“He’s all right?”
“He’s embarrassed. He’ll eat small bites for a few days. But he’s tough as nails.” They started across. “I asked him did Potter get something in his eyes or something, and he said, no, just knocked hell out of him.”
Chapter Five
Black Bob Morrison pushed the wagon train hard, but ten days out, they had not made it to First Fort. Rain slowed them. He pushed harder.
Melton’s section was on the right flank, rear, and Potter’s was off to the left. Captain Morrison’s troop was out front.
Dobey rode by the last wagon, near Troop Sergeant Reid. “Can you tell me what’s at First Fort?”
“You don’t know that, Lieutenant? Ain’t no fort, for sure. Old trading post. Some ol’ Frenchman run it for years. Don’t know who’s got it now. You looking to take a rest there?” He sneered, loud enough for others to hear.
“No, Sergeant Reid, I’m doing just fine. Just thought I would take advantage of your amazing knowledge.”
“You being sarcastic, Lieutenant?”
“No. Well, maybe. A little.” Dobey prodded his horse off to the right to talk to Melton. They were in a vast open area, criss-crossed with gullies, small creeks, and ravines between the Canadian River and the North Fork of the Canadian. There were scattered patches of rocks and hillocks covered with scrub oaks.
“Reid can’t tell me much about First Fort. Or won’t.”
Melton shifted in his saddle. “Ain’t much to tell. Old trader name of Chouteau opened it years ago, to trade with the Comanche and Kiowa. Got a corral, stable, ‘dobe building. His old dugout in back serves for overnight visitors. Usually an Indian maid or two, case someone needs some sewing done.” Melton grinned.
“Yeah. We had seamstresses at Fort Motte, too. Why do they call him Black Bob?” Captain Morrison had thin brown hair, going white.
“Cap’n Morrison? Black-hearted. Nice enough around camp, but don’t take no prisoners in a fight.”
Dobey’s bugler and guidon bearer, a new corporal named Phemister, galloped over to them.
“Sir. Captain Morrison’s called you to come up front. Says there’s a rider is coming in.”
Dobey joined Morrison and their scout, a young Creek named Bent Roof. Born in the Territory twenty-two years ago, the day after a tornado dropped a tree on his family’s cabin, he spoke a good bit of all the local languages; Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Seminole, and Creek of course, but also Kiowa, Comanche, Cheyenne, and Osage.
The rider had stopped, two ridgelines away. Bent Roof raised his old .44 Sharps with both hands, and the rider waved and galloped to them.
He was an Osage boy of maybe sixteen years, and old Gus Chouteau had sent him to warn anyone downriver that there was a gang of bandits operating in this part of the Territory. There were maybe twenty-five of them, and they had laid siege to Chouteau’s store last night. The boy had ridden forty miles at full tilt, not knowing if he was being chased. Another rider went northwest.
Black Bob Morrison wasted no time. “I’ll take this boy and ‘M’ Troop and relieve ‘em. You bring the train as quick as you can. Keep Bent Roof near, and keep flankers out all directions. Do they hit you, circle up, fight ‘em and send Bent Roof and
another well-mounted man to get me. Barring any problems, you’ll be there tomorrow night.”
***
After Morrison’s departure, Dobey held a short briefing with his non-coms and the leaders of the wagon train. He gave them all the information that he had, and suggested that the civilians make sure their shotguns and muskets were loaded with buckshot, or at least buck-and-ball. He sent Melton and a half section under Corporal McDowell out front with Bent Roof, and had Potter split his section out to the rear about a quarter mile off each flank. Melton’s other half section of ten men under Corporal Rowe would ride with Dobey, Sergeant Reid, Phemister, and the wagons.
“We’ll stop for coffee and food just short of darkness, then push on through the night. We’ll rest in the morning when we can see around us, then push on in tomorrow afternoon. Questions?”
Sergeant Reid shook his head. “You think this is a good idea, Lieutenant? Riding through the night? You ask me, I’d say stop at dark, throw out a good perimeter, then go on at light, fresh. I know this is all new to you, but …”
Dobey cut him off. “That would probably work, as might several other plans. But we’re going to use mine, unless we find it’s not working. Let’s let these folks get to work, and you and I will discuss this by ourselves.”
Reid must have noticed the steel in Dobey’s voice. He said, “Yes sir.”
As the others moved away, Dobey said softly, “If you ever have a question about what I’m doing, I’d expect you to ask me privately, rather than in front of subordinates.” Reid started to say something, but Dobey cut him off again. “Unless, of course, you think I’m putting people in immediate danger. Do you think that I am?”
“Well, no, Lieutenant, but …”
“Then let me explain my thinking. I doubt those bandits are looking to attack us. If they are, it means they’ve left or been driven away from First Fort, which means Captain Morrison and ‘M’ Troop will be heading back here. If the bandits are watching us, then when we stop to eat, they’ll think we’ve set up for the night. They’ll wait til two in the morning to attack, and we’ll be twenty miles west. If they attack us in broad daylight, we can handle them, and we’ll be that much closer to reinforcements.” Dobey paused. “Now, if you don’t have any specific objections, let’s get them moving.”
Dobey rode to ‘L’ Troop’s wagon and drew the Paterson revolving shotgun. He slung the ‘possibles’ bag of extra powder, shot, and primers over his shoulder, and laid the gun across his pommel. They moved out and pushed hard til dusk, ate quickly, and moved on again just after dark, keeping the flankers and the lead element tight. A couple of violent storms came close but they hardly got wet. At daybreak, early that time of year, they stopped, put out pickets, and most of them got four hours sleep. By ten o’clock they pressed on, fortified with coffee.
Dobey rotated the assignments for the move. Corporal Potter and a half section went out front with the scout, his other half section with the wagons, and Melton’s section was split out to the rear flanks, though Dobey kept Melton with him. As an afterthought, Sergeant Reid was sent out forward with Corporal Potter, with instructions to, “Push, but keep us in sight. Take a twenty minute break on my signal, one gunshot, around one p.m.”
After an hour, Dobey turned to Melton and asked, “You see anything basically wrong with my plan?”
“Nossir. Seems to be working just fine. ‘Course had it gone bad last night, Reid woulda been on the record as being against it. If any of us lived,” Melton smiled.
“I guess I could have asked for his ideas, before I decided.”
“Weren’t no time, really. I think you thought it through, couldn’t see no better way, and give us a plan. I mean, this ain’t no committee, sir.” He smiled again. “I happen to like it. ‘Specially changing our position after dark.”
“You don’t think I embarrassed Sergeant Reid back there, yesterday?”
“I think what’s embarrassing Sergeant Reid is that this seems to be working just fine. Now he’s just on record as being not as smart as a dumb-assed shavetail. Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
Two hours later, Melton spoke again. “I’m gonna ride out to my flankers, and tell ‘em to stay well out there and alert, when we take that break.”
At one-fifteen, Dobey had Phemister fire off his carbine, and the train ground to a halt and made coffee.
Chapter Six
Dick Austin led what was left of his band of scoundrels southeast to the Canadian River at dawn, with the arrival of a substantial party of hostile Osage at First Fort. The damned old Frenchman must have sent for help. Either that, or the Osage wanted the trading post themselves, as they had attacked Austin’s group at first light. He’d lost three wounded and three more missing, and they
’d run like rabbits to keep their hair. With the loss of Little Billy Buddin last night, their fighting strength was down to seventeen.
He had sent Little Billy up to talk to the Frenchman after two buffalo hunters spotted them on the sneak and spoiled the surprise. Billy relayed Austin’s simple, fair proposal: give over, no fighting, and no one would be hurt, and they wouldn’t burn the place. The old bastard said he had a house full of buffalo hunters and didn’t choose to surrender.
“Leastways, not to no cross-eyed raiders from Texas,” he shouted. Then he blasted Little Billy with both barrels of buckshot. Little Billy somehow held on as his pony bolted back to Austin’s position but died before midnight.
Pride Conyers, who was a little sweet on Little Billy, rode out to cover him, flinging two pistol shots at the Frenchman. “Why’d you shoot him, you old son of a bitch? He just come out to talk.”
“Well, me, I did not,” cackled the old man. “Next time, try a white flag. It’s tradition. Or just kiss this.” He’d slapped his rump and ducked back inside, as Conyers wasted another shot at him.
“We ain’t got nothing white,” yelled Conyers, which was an accurate statement, as they had been on the prod for over twenty days.
One of the hunters stepped into the doorway, braced against the sill and staggered Conyers’ horse with a .52 caliber slug. A second shot from one of the windows dropped the horse dead, and a shot from the other window wounded Buddin’s horse twenty yards farther away. By the time the buffalo hunters reloaded, Conyers scampered out of range. Even now, he was riding Buddin’s wounded horse. The raiders had kept up some sniper fire through the night, but then the damned Indians had run them off. Four hours ago, Austin had decided that they weren’t being pursued and angled back northeast toward the North Fork, hoping to find some pilgrims on the wagon trail. And now this.
The gunshot, straight ahead, snapped them all to full alert. They scrambled to dismount and take cover in the shallow ravine. “Anybody hit? Anybody see ‘em?”
Sour Johnson yelled back, “Hell, no. They ain’t shooting at us. That shot was prob’ly a mile away.”
“Go scout it out.”
Johnson was back in ten minutes. “Wagon train, all right. Counted twelve wagons, stopped for a meal. Strung out, too. Ain’t even circled. Maybe five or six soldiers mixed in with ‘em. There is a little hill with rock cover this side. We could fire on ‘em from there, send some riders to charge ‘em from the front, stop ‘em from getting away.”
“We don’t want to stop ‘em from getting away, least not most of ‘em. I wisht somebody in this outfit had some brains besides me.” Austin was not only frustrated at his band’s incompetence, he was damned hungry. “Ain’t you hungry, Sour? We get some of their food in us, we’ll do better. No, what we gonna do is, send some men behind ‘em to chase ‘em, and we’ll go in them rocks and shoot the horses pulling the last two or three wagons, let the rest of ‘em run away. Now don’t that seem smarter to you?”
“What seems smarter to me is, we should’a just rode up there friendly last night, ate some of that Frenchie’s food, maybe used his squaws some, afore we let on our intentions of robbing him. But I ain’t in charge, Mister I-Know-Ever’-Damn-Thing, am I?”
“This ain’t the time to talk, Sour. Hell, maybe these will run and leave some women. Pride, take five men and get on their back trail. Once we open up, y’all charge, make some noise, try to get ‘em to run.”
“Well, if Little Billy’s horse don’t fail me. Can’t I get a better one, that ain’t been shot?”
“Why, sure, Pride. I expect any number of men here would like to trade for your half-assed horse. And it ain’t Billy’s no more, it’s yours. Move, and stay out of sight, til we fire. Git.”
Sour led them to the back side of the rocky hillock. They staked out the horses, and crept into the rocks. They could smell the wood smoke and almost taste the coffee. As they crested the hill, Austin looked down and whispered, “Sour, this is gonna work just fine.”
Shots broke out to their right rear. “Thought I told Conyers to wait ‘til we opened fire.” Austin got up on his knees to look back toward the noise. A bullet careened off a rock, then took a chunk out of the left side of his head. He went down.
***
Corporal Hank McDowell was a tough, quick thinking, natural soldier. He was well aware that he and his ten men were in Indian country with a band of raiders nearby. He was still smarting from the beating Pudgy Potter had given him, and Melton had just told him that if he didn’t stay alert, Melton would personally give him a real ass-whipping.
These related facts made it a particularly inopportune time for Pride Conyers and his five men to trot up a ravine right into McDowell’s position.
Trooper Ed Monteith heard them coming before they came in view. McDowell left two men holding the horses, and two watching their rear as the rest faced the ravine. When Conyers appeared, forty yards away, McDowell centered his carbine on his chest, let him get closer, and shouted, “Hold what you got, and state your business.”
***
Conyers was proud of his speed with his Navy Colt. He was very fast. He was still working on the intelligence and accuracy parts of the gunfighting formula. He got off two quick shots toward the voice, then snapped on an empty cylinder. His last thought was, Durn—I didn’t reload.
***
Corporal McDowell’s shot knocked Conyers over and almost off the injured horse. His right foot twisted in the stirrup, and the horse turned and ran from the firing, dragging the dead man back through his startled party.
The troopers’ first volley also hit Big John Zepke and his horse in the legs, and Breed Burton’s horse was killed, throwing him clear. Zepke and the other raiders bolted, following the dead Conyers. When Breed stood and tried to surrender, three bullets from the second volley dropped him.
McDowell levered open the Sharps and reloaded. “Monteith, ride straight in to Melton, tell him what happened. See does he want us to hold, chase ‘em, or come back in.”
As Monteith raced off, McDowell turned to Trooper Jones. “Jeff, go down there, see if that one’s finished. Rest of y’all cover him.”
Jones reloaded, slid down the bank and jogged up to Burton. Burton struggled to sit up.
“Help me. I give up.”
“Not today, Aunt Martha.” Jones shot him point-blank, then turned and walked back. “He’s done.”
As the ringing in their ears from their own gunfire abated, they became aware of the firing back toward the wagon train. “Mount up, boys. Birch, watch our backside.”
***
At the first pops of pistol fire from McDowell’s position, Melton yelled, “Take cover. Face left.” He was back by ‘L’ Troop’s open wagon. He dropped his coffee, and laid the Sharps over the wagon box. A man’s head appeared in the rocks, sixty yards above their left side. Melton said, “ I should’a put a man up there,” as he squeezed off at the straw hat. The hat and head were gone when the smoke cleared, but sporadic musket fire came from the other rocks.
Dobey ran to join him, and fired the shotgun over the wagon. “How many, you think?”
“I dunno, maybe ten. That shotgun ain’t no good at this range. Save it, in case they charge us.” Melton squeezed off another shot. There was a steady cracking of the carbines from Potter’s half section, added to the booming of the civilian shotguns. “And tell them civilians the same thing. Reload with buck, and hold fire. Sir.”
Dobey nodded and scrambled up the line of wagons, calming the group with information and instructions. “Only maybe ten of ‘em, so far. Steady fire, rifles and carbines. Shotguns, reload with buckshot and hold fire. Stay covered.” He spotted Phemister.
“Mike, anybody hit yet?”
“I don’t think so, Lieutenant. Couple of horses down. You want me to go get Shoo-Fly and his boys? I think McDowell’s engaged, off on the left.”
“Shoo-Fly?”
“Corporal Rowe and his men, sir. Want to pull them in?�
��
“Of course I do. Thanks for reminding me. But tell him just to come in closer, and keep five men with him to cover our backside. You bring the other five back with you. Surely Sergeant Reid is moving against these people already.”
Phemister gave him a funny look. “Oh, surely.” He mounted and raced away north.
Another rider approached the head of the stalled train, carbine held high, a hundred yards away.
“Hold fire. It’s Bent Roof.” Corporal Amick and Trooper Lumpkin from Potter’s section were behind the ‘M’ Troop wagon at the head of the column. Amick shouted, “Cover him. Let fly, dammit.” Potter’s men opened rapid fire, and Dobey got up to them just as Bent Roof finished his dash in.
“Where’s Reid?” shouted Dobey, as Bent Roof dismounted. “Has he gone behind them?”
“He took your men and rode to get help,” Bent Roof spat. “So he said. Told me to lead him there. I told him I’d lead him here, or he could lead himself straight to hell. What are we facing?” He fired uphill at a puff of smoke, and drew a distant “God-Damn!” as a response.
***
The wounded Zepke and the three other survivors of Conyers’ group followed their dead leader and his horse on a circuitous half mile ride to the back of the hill, arriving just as Sour Johnson slipped back to the horses with the intention of returning to Texas.
“God almighty, Zepke, what happened to Conyers?” Sour stared at the battered body, as the blown horse thudded to a halt.
“He vas dead when we left there. I doubt he got much better.” Zepke dismounted, but collapsed when he put weight on his leg. “There vas an ambush, back there. Where’s Austin?”
“Half his head’s gone. I tell you what, Zepke, this ain’t going well. We might better slip away, while them others cover us.”
“Ja. Help me up. I take Red’s horse.” They mounted, and started southwest.
***
As McDowell’s half section crested a low rise two hundred yards from the train, they could see the whole battle scene: some horses and a few men behind a rocky hill, men on the hill firing down at the wagons, with steady return fire from the wagons. Some riders leaving the far end of the train. Charging the hill?
No Good Like It Is Page 3