Chapter 19

June 1869

“Really like that big son of a bitch, don’t you, Cody.”

He turned to find Major Eugene Carr approaching. Cody went back to currying the big yellow horse. “About the best animal I’ve ridden, General.”

“Major North told me you took a fancy to a horse belonging to one of his Pawnees.”

“Traded him for it—fair, General.”

Carr moved close, stroking the animal’s neck as Cody brushed a rear flank. The camp of the Fifth Cavalry bustled about them. “You name him yet?”

“Buckskin Joe.”

The officer nodded. “Buckskin color, all right. Better looking than that army mule you were partial to.”

A new voice came up behind them. “General Carr.”

Both Cody and the major turned to find Carr’s orderly bringing up a pair of pedigreed greyhounds at the end of short leashes.

“Holloman,” Carr replied.

“The dogs are ready for you, sir.”

Carr took the leads. “Bring up my horse, Private. We’re ready to march.”

Cody smoothed the saddle blanket then cinched the army saddle on the buckskin. “You exercising the dogs today, General?”

Carr grinned within his brown beard. “You might say that, Cody. I’m bringing them along with me this morning—going to ride with you on the advance.”

Eyeing him for a moment, Cody said, “Them hounds of yours any good at hunting?”

Carr took the reins to his horse from the veterinary sergeant. “Let’s you and me go catch up with the Pawnees riding the point—and see just how good these two are.”

“Lute North is out with them,” Cody replied sourly as he settled in the saddle.

The major climbed up as well. “You don’t have much use for him, do you?”

“Neither one of ’em. Made a name for themselves on the plains using the eyes and ears of their Pawnee Battalion. Just natural that I don’t take a liking to folks who ride the coattails of other men.”

“The North brothers have a handsome reputation, Cody,” Carr commented. “I certainly hope you will continue to work with them and their Pawnees.”

Cody nudged his horse out. “I won’t do anything to cause trouble, General. Won’t be me starts anything.”

Ever since leaving Fort McPherson on this march south to hunt for the marauding Cheyenne, the Pawnee Battalion was always the first to rise in the morning and the first to be in the saddle. Under Luther North, the younger of the brothers, the Pawnee kept ahead of the Fifth Cavalry a distance of two to three miles throughout the day, covering a wide piece of country on both flanks as well.

This second day since leaving the Platte River, Carr and Cody loped ahead of the main column to catch up with the Pawnees.

“Captain North!” Carr shouted. His adjutant, the orderly and two more staff officers rode on the major’s heels.

Luther North turned in the saddle, his eyes narrowing when he found Cody riding with Major Carr. “General. You here for inspection?”

Carr removed his hat and swiped at his brow. Already the sun was growing hot, having made its appearance in the east less than an hour ago. “No, Captain. I came up here to give the dogs some exercise.”

North regarded the two greyhounds. “I see. You think those two skinny dogs good for hunting?”

“I do.”

North grinned, like he was rolling something around in his mind. “You think them two can catch an antelope?”

Slapping his thigh with one hand, Carr replied, “Yes—they sure as hell can.”

“Sounds to me like Captain North here figures your hounds aren’t up to the task, General,” Cody said. He watched the growing consternation come across Carr’s face.

“Suppose they show you, Mr. North—show you they can catch an antelope.”

“No need to show me, General. Antelope is a fast animal.”

“So is a blooded greyhound, Captain.”

North finally nodded. “All right. You’re on. We’ll have to ride far enough ahead of the others that we don’t spook any goats out there.”

“Very well, Captain North. Lead on.”

Cody, Carr and the major’s orderly followed North. The rest of the major’s staff turned back to ride with the advance guard.

“There,” Cody said minutes later, pointing into the shimmering distance of the plains.

“I see him,” Carr replied, excited.

“Just a lone buck,” Cody said. “If we take our time, leading your dogs off yonder, down in that ravine, we can get up on him. That way your hounds will have a good jump on him.”

“Splendid, Cody.”

The quartet followed the course of the dry ravine for better than half a mile until they were within two hundred yards of the antelope buck. The men dismounted and bellied against the slope of the ravine to watch the show.

“Holloman,” Carr whispered to his orderly, “take the hounds up the bank—where they can get sight of that buck antelope.”

The orderly struggled to get the pair of dogs up to the prairie, then released them from their long leashes. He plopped on his belly to watch as the hounds started off on the lope. No sound had come from their throats.

After a moment more the antelope turned, spotting the dogs, which began baying as they closed the gap. But instead of running, the antelope bounded toward the pair of skinny, earth-colored canines.

“That damned stupid animal figures to be sociable, General,” Cody whispered. “Gonna meet a couple more antelope, looks like.”

“Time for us to make our show, boys,” Carr said, getting to his knees then moving quickly to his horse.

As soon as the four horsemen leaped up the bank of the ravine, the antelope bounded in a tight circle and took off at full speed. By this time Carr’s hounds were already running flat out. They had closed the gap on the buck in the first few seconds.

“They’ll catch that antelope before he even gets started, fellas.”

All four men gave a wild whoop as they hammered their horses into a gallop, following the dogs up the steep slope of a hill. By the time the horses made it to the top, Cody suggested a stop to let the animals blow. Down on the wide, dry flat below, the dogs continued their chase as the quartet watched, intrigued. In less than a minute the buck disappeared over a far hill, the hounds still some two hundred yards behind him. When the pair reached the crest of that same hill they stopped, milling about and sniffing over the ground. Then, as if in agreement, they turned and trotted casually back to the horsemen.

North had not said a thing, merely leaning forward in his saddle, watching the whole show. Holloman and Cody were quiet as well while the hounds came up. Carr stepped from the saddle, kneeling to pet the dogs.

Cody was the first to speak, sensing the major’s disappointment. “General, if anything, that buck antelope is running a little bit ahead.”

Holloman and North laughed along with Cody. But Carr never looked up at his chief of scouts. It took a moment before he grinned in resignation and rose.

“It looks that way, Cody.” Carr climbed into the saddle. “Captain North—Mr. Cody … let’s certainly hope those Cheyenne we’re chasing aren’t as successful in eluding you as that antelope was in eluding my hounds.”

*   *   *

For better than a week Major Carr had been pushing his Fifth Cavalry south from the Platte River. Across Medicine Lake, then Red Willow and Stinking Water creeks, Black Wood and Frenchman’s Fork, until they struck the Republican River. The next day, 15 June, Cody had Seamus Donegan lead the entire column into camp twenty-five miles downriver. No fresh sign had been spotted by a scout, Pawnee or white.

Seamus had located a gurgling spring near the riverbank, bringing the cavalry into camp there on the north side of the Republican. A quarter-mile below the cavalry bivouac, the wagonmaster and teamsters circled their freight wagons and unhitched their mules. Across the river from their camp and that of Cody’s lay an inviting patch of tall, green grass. The teamsters waded their mules across to grass them until dark.

Several hundred yards below the camp of Cody’s civilian scouts lay the Pawnee camp. Major North ordered his battalion to keep their horses on the same side of the river, hobbling them north of their bivouac and fires.

Donegan was the first to bolt to his feet at the shrill war whoop directly across the river among the mules. His mouth was still full of beans and hardtack as a crackle of gunfire and the screams of the herders split the cool evening air. Spitting his mouthful of food into the fire, Seamus wrenched up his rifle as the whole camp whirled into motion. Running blindly toward the bank, the Irishman was unable to see anything on the far bank for the thick stand of cottonwoods. To his left the Pawnees and some of Cody’s scouts were running their horses into camp, shouting. He turned back, sensing the need to be mounted before crossing the river.

Cody himself was struggling to get his saddle cinched atop the buckskin in all the hubbub as Seamus leaped bareback atop his army mare. They both pushed their horses into the river as the first Pawnees dashed up, in their tongue cursing the seven Cheyenne warriors disappearing over the nearby hills with more than half of the wagonmaster’s mules. One of the two civilian herders lay up the slope of the hill, where he had been scalped and quickly stripped. The second herder loped toward Donegan atop a nervous mule, careening from side to side. The man clung both to the mule and life tenaciously. Three arrows bristled from his back, quivering with every step of the mule as he approached. He tried to speak as he passed Donegan, heading back across the river. Nothing but blood came from his mouth.

Donegan reined up and watched the man reach the river, where he was helped by other teamsters splashing into the water on foot. Seamus reined about and put heels to the big mare.

Already the Cheyenne had abandoned their mules and were intent only on making good their escape into the hills to the south of the Republican. Hot on their tails were the Pawnee, shouting, scolding, shooting over the heads of the horse thieves. Cody was just ahead as North’s Indians slowly galloped past him. Through the dust, Seamus watched one of the Pawnee gesture as he came alongside the white scout. The tracker then reached over and took Cody’s pistol from its holster when the white man had his head turned back to find Donegan and Luther North rapidly catching up.

“Son of a bitch stole my gun, North!”

Luther North tried to laugh it off as they tore after the Pawnee. “I’m sure he’ll give it back to you, Cody.”

“He doesn’t—he’d better plan on using it on me.”

“You’re taking this all a little too seriously, you ask me,” North replied with the hint of a sneer.

“You can count on me helping Cody get his pistol back,” Donegan growled.

North’s eyes narrowed on the Irishman. “No, there’ll be no trouble. I’ll get the gun back, my way.”

“Better keep your boys away from me, North. Doesn’t seem they like me at all.”

North started to laugh, but it came out hollow. “Why you say that, Cody?”

“One of them could talk a little English. Told me something as he rode by me.”

“What’d he say?” North asked as the trio continued after the Pawnees chasing the horse thieves.

“Told me a bunch of his friends went south last summer to steal some horses from the Cheyenne. But the Cheyenne learned of ’em, surrounded ’em and killed a few of the Pawnee on that raid. Your man said that riding with them Cheyenne that killed his friends was a white man … a white man with long hair the color of summer grass.”

North flicked his eyes at Cody’s long hair. “Sounds like it could be you.”

“You know damned well it weren’t me!” Cody snarled, about ready to reach out to yank North from the saddle.

“Man like you, North—gonna get himself in some serious trouble with his mouth,” Donegan said on the far side of Cody.

North reluctantly nodded. “You’re right. Couldn’t been you, Cody. You’re here to fight Injuns.”

“You’re savvy enough to know there’s a few renegades running with the tribes,” Seamus muttered, finding he was liking Luther North less and less the more he got to know him.

“How would you know about that, Irishman?”

He pointed high on his arm. “I took Cheyenne lead in this arm of mine last summer. Almost lost the arm for nine days of mortification. I was with Forsyth.”

“Beecher Island?” North asked as they neared the spot where most of the Pawnees had pulled up.

Donegan thought he recognized a sudden, new respect for him there in North’s eyes.

As the three white men reined up, the Pawnees drew back. They had been stripping two dead Cheyenne shot from their horses.

North signed and asked in English, “Where are the others?”

One of the Pawnee stepped up, a long, bloody tendril of scalp dangling from his hand. “The five ride away from this place.”

North turned to the white men. “The rest disappeared on them. What is wrong with that horse?”

They turned to one of the Pawnee mounts that had collapsed not far away on the prairie, foaming at the mouth and struggling to rise.

“He dies from the heat of the chase,” explained the Pawnee.

“I suppose it’s a draw, fellas,” Cody said, walking up beside North. “Two Cheyenne for the two teamsters they killed. So, if you’ll get this son of a bitch to give me my gun back—we won’t have no more blood shed.”

“Is this the one took your gun?” North asked.

Cody nodded. For a moment the Pawnee glowered at the blond scout as the light faded from the sky. Grudgingly he handed the gun over to North, who passed it on to Cody.

“Why’d you take it?” North inquired.

“I had no pistol when I left camp to chase the Cheyenne,” the Pawnee explained. “When I rode alongside the white man, I saw his horse was slow and would not make a good chase of it. I needed the gun and he did not. I do not need it any longer.”

North translated for the two white men, then turned back to the Pawnee. “This man is not the one you saw with the Cheyenne last summer.”

“We know,” replied the tallest of the Pawnee. “The white man with the Cheyenne was much smaller than this buffalo killer you call Cody. And he rode in the shadow of another whose long hair was very black. His skin was very dark … like ours. But his hair, it stuck out from his head like wild grass.”

North shook his head, explaining the Pawnee’s description.

“Makes me feel a bit better—that your boys don’t think I was riding with the Cheyenne.” Cody sighed.

Donegan wagged his head. “Still don’t explain who was, Bill. And for the life of me—sounds like one of ’em wasn’t a white man at all.”

North nodded. “Irishman’s right. Damned well sounds like it was a nigger riding with them murdering Dog Soldiers.”