Matt Kincaid rode his bay gelding down a long draw, on the one hand feeling the need to hurry, on the other, wary of the possibility of hostiles. By now a travois or horse would have been sent for the body, but meanwhile the B rules would surely be painting up. At any rate, he would have to play it that way, for as Windy and he had both noted, Little Hawk would no longer be able to hold back Quick Thunder, Wound, and the others. The big question was whether they could keep Cohoes reined down.
They had reached a buffalo wallow at the bottom of the draw; and beyond that lay a wide expanse of plain, and a small butte. Kincaid called the Delaware scout to him.
“Flying Bird, go see.”
The Delaware said nothing, but moved his brown and white pony toward the rear of the patrol, and then kicked it into a trot as he swung off the trail to approach the butte from a different direction.
“Corporal Wojensky, tell the men to stay on the alert.”
“Yessir.”
Taking out his field glasses, Matt studied the terrain. He saw Flying Bird disappear behind the butte, and presently reappear on the other side, signaling an all-clear.
“Corporal, give the order to move out.”
The Easy Company patrol shifted in their McClellan saddles; then, lifting their mounts into a trot, they rode onto the wide plain.
In a moment, Kincaid raised the gait. It was still a good distance to Cohoes’s herd of cattle.
The storm had almost stampeded the herd, and Cohoes had moved the cattle close by Fire Creek. The animals were still restive. Here the feed was good, yet there was the feeling of storm still in the air. But Cohoes was impatient to move on. He had only been waiting for the army to appear, having sent word to Outpost Number Nine that he was ready to push on to the Stinking Water.
The boss of the Circle Box brand stood near the chuck- wagon in the early-morning light under a lowering sky. He was listening to the herd, which had started to mill about, the cows bawling here and there. Cohoes held a tin cup of coffee in one hand and a chunk of sourdough bread in the other; he was watching a calf as it darted toward its mother.
“I’d say it was fixing to storm some,” said Heavy Bill Haines, the Circle Box Trail boss, clomping up on his high-heeled range boots. “Might move ’em closer to the cutbank yonder.” His words came to Cohoes across a saddle rig that was lying on the ground near a pile of dried horse manure.
“Mebbe.” Cohoes had squinted at the low sky more than once. “Where is Domino?”
Heavy Bill Haines nodded his head toward some box elders lining part of the creek. “Sawing wood on his back.” Heavy Bill, a big man with big hands and feet, made no attempt to hide the disgust he felt about the “foreman” of the Circle Box.
“Guess he needs his beauty sleep,” Cohoes said, his face grim; but Elihu Cohoes was not a man to dwell upon unpleasant subjects, and he said no more.
“Riders cornin’ in,” Heavy Bill said, and he scratched himself suddenly, digging deeply into his right buttock.
“I heard ’em.”
“Sounds like a bunch.”
“Six, I’d put it; no, seven.” Cohoes rubbed the side of his long nose with his thumb knuckle, for he was still holding the piece of sourdough. “Might be our army.”
He had just emptied his cup and dumped the grounds onto the clump of horse manure by the saddle rig when six mounted infantrymen, headed by Lieutenant Matt Kincaid, briskly rounded a big clump of willow, splashed across the creek, and passed close to the box elders where Ching Domino was sleeping.
“Glad you finally got here,” Cohoes said peevishly. “You and your men use some coffee?”
“No time,” Matt said. Turning to Wojensky, he said, “Give the order to dismount. Corporal.”
“Diss ... mount!”
“Have them water their horses.”
“Water your mounts. Stand ready.”
Matt turned back to Cohoes, wondering who the big man standing near him might be. “There’s a good likelihood of Indian trouble, Cohoes. You might be getting a visit from a couple of Brules named Quick Thunder and Wound, along with a few of their friends.”
“Injun trouble?” The long, thin cattleman squinted at Kincaid. “What the hell you mean?”
“Somebody shot a Brule in the back up on Feather Creek not too many hours ago, and it is just what Little Hawk’s men have been waiting for. You know anything about it?”
“Shot? Shit!” And Cohoes’s good eye swept to the stand of box elders by the creek. He swung back to Kincaid. “I don’t know a damn thing about it. Why should I? I been ready to move the herd up to the Stinking Water. You get my message?”
Matt shook his head, studying the cattleman for sin-
cerity; he had noticed Cohoes’s quick look toward the box elders. “It’s no time to be moving cattle now. Best thing is to hold them here, and be ready for any trouble.”
Cohoes looked at the big man beside him. “What you think. Heavy?”
“Should do as the man says, is how I look at it.”
Out of the comer of his eye, Matt saw Ching Domino approaching.
But Domino wasn’t looking at Kincaid, nor at Cohoes or the big man. He was staring at something directly behind Matt. Suddenly, Kincaid moved toward Heavy Bill Haines.
“Don’t know your name, mister. I’m Lieutenant Matthew Kincaid, U.S. Army, Outpost Number Nine.”
“Bill Haines. I’m trail boss here.”
It worked. Matt held out his hand; after shaking, he turned around to see where Ching Domino was looking. The foreman was staring at the soldier standing next to Malone. Matt could see no expression at all in Private Golightly’s face as he looked back impassively at Ching Domino.
The wind stroked the deep grass, causing it to shimmer under the sparkling morning sun. Matt Kincaid felt the heat moving down from his shoulders, along his back, and onto the backs of his hands.
The four riders plus Flying Bird, riding point, were covering the flat ground fast, on a southeasterly course. Kincaid had left Dobbs and Holzer with the cattlemen, keeping Wojensky, Malone, and Golightly.
The sun was straight up as they reached the other side of the draw and swept down onto flat terrain. When they reached the little creek, Kincaid ordered a halt. “We’ll let them breathe a little,” he said as he swung out of his McClellan saddle. “And they can water some.”
Loosening the cinch on the bay horse, and taking the bit out of its mouth, though leaving the headstall and cheek straps ready for a fast rebridling, he turned to see Malone already doing the same with his mount; but Go- lightly was easing himself gingerly out of his saddle.
“What’s the matter, Private?”
Golightly dropped to the ground and turned to face Kincaid, pain suffusing his reddening face. “Got the piles, sir. That saddle don’t help any.”
“Sorry to hear that, Golightly. The McClellan is a nutbuster, even when you’re healthy.”
Malone snickered softly, though in sympathy. “Had me the same once, Golightly. When I was whipping the stage one time over at a place called Sundown in Missouri about ten miles from St. Joe. One time the team run away from me on account of I couldn’t sit the box decent- like with the piles. And there I was, trying to rein them buggers down, with my asshole hanging out like a buggy- whip socket. Jesus, it was hell, I mean to tell you.”
Billy Golightly grinned at that. “Glad I am not alone in this cold world,” he said.
“We’ll have a smoke and then we’ll make it to the post on the next leg,” Kincaid said.
“Yessir,” Malone said. “If I might say so, sir, I’ll feel a whole lot more comfortable when we’re back with the army again.”
Matt had walked a few feet away and was studying the surrounding terrain. Windy must surely have reached the Basques, but the big question was how much power Little Hawk carried with the Brules.
They were on the lower end of a long slope, and Kincaid was looking across the creek, up toward the summit. It looked as though there was no break in the flat terrain, but he knew that could be deceptive; a good number of hostiles could be hidden in a gulch that, be-
cause of the angle of vision, would not be visible.
He suddenly found himself watching Golightly move toward his horse and slip the bridle back into its mouth. Then he lifted the left stirrup and loosened the cinch and tightened it. The horse was a big bay gelding with three white feet and a wide white blaze on his forehead.
“Stand still, goddammit,” Golightly said sharply. “And cut that shit!”
“You know horses, I see,” Kincaid said.
“Yessir.” Golightly turned. “I’ve had some experience with them, sir. A lot of them swell their bellies like that, and then when you step into the stirrup they go slack and you end up on your back.”
“Where are you from, Private?” Kincaid was looking at Golightly from across his own McClellan.
“Texas, sir.”
“I campaigned down in the Staked Plains,” Matt said.
“Yes, sir.” Golightly was looking back at him, and Matt felt there was more in that look than just respect, and possibly interest. There was—what?—a guardedness. Kincaid thought of the strange way Ching Domino had looked at him.
“How old are you, Golightly?”
“Twenty-two, sir.”
“That’s what it says on your records?”
“Yessir.”
“You know a good bit about horses. And I’ve noticed the way you handle your Springfield since we’ve been on this patrol.”
“Well, sir, we all had good training.”
“Not that good. Private. I’m sure you had some training in weapons before you enlisted. I mean, back wherever you’re from.”
Suddenly, Billy Golightly grinned. “Well, sir, my dad, he was kind of a... well, a lawman.”
“Where was that?”
“In Texas, sir. He is dead now, though.”
And there it was, that guarded look again; and he’d sounded like he was lying about his father. As Matt squinted at the sun, he decided he’d have Ben Cohen check with Regiment on Private Golightly.
“Mount up,” he snapped, and stepped quickly into his saddle. The bay was refreshed, and Kincaid lifted him into a fast canter as they rode briskly toward the long slope.
When at last they reached Outpost Number Nine, Kincaid found that Conway had ordered Taylor and Second Platoon to prepare to move out.
Stepping down from his tired bay, Matt looked over at Taylor and the men, who were sitting their mounts at attention, their eyes locked straight ahead, not a muscle on their faces moving. It was a good sight, he told himself, and he felt something like pride as he looked at the two rows of blue uniforms.
As he walked over to Taylor, who had not yet mounted, the second lieutenant saluted him.
“Captain Conway got you started fast, then, Mr. Taylor.”
“I hope fast enough, sir. Windy Mandalian is back. It seems the Sioux attacked the sheepmen, and he rode up just in time to give a hand.”
“You’re going to swing around the ranches, are you?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll warn everyone, and bring anyone in who feels the need.”
“Well. I’ll get the report from Captain Conway and Windy,” Matt said. “Good luck to you, then.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Taylor snapped a salute to his superior officer, and Matt Kincaid returned it. It felt good, Matt decided as
he turned on his heel and walked quickly across the parade to the orderly room. He had just about reached the door when it opened and Captain Warner Conway and Windy Mandalian stepped out.