Keith rode out ahead, scouting the terrain. Suddenly he wheeled his horse and came back. “Captain, sir, a dead horse up ahead—a cavalry horse.”
The column advanced slowly. The western side of the mountain was bright near the top; the sky above was blue, with a white cloud floating. They saw the dead horse lying there with blood on the saddle. It was Captain Whitman’s horse.
Hanlon looked down at the saddle and the blood on the horse’s flank. “Mellett, the man who rode that horse is no longer alive. No man could lose so much blood and live.”
Keith had pushed on. He rode erect in the saddle, his rifle held ready, his eyes swinging from side to side, scanning everything, missing nothing. Again he drew up suddenly. “Captain, sir, I—”
They were there, the men of I Troop, lying in the awkward postures of death, struck down where they had been attacked, a small cluster of bodies together where they had fought in a last futile stand. They had scored, for blood was on the rocks from which the attackers had struck.
It had been neatly done, not in the most dangerous place, where the soldiers would have ridden with care, but where the open ground began to widen out and seemed to offer no hiding place, where the soldiers would have begun to relax. If, indeed, they had suspected anything.
“Dunivant, detail pickets and a burial detail,” said Mellett.
“Sir?” said Keith.
“What is it?”
“I’d like the Captain’s permission to scout around a bit.”
“What is it, Keith?” Mellett repeated. “You know Indians, and there’s something about this that bothers you. What is it?”
“The same thing that’s bothering the Captain, sir. They did not take time to mutilate the dead. And they took no prisoners. They didn’t even finish stripping all the bodies.”
“So?”
“They were in a hell of a hurry to get away, sir.”
“Go ahead…but be careful.”
Keith wheeled his horse and rode away, Mellett looking after him as he rode off.
“That’s a good man, Charlie,” said Hanlon. “We could use a few more like him.”
“He’s a good soldier,” Mellett agreed. “God forbid that he’d be anything else. I have watched him. He is not a man who would want to inflict pain on anything or anybody, not pain as such, but he’s simply and purely a hunter, a man whose world is black and white, for and against, and no middle ground. War is his job, and he carries it out to perfection. You don’t find many like him, but they’re good to have on your side.”
“And in peacetime?”
Mellett shrugged. “He would probably be quietly skillful at whatever he did, and law-abiding to the nth degree…up to a point. Beyond that point, an extremely dangerous man.”
“He was getting at something. What was it?”
The sun had crept down the canyon wall. The burial detail, in their shirt-sleeves, were beginning to sweat. It would be a hot day, and humid following the rain.
“He has an instinct, Cart. I could see it bothering him all the while. Something about this venture was all wrong, wrong from the beginning. Webb was worried about it, too, which was his major reason for taking command.”
“What did Keith mean about them getting away in such a hurry they didn’t finish looting the bodies?”
“He believes this was a diversion, Cart, and the reason those Indians got the hell out of here so fast was for fear they’d be too late for something happening elsewhere.”
“You mean…back at the post?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Mellett waited, watching the burial party, but his eyes kept searching the mountainside, the valley ahead, everything within sight. He was sure in his own mind of what Keith would find: that the attacking party had been a relatively small one, and that the main body of the Indians were elsewhere. Thank God, Paddock was back at the post.
Yet as he waited a disturbing thought crept into his mind. This diversion had been skillfully planned. The Indian was quite a careful and cunning tactician, but he had never heard of an Indian planting the idea in the minds of the military that a dealer in rifles for Indians was to be in the field, in such and such an area.
For arms had been appearing—very fine rifles, in fact, and of the latest manufacture. The army was eager to stop that supply of weapons, and when the hint came to Webb—just how not even Mellett knew—he acted at once.
Webb had moved out with a patrol, with Mellett to follow and effect a junction on North Fork. His was actually a supporting force, planned to awe the Indians from any resistance.
Whoever had planted that idea had known just what Webb would be likely to do, and the area where the arms dealer was supposed to be was sufficiently far from the post.
“I never heard of an Indian planning like that, Charlie. They have brains enough, but they just don’t think that way.”
Mellet nodded. “We will go on through to the rendezvous. If anybody survived, that’s where they’ll be. I counted only fourteen bodies.”
“We found another one,” Dunivant said. “We just found Ryan. He was up in the rocks there, with two rifles and a pistol.”
“Dead?”
“Yes, sir. He made a fight of it, sir. We counted six bullet holes, and he died up there after they left, because he was still dressed and they hadn’t taken his guns. I guess they knew he was in a bad way and preferred to leave him to dying trying to kill him quicker.”
“Good man, that.”
“He was hit hard before he got up there. That’s how we found him—by the trail of blood he left on the rocks. I counted fifty-nine cartridge shells up there…fifty-nine! He may have killed as many as the whole command did.”
Dunivant moved away and Mellett glanced over at Dr. Hanlon. “He’s hoping Ryan killed a good number,” he said, “but you never know unless you find the bodies. My guess is that it was a quick, sudden attack, and that the whole fight, except for Ryan up there in the rocks, didn’t last more than a few minutes. The men weren’t deployed as they would have been had there been any warning. I’d say several men went down with the first volley. Ryan made a stand, but wounded as he was he may not have done as much damage as we would like to believe.”
When the burials were completed, Mellett mounted his men and rode on to Hurry Back Creek, where they made a halt for a brief nooning. Nobody was talking. The experience of burying friends had had a sobering effect.
When they reached the place of rendezvous in Pleasant Valley light was fading. Mellett led his troop in a quick sweep around the area, but in the vague light they could distinguish no tracks, and found no sign of Indians. They made camp beside the clear, cold stream and bedded down for the night.
Mellett had his boots off and was waiting for a last cup of coffee when he heard the sharp challenge of a sentry. He put down his cup and picked up his pistol, moving back from the fire.
He heard a sharp exclamation, then a babble of talk. Sergeant Dunivant came up to the fire. “Sir, Johnson’s here. Johnson of I Troop.”
Johnson, whose name had been something else back in the States, was a man of medium height, well set up, a good steady man of some education and refinement. How he came to be a soldier no one could guess. The men called him The Schoolmaster, and so he might have been.
Now he was tired, bloody, and haggard, but his uniform coat was buttoned and he still carried his rifle and canteen.
“Private Johnson reporting, sir. We didn’t have a chance, Captain Mellett. They emptied half our saddles with the first volley it seemed like, and the Colonel was killed immediately. I made it into the rocks where Ryan was, but he was badly hurt and I wasn’t. By that time the shooting was over. There was nothing I could do for him, and just before he died he urged me to get away. He was pretty soon gone, and I had to leave him there.”
“How did it happen, Johnson?”
“They were under clumps of brush scattered along the trail. We took a hard volley from the edge of the trees, and then at least a dozen Indians seemed to come right up out of the ground around us. Jordan had been hit. I saw one Indian grab his horse by the bridle, and another jumped on the saddle behind him. The horse threw them both, and I was shooting. I—I don’t think I hit anything, sir.”
“You are lucky to be alive, Johnson. Sergeant, feed this man and let him change off between Evers, Little, and Drew. I think they’re the lightest men in the troop.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, Johnson?”
“Sir, there was firing off to the south this afternoon. It may have been some distance off—the wind was right, and the air was clear.”
“To the
south?
”
“Yes, sir. Whatever it was didn’t last long. There was heavy firing for just a few minutes, and it ended abruptly.”
When Johnson had gone, Mellett poked irritably at the fire. “Damn it, Cart! Damn it to hell!”
Hanlon smiled grimly. “That’s no language for an officer and a gentleman, Charlie.”
“That firing…do you suppose that could have been Paddock?”
Hanlon was arranging his bed on the grass. He turned sharply. “
Paddock?
My God!”
Chapter 12
T
HE INDIANS SEEMED to be waiting for something or somebody. Was it for darkness only? Or was it for the arrival of some one?
Mary Tall Singer was helping Denise change the dressing on the wound of the child cut by flying glass.
“What are they waiting for?” Kilrone asked her.
She did not reply for a moment, then looked around at him with an oddly defiant expression. “They wait for Medicine Dog. He comes with many warriors.”
He considered that. It was likely that the Dog had himself planned whatever action was to take place in the north, and that what she said was true. The Indians could move faster than the cavalry, for they had much less equipment and knew all the secret passes through the canyons. Undoubtedly some Indians would remain behind to carry on sporadic sniping attacks on the mounted columns or on their camps.
What if they managed to stampede the horses of the cavalry? It had been done more than once in the past, and the entire command might be set afoot, miles from the post.
When they attacked again it was with no sudden rush. It was, rather, with a steady movement along the two sides of the parade ground, coming up behind the buildings in an effort to get into easy firing range.
It was Ryerson who detected this. Scarcely able to stand after the long, tiring day, he was crouched near the window when he saw an Indian inside a building hitherto empty. A vague movement drew his attention to the roof of a barracks, and there was another Indian.
Carefully, he eased his rifle into position. “Get ready!” he whispered. “Here they come!”
He glimpsed the Indian on the roof again, fired, and missed. Instantly there was a smashing volley through the hole in the wall, some of the bullets cutting through the table and other furniture piled up against it; then came a blow with a wagon tongue, and the tongue drove clear through the wreckage and into the room. An Indian lunged, trying to break through, and Reinhardt clubbed him with a broken table-leg, crushing his skull.
The attack came from all sides. First a volley by every rifle in Indian hands, then a rush for the windows and the shelter of the walls close by.
Kilrone standing up inside a window, levered shot after shot, choosing his targets with care. Suddenly, far down the parade ground, a barracks burst into flame, and then another.
“Well,” Teale said grimly, “if they’re anywhere within sight they should see that!”
“They aren’t.” Hopkins’ tone was bitter.
All at once there was a thunder of hoofs, and through the billowing smoke that blew across the parade ground came the charging herd of horses from the corral. Taken some time before, they must have been held somewhere close by; but now they came rushing down upon the Headquarters building as if to charge right through it.
“Watch it!” Kilrone shouted. “There’ll be Indians behind them!”
And there were—at least forty of them.
The herd split as it neared the building, breaking away to escape crashing into the wall, and as they broke away the Indians appeared, clinging low down on their horses and firing under their necks, as was the Indian way. They too split and rode to left and right, dropping from their horses close by the walls. Lahey, firing from a window, killed one Indian, wounded another.
On the far side of Headquarters, Draper fired into the massed horses as they pressed between the buildings, killing one of the Indians. He was leaning out for a shot at another when a bullet caught him in the chest. He staggered back, coughing and spitting blood, then went to his knees. He died there, sagging slowly to the floor, and for minutes nobody could get to him because of the fire the attackers poured through the unguarded window.
Kells suffered a minor wound; Hopkins had a gun shot from his hand, leaving the hand numb to the wrist. Kilrone opened up with his six-shooters and cleared the window. An Indian, running forward, suddenly leaped from below the window sill and grabbed his shirt. Kilrone, striking down with a gun barrel, smashed the Indian across the collarbone, missing his skull, and the infuriated savage clung to him, dragging him over the sill.