Kiowa Vengeance (3 page)

Weatherby whimpered, and Hix toed him again,
a little harder this time.

“We won’t give them anybody,” Benteen said.
“We’ll wait awhile. The coach is heavy wood. It won’t burn fast,
and the smoke won’t get in here for a while. It’ll get thicker
outside, though.”

Cora didn’t see how that would help, but Hix
seemed to.

“Right,” he said. “We can’t wait too long,
though. What’s the plan?”

“When the smoke gets thicker, you and I will
pop out the windows and start shooting. Hope to hit somebody.”

“Like a jack-in-the-box, grinning like the
devil,” Hix said.

“Let’s hope a pair of devils can do the
trick,” Benteen said.

Cora thought it over. Acting demure wasn’t
going to help any in this situation. She could go back to that
later.

“Three devils,” she said. “I’ll be shooting,
too.”

“Now, look, ma’am,” Benteen said, “I don’t
think—”

“It doesn’t matter what you think. Three
guns are better than two, even if I don’t hit anybody. You know
it.”

Benteen looked at Hix. Hix shrugged.

“All right, then,” Benteen said. “Wait until
I give the word. Hix will take the right window, and Miss Sloane
will take the left. Hix, you know what to do.”

“Sure,” Hix said.

Cora knew there was something they weren’t
telling her, but their faces gave nothing away. She didn’t have
long to think about it because of in spite of what Benteen had
said, smoke had begun to gather in the coach

“Ready?” Benteen said.

Hix and Cora nodded.

“On three,” Benteen said. “One . . . two . .
. three!”

The three of them popped up. Fire licked at
the bottom of the coach. Cora could see only dimly through the
smoke, but it appeared to her that the Indians were far out of
range of the pistols. She fired a shot, anyway.

Hix fired, too, but not Benteen. He’d
somehow opened the door.

“Look out!” he yelled, and he flipped the
door open.

It banged down against the side of the
coach, but Hix had moved out of the way. Benteen climbed through
the doorway and dropped to the ground. Hix was right behind him.
Cora held her fire. She didn’t want to shoot one of them in the
back by accident.

The two men ran toward the Kiowa, but not in
a straight line. When they were close enough Hix stopped and fired.
Benteen kept moving.

One of the Indians dropped from his horse.
The others didn’t seem to know what to do. Hix started to run
again, and Benteen stopped to take a shot. Another Indian dropped.
Benteen was running before the Kiowa hit the ground.

The other two Indians turned their horses’
heads and kicked their heels into their sides. They galloped away,
followed by the mounts of the fallen men. Hix and Benteen stopped
to watch them go.

Cora was strong and agile enough to pull
herself through the doorway of the coach. It wasn’t easy, not with
her dress and undergarments hanging on things, but she crawled out
and jumped through the smoke. She landed awkwardly and fell, but
she was back on her feet before Benteen and Hix got to her.

“Where’s Weatherby?” Benteen asked.

“Still inside, I suppose,” Cora said.

They all looked at the coach and saw
Weatherby creeping out. He toppled to the ground, but no one went
to help him up.

“What you did was very brave,” Cora said to
Benteen and Hix.

“Or insane,” Benteen said.

“It worked,” Hix said. “Indians don’t like
to deal with crazy people.”

“You killed two of them,” Cora pointed
out.

“They like dealing with crazy people who
kill them even less,” Benteen said.

Weatherby removed his coat and used it to
beat the flames on the coach.

“He turned out to be good for something,
after all,” Hix said. “We should help him. I have a bag in
there.”

He and Benteen joined Weatherby, and they
soon had the fires extinguished. When they were done, Benteen went
around to the unburned side and climbed into the coach. He tossed
out the bags, including Cora’s reticule.

“What do we do now?” Cora asked when the
fire was out. “The next stage station must be miles away.”

“Six or eight,” Benteen said. “And the last
one’s about the same.”

“There’s a ranch a few miles from here,” Hix
said. “Two or three. The Manning place. It’s a lot closer than the
stage station.”

“I’m not sure I can make it that far,”
Weatherby said.

“Up to you,” Benteen said. “Stay here if you
want to. Maybe the Kiowa won’t come back.”

“Or maybe they will,” Hix said.

“Couldn’t there be more of them along our
way?” Cora asked.

“Sure could,” Benteen said. “We can’t stay
here, though. Those two might bring back some others.”

Cora looked back at the coach. The clothing
from her trunk was strewn all around.

“I’m going to put my things back in my
trunk,” she said.

“You can’t carry that trunk with you.”

“I know that.” Cora was demure again. “It’s
not seemly to leave them lying out.”

“No, ma’am, I guess not,” Benteen said. He
gave her a look.

Cora ignored him and went back to the coach.
She pulled the trunk a good distance from the smoldering hulk and
put things in it as best she could. It didn’t take long. The Kiowa
had broken the latch, but she closed the trunk anyway.

Benteen helped her stow it in the boot,
along with the bags. He’d taken some ammunition and the remaining
revolver from his, and Hix and Weatherby had also gotten a few
items from theirs.

“Ready now?” Benteen said.

“Yes,” Cora said. “Which way is that ranch
you mentioned, Mister Hix?”

Hix pointed back down the road. “We go that
way for a while, then cut off to the left. You sure you’re up to a
long walk?”

“Certainly,” Cora said, and she set off at a
brisk pace.

“I sure never had a schoolteacher like her,”
Benteen repeated to Hix.

Cora heard him, but she paid him no mind.
She kept on walking, the bottoms of her skirts lightly stirring the
dust.

1CHAPTER TWO

Wolf Creek, Kansas

Wilson Marsh sighted in on his target. She
was framed—and undressed—just right. He held his breath, then let
it out slowly as he pulled the lanyard. The bright flash caused the
mostly naked woman to jump.

“Whatever are you doing, sir!” Mrs.
Pettigrew grabbed the diaphanous scarf—which did nothing to hide
her bare breasts—and held it up to her chin, as if this futile
attempt at modesty didn’t expose other parts of her anatomy.

Marsh knew his business as photographer,
both of regular portraits and blue ones. And this was the bluest of
the blue. Edith Pettigrew’s ample bosom was completely caught by
his clever photography, as was a considerable amount of silk
stockinged leg all the way up to the thigh. If he had thought she
would sit for it, he would have considered asking her to do a full
nude. The woman’s vanity was almost as great as her need for what
he carried in his coat pocket.

“Now, Mrs. Pettigrew, I warned you I had to
use flash powder. The room is dark. You wouldn’t want me to open
the curtains, would you?”

“Why, I—of course not. I don’t know how I
ever let you talk me into such foolishness.” She made ineffectual
fluttering moves to again hide her nudity, even knowing it was far
too late. The photograph had been taken.

“How could I not look upon your beauty and
want to capture it for all eternity? Think of the models used by
Titian and Reuben. Your comeliness far transcends those poor
examples of European feminine pulchritude.”

“Why, uh, of course it does. I do. Rather, I
am sure you are the expert in such things.” She began gathering
clothing draped over the back of a nearby chair. As she bent, Marsh
wished he had another photographic plate ready. This pose, while
revealing less bare flesh, was far more provocative.

“This will be our special secret,” Marsh
said, going to her as she struggled into a blouse just a bit too
small. Her clothing had been stylish once, but the death of her
husband, Seth, one of the founders of Wolf Creek, had left her with
a tidy inheritance that she was in the process of slowly
squandering. Current fashion had given way reluctantly to other
expenses.

Wil Marsh was nothing if not an opportunist.
Edith Pettigrew would do anything he wanted. Total nudity for the
next set of photos might be out of the question, but eventually she
would agree. The blue pictures were hardly her only secret. She
wanted a man to appreciate her fading beauty. Marsh could mouth the
words, even if he had to take a swallow or two of Billy Taylor’s
Finest whiskey to wash away the taste afterward.

But a risqué
photograph wasn’t the only secret of hers he would keep.

“This is for you, my lovely,” he said,
pulling out the flimsy yellow Western Union envelope he had stolen
from Dave Maynard over at the telegraph office. If anyone saw Mrs.
Pettigrew with it, they would assume she had received a
telegram—and not a few pinches of opium bought from Tsu Chiao at
the Red Chamber.

She need not indulge her addiction by
anything so gauche as chasing the dragon—even in Tsu’s private
rooms. She need only let Wil Marsh take racy photographs while
praising her beauty, feeding her addiction and vanity
simultaneously. She could partake in the solitude of her own home.
Marsh saw this as a winning situation for everyone.

“Be careful returning home, Mrs. Pettigrew,”
Marsh said, taking her elbow and steering her toward the door. He
unlocked and opened the door for her with a panache that brought a
tiny smile to her lips. She appreciated his gallantry, even if it
was feigned. He couldn’t help noticing her pupils were black
pinpoints, even in the dim lighting of his studio. The woman had
smoked a pipe of opium before coming, and he was certain she would
return home for another.

“You will let me know when the photograph is
ready for viewing?”

“For private viewing, yes, of course, Mrs.
Pettigrew.” Outside, the false dawn brought a surreal grayness to
Wolf Creek. In only a few minutes the town would come awake and
begin its day’s commerce as the darkness fled and the sun struggled
upward in the cloudless sky. He had so much to do and so little
time.

“Yes, private, of course,” she said,
wobbling slightly. He closed and locked the door behind her, then
went to his camera, drew out the precious photographic plate and
hurried to his darkroom to develop it. This print would bring him a
tidy sum by sunrise.

***

“Don’t let the men see you rubbing your ass,
Cap’n,” said Corporal Sligo. “Bad for discipline if they think a
cavalry officer can’t outride, outfight and maybe out-cuss
‘em.”

Captain Thomas Dent sank back onto the
McClellan saddle that was killing his hemorrhoids. The saddle was
good for his mount, terrible for his rump. The corporal was right,
of course, about his actions in plain view of the twenty men in his
command, but he felt peevish enough to complain about it,
discipline or not. He felt he had a right. Napoleon had lost
Waterloo because of a similar affliction, and he hadn’t been riding
a bony cavalry pony most of the night.

“Too bad we couldn’t scrounge up some of
that artillery Colonel Vine is always nostalgic for,” the Captain
said. Fort Braxton’s commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Wilson
Vine, had commanded a New Hampshire artillery brigade during the
late Civil War. In order to remain in the Army when hostilities
ceased, Vine had been forced to accept a reduction of two ranks and
a transfer to the cavalry; no matter what the situation, Vine found
a way to speculate on ways good artillery would improve it.

“Not much call for swingin’ a howitzer
around on a Kiowa hunting party,” Sergeant Nagy said, and Corporal
Sligo chuckled in agreement. “Dey ride like the wind,” the wiry
Hungarian added, then picked at his front teeth with a broken
fingernail.

“There might be call to roll out a caisson
if Old Mountain can’t control his hothead braves,” Captain Dent
said.

“No different now,” Corporal Sligo said.
“Always been like that, Cap’n.” Sligo jerked his thumb over his
shoulder. “You got men all the way from sixteen to forty ridin’
there. The young’uns are the ones itchin’ to fight. Don’t matter if
it’s Kiowa or each other.”

Captain Dent nodded. “The veterans don’t
seek out bloodshed,” he observed. “They’ve seen too much in their
lives.” He silently added his name to that roster. Seeing heads
sheared off by cannon in the heat of battle at Glorieta Pass wasn’t
anything he could forget easily—or ever. Not to mention what
happened on the creek that other day… he shook away the memory.

“That’s the point, Cap’n,” Sligo said. “The
youngsters ain’t seen it yet. Or enough of it to get a bellyful.
They think they’re missin’ something. No amount of lecturin’ is
gonna convince them different.”

Dent shifted again to find a more
comfortable position astride the wooden saddle. He failed. The wood
slats were worn as slick as a river rock, but riding all day still
tore at his body. There wasn’t a muscle or joint that didn’t
ache.

“Wolf Creek isn’t more than a mile off,”
Dent said. “We can reach the town before breakfast.”

“You want the boys should ride on into town,
or should we bivouac outside?” Sergeant Nagy asked.

“There’s an oxbow in the river that might
provide for us.”

“Dogleg City dey calls it,” Nagy said, “the
folks livin’ dere in tents.”

“Do tell,” Dent said. He alertly heard the
unspoken warning in his sergeant’s tone. “Not the best part of town
for the men to set up camp?”

“I’d recommend crossing the railroad tracks
and finding a spot along Wolf Creek, maybe to the west of town a
ways. We kin water the horses, find some forage and not . . .”