It was a typical late summer day in the North Platte country. Lieutenant Thad Anderson led B Troop, thirty-four troopers and three scouts, out of Fort Fetterman about an hour after sunup. Now, after only four hours’ march, the morning was already warm, promising a hot, dry day. It had not rained in three weeks and the Platte was little more than a ghost of its usual dimensions.
Lieutenant Anderson felt no need for caution as the troop followed the river back to Fort Laramie. Since it was a standard practice, he had the scouts out afield anyway. No need to take chances, even small ones. He liked Jason Coles as soon as they were introduced by Sergeant Woodcock. He sensed that the feeling was mutual. Coles seemed to be a serious and confident man without the swagger that was often typical of civilian scouts. Although this was their first meeting, he had heard of Jason Coles. Colonel Holder, now assigned to Fort Lincoln, had once told him Coles was the best scout west of the Missouri. Jim Riley, who worked with him at Fort Cobb, said if he was backed up in a box canyon by the entire Comanche nation and could only be granted two things, he’d wish for one of those new Winchester Model 1874s and Jason Coles. After praise like that, Thad had expected a cocksure attitude about the man, maybe like Simon Bone. But, to his surprise, Coles was a quiet, almost self-effacing man. He had not seen him in action but something told him he would still be there when the fighting was over.
Jason pulled Black up short and dismounted. He looked at the tracks left in a dry streambed that told him a party of seven Indians had crossed the river there. From the river, the trail led to the northwest. Here come some more reinforcements for Sitting Bull, he thought. The one set of shod prints told him that they had stolen one of the army’s horses to boot.
He didn’t feel the need to ride back to the column to tell the lieutenant about the trail. Their mission was to march downriver to Fort Laramie and then east to Camp Robinson, not to chase after small parties of reservation Lakotas. He stepped up into the stirrup and threw a leg over the saddle. Black started to surge forward but Jason held him back when he heard the bugler. He was calling the scouts in. Dinnertime, he thought, and wheeled Black around.
It was as he figured. Anderson, being a sensible young officer, decided to rest his troops when he came to a sizable grove of cottonwoods that afforded some relief from the noonday sun. With no threat of hostile activity to impede their progress, the column was making good time. With that in mind, the lieutenant ordered an hour’s break so the men could make some cookfires if they wanted to.
Jason took his time riding back to the troop. He watched the two Crow scouts ride in, one from the north and the other from the other side of the river. Satisfied that there was no one in the area but the cavalry troop, he joined the others.
“Mr. Coles.”
Jason looked around when his name was called. It was Sergeant Aaron Brady, the ranking noncom on the patrol, and a man Jason had met for the first time that morning.
“Mr. Coles,” Brady repeated. “I’m gonna boil me up a little coffee. You’re welcome to have a cup if you care to.”
“That’s might neighborly of you, Sergeant. I believe I would.” He stepped down from Black and dropped the reins. He and Black had been partners for long enough now so the horse knew not to move as long as the reins were on the ground. Jason got some biscuit and side meat from his saddle pack. The mess sergeant at Fort Fetterman had wrapped them up for him that morning. “Here’s some biscuit to soak up some of that coffee,” he said and settled himself across from the small fire Brady had kindled. The sergeant’s face reflected his appreciation and he gladly put away the hardtack he had expected to eat.
Sergeant Brady was a short, wiry man with a red mustache so long that it nearly touched his shoulders. Like the lieutenant, Brady had been on the frontier since the War Between the States, the difference being that Brady fought on the Union side. Jason was to learn there was no animosity between the two men because of their different loyalties. To the contrary, there was a good-natured rivalry shared due to the fact that they had both been present in the Battle of the Wilderness.
Brady swirled the coffee around a few times in the pot to make sure the brew was strong enough. Then he filled the cups, catching the grounds with the pot lid. It could not be considered the best coffee Jason had ever tasted. Due to the poor quality of the water from the small stream they camped by, it was bitter and strong, but it was coffee so it hit the spot as far as he was concerned.
Lieutenant Anderson strolled over and joined his sergeant and the scout. “I knew Sergeant Brady would make some coffee, even if it was a hundred degrees in the shade.”
Brady grinned. “And I knew if I started some coffee, the lieutenant would show up looking for a cup. Sit down, Sir, and gimme your cup.”
Lieutenant Anderson took the cup and settled back against the trunk of a tree. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “It’s worse than usual.” Brady just chuckled. Anderson turned his attention to Jason. “Well, Mr. Coles, have you seen any sign of hostiles in the area? Little Hawk said he picked up a trail on the other side of the river.”
Jason nodded. “Yessir, I saw where they crossed up ahead about a quarter mile. Seven of ’em, one of ’em was an army horse. There was no travois so I figure it was some more Cheyennes jumping the reservation and heading north.”
Anderson shook his head, a serious expression replaced the grin he had worn. “Damn. There’s going to be a full-scale war if this keeps up. We don’t have enough troops out here to keep all those Indians on the reservation.”
“Reckon not,” Jason agreed. “Some of ’em usually come back when winter hits but, if the government don’t feed ’em like they promised, they may break out for good.”
“I thought when Red Cloud made peace and came in to the reservation with his Sioux, the Cheyenne and Arapaho would settle down too.”
Jason shrugged. “Red Cloud was big medicine when he was making war on the Bozeman Trail. He gave the army a good lickin’, burned down the army’s forts, forced ’em to the peace table. But Red Cloud ain’t such big medicine anymore, since he’s turned into a reservation Injun. Sitting Bull is the king stud now and he’s the one the wild ones are listening to. He ain’t ever signed a treaty and he ain’t got no intention of coming to the reservation.”
Anderson tossed the dregs from his cup, then took a drink from his canteen to rinse the bitter taste of Brady’s coffee from his mouth. “Mr. Coles, I’m afraid you’re right on the mark. Things are going to get hot before it’s over.” He got to his feet and stretched. “All right, Sergeant, let’s get ’em in the saddle.”
* * *
The troop rode into Fort Laramie on the following afternoon and Anderson ordered Sergeant Brady to see to the men’s bivouac for the night while he reported in to the commander of the post.
Watching the soldiers as they filed by was a somber man with a jet-black beard and piercing blue eyes that stared out from under a broad sombrero. Leaning against the porch railing, he seemed to be interested in only one of the columns and when Jason dismounted, he casually strolled over to greet him.
“Jason Coles?” the man asked.
Jason turned when he heard his name called. He had never met the man addressing him but he had a fair idea who he was. “Yessir, I’m Jason Coles.” The man extended his hand and Jason took it. “I reckon you’d be Jim Baker.” Jason knew Baker by reputation. He had never had the opportunity to ride with him although he had been the chief scout at Laramie for more than a few years.
“Colonel told me you was riding scout for Colonel Fleming over at Fetterman. Figured they’d send you over here fer this little party. I’d go with you but I’m taking a wagon train out in the morning.”
“I’ve heard plenty about you,” Jason said. “Sorry I haven’t had the chance to ride with you.”
Baker squinted his eyes as he studied the tall scout before him. “I’ve heared some things about you too. I could fix it so’s you’d be riding for me over here at Laramie. Whaddaya say?”
“Why, that would be real fine—and I appreciate it—but I don’t know how long I’m going to scout for the army. I’ve got some personal business that needs tending.” Jason was flattered that a man of Jim Baker’s reputation would want him to work for him. In truth, Jason didn’t particularly like the idea of working for anybody. By nature, he was a loner and he could tolerate working for the army only because he operated as a private contractor.
“Another time then,” Baker said.
They shook hands again and Baker turned and walked back to the headquarters building.
* * *
Jason was invited to share a tent with Sergeant Brady, which he accepted because he preferred to sleep near his horse. There was some room for most of the men in the cavalry barracks but Brady, like Jason, chose to sleep outside.
After about an hour, Lieutenant Anderson returned and gave Brady instructions for feeding the men at the post mess. As for Jason, he had other plans. “Mr. Coles, Major Linebaugh has invited you and me to take supper with him. His wife’s sister is visiting from St. Louis and he wants us to join them.”
Jason was stunned. “He does? Why?”
Thad couldn’t help but laugh. So this is what it took to bring fear in the scout’s eyes. “Well, the major’s a friend of mine. I used to be assigned here.”
“That explains why he wants you to come to supper but what does he want with me?”
The lieutenant wore a wide grin. “I guess he wants to show his sister-in-law what a real Indian scout looks like so she can tell the folks back in St. Louis.”
Jason frowned. “I don’t think so, Lieutenant. I thank you just the same though.”
“Come now, Mr. Coles,” Thad teased. “You’re not afraid of a little female company are you? You won’t get a chance to get a better meal. Florence Linebaugh is a pretty good cook.”
“Lieutenant, I ain’t fit to dine with ladies. I ain’t got no evening clothes. I don’t have anything but buckskins till my money comes in for the horses.”
Thad was persistent. “They don’t expect you to show up in anything but buckskins. Believe me, they’ll be real disappointed if you don’t come . . . and I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d do it.”
Jason finally gave in. He was reluctant to do it and he could not understand why he was in such demand. The lieutenant had insisted that Major Linebaugh was very keen to meet him because he had heard about his work from Colonel Holder. He still didn’t feel right about going but, as long as he had agreed to, he tried to make himself as presentable as he could manage under the circumstances. He put on the one spare shirt he carried and dusted off his pants. He shaved his whiskers off and combed his hair as best he could and at six o’clock he met Thad Anderson and they walked to the major’s quarters.
Major Robert Linebaugh met them on the front porch where he was sitting and smoking a cigar. “Thad, glad to see you and I see you persuaded Mr. Coles to come along.” He extended his hand toward Jason. “Welcome, Mr. Coles. I’ve heard a lot about you. You’ve got quite a reputation around here.”
Jason was flabbergasted. “I have? Reputation for what?” He took the major’s hand and shook it. Already he was beginning to think he had made a mistake in coming.
The major just laughed and replied, “Indeed!” Then he turned back to Anderson. “Thad, how the hell are you getting along? You like it up there at Fetterman?”
Thad and his friend talked for a few minutes, recalling some of the experiences they had shared before Thad was transferred to Fort Fetterman. Jason stood by politely and waited patiently, but at that point in the evening, he was thinking fondly of the enlisted men’s mess. After a bit, there was a female voice from inside that called the men in to supper. Jason followed the two officers inside.
It was small but it was neat. Since Major Linebaugh was the colonel’s adjutant, he rated a small bungalow. It was a short distance from the bachelor officers’ quarters, which were above the headquarters building. Florence Linebaugh, all smiles and dimples, waited inside to greet her guests. She was very gracious in greeting Jason and she gave Thad an enthusiastic hug. Without the advantage of examining her teeth, Jason guessed she was about thirty-five years old. Standing next to her, a younger, prettier version of her sister, was Martha Lynch. When introduced, she favored Jason with a polite smile but her eyes never left the face of Thad Anderson.
Thad had been straight with him about one thing. Florence Linebaugh set a fine table and Jason took advantage of it. He tried to remember his manners as best he could and he figured he didn’t do too badly for a man who lived in the wild most of the time. Everybody seemed to be enjoying themselves with light conversation, mostly about times when Thad was stationed at Laramie.
Along about dessert, Florence shifted the conversation to focus on her sister. Martha, it seemed, was on her first visit west of the Mississippi and, according to her, she found the country overpowering, it was so raw and vast. She would be going back east in two weeks where she would begin her second year as a teacher in a private girls’ boarding school and she so hoped to be able to bring back authentic tales of the western frontier. Jason couldn’t figure out why anybody would want to do that. The young lady seemed to be talking directly to Thad the whole time. It was fairly obvious to Jason the main purpose of the supper was to let Martha meet Thad. Well, he thought, they’d make a handsome couple and he finished off his slice of apple pie and nodded yes to another cup of coffee.
After coffee, all eyes turned toward Jason and his worst fears were realized. Martha started it. “So, Mr. Coles, I understand you are an Indian fighter.”
Jason didn’t answer at once, then, “Ah, no, ma’am, I’m a scout.”
She glanced at her sister, disappointment evident in her face. Thad read her expression as well and quickly spoke up. “Miss Lynch, Mr. Coles might be a little modest. He doesn’t mean he hasn’t fought Indians, he’s fought plenty and he’s killed some.”
The young girl’s face brightened again, the disappointment gone. She turned back to Jason again, oblivious to the stoic countenance now displayed on his face. Had she been more perceptive, she might have surmised that the scout preferred not to talk about killing Indians. She pressed the issue.
“Have you killed many Indians, Mr. Coles?” Her smile was as innocent as a precocious young child.
Thad was bright enough to read the discomfort Jason was exhibiting and realized it was not a topic the scout considered fit for suppertime conversation with young ladies. He tried to steer her away from her query. “To be sure, Mr. Coles has, Miss Lynch, but that might be too delicate a subject to discuss.”
“Nonsense, Lieutenant, I’m not that delicate. My friends back east will be thrilled to hear Mr. Coles’ stories about the wild frontier and his fights with the savages.” She gazed at Jason expectantly.
Jason glanced at Thad and then back at the young lady. He realized that there was a purpose beyond being neighborly for his supper invitation after all. It was twofold, the major’s wife wanted to get her sister together with the young, single lieutenant and Jason was invited along to be the dog and pony show. He didn’t care much for the idea. There was a long moment’s silence before Jason spoke.
“Miss Lynch, when it could not be avoided, or when it was necessary, I have taken a life. Since the folks we are fighting out here are Injuns, I have killed Injuns. It ain’t something I’m proud of, it just happened to be my job to do . . . just like it’s the major’s job and Lieutenant Anderson’s job. It ain’t no different for me just because I’m wearing buckskins. I don’t want to disappoint your friends back east but there ain’t nothing glamorous about killing a man, red or white.”
There was a long silence when Jason finished. Martha Lynch appeared to be stunned. Jason drained the last from his coffee cup and pushed his chair back. “Now I reckon I’d better go and make sure my horses are all right. Ma’am,” he said, addressing Florence Linebaugh, “I do thank you very much for a fine supper.” He nodded in Major Linebaugh’s direction. “Major, thank you, Sir.” Without pause, Jason left the bungalow.
In his wake, Jason left a speechless dinner party. Martha and Florence exchanged embarrassed glances. Finally, Major Linebaugh spoke. “Well, anyone else want more coffee?”
“Do you think we insulted the man?” Florence Linebaugh wanted to know. “My goodness, he seemed downright surly when he left.”
Thad spoke up. “Oh, I don’t think so, Florence. Jason is just a serious man when it comes to his profession. I haven’t known him but a few days myself. He’s probably just been in the field too long to be comfortable in polite company.”
Major Linebaugh seemed to sum it up for all of them when he spoke. “Mr. Coles is an unusual man. I think he’s not the typical loudmouth, hard-bragging, whiskey-drinking loafer like so many of the civilian scouts we employ. Mr. Coles goes a lot deeper than most men.” He turned to his young friend and added, “Thad, if you find yourself in a tight place, stick close to Jason Coles.”
* * *
Shortly after breakfast the next day, the column left Fort Laramie and headed for the Red Cloud Agency and Camp Robinson. Lieutenant Anderson made a casual reference to the supper the previous evening and said he hoped Jason was not uncomfortable with the conversation. Jason responded that he had not given it further thought after he left to take care of his horses. That was all that was said about the entire evening.
About five miles out from Laramie, Thad sent the scouts out and Jason went out in front of the column. An easy day’s march would put them on the Sioux reservation and Jason’s main concern was to look out for hunting parties. The lieutenant wasn’t expecting any trouble but there was always the possibility. They made camp once before reaching the agency. The day after that the column made the march to Camp Robinson where Thad ordered a stand-down to set up a bivouac area alongside the troops permanently stationed there.
According to Major Walter Gaston, commander of the troops at Camp Robinson, he had his hands full just trying to keep the reservation Sioux in line. He was grateful for Anderson’s help in trying to find these renegade Cheyennes who had been reported by some of his scouts. Jason asked to talk to one of the scouts who had reported the Cheyennes and Major Gaston sent for him.
That afternoon, a short, solidly built Sioux, wearing faded blue cavalry trousers and boots, rode into the bivouac area and asked for Jason Coles. Jason saw him coming and walked to meet him. He said his name was Walking Crow.
“The major says you saw the Cheyennes from the other reservation.” Jason spoke in the Sioux tongue.
“That’s true,” Walking Crow responded. “They are camped two days ride from here at the fork of Buffalo Creek.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“No. My wife’s brother, Lame Deer, talked to them. He said they came here from Camp Supply in the Oklahoma territory.”
“Why did they come here? Did they tell your brother-in-law where they are going?”
“They say they are tired of the reservation. They wish to go back to the old ways. They are going to join Sitting Bull’s people in the Powder River country. They say that if they, Cheyennes, are going, then Lakotas should also go to join Sitting Bull.” Walking Crow paused, a solemn look upon his weathered face. “I think some will go.”
Jason nodded, thinking. “I reckon you’re right,” he said. “How many Cheyennes?”
Walking Crow indicated ten, holding up both hands. To Jason this meant there were at least ten, probably a few more, maybe as many as fifteen or twenty. “Who is the leader? Do you know his name?”
Walking Crow nodded. “My sister’s husband said his name is Black Eagle. He did not come with the others. He came alone but the others now follow him.”
Black Eagle, this was the news Jason wanted to hear. Black Eagle was camped on the Sioux reservation, and only two days away from where he now stood. Lieutenant Anderson’s orders were to hunt the renegade Cheyennes down and bring them back to Laramie. They might succeed in hunting them down but Jason had a feeling that Black Eagle would not willingly be captured, he would die first. Jason was counting on this and he wanted to be the one to put a bullet through his brain.
Jason relayed Walking Crow’s information to the lieutenant and Thad ordered Sergeant Brady to ready his men for a march first thing the following day. Major Gaston loaned Walking Crow to them to lead them to the reported campsite of the renegades.
It was a bright sunny day when the column moved out of the bivouac area at a brisk trot. The few thin clouds that had appeared over the horizon had dissipated before the troop was in the saddle an hour. There was a gentle breeze that toyed with the pennant on the guidon mast and the men seemed to be in good spirits. Jason rode about a quarter of a mile out front with Walking Crow. At midday, they stopped for the noon meal and to rest the horses. Aaron Brady sauntered over and sat down by Jason.
“You say this feller you’re looking for, this Black Eagle . . . he’s with this band of Cheyennes?”
Jason nodded. “That’s what they say.”
“How come you got such a powerful interest in him?”
Jason took a long moment before answering. “Well, I guess you could say there’s bad blood between us. I expect he’s looking for me about as hard as I’m looking for him.”
It was plain to see that Brady had hoped for more detail than that but just as he was about to press the issue, the lieutenant called him to get the column mounted and under way again. Jason was just as happy to keep the details to himself.
The column camped at the end of the day by a small stream that Walking Crow said was the only water before they reached Buffalo Creek the next day. There were only a few trees for shade but the sun was low in the western sky by the time the men settled in for the night. Jason rode out with Walking Crow to scout the trail ahead for a few miles. There were many trails of large and small parties traveling the rolling prairie but none fresher than several days. Walking Crow said these were probably hunting parties from the agency. The game was scarce and the parties were forced to travel much farther to find meat to supplement the scant rations provided by the Great White Father in Washington. Satisfied that there was no one else in their vicinity, the two scouts returned to the camp.
The column was in the saddle before sunup the following morning. They splashed through the shallow water of the mist-covered stream and filed up the low bank in single file, following the trail Walking Crow had pointed out. According to his reckoning, they would reach the fork of Buffalo Creek before noon. Due to the near treeless terrain, Jason and Walking Crow rode out four or five miles ahead of the troops. Surprise was critical. If the column was spotted, the Cheyennes would scatter and vanish long before they were even in rifle range.
There had been some discussion the night before regarding the wisdom of waiting for an early dawn attack on the band. That would have been preferred by Thad and Jason. But Walking Crow said the party of Cheyennes had been camping at the fork of the creek for over a week and he wasn’t sure how long it would be before they moved on toward the north. He felt the only reason they had stayed this long was to try to persuade more of the reservation Sioux to join them. Thad had weighed that information heavily and decided it best to find the band as quickly as possible even if it would cause the column to risk early detection by the renegades.
As they approached a low line of hills some three miles before them, Walking Crow said that the creek was just on the other side. From that point on, they would have to be very careful. Both men scanned the prairie before them, looking left and right, as they made their way to the hills. Jason wanted a close look so he dismounted at the base of the hill and crawled up to the top where he could get a good view of the creek on the other side. Walking Crow followed his lead and was soon up beside him. It was just as he had told them. Below them, not more than one hundred fifty yards away, the camp was cradled between the forks of a wide creek.
Jason surveyed the camp carefully. There were no tipis, only lean-tos, fashioned from hides. He counted twenty-seven of them. He turned to Walking Crow and whispered, “There are no women.”
Walking Crow nodded, agreeing. “No women came, only warriors.”
This was unusual. This was not a hunting party or a raiding party. These warriors were moving to join Sitting Bull’s Sioux, never planning to return to the reservation. Jason wondered why there were no wives and children with them. Walking Crow told him the warriors were all young and fiery, maybe too young to be burdened with women. Jason and Walking Crow lay there on the hilltop for almost an hour, watching the camp. There was not a great deal of activity and no more than five or six warriors in the camp. It was plain to see that if Thad mounted an assault on the camp at midday, he would be hitting it when most of them were gone. He decided they had seen enough. He nudged Walking Crow and the two of them scurried back down to the horses and rode back to advise the lieutenant.
They intercepted the column on a broad plateau that was cut by several dry coulees. Jason reined up beside Thad and reported their findings. Upon Jason’s advice, the lieutenant decided to wait until the following morning to move on the Cheyenne encampment. Jason assured him that it didn’t look to him like the renegades were planning to leave anytime soon. He led the column to a wide dry coulee that led down into a shallow valley where the men and horses would be out of sight. The troopers were told to get some sleep if they could because they were going to make a night march. Even though there was little chance they might be seen, no fires were allowed. There was no firewood available, and if the buffalo grass was burned, it would give off a thick brown smoke.
Thad sat down with Jason and Walking Crow to get more details on the Indian camp. He called Sergeant Brady over to join in the discussion. When Brady had settled himself next to Jason, Thad asked, “How many do you think there are?”
“Can’t say for sure,” Jason replied. “There weren’t but a half a dozen or so in the camp but I counted twenty-seven hide lean-tos. I doubt there’s more than one Injun to a lean-to. They ain’t big as a poncho, just a piece of hide.” He paused, then, “But there don’t seem to be any women with ’em so every living soul there is a warrior.”
Thad thought this over for a moment. “How well are they armed?”
“Well, again, I can’t say for sure. We couldn’t see any weapons from where we were watching. Walking Crow told me that when he ran across them a week ago, most of ’em were carrying nothing but bows and war axes. He saw one Henry repeating rifle and a couple of muzzle loaders. He said there may have been one or two other rifles, no more than that.”
This was good news to Thad. “We’ll move up to the base of those hills you scouted and wait there until light. If we can move in fast enough, we should catch ’em napping.” He got up to leave. “Sergeant, have the men ready to ride at dark.”
“Yessir,” Brady replied. He stretched his legs out in front of him and folded his hands behind his head. He watched the lieutenant walk a few yards away and make himself comfortable against a little eroded-out gully. “He ain’t a bad sort, is he? I mean, for a damn officer . . . and a Reb at that.”
Jason laughed. “Reckon not,” he answered.
“Better catch you a little shut-eye while you got a chance. The army don’t give you many afternoons off.”
“Maybe I will,” Jason replied, getting to his feet. “I think I’ll take another look around first.” He picked up Black’s reins and led him up the coulee.
He rode out to the west a couple of miles and then cut to the north, making a wide circle around the column. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular but he wanted to know what was in the area just to satisfy his own curiosity. He wasn’t much for lying around sleeping in the middle of the afternoon. After riding north for a while, he turned toward the east. When he turned back south again, he came upon something curious, wagon tracks.
“Now, that’s downright peculiar,” he announced to Black. “What’s a wagon doing out this far from the agency?” From the prints, it didn’t appear to be heavily loaded and they were leading directly away from where he estimated the Cheyenne camp to be. He guessed the tracks were four or five days old, it was hard to be certain, the grass had just about straightened back up. If it wasn’t for a little patch of bare ground, he might not have even noticed them. Whoever it was had carried something out to the renegades and was coming back empty. He’d tell the lieutenant what he found but he wasn’t sure what it meant.
* * *
“All right, let’s go. We’re wasting time!” Sergeant Brady moved quietly among the resting soldiers. Some, who had been able to fall asleep, had to be roused with a nudge from his boot. “Get mounted and keep the noise down.”
Jason watched as man after man groaned and stretched, trying to clear the cobwebs from confused brains that went to sleep in bright sunlight and were awakened to total darkness. The night was moonless and already deepening. Thad Anderson found Jason and motioned for him. Jason ambled over and the lieutenant commented, “It would sure help if there was a little bit of moonlight.”
“There’s light enough,” Jason responded.
Reassured, Thad grunted and gave the order to mount. Brady passed it along and within a minute’s time the troop was in the saddle and ready to ride. Jason, after a nod from the lieutenant, led them out of the coulee and headed toward the fork of Buffalo Creek. Walking Crow rode beside him; Little Hawk and Cross Bear rode out on the flanks of the column. Jason had advised Thad to keep the two Crow scouts away from Walking Crow. They had no love for the Sioux, even if they were all three in the employ of the army.
After a mile or so, Thad spurred his horse up beside Jason and they rode in silence for a short while before Walking Crow moved out ahead about a hundred yards. He explained to Jason that he wanted to be able to hear the sounds of the prairie, away from the creaking of saddle leather and the clinking of metal cups and bridles. That made sense to Jason. He continued to ride beside Thad. Behind him, there came the occasional snort from a horse or a softly muttered curse from a trooper as a horse stumbled. The darkness seemed to amplify even the smallest sound of a night march. The constant thumping of the horses’ hooves sometimes sounded like a low drumbeat. Back in the column, the men followed blindly, each man barely able to see the horse’s rump in front of him. Occasionally a little burst of flame would flare and die away as a soldier lit his pipe. The deep starry night closed tightly around the column as if they rode through a dark tunnel. More than one trooper wondered what awaited them when the sun came up again.
After a slow march of close to six hours, Walking Crow rode back to meet the column. The line of hills he and Jason had watched the Cheyenne camp from was only about two miles ahead. Thad told Sergeant Brady to pass the word back for silence, no talking from that point on . . . a man’s voice carried a long way on the prairie.
When the foot of the hill was reached, it was four-thirty by Sergeant Brady’s railroad watch. The men were ordered to stand down again to wait for first light and the order to attack. Jason and Walking Crow, accompanied by Thad Anderson, made their way to the top of the hill to scout the encampment.
“I can’t see a damn thing,” Thad whispered. “How do you know they’re there?”
“They’re there,” Jason replied. Walking Crow nodded agreement. Jason pointed to a dark area where the stream was barely visible from the reflection of the starlit night on the water. “It’s hard to see the camp because there ain’t no tipis or cookfires. There ain’t much to see but they’re there all right, on the far side of those willows by the creek. They might as well be underground. They’re dug in like prairie dogs, nothing but skin flaps covering them.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Thad whispered. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
“You will soon. It won’t be long before daylight.”
Walking Crow said something to Jason and Jason nodded. He then passed the message on to Thad. “There’s a little ravine that cuts between this hill we’re on and that little knob on your right. Walking Crow says it’s big enough to move the column through and be right on the creek bank before they even know we’re here.”
It was only a matter of minutes before the darkness softened and began to gray. Soon fingers of light crept through the hills behind them, touching the creek and illuminating the silvery mist rising from the water. A few minutes more and it was light enough to mount up.
Now that he could clearly see the cluster of rude shelters between the branches of the creek, Thad decided a single skirmish line, formed on the bank of the creek, should be able to sweep the camp. There was no sign of activity among the sleeping renegades. “Let’s get after them before they have a chance to wake up,” he whispered and started making his way back down the hill as quietly as he could manage. At the bottom of the hill, Brady was watching and anticipated the order to mount. Thad pressed upon his sergeant the importance of getting the troop through the ravine quickly and quietly in order to form on the creek bank.
The column filed through the gap between the two hills at a brisk walk, the troopers checking their weapons as they rode. The way was narrow and the trail was strewn with loose rocks that made the passage difficult and noisier than Jason would have liked. He scolded himself for not scouting the passage himself instead of relying on Walking Crow. But it was too late to do anything about it at this point. “Quiet!” he heard someone behind him whisper as a horse almost lost its footing.
He could almost feel it happen before it actually did. Halfway back in the line a horse stumbled and a rider struggled to stay in the saddle. Hauling back on the reins with one hand, his rifle in the other ready to fire, his finger tightening on the trigger. The discharge of the rifle was like thunder in the small ravine. The sharp crack reverberated through the walls of the passage and across the shallow creek. Black started but Jason held him back. Behind him he could hear a horse rear and fall back into the rider behind him. In a matter of seconds the quiet valley erupted into a hailstorm of confusion.
Thad yelled to Sergeant Brady to hurry the last of the column through and form as skirmishers on the creek bank. Brady, cursing loudly, was already struggling to keep the men moving. Thad’s urging was unnecessary. To Jason’s surprise, there was no confusion in the Cheyenne camp. The sleeping warriors threw off their robes, keeping low in the shallow holes they had been sleeping in. As soon as the last trooper cleared the ravine and fell into the skirmish line, Thad gave the order to charge. The element of surprise was now wasted but he decided he still held the advantage in numbers and weaponry. He was soon to be stunned by the events that took place during the next few minutes.
B Troop galloped into the shallow water, firing and reloading as rapidly as possible. Just as the foremost riders cleared the low bank on the opposite side, they were met by a blistering wall of fire from the Cheyenne camp. Thad was stunned. A soldier screamed and fell from the saddle, then another and another. The Cheyenne fire was continuous, cutting his men from their saddles. The Indian gunfire rolled over the line of cavalry like an ocean wave, taking every other man with it, it seemed.
“Back!” he shouted. “Recall! Recall!” he screamed to his bugler and the bugler blared the order to retreat. Thad looked frantically to his right and left, trying to get his men back to the cover of the hills behind them. Off to one side, he saw Jason Coles, cranking round after round from his Winchester. Jason looked at him and yelled, “Get ’em back in that ravine and find some cover before we lose the whole damn troop.”
Thad, still devastated by the superior firepower confronting him, shouted to the scout, “What the hell happened?” He could not understand the overwhelming rifle fire.
“Goddammit, they’re better armed than your soldiers. Every damn one of ’em is carrying a repeating rifle and it looks like they were expecting us.”
It soon became apparent to the Cheyennes that their superior firepower had stopped the soldiers cold and the advantage was clearly theirs. As the lieutenant moved his troopers back to the hills, one warrior stood up to take command of the rest and rallied his braves to pursue the retreating soldiers. He was a tall, smooth-muscled warrior. His hair was long, to his shoulders, and he wore one eagle feather. In his hand, he held a Winchester and he fired at the retreating troopers as rapidly as he could pull the trigger and cock it.
“Black Eagle,” Jason whispered. He had never laid eyes on the renegade who had killed Lark and had vowed to kill him. Something told him he was looking at Black Eagle now. It could be no other.
In the confusion of the disorderly retreat, Jason had been covering the withdrawal of the near-panicked troopers, making every shot count. Now, seeing the warriors rallying to the urging of Black Eagle, he tried to get a clear shot at the renegade. For an instant he had him in his sights but the opportunity was lost when a Cheyenne bullet snapped too close to Black’s fetlock, causing the horse to rear back, spoiling Jason’s aim. He pulled back hard on the reins as another bullet snapped close to his head. It was getting too hot to stay where he was. The Indians had discovered where the deadly fire was coming from and were now concentrating on him. A quick scan of the creek bank told him that all the surviving troopers had pulled back to the hill so he darted for the cover of the ravine, the Cheyennes hot behind him.
Rifle slugs were singing through the sparse trees of the ravine and kicking up dirt on the hillside as Jason galloped into cover and slid from the saddle. Running in a crouch, he dropped down beside Thad Anderson who was firing at the advancing Indians with his revolver. He took a quick look around him to evaluate the situation and didn’t like what he saw. The men were firing but not taking careful aim and they were bunched together like quail in the underbrush. They wouldn’t last long like that. Thad seemed intent on staying where he was so Jason decided it was time to take control of the situation or they would all be buzzard’s breakfast.
“Lieutenant!” Thad looked startled when Jason shouted, almost in his face. “Thad, tell Brady to have the men fall back in the ravine. When you get ’em almost through, split ’em up—half on each side of the hill. There ain’t no sense in every fourth man holding the horses. We need their rifles. Two men ought to be able to handle all the horses in that narrow ravine. Your boys can catch them Cheyenne when they come through. And, dammit, tell ’em to hit something.”
Thad, steady now, was eager to follow Jason’s orders. “Right! Sergeant Brady!” He passed on Jason’s instructions. When Brady was on his way, he asked, “What if they don’t follow us through the ravine?”
“They’ll follow. They smell blood and they damn sure know they’re whipping our butts.” He paused to reload his rifle. “There’s a knob up there about halfway up the hill. That’s where I’ll be. My rifle will do the most good from there.” He started to leave, then paused. “And tell your boys not to shoot at me, dammit.” He looped the reins over his saddle and gave Black a slap on the rump and watched until he was sure his horse was headed back to the other horses being held by the handlers at the rear. Then, in a crouch, he quickly made his way up to the knob and positioned himself to bring fire on the advancing Cheyennes, by this time splashing across the creek, screaming angry war whoops.
You may have won this damn battle but it’s going to cost your ass, he thought, and began to lay down a deadly fire, making every shot count. With the patience of a man accustomed to performing coolly under fire, he carefully picked each target and, unhurriedly, squeezed and cocked. As one by one his brothers began to fall from the deadly rifle fire from the knob, Black Eagle realized his victory was becoming too costly. He tried to call his warriors back but it was too late. The blood-crazed warriors were already charging through the narrow pass after the retreating soldiers. Now they came under fire from Brady’s men on both sides of the ravine and were being cut down by the volley from the army carbines.
In a short time, the cost in casualties became too much to continue the assault and the Cheyennes dropped back to the creek. In a time span of no more than twenty minutes, the battle was over. Only a few sporadic shots were heard now as the renegades mounted and galloped away to the hills beyond.
Jason made his way back down to the creek where he stood watching the departing Cheyennes as they disappeared over a rise in the narrow plateau between the creek and the hills. He was joined shortly by Thad Anderson and Sergeant Brady.
“You want to go after ’em, Lieutenant?” Brady looked uncertain even as he asked.
Thad hesitated, wondering himself. Jason filled the void and answered for him. “Hell no, he don’t want you to chase ’em. They’ve already wiped out half the troop. They’d love nothing better than for you to go chasing them out in the open where they could soon settle for the rest of us.”
Thad was still hesitant but he also knew what his orders were. “Our orders are to bring this bunch in to the reservation.”
“Your orders didn’t say anything about them having new repeating rifles, did they?” Jason didn’t like the smell of the whole engagement. It seemed too much like a setup to him. One thing in particular that bothered him more than a little was the whereabouts of Walking Crow. He was thinking that he damn sure better be dead because he was conspicuously absent after the shooting started. Walking Crow did not impress him as being fearful of a fight. Jason had other suspicions.
“Anybody see Walking Crow?” Jason asked. No one had and he was not among the dead the soldiers were now in the process of recovering. Then Jason wanted to know something else. “Whose horse bolted back there in the ravine?”
“Belton,” Brady replied. “He fired the shot.”
“’Tain’t so, Sergeant,” Belton, a tall, rawboned man from Kentucky, replied. “Hit were my horse jumped all right. ’Twarn’t my rifle what farred though.”
“Who did then?” Brady demanded.
“That damn-fool Injun scout of yourn, that’s who. Your horse’d jump too if somebody farred a gun under his hind end.”
Jason’s suspicions were confirmed. They had been led into a trap. Walking Crow had been the one who reported the enemy’s strength as mostly bows and a few muzzle loaders. He also insisted the best approach to the camp was through the narrow ravine. “Looks like our friend Walking Crow decided to join Sitting Bull with the rest of his friends.”
Thad and Brady stood by Jason, surveying the damage done to the troop. Of the original thirty-four men, nine were dead and seven wounded. One of the Crow scouts, Cross Bear, had been wounded in the leg. Thad’s concern now was taking care of the wounded and burying the dead. No one had any interest in burying the dead Indians so they were left where they fell. The Crow scouts and a couple of the older troopers took the scalps from the twelve bodies Jason counted, five of which were done in by his Winchester.
The circumstances were changed drastically for Lieutenant Thad Anderson at this point. Charged with a mission to round up some two dozen poorly armed Cheyenne renegades, he had marched from Camp Robinson with one cavalry troop and eight days rations and forage. Now he found himself with half of his troop dead or wounded and unable to pursue an enemy who was armed with repeating rifles that outgunned his cavalry carbines. He had no choice but to turn back. He was not looking forward to limping back to Camp Robinson with his shot-up troop. No commander would.
While Thad and Brady prepared the troop for the march back to Robinson, Jason and Little Hawk scouted the Cheyenne campsite. Of particular interest to Jason were the wagon tracks leading to the fork of the creek, the same wagon tracks he had first discovered on the prairie. It was plain to see the renegades had just received their rifles only days before. Jason had a burning desire to meet the driver of that wagon.
There was another, even stronger burning in his chest and that was to follow the tall warrior he had seen that day. He was certain the man he saw was none other than Black Eagle and there was a score to be settled between them. The band of Cheyennes they had fought that day would most likely keep running now, fearful of full retaliation by a regiment of soldiers from Laramie. But would Black Eagle run with them? According to what Walking Crow had told them, Black Eagle had joined the band just recently. Jason figured Black Eagle’s desire to kill him was stronger than ever now. Walking Crow had no doubt joined the band and would give Black Eagle the news that Jason Coles was scouting for B Troop. It was hard to say what the renegade would do, run or double back to come after him. Jason decided he’d rather hunt than be hunted.
“Lieutenant, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll tag along behind our Cheyenne friends for a ways.”
Thad didn’t answer right away, not sure if he wanted to let his chief scout go off alone. Brady spoke up. “Damn, Jason, you shore don’t value that scalp of yours, do you?”
Jason smiled. “I don’t aim to lose it.” He glanced back at Thad. “You got two good scouts. I think you can trust both of ’em. I’ll catch up with you at Robinson in a day or two.”
Thad reluctantly agreed and, after the dead were buried and what little Indian property left behind was burned, he ordered the troop mounted. Jason watched for a moment before turning Black toward the north.