Son of the Hawk (20 page)

Leach blistered Luke with a gaze filled with contempt. “Mister, I don’t believe I requested your opinion on this matter. But since you insisted on giving it, I’ll respond. I imagine this small party of Sioux is just that, a small party out to cause mischief—eight hostiles, the same eight horses the Pawnee scouts tracked back at the river.” His eyes flashed fire as he added, “I hope to hell they are part of a larger band. It’ll be an excellent chance to teach the bastards a lesson in modern warfare.”

Luke fell in line behind the captain and Sergeant Turley as the column moved out smartly toward the
low hills to the west. The pace seemed a bit strained for horses that had still not been properly rested, but Leach spurred them on.
We’re not going to be able to give much chase if we do spot them
, Luke thought as he held his mount to the pace. Cresting a slight rise that led to a flat a half mile wide, they were met by the two men who had been sent out as scouts. Riding hard, they slid to a stop before the captain, waving their arms excitedly.

“They’re still there!” Private Orwell blurted, struggling with the reins in an effort to prevent a collision with the captain’s mount.

“Where?” Leach demanded, standing in his stirrups to get a better look.

“Yonder,” Orwell responded, pointing to the far side of the flat.

Luke pulled up beside Turley. They were there all right, eight Sioux warriors, sitting on their ponies, calmly watching the approaching soldiers. Turley spoke. “Hell, they’re just settin’ there. They don’t look like they’re worried about us, do they?”

“They probably aren’t,” Luke answered. “We better look out for something fishy.”

Overhearing Luke’s remark, Leach gave him a quick glance, then turned back to Orwell. “Any sign of any more hostiles in the area?”

“Nossir, just them eight—for as far as we could see.”

“Very well,” Leach replied, “let’s get after them, then.”

The eight Sioux warriors remained on the far edge of the flat plain and watched the advancing military column. Motionless, save for the occasional flutter of a feather in the light breeze or the stamping of a pony’s hoof, they seemed almost unconcerned that the soldiers were of any danger to them. In one line, side by
side, they continued to sit there until the troopers had cut the distance between them in half. Then, as if on a signal, they raised lances and bows, shaking them defiantly at the oncoming soldiers, and calling out insults and war whoops. When the troopers broke into a gallop, the Sioux wheeled and sped away toward the low line of hills to the west.

Knowing his tired horses were no match for the Indian ponies, Leach nonetheless spurred his command onward, fearing the hostiles would escape into the rolling prairie. Just as the galloping army mounts seemed to be closing the distance, the hostiles disappeared down a narrow draw. Leading the charge, Leach galloped into the draw behind them only to discover the Sioux were nowhere in sight.

With a signal of his hand, Leach halted the column, which was by this time strung out rather thin as the weaker horses had become unable to keep up with the stronger mounts. Realizing that he was blindly following the small party of Sioux into a possible ambush, Leach shouted, “Flankers! Sergeant Turley, get flankers out! Be alert now. I don’t want to lose these savages.” He frantically scanned the grass-covered slopes on either side.

Luke dismounted to try to give his weary horse a rest. Most of the men followed suit, causing the captain’s anger to flare. “Dammit! I didn’t give the order to dismount!” Sheepishly, the guilty troopers climbed back aboard their winded mounts.

Luke couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. Leading his horse up beside Leach’s, he said, “If we don’t rest these damn horses, we’re gonna be chasing those Indians on foot.”

Leach’s eyes narrowed, his face contorted in rage. “By God, Austen, I won’t tolerate any more of your . .” The sudden thud of an arrow in the ground a
few yards in front of his horse caused him to bite off his threat. In the next few moments, several arrows landed near the first. Leach pulled his horse back.

“There!” someone shouted. “On the ridge!”

Luke looked in the direction now being pointed out by several of the men behind him. The hostiles had crossed over the rim of the draw and were kneeling in the high grass. It seemed a useless gesture, shooting at the soldiers. The range was too far for their bows. Luke decided it was just a form of harassment.

“Sergeant,” Leach ordered, “bring some rifles to bear on that ridge. Let’s see how they like a little hot lead.”

“Yessir,” Turley replied and signaled for the first twelve men to advance. After they were in place, he ordered a volley fired at the hostiles still kneeling in the tall grass on the ridge. The heavy silence of the valley was split by the roar of twelve rifles discharging simultaneously. Luke watched the ridge intently as a thin cloud of blue rifle smoke floated above the line of troopers now reloading in anticipation of a second order to fire. Leach held up his hand, ordering them to wait. He wanted to evaluate the effect of the volley. It was not as he had anticipated. The eight Sioux warriors yelled defiantly, waving their weapons in the air and making insulting gestures. Leach was furious. “Sergeant, aren’t there any marksmen in this company?”

Turley didn’t reply immediately, but Luke knew what the sergeant was thinking. One of the first things Turley had complained about when assigned to this regiment was the poor quality of recruits. Green and inexperienced, most of them foreign-born, some had not fired their rifles since their induction into the army. It was a source of frustration to professional soldiers like Turley that, due to the lack of ample supplies of
lead and powder, there was no allowance for target practice. Consequently, no one should have been surprised by the poor marksmanship exhibited by the troopers.

After the ineffective volley that sprayed the tall buffalo grass around them, there was little wonder that the eight Sioux warriors expressed their open contempt. Turley was about to order a second volley when the eight hostiles let fly another flight of arrows—this time, some of the missiles landed close to the mounted soldiers.

“Gimme that!” Turley barked, taking the rifle from the soldier nearest him. He checked the load then spurred his horse a few yards in front of the column. Taking careful aim, he pulled the trigger. An instant later, one of the hostiles yelped in pain as the rifle ball imbedded itself deep in his shoulder. This prompted the Indians to retreat to their ponies, and with two of them helping the wounded man, they leaped on their horses and disappeared over the far side of the ridge.

“After them!” Leach shouted, encouraged by the wounding of the hostile. And the column was off again, pushing their exhausted horses up the side of the ridge. At the top, the soldiers halted momentarily while Leach looked frantically over the rolling hills before them, searching for signs of the hostiles.

“There they go!” Turley shouted, pointing to another rise a few hundred yards off to their left. Luke followed Turley’s outstretched arm and saw the eight Sioux as their ponies scampered up the slope. At the top, they paused to once again hurl defiant gestures at their pursuers.

Leach was off again immediately, leading his troopers down the grassy slope toward the next ridge. “Come on, boys,” he shouted in encouragement, “their
horses are as tired as ours. Don’t give ’em a chance to rest.”

Having no choice in the matter, Luke followed his captain’s lead, but it seemed to him that Leach was embarking upon a foolhardy endeavor. Luke remembered something that Buck Ransom had once told him—that the smaller, faster Indian ponies could run the army’s horses into the ground. Their horses were already near foundering, but Leach had blood in his eye and an overpowering desire to punish the Sioux. He was determined not to let the Indians escape. Luke wondered how far Leach would go before he realized they might all be afoot.

By the time the heavy army mounts had gained the base of the next rise, the hostiles were on their ponies and gone again, disappearing down the far side. Charging up to the top of the ridge, the troop halted once more and searched for the fleeing Sioux. Someone spotted them galloping toward a stream, lined with heavy brush and a few cottonwoods—a good half mile away.

“Dammit,” Leach muttered when he realized that he was no closer than before—the Sioux had actually increased the distance between them. Without hesitation, he signaled the column forward. Down the side of the ridge they went, some horses beginning to stumble as they struggled to maintain their footing. Leach spurred his mount mercilessly, while constantly waving his men onward. Into a narrow defile they galloped, only to be brought to a stop by the sudden appearance of a lone rider standing squarely in their path.

Holding his horse back to keep from colliding with Turley’s, who was fighting to keep his horse from plowing into Leach’s mount, Luke was startled to recognize the solitary figure of Trace McCall, casually
biding his time in the middle of the trail, patiently waiting for them to approach.

Leach was mystified. “What the hell . .?” was all he managed to utter.

While the surprised troopers stacked up behind their officers, Trace nudged his pony gently with his heels, and the paint moved obediently forward to meet the column at the mouth of the draw. Before he could speak, Captain Leach demanded, “McCall, what in hell are you doing here?”

“Well,” Trace began, taking his time to reply, “figuring on saving you a heap of hurt, I reckon.” He glanced at Luke and nodded, then looked at the column of soldiers behind Luke, taking note of the spent horses and drawn faces of the troopers. Turning back to Leach, he asked, “Where are your scouts?”

“They deserted,” Leach snapped back.

Trace considered this for a moment. “I guess that explains why you’re letting that bunch of Sioux run you all over the territory.”

Leach was at once incensed and not about to be chastised by this half-wild individual. “We were about to overtake those murdering savages when you got in the way.”

Trace fixed the bristling captain with a look of contempt. “You weren’t even close to catching up to those warriors—and you never will, that is, until they’re ready for you to catch ’em—which would be pretty damned soon now—as soon as you can drag your wore-out horses down to that creek.”

“What do you mean?” Leach demanded impatiently.

“It’s just a guess on the number, but I’d say there’s about two hundred Sioux warriors waiting for your soldierboys to come riding down to that water.”

Leach was stunned, but after a moment he recovered
enough of his arrogance to retort. “Good! I believe sixty well-armed mounted dragoons are more than enough to handle two hundred savages.” He pulled on his reins as if to go around the mountain man. Trace moved to the side to block him again.

“Captain, I’m trying my damnedest to save your ass. You’ve been slickered by one of the Injuns’ favorite tricks. They sent that small bunch of warriors out to lead you all over hell and back—wear your horses out so you can’t run. Now they’re gonna lead you right into an ambush.”

Leach finally received the message, but he was still stubborn enough to make protests. “I still like the odds—sixty rifles against their bows and arrows.”

His impatience clearly defined in his face now, Trace nevertheless responded calmly. “Captain, there’s at least fifty rifles in that bunch. You go riding in there and there’s gonna be another massacre.”

Leach hesitated, his resolve finally broken when reminded of the massacre of the thirty-four troopers under Luke’s command in the Black Hills. For the first time, the sobering possibility of a second disaster penetrated his feeling of invincibility. He looked behind him at his detachment of weary mounts and men, as if just then noticing their condition. Calmer then, but still unwilling to acknowledge any careless actions on his part, he reluctantly thanked Trace for the warning. “You’re right, McCall, they have a superiority in numbers. It’s best to let them go this time. But I hate to miss an opportunity to fight the bastards.”

The hint of a smile parted Trace’s lips. “Oh, you’re gonna be in a fight, all right. It’s just a question of where, and on whose terms. Your horses are spent. Ol’ Iron Pony already knows that and he’s waiting for you. As soon as he figures out that you ain’t coming no more, he’ll be after you like bees after a bear.”

“You’re saying we’d better set up a defensive position?” Luke asked. He had been silent up until then, and only spoke because it appeared Leach was undecided as to what he should do.

Trace nodded, then said, “But not here—they’d be above you on both sides here. If you can make it about a mile and a half back over the ridge, the creek winds back below that butte. You can dig rifle pits on both sides of the stream and have a clear field of fire before you.”

“Very well, McCall,” Leach said, “lead us out.”

Very well, indeed
, Luke thought, knowing Trace had just saved their necks, even though they were not out of the fire as yet. He filed in behind Trace as the tall scout Buck Ransom had called the Mountain Hawk led the column back the way they had come. When he reached a shallow draw that led off to the west, Trace followed it for a few hundred yards until he found a place to climb up the side that would be easier on the weary horses. Turning south then, he set a course that would intercept the stream.

As soon as they reached the banks of the stream, Turley began positioning his men on either side and ordered them to start digging. At Trace’s suggestion, the horses were herded into the middle and allowed to drink. To most of the men, young and inexperienced, Trace McCall remained a mysterious figure as the buckskin-clad mountain man rode slowly up and down the line of frantically working soldiers, his eyes taking in the defensive preparations as well as occasionally checking the hills they had just recently deserted. Seeing Luke Austen striding over to meet him, Trace dismounted and let his horse drink from the stream.

“Howdy, Lieutenant,” Trace said.

Luke smiled broadly, offering his hand. “Trace McCall—you
do seem to show up when you’re most needed.” Trace only shrugged in response. Luke went on, “How do you happen to be out here, anyway? Looking for us?”