re dumber’n a brick, Sell.” Cody shook his head. “Go and get the salve.”
Lockhart held out a hand. “That’s all right, Bill. I’m not hurt bad. Probably hurt myself more falling from that tree branch than from their lead.”
“Well, you’re not lookin’ at yourself,” Cody said, waving his arm up and down. “Better let DuBois have a look at you. We don’t call him ‘Medicine Man’ for nothin’.”
“Sure. That’s mighty nice of you.”
Cody told Morgan to take charge of the horses the Frenchman was holding and send him over. He motioned for Lockhart to sit down on one of the logs. Bull brought him a cup of coffee and a piece of jerky.
“I didn’t see the salve,” Morgan spouted.
“You didn’t see it? It’s right with the ban dages,” Cody said, accepting a cup of coffee from the big, whiskered scout. “You’ve been spending too much time with those corset-model drawings in that Sears and Roebucks in your saddlebag. It’ll make you go blind, you know.”
Morgan blushed a deep crimson and turned away.
The chief scout watched the young rider walk over to DuBois, then returned his attention to the sitting Lockhart. “My own Pawnee scouts are on edge—about you, Mr. Lockhart.” Cody finally brought up the subject, studying the fire as they approached.
“Vin. It’s Vin.”
“Thank you. Please call me Bill,” Cody said. “As I was saying, my Indian friends are puzzled by your circles of dead dog soldiers with the rocks in the middle.” He paused and wiped his mouth for time. “They also can’t figure out the Cheyenne arrows stickin’ in some of those boys.” He stopped, but clearly wanted to add more.
“That’s easy enough. I wanted those dog soldiers to judge me strange. Make them wonder what kind of white man I really was,” Lockhart said. “They’d already seen this sawed-off shotgun in action. Hoped they hadn’t seen one before an’ it would bother them.” He patted the quivered gun on his shoulder. “Guess I was hoping those circles would be enough to keep them from coming back. Didn’t work, though.” He explained the dummy and the gunpowder, and his position in the tree with a bow and arrows.
Cody shook his head. “That’s really somethin’, Vin. I’m sure we could use that in our theater act. Even that blaster. The money’s awfully good, Vin. Awfully good.”
“Thanks, Bill, but I’ve got things in Denver waiting for me.”
“Sure. But if you change your mind…” Cody finally returned to the subject of Pawnee interest. “I suppose you saw the
panther tracks around your camp. And the tracks of wolves that came and went.” He sipped the coffee and studied Lockhart. “Nothin’s touched your dead pack horse, ya know.”
“Hadn’t noticed. Lucky, I guess.”
The offhand comment brought surprise to Sell Morgan’s face as he studied the tracks surrounding the fake camp. In spite of himself, he shivered.
“My Indian scouts, they think you’re a witch who can change shapes,” Cody said, licking his lower lip. “A panther. A wolf. Even a Cheyenne dog soldier.” He tried to smile, but couldn’t.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” DuBois said, bowing. “Pardonnez-moi, ca va?” In his hands were a large jar of brownish salve, a canteen and a tightly folded white rag.
Cody introduced the Frenchman to Lockhart and DuBois began methodically cleaning and treating his arm and face. His assessment of Lockhart’s condition came in spurts of French and English. After his arm was wrapped, Lockhart sipped his coffee and chewed on the jerky and let DuBois determine the extent of his leg wounds. The second was worse than the first; neither had hit bone and he didn’t think any lead remained. Carefully and smoothly, the Frenchman completed the bandaging, noting Lockhart had lost blood, but was not seriously injured. Lockhart thanked him and agreed with his diagnosis. With a cock of his head, he added that he was steady, and swallowed the rest of the jerky and washed it down with coffee.
Mumbling to himself, Sell Morgan stood holding the reins of the quiet horses, counting the dead Indians there and beyond. He looked over at Cody with an ornery gleam in his eyes. “Hey, Bill, this sur nuff beats your first scalp for Custer, don’t it?”
Cody didn’t like the interruption or the observation, but it was Bull who responded. “Bill did his hand-to-hand a’in a Cheyenne war chief. Yellow Hand.”