by Jake Logan
“What the hell are you doin’, mister?” the soldier demanded as Slocum gave him a closer look.
“Were you one of the men who tied up that Indian girl?” he snapped. He held fast to the reins, but he was still not quite sure enough of his identity, or he would have dragged the soldier out of his the saddle then and there.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, mister, but if you don’t let go of my horse’s reins, I’ll have you thrown in the guardhouse.”
“I think you’re one of ’em,” Slocum continued, unruffled by the soldier’s threat. “Trouble is, I ain’t exactly sure. You were sitting at that fire last night, only you weren’t the one I swatted on the head.”
“You’ve lost your mind, stranger. I wasn’t at no fire last night, but if you don’t let go of my horse right this minute, I swear I’m gonna have you arrested.”
Because he wasn’t entirely sure, Slocum let go of the reins and stepped back out of the way. “If I was certain you were one of ‘em, I’d teach you some manners,” he warned. “But just in case you do happen to be one of the men who hurt those Comanche girls, I give you my solemn promise you’ll regret what you did. I intend to take the matter up with Major Thompson when he gets back, and if that don’t work I’ll give you a different kind of justice.’
“Are you threatenin’ me, mister?”
Slocum gave him a lopsided grin. “It ain’t a threat at all, soldierboy. It’s a goddamn promise. If you turn out to be one of the yellow bastards who harmed those women, I’ll come looking for you, and the whole goddamn United States Army won’t be enough to stop me from teaching you a lesson.”
“You talk mighty tough. If I wasn’t on duty, gettin’ ready to ride out of here to kill some Injuns, I’d climb down from this horse an’ test you.”
Slocum’s grin widened. “Any time you feel you’re up to it, soldierboy. Any fuckin’ time you’ve got the nerve.”
The trooper urged his horse away to join a formation on the parade grounds, leaving Slocum standing there trying to cool the rage inside him. It was beginning to seem like men wearing blue uniforms were going to haunt him the rest of his life.
14
As he was riding through the gates, he heard a shout of “Move out!” behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw several columns of mounted troopers leaving the parade ground. At the front of the columns, he recognized the young captain he had ridden up with from Childress.
When Captain Carter saw Slocum, he spurred his horse to a lope to catch up.
“Mr. Slocum!” he cried, riding up beside him a few yards beyond the gates into Fort Sill. “I’d like a few words with you, sir.”
Slocum halted his Palouse. “What sort of words?” he said tonelessly.
Carter’s pink face turned a deep red. “I’m sure you recall that bunch of Indians we encountered on the way here. As it turns out, you were completely wrong about them. They have been identified as the murderers of those civilians. I let you talk me out of giving the order to open fire on them.”
Slocum let out an impatient sigh. “Whoever claims to be able to identify them as the killers is full of shit, Captain. Those Kwahadies were hunting buffalo and deer. They had women with ’em.”
Carter stiffened. “You apparently are not the expert on Comanches you led me to believe you were. At this very hour, Major Thompson has engaged them in a bloody battle. They are not as peaceful as you claimed they were.”
“They’re only fighting back. I heard the same report you did, that somebody feels they’re responsible for the attack at those cabins. They didn’t do it, but if a man shoots at a Kwahadie, he’d better expect to have a heavy dose of return fire.”
“I shouldn’t have listened to you, Mr. Slocum. If I had followed my instincts, we would have ended the entire matter right then.”
Slocum nodded, feeling his temper rise again. “I can assure you that you’re right, Captain. It would have ended right then and there. You’d be dead as a fence post and so would every man in your command. They’d have killed every last one of you.”
Now Carter’s jaw jutted. “You haven’t forgotten the war, it would seem. You show nothing but contempt for men in blue. But if your memory any better than your judgment regarding Indians, you will recall who won that war. I’ve known Southerners like you who can’t seem to forget you lost the war. Men like you have a chip on your shoulder.”
Slocum lost control. “It’s idiots like you, Carter, who don’t seem to be able to forget it. The North won because you had better arms, more money, and more soliders. But like you said, it’s over. I’m not the one who can’t forget it. As for the chip you say is on my shoulder, feel free to try and knock it off any time.”
“You’re an insolent fool, Mr. Slocum. I shouldn’t have paid any attention to you when we encountered those savages.”
He gripped his saddlehorn with both hands in an effort to keep from taking a swing at Carter’s jaw. “It’s the only reason you’re still alive, Captain. If you’d have drawn that pistol of yours, you’d be long dead by now.”
“You give those savages far too much respect when it comes to fighting skill ...”
“That’s because I’ve fought ’em a time or two.”
As Carter was about to say more, the columns of troopers came up behind him, swinging southwest out of the fort.
“You’re about to see what trained fighting men will do to your Comanches,” Carter snapped, lifting his reins as he made ready to ride off.
Slocum grinned. “I sure as hell hope you don’t lose your hair while you’re at it, Captain,” he said, heeling his stud in the direction of Cache.
As the military detachment pulled out of Fort Sill, Slocum thought about the outcome. In one respect, the young captain was probably right. Conas and his hunters would be defeated by the cavalry’s superior numbers and repeating weapons. It seemed a terrible waste of human life, that men hunting for meat to feed their starving families would be annihilated over a misunderstanding and someone’s failure to follow the hoofprints Slocum found east of the cabins.
Major Thompson had seemed like a reasonable man. Slocum wondered if he stood any chance at all of preventing the deaths of Conas and his warriors. It wasn’t really his affair. He knew this. But after he’d ridden no more than a hundred yards from the fort, he suddenly turned his horse and urged the Palouse to a lope, heading south toward Red Oak Canyon.
Slocum heard the distant crackle of gunfire. It was at least a mile away, to the west. He’d passed three wagonloads of wounded on the ride down. As the sun lowered, he judged the fighting would slow down with the coming of darkness, perhaps giving him a chance to talk to Major Thompson about the mistake he was making.
At a crossing over a shallow creek, he saw several cavalrymen riding down to the stream. One was bent over the pommel of his saddle in obvious pain. Another had his right arm in a crudely fashioned sling.
“More casualties,” Slocum muttered. He knew the United States Army was in the process of finding out just how hard a small band of Kwahadie Comanches could fight, even with outdated weaponry.
He rode up to the soldiers. One of them spoke.
“I wouldn’t ride that way if I was you, mister. There’s one hell of a fight with renegade Indians goin’ on over that next string of hills.”
“Renegade Indians?”
“Yessir. Must be two hundred of ’em.”
Slocum remembered that there had been fewer than fifty warriors with Conas that day. “I’m looking for Major Thompson. Tell me where I can find him.”
“Right square in the middle of that fight, mister, only you sure as hell don’t wanna be no place close to where all that shootin’ is goin’ on.”
Slocum noticed that the soldier bent over his saddle had a very serious belly wound. A man who was gut-shot like that usually died a slow, painful death. “I’ve got to talk to the major. He has the wrong bunch of Indians cornered.”
“The wrong bunch?” the soldier a
sked. “Hell, there ain’t but one missin’ from the reservation.”
“The men you’re fighting were only hunting for meat. It’s all a terrible mistake.”
He rode his stud across the creek and struck a lope in the direction of the gunfire. He was probably too late to stop a massive slaughter, an unnecessary loss of life on both sides. But what puzzled him most was why Major Thompson would order an attack on Conas and his warriors when Sergeant Watson and his patrol had been shown the right tracks to follow.
The boom of rifle fire grew louder as Slocum neared a box canyon to the west. The sun looked like a fiery red ball hanging above the canyon walls as dusk drew near.
Slocum pulled his stud down to a trot and scanned the trees ahead for soldiers, for now the gunfire was close, only a few hundred yards away.
He saw the wink of a muzzle flash in a stand of oaks east of the mouth of the canyon. The echo of a lone rifle shot filled the forests around him.
They can’t even see who they’re shooting at, he thought as he turned the Palouse toward the flash of light.
“Hey soldier!” he cried when he came near the oaks, to keep from being shot himself. “Hold your fire a minute! Tell me where I can find Major Thompson!”
A dark figure came around the far side of a tree trunk with a rifle in his hands. “Who are you?” a voice asked.
“I’m the man Major Thompson sent to follow the tracks from the cabins where those settlers were scalped. I need to talk to him as soon as possible.”
After a moment of silence, the soldier said, “He’ll be off to the south yonder. About a quarter mile. Stay behind these here trees or those goddamn Comanch’ will shoot you.”
Slocum reined his horse in the direction the soldier was pointing. Off in the distance, an occasional rifle shot broke the deepening silence as dark settled over the land.
“The major’s over yonder, mister,” a private said when Slocum came to a thicket of slender oaks whose fall leaves were being swept from their limbs by the building winds. “He’s real busy right now with them Injuns.”
Slocum swung down and tied off his horse to a low limb. “I won’t need but a minute, Private. I’ve got something he needs to hear.”
“Watch yer ass,” the soldier said as Slocum walked into the trees. “Them goddamn redskins sure as hell got good aim from up on them bluffs.”
It came as no surprise that Conas and his warriors were good shots with a rifle. “I’ll be careful,” he said. He headed for a group of men standing in the shelter of a stand of thick oaks.
“Major Thompson?” he inquired when he came to the edge of the forest.
“Over here. Is that you, Mr. Slocum?”
“It’s me,” he said, striding to the tree where Thompson was watching the fighting through field glasses. “Apparently you were not successful in picking up the tracks of those murderers after all.”
Slocum halted in midstride. “But I did pick them up. I found them east of the two log cabins. I showed Sergeant Watson which way they went.”
Thompson took the binoculars from his eyes to stare at Slocum for a moment. “That was not the report I was given, Mr. Slocum. I was told you couldn’t find any trace of the killers after a thorough search of the terrain.”
“That’s a damn lie,” Slocum snapped. “Who gave you that bit of information?”
Thompson glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t recall the trooper’s name. He came to the fort and said you couldn’t find anything. Then he reported locating a large group of Comanche renegades in this region.”
“Whoever gave you that report is a liar. I showed Sergeant Watson the hoofprints and got him started following them. That’s when I found the Indian girls. One of them was almost dead from a head wound she suffered by the hand of some of your soldiers. I took the other one, the survivor, to Major Green. Three more Comanche women are still missing. Some of your troopers found them bathing in a stream and killed their ponies. The two girls I found were badly beaten. One had her skull crushed by a rock. The other was tied to a tree, and three of your soldiers were abusing her.”
Thompson frowned. Even in the bad light of sundown, Slocum easily recognized the anger that filled his face. “She was tied to a tree? Exactly what were these men, these soldiers, doing to her?”
“In plain language, Major, it appeared they were about to screw her. The other girl had been raped as well as beaten. She had blood coming from between her legs where they’d used her hard more than once.”
“Those are serious charges, Mr. Slocum. What were the names of these men under my command?”
“They gave me names, only I don’t think they were real names. But I can damn sure identify them, and so can the Indian girl named Senatey who’s at your post hospital now under the care of Major Green.”
“It was Chief Lame Bear’s daughter?” he asked.
Slocum nodded.
“We could have a major Indian uprising on our hands if Lame Bear hears of this. His people are troublesome to begin with, but if he learns that his daughter was molested, more Comanches will cause trouble. Are you certain of this?”
“I know what I saw, Major. And Major Green can tell you about the extent of the girl’s injuries.”
Thompson looked up at the canyon. “According to several of my scouts, those are some of Lame Bear’s people we have cornered in that canyon. Probably two hundred or so.”
“About fifty of ‘em,” Slocum said. “They were hunting for deer and buffalo for their starving women and children. I told you about ’em when we met the first time.”
Thompson frowned again. “What makes you so certain these aren’t the same Indians who slaughtered the settlers near the river?”
“Horse tracks,” Slocum replied. “Conas and his hunters were riding little Indian ponies, typical of the kind they breed. The horse tracks I found east of those cabins were heavier by several hundred pounds. And there’s one more important thing. Senatey told me Conas sent all the women back toward the reservation when they spotted a group of what she could only describe as ‘bad men.’ She doesn’t know the word in English to tell me more about who they were.”
“Some of this sounds a bit dubious, Mr. Slocum. However, you do appear to know a great deal about Western Indians. I sent a wire to Washington to inquire about your claim that you served as a scout under General Crook. The return message said your record with the army was exemplary.”
“Stop the fighting here, Major,” Slocum said. “You’ve got the wrong bunch of Indians trapped in that canyon.”
Thompson thought a moment, chewing his bottom lip. “I’ll give the order to cease fire. Then we’ll see who gave me that information about the tracks leading here.”
Slocum swept the area with a look of his own. “I’d like to see Sergeant Watson face to face, while you’re at it. He knows I showed him those hoofprints leading east. Somebody in your outfit is a goddamn liar, and I aim to find out who he is.”
15
The soldiers pulled back from their firing positions around the mouth of the canyon as the dusk turned into darkness. Slocum waited with Major Thompson and a squad of men in a dry wash where the troops were being assembled. After sporadic firing, the shooting stopped and an eerie silence fell over the battle scene.
A corporal on a sorrel gelding rode up to salute Major Thompson. “Sergeant Watson ain’t here, sir. His company captain said he was followin’ some tracks east of here with two squads of cavalry. He ain’t reported back since he left the fort.”
“Then who brought us the report about following the tracks of these Indians to this canyon?” Thompson asked.
“I believe somebody said it was that Indian agent, George Tatum, sir. I can ask Cap’n Collins. He’s the one Tatum told about it.”
“Tell your captain I want to see him at once,” Thompson snapped.
Slocum rested an elbow on his saddlehorn, listening to the exchange and thinking. His suspicions about Tatum were beginning to seem justified.
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br /> After the corporal rode off, Slocum spoke. “I was wondering if the Indian agent might have a motive for wanting trouble with some of his Indian charges. Conas, the Kwahadie leader of these hunters in the canyon, told me his people were starving because of rotten meat and moldy flour. Could be Tatum wanted this to happen, to cover up some dishonest dealings with beef suppliers and flour mills. It still don’t explain who scalped those folks to get the trouble started, but it sure as hell wasn’t Conas or his hunters. The tracks I found were proof of that. Maybe Sergeant Watson will follow ’em out and find out where they take him. It could give you some answers.”
Thompson appeared to be considering what Slocum said. “I know Tatum can be a surly sort, but I never thought of him as being dishonest. I had no reason to. The meat is spoiled most of the time. That part is true, but in summer heat it’s hard to keep meat fresh. Bad meat doesn’t necessarily mean he’s in some sort of dishonest enterprise with beef contractors. To tell the truth, Mr. Slocum, I don’t think the government cares all that much about what Indians are given to eat. Indians are a problem they wish would go away. I’m sure you’re aware that at one time not too long ago, General Sherman and several other high-ranking officers were in favor of a policy of total extermination for the Indians.”
“I knew about it,” Slocum agreed. He looked up at the canyon before he spoke again. “Someone has to ride into that canyon and tell Conas and his men they’re free to go. And you can bet he’s got some wounded who’ll need medical attention.”
“They’d shoot down anyone who tried to ride in there,” Thompson said. “They’ll understand when we pull out. When they see us ride off, they’ll know we don’t mean to do them any more harm.”
“They’d still be afraid to go back to the reservation, unless somebody explains what happened.”
“I can’t send any of my men in there. It would be the same as ordering his execution.”
Slocum took a deep breath. “I suppose I could do it. I speak a little Comanche. I only hope he’ll listen, that he’ll understand this was all a big mistake.”