“You’re wrong,” she said,
“but even if you were right, I did it to save your
life.”
“I shot the alligator to
save any member of our party who might fall into the water. I shot
the Comanche to prevent them from ambushing us.” He looked toward
the west for a moment before turning back to her. “I’ve told you
before that if you disagree with me you must do so only in
private.”
“I heard you before and I
hear you now.”
“That isn’t the answer I
wanted. Can I count on your cooperation in the future?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m
not a slave any more. Do to me what you may.”
October 14, 1804
The Red River, Louisiana
Purchase
“Mounted Comanche,” McGregor
said.
“Yes. About twenty, I’d
say.” Yank was watching the band of Indians on horseback through
his telescope. “They must be friends of the one I shot.”
“Quite likely,” Marina
grumbled. “Friends, brothers, a father perhaps. Maybe a son or two.
All with a blood grudge.”
“Do you know the range of
our Kentucky rifles, Mr. McGregor?” Yank asked.
“I canno’ say for certain
but I been told by some people that three hundred yards in the
hands of a good rifleman is reasonable,” McGregor
answered.
“Those Comanches must have
been talking to the same people,” Yank chuckled. “I make them to be
about four hundred yards away.”
“This is no laughing
matter,” Marina complained. “We see twenty braves because they want
us to see twenty braves. There could be a hundred over the
hill.”
“Stuff and feathers,” Yank
replied. “There are no bands of Indians that large in this entire
area.”
“There’s a passel of
Comanches in Texas,” McGregor argued. “And we’re sure as blazes in
Texas, even if the Spaniards call it New Mexico.”
“In hunter-gatherer tribes,
bands are naturally limited in size by available food,” Yank
pronounced. “As you have already noted, Mr. McGregor, this area has
little game and few edible plants. I should think it could support
a village of no more than one hundred. That includes men, women and
children. Those twenty that we see are likely to be all the
able-bodied men of a nearby village.”
“What’s true back east ain’t
always true here in the west,” McGregor grumbled.
“Well,” Yank signaled the
column forward and began walking his horse toward the Indians, “we
shall soon see if that is true or false.”
“What are we going to do?”
Marina asked nervously.
Yank pointed forward. “We
are going to keep going.”
“What about them?” She waved
her hand toward the Indians.
“They’re in our way so they
must move or fight.”
“They got their faces
painted black,” McGregor observed.
“War paint,” Marina
said.
“Really?” Yank chuckled.
“The Indians of the Northwest paint their faces black in
anticipation of death.”
“The only death those
Comanches are anticipating is ours,” Marina replied.
“How is it that you know
that?” Yank asked.
She gave him a strange look.
“Know what?”
“About their war
paint.”
She shrugged. “They are an
offshoot of the Shoshone and the Shoshone paint their faces black
before going to war. We encountered some at the Yellow
Stone.”
“Is that how you know their
language?” Yank asked.
“I don’t know their
language. Not exactly.”
“What do you mean by ‘not
exactly’?”
“Many of the dialects are
born from an Aztec root language.” She was watching the war party
which had not moved. “They intend to fight.”
“That’s a coincidence; so do
I,” Yank said.
“Beggin’ your pardon,
Colonel,” McGregor said, lowering his voice. “But you don’t know
nothin’ about Indian fightin’. These ain’t no Englishmen who is
gonna line up and give us good, stationary targets.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr.
McGregor. I’ve never in my life fought an English army. But I have,
in fact, faced many Indians.”
“Tame Indians,” McGregor
scoffed.
“Indians with all the skills
of these but additionally trained by the French or English and
armed with modern weapons.” Yank gestured toward the band at their
front. “Those warriors are carrying bows and lances. Before they
can do us any harm, we can kill them all, if we so
choose.”
“We ain’t the first whites
that they’ve fought,” McGregor argued.
“But we are the first
trained military force with rifles,” Yank replied. “If you wish to
withdraw until this issue is resolved you have my
permission.”
McGregor looked like he had
been slapped. “There ain’t no need for insults, Colonel. I was just
givin’ you my opinion.”
“Your opinion is always
welcome, Mr. McGregor, so long as you continue to follow my
orders.” He looked at Marina. “I cannot protect this expedition
while debating every decision.”
The expression on McGregor’s
face was not happy, but he offered no reply.
Yank looked away from Marina
and back at McGregor. “There are times when I do not have the
luxury of being polite, Mr. McGregor, and this is one of those
times.” Yank turned in his saddle. “First rifles. Form a line in
front. When those Indians are in range we’ll take them
down.”
Eight men with rifles rode
ahead and formed a single line, walking their horses abreast like
dragoons, but not quite shoulder to shoulder.
“Do you agree with the
deployment, Mr. McGregor?” Yank asked.
“Not entirely,
sir.”
“What would you have
different?”
“Both rifle squads, sir. We
could kill twice as many.”
“Very well said,” Yank
agreed. “Please deploy the second squad.”
“You are a devilishly tricky
and deceitful man,” Marina whispered when McGregor had ridden back
toward the main body.
“Training soldiers is a
tricky business,” He replied. “Especially when they don’t consider
themselves to be soldiers.
The Indians, as they
observed the riflemen’s move to the front, began to drift to the
right until they were abreast of the column, and still out of
range.
“I don’t like this,”
McGregor complained.
“Nor do I,” Yank agreed.
“Ask someone to load two rifles for me.”
“What are you planning to
do?” Marina asked.
“I’m going to ride out there
to musket range, shoot one of those Indians and ride back,” he
said. “If they follow me, we will destroy them. If they don’t I’ll
repeat it again and again until they’re all dead.”
“Why not let some other body
ride out there in your stead, sir?” McGregor asked before Marina
could argue. “Somebody that ain’t so valuable to us
all.”
“There’s no risk,” Yank
insisted.
“Unless yer horse steps in
one o’ them prairie dog holes and goes down,” McGregor
answered.
“Then you would rescue me,”
Yank chuckled.
McGregor shook his head. “By
the time we got there your corpse ‘d be so stuck with arrows that
you’d look like a porky-pine.”
“Then perhaps I could take a
rifleman with me,” Yank suggested.
“Why not send a whole rifle
squad on horseback and wipe them out?” Marina asked
sarcastically.
“Now there’s an idea.” Yank
grinned at her.
“I wasn’t serious,” she
said.
“It was a fine idea anyway.”
Yank nodded at McGregor. “Send a rifle squad.”
McGregor kicked his horse
and rode up beside a rifle squad leader.
“I could learn to hate you,”
Marina said.
Yank ignored her.
After a brief discussion
with McGregor, the riflemen raced off toward the Indians and
McGregor rejoined Yank and Marina.
“It looks like the Comanches
are running away,” Marina said in obvious relief.
“How far did you tell our
men to go?” Yank asked McGregor.
“I told ‘em not to get out
of our sight and to watch for ambushes,” McGregor
replied.
“Quite right,” Yank agreed.
“Very well done.” He watched as his riflemen reached the top of the
hill where they reined in their horses. The squad leader, a man
named David Roberts, took off his hat and waved it in the air. Yank
raised his hand and signaled him to return to the column. “That
Roberts seems a good man.”
McGregor nodded. “I knew him
back…” He looked at Yank. “I know him from the past. Good
man.”
“A deserter from the Queen’s
Rangers, I believe,” Yank replied. “Although I don’t generally
approve of desertion, I have an even lower opinion of flogging.” He
watched the squad riding toward them for a time then looked at
McGregor. “He’s a fine horseman too, is our Mr. Roberts. Odd skill
for a foot soldier. Very odd.”
“He was of the Queen’s
Lancers before serving in the Rangers,” McGregor said.
“Ah.” Yank nodded. “So that
is where you met him.”
“There’s a fair price on my
head, Colonel,” McGregor replied after a moment.
Yank offered no answer,
kicked his horse and rode out to meet the riflemen. “Did they run
completely away, Mr. Roberts?”
“Nay, sir, they did not,”
Roberts replied. “They just run fast enough t’ stay out o’ range
and then they stopped when we stopped.”
“From that I suppose we can
assume that they’re familiar with rifles.”
Roberts smiled. “I should
think you shooting that first savage was all the educatin’ they
needed.”
“He was only a bit beyond
musket range,” Yank said dismissively.
“It was more’n two hundred
yards and from horseback, sir.”
“Was it that far? Lucky I
didn’t know it at the time or I wouldn’t have risked the
shot.”
Roberts looked beyond Yank
at McGregor and laughed. “If that’s what you want us to believe,
sir, you’ll get no argument.”
“Form the column,” Yank
shouted. “Prepare to move out.”
October 18, 1804
The Red River, Louisiana
Purchase
Yank put his arm around
Marina and gestured toward the eastern horizon where a full moon
was rising. “Lovers’ moon.”
“Out here they call that a
Comanche Moon.” She pushed his arm away.
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“The Comanche like to attack
during a full moon.”
“Were you planning to
mention that to me any time soon?”
“I heard McGregor and
Roberts talking about it so I thought you knew.”
“All you people have gone
from believing that I know nothing to believing that I know
everything,” he grumbled.
“It is your own fault for
being so deceitful.”
“I suppose that could be
true.”
“Besides. What difference
would it make? We’re as prepared for an attack as we can
be.”
“Being prepared and being
surprised are not the same things. Given the option, I’d prefer to
be prepared and not to be surprised. People make mistakes while
they’re adjusting from the shock of a surprise.”
Marina nodded. “Shock is the
Comanche’s main strategy.”
“How so?”
“They strike and then run
before their enemy has recovered from the shock. Then they rest,
leaving their enemy watchful and afraid. Then they strike again
when they’ve rested and their enemy’s weary.”
“Very interesting. What else
can you tell me about their tactics?”
“They’ll come with the
moonlight in our faces. The thunder of their horse’s hooves will
make it seem that they’re everywhere. When they’re close they’ll
howl like wolves and bark like coyotes.” She pointed. “They’ll
circle us, right to left once or twice then ride back in the
direction whence they came.”
He was watching her face.
“Is there some religious significance in going from right to
left?”
“No.” She looked surprised
by the question. “If one is right handed, it is much easier to
shoot an arrow or throw a lance to one’s left.”
He thought a moment. “Oh,
yes. I see. Perfectly logical.” He looked back over his shoulder.
“Mr. McGregor?”
“Sir?” McGregor’s voice came
from near the remuda.
“Mrs. Van Buskirk has just
told me that the Comanches are likely to come from the direction of
the moon and circle us once or twice moving from our right to our
left and then withdrawing.”
“Yes, sir.” McGregor was
closer.
“We have several coils of
lightweight utility rope, I think.”
McGregor appeared beside
them. “We do indeed, sir.”
Yank pointed. “Perhaps if we
secured both ends to stout bushes we could trip some of their
horses.”
“Yes, sir. That could
work.”