Trial at Fort Keogh Page 2

  “The other two are runnin’!” Ben called out from a bank of brambles no more than thirty feet ahead of Clint. He struggled to free himself from the clutches of the berry bushes as Clint ran by him in pursuit of the two escaping hostiles.

  Dodging another stampeding cow, Clint arrived at the slope where the Indian ponies had been left for the night. He was a few seconds too late to get off another clear shot, but he took the shot anyway, knowing there was little chance he would hit either of the hostiles as they galloped out of sight along the bluffs. He chambered another round but didn’t fire again as Ben came huffing and puffing up behind him.

  “Didja hit anything?” Ben blurted excitedly.

  “No, they got away,” Clint said, and eased the hammer down on his rifle, still staring into the darkness where he had last seen the fleeing Indians. He turned back to Ben then. “I thought you’d got shot back there when I yelled and you didn’t answer.”

  “I couldn’t,” Ben replied. “That son of a bitch woulda shot at me again. You musta hit him when you throwed those shots at him. I wish to hell I’da knowed you got him. I wouldn’ta jumped in them damn berry bushes. They like to tore me up tryin’ to get out of ’em.”

  “You lost your hat,” Clint said.

  “Well, I reckon so,” Ben replied indignantly. “I’da lost more’n that if that bastard had aimed a hair lower.”

  “We’d better check on the ones we shot,” Clint said. “It looks like those last two are long gone.”

  They found a hostile lying on the slope down by the river bluffs, still alive, although mortally wounded. Noticing the two wounds, Ben jokingly complained, “You shoulda told me you was aimin’ at that one and I’da aimed at one of the other two.”

  The wounded warrior appeared to be unconscious at first, but he suddenly began to chant his death song, his voice strained and hoarse from the pain. Ben let him rasp out a few minutes of it before he silenced him with a round from his Colt handgun. “I reckon he sang enough to get him ready to meet Man Above,” he said.

  The next order of business was to find the one who had taken the first shot at Ben. It appeared that Clint had hit him with a lucky shot, because no more shots had come from the trees, but they didn’t know that for sure. Both men were aware of the possibility that he could even then be getting in a position to fire at them again.

  With that thought in mind, Ben said, “We’d better get the hell outta this clearin’.” Clint quickly agreed and they went back into the trees, where they split up to approach the spot from which the first muzzle flashes were seen. They closed in on it, ready to fire if suddenly confronted, until Ben called out, “Over here! I found him.” He waited for Clint beside a body lying at the base of a large cottonwood. He had apparently been killed instantly by a shot to the chest.

  “Well, that was a pretty good shot, considerin’ I couldn’t see what I was shootin’ at,” Clint said.

  “I don’t know,” Ben japed. “I counted three shots, so you missed him twice.”

  They then went back to the campfire, where they found the third body lying in the same spot where he had dropped when Clint shot him as he scrambled out of his blanket.

  * * *

  There was not enough light to see by, so they decided they might as well camp there for the night. Thinking it unwise, however, to take advantage of the fire already built, they chose a spot farther along the bluffs. They left the bodies where they were, planning to look them over in the morning. They each spent the night alternating watches while the other man tried to sleep, and guarded against the possibility of an avenging attack by the two survivors.

  With dawn’s light, they were able to confirm that the Indians they had killed were guilty of the Sample family’s murders. A long-haired blond scalp was evidence enough for that. But there was also a Henry rifle with the initials LS carved into the stock. In addition, they found several items of clothing and tools obviously belonging to the family. It was enough to assuage the consciences of both men that they had not randomly murdered innocent men. Ben found his hat close to the bank of bushes where he had taken refuge. It had two neat holes near the top of the crown where the bullet passed through.

  “Damn,” he complained, “I just bought that hat four years ago in Ogallala. It ain’t even broke in good.” Looking to make the best of a bad situation, he took an eagle feather that had been braided into the locks of the Indian who had put the holes in his hat. He inserted the feather through the two holes, held it up to look at the effect, then said, “I kinda like that. Maybe I’ve got his big medicine now.”

  “Big Chief Hawkins,” Clint grunted sarcastically. “I expect we’d best round those cows up and head ’em back with the others. Charley and the boys probably wonder if the Indians got us.” They had already discussed the possibility of trying to track the two surviving warriors but decided it would most likely be a waste of time and effort.

  “How ’bout after we eat some breakfast?” Ben asked, reminding Clint that they had not eaten since noon the day before. “There’s a load of fresh meat here already butchered that we might as well cook up. We can take the rest of it back to the boys when we drive the cows in. Cold as it is, it’ll still be a while before it turns bad.”

  “That sounds good to me,” Clint said. “I’ve got a little bit of coffee in my saddlebag that I didn’t use yesterday.”

  He was short on supplies because he had planned to ride back to the ranch the previous night, before they had found the slaughtered steer. Other than the usual meeting with Randolph Valentine every Monday, Clint didn’t usually check in with his boss. But now there was the matter of reporting the fight with the Sioux raiders. Clint supposed that the army should be notified and they would most likely send out a patrol to try to run down the two hostiles who got away. He decided he’d better go straight back to the ranch to talk to Valentine and let Ben drive the six head of cattle they found back to join the herd.

  “What about those Injun ponies?” Ben asked. There were only two. They assumed that the missing horses had probably galloped off after the two Indians.

  “We’ll load that beef on the one that was totin’ it,” Clint said. “I’ll take the bridle offa that other one and let him decide what he wants to do. Most likely he’ll follow that one totin’ the meat.”

  * * *

  It was a little before noon when Clint rode up to the barn, dismounted, and pulled his saddle off Sam. He led the horse into the corral before taking the bridle off and letting him go free. Hank Haley walked out of the barn to greet him.

  “Heard about your little set-to with them Sioux murderers,” Hank said. “Heard you and Ben went after ’em.”

  “Is that so?” Clint replied, a little surprised. He had expected to get back to the ranch before any of the crew riding night herd.

  “Yeah, Charley sent Jody on in to tell Mr. Valentine,” Hank explained. “Did you catch up with ’em?”

  “Yep, we caught ’em,” Clint said, “but a couple of ’em got away.”

  “Mr. Valentine said to tell you to come straight up to the house as soon as you showed up.”

  “I’m on my way,” Clint said, “soon as I take care of my saddle.” He picked up the saddle, grabbed his bridle and saddle blanket with his free hand, and headed toward the tack room.

  “I coulda took that for you,” Hank volunteered, though Clint was already entering the barn. “Mr. Valentine said as soon as you got back,” he reminded him.

  “I won’t be but a minute,” Clint said. “I’ll tell the boss you told me.”

  He continued on to the tack room. For some reason Clint could never understand, Hank, a simple soul, seemed to always think he was on the verge of being fired. He apparently never realized that, if it became necessary, Clint would most likely be the one doing the firing. If he had to guess, he would say that Hank was insecure because of his age, and the fact that he was
used more around the ranch instead of working the cattle with the rest of the crew.

  As far as Clint was concerned, Hank served a useful purpose. He was a helping short of a full portion of brains, and more than a little gullible, but he did his job in a willing and cheerful manner. And as long as Clint was satisfied with Hank’s work, Valentine wouldn’t bother to question it.

  Leaving the barn, Clint headed for the kitchen door at the back of the sprawling ranch house with its wide porch that wrapped around three sides of the structure. Ben always referred to it as “the royal palace.” Clint had to admit it was a bit overdone, since it housed only three people: the boss; his daughter, Hope; and a Crow cook and housekeeper named Rena. Valerie Valentine, Randolph’s wife, had died the winter before last when a fever took her.

  Princess Hope, as Ben referred to Valentine’s daughter when she wasn’t present, was the lady of the house now. Ben’s title for her was not mean-spirited, for he genuinely liked the young lady. In truth, Hope was highly regarded by all the hands of the Double-V-Bar. The fact that she was also easy on the eyes gave her the look of a real princess. She was held in high regard, however, primarily because she didn’t act like a princess.

  At any rate, she was the apple of her father’s eye and his most precious possession. Clint was not immune to the young lady’s charms, and he caught himself thinking thoughts of fantasy from time to time. But he quickly stifled them, reminding himself of his station in her life. There had been occasions when he was almost convinced that she might have special feelings for him, in spite of the fact that she had entertained a young second lieutenant, recently transferred to Fort Keogh, almost every Sunday over the last four months. Thinking of it was enough to cause Clint to frown. Hope mischievously refused to give any hints of the seriousness of her interest in the young officer. Consequently Clint remained a respectful friend of his boss’s daughter. She happened to be in the kitchen when he knocked on the door.

  “Hello, Clint,” Hope greeted him when she opened the door. “We heard about the trouble you and Ben were in last night. Thank goodness you both are all right.” She paused to be sure. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Clint replied playfully. “You know I’m not gonna take a chance on gettin’ myself shot. I let Ben take all the chances.” He gave her a broad smile. “Ben’s all right, but his hat got shot, two holes right through the crown.”

  Hope laughed with him, knowing him well enough to feel assured that he was the one more likely to take chances. “Well, I’m glad that’s all. Would you like a cup of coffee? Dinner’s not quite ready yet. Rena and I are still fixing it. But there’s a pot of coffee on the stove.”

  “Ah, no, thanks,” Clint replied, although the suggestion of a fresh cup of coffee sounded good to him. “Hank told me your daddy wanted to see me as soon as I got in, so I reckon I’d best see about that before I do anything else.”

  “Is that you, Clint?” Valentine called from the parlor. Not waiting for an answer, he strode into the kitchen. A big man, Randolph Valentine seemed to fill any room he walked into. “Tell me what happened. Did you and Ben catch up with those Indians? Charley sent Jody in to tell us you went after them. Here, let’s sit down at the table here.” He motioned Clint over to the kitchen table. “Rena, how ’bout pouring us a cup of coffee?” He looked back at Clint. “Maybe you need something stronger after last night.”

  “No, sir,” Clint said when he finally got the chance. “Coffee will be just fine.” He pulled a chair back and sat down.

  Hope didn’t wait for Rena. She got a couple of cups from the cupboard and filled them from the pot on the stove. She winked at Clint when she placed the cup before him. “I offered him a cup, but he said he didn’t want it,” she told her father.

  “That was five minutes ago,” Clint said, accustomed to her teasing. “I’d enjoy one now.”

  Serious again, he told Valentine what had happened the night before, the exchange of gunfire with the Sioux hostiles, and the evidence he and Ben had found indicating that the raiding party was the same one that had attacked the Sample place.

  “That was a damn shame,” Valentine said, referring to the Sample massacre, “and damn poor luck.” Leonard Sample had only recently settled on the strip of land by the river, having moved his family from Kansas. They were not close neighbors, but Valentine had fully intended to make an effort to ride over to meet them. “Damn poor luck,” he repeated, then brought his thoughts back to the incident of the previous night. “How many were in the party you caught up with last night?”

  “There were five,” Clint said. “We killed three of ’em. The other two got away.”

  “It’s been a good while since we’ve had any sign of Indian trouble,” Valentine said. “But that’s been two cows now, slaughtered about a week apart. I’m just wondering if we’ve got a bunch of renegade Indians set on raiding along the Yellowstone again.”

  “I’m pretty sure the first cow was killed by a small party of hungry Indians, but I don’t think they were part of the ones that hit the Sample place,” Clint reminded him.

  Valentine paused and nodded thoughtfully, then continued. “I want you to ride on over to Fort Keogh and tell the army what happened. I’m sure they’ll wanna find out if we’ve got anything to worry about.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll head out right away,” Clint said.

  “You can wait till you get some dinner,” Hope interjected. “It isn’t that far to the fort.”

  “Yes, of course,” her father said. “You can eat with us. I’m sure the women are fixing enough for all of us. Ain’t that right, Rena?” The impassive Crow woman made no response beyond a slight nod.

  It was not the first time Clint had been invited to eat at the ranch house, but he felt a little out of place at the boss’s table. “Thank you just the same, but I expect Milt’s cooked up dinner in the bunkhouse, so I’d best eat with the rest of the boys. I’ll ride over to the fort soon as I’ve finished. Should be back by dark.”

  “Suit yourself,” Hope said, still teasing, “if you’re saying Milt Futch is a better cook than Rena and I.”

  “I’m not sayin’ anything of the sort,” Clint responded in kind. “I know Rena’s a first-rate cook, but I don’t know how much of the cookin’ you did. So I don’t know if I oughta risk it. I’ll just go eat with the rest of the crew.”

  “Let the man alone, Hope,” Valentine said. “He can eat where he wants to.” Turning to Clint, he added, “Let me know if the army is going to do anything about those Indians.”

  “Yes, sir, just as soon as I get back” Clint said as he got up from the table. “Thank you for the coffee,” he told Hope as he went out the door. She answered him with a smile.

  She closed the door behind him and turned back to her father. “Are you ready to eat, Papa?”

  “I reckon so,” he replied.

  “Rena’s dishing you up a plate. I’ll get you some more coffee.”

  She worried about her father. Although a powerful man, seemingly still in the prime of life despite his years, she knew that he suffered privately over the loss of her mother, his Valerie. It had been two years since her mother was taken from them, and her father still could not let her go. She knew that he talked to her mother when he was in his room, usually late at night when he thought everyone else was asleep. Hope sometimes left her bed and tiptoed to her father’s door to listen. He spoke as if her mother were there with him, talking about problems with the cattle, or telling her about something she or Rena had done that pleased him. Hope knew that Rena had heard him as well, and she was sure the sullen Crow woman did not doubt that he actually was in contact with his late wife.

  It used to worry Hope more than it now did. She had feared her father was losing his mind, but in all the time since her mother’s death, he had never shown any other symptoms of irrational behavior. So Hope decided to just accept that
minor idiosyncrasy as a trait her father possessed that set him apart from ordinary men.

  If he did happen to start losing his grip on reality in his later years, she felt secure in the knowledge that he had Clint to rely on. Clint was special, and she thanked the good Lord that he and Ben had crossed their path. His carefree attitude could be deceiving, but he was dead serious when the situation called for it. She knew that whatever trouble might come their way, she could count on Clint to take care of it and always act in her father’s best interest.

  She knew that her father considered Clint as the son that maybe she was supposed to have been. She never begrudged him that position, because she also knew that she was the apple of her father’s eye. In fact, she held Clint very close to her heart, mainly because of his devotion to her father. Her thoughts were interrupted then by her father’s voice. “What are you concentrating so hard on?” he asked. “If you stand there holding that coffeepot much longer, it’s gonna be too cold to drink.”

  “Sorry,” she replied. “My mind was just wandering.”

  She filled his cup and returned the pot to the stove, where Rena stood watching her. The silent Crow woman nodded solemnly as if she could read Hope’s thoughts.

  You always act like you can tell what everybody’s thinking, Hope thought, but I know it’s just a damn act.

  Chapter 2

  Clint guided the bay gelding past the crude structures that still remained on the original site of the cantonment, as it was called at the time they were built. Valentine had told him that General Nelson Miles didn’t build the fort on the original site. He was a colonel at that time, and he decided to pick a new site one mile west of the original one to accommodate his plans.

  Still, there were some enlisted men’s families living in the old log huts he was passing now, who were awaiting construction of quarters at the site of newly named Fort Keogh. It was easy to imagine the hardships of living in the rough dwellings. They were constructed by digging trenches where the walls were to be. Then they cut logs, stood them on end in the trenches to make the walls, and filled the cracks between the logs with mud. The roofs were also logs with mud chinking. They made for a miserable dwelling, and in Clint’s opinion, they were some sorry-looking homes. But the method was necessary because at the time of their construction there were plenty of logs, but a shortage of tools to fashion lumber. The huts sharply contrasted with the frame buildings of the new Fort Keogh.