Sioux Dawn: The Fetterman Massacre, 1866 (The Plainsmen Series)

by Terry C. Johnston

  “Colonel give ’em a place to stay the night!”

  “Coffee and bacon as well.”

  “Bacon? When we get moldy sowbelly for breakfast. And there ain’t enough coffee to fill a working man’s gut each morning?”

  “Made them Cheyenne beggars feel right to home!”

  “Them as drove off the cattle?”

  “Sacked the hay mowers!”

  “Set fire to the sawmill too!”

  “… scalp of a honest white man!”

  “… red is red!”

  “… we’re prisoners here!”

  “That’s right,” Brown replied. “Held prisoner here if we do nothing about it.” His dark eyes glowered at the Irishman in the corner for the first time. He must have wondered why the big, bearded stranger had not joined in the mob’s call.

  “And I know just what to do!” Frank the woodcutter pulled the big Walker Colt revolver from his waistband. The blued steel glimmered like dark water in the yellow light of a half-dozen lamps. The room fell quiet.

  Donegan glanced over at White. The reverend clenched his Bible, eyes studying the growing ugliness. Seamus figured White understood as well as he what was coming to a boil.

  Another teamster drew his pistol, held it aloft. “No time better’n now to burn me an Injun. I’d like to watch ’em cook slow for all they done.” He guzzled the last drops in his cup.

  “No!” Kinney cried out. He watched all of them turn his way. Disbelief colored their faces. Now that he had their silence, he almost whispered, “You can’t go now. Not even dark yet, boys. Wait till the cover of night.” It was a dangerous gamble, betting the mob would hold its grim resolve.

  “He’s right!”

  “When?”

  “After tattoo!” another suggested.

  “Yeah! We’ll go down then.”

  “Who’s gonna do it?”

  “Any of us!”

  “Tell the others!” a soldier cried out. “Pass the word. Go down together.”

  “Colonel could hang a handful of us,” an old corporal hollered. “He can’t hang the whole bloody regiment!”

  “Wait till tattoo—after bed check.”

  “Meet at the water-gate … above the sawmill.”

  “Who’s gonna get a key to the damned gate, let us out?”

  “Fellas.” Judge Kinney held up a pink hand for silence, then pointed out the officer standing at the bar, slowly sipping his whiskey and glaring at the silent Irishman in the corner. “Any damn fool knows Captain Brown’s got a key to his own gate!”

  Chapter 21

  Reverend White shivered as the last notes of tattoo echoed from the stockade walls. He was cold. And too old for a stunt like this. Yet something drove him to these shadows across from the log barracks. Watching lamps twinkle out, one by one. Those soldier boys never go to sleep this quick. Something’s afoot for certain.

  The reverend waited. Listening. His eyes long ago grown accustomed to the darkness. Shivering, wondering if he should’ve grabbed the Irishman to come along. Wishing he had as the first shadow flitted along a barrack wall. Then a second. Scurrying low, crouched over. Then more.

  Like damned rats. A whole nest of ’em.

  More than two hours had passed since he closed the Bible around his crumpled sermon. Angry with himself now for waiting to be sure.

  Should’ve gone to the colonel earlier. Have to be quick about it now. And careful.

  “Private Sample.” Carrington turned to his orderly spare moments later. “Hurry to Captain Ten Eyck. Have him meet me here, with the Officer of the Day and the Sergeant of the Guard. The sergeant needs a half-dozen men.”

  Reverend White watched Sample slip out the door. The minister had awakened the orderly by rapping on Carrington’s door. Getting here by staying to the shadows, hugging the dark places. “Just got too quiet, Colonel,” the reverend explained.

  “I believe you,” Carrington muttered, like a man disbelieving. “But, I must … get dressed now.”

  “Quickly, Colonel.”

  “Yes. There’s no time to waste.”

  By the time Carrington emerged from his private rooms, buckling a pistol at his waist, Ten Eyck and Lieutenant Bradley swept into the office.

  “Who the devil’s attacking the Cheyennes down at the mill?” Ten Eyck demanded, his tongue thick with whiskey and his eyes gummy with sleep.

  “I’ll need you to post a guard around the Cheyenne camp, Lieutenant.” Carrington ignored Tenedor for the moment. “You have six men?”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered. “Four waiting outside. The other two I sent off to——”

  “Lieutenant!” A young private burst into the room. “F company … the barracks … they’re gone!”

  “Captain.” Carrington turned on Ten Eyck, “Let’s pray we’re not too late.”

  “By all means, Colonel.” Ten Eyck whirled, flinging his arms and shooing soldiers out the door.

  “You coming along, Reverend?” Carrington asked as the troopers scurried into the night like starlings.

  “Wouldn’t miss a prayer meeting like this for the life of me, Colonel.”

  * * *

  “What’re we waiting for?” the big teamster growled, his pistol weaving, muzzle pointing here then there at the nine old Cheyenne close around their small fire.

  “Not a gawddamned thing!” Frank the woodcutter snarled, leveling his own pistol at Two Moons.

  From the moment these white men had crossed the creek to surround their little camp, the Cheyenne hadn’t budged. Only the old eyes swept round, from white face to white face illuminated in the copper firelight. Better than ten-times-ten, whitemen stacked like cordwood, pressing in on the fire-ring to watch. To witness another man’s bravery. To hang back in the anonymous darkness and watch.

  Every now and then flames jumped restlessly along a limb. A soft, yellow glow shimmering off the unmoving copper faces. Even the old squaw sat silent, motionless. No longer did she stir the coffee she’d been boiling in the old kettle. A gift from the soldier chief—a treat for his friends, the Cheyenne. Until these white men had poured out of the darkness.

  “Well, we gonna take care of business?” someone shouted.

  “Let’s do what we come for!” another yelled from the ring.

  The ringleaders fidgeted. Frank spun the cylinder on his Walker. Once round, hammer clicking back on each chamber. Somehow, he sensed the fire in the mob had flickered and gone out. Not as warm as up at the sutler’s.

  “Hey, Judge!” he hollered. “We got the bastards now.”

  “That’s right,” Kinney sang, a bit hollow. No grand oration. His lower lip hung out like a slice of raw calf’s liver—pouting. “Look at ’em. You ever see a more guilty bunch than this?”

  “Never!” Frank tried to whip them up again the way they had snarled and foamed for blood back at Kinney’s place. “I’ll take the first one. Who want’s another?”

  “I’ll take that fat one there!” a teamster barked. “Like to see him squirm when I shoot his balls off first. Watch him beg for his life.”

  “Smith didn’t get no chance to beg for his life!”

  “This’uns for Smith!” someone across the fire hollered.

  “For all the rest they murdered!”

  Frank spat into the fire. “It’s time,” he muttered, striding right over the low flames until he stood before Two Moons, jerked the Walker down, and pressed the muzzle to the old Indian’s head.

  “That’ll be far enough, mister!”

  Frank spun with the others at the voice clawing out of the darkness.

  “What you’re about to do is murder.”

  The big woodcutter’s eyes blinked as he watched Jack Stead stroll into the firelight. He saw the scout carried a pistol. Stuffed in his belt.

  “You’re a brave man, aincha?” Frank challenged.

  “Sorry, can’t say the same for you.” Jack strode full into the firelight, stopping before the woodcutter. “Shoot an old, unarmed Indian.�
��

  “Murderer—what he is!”

  “This old man didn’t scalp that soldier today.” Stead pointed at Two Moons.

  “Others say differ’nt.”

  Stead gazed round the circle. “I can see. Lots of ’em. Ninety to nine doesn’t sound like fair odds to me.”

  “What kind of odds did they give the soldier today?” Kinney puffed into the circle beside Frank.

  “These Cheyenne weren’t anywhere near Pine Island today.” Stead measured the crowd, listening to the muttering voices all around him. The slow, sliding of boot-soles on sand. He was surrounded too.

  “Odds, you ask?” he flung his voice over the group, ready to see what the mob was made of. “Funny that cowardly dogs always travel in packs … like you, Frank.”

  The woodcutter slashed with the Walker, catching Jack across the cheek. Stead stumbled backward, falling against two of the mob. They heaved him out of their arms. Dazed, Jack sank to his knees in the sand.

  “He’s no better’n these red bastards!” someone hollered.

  “I damn well know that!” Frank replied. “Squaw-man. That’s what he is. Same mongrel filth as these redskins!”

  “Kill Stead!”

  “Yeah, do him first! Injun-lover!”

  Frank spat a stream of tobacco into the small fire. “Stead’s got him a Injun wife, Judge. Bet this bastard’s been feeding the red niggers all kinds of information on the fort.”

  “Could very well be,” Kinney chimed in.

  “I said, let’s kill ’im!” someone hollered.

  “Why not?” Frank growled in agreement, looking over at Kinney. “Judge?”

  “Be my guest, sir,” Kinney answered. “Stead had no business here to begin with. I figure a man always gets the judgment he deserves.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” Frank lowered the Walker muzzle, pressing it against the scout’s temple. “Why, he ain’t even American.”

  “Kill ’im!”

  “Shoot the son——”

  A shot rang out from the hillside above them. Frank yelped, spinning, the Walker flung into the sand. He gripped his bleeding arm. A loud voice hurled down on the mob like a boulder from above.

  “I’ll shoot the next bleeming fool who so much as pulls his weapon!”

  “And I’ll put the rest in the guardhouse!” a second voice answered, this one even closer. On the sandbar.

  The mob ring parted in four places. A half-dozen armed troopers stomped out of the night, holding their carbines on their fellow soldiers and civilians. Through the final crevice strode Carrington and Ten Eyck, following the sergeant who had threatened arrest.

  “I believe I’ve got more here’n I can handle, Captain. Guardhouse won’t hold ’em all.” He waited a moment, watching the men shuffle their feet as one of his pickets pulled Stead to his feet. “What say I just arrest ringleaders? Charge ’em on attempted murder. Send ’em down to Laramie to hang——”

  “We ain’t gonna hang!” someone shrieked.

  “Nobody got hurt!” another voice defended.

  “It were Brown’s and the judge’s doin’! Not ours.”

  The crowd surged against itself. A few began backing away, inching across the pebbled creek-bottom.

  “Halt, soldier!” the sergeant ordered. “Identify yourselves!”

  That was all it took. The rest bolted like a flushed covey of blue hens. Crashing across the creek, stampeding past Gregory’s sawmill.

  “Halt!” the sergeant roared after them, almost chuckling. “I’m pressing charges for desertion!”

  “That’s quite enough, Sergeant.” Carrington stepped into the firelight.

  “Think they got the idea, Colonel? Scampered back to their bunks fast enough, didn’t they?”

  Carrington turned from the sergeant, stepping before Two Moons. “Jack?” He waited for Stead to come up. “You tell the chiefs to see me before they leave in the morning. Tell them how important it is.”

  When the chiefs had grunted their approval, the colonel turned back to Ten Eyck, the pickets, and the night-watch sergeant. Carrington didn’t know whether to congratulate the man or chastise him. “That was a damned foolhardy thing to do, Sergeant—firing into crowd the way you did. Might’ve gotten yourself killed very easily——”

  “Wasn’t me, Colonel!” he answered, shaking his head.

  “Who? If——”

  “Wasn’t your sergeant,” Jack piped up. He flung a thumb back at the shadow ambling down the slope toward the fire. “My new friend.”

  The shadow strode into the firelight. He stopped just behind the ring of Cheyenne chiefs. “Gentlemen.”

  “Who the devil——” the sergeant began.

  “You care to explain this, Jack?” Carrington turned on the scout.

  “Certainly, Colonel. My friend stayed back in the dark … case things got nasty.”

  “From the looks of your face, things turned nasty.” Carrington gazed at the newcomer. “And what were you doing hiding in the dark?”

  “Wasn’t hiding,” he answered softly. “Hanging back if my friend needed me.” He tapped his Henry. “I’d taken sixteen with me had there been trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Carrington growled. “Seems you two came here this evening looking for trouble.”

  “On the contrary, Colonel,” the stranger replied. “Jack and I came here to stop your trouble. Never counted on your guards getting here in time.”

  “The nerve,” Carrington fumed. “From the smell of it, you’ve both been at the bottle.”

  “What’d you think holds my gun hand so steady?”

  Stead laughed. “Colonel, don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Seamus Donegan, formerly Master Sergeant, the Army of the Potomac and Shenandoah, Union cavalry.”

  Chapter 22

  To his tongue, his mouth was like the, bottom of muddy boot-sole, and tasted worse. Bad part about it, Seamus Donegan’s head felt as if it were a painful saddle boil, ready to burst atop his shoulders every time he tried to move it.

  Brushing some crawling insects from his cheek, the Irishman became aware of the sun grown hot on his skin. Gathering the strength, Seamus blinked, opening his eyes into the new light.

  “Top o’ the morning, Irishman!”

  Donegan sat up slowly, staring full into the face of Jack Stead as he held his swollen head between both hands. “Thought you drank much’s me last evening, cabin-boy.”

  Stead chuckled. “I did. Least before we came down here to help out the Cheyenne.”

  Blinking, Seamus recognized some of the old men gathered around the smoky fire nearby. “I recall you brought with you a bottle of your own.”

  “Aye, Seamus.” Stead slapped him mercilessly on the back before rising to go kneel by the fire. “So I’ll be a long time in forgiving you for drinking that bottle damned near all yourself!” He set the pot down and shuffled back to the Irishman.

  “What’s this?” Donegan growled, opening his eyes again as the steam wafted into his nostrils.

  “Coffee? Your nose so stove-up you can’t smell coffee?” Stead laughed easily, which caused the old chiefs to laugh along as well. “Must be in some bad way, not to smell the coffee that’s going to make a new man out of you.”

  “Coffee, eh?”

  “Well…” Jack sighed, suddenly serious, plopping onto the grass beside the Irishman. “I tried the only other way I know to make a new man out of you last night.”

  Donegan eyed the Englishman suspiciously over the lip of his dented tin cup. “How?”

  “Her.”

  Seamus followed Jack’s arm, the finger at the end of which pointed to the old, squat Cheyenne woman who smiled back at Seamus. Toothlessly among her wrinkles.

  Donegan sputtered on his coffee, turning to Stead with a look of helplessness. “I … no! I couldn’t have. Could I? Did I, Jack?” He stared into his coffee and whispered so the Cheyenne chiefs and the squaw could not overhear. “Was I drunk enough to … to do … to … her
.”

  Suddenly Stead was roaring, laughing so hard he fell over backward, rolling on his side and thrashing his legs in merriment. When he gathered himself again, swiping the tears from his eyes and crawling to Donegan’s side, more of Jack’s teeth showed than Donegan could recall seeing.

  “You were worried, weren’t you, Irishman?”

  He swallowed, looked down at his cup of coffee and considered flinging it into the grinning face. “Damned worried—still am!”

  At that moment she was there between them, presenting Seamus with a long, wide, nondescript strip of dried meat. Thing about it as she held her offering up before the Irishman, the jerky seemed alive with green-backed bottle flies. Swarming, in mass, like the meat itself throbbed. Donegan fought the empty heave of his belly. Bile threw itself against his tonsils.

  He shook his head and pushed the rotten meat and the squaw’s hand away.

  “Careful, Seamus,” Jack whispered. “Them old men had that woman come over and offer you some of the little they have to eat.”

  He swallowed down his revolting stomach once more. “I … I’m sorry, Jack. Their offer…” Seamus nodded and tried to smile on the woman.

  “You had no supper so they figured you could do with some breakfast.”

  He belched, unable to rid himself of the sour but familiar taste pasty in his mouth. “Looks’s if I slept right here.”

  “When you got through drinking and dancing.”

  “Dancing, was it?” he squeaked feebly, headache worsening.

  “First you had those old boys up and shaking their legs with you in a Yankee jig,” Stead declared, then laughed. “So for good measure, they had you dance Cheyenne with them as well.”

  He wagged his head, holding it with one hand while the other sloshed steaming coffee on his boots. “But I didn’t … didn’t touch,” he begged, wagging a finger at the woman now.

  Stead grew serious. “Not while you were awake, at least. You passed out sometime after the moon sank out of the sky. But she stayed right beside you. Did you ever make a show of it—moaning in the throes of pleasure, Irishman.”

  “P-Pleasure, Jack?”

  “Sure, you had that old woman rubbing what you claimed was your ‘poor, bleeming back’!”