A month to the day, Iron Dave looked up from his desk to see Medicine Dog standing looking at some blankets for sale. It was the first time he had been in the trading post that Iron Dave then operated next to his saloon. After a while, the Indian went out and squatted by the edge of the porch.
Iron Dave followed, seating himself on one of the chairs against the wall. He took out a cigar and lit it. Then he asked, “What do you want?”
“Guns…for six men.”
“All right.”
The Dog turned his head. “Suppose I kill white man?”
Iron Dave squatted on the ground, and with a forefinger he traced a brand in the dust. “My horses and my wagons are marked so,” he said, and glanced up at the Indian. “The rest are your business.”
He gave Medicine Dog the guns, and fifty rounds of ammunition for each. That had been the beginning.
A few weeks later, when word reached Iron Dave Sproul that an old competitor was planning to open a place across the street from his, Iron Dave got word to the Dog, and when the competitor’s wagons came north of Pyramid Lake they were attacked suddenly, the stock driven off, the wagons burned. And with the wagons several barrels of whiskey, the gaming tables, poker chips, cards, and other equipment.
His occasional trips into the desert or mountains were easily explained. He was, he admitted, an amateur prospector. He did not profess to know much about ore, but he liked to prospect. Usually he brought back samples, which he discussed over the bar with miners or prospectors or soldiers.
The fact that he usually drove a wagon or a buckboard he accounted for by commenting that, after all, he was a city boy. He would leave the burros to those who liked them. He preferred to travel in comfort. He usually drove into the Santa Rosas, and everybody knew there was ore there.
His occasional gifts or sales to Medicine Dog enabled the Dog to become a big man among the Bannocks. He had rifles to spare, ammunition, and ponies. Moreover, Iron Dave, by a few carefully placed comments to other Bannocks, let them believe that the horse soldiers feared Medicine Dog. Gradually, Medicine Dog’s influence grew; from being a comparative outsider, he soon was sitting in council with the chiefs, and the young bucks gathered around him.
At first Iron Dave was wary of his protégé, but as time went on he became more assured in his dealings with the Indian, and even a little contemptuous. After all, had he not practically created the Dog? Had he not built him into a position of influence?
And Medicine Dog had proved a wily tactician. He wasted no men, he wasted no effort. The blows he struck were few but decisive. His “medicine” was good, and the feeling developed among the Indians that he was a chosen one, that with him victory was assured.
His massacre of Webb and his patrol had been a complete success. Medicine Dog had moved on advance information. He knew how many men were with Webb and how they were armed, and he knew their intended route. The ambush had been a total victory. At the first volley from the Indians nine men fell, one of them being Webb, on whom four Indians had been directed to fire. Another among the first to fall was the only line sergeant in the troop.
Into the plunging, struggling horses and the shouting cavalrymen, the Indians poured a deadly fire at almost point-blank range. Two more dropped. Another’s horse bolted into the ranks of the Indians, where the rider was pulled from the saddle and stabbed to death. The entire action required only fifteen minutes, and not an Indian was killed; only three were wounded.
Medicine Dog knew all about Captain Mellett, and knew of his line of march, but he had no intention of meeting him in the field. Leaving behind a small force to harass Mellett, the Dog started for the post with the main body.
The small group he left behind had definite orders. They were not to engage in a battle. They were to draw the soldiers’ fire, get them to expend ammunition. They were to steal or drive off their horses if possible, inflict what casualties they could. Medicine Dog wanted M Troop to return to the post a weary, bedraggled lot, needing ammunition, and exasperated at not having come to grips with the enemy.
If all his plans went well, he hoped to be inside the post buildings, waiting for Mellett’s men to line up on the parade ground before the order to fall out.
Medicine Dog aimed high. He wanted not only complete destruction of the force at the post, but the post itself. But the destruction of the post would wait until it had been thoroughly looted. With the arms and ammunition from the fort, he would gather a much larger force and move against Fort Halleck, or against Harney if that seemed easier at the moment.
His force now numbered some two hundred warriors. When the news of his victories got out he would have a thousand, perhaps two thousand.
One thing disturbed him, and it disturbed him because it did not fit…one of his braves, circling around after the fight with Colonel Webb and I Troop, found the tracks of a lone rider. Back-tracking, the Indian discovered that the rider had seen the bodies of the massacred troop. The Indian had lost the trail of the rider when he attempted to follow him.
Who was the lone rider? Where had he gone? Was he enemy or friend? He rode a shod horse, but so did many Indians, now that some rode stolen or captured horses. The rider had walked his horse away from the massacre, and seemed to be in no hurry to get wherever he was going.
No matter…Medicine Dog headed for the post, unaware that Major Frank Bell Paddock, with sixty men, was headed north, toward him.
And also unaware that the post lay exposed and seemingly helpless, defended by no more than fourteen men.
A
COOL WIND was blowing from the north, and the sky was cloudy. Riding beside Paddock was Hank Laban, fur trapper, buffalo hunter, and scout. He was a thin, angular man with a sour expression but a wry sense of humor. He had phrased his arguments against this march briefly and concisely, and when they were not acted upon he had saddled his fastest horse. There was, he told himself, a time for fighting and a time for running, and he wanted to be ready to run.
“There’s been talk,” he said suddenly. “I caught me a whisper or two of some new Injun who’s cuttin’ a wide swath among the Bannocks. Seems like he took some scalps on the Little Big Horn an’ he’s been tellin’ the Bannocks how easy it was to kill white sodgers. I had a look for him but never could get a chance to see how he shaped up, but from what they say he’s one mean, smart Injun.”
Paddock offered no comment. He was beginning to feel the saddle; that came from too much desk duty. There were always rumors, and he took no stock in them.
“Buffalo Horn is the chief,” Pryor commented. “He’s said to be over in Oregon.”
“Maybe.”
Almost another mile had passed before Hank Laban ventured another comment. “Seems this here Injun has him a lot of rifles. All a warrior had to do is say he’ll ride along with him and he gets a new rifle with ammunition. I got no idea where he gets them…Medicine Dog, I mean.”
Paddock looked at Laban. “Did you say Medicine Dog? He was supposed to be the one who hit those wagon trains a few months back.”
“He’s a mean one,” Laban repeated.
He rode away suddenly, without further comment, galloping on ahead, then slowing down to sweep back and forth hunting for Indian sign. He found none…although he did see the tracks of Kilrone’s horse, heading south for the fort.
Laban had not met Kilrone, but by the time the column moved out, his arrival was common gossip around the post, and the word was that he had once been an officer in the army. Laban wondered about Kilrone, absently, without any real concentration of thought. What really disturbed him was the Dog, but he did not seem able to get his worries across to Paddock.
Hank Laban knew enough about Indians to trust his instincts, and his every sense told him that Medicine Dog was a bad one. Paddock had been a fool to leave the post, but you don’t tell an army major he’s a fool…not if you want to work for the army; and Laban liked the salary, liked the easy living and the available ammunition.
He liked none of this. Charles Mellett was perfectly capable of taking care of himself with the number of men he had. Just the same, Laban knew he would rather be where he was than back at the post.
Despite the gray day the air was clear, and he could see far off. But his eyes kept straying toward the rear, and he knew what he was looking for. He was expecting to see the smoke of burning buildings.
At the noon halt, Laban squatted by the fire, holding a cup of coffee. “Major,” he said, “I ain’t one to interfere, but you’re on a wild-goose chase. You ain’t about to trap that Injun.”
“I will be the judge of that,” Paddock replied brusquely.
“Major,” Laban insisted, “he ain’t no common Injun, this here Medicine Dog. You ask me, he’s too smart to tackle Charlie Mellett. He’ll hit the post, sure as shootin’.”
“With seventy-five soldiers waiting for him? That’s what he would expect. He certainly can’t know that we’ve marched out from the post.”
“He’ll know. This Injun gets information right off. You can just bet that by this time he knows.”
Information? But how? Doubt assailed Paddock. Almost at once he thought of Mary Tall Singer, Denise’s friend. After all, he argued, she was an Indian.
Suppose Laban was right? Suppose Kilrone had been right? If this Indian, this Medicine Dog, should attack the post now there was no chance it could be successfully defended. Sergeant Ryerson was in command until Rybolt returned from Halleck, or one of the detachments returned. Ryerson was a good man…but he was ill.
Barney Kilrone was there…or had he pulled out? For the first time in hours, Paddock thought of Denise. Suppose Barney took her away with him?
Denise there at the fort.…He had not permitted himself to think of what could happen if the post was attacked. He had thought only of the trap he could spring on the hostiles, of the victory he could win, and of the probable results of that victory.
Hank Laban got to his feet. “I’ll scout on ahead,” he said. “I don’t like the feel of things, Major.”
“All right…go ahead.” Paddock got up slowly. His legs felt stiff, and he was sore from the unaccustomed riding.
God, what he wouldn’t give for a drink!
Chapter 6
I
T WAS MID-MORNING when Barney Kilrone opened his eyes. For several minutes he lay still, adjusting himself to his surroundings. He had seen Frank Paddock leave with the detachment, and then at the urging of Denise and Betty he had agreed to lie down for a few minutes. He had slept for five hours.
Clasping his hands behind his head, he considered the situation. Paddock might be right, and he might trap Medicine Dog and administer a crushing defeat on the Indians. But that was not the way to figure it. What if the Dog survived, or evaded the fight? Suppose the Dog was the master tactician the Indians were saying he was?
Barney Kilrone had a fast, durable horse. The way west was clear. He could saddle up and ride west and south for Virginia City. He was no longer in the cavalry, and the problem of the post was not his problem. Even if he got into hostile country, the chances were that he could slip through, just as he had in coming here. One man alone, particularly if that man knew how to travel cross-country, had a good chance to get through.
Yet even as he considered the possibility, he knew he would not do it. His duty was clear. He must remain at the post until one of the detachments returned. His rifle might make a difference.
Defending the entire post was out of the question with the few men they had. They must gather all the people into one or two buildings, get enough ammunition, food, and water there for an extended siege.
There was a tap on the door, and he swung his feet to the boards and stood up. “Come in!”
It was Denise. “You’re awake, then. Would you like breakfast?”
Betty Considine was still there, and for the first time he really saw her. A slender but well-rounded girl with a lovely face, tanned from sun and wind…but not too much.
“How is your shoulder?” she asked.
“Stiff. Thanks for changing the dressing.”
It was very still, the only sound the ring of a hammer on metal from the blacksmith shop. The constant undercurrent of movement, the vague rustle and stir of an army post was lacking. Now the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer only served to emphasize the unnatural stillness.
“Who is in command?” Kilrone asked.
“Sergeant Ryerson, I suppose,” Denise said. “Lieutenant Rybolt should be back at any time.”
“Tim Ryerson?”
“Do you know him?”
“He was in my outfit in Arizona.”
Then they talked casually about many things, remembering people and places, talking of army posts other than this, and of Paris during and after the Franco-Prussian War, when Frank Bell Paddock and Barnes Kilrone had been present as observers, with semi-official positions but at their own expense.
The coffee was good, and Kilrone was content to stretch out his legs under the table and to talk quietly, though always as he talked there was the nagging thought in the back of his mind that their time might be running out.
Over the roofs of the barracks he could see the gray sky. The night would be dark, a night without moon, without stars. The wind stirred gently, a wind that would cover the sound of any approach.