Cavanaugh's Island

by Robert Vaughan

  The troops rode out of the ranch about an hour later, heading for the Harding ranch to pick up Lieutenant O’Hara and his twenty-four men, who had seen no action. They all rode back for the base together.

  “I missed it!” Lieutenant O’Hara blurted when he found out about the attack.

  Cavanaugh laughed. “You’ll have plenty of chances to get your hands bloody, O’Hara. They just happened to come our way this time. Luck of the draw.”

  “Then, I’m asking for a re-deal,” Lieutenant O’Hara said and grinned.

  Captain Cavanaugh chuckled. The kid was going to be just fine. He was thinking of putting him in charge of a special group that would get out of the fort quickly to answer Indian raids. Quick Ride. He liked the sound of that. Supply them with minimum equipment so they could move fast and hit hard. Plenty of ammunition, no excess baggage. He’d talk to the major about it.

  They reached the fort before dark, in time for mess call. Captain Cavanaugh sat down beside Lieutenant O’Hara.

  “I’ve got an idea I want to talk to you about, O’Hara. It’s called Quick Ride.” He went on to lay out the basic idea, and the young lieutenant had an idea or two that fit into the captain’s plans.

  Later the talk turned to the fight.

  “Have you ever seen Lieutenant Winchester flinch in battle? You’ve been with him on a couple of fights before, as I recall.” Captain Cavanaugh watched the lieutenant closely.

  O’Hara looked up quickly. “I’m sorry, sir, I really can’t answer that question. If there’s any behavior I think is putting the troop in jeopardy, I’ll be sure to let you know about it.”

  Captain Cavanaugh nodded and Tim got up and excused himself. The captain wondered what it was he had seen in Winchester’s face today. Was it stark fear, or just a queasy stomach, or was it something deeper? He wasn’t sure. The way Tim had looked when he’d asked him about Winchester had told Captain Cavanaugh a lot.

  Lieutenant Winchester would bear some watching in the weeks to come. Some damn close watching.

  10

  Every working morning at the fort, the executive officer, Captain Cavanaugh, had a conference with Major Owensby. This morning they looked at the morning report, noting again that they were just a little over half strength on men and ten percent better than that on officers.

  “In Chicago, they told me not to expect any more troops or officers,” Major Owensby said. “Still can’t get used to it, but this is field operations, so I guess I should. What else have we got?”

  Cavanaugh went over to the wall map and studied it. Major Owensby had put a new red tack on the board at the Hendersons’ to show where the last Indian raid had been.

  “If those Cheyenne came from the south fork of the Republican River, they rode sixty miles to get to that ranch,” Cavanaugh remarked. “One old Tonkawa scout we used to have told me he knew of raiding parties that would ride four-hundred miles to make a raid, then turn around and rush right back to the home camp.”

  Major Owensby lifted his odd plumed hat from the corner of his desk and put it on. Today he wore a private’s shell jacket and sergeant’s striped sky-blue regulation pants, and a thick plaid shirt. He grinned and sipped at a fresh cup of coffee. His beard was getting longer.

  “Cavanaugh, you’re setting me up for a pitch about how we need to make longer patrols, right? So go ahead and tell me about it.”

  “It’s time we take the offensive, Major. We’re authorized to retaliate after raids, but the orders also say that we need to maintain the safety of the Smoky Hill trail into Denver, and the well-being of the settlers.

  “We need some scouting reports, but we can’t send one or two men into that territory and expect to see them alive again. What I think we should do is send a large patrol, say two troops, up toward the Republican. It would be a show of force. We wouldn’t necessarily look for a fight, but we could let the damned savages know we’re ready and waiting for them. We might be able to send out some of our Crow scouts to see what the villages and camps of hostiles up in there are doing. Whether they’re settled in for the winter, getting ready for a fall buffalo hunt, or on the move.”

  Major Owensby lit a long black cigar and puffed it until it glowed red at the tip. He leaned back in his chair. “Trouble with you, Cavanaugh, is you never allow a man any room to argue. You throw up so many good reasons, a man is hard put to find a reason to say no. Hell, yes, let’s give it a try. Take whichever troops you want to. You seem partial to Able.”

  “It’s got a lot of good men in it, and I have some special plans for them that I want to talk to you about later. What I want to set up is a Quick Ride team, about thirty troopers, two sergeants, and two officers, who can be in the saddle and off post fifteen minutes after we get an alert of an Indian attack.”

  “How you gonna work that? Fifteen minutes?”

  “We’ve got some ideas, Lieutenant O’Hara and I. My suggestion is that we take A and F troops on this patrol and leave just after noon mess call today.”

  “Why the long delay?”

  In the outer office, Major Owensby sent runners to the two troop orderly rooms and the machinery swung into gear. The quartermaster would issue ten pounds of salt pork and hardtack for each trooper. There would be no supply wagon. The men would fall out for troop inspection at 1 P.M.

  Captain Cavanaugh led the patrol. Lieutenants Winchester and O’Hara were with A troop, and First Lieutenant George Immelman led F troop.

  When the two troops rode out they made a long column of fours as they wound across the high prairie to the west. They would generally follow the Smoky Hill River for about twenty-five miles, then slant northwest and cross the north fork of the Smoky Hill, heading for the south fork of the Republican River.

  The Arikaree the old trapper had talked about was another thirty miles north of the headwaters of that branch of the Republican. There wouldn’t be time to get all the way up there on this patrol. Maybe on the next one.

  Everything was normal during that first afternoon’s ride. They had five Crow scouts along. Captain Cavanaugh had the head scout, Eagle Feather, ride with him. They talked about the chances of two scouts hunting on a patrol like this across this country, to feed a patrol of thirty men. The old scout grinned. “Bow and arrow?” “Sometimes. Well, far away from the hostiles it could be your carbine.”

  At last they agreed that two Crow hunters could supply the men with enough meat for one good meal a day. Cavanaugh smiled.

  “Good, now take another scout and go out and show me what you can do. I want pheasant or grouse or even a jackrabbit for my supper tonight.” The Indian scout laughed, delighted, and rode off toward the second scout in the trio stretched out ahead of the main party.

  That night Cavanaugh and the other three officers ate roasted rabbit and fried prairie chicken along with their hardtack. Lieutenant Immelman was married and his wife always sent him out on patrol with sandwiches and a loaf of bread. He brought out the loaf and cut it into four large slabs, and the men had a feast.

  The column began riding at daybreak the next day, heading northwest around the back side of Sunflower Mountain toward the north fork of the Smoky Hill River. They rode hard and made good time. They had a noon break on the banks of the Smoky Hill and then headed for the south fork of the Republican.

  The sky was Kansas high that afternoon, soft fleecy clouds drifting far up in the blue. The sun was warm even though it was September, and the men rode in good spirits. Eagle Feather had two of his men out hunting, and Captain Cavanaugh had cautioned them that now they must use only bows and arrows, no firearms.

  In the late afternoon, the lead scout came racing back and spoke to Eagle Feather, who rode at once to Captain Cavanaugh at the head of the column.

  “Sioux ahead. About forty. No women or children. Look like raiding party.”

  “What direction?”

  “Riding straight at us.”

  Captain Cavanaugh looked around for some cover. There wasn’t a creek or brus
h line or gully within two miles.

  “How far away?”

  “Half of one mile.”

  His men were riding up a small rise. Once over the top they would be able to see the Indians — and the Indians would see them.

  “Form a company front, both troops on line,” Captain Cavanaugh said to his sergeant. “No bugle, pass the word. Do it now.”

  Shortly, the 110 men spread out across the prairie with the horses shoulder to shoulder as they walked slowly forward. Soon they came to the end of the rise and Captain Cavanaugh halted the patrol and rode ahead to peer in front of them.

  He saw the Indian party casually walking their mounts forward across the high plains. He would allow them to get within fifty yards of the rise, then act.

  When the hostiles reached his action point, Captain Cavanaugh moved his troops forward to the crest of the rise where the Indians could see them.

  For a moment everything seemed frozen, then the Indians charged.

  “Fire!” Captain Cavanaugh ordered. He motioned to his trumpeter to be ready. After the Spencers had spat out four rounds each, he called to the bugler, “Sound charge!”

  The bugle call echoed across the high prairie and the cavalrymen surged forward, the outer ends of the line bending inward, every man shooting whatever he had that would fire. Men reloaded their Spencers on the gallop. Others put away their long guns and drew their six-guns, waiting for a target.

  In the first volley of fire, two of the hostiles went down and two horses were hit, rearing and throwing their riders. The Indians galloped forward and to the side, a few even turning to retreat not liking the two-to-one odds. The masses of the two sides came together in a screaming melee of pistols firing, horses bellowing, and men falling off mounts.

  Lieutenant Winchester flinched as the battle started. He had surged forward, but Lieutenant O’Hara had been watching him. Halfway there he had slowed and then turned to the side and rode behind the troops, away from the battle.

  As the forces met, a dozen Indians broke through the single line of blue, and now two of the Indians raced after the single officer riding slowly away.

  Lieutenant O’Hara saw them and flashed after them, killing one with his Spencer and riding down the second one just as he was drawing his bow to fire at Lieutenant Winchester’s back. He knocked the rider off his horse and fired three shots with his revolver, killing the hostile. O’Hara returned to the main fight, killed another Indian, and took an arrow in the shoulder before the fight was over.

  Captain Cavanaugh put down one of the Sioux, then suffered an arrow in his mount’s rib cage. The animal slowed to a walk, then crumpled. He drew his Spencer and fired twice with his pistol as a Sioux charged toward him on his pony. The first slug grazed the redman’s shoulder, the second thundered into his forehead and erupted through the top of his head with a large portion of his skull. Horses screamed, men bellowed. Pistols blasted, and now and then a Spencer or Sharps carbine barked. The wings of the line had folded in, nearly surrounding the smaller force. Now the Indians began their retreat, driving for the hole in the north end of the blue wall.

  Lieutenant O’Hara yelled at half a dozen of his men and they surged toward the open space, cutting off four warriors who had run out of arrows and advanced with long lances tipped with steel. One cavalryman laughed at a redskin warrior, but he took too long to fire his pistol and when he pulled the trigger, it misfired. An instant later, the three- inch-wide steel blade, four inches long and backed by a ten-foot-long shaft, daggered into the private’s chest, smashed two ribs, and drove all the way through his heart and right lung. The trooper clung to his horse a moment in death, then slid off to the side.

  The Sioux who had thrown the lance started to flee, but O’Hara shot him as he surged past, then chased two more Sioux who were galloping away. Their small, fresher Indian ponies were faster than his heavier cavalry mount, and soon Lieutenant O’Hara returned to the main battle scene Blood ran down his left arm, which hung limply by his side. The arrow still stuck in his upper arm.

  Now most of the action was over. One more warrior rode off the side of his horse, giving no target to two amazed cavalrymen as he galloped away to the north. The cavalrymen milled around, most of them on horses, some leading their mounts. Two men huddled over a friend who had been shot with an arrow.

  “Where’s the troop doctor?” one of the troopers called out.

  “Corporal Foland! Front and center, now!” O’Hara shouted. The trooper with the oversized pack and a shoulder bag ran up and saluted. “Get all . the wounded in one spot so you can figure out which ones to treat first,” O’Hara ordered.

  “Yes, sir.” Corporal Foland drew his pistol and fired it twice in the air. In the resulting stillness he called out, “Wounded over here, now! Those who can’t walk, sing out and I’ll come see you.” He turned to the officer. “Sir, I better take care of that arrow now.”

  “Do the men first, Corporal.”

  “Let me decide that, Lieutenant. You’re bleeding too much. Step down here, please.”

  Lieutenant O’Hara shrugged and stepped off his mount, then almost fell, but the corporal caught him. He sat the officer down and cut open his shirt. The arrow had gone all the way through the fleshy outer part of his arm. The corporal notched the arrow shaft with his knife, then broke it in half. The motion of the arrow shaft brought a yelp from Lieutenant O’Hara. Then, so fast the officer hardly felt it, the corporal pulled the broken shaft through the wound. He wrapped the officer’s arm quickly with a long roll of bandage from his bag.

  “Should keep you for a couple of days, sir,” Foland said and moved to the next man in the line of wounded.

  Three more troopers walked up, one limping, two others holding shot-up arms.

  Captain Cavanaugh watched the scene for a minute, then looked for Sergeant York. “Sergeant, give me a casualty report.”

  “Yes, sir,” York said and hurried around to find sergeants to report on their squads.

  Captain Cavanaugh counted three troopers dead on the field. Lieutenant Immelman rode up. Cavanaugh looked at him.

  “Immelman, find your top sergeant and have him check to be sure that all of the hostiles are dead. We don’t want any surprises.”

  Then the captain looked for Lieutenant Winchester. He had not noticed him in the battle. For a moment he wondered if he was one of the dead, until he saw him standing beside his horse at the far edge of the battleground, looking out across the prairie. Cavanaugh walked over and cleared his throat.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Winchester didn’t turn. “Yes, sir.”

  “Was it bad?”

  “Yes, sir ... it ... it was bad.”

  “What happened?”

  “So many died. Killed. It hit me hard, sir.”

  “Happens to all of us now and again. You’ll feel better tomorrow. Just stay here until I figure out what we’re going to do.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Cavanaugh walked back to the center of the battlefield. Things were getting organized. Some sergeants called their squads to fall in and report casualties. Some took a quick roundup report. A Crow scout came back and reported through Eagle Feather that he had followed the Sioux for four miles. They were still moving north. They probably would come back for their dead after dark. “Sir,” Immelman said, returning, “we found fourteen dead hostiles. There are four dead Indian ponies and three dead army mounts. I’ve sent out two men to round up some of the Indian ponies. We can use them to transport our own dead back to camp and let their horses be used by troopers. I’ll bring the first army mount I can find to replace yours.”

  “Good, Lieutenant. Stay around a minute.” Sergeant Long came up and saluted. Captain Cavanaugh returned the salute.

  “Sir, in both troops we have four dead, three severely wounded. One of those critical, the medic says. There are six walking wounded who can ride. That includes Lieutenant O’Hara with an arm wound.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant.” He
dismissed the man and turned to find Eagle Feather. “How far to a camping spot by a stream?”

  Eagle Feather scowled a moment, stood in his stirrups and looked to the north, then south. “Two miles south and to the east.”

  “Send two men to check it out quickly.” The Crow turned and waved at one of his men and they rode south together at a gallop.

  Captain Cavanaugh pulled a silver-pocket watch out of his sky-blue pants and opened the face. It was 3:32 P.M. He estimated that the actual battle with the Sioux had lasted about four, perhaps five minutes.

  “Lieutenant Immelman, assemble the troops in marching formation and let’s see what we have left. Oh, and get me that mount.”

  One of the sergeants hurried up with an army mount for Captain Cavanaugh. The captain wiped blood off the saddle and mounted. In their preparation to move on, the men had to tie the four dead troopers over the captured Indian ponies. The ponies were tied together in one lead line held by a sergeant who took charge on their way back to camp. The troopers whose army mounts had been killed took the mounts of the dead men and joined their place in the troop.

  A fifth trooper died as the men stood in formation. His body was loaded on a pony and added to the sergeant’s lead line. Captain Cavanaugh rode over to where Corporal Foland sat beside one of the seriously wounded. Foland stood and motioned to the captain a few feet away.

  “Sir, Wilson can’t ride. If we move him even on a travois, he’s going to die. Maybe two hours, maybe three. I’ll stay here with him. The other man is Morales. He can stand a travois. Could you have somebody make one at that brush line over there and send it back for an Indian pony to pull?”

  “Sergeant Foland, I certainly can. You just earned another stripe. Congratulations. I’ll leave four men here for your company and protection. We should get a travois back before dark. If we don’t, build a fire out of sage or grass so we can find you.”