“Our pleasure, Captain. Most of these men had never seen a hostile. Good for them to get a shot at the enemy for the first time.” He grinned. “Besides,” Captain Cavanaugh cleared his throat, “there’s a pretty young lady in your group. Now, sir, let me provide you a mount for the trip back.”
The major waved his hand. “I’ll stick to the stage. I’m not as good on a horse as I used to be. I’m sore enough from bouncing around in this infernal machine they call a stagecoach.”
“Everyone on board, sir,” Tuttwise said. “We’ll be heading out now. One of the stable hands will ride in with us on a mount. Damned hostiles killed four of our remuda, so Art has to get some replacement animals.”
The two women were already on board. The troopers had caught two of the Indian ponies, and they would be taken back to the fort along with an assortment of short bows, arrows, and the quivers that had laced the backs of the hostiles.
After they mounted up, Tuttwise waved at the other stable hand and told him to hide in the brush until Art got back. Then Tuttwise cracked the whip and the horses moved forward. It took- a while for the new lead mare to work into the rhythm already established by the other horses. It would be a slow trip to the next stop.
Captain Cavanaugh put two outriders on both sides of the stage road. The first rode a quarter of a mile out and the second another quarter of a mile. They would report any sighting of hostiles or other problems. He moved to the front of the stage, judged the speed, then took ten troopers as a lead escort, leaving the rest of the men under Sergeant York to bring up the rear guard.
The tired horses slowed steadily, and Tuttwise dropped them to a walk for the last mile.
“Ain’t aiming to pay for any horse that I put down ‘cause of the way I drive,” Tuttwise explained to Captain Cavanaugh when the captain came back to check on why the rig was moving forward at a walk. “That second lead bay up there is about ready to go down. Would have if I’d even trotted her for another mile. We got time. Hell, I figure I’ve got another thirty years at least. What difference is a half hour going to make?”
They pulled into Pond Creek Station three hours late. This was a fifty-mile station, and here the driver would change and the passengers could have something to eat at a family-style table.
An army ambulance waited at the station. First Lieutenant Winchester saluted smartly after failing to mask his surprise at the appearance of his new fort commander.
“Lieutenant Winchester, sir. Welcome to Fort Wallace. I have a rig here to drive you the final mile out to the fort.”
“Good, Lieutenant. Better than walking. You have any kin in the Army? I used to know a Colonel Winchester. We called him Winnie . . . Yep, he was Harold Winchester. Infantry.”
“That was my uncle, sir. He was killed in the war.”
“That right? Hell, he was a good man. Never any complaints when Winnie was on the job. Let’s get moving, Lieutenant. I could use a good hot bath and some fresh clothes.”
Lieutenant Winchester led the major to the army ambulance. There was no provision made for moving personnel by vehicle in the Army. The regulation army ambulance was the best sprung and was often used to transport officers and their families from one post to another.
As Owensby climbed into the ambulance, his luggage was quickly taken out of the rear boot of the stage and stowed on board the wagon. Cavanaugh and Winchester mounted up and led the wagon, along with an honor guard of ten mounted troopers, south toward Fort Wallace.
“What in hell kind of a major is Owensby? When the men see their new commander dressed out of reg, we can kiss discipline good-bye.”
“Next time I see Colonel Custer, I’ll ask him what he thinks about non-regulation officer uniforms.”
Lieutenant Winchester frowned and they rode for the fort.
2
Struggling to keep up with his partner, Byron Foster rode doggedly onward on his big sorrel stallion. The horse was a beauty, taller than most range horses and reddish-brown in color with an almost pure white mane and tail. He had once refused an offer of $300 for “Big Mike,” as he called him.
Foster himself was no beauty. The five-foot three- inch tall man was nearly square, fifty pounds overweight, and riding a horse was not his favorite way to travel long distances. His face was soft and pale, with small blue eyes hidden behind folds and puckers of flesh. His nose had been broken and spread out to twice its normal size in his early days as a saloon brawler. Now he was settled down as the sutler at Fort Wallace.
Since 1867, the official term for the commercial merchant establishment that supplied each fort was “trader’s store,” but most troopers and civilians still called it by its original name of sutler’s store.
Foster’s sorrel moved at a fast walk now through a small valley along a creek that would dump into the Arikaree River. The Arikaree was the central fork of the Republican River that wound into Nebraska, then back into central Kansas. The two riders had crossed the Kansas state line and were now in eastern Colorado Territory, some eighty-five miles northwest of Fort Wallace.
“Where’n hell is this place you found, Gates? My ass ain’t got the callouses yours got,” Foster called to the man riding just in front of him.
“Just hold to your leather, tenderfoot. Maybe I should have picked myself a better partner. Damn, you’ve been bellyaching half the time since we left Wallace two days ago.”
“Told you I ain’t no cavalry rider,” Foster spat back in self-defense.
Toby Gates grinned and moved ahead on his dark gray dun mare. Gates looked about forty, but he was only twenty-eight. Fast, hard living had taken its toll. He had been a gambler on the Mississippi but wasn’t good enough at poker or cheating to last long there.
At five-ten, he was slate thin, looking like he could slip right through the steel tines of a pitchfork. He had watery green eyes, a drooping mouth, and high cheekbones that left his cheeks hollow and sunken. His hair was shoulder length because he hated barber shops; he whacked it off with a pair of sheep shears when he figured it was too long. The Indians liked to see his long hair. His hands were nervous, always moving.
Now he had a United States license to do trading with the friendly tribes — if he could find any. He knew some of the Sioux tongue and a little of Cheyenne. Most tribes tolerated him because he brought them knives and steel, which they could use to make lance tips with and arrowheads. By law he was prevented from selling the Indians any guns, rifles, gunpowder, or lead shot, but he did just fine with knives and axes.
“All I know is that you better be right about that gold.”
“Damn your hide, Foster, I told you I’m sure as hell that there’s gold there. Hell, I been in gold strikes before. Was even in California at some of the lodes out there. I know the signs, and they sure as shooting are along that creek. The up-thrust fronts this bluff. But it ain’t worn down. It’s a damn solid slab that I bet come from about ten miles down. Got to be gold in that slab. Fact is, I saw a glint shining big as you please and would’ve pinched a chunk for the appraiser if those Cheyenne weren’t camped there.”
“Hope to God you can find that same spot again.”
“Shut up and smile,” Gates shot back. “I’m the guy who’s gonna make you rich.”
“Hell, I don’t mind getting rich, I just don’t want to wind up getting scalped out here by your friendly Sioux cutthroats. Partnership ain’t worth nothing if’n you’re dead.”
Gates shook his head and urged his mare forward.
A half mile later they came to some heavy brush along the banks of the Arikaree. They edged out slowly and checked for hostiles, but the big valley was empty. They saw no smoke, smelled none, and could see no tepees along the shallow river. The water flow here was about fifty yards across, but not more than ankle deep anyplace. In some spots islands showed and in others the water lay still in pools.
They turned sharply to the right and moved along the edge of the valley for a quarter of a mile through an open area, then turn
ed right again up a tributary and toward a suddenly steep grade and a towering granite bluff.
The rock tower rose more than a hundred feet without a crack or shelf or rock fall. It looked like a smooth slab of rock in one single, giant piece.
They rode to the base of the slab, where the gentle waters of the tiny creek flowed past it. Gates got off his horse and stretched.
“Here’s your gold mine, partner. How does it look?” Gates asked.
“Looks like a perfect spot to get a good drink and rest my ass,” Foster said, stepping down gingerly.
“Look at that. An up-thrust, pure and simple. There’s got to be gold around here somewhere. This one came up from way down deep and had to drag some gold and silver along with it.”
“So show me, big talker,” Foster spat.
Gates dug into his saddlebag and took a rock hammer, a hatchetlike tool with a square hammer head on one side and a steel pick blade on the other. He walked through the shallow water and began hitting the upthrust with the pick end of the tool. It rang out strong and solid.
He worked around to the dry land and a little farther into some low brush to the left. Gates mumbled to himself, hit the rock a few more times, then was quiet. He worked around the huge solid base slowly and a half hour later came back and sat down near Foster and shook his head.
“Nothing so far. Still got the other half to work. I’d make you help but you don’t know what to look for.” He had a drink, got up and went to the other side and began pushing down brush and examining the rock. It was a half hour later and dusk was falling when the man yelled out.
“Oh, damn!” Gates screeched. “Oh, damn! Foster, get your butt over here! Come see what I found!”
Foster stepped through the shallows and pushed back the brush. “So, what’s so important?”
Near the bottom of the huge slab there was another ledge of rock that had cracks and weathering places where water had seeped in, frozen, and cracked it. Now, Gates had expanded the crack and broken off a wide slab of the rock. Behind it glowed a three-inch streak of what looked like solid gold.
“Sweet mother!” Foster whispered. “Is it ... is that gold?”
“Never seen it like that before, but it’s got to be.” He hit the streak with his pick and the end sunk into the soft substance.
“Break off some of it so we can get it assayed,” the sutler yelped. “Christ, looks like damn near pure gold!”
Gates knelt there and stared at the rock. “What ...” he stopped and swallowed hard. “What if this whole damn upthrust has a gold center! That’s enough gold to make us millionaires!”
“Break some off!” Foster shouted.
“First, we hide the horses, just in case some Indians show up here ready to set up camp again. I’d as soon not try to explain why I rode up here without a pack horse and no goods to sell. ”
They moved the horses to the side of the monolith in some heavy brush and tied them, then took rifles and a canvas bag and went back to their discovery.
It was dusk now and they’d have only another five minutes of light. Furiously, Gates whaled at the rock and at last broke off some chunks of the granite with the gold on the side. He gouged out some of the solid gold as well and dropped the samples in the sack.
“Want me to make a torch so you can see what the hell you’re doing?” Foster asked.
Gates snorted. “Sure, and let every Indian within five miles know we’re here? Hell, no. We bed down for the night and finish getting our samples in the morning. Then we fix up this spot so it looks like nobody has ever even walked through here. Remember that. A white man’s got to be damned double careful in Indian country if he wants to keep his scalp.”
They rolled out their blankets deep in the protecting brush, and chewed on jerky and some dried fruit for their supper.
“That’s really gold, Gates. You wouldn’t go and try to fool me,” Foster said with his mouth full.
“If that’s not gold, you can have my horse tomorrow,” Gates said. “Now we got ourselves a damn big problem. This is still Indian country. The bastards run all over here whenever they want to, Cheyenne, Sioux, and lots of Arapaho. I’ve sold to them all. But they won’t ever let us dig out this gold. What we gonna do, hire ourselves an army to get in here and work our mine, hoping that we can stay alive?”
“I ain’t got that kind of money,” Foster said as he tried to find a comfortable position on the hard ground.
“Who has any money? Anyway, we couldn’t hire enough men. The damned redskins must have near a thousand warriors in this area, all the tribes. Hell, we’d be slaughtered.”
“Maybe we could come in when the tribes go to their winter camps?” Foster suggested.
“Yeah, might. Trouble is, I’ve seen six or eight bands use the Arikaree for their winter camp. They probably will again, soon as their fall hunt is over. ” Foster growled, “Christ, you mean we know where this gold is and we can’t do a damn thing about getting it out and selling it?”
“Sounds about right. We need some idea to change the situation.”
“We could wait until settlers move into the valley and chase out the Indians.”
“Be old men by then.”
Foster chuckled. “Hey, the Army. We can sic the Army on the bastards and chase their asses right out of here.”
Gates sighed. “Yeah, they might be able to do it, but nobody tells the Army what to do. You know that from working with them. Be years before the Army gets the Sioux pushed out of this corner of Colorado Territory.”
Foster turned over on his stomach and propped his chin in his hands. “That’s it then, I reckon.”
“We think on it until morning. Maybe we’ll get an idea. If not, we dig out as much of the gold as we can and get back to civilization.”
“Without getting scalped, of course,” Foster added. They both thought about their problem as they drifted off to sleep.
Gates had been up for an hour when Byron Foster woke up the next morning. He was sore and stiff and grouchy. He sat up and rubbed his eyes, then took some of the jerky and dried fruit that Gates gave him.
“Why the hell did I ever let you talk me into this?” Foster growled.
“Because you want to get rich, too, just like me. I checked down the Arikaree. Not a sign of a redskin out there. Let’s dig off some more of that gold and get out of here while we can.”
For two hours they took turns digging into the gold vein and the harder rock around it, then figured they had about fifty pounds of the gold ore and pure gold in their canvas sack. They tied it on the back of Foster’s horse because it was stronger and started down the tributary to the Arikaree and back toward Wallace.
Toby Gates led the pair and worked slowly toward the edge of the brush so he could see down the main valley.
“Oh, damn!” Gates said, stopping suddenly. “We got company. A band of Cheyenne by the looks, moving in from the other end of the valley. Usual long line of horses and travois. Just coming in. If we stick to the brush along here we should be able to slip out before they get this far upstream.”
“ Should be able to, Gates? What happens if we don’t?”
“Target practice, I’d say, and we’re the targets.” He moved his dun to the left through more brush and away from the nearing band of Cheyenne. They worked through the brush for nearly half an hour, moving slowly upstream toward the tributary that would lead them southeast into the range of hills and away from the Cheyenne.
Then the brush ended. There was nothing but a half mile of open meadow in front of them and the creek upstream that would be their highway out of the valley.
They sat their horses at the edge of the brush, looking at the open space. Before they could comment, two warriors on ponies came galloping along the river heading upstream, directly through the area they had to cross.
“Well, damn!” Toby Gates said. He turned back into the brush and headed up the slope toward a ridgeline that was covered with trees. “Hope that critter of yours
is good at climbing hills, cause with Cheyenne all over the valley, that’s the only way we’re getting out of here alive.”
They worked slowly up the steep slopes, cutting back and forth in a zigzag trail to get to the top. The trees and brush were thick and it took them longer to make it than Gates had figured. Once over the first ridge, they struck out to the southeast and moved quicker.
“Made it, by damn!” Gates said after reaching the second ridge. “Now all we have to do is ride back to Wallace.”
That night around the campfire, they talked about their problem again. It was a stumper. Then Gates put another stick on the small fire and grinned.
“Hell, we can help convince the Army it should swing up through the Arikaree valley,” Gates said. “I got just the idea how to do it. We get the Indians so riled up, they start hitting every white eye they find.
Then the Army will have to push in there and clean them out. Hell, it’s their job to protect us innocent civilians.”
“No way to stir up the Indians without getting killed ourselves. I gave up on our gold mine about the time we spotted them Cheyenne this morning.” “Leave it up to me. I’ll do it, and you don’t even have to know about it.”
“Suits me. You got sneaky ways, Toby Gates. I’ll be partners with you in that strike, but I don’t want in on none of the sneaky stuff to get us there.” “Deal,” Gates said, shaking hands with Foster.
He knew exactly how he was going to do it. For the past year he’d known a young man in town by the name of Willy Hedbetter. A hardworking man of about thirty who had an instant flash temper.
Willy often said if any savage ever hurt him or his family, he’d take off on a campaign to shoot up every damn Indian he could find. He spelled it out one night over some beers. Said he had an old Big Fifty, a Sharps .50-100 his uncle had used to kill buffalo. He could shoot Indians from half a mile away with that gun.
Gates remembered that Willy had a brother who lived on a small ranch about ten miles out of town. Now if some Cheyennes hit that ranch and massacred everyone, it surely would set Willy off on his killing spree in retaliation. Indians would be madder than hell and start killing settlers, starting a bona fide territory war.
Cavanaugh's Island Page 2