Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory, was located on the western bank of the Laramie River, a mile and a half from its junction with the Platte. The army garrison, originally a fur-trading post, was established in the country where the plains and mountains met. At that point, at an elevation of over four thousand feet above sea level, the terrain began a gradual rise that soon steepened considerably to flow upward and form the great mountain barriers to the America’s Pacific Northwest.
Pioneer immigrants, heading for new lives in that part of the country, traveled the Oregon Trail through the wilderness to what they considered no less than the “Promised Land” of their hopes and dreams. This route, destined to for historic greatness, was under the direct protection of the troops stationed at Laramie.
It was owing to this mission of safeguarding the wagon trains following that trail that Captain Darcy Lafayette Hays had been summoned to his commanding officer’s presence. This was Colonel Isaac Cowler, who headed up a tough, veteran dragoon regiment.
The colonel was a small, trim, bald man who made up for his loss of hair with a pair of gigantic muttonchop whiskers. Soft-spoken and coldly efficient, he had entered
the Army from the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York. He received his commission and initial appointment to the dragoons seven years after Darcy Hays. But because of a great talent and capacity as a staff officer and administrator, Cowler managed to climb higher and faster in rank than the older man.
The situation caused no ill feeling from Hays, however, since he was destined to see many juniors pass him by in the promotion game. As long as he could command a company and personally lead them in the field, Captain Darcy Lafayette Hays was a contented man. He had no complaints about his position in the Army. Jealous ambition was not part of the captain’s makeup.
The unit in which Hays, Colonel Cowler, Lieutenant Tim Stephans, and the others served was a far-flung regiment of dragoons. Like her sister outfits, she was an overworked, understaffed part of the frontier army made up of tough, professional soldiers with more demands placed on them than resources with which to meet them. Officers came and went, many disillusioned with slow promotion and arduous postings. There were better opportunities in civilian life, and a hell of a lot more money that could be earned by engineers trained at West Point.
The enlisted men, even though most were poorly educated and hadn’t the abilities or opportunities to earn good wages in the outside world, also displayed a tendency to leave the service. Many of the lower ranks were depleted, not by resignations or even the end of five-year enlistments. The soldiers’ numbers were thinned yearly by desertions. Many soldiers chose to flee the harsh discipline and brutal conditions under which they were forced to serve.
These were the reasons that, when duty called, even an overage, rheumatic, retirement-requesting officer like Hays would be sent to the field.
The interview with the colonel let the captain know that his last days in the Army had the very real potential of being both busy and bloody ones. Hays had reported in sharply after being summoned from his quarters. Proud and sensitive, the old captain made a special effort to show no limp as he marched to a spot in front of Colonel Cowler’s desk.
“Sir!” he barked with a salute. “Captain Hays, commanding officer of ‘L’ Company, reporting to the regimental commander as ordered.”
Cowler returned the salute, saying, “Stand at ease, Darcy.” He used his prerogative as the senior man to address the other in a friendly, informal manner. He eyed the captain. “How’re you feeling?”
“Tip-top, sir, by God! I feel wonderful, yes, sir!” Hays answered. Military courtesy and custom demanded that he remain respectful and proper in his manner of speaking to the colonel.
“You look a bit tired,” the colonel said.
“Only the effects of last night’s drinking, sir,” Hays assured him. “I’ll be fit as a fiddle by noon.”
“You drink too much, Darcy,” Cowler said.
“Yes, sir,” Hays remarked. “That is something I will not bother to contradict.”
“I’m afraid the Army has made a drunkard out of you,” Cowler said.
“I am forever indebted to the service for that, sir,” Hays remarked with a grin.
The colonel smiled at the reply. “You always bounce back, Darcy.”
“It’s like I’m made of India rubber, sir,” Hays said. “So!” the colonel exclaimed. “You’ve applied for retirement, have you?”
“Yes, sir,” Hays said.
“Well, I would like very much to make your final weeks of service pleasant and relaxing. But I fear that I have one more job for you,” Cowler said. “I would send somebody else; however, no other officer is available, as I am sure you are aware.”
“Fine with me, sir,” Hays said. “I’m fit as a fiddle, tip-top, sir.”
“So you’ve told me,” Cowler said. “Drag up a chair, Darcy. Let’s keep this informal, shall we?”
Hays got a chair and sat it in front of the desk, then plopped himself down on it. “What’s this mission you have for me, sir?”
“First names, Darcy, old man,” Cowler said, “if you please. I would like very much to dispense with the rank protocol. We’re old comrades, after all. How far back do we go?”
“I’d say about twenty-three years, Isaac,” Hays said. “I believe we first began serving together in 1822, was it not?”
“Indeed,” Cowler said. “Who would have thought—” He let the statement hang. “So, it’s rather ridiculous if we keep up this pretense of military formality while we are alone. Especially since you’re nearing the end of your career.”
Hays smiled. “Sure. Anything you say, Isaac.”
“Margaret is worried about you,” Cowler said. “She’ll have a fit when she finds out I’ve sent you to the field.”
“Your wife is a wonderful woman,” Hays said. “I’ll never forget all those years of kindness and consideration she’s shown me. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have been much lonelier since losing Chandra and the children. Those wonderful evenings spent with you two will be the warmest memories I take with me from the regiment.”
“We always enjoyed your company, Darcy,” Cowler said.
“It was mutual, believe me,” Hays said. He cleared his throat and straightened up. “But let’s get down to business, shall we? What is this mission you are regretting so much to send me on?”
“We’ve just received a report that a lone wagon has been attacked by Indians on that trail at a place a few miles south of the Powder River,” the colonel said. “So many of those damned stubborn immigrants won’t listen to advice to travel with a large group.”
“Only brave and headstrong people leave comfortable lives back East to go to Oregon and build a new country,” Hays pointed out.
“I suppose,” Cowler said. “At any rate, you are to take your company to the vicinity and see if you can verify that particular intelligence. If it proves true, you are to take the appropriate action and bring in the malefactors for proper punishment.”
“Or kill them if they resist,” Hays added.
“Or kill them if they resist,” Cowler confirmed. “If you’ve not found anything or are unable to make contact with the hostiles, you are to bring your command back to Fort Laramie in two weeks.”
“Is that all the information you can give me about the incident?” Hays asked. “That isn’t a hell of a lot to go on, Isaac.”
“I’m sorry, Darcy,” the colonel assured him. “But we received word of the outrage from a prospector. He said he heard it from another man who asked the fellow to bring us the word since he was heading south toward us. That gold seeker went three days out of his way to let us know about the attack.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Hays said. “It all sounds pretty routine.”
“You’ve done it hundreds of times,” Cowler said.
“I can do it once more,” Hays assured him.
“By the way, Darcy, what are your plans for retirement?” Cowler asked. “Will you be heading back to your native North Carolina?”
“I think not, Isaac,” Hays said. “I've made contact with a gentlemen's hotel in St. Louis. My pension will allow me a nice room, a couple of meals a day, and enough money for some serious drinking now and then.”
“Oh, I see,” Cowler said. “I’d have thought you’d want to go back to your old home.”
“No,” Hays said. He stood up and took the chair back to where he got it. He returned to a spot in front of the desk snapped into the position of attention. “Permission to begin the mission, sir.”
The colonel went back to being a commanding officer. “Dismissed, Captain.”
“Yes, sir.” Hays saluted, made an about-face, and marched out of the office.
That had been the previous day. Now, at less than a quarter of an hour past sunrise, Captain Darcy Hays, Lieutenant Tim Stephans, and the twenty-five available men of “L” Company stood in formation at the garrison stables.
The troopers were equipped for the field. Each was dressed pretty much as he pleased, wearing practical civilian clothing in conjunction with certain items of military uniforms. All had wide-brimmed hats purchased in the sutler's store to wear in place of the impractical shakos issued to dragoons by the Army. Kerchiefs of various colors adorned the troopers' necks while both service and civilian shirts and trousers made up the rest of the attire. All pairs of boots were government issue, since the price of a good pair was out of the range of the soldiers' miserable pay. Only Hays and Tim had well-made footgear they had both gotten through mail-order purchases from a store in St. Louis.
Of the twenty-five men, three were noncommissioned officers. Sergeant Sean O’Murphy and Corporals John Grady and Tom Dickson would be the backbone of the enlisted men. First Sergeant George Aldridge had been forced to keep the remaining fifteen men of the company behind to meet the commitments of guard duty and fatigue details demanded by the garrison’s tough sergeant major.
Hays had already explained the patrol’s purpose to the men. All were veterans and well armed with model 1848 breech-loading Sharps carbines. Each also had an issue dragoon saber, in addition to various personal knives that varied as much as their clothing. Darcy Hays and Tim Stephans, along with those store-bought boots, could also boast of owning a brace of Colt dragoon revolvers. Fully armed, carrying rations, blankets, and other necessary equipment, the dragoons stood to horse.
“Prepare to mount!” Hays barked. “Mount!”
The troops swung into the saddles, making quick adjustments as they waited to begin their adventure.
“Column of twos!” Hays ordered. “By the right, at a walk, for’d yo!”
The small unit formed into two lines, riding out side-by-side from the stable area. They made their way across the post to the main gate. Hays returned the salute of the sentries there, then led his men out into the open country.
They moved north, heading for the ford that would lead them onto the other side of the river. When they reached the position, Darcy continued at the head of the double column, splashing into the Platte River and coming out on the other side.
From that point on they were in dangerous country. It was territory claimed by the fierce warriors of the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Crow tribes.
“Sergeant O’Murphy, set up the point and flankers!” Hays shouted.
The sergeant sent two men to the front and saw the four men were positioned out to the side for security. At that moment, the dragoons settled into the march routine. Some men, a bit nervous and apprehensive, glanced about as if expecting trouble. Others, without the bother of point and flank duties, let their heads droop as they dozed in the saddle.
They continued their trek slowly and cautiously, halting now and then while some troopers were sent forward to scout out the area they approached. If hostile Indians were in the vicinity, it would not pay to blunder into their war parties. A small detachment of dragoons would not last long if an entire tribe joined in a battle against it.
That first day passed without incident. No signs of Indians were found, nor was any evidence discovered that showed a battle or ambush had taken place. The patrol settled into a camp in which their evening meal was quickly cooked. When everyone’s appetite had been appeased as much as possible on the government-issue food, all fires were extinguished to keep the bivouac dark during the night. Dancing firelight, showing through and above the trees, could readily attract a large group of warriors out looking for trouble. Dragoon troopers who slumbered in dark bivouacs generally were alive to greet the new day’s dawn.
The following morning was just as uneventful. The march routine continued until the midday meal. Hays, never really feeling hungry while out in the field, followed his usual custom of not eating at that time of day. He walked around and did a quick scout on foot while his men consumed a feast of coffee and salt pork. The sparse meal was easily finished in the space of only a half hour. After cleaning up and repacking their gear, the dragoon patrol continued its search for the evidence, if any, of an attacked wagon.
Late that afternoon, Corporal John Grady appeared to the front of the formation. He rode in a hurried manner, but without any sign of urgency. When he reached Hays, he flung a quick salute.
“I found the wagon, sir,” the corporal reported. “It’s been hit by Injuns. There’s three dead folks and a mess o’ trash laying around. I’d say the hostiles took all the valuable or useful stuff with ’em.”
“Any survivors to speak of?” Hays asked.
“Nary a one, sir,” Grady told him. “The Injun sign there is old. They ain’t been back through here.”
“I suppose they thought it prudent to stay out of the area for a while,” the captain said.
Satisfied with the security of the area, Hays pulled in the other point men and the troopers riding flank guard. The patrol galloped behind Corporal Grady as he led them back to where he’d found the grisly evidence of the attack.
The wagon, useless to the warriors, had been burned. One of the bodies had been tossed on it by the raiders. Two more corpses, hacked to the point of dismemberment, were scattered through the messy area. Both had been stripped, showing one to be a rather plump woman. The features of the faces were badly battered, but Hays guessed them to be in their late thirties. The charred cadaver was completely unidentifiable, except for an arm not consumed by the fire. It was easily identified as that of a man.
“Sergeant O’Murphy, set up a defensive perimeter,” Hays ordered. “Then organize a burial detail. After that, I want a half dozen men to sift through the debris and see if anything is available that might identify the dead.” O’Murphy set the instructions into action. Within the space of ten minutes, all horses were picketed in a central location, the circular guard formation was formed up in the surrounding trees, and a couple of men had begun the task of digging three graves for the final resting places of the murdered pioneers.
Hays and Tim, after turning their horses over to be tied with the others, withdrew and settled down under a pine tree. Even the young lieutenant had seen enough victims of Indians not to feel particularly shocked, though he was angry about it.
“I can understand when Indians kill people who settle on their land,” Tim said. “But I cannot comprehend wanton slayings when the people involved are only passing through.”
“It breaks the treaties, too,” Hays pointed out. Then he shrugged. “But everybody, white and Indian, does that anyway.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Tim said. “I am going to see Oregon at least once before I die. Whatever it has that is attracting people to the point they risk their lives to reach there must be awesome or wonderful—or both.”
“There are restless people that are never satisfied where they are,” Hays said. “It’s like the old saying about the grass being greener on the other side of the fence. Somehow, they think the farms they’ll have in Oregon will be better than those they’ve left in Indiana or Ohio or wherever.”
Tim watched the burial detail begin gathering up the remains of the three dead people. They used boards ripped from the wagon to lift the burned man up and carry him over to the hole dug for him. Nobody wanted to touch the cooked human meat with his hands. After dumping the cadaver in the grave, they picked up what was left of the others.
Hays said, “Make sure you don’t mix up those parts. Don’t put part of the woman in with the man and vice versa. Show some respect.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the dragoons replied.
Sergeant O’Murphy made a personal check of the graves, then had the dirt thrown in on the corpses. When the task was done, he came over to Hays.
“Cap’n, are you gonna say any words?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Hays said. “What’s done is done. Start looking through what’s left, and if anything is found that gives information on those people, bring it over here.”
“Yes, sir,” O’Murphy said.
It took the burial detail a half hour to gather up a dirty, smudged group of papers, letters, soiled clothing, and some daguerreotype photographs. Sergeant O’Murphy brought it all over to the officers, then returned to supervising the patrol’s guard activities.
It didn’t take long before they were able to determine that the family’s name was Campbell. They were from Pennsylvania and had lived on a farm in Lawrence County. Some old farm deeds and a will confirmed that.
“I guess we’ll have to send an official letter to the county government there to see if any survivors can be found back there,” Hays mused.
“That’ll be enough to discourage any more folks from there trying their luck out on the Oregon Trail,” Tim said. He had been studying the thin metal photographs. The young officer suddenly looked up. “I think there must have been someone else here, sir. I noticed that a couple of those women’s dresses seemed too small for the lady here. Look at this likeness of a young woman. Isn’t that the dress over there that is in the picture?”
Hays studied both for a few moments. “I believe you’re right, Tim. I would be very surprised if we don’t have a captive involved here.”
“She’s pretty,” Tim said.
“Well!” Hays said getting to his feet. “We’ve only two weeks to find out what happened. I think we should call on my old friend Owl-That-Cries. If anyone knows what the Indians hereabouts have been up to, it will be him.” Sergeant O’Murphy, overhearing the conversation, wasted no time in getting the men back to their horses. After forming up, the dragoons left the melancholy scene where the burned wagon and three fresh graves were all that was left of the violent event.