The persistent shout of the sentry broke into Major Matt Devlin’s concentration as he read the quarterly report recently prepared by the post quartermaster.
“Corporal of the guard! Post number one!”
Devlin tried to renew his concentration on the complicated document.
“Corporal of the guard! Post number one!”
The major gave up the effort, getting to his feet to walk to the window. He unlatched it and pushed it open.
“Corporal of the guard! Post number one!”
He glanced toward the guardhouse and could see the corporal of the guard quickly buckling on his cartridge belt and rushing toward the calling sentry at the front gate of Fort Buffalo. An off-duty guard, lounging in front of the building, idly watched the activity.
“Trooper!” Devlin yelled out.
The dragoon looked toward the headquarters building and snapped to attention when saw that it was his commanding officer calling to him.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get inside and tell both the officer of the day and the sergeant of the guard to accompany the corporal,” Devlin ordered. “As soon as they find out what the hell is going on, they are to send someone to me as quickly as possible with a full and accurate report.”
“Yes, sir!” The soldier saluted and went inside to tend to the instructions.
Immediately, two more figures could be seen running toward the front gate. Devlin went back to the report, disgruntled that his concentration had been broken. Facts and figures on government property had to be perused very carefully before a signature was applied. Many an officer had met his administrative Waterloo from signing incorrect supply reports as proper and accurate. Not only would he be censured for inefficiency, but monetary charges could be levied against any shortages of items on the list.
“Now, let’s see,” Devlin said to himself as he began to read aloud. “Six drum cases, one hundred lantern wicks, two hundred linen collars, fifty curb bits, fifty watering bridles, one dozen barracks chairs. ...”
Several more minutes passed before the corporal of the guard reappeared, running toward headquarters. This time he bounded up the building’s steps and stopped momentarily at the sergeant major’s desk to deliver a quick, important message. Immediately the senior noncommissioned officer knocked on Devlin’s door and stepped inside.
“Sir!” he announced. “The officer of the day sends his compliments and wishes to inform the commanding officer that the territorial militia detachment is approaching the post with dead and wounded.”
“Oh, goddamn it!” Devlin swore.
“Yes, sir!” the sergeant major replied.
Devlin grabbed his cap and rushed outside, turning toward the gate. He walked rapidly, noting the gathering of dragoons and wives and children.
“Make way!” the sergeant of the guard yelled out. “Make way for the post commander!”
Devlin walked up in time to see the ragged column of Wheatfall’s militia less than a half mile away, approaching slowly. As they drew closer, it was obvious both men and animals were dust-covered and tired.
“They got dead slung over horses, sir,” the sergeant of the guard said.
“So I see,” Devlin said. He knew that whatever had happened to Wheatfall and his men would prove unsettling for everyone on the Buffalo Steppes.
Within a quarter of an hour, Wheatfall led his troops up to the gate. He signaled a halt and dismounted, walking over to Devlin. He stood there for a moment, then said, “I got a salute coming. Militia or reg’lar army don’t matter in this case.”
Devlin gave a quick, careless salute. “Welcome to Fort Buffalo,” he said.
“Thanks, Major,” Wheatfall said. “Here’s how a ex-sergeant who is now a colonel salutes.” He rendered a snappy example of the military gesture, saying, “Colonel Wheatfall of the territorial militia begs to report to the post commander that me and my soldiers was attacked by Injuns of the Kiwota tribe early yesterday morning.”
“I notice you have some wounded men,” Devlin said. “See they’re taken to the post hospital. You come with me—” Then he added, “Colonel.”
“Sure, Major,” Wheatfall said. He turned. “Hey, Pockets. See that the boys who’s hurt is took to the doc.” He gestured at his second in command. “Red-Eye, take care o’ my hoss.”
“Sure, Ned,” Captain Red-Eye Morgan responded. He rode up and took the reins.
Wheatfall looked at Devlin and smiled. “Well, let’s get down to business, Major.”
The two walked across the post back to headquarters. They went directly to Devlin’s office, where the major invited Wheatfall to take a seat.
“Got any coffee?” Wheatfall asked. “It’s been a terrible day so far.”
“Sergeant Major!” Devlin bawled. “Get hot coffee in here.” He sat down. “Give me a verbal report now!”
“A Kiwota war party raided our camp at dawn yesterday,” Wheatfall said. “They killed a half dozen of the boys and hurt a few more afore we drove ’em off.”
“Am I to assume that this was an unprovoked attack?” Devlin asked.
“You bet!” Wheatfall said. “We was just sleeping out there in our bivouac, minding our own business, and them damn Injuns snuck in and hit us without warning.”
“Did you inflict any casualties on the hostiles?” Devlin asked.
“You bet we did,” Wheatfall said haughtily. “We killed a bunch of ’em and drove the others off. I didn’t count ’em, but they was plenty dead out there. I didn’t want to hang around and have the whole damn tribe down on my neck, so I skedaddled back here to Fort Buffalo.”
An orderly appeared with a pot of coffee and a couple of tin cups on a tray. He set it down on the desk and made a hasty withdrawal. He didn’t like the scowl on Major Devlin’s face.
“Are you sure you did nothing to provoke those Indians?” Devlin asked.
“We didn’t do nothing a’tall,” Wheatfall claimed. “I tole you we was asleep in our bivouac. How’n hell is that gonna get Injuns mad at you, huh? Maybe the boys was snoring so loud it disturbed them damned-to-hell redskins.”
Devlin chose to ignore the sarcasm. “What about before you went to sleep that night,” he said in measured tones. “During the previous few weeks or days, did you or your men do anything at all that might enrage the Kiwotas? Did you interfere with their hunting of buffalo? Did you pick a fight with any of them?”
“We ain’t even seen ’em, Major,” Wheatfall said. “So they ain’t got no reason to do us dirt like they done.”
“Very well,” Devlin said.
Wheatfall pulled a pint bottle of whiskey from his inner pocket and poured a generous shot into his coffee. “Care fer a bit o’ flavoring?”
“No, thanks,” Devlin said. He went to the door and opened it. “Sergeant Major, get a stenographer and you come along, too, as a witness.” He went back to his desk and sat down. “I’ll make out an official report to go back to Fort Snelling.”
“By God, Major, you don’t sound like you believe me,” Wheatfall said casually.
Devlin, a furious frown on his face, pointed a finger at the militia officer. “You listen to me, Wheatfall! I’m going to get to the bottom of this, understand? I don’t trust you or your friend Senator Torrance any farther than I can toss a government mount.”
“That’s downright unfriendly,” Wheatfall said calmly. “And disrespectful, too.”
“I’m not fooled a bit,” Devlin said. “There is something going on in regards to the Buffalo Steppes. A United States senator doesn’t casually wander out to the frontier and poke his nose into army and Indian business simply to keep himself amused. And he doesn’t pull strings to get some miserable buffalo hunter appointed a colonel in the territorial militia.”
Wheatfall took a swig of his coffee. “You’re gonna be real sorry for them words someday, Major.” He knew better than to press the issue, since even he didn’t know the real motives behind Torrance’s interest in the area. Because of his ignorance, there was always an outside chance he could spoil things without meaning to.
Sergeant Major O’Rourke came into the office trailed by a private carrying a pad and pencils. They immediately situated themselves, with the noncommissioned officer off to one side and the clerk seated at the side of the desk where he could easily hear both Devlin and Wheatfall.
The clerk’s name was Evans. He positioned himself with the pad on his knee and the supply of sharpened pencils in his pocket. “I’m ready, sir,” he announced.
“I am going to have Colonel Wheatfall tell of the incident of the attack on his command,” Devlin said. “Will you be able to take it down if he speaks slowly enough?”
Evans replied, “The colonel may speak at a normal speed, sir. I have mastered Isaac Pitman’s Stenographic Sound Hand, and will be able to record all spoken words.”
Devlin was doubtful. “Are you sure, Evans?”
“Certainly, sir,” the clerk replied. “This is an excellent phonetic system developed in 1837, so it is quite efficient and modern.”
Sergeant Major O’Rourke interjected. “He’s not exaggerating, sir. I’ve seen him at work. Not to worry. He’ll have ever’ single word uttered without losing a thing.”
“Very well,” Devlin said. He looked at Wheatfall. “Well, Colonel, you can start at the beginning.”
“Sure,” Wheatfall said. “But first let me fix some more coffee.” He poured himself another cup, laced it with whiskey, then settled back to relate his version of the attack on his command by Kiwota Indians.
“Now,” he began. “Me and the boys—my command o’ territorial militia, that is—has been out on the prairie performing patrol duty for quite some time now. We ain’t seen much o’ the Injuns, but did run across some trail of small war parties now and then. Or maybe they was hunting parties. Who knows? Anyhow, we didn’t figger there was any danger. After all, there’s a treaty and ever’thing. ...”
Wheatfall spun his tale as the young soldier Evans recorded every word spoken. According to the militia colonel, the life of his unit had settled into simple routines of patrolling and camping with a bit of hunting to keep fresh meat in their diet. Three days previously, they had settled down in a bivouac on Castor Creek some forty miles to the north of Fort Buffalo. It had been an uneventful time with no contact with any other people in the prairie country. Then, the morning before, just before dawn, a large war party of Kiwota Indians attacked them after killing the two men on guard duty. It was a hard-fought battle in which six of his men were killed and eleven wounded. Wheatfall was unable to determine how many Indians were killed because the survivors took their dead with them. After the battle ended, he ordered his men to break camp and get to the safety of Fort Buffalo as quickly as possible.
“We rode up to the front gate there and you met me,” Wheatfall concluded. He finished his coffee. “That’s the end o’ my report.”
“Just where on Castor Creek did the attack occur?” Devlin asked.
“I don’t know,” Wheatfall said.
“You said you were forty miles north of here,” Devlin pointed out. “So you must have a good idea of the battle’s location?”
Wheatfall shrugged. “I was just guessing at the forty miles.”
Devlin reached in his desk and pulled out a map of the Buffalo Steppes. “Show me on the map where your command was attacked.”
“I cain’t read maps,” Wheatfall replied smugly. “You might as well show me a pitcher o’ the moon.”
“Then, how do you know you were on the reservation?” Devlin asked.
“On account o’ we was west of the Des Lacs River,” Wheatfall said. “South o’ the Medicine Hills and north o’ Fort Buffalo. That’s smack on the Buffalo Steppes, by God!”
“Can you identify any of the hostiles?” Devlin asked.
“It was kind o’ dark that early in the morning, and the fighting was hot and heavy,” Wheatfall said.
“Did you recognize War Heart?” Devlin asked.
“Cain’t say that I did,” Wheatfall answered.
“What about Swift Elk?” Devlin inquired. “Medicine Bull? Crooked Horn? Standing Tall?”
“I told you, Major,” Wheatfall insisted. “I didn’t see no Kiwota that I could point out to you. If’n I could, don’t you think I would?”
“I don’t think so,” Devlin said.
Wheatfall shot a glance at Evans. “Did you get that? did you write that down?”
“Don’t worry about Evans,” Devlin said. “Another question. How many Indians attacked you?”
“I didn’t count ’em,” Wheatfall said. “I was too busy shooting at the sons of bitches.”
“Well, do you think it was a war party of trouble-making young warriors or a concentrated effort of the entire tribe?” Devlin asked.
“It was the whole dang bunch, you bet!” Wheatfall said. “Them Kiwotas has got theirselves on the warpath, no doubt o’ that.”
“Then, how did you fight them off?” Devlin asked. “The Kiwotas can field at least two hundred fighting men.”
“Me and the boys is damn good at killing Injuns,” Wheatfall said.
“I want to go to the site of the battle,” Devlin said. “As soon as possible.”
“I don’t remember exactly where the fight was,” Wheatfall said.
“Do you mean to tell me that an experienced frontiersman and buffalo hunter like yourself cannot go to a certain point on Castor Creek?” Devlin asked. “Particularly one where you’d camped for several days and fought a battle?”
“I ain’t never bragged on being no kind o’ expert,” Wheatfall said. “I been getting more’n more forgetful as time goes by.” He cackled. “Ain’t that plumb awful?”
“You’re leaving your story with a lot of weak points,” Devlin remarked.
Wheatfall scowled. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Devlin turned to Evans. “Let the record show that I do not believe Colonel Wheatfall.”
“I don’t give a shit what you think,” Wheatfall said sullenly. “All I want to know is what’re you gonna do about this?”
“I’m not going to discuss that with you,” Devlin said. “You are dismissed. I want you to take your command and bivouac at the rock ford on Castor Creek. Do you know where that is?”
“Sure,” Wheatfall answered. “It’s less’n a mile from here.”
“You can find that, but not the spot where you were allegedly attacked by Kiwotas, huh?” Devlin said.
“Listen, damn you!” Wheatfall growled.
“I said you’re dismissed, Colonel,” Devlin said. “Get the hell out of my office.”
“You bet I will, you son of a bitch!” Wheatfall said, finally losing control. “And you wait’ll Senator Torrance gets through dragging your ass through the mud.”
Devlin waited for Wheatfall to leave. “Did you get that, Evans?”
“Every single word and syllable, sir,” the clerk assured him.
“Fine,” Devlin said. He smiled over at Sergeant Major O’Rourke. “I guess you know what you must do.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant major answered. “I’ll have the post back on fifty percent alert, twenty-fours a day.”
“Meanwhile, I’m going to visit the post hospital,” Devlin said.
“Don’t tell me you’re concerned about them wounded militiamen, sir?” O’Rourke commented in a tone of puzzlement.
“Why, certainly, Sergeant Major,” Devlin said. “They’re a dandy bunch of fellows.”
The major left headquarters and walked past the barracks to the building used as the post medical facilities. When he went inside, he found the surgeon finishing up the chore of dressing wounds.
Devlin asked, “How’re they doing?”
“Pretty well under the circumstances,” the doctor replied. He was a drunk named Elliott. He had experienced several run-ins with Devlin over his drinking, and disliked the post commander.
“No serious cases at all?” Devlin asked.
“Not a one, Major,” Elliott asked. “Why?”
“Let’s have a look at them,” Devlin said.
“These are my patients, sir,” Elliott said. “They are under my control. That is army regulations.”
“And excellent regulations they are, Dr. Elliott,” Devlin said. “I believe they also permit me to visit patients in the post hospital. After you, if you please.”
The surgeon took him into the ward where a half-dozen militiamen relaxed on beds. All were bandaged, but obviously none suffered any great pain.
Devlin smiled, and loudly asked, “How’re you doing, men?”
All replied in the affirmative.
Devlin eyed them all, then took the surgeon by the arm and led him outside. “Did you notice that fellow on the far end?”
“I suppose,” Elliott said. “What about him?”
“He’s a serious case,” Devlin said.
Elliott shook his head. “No he’s not. None of them—”
Devlin gritted his teeth in anger. “I said he is a serious case. You are to have him remain behind because of infection or something.”
“What in hell are you talking about?” Elliott asked.
“Now, now, Dr. Elliott,” Devlin said with a grin. “I really hope there isn’t going to be additional trouble between ourselves.” He smiled even wider at the surgeon. “The man’s arm is infected—infected!”
Elliott looked at Devlin for a second or two, then nodded. “Of course, Major.”
“Get those others back to their unit as quickly as possible,” Devlin said.
“Actually, I can have them back to duty by this evening,” Elliott said.
“Fine,” Devlin replied. “I really appreciate your cooperation, Dr. Elliott. Say! Why don’t you join me in the back of the sutler’s store tonight about eight o’clock. We can have a few drinks together. On me, of course.”
Elliott smiled broadly. “Why, thank you for the kind invitation, Major. I’ll be there.”
Devlin went back outside. Dragoons were forming up in front of their companies as swearing irritated first sergeants began putting them back on full alert.