Wolf Creek (3 page)

If the major had picked two men more likely
to do him dirty, Wil couldn't name them. Except for the sheriff and
the marshal. Some of the others in Wolf Creek had less than his
best interests at heart, too. But in the field, he depended on the
protection afforded by the captain's troopers. All Dent had to do
was pull that detachment and there might be one dead photographer
entombed in his rolling darkroom.

He hadn't worked that much to convince Short
Finger his pictures stole away souls. Would Blackfeather believe
that tall tale, too? It gave him hope of getting some leverage on
the scout. A few pictures of enemies as a peace offering might sway
the breed's opinion enough to carry on up to the captain. From all
he had seen, the scout and the cavalry officer were friends. Or at
least they were friendly. That was more than Wil was with any of
the soldiers.

"How many pictures, Major?"

"As many as it takes, sir. As many as it
takes."

Wil should have refused, but given a free
rein to glorify Major Putnam was an opportunity he couldn't pass
up. He had money in his pocket. After this expedition against the
Kiowa and the Cheyenne, he would have pockets bulging with gold
coins.

***

One of his better skills was eavesdropping
without seeming to. Sitting on the drop gate of his rolling
photographic darkroom wagon, Wilson Marsh fiddled with the camera
tripod, a small screwdriver turning back and forth but
accomplishing nothing but allowing Wil to cock his ear so the
powwow with Major Putnam and Captain Dent came through loud and
clear. The major had brought Dent to the lot south of Wil's studio
for some reason. The best he could tell, the captain was supposed
to buy supplies, but the cavalry officer had his scout with him.
That didn't ring true for buying supplies for a company as it did
the two of them wetting their whistles. More than once, Wil had
seen them at Asa Pepper's, heads together and scheming about who
knew what. They had always been wary of him, but out here in the
lot, with their commanding officer not ten feet away from Wil's
tinkering, there wasn't anywhere for them to plot in secret.

"I received a report from the fort," Putnam
said. He slapped his gloves across his left palm to emphasis how
serious the new information was.

Dent glanced toward the half-breed scout.
Charley Blackfeather stood with his arms crossed over his broad
chest. Rather than wearing Indian garb, Wil wondered why the scout
wore a cavalry trooper's jacket over a denim shirt. The canvas
trousers might have been taken off a dead prospector. Ever
vigilant, Wil identified a few dirt stains. He doubted Blackfeather
had been panning for gold along Wolf Creek. More likely he had
scooted along in the clay and gotten the white stains on his knees
from spying on the Indians that had Putnam so hot under the collar.
Charley Blackfeather sure as hell wasn't trying to pass as a white
man dressing like one.

But there was a bigger question gnawing at
him. Wil wondered what went on in the captain's head. Although his
scout showed no emotion, Charley Blackfeather's opinion of the
major was obvious in the way he stood, how his attention wandered
when he ought to have been listening. Wil hastily returned to his
screwdriver when Blackfeather's dark gaze fell on him. All it took
was a single word from the scout to the captain, and Dent would
send him on his way. Wil found himself more excited than ever at
the prospect of what was going to happen and wanted to know all
about it without the major telling him.

Spying was half the fun.

"About the Cheyenne," Dent said with no
enthusiasm.

"Yes, the interlopers. They are a danger.
They incite the Kiowa into rebellion." Major Putnam emphasized this
bit of information with a particularly hard slap of his gloves. Wil
jumped when the crack sounded like a whip above a mule team.

"So, we're launching a campaign against the
Cheyenne? Is that it, sir?" Tom Dent frowned. "I hear from the
settlers scattered all over the prairie. The band of Cheyenne
coming from Colorado had family with them. They never even stole a
sheep or cow. Gerald Grimes, a ways to the northwest of the fort,
said he was afraid at first, then sold for good money two cows and
a plow horse he was going to put down. He told my scout that he
wished the Cheyenne would settle down here."

"This Grimes fellow doesn't have a family,
does he?"

"I don't know what that's got to do with his
bartering, Major. He—"

"He had no reason to fear that his womenfolk
would be ravished."

Wil saw Blackfeather recoil at that. The
scout almost spoke, but Dent waved him to silence with a curt
gesture.

"There hasn't been word of anything of the
sort happening. The opposite, Major. They're moving with their
families. War parties are only braves and their mounts, intending
to ride far and strike fast."

"I am surprised that a man of your
experience on the frontier cannot see through the ploy, Captain."
Major Putnam stopped and faced Dent squarely. Dent never
flinched.

"What ploy is that, sir?"

Putnam turned red in the face, sputtered and
then did a sharp about-face and walked away. Over his shoulder, he
issued his order. "Arrange to pick up supplies, Captain. Then
rejoin your company and prepare to do your duty."

"What duty?" Blackfeather turned his back to
the retreating major. "What is he telling us to do?"

"Cool off, Charley. He's new to Fort
Braxton. He might not want anything more than to ride out with
trumpets blaring, have this jackass take a picture of him at the
head of the column, then ride back into the post." Dent jerked his
thumb in Wil's direction.

Being called a jackass was mild compared to
what some in town said. Such insults meant nothing to Wil. He
tossed his screwdriver into the back of his wagon, hoisted the
tripod and slid it under leather straps. With two quick yanks he
had the tripod secured so it wouldn't bounce around as they crossed
the rugged prairie. Only then did he turn to the officer and
scout.

"You got a wagon of supplies waiting for you
at Pratt's. You don't fetch them soon, Waymon's likely to take the
Army's money and sell the lot to someone else."

"That's what you'd do, Marsh." Dent came
over and shoved his face close to Wil's. "The major wants C Company
to babysit you. Once we're out on the trail, you fend for yourself.
Your wagon breaks down, that's your concern."

"Are you saying you'll have this breed
sabotage my wagon?" Wil flinched when Dent lifted a fist to poke
him in the face. Only Blackfeather's grip on the captain's wrist
kept him from getting punched.

"He's not worth the trouble, Tom."

"You're right." Dent backed away. "Get our
horses, Charley. I'll be along in a second." He turned back to Wil.
"You're all the time spying when you ought to be minding your own
business. Have you heard the major say what he expects from this
sortie?"

"He wants to see who in his command he can
trust. Can you follow orders, Captain Dent?"

The cavalry officer raised his fist again,
then dropped it. Wil had seen thunderclouds stuffed full of
lightning that looked less frightening than Dent's expression. The
officer backed away took the reins of his horse as Blackfeather
held them out, then mounted. The two trotted away, leaving Wil all
by his lonesome.

Wil knew it would take Pratt a goodly while
to load whatever the cavalry had purchased. He hitched up his
swayback horse, then climbed into the driver's box. For a moment,
he sat wondering what the hell he was riding into. Then the lure of
easy money and photographs that would grace a dozen Eastern
magazines prompted him to snap the reins and get his horse pulling.
The wagon rattled and clanked as he got it on the street. Rather
than going to the mercantile, he cut across town to the main road
going north. Dent and his supplies had to leave this way.

As Wil drove out, he saw John Hix in front
of his barber shop. There was no love lost between the two of them,
but Wil thought the barber looked especially fierce today. He stood
in the doorway of his shop, opening and closing a pair of scissors,
as if wishing he had Wil's nose between the blades.

"Top of the morning to you, John!" Wil
waved. The gesture he got in return made him laugh. Any day he got
Hix's goat was a good day, even if he had no idea what provoked the
man today.

Then he got his horse pulling a mite faster
when the cavalry wagon came tearing down the street behind him. The
major wasn't a man to be fooled with. Pratt must have had the
supplies ready by the time Dent reached the store.

A mile north of town they joined the rest of
C Company. In five, two other companies fell into line, riding fast
enough that Wil found it hard to maintain the pace. Major Putnam
was in a powerful hurry to get north. This road led toward Satanta,
but Wil guessed the goal was this side of the giant oxbow in the
Cimarron River on the south banks where Old Mountain had settled
his tribe. The major could find out from the Kiowa where the
Cheyenne were, then pay them a visit.

It wasn't likely to be a peaceable visit,
either. Wil hoped he had brought along enough photographic
plates.

***

Charley Blackfeather moved quietly along the
riverbank, his feet in the water and his belly sliding in the mud.
Occasional rocks made him wince, but the Cimarron had rubbed the
stones smooth enough for them not to leave cuts. He slid against a
fallen log and let his shadow merge with the rotting limb when two
women walked along not five feet away, chattering away about their
lovers. Charley smiled, just a little, then waited for them to get
their buckets of water and trudge back toward the main
encampment.

He flopped on the grass and wiped off as
much mud as he could. He wore moccasins. Getting the water out of
them took only a few seconds. The hide plastered itself to his feet
when he snugged them back on. It would take some time for them to
dry. By then he would have finished his scouting and have returned
to the Army encampment a mile to the south.

Moving in shadows, like a shadow himself, he
neared the settlement. Old Mountain had moved his people here a
little over a month ago and given up their traditional hunting
grounds in exchange for peace. A few fires smoldered. Some women
stirred and went about their tasks in the pre-dawn hour. Nowhere
did Charley see anything unexpected. After watching the sleepy
routine of a camp not yet awake for another day, he crept back to
the river, cut south and then fell into a ground-devouring stride
that returned him to the cavalry encampment in less than ten
minutes.

Major Putnam had ordered him out. As such,
he should report first to the commanding officer. He ought to.
Instead, he turned to where Dent had bivouacked C Company. The
captain sat by a low fire, poking it with a stick. He never looked
up as Charley neared.

"Your moccasins are wet. They make sucking
noises when you walk in the grass."

"You make sucking noises when you talk."
Charley hunkered down by the fire. The feeble warm helped dry his
clothing.

"So?"

"I saw nothing. Old Mountain's band has
settled in well. Along the bank, away from the Kiowa, a small band
of Cheyenne have pitched their camp."

"Warriors?"

"I saw only peaceable people."

"Time to report to the major." Dent got to
his feet, then froze. Charley stood and rested his hand on a knife
sheathed at his belt.

Major Putnam came from the darkness, the
commanders for A and B Companies a step behind him.

"You were ordered to report directly to me,
Mr. Blackfeather."

"Got turned around in the dark."

The two captains snickered. Putnam barked at
them to be silent.

"I trust your skill in the field exceeds
your ability to follow orders."

Charley fingered his knife, then took his
hand away. Arguing with this self-important man accomplished
nothing. The sooner he gave his report, the sooner they could
return to the fort or even go out on patrol and do some good. Dent
had mentioned a gang of road agents sighted over Ulysses way.

"Sir, you're here now. Charley can let us
all know what he found." Tom Dent nudged Blackfeather.

"I saw no sign of hostiles. The Cheyenne are
near the Kiowa settlement."

"What do you mean you saw no hostiles?"
Putnam spoke with a slow, cold stream of words. "Were the braves
preparing for a raid?"

"I saw nothing of that. If anything, the
camp was empty of braves." He related what he had overheard of the
two young women talking of their lovers.

"So, they are not in camp?"

"It wouldn't seem that they are, sir," Dent
said.

"That means they are out raiding."

Charley started to speak, then clamped his
mouth shut. Even Dent was struck speechless.

"That's it. They are out marauding. This
gives us the perfect opportunity to quell their rebellious
spirits."

"That's a mighty good line, Major." Wilson
Marsh came over, scratching himself. He yawned wide. "Mind if I use
that as a caption for a photograph?"

"Shut your mouth, Marsh." Dent interposed
himself between the photographer and commanding officer. "Sir,
Charley didn't mean that the men were out raiding. They could be
hunting."

"Oh, yes, they're hunting. I know it. I feel
it." Major Putnam thumped his belly. "Instincts, Captain. They are
away from their camp taking scalps."

"Old Mountain signed a treaty. He gave up
the warpath and his hunting grounds for our protection. We're
supposed to protect the Kiowa, sir."

"Captain, you are out of line. The presence
of the Cheyenne shows an unholy alliance has been forged. They will
murder women and children in their sleep."