Fort buzzard, p.5
Fort Buzzard, page 5
Some days were blistering hot, as well, and there were stretches where the ground was so dry that the horses’ hooves raised a sizable dust cloud even though they weren’t moving very fast. At this time of year, almost any sort of weather was possible out here, from a blizzard to a drought.
Jamie was riding at the front of the group with Lieutenant Stanton one day when the young officer commented, “I’ve been surprised that we haven’t encountered any Indians so far.”
“Oh, they’ve been out there,” Jamie said.
Stanton looked over at him in surprise. “They have? I haven’t seen them.”
“That’s the way it usually is with Indians. You hardly ever see them unless they want you to. Preacher and I know what to look for, though, so we can generally spot them. Preacher’s gone out on a scout a few times, just to see what we’re dealing with.”
“What do you mean, he’s gone out on a scout? He hasn’t left the group.”
“You just didn’t know it when he did. He went in the middle of the night. Even at his age, he can still see in the dark just about as well as he can in daylight. He tracked the Indians who’ve been watching us back to their village. They’re Pawnee, as best he can tell. And they don’t seem hostile. They’re just curious about who we are and what we’re doing out here.”
Stanton shook his head, and said, “If you hadn’t told me about this, I’d have had no idea.” He paused for a second before continuing in a conspiratorial tone. “Should I let on to Preacher that I know what he’s been doing?”
Jamie chuckled. “I don’t imagine he’d care one way or the other.”
“Don’t you think I should warn the men there are savages in the area?” Stanton asked with a frown. “We ought to be prepared for trouble.”
“No offense, Lieutenant, but if those troopers are worth their salt, they ought to know already that they might run into Indians out here. And being ready for trouble is pretty much their job, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, of course.” Stanton looked a little embarrassed. “None of us have any Indian-fighting experience, though, not even Sergeant Hodge. All of his battles were against the Mexican Army.”
Jamie considered for a moment, and then said, “Talk to the sergeant. Let him know what I just told you and suggest that he keep the men on their toes a little more than they have been so far. That way if there’s any trouble . . . and you generally don’t get much warning where Indians are concerned . . . they’ll more likely be able to deal with it.”
“All right,” Stanton said, nodding slowly. His voice took on a slightly crisper tone as he added, “And in the future, if any more matters such as this come up, Mr. MacCallister, I’d appreciate it if you’d inform me right away.”
For a second, Jamie was irritated at the way this young, wet-behind-the-ears officer seemed to be reprimanding him. Then he told himself that Stanton was just trying to do his job and learn what he needed to know in order to do that.
It would be better if more army officers would do that, Jamie thought. Too many of them came out to the frontier and believed they knew all there was to know about what they were doing, simply because of things they had learned in a classroom back at West Point.
That attitude sometimes got such officers killed. Even worse, it usually got the enlisted men serving under their command killed, too.
So Jamie just nodded, and said, “I’ll sure do that, Lieutenant. You can count on it.”
The days turned into weeks and the miles fell behind the travelers. A dark line on the western horizon became mountains as Preacher, Jamie, and their companions moved steadily west. In time, white patches of snowcapped peaks were visible, although the mountains were still so far away that their looming, majestic presence wasn’t really apparent enough to be appreciated.
Still, after plodding so far across seemingly endless plains, being able to tell that they were drawing increasingly closer to their destination at last lifted the men’s spirits.
The landscape through which they passed began to change as well. The plains developed more of a roll that gradually turned into ridges and even some small, rocky hills. The vegetation was greener, especially along the creeks, which were more numerous the farther west they went. Since leaving the Platte and striking northwestward, the countryside had been mostly brown, tan, and gray, so the bursts of color were more than welcome.
One day, after Jamie and Preacher had led them over a winding trail through a range of hills that ran north and south, the group came to a river. It was a beautiful blue stream about fifty yards wide, moving with a steady current through twists and turns between shallow banks lined with brush and broken up by occasional rocky outcroppings.
Jamie lifted his right hand in a signal for them to rein in. When they had done so, he rested his hands on the saddle and leaned forward a little as he told Stanton, “That’s the Bighorn River, Lieutenant. The Greybull flows into it from the west fifteen, maybe twenty miles north of here. That sound about right to you, Preacher?”
“It surely does,” the mountain man agreed. “We ought to make the Greybull tomorrow. How far had that bunch of surveyors gotten before somebody jumped ’em and wiped ’em out?”
“Somebody?” Stanton repeated. “The official report says that Crow Indians were responsible for the massacre. Which, according to my orders, occurred approximately thirty miles from the confluence of the Greybull and the Bighorn. That’s the point to which we’re supposed to proceed to begin our investigation of the matter.”
“Official reports are sometimes wrong,” Jamie said.
“That’s why we’re here, ain’t it, Lieutenant?” Preacher added. “To find out what really happened?”
“Of course. We should reach the spot . . .” Stanton considered. “Day after tomorrow?”
Jamie nodded. “That would be my guess.” He lifted his reins. “There’s a place we can ford the river not far from here unless things have changed since the last time I came through these parts. Come on.”
He nudged his dun into motion with his bootheels. Stanton nodded to Hodge, who called out the order for the troopers to follow Jamie.
Preacher and Dog dropped back to check their back trail. It never hurt to be careful.
The ford was where Jamie thought it was. They crossed over and camped that night on the west side of the Bighorn. The music of the river flowing past sounded wonderful to Preacher. They probably wouldn’t make it to the actual high country on this trip, but just being this close felt good to him.
They reached the Greybull the next day and turned to follow the smaller stream’s southern bank. The river was only fifteen to twenty yards wide in most places and flowed faster than the Bighorn because of that.
The water danced and leaped over a rocky bed. As Preacher rode alongside Hodge, he nodded toward the river and said to the sergeant, “Some mighty good fishin’ in there, Ollie. Maybe we’ll get a chance to pull a few trout outta the water. Them cutthroat are fine eatin’.”
Hodge grinned. “That sounds good to me, Preacher.”
The mountains were close enough now that they often looked as if the men could reach out and touch them. In reality, the peaks were still miles away, but they dominated the landscape anyway.
On the second day that the group followed the Greybull, a cool breeze swept down from the mountains along the river. It was refreshing enough to make the men laugh and chatter among themselves. From the sound of it, they weren’t thinking about how far out in the wilderness they actually were . . . and how quickly things could change without warning.
Preacher and Jamie were well aware of that possibility, however. Preacher brought Horse alongside Jamie’s dun, and said quietly, “Reckon me and Dog will drift back a ways. I’ve had this funny feelin’ on the back of my neck today.”
“That feeling’s contagious,” Jamie said. “I’ve got it, too.”
Preacher nodded. “Keep your eyes open.”
That went without saying, of course. If Jamie MacCallister wasn’t in the habit of keeping his eyes—and ears, and all his other senses—at high alert, he wouldn’t have lived as long as he had.
Even so, what happened half an hour later took Jamie by surprise, which meant that the person responsible for it had some experience and savvy, too. The shot that blasted without warning from a hilltop to the party’s left set off echoes that bounced and rolled across the rugged landscape and made Jamie and the others pull their mounts to an abrupt halt.
The bullet was aimed in front of them. Jamie saw the little splash in the stream as it struck. That was a warning shot, he thought, and the shouted words that followed confirmed that.
“Stop right there, or somebody’s liable to get blown right out of the saddle!”
CHAPTER 8
Jamie hauled back on the dun’s reins with his left hand and flung up his right in the signal for his companions to stop.
“Halt!” Lieutenant Stanton shouted, and Sergeant Hodge repeated the command in a booming bellow.
The order wasn’t really necessary because the troopers were already reining in and lifting their Springfield rifles. Their thumbs hooked over the hammers, ready to cock the weapons.
“Hold your fire!” Hodge said, just in case any of the soldiers were starting to feel trigger-happy.
Jamie’s dun was accustomed to gunfire, so the shot hadn’t spooked the animal. It stood calmly while Jamie looked toward the hill, which had some thick brush and several trees growing on its top. The man who had fired the shot had to be hidden among that vegetation.
“You up there on the hill!” Jamie called in that direction. His deep, powerful voice carried well in the thin air. “No need for shooting! We’re not looking for any trouble!”
The same voice that had warned them shouted down from the hilltop, “Then what are you looking for?”
Recalling the name of the trader who had reported the massacre of the surveying party, Jamie replied, “A man called Gullickson. Angus Gullickson.”
Surprisingly, that response prompted a shot from the other side of the river. Jamie heard the blast, and from the corner of his eye, he spotted a spurt of powder smoke from a clump of rocks about fifty yards upstream. Hard on the heels of the shot, he heard the hum of a rifle ball passing by closely overhead. Too close.
Then he was even more surprised when someone yelled from the boulders, “If you’re friends of that skunk Gullickson, you’re not welcome in these parts!”
That voice belonged to a female, and a fairly young one at that, if Jamie’s estimation was right.
He hadn’t expected to run into a girl out here hundreds of miles from civilization, let alone a girl willing and able to fire a rifle in his direction.
“Damn it, Emma, I told you not to start shooting unless I gave the word!” That was the man on the hill to the left.
“But they’re looking for Gullickson! They might be working with him!”
Jamie spoke up, saying, “Actually, miss, we never met the man. He’s nothing but a name to us. Why don’t both of you hold your fire, and if you’ve got something to talk about, come on down here and we’ll talk about it?”
It was the girl who answered. “And waltz right into a trap? I don’t think so, mister!”
Stanton raised up a little in his stirrups as if that would help his voice carry better, and said, “I don’t know who you are, young lady, but I assure you, our intentions are peaceful! We wish to speak with Mr. Gullickson, but that is our only connection with him.” He took off his hat. “Allow me to introduce myself! I am Lieutenant Ronald Stanton of the United States Army. I’m in command of this detail.”
For a moment, silence hung over the river, broken only by the chuckling sound of the water as it rushed over the rocky bed. Then the girl called, “Put your hat back on, mister. I won’t shoot it off your head less’n you try something funny.”
Jamie heard Stanton mutter, “There’s nothing funny about this.” The lieutenant put his hat on and raised his voice again. “What can I do to convince you of our peaceful intentions?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . Turn around and go back wherever the hell you came from, maybe!”
From the hilltop, the man’s voice said sternly, “Your mother wouldn’t like hearing that kind of crude talk coming from you, Emma.”
“You leave Ma outta this, Pa! This is between us and those soldier boys!”
Stanton gave Jamie a helpless look. Jamie shrugged and faced the hill again.
“Mister! You up on the hill! If you don’t want to come down here and talk, I’ll ride up there and we can parley. You can cover me the whole way. Not much threat to you in that, is there? How does that sound?”
No answer came back right away. Jamie supposed the man was thinking the suggestion over.
Finally, the unseen rifleman replied, “All right, come ahead if you want to. Just don’t try anything.” He raised his voice even more. “Emma, don’t shoot this man! He says he just wants to talk!”
Jamie turned his head to look at the rocks, and said, “That’s right, Miss Emma. I’d surely appreciate it if you don’t shoot me.”
She didn’t respond. Jamie lifted the reins and heeled the dun toward the hill. Sometimes you just had to take a chance.
As always in a situation such as this, Jamie’s muscles were tensed, halfway expecting the shock of a bullet striking him. But no shot sounded as he began climbing the hill on the dun.
The slope wasn’t too bad, and the horse was able to take it without struggling. They had to go around several rocky outcroppings, but it didn’t take long to reach the top, which was fairly level. Jamie reined in, rested his hands on the saddle, and looked at the trees where he thought the rifleman was concealed.
“All right, mister, I’m here,” he said. “I’m armed, but you can see for yourself that I’m not making a move toward my guns. Come on out and we can talk.”
The answer came from the shadows under the trees. “Reckon I can talk just fine right where I am.”
Jamie spotted a rifle barrel sticking out from behind one of the tree trunks. It wasn’t aimed directly at him, but it was certainly pointed in his general direction.
“I like to be able to see a man when I’m exchanging words with him.”
“You swear that your friends down yonder won’t start anything if I step out?”
“I don’t see why they would, seeing as we aren’t looking for any trouble in the first place.”
“Yeah, you said that before. Are you a soldier, too? You’re not wearing a uniform.” The unseen man paused. “You’re kind of old to be a soldier unless you’re a general or something.”
Jamie had to laugh. It was a genuine reaction, but at the same time, he hoped it eased the rifleman’s nervous state, at least a little.
“No, I’m not a soldier. I’m working as a civilian scout, I reckon you’d say. My job is to guide the lieutenant and his party to the Greybull River, which I happen to know is that pretty little stream right down there.”
“What about Gullickson? Why are you looking for him?”
“The lieutenant has some questions to ask him, that’s all.” Jamie paused, then decided to risk revealing a little more. “About a party of surveyors who were attacked and wiped out by Indians some months ago.”
“That damn liar!” The exclamation sounded as if Jamie’s words had startled it out of the man.
“The surveyors weren’t wiped out?”
“Yeah, they were, but not by the Crow, like that varmint Gullickson claims!”
Finally, the rifleman appeared, stomping out into the open from behind a tree. He appeared to be too angry to worry about staying concealed anymore.
He was a short man with a big gut, making him seem almost as wide as he was tall. His shoulders were broad, too, and overlaid with thick slabs of muscle that strained the buckskin shirt he wore. He might be fat, but there was a sense of power under that weight. He wore buckskins and a broad-brimmed, round-crowned hat with an eagle feather stuck in the band, which was made of colorful beads.
Jamie was pretty sure that the beadwork on the hat and buckskins was of Crow design, meaning this man was a friend of the tribe.
His voice was deep, with a rumble in it like boulders crashing down a mountainside. He said, “Angus Gullickson is a liar who wouldn’t know the truth if it came up and walloped him across the face . . . which is what I’d like to do to him right about now. You mean to tell me Gullickson sent word to the army about what happened and claimed the Crow were responsible?”
Jamie nodded, and said, “That’s my understanding of it.”
“He ought to be ashamed of himself. But skunks like Gullickson don’t feel any shame!”
“My name is MacCallister,” Jamie said, thinking that it might ease the tension even more if he and the man introduced themselves.
“I’m Wilbert Burnside. That’s Wilbert with a t on the end, not Wilbur.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Burnside. You trap in these parts?”
Burnside shook his head. “Fur trader. Or just trader in general these days, since the fur business isn’t what it once was.” He gripped the barrel of his rifle in his left hand and rested the weapon’s butt on the ground beside him. His fingers were thick as sausages. He lifted his pudgy right hand and jerked the thumb back over his shoulder. “Got a trading post a couple of miles that way, where the river takes a bend to the south.”
“Did you know those surveyors and their escort?”
“I was acquainted with them,” Burnside replied with a nod. “They visited my post a couple of times. Was mighty sorry when I heard the rumors that something bad had happened to them. They seemed like nice fellas.”
“We’re here to find out the truth of what happened to them. Do you know, Mr. Burnside?”
The man shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t. But the Crow have been good friends to me, and I don’t believe for a second they carried out any damned massacre!”
