Wrath of the Savage Page 3

  “All right, ladies,” Duncan mocked. “Let’s get mount-ed—tea party’s over.”

  “My horse ain’t hardly rested enough, Sarge,” Weaver complained.

  “Is that a fact?” Duncan replied. “Well, in that case, I reckon you can tote him till he gets rested up enough.”

  “Nice try, Weaver,” Pruett said sarcastically.

  “Kiss my ass,” Weaver shot back as he reluctantly climbed into the saddle.

  The patrol rode for less than a mile before coming upon Coldiron sitting on a fallen tree trunk beside the river. He got to his feet when they pulled up to a stop.

  “Here’s where they crossed, Lieutenant, just like I figured.” He pointed, then, across the river. “I expect they headed for that ravine yonder, figurin’ on puttin’ that ridge between ’em and the tradin’ post.”

  It was not necessary to dismount. Bret could see the prints of a dozen or so unshod ponies leading across a thin strip of sand and into the water.

  On the opposite side, the tracks seemed to be starting toward the ravine Coldiron had pointed out, so they headed for it at a lope, pulling up again at the mouth of the ravine long enough to confirm his hunch. Bret would ordinarily have sent two men out, one to each side, to act as lookouts, but owing to the narrow confines of the ravine, it was unnecessary. So they continued to follow Coldiron in a column of twos as they climbed toward the ridge above them. Once again confirming Coldiron’s speculation, the Blackfoot war party did not continue up into the mountains, but descended on the other side of the ridge and cut back to the north.

  “So far, they’re doin’ just like I figured,” Coldiron said. “I didn’t expect ’em to head on up into the Absarokas. They’re headin’ home. They’ll be crossin’ back across the river somewhere up ahead, most likely before the river takes a hard turn and heads east. Trouble is, it’s comin’ dark pretty soon, and I won’t be able to see where they crossed.”

  “I was wonderin’ about that myself,” Duncan said. They had been following the Yellowstone on its northeast course since crossing over, but somewhere ahead of them, maybe twenty miles or thereabout, the river’s course turned almost due east. And like Coldiron, he doubted the Blackfoot would follow it.

  “Well, the horses are getting tired, anyway,” Bret decided. “We might as well go ahead and make camp and get after them again in the morning.” He let Coldiron and Duncan pick the spot they favored near a stand of willow trees at the water’s edge.

  When the horses were unsaddled and watered, and a good campfire was going, Duncan directed two of the men to string a rope between two trees to act as a hitching post for the horses. On Bret’s orders, he then called out a sentry detail, starting with Private Lazzara and changing every two hours throughout the night. This was met with some disappointment by the eight troopers, but only one was vocal in complaint.

  “Guard duty?” Weaver whined. “What the hell for? There ain’t no Injuns within fifty miles of here.”

  “There’s a helluva lotta things you don’t know, Weaver,” Duncan told him. “That’s just one of ’em. But if you’ve gotta know the reason you’re gonna pull guard duty, it’s because the lieutenant ordered it, and I, by God, said so.”

  Overhearing the last part of Weaver’s complaining, Bret stepped a little closer and commented, “There’s gonna be a horse guard tonight, and every night after this, because I don’t intend to walk back to Fort Ellis. Is that reason enough for you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Weaver answered meekly.

  “Good,” Bret said. “Now, don’t ever let me hear you question orders again. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” he mumbled, a childish pout upon his face. After Bret had walked away to sit down near Coldiron and Duncan, Weaver muttered under his breath, “Son of a bitch.”

  “Quit your bellyachin’, Weaver,” Pruett told him.

  “Yeah,” Lazzara said. “And Duncan said you’re supposed to relieve me in two hours. Make damn sure you do it, or the sergeant ain’t gonna be the only one wantin’ a piece of you.”

  “Don’t you worry, I’ll be there,” Weaver grumbled. “I sure as hell don’t want any wild Injuns stealin’ Lieutenant Fancy Pants’s horse.” He continued to gripe, however, as the men had their supper of coffee, hardtack, and smoked deer meat. “Ever’ one of you knows this patrol ain’t nothin’ but a waste of our time. Those damn Injuns, Blackfoot or whatever they are, are long gone from these parts. And if we had an officer with a lick of sense, he’d turn us around and get on back to Fort Ellis.”

  “What the hell did you think you was gonna be doin’ when you joined the army?” Pruett asked then. “Maybe you thought you’d be guardin’ the president with ol’ Copeland over there.” This brought a chuckle from the rest of the men.

  “Go to hell, Pruett,” Weaver spat.

  “Seven o’clock, Lazzara,” Sergeant Duncan called out from the other side of the little circle around the fire. “Keep your eyes open up there. Weaver will relieve you at nine.”

  “All right, Sergeant,” Lazzara replied, picked up his carbine and blanket, and walked up a little rise beyond the willows where the horses were tied, that being the spot Duncan had selected to post his guards, where they would be able to watch the horses as well as the sleeping camp.

  “I expect the rest of you boys oughta turn in pretty quick now,” Duncan said. “Get a little sleep. We’ll be in the saddle again early in the mornin’.” The camp settled in for the night. Although it was still summertime, the Montana nights were normally quite chilly, so the troopers spread their blankets close by the fire. Bret noticed that Coldiron made his bed apart from the others, and seemed to be snoring as soon as he stretched his huge body out horizontally.

  Feeling that sleep was not yet upon him, Bret moved away from the fire to sit down and finish the rest of his coffee. He found a spot in the low bluffs and propped his back against a short ledge. Once the camp got quiet, he could hear an occasional snort or nicker from the horses, and the gurgle of the river as it flowed gently by a fallen cottonwood extending out into the current. It was peaceful, but not sufficient to make him feel content with his life at this point. Commanding a patrol of greenhorns, guided by a man who seemed to have only contempt for them all, on a mission that held little chance of success, he was becoming more and more short of patience with the whole situation. He would never admit it, but Weaver was probably closer to the truth of the matter.

  After a moment of disgust, he chastised himself for his attitude. He admitted that it was brought about simply because he had been left behind when the regiment marched to engage the Nez Perce.

  Change your attitude, mister! he scolded himself. What about the two women hostages? Did they not deserve his every effort to find them? He tried to empty his mind of these troublesome thoughts and just concentrate on the murmuring of the river, and Coldiron’s snoring. Convinced that he could not go to sleep, he nevertheless fell into a peaceful slumber.

  • • •

  Like a strike from a lightning bolt, he was suddenly jerked out of a sound sleep by the sounds of gunshots and he found himself at the edge of a whirlwind of fury. Unable to right his reeling senses at first, he soon realized what was taking place. The circle of sleeping soldiers was swarming with howling demons, slaughtering the surprised troopers with hatchets, knives, and random gunshots. It presented a hell like none Bret had ever seen before.

  Realizing that he had not yet been discovered by the savage war party, he reacted in the only way he could. Grabbing his Spencer carbine and the Blakeslee cartridge box he carried, he started firing into the frenzy of Blackfoot warriors, knocking two of them down before they determined where he was. They turned immediately to attack him, but Bret heard the solid snap of Coldiron’s Henry rifle at that moment, causing the charging warriors to back off and seek cover from both rifles.

  Bret advanced toward the retreating Indians
, firing as rapidly as he could, pausing only seconds to load seven new cartridges into the butt of the carbine. With the advantage of having the Blakeslee, he was able to load a fresh tube of ammunition before the savages could rebound to counterattack. The Blackfoot warriors had no choice other than to retreat under the continuous fire from Bret and Coldiron.

  “Don’t let ’em get to the horses!” Coldiron yelled as he came up from the bank of the river.

  Bret sprinted past the bloody circle of slain troopers to position himself between the warriors and the horses tied in the trees. On his way, he paused to pull Duncan back from the firelight. The sergeant was wounded in the gut, the arrow still protruding as he struggled to get to his feet.

  “Can you hold on?” Bret asked hurriedly, although it looked doubtful as he dragged the stumbling man back away from the fire.

  “I’ve been better,” Duncan gasped painfully, his pistol in hand. “They got my carbine and two or three others.”

  “Stay here and keep low,” Bret told him. “I’ve gotta get to the horses.”

  “Go,” Duncan said. “I’ll be all right. I can still shoot.”

  He paused for only a fraction of a second to look at the bodies of his men, unable to tell if any of them were alive.

  “How many?” he asked quickly.

  “Don’t know,” Duncan gasped painfully. “Four for sure, three might be wounded. I can’t say how Weaver faired. He was on guard duty.”

  “I gotta go help Coldiron hold them off,” Bret said when he had pulled Duncan to a spot where he felt sure he was out of the line of fire, and heard the sound of a new exchange of gunfire. It told him that the Indians were fighting back with the cavalry carbines they had taken when they overran the camp. He started running again, hoping the hostiles had not had the time or the presence of mind to take the ammunition, too. “I’ll be back to help you.”

  “Over here!” Coldiron yelled when Bret came running through the willows toward the horses.

  The big scout was hunkered down behind a low hummock, topped by a clump of willow switches. He fired a series of three quick rounds to give Bret a chance to cross an open gap in the trees.

  “They’re settin’ back of that rise yonder,” he said when Bret dived behind the hummock beside him. “A couple of ’em tried to get to the horses, but I got both of ’em.”

  He instinctively ducked when a few rounds from the captured Spencers dug into the sand above their heads.

  “They’re damn sure gettin’ the hang of them carbines, but we’ve got ’em out on a limb right now. They can’t get to the horses without crossin’ open ground, and so far it’s cost ’em every time they’ve tried it.”

  “You reckon they have any idea how many rounds those carbines hold?” Bret asked.

  “I doubt it . . . maybe. There might be some of ’em that’s seen one before.”

  “I may be wrong,” Bret said, “but I’m betting they don’t know what a Blakeslee cartridge box is. I don’t think they’ve got any ammunition beyond what’s in the magazines of the weapons they took. And if that’s the case, they’re gonna shoot that up soon. So if we can just hold them off till they run out, then we can take the offensive.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Coldiron said. “And if you are, them sons of bitches ain’t gonna wanna be caught here after daylight.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Bret replied.

  So the two under siege sat tight and watched the rise for any sign of the hostiles trying to sneak across the open ground to the horses. There was only one more, and he met with the same fate as the other two, the only difference being the fact that he died from slugs of two different calibers.

  Soon after, there was a period of almost no gunfire from the rise, with only a random shot to let the two white men know they were still there. It was during this lull in the battle that Bret had the opportunity to try to piece together the circumstances that allowed the camp to be routed so quickly. There had been no alarm, no warning from the sentry.

  “How in hell could those hostiles just walk right into the camp and start hacking up my men, without anybody seeing them?” Bret wondered. “Did anybody hear the guard give a warning? I didn’t. I was asleep.”

  “Hell, we was all asleep,” Coldiron said. “When I woke up, they was already swarming all over them poor boys like bees on a hive. Seemed like a hundred of ’em when I first woke up, but I don’t think it was more’n a dozen. Just seemed like more.”

  It was easy to come to the conclusion that the sentry must have been asleep with everyone else; either that or they managed to sneak up on him and kill him.

  “Damn,” Bret swore, feeling the responsibility of perhaps losing his entire patrol. “Can you hold on here for a little while? I’ve got to get back to Sergeant Duncan. He took an arrow in the gut, but he said he was all right till I got back to help him. I’ll see who else is alive and try to bring them all back here. I think this is about as good a place as any to stand them off. At least we can try to protect the horses here.”

  When Coldiron assured him that he could hold that position against twice that many Indians, Bret crawled to the lower edge of the sand hummock and prepared to launch his lean body across the open gap between the trees. There was only one shot fired at him, from what sounded to be an old single-shot musket. It confirmed his speculation that the Blackfeet were running short of cartridges.

  When he got to the spot where he had left Duncan, he found one of the men with him, Private McCoy. He had suffered knife wounds, but none so severe as to be life-threatening. He had had the presence of mind to pick up the remaining weapons from the dead before he ran for it.

  “Is this it?” Bret asked as soon as he dropped down beside them. “Nobody else?”

  “Just me,” McCoy answered, “and I wouldn’t have made it if you and Coldiron hadn’t started shootin’ when you did.”

  “That son of a bitch, Weaver,” Duncan groaned. “He went to sleep. I know he did. I reckon he paid the price for it. They probably cut his throat.”

  “I hope to hell they did,” McCoy growled. “The bastard’s responsible for gettin’ damn near all of us killed.”

  “Maybe so,” Bret said. “We’ll find out when we drive this bunch of Indians off. Right now let’s get over to that hummock with Coldiron. There’s better cover there, and we’ll see if we can get that arrow out of you then,” he said to Duncan.

  “Well, I was wonderin’ if anybody noticed the damn thing stickin’ outta me,” Duncan remarked between painful breaths.

  “Take hold of his feet,” Bret told McCoy, and the two of them carried the wounded sergeant through the willows to the open gap, where they paused to let Coldiron know they were coming in.

  “Coldiron!” he yelled. “We’re coming across. We’re gonna need some cover fire when I tell you.”

  It wouldn’t do to surprise the big scout without a warning. He might shoot at them, thinking he was under attack.

  Bret looked at McCoy then. “Ready?” Then he yelled out, “Now!” Coldiron peppered the rise with gunfire while they hurried across the open gap. When they arrived safely behind the hummock, they laid Duncan down as gently as possible.

  Once Duncan was settled, Bret turned his attention to the arrow protruding from his stomach. Getting weaker by the minute, the sergeant was obviously dying. The arrow was embedded deeply inside him, but the head did not go all the way through, which would have made it much easier to break it off and pull the shaft out. Not sure what he could do without causing the sergeant a great deal of pain, Bret deliberated over it for a few moments, trying to decide if it could only be removed by cutting into the wound and enlarging the entry hole. But he couldn’t leave the arrow where it was.

  “Lemme see,” Coldiron said, after Bret seemed to be hesitating. The big man crawled over beside Duncan, who now showed no ability to protest. Coldiron g
rasped the arrow shaft gently, testing its firmness. Duncan emitted a sharp grunt at the touch. “It’s in there pretty good, all right,” Coldiron decided. Then he turned to Bret and commented, “See them markin’s there, they’re Blackfoot, like I said.”

  “I don’t give a damn who they are—” That was as much as Duncan could mutter before Coldiron tightened down on the shaft. With one massive paw on Duncan to hold him down, he suddenly yanked the arrow out, head and all, like uprooting a weed from the ground. It was so painful and unexpected that the sergeant was unable to make a sound for a moment before yowling weakly like a wounded coyote.

  “Sweet Jesus!” he was finally able to gasp as a fresh flow of blood gushed from the newly enlarged wound.

  “Yep,” the imperturbable scout remarked casually as he held the arrow up to examine it. “It’s Blackfoot, all right.” He glanced back at McCoy. “You got anything to stuff over that wound? He’s bleedin’ out right smart.”

  McCoy reluctantly produced a piece of the cloth he was using to bandage his knife wound. It was obvious to him that Duncan was going to die, no matter whether they tried to bandage his wound or not. The sergeant was bleeding from his mouth as well as the hole left by the arrow. It didn’t make sense to McCoy to waste his extra shirt on a dead man.

  • • •

  They waited out the few hours left before daylight, watching the rise intently, as well as the river at their backs. There was no further gunfire from the Indians, and when the first light of day began to find its way into the valley, the weary survivors roused themselves to be more alert.

  As the sun climbed higher in the early morning sky, it was now easier to see the site of their camp and the bodies of their comrades slumped in eternal sleep around the ashes of the fire. What came as a surprise to them was the discovery that the bodies of the two warriors that Bret had killed were missing. Under the cover of darkness, the Blackfoot had crept into the camp to retrieve their dead. The light of day also revealed the absence of the bodies Coldiron had accounted for.

  “They was already outta cartridges,” he said to Bret. “They slipped out in the dark while we was settin’ right here watchin’ for ’em.” He got to his feet then, certain he was right, and unafraid of being shot at. “Well, that’s that,” he announced.