Wolf Creek (4 page)

"The Kiowa might have done that before. Not
now," Charley said. "I know Old Mountain. He keeps his word."

"Your report has been received, Mr.
Blackfeather." Major Putnam stepped away so he could address all
his officers at the same time. "Gentlemen, prepare for battle. A
Company will ride directly through the settlement. B Company will
come up from the south and prevent escape any way except across the
river." He fixed his pale eyes on Dent. "C Company will circle
about, and attack the Cheyenne from the east." He glanced at
Charley, then back. "Is that understood?"

The other two captains agreed. Putnam pushed
Charley to one side and shoved his face within inches of Dent's.
"Are my orders clear, Captain Dent?"

"No, sir, they aren't. I want your orders in
writing."

"Very well, Captain."

"What about me, Major? I can't get my wagon
around to keep up with Captain Dent's troopers."

"Remain here, Mr. Marsh, until the fighting
is over."

"What fighting's that, Major?" Charley tried
to get an answer, but the officer spun about and walked away with
the other two company commanders. Charley turned to Dent. "What
fighting, Tom?"

"There's not going to be any. We'll wait for
his written orders, then get ourselves into position. When the
major sees there's no resistance, he'll back off."

Charley Blackfeather silently went to get
his horse. Dent had more faith in the major than he did.

***

"With the major's regards, sir. Your
orders." The private handed Captain Dent a folded sheet of
paper.

"As you were, soldier." He returned the
private's salute and pulled open the orders. He held it up to get a
better look at the cribbed writing in the darkness. Dent finally
took out a match, struck it and read quickly before he burned the
tip of his fingers.

"What's it say?"

Charley Blackfeather had watched the private
approach. From the expression on the youngster's face, he knew the
contents of the orders. The private had likely read them on his way
from the major. Or he might have heard Major Putnam discussing his
plans with the other two company commanders.

"Crazy, Charley, this is pure craziness. The
major's been eating loco weed to want us to do this."

"Attack?" Charley saw the horror on the
captain's face and knew the answer. He had known it from the
instant Putnam left them an hour earlier.

"No quarter. We shoot anyone opposing
us."

"That means shoot anyone moving. This is
going to be slaughter."

"We don't know that," Dent said. "I might be
reading this wrong. The major's writing isn't too clear." Charley
heard no confidence in the man's denial. "We do a long curve to the
south, come up and keep the Cheyenne from joining battle with the
Kiowa."

"Battle." Charley spat. "Isn't he going to
powwow with Old Mountain?"

"He must. He has to know how Vine has
struggled to get the treaty with the Kiowa. But what's he going to
palaver about? The Kiowa haven't done anything. I don't understand
what we're doing here."

"That's not a good way to start a campaign.
Might be to your benefit to ask for the major to explain
better."

Charley looked at Wilson Marsh strolling up.
The photographer looked from him to Captain Dent.

"Maybe I can shed some light on this,
Captain." Marsh held up a lantern.

Charley saw a dozen emotions flow across
Dent's face, none of them reflecting confidence in his orders.

"I interpret his orders for us to watch over
the Cheyenne camp while the major deals with Old Mountain." Dent
tucked the page away into his jacket without actually reading the
orders again in better light.

Charley started to protest, but Dent cut him
off with a hard look.

"Get into your wagon and wait for the major
to give you further orders. Do you understand that, Marsh?"

"I do, Captain. I'll get my equipment
ready."

"For what?" Charley felt his belly knot up.
It sounded as if Major Putnam had told the photographer more than
he did his company commanders. "Why are you here at all?"

"Don't get your dander up," Marsh said. "I'm
just like you boys, doing what I'm told."

Silence fell. In the distance came faint
hoofbeats as A and B Companies began movement. Dent looked straight
ahead, took a deep breath that Charley thought was going to get
held until the man exploded, then, "Sergeant Holmes! Mount the
troop."

A distant, "right away, sir," came the
sergeant's acknowledgment. Charley wanted to argue with Dent but
knew it would do no good. Orders were orders, and Dent was a good
soldier. Still, Charley knew that Dent had risked his career
several years earlier by refusing to participate in the massacre at
Sand Creek. Maybe the captain was just refusing to recognize that
such a thing could happen twice.

C Company galloped hard away from the camp,
circling south and coming into position so the Cheyenne were pinned
into place by the river. They either swam or stood their
ground.

"Form a skirmish line, Sergeant, and do not
advance. Our mission is to contain the Cheyenne—" Dent bit off his
orders when a fusillade came from the Kiowa camp. Hot on the heels
came a new volley and the thunder of hooves.

"They're shooting." Charley glanced toward
the far horizon. The sun barely poked up to announce a new day. The
Kiowa would still be asleep.

"Charley, go see that's what's
happening."

He put his heels to his horse and rocketed
toward the Kiowa settlement. Head down, he rode until his horse
faltered from the pace, but he had to reach the major. If
necessary, he'd cut the man's throat to stop the attack. And attack
it was. A new round of firing came. All the reports came from
cavalry carbines. His keen ear strained to hear any discordant
sound that showed the Kiowa fought back. Every new thunderclap of
firing spoke only of carbines.

The smell of gunpowder and dust reached him
before he got to the village.

He saw how Major Putnam had carried out the
attack. A Company rode through, firing, creating disorder. Once at
the far side of the settlement, they wheeled about, reloaded and
waited for B Company to sweep through, picking off the Kiowa poking
out of their tepees. He struggled to find the A Company commander
to stop him for racing back through the Kiowa. He was too late. The
company whooped and hollered and fired at anything moving. Women,
children, it didn't matter. The third pass through wiped out most
of the Indians.

A fourth pass, the second by B Company,
would have been useless. The Kiowa village had turned into a ghost
town—into a bloody graveyard.

"Captain Stewart, break off your attack.
They're surrendering. Look!" Charley pointed to an old brave coming
out of a tepee, dragging his left leg and waving a white flag.

Charley exploded in rage as a soldier
galloped past the Indian, firing as he rode. One bullet broke the
flagpole. Another robbed the old man of his life. He crumpled to
the ground, kicking feebly. Charley swung his fist and connected
with the soldier's arm. The soldier, off balance, tumbled from the
saddle and landed hard. Riding past, Charley wheeled about as the
soldier got to his feet. A second pass and a kick knocked the
soldier to the ground again.

Then a new threat reared its head. Captain
Stewart bellowed for his men to keep riding east toward the
Cheyenne village. The Kiowa were defeated. It was time to duplicate
this dubious victory elsewhere.

After scouting earlier, Charley knew the
quickest route to the Cheyenne village. His horse faltered from
being pushed to the limit of endurance but gamely kept galloping
through the dark. This heart brought about the horse's demise. The
right hoof sank into a mud hole and caught on a tree root. Charley
somersaulted over the horse's head and landed hard along the
riverbank. The shrill whines told him his horse's fate before he
regained his senses and went to the animal. The leg had been damned
near torn off.

A quick knife slash across the horse's neck
sent dark blood gesyering. A part of the spray caught a beam of
light filtering through the trees. Bright red amid the black. But
it was all blood.

The sounds from the Cheyenne village sent
him running as hard as he could. Sporadic gunfire convinced him the
Cheyenne had been warned by the sounds of slaughter among the Kiowa
and had brought out their weapons. Mingled with the ragged fire he
heard Captain Stewart order his men to halt. Killing defenseless
men, women and children was one thing. Fighting against aroused
Indians was another.

Panting harshly, Charley reached the edge of
the Cheyenne camp. He saw that he was right. The warriors formed in
such a way that any frontal attack would be met with a wall of
lead. His heart sank when he saw that Captain Stewart charged
straight into the rifles. Whether he only followed orders or
couldn't see the ambush in the dim morning light was a poser.

The first charge through the Cheyenne camp
went poorly for the horse soldiers. But Stewart regrouped and
charged back through. This time he joined a squad from B Company.
With such relentless attacks, the Cheyenne stood no chance.

The soldiers began another assault. Coming
from a tepee not a dozen yards away, Charley saw a young woman
stumble out. She fell to her knees and caught herself on one hand
as she looked up at a soldier bearing down on her, carbine ready to
fire. Not even thinking what he was doing, Charley scooped up a
rock and flung it with all his strength. The rock missed the
soldier but hit his horse. The impact caused the horse to shy,
throwing off the trooper's aim. His bullet kicked up a tiny dust
devil a few inches away from the Cheyenne girl.

Charley yelled in Kiowa for her to run. She
got to her feet and stared at him, as if she didn't understand. He
closed the distance. She saw his clothing more clearly as he
reached her. She grabbed for a knife at her belt. He batted it
away, circled her waist with a strong left arm and swung her around
off her feet. Together, they staggered along, she trying to get her
feet under her and Charley striving to keep moving away from a new
pass of bluecoats through the encampment.

He switched from Kiowa to Creek. She shook
her head. He knew a few words of Cheyenne but hesitated to utter
them. They were all curse words. Then he uttered them, pointed
toward the soldiers, and this calmed her. She understood.

He herded her toward the river, hunting for
a raft or canoe to get her to safety on the other side. The
Cimarron flowed too swiftly to swim, but that might be her only way
to get away alive. Already the sharp crack of carbines died down.
There was no answering fire from the Cheyenne.

"Can you swim across?" He pointed. She shook
her head. Using sign language, he hastily told her what had
happened.

"You are not one of them?" Her fingers flew
like small birds, delicate and sure.

"I am Blackfeather."

"I am Little Spring."

She continued signing. He sucked in his
breath when he realized how lucky Putnam had been—and how unlucky
the Cheyenne and Kiowa had been. Little Spring's father and a large
band of braves had left with the Kiowa. If they had been in the
camp, Putnam would have lost most of his soldiers after the first
sneak attack.

"Are you with them?" She repeated her
question.

Charley tried to explain how his friend Tom
Dent refused to attack—he hoped that was so—but this was not a
sanctuary for her. The only hope she had was to get away from those
who remained in her camp and find her father and others in her
tribe.

He considered swimming the river, pulling
her behind. Then he realized this wasn't possible. A rider
approached from the camp. The glint of sunlight off brass warned
that a trooper come to clean up any who might have escaped.

"Got one, Trooper!" Charley pushed Little
Spring to the ground, uttered another Cheyenne curse, glanced
toward the soldier and then hoped she understood what he intended.
When she sat and glared at the approaching soldier, he knew there
was a chance.

"You the ʼbreed what rides with Captain
Dent?"

"Come on over and take her prisoner."

"Now, Mr. Half-breed, them's not the major's
orders. He—"

The soldier guided his horse into position
so he could shoot Little Spring. Charley moved like an attacking
cougar. He wrapped his arms around the soldier's waist. His upward
leap unseated the trooper. Charley grunted as he fell belly down
over the saddle, then writhed like a snake to get over the horse's
back and land atop the soldier. Before the bluecoat recovered from
the unexpected assault, Charley's hard fist drove squarely into his
temple. Without even a sigh, the soldier fell back, knocked
out.

Swinging around on his knees, Charley
grabbed and caught a dangling rein. He was jerked to his feet but
snared the second.

"Get up. Ride!" He thrust the reins toward
Little Spring. She hesitated, then took them and lithely
mounted.

Astride the Army horse, she looked at
Charley. For a moment their eyes locked. Then she said, in English,
"Thank you." Leaning to the side, she turned the horse's face and
galloped along the riverbank. Charley wondered how much more
English she knew; once she started responding to the sign language
he had given it no further thought. He waited until she was out of
sight before stepping over the fallen soldier and going to hunt for
his own horse.

***

The stench of death made Wilson Marsh's nose
twitch and drip. He wiped the snot off on his sleeve as he worked.
The strong burnt odor bothered him, too, but that was only from the
tepees and belongings set ablaze by the soldiers. With a quick look
around, he stepped away from the tripod and shoveled as much of the
beadwork and blankets as he could into a large gunny sack. Selling
this wouldn't bring him as much as the loot he had traded for with
Short Finger, but it would bring him a tidy sum in addition to what
the major paid for the photographs.