Brings the Lightning (The Ames Archives Book 1) (26 page)

The Indian rushed closer, his horse flecked with foam, its chest heaving and nostrils dilated as it struggled for air, already tired after chasing the soldiers for several miles. As the range shortened, Walt raised the rifle to his shoulder, braced himself against the canopy bow and took aim. As the horse and rider reached one hundred yards from the wagons, he fired. Another loud boom, a puff of white smoke—but just as he pulled the trigger, the horse raised its head into his line of fire. His bullet tumbled it to the ground in a flailing tangle of limbs, dead on the spot. Its rider was flung over its head. The Indian rolled himself into a ball as he landed, still clutching his long rifle, and immediately sprang to his feet. He wavered a moment, clearly dazed, then shook his head as if to clear it and began running towards the ambulance once more.

Walt cursed as he saw the horse fall, then laid the Sharps on the seat and reached for his Henry rifle, thumb-cocking the hammer as he brought it to his shoulder.
Maybe Hunting Wolf’s medicine saved him that time, but let’s see how
it
does against rapid fire,
he thought grimly. He pulled the trigger, his bullet staggering the young Kiowa as it slammed into his chest. The Indian fired a half-second later, but he was shooting on the run, making it almost impossible to aim accurately. His bullet punched a hole in the canvas cover a couple of feet from Walt’s body. Walt levered the Henry and fired a second time, then a third, placing each shot in the Indian’s chest. The young man took three more steps, slowing, staggering; then his legs gave way and he toppled. He hit the ground hard, bounced once, and lay still.

Another wild yell rose from the watching Indians, a shrill, wavering, mournful cry; then one by one they turned and rode away, forming a double file as they slowly walked their horses, none of them looking back. As Walt and the others watched, the leaders rode over a rise. Two by two, the others followed, until the last of the riders disappeared from sight.

Walt jumped down from the wagon, still holding his Henry. “I’m going to check on that man. Tad, d’you want to come along?”

“Sure. Let me get our horses. Let’s ask Sergeant Buell to have his soldier boys check out the bodies in that heap, too.”

“Do you think the danger’s past?” Walt asked as willing, eager hands untied the ropes between two wagons, opening a path for them.

“Yeah. You just ruined their whole day. The rest of them won’t dare carry on the fight, because if Hunting Wolf’s medicine’s gone that bad, it’ll be bound to bounce back on the rest o’ them too. They’re notional that way.”

They rode up to the body of the fallen Indian. He was lying face-down, utterly still. Walt climbed down, approached him warily, and flipped him onto his back using the toe of his boot and the muzzle of his Henry. The man flopped limply. His face was young and strong; he was probably handsome under his war paint, Walt thought. A headband around his forehead held three eagle feathers. Walt slipped it off, then removed a sheathed knife and a tomahawk from the waistband of the Indian’s loincloth. He picked up the long rifle, examining it closely.

“Hey, this is a Hawken percussion rifle! Looks to be about a half-inch bore. The barrel’s about three feet long. The wood’s pretty dark, but that may be due to ingrained smoke and dirt, of course. The breech is engraved and chased with silver. The lid of the patch box in the stock also looks to have been silver at one time, although most of the plating’s worn off.”

Tad whistled. “Hawken made their Rocky Mountain Rifle from the 1820’s onwards, so it mighta come from one of the old mountain men—Injuns killed plenty of ’em. Some are still around; Jim Bridger, Kit Carson, an’ a few more. They scout for the army sometimes. If you ever run into one of ’em, ask ’em to take a look at it. They might recognize it.”

“I will. There are some letters carved into the stock, but I can’t make them out. They’re too badly worn. I reckon I’ll keep it as a trophy, along with the knife, tomahawk and headband.”

“You sure earned ’em! Come on, let’s ride out to where that medicine bundle fell. I figure they’ll have left it there. They’d reckon it the worst kind of bad luck to touch it after you killed it like that.”

Sure enough, the bullet-torn bundle was lying in the grass where it had fallen. Tad dismounted, picked it up, and handed it to Walt. “Reckon you got one hell of a memento there.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I reckon I have.”

Riding back to the wagons, they paused at the heap of dead horses. The army men were dragging the last of the dead Indians from among the animal carcasses. “Dig a common grave for ’em right here,” Tad told the soldiers. “No sense in leavin’ ’em to rot. Their friends won’t be comin’ back. Carry that other dead ’un over here to bury with them.”

“Oh, yeah?” one of the troopers said belligerently. “We don’t take orders from civilians.”

“All right. In that case, I’ll get the sergeant to tell you hisself.”

“You’d better!”

Walt felt his anger flare. “You! Trooper! You know I wore sergeant’s stripes in the war. All I can say is, if that’s your attitude, you won’t live long enough to see Pond Creek. You’ll be killed before we get there. This scout knows more about the plains and Indians than you ever will, so you’d better listen to him if you want to live. Grow up and shape up, or else!”

“I–”

“DO AS YOU’RE DAMN WELL TOLD, SOLDIER!”

The man literally jumped. “Y– yessir!”

Walt glared at him. “And DON’T CALL ME ‘SIR’, dammit! Do I look like a blasted shavetail? I was a sergeant. I
worked
for a living!”

“Y– yessir!”

Beside him, Tad shook with laughter as they rode back towards the wagons. “You sure put a scare into that one. Reckon sergeants must get issued an attitude like that along with their stripes.”

Buell was grinning as they rode up to him. He was sitting up, his chest now tightly strapped. “I see you set Murphy straight. Thanks for doing that. He’s all right, he’s just got a hot-headed streak. I’ll have a word with him to back up what you said.”

“Probably a good idea,” Walt acknowledged as he swung down from his saddle. “They all need to learn that uniforms ain’t magic, an’ the army don’t know everything all the time.”

Buell nodded. “Listen, I ain’t gonna be doin’ too much ridin’ for the next couple of weeks with these ribs all strapped up. Will you take out my patrol from time to time? I know you’re a civilian now, but you was a sergeant, an’ from what I seen so far I reckon you was a good ’un. I’ll tell ’em that they gotta take your orders just like they would mine.”

“If you think that would be helpful, sure, I’ll do it. Have you picked out anyone who might make a good second-in-command? I figure Duffy might make corporal in due course. He seems to know his left from his right, anyhow.”

“I was plannin’ to talk to th’ Commandin’ Officer at Pond Creek about givin’ him temporary rank until we get back to Fort Riley. If he can handle it, I reckon it’ll be made permanent before long.”

“So how did they hit you?”

“I reckon it was just one of those things. We came over a rise an’ there they were, ridin’ in a long line. We musta seen each other at the same instant. They could see there was more o’ them than us, so they turned an’ charged at us. I reckoned with green troops we’d be better off gettin’ back to the wagons where we’d have more support. We fired a volley to discourage ’em from gettin’ too close, then rode for the train.”

“Well, your troops ain’t green no more. They held together under fire without panicking, made it back here as a unit, and fought back as soon as they got the chance. I’d call that good work for men who were raw recruits just a few weeks ago. You can tell ’em I said so, if you like.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Rose hurried over. Walt smiled as he saw her, reached out an arm, and hugged her to him. “Everything’s all right, love. It’s over.”

“Oh, thank heaven! I was worried about you every single moment you were out there!”

“Nothing to worry about. The Indians have gone.”

Tom Jones came over and held out his hand. “I reckon we owe you, Ames. You and your two men stopped ’em cold.”

“I reckon everyone on the train did his part.”

“Yeah, but still… I could hardly believe how you shot Hunting Wolf’s medicine bundle out of his hands from so far away. When the story gets out, that shot’s gonna be talked about all over the Plains for years to come, you mark my words.”

Walt made a dismissive gesture. “I’m just glad we’re all alive. What next?”

“We’ll finish buryin’ those Injuns, then we’re gonna cook up that buffalo meat an’ have us a real good supper. First thing tomorrow mornin’, we’ll be on our way.”

Ten days out from Fort Ellsworth, they woke to an unpleasant surprise. The sentries on the dawn watch began shouting the alarm as soon as the growing light allowed them to see over the grasslands surrounding the wagon train.

Walt was roused from his sleep next to Rose in the ambulance by their loud calls. He hurriedly untangled himself from the blankets and went to the front of the wagon, looking out. To his astonishment, he saw a line of mounted Indians about half a mile away from the circled wagons. They were spread along a slight rise, seated on their horses, making no sound or movement. He counted rapidly.

Behind him Rose said sleepily, “What’s going on, dear?”

“Indians, about eighty of ’em,” he said succinctly. “They’re lined up half a mile out, but not doing anything—no, one of them’s riding forward now, real slowly.”

He grabbed his spyglass and looked through it. The lone rider walked his horse to a position halfway between the line of Indians and the wagon train, halted, then jabbed his lance point downward into the dirt. He waited there, motionless.

Walt turned and looked for Tad. He saw the scout hurriedly getting dressed, and called, “What’s going on, Tad?”

“Looks like they wanna pow-wow. I’m gonna ride out an’ see what they want.”

“Need company?”

“Naw. They sent one man out, so only one of us should ride to meet him.”

Walt dressed quickly as Tad rode out of the circle of wagons, cantering over to where the Indian waited. The two men talked for several minutes, then Tad turned his horse and headed back. He came straight over to the ambulance.

“Seems you’ve made a name for yourself, Walt. Satank hisself is out there. He wants to talk to the man who killed Hunting Wolf’s medicine. That brave speaks English, enough to get by. He’s said he’ll translate if you’ll ride out there. I figure you should go on your own. That’s a test of courage in their eyes. If you go alone, you show you ain’t scared. If you bring anyone else with you, they’ll figure you’re afeared of ’em.”

“Then I guess I’d better go alone.”

“Walt!
No!
” Rose objected vehemently as she finished dressing. “It could be a trap! What if they want revenge?”

“I don’t reckon so, ma’am,” Tad tried to reassure her. “I reckon Satank’s just real curious about Walt. He’ll be cautious about fightin’ him until he’s taken his measure.”

“And what if he takes Walt’s measure out there and decides he can fight him right away? It’ll be one man against eighty!”

“It won’t happen today, ma’am. Their spokesman said Satank offers a truce. An Indian sense of honor ain’t like ours, but when they say something like that, they generally mean it. I reckon Walt will be safe to go out an’ come back, at least this mornin’.”

Walt smiled at her. “Don’t worry, love. I think it’ll be all right this time.” However, despite his confident words to Rose, he couldn’t help feeling a thrill of apprehension. If he went out, could he really be certain he’d come back, despite Tad’s assurances?

“Don’t forget to wear your bear claw necklace, an’ take that rifle sleeve with you,” Tad reminded him.

As Walt walked his horse out of the circle of wagons, he saw another figure leave the line of Indians and ride towards the man waiting by his lance. Walt studied the other rider carefully as he approached. He was an older man, wrinkled but whipcord tough. His eyes were hard, determined, calculating, with a shrewd look that hinted at intelligence. He wore a sash made of some sort of animal hide running over his shirt from his left shoulder to his right hip, and carried a rifle in his right hand.

They arrived at the interpreter’s position together. Walt forced control upon himself, trying to prevent the tension that was knotting his stomach and fizzing like champagne in his veins from revealing itself in his voice. He said to the interpreter, speaking deliberately slowly, “Satank wished to meet me. I am here.”

“This is Satank,” the other said in a guttural tone, indicating the older Indian. “How are you called?”

“Walter Ames.”

The man turned to the older Indian and broke into rapid Kiowa. Satank listened, then said a few words himself. The messenger turned back to Walt. “Satank asks if you are the man who broke Hunting Wolf’s medicine.”

“I am.”

Another brief exchange in Kiowa. “You carry the rifle sleeve of a Kiowa Dog Soldier on your arm. Are you the man who brought the lightning at Fort Ellsworth?”

Walt had to hold back a grin. The Arapaho must have spread the word of what had happened there. “I am,” he acknowledged.