Kiowa Vengeance (5 page)

“Why don’t you have a restaurant deliver
some?” Tom Dent asked.

“Where do you think this comes from? You
don’t think an amateur like me could ever make coffee this vile, do
you?” Satterlee laughed so loudly Dent had to join him.

He finally placed the tin cup gingerly on
the edge of the lawman’s desk, careful not to slosh any of the
potent black acid onto the wood.

“I wouldn’t use this to swab out a carbine
barrel,” Dent said. “But your coffee’s not the reason I came.”

“Didn’t think it was, though it’s likely to
be in violation of some federal law,” Satterlee said, working
slowly on the vile brew.

“Colonel Vine is concerned about the Kiowa
stirring up some trouble.”

“Heard about the Kiowa hunting party that
got shot up south of us a few days back,” the sheriff said. “Nasty
business. Never pays to run afoul of buffalo hunters. One Kiowa
killed, another damned near dead. Real trouble’s likely with the
third one. He didn’t get a scratch on him, so his pride’s wounded
and he’s likely got somethin’ to prove now.”

Dent nodded in agreement at the sheriff’s
summary of the situation.

“Colonel Vine’s worried that Old Mountain
might not be able to control the hotheads in his band. If they go
on the warpath your town’s likely to be a target.”

“Sitting duck’s more like it,” Satterlee
said. “We also had some pretty nasty business with bank robbers a
few weeks ago. Folks in Wolf Creek ain’t got over the shock of that
yet.”

Dent had heard about the raid and robbery.
The outlaws had blasted through town, slaughtering horses to
prevent pursuit and not being chary about murdering unarmed men and
women, either. The schoolmarm had been shot in the back and killed
as she protected one of her young students.

“What do you recommend we do?” The sheriff
finished his coffee and clicked the cup down onto his desk. Dent
jumped at the metallic sound. It might have been the hammer coming
back on a six-shooter.

“I have twenty men, camped outside town
along the river bank. Colonel Vine has authorized me to protect the
town—coordinating with you and your deputies, of course.”

“Of course,” Satterlee said dryly. “I
appreciate the offer, Captain, but you have to realize I’m a bit
skeptical of help from the Army. We didn’t get squat from Fort
Braxton before—and that Danby bunch was a small army in itself. We
tracked the varmints ourselves all the way into Indian
Territory.”

Dent stiffened at that. He hadn’t heard the
posse had violated treaty and gone where their authority didn’t
amount to a hill of beans.

“Did you get permission from Fort Smith
before you—” He cut off his question. He was a career Army officer
and had learned not to ask questions if he didn’t want to know the
answers—and abide by the consequences.

“How big a force do you think Old Mountain,
or the braves what snuck off while the chief wasn’t looking, are
likely to have if they come at us?”

“Not so many you—we—can’t handle them if we
are prepared. I intend to recruit Charley Blackfeather to range out
and bring back a warning of any impending attack.”

“A damn good man, Blackfeather,” Satterlee
said, nodding. “You can find him down at Asa’s when he’s in town,
most days.”

“The saloon?”

“He’s developed a powerful thirst
recently.”

“After the outlaw raid on the town?” Dent
read the answer on the sheriff’s face. “He hasn’t gone too far into
his cups, has he?”

“Doubt he could. Not in his nature. You see,
Charley is—” Satterlee clamped his mouth shut as a young soldier
burst into the office, all hot and bothered.

The private looked at the sheriff in
confusion, then turned to Dent. He threw him a hasty salute and
said, “Captain Dent? Didn’t expect you to be here. I have a
message.” He looked over at the sheriff, as if confused who was to
receive the report.

“What is it, Private? Don’t be shy speaking
in front of Sheriff Satterlee.” Dent’s firmness in taking charge
relaxed the courier. He knew who to report to now, and so he
did.

“They upped and shot at us. We was on patrol
eighteen miles south of town.”

“Kiowa?” asked Dent. He caught his breath.
The trouble had started sooner than he’d expected. Too soon to
rally the town properly, but not too soon to get his troopers back
in the saddle. He could interdict the war party and give the
sheriff time to organize resistance in town.

“Under Stone Knife, sir. More’n forty
warriors. They came across the Strip fixin’ to raid farms and steal
beeves from the ranchers. Only they ran into our patrol.”

“How large was your patrol?”

“Ten men, sir.”

Dent realized the gravity of the situation.
The troopers were outnumbered four to one. If Stone Knife cut
through the patrol, nothing stopped him from coming north to gut
the entire town of Wolf Creek. With his braves filled with
bloodlust from a victory, Stone Knife wouldn’t stop his braves—even
if he wanted to. Dent knew, even with twenty soldiers and a town
filled with civilians to back up his C Troop, the fight would be
dire.

“Did the Injuns send out any scouts?”
Satterlee asked. He went to a map tacked to the wall and ran his
finger along the oxbow holding Wolf Creek, then moved down a few
inches to where the courier’s patrol had encountered the Kiowa war
party.

“Don’t rightly know that, sir,” the courier
said.

“Stone Knife would send scouts this way,
northeast,” Dent said, studying the map. “How many?”

“Don’t really matter, Captain,” Satterlee
said. “He could send a dozen men out to scout and still have a big
advantage over that patrol, ’specially since that ten-man patrol’s
only got nine men in it because of sendin’ out a courier.”

“I was ordered! I didn’t—”

“As you were, Private,” snapped Dent. They
were all on edge.

“I’ll rustle up some help around town while
you go see to your stranded patrol,” the sheriff said. “Town
marshal is still stove up from gettin’ shot in that bank raid, but
his deputies can be of help. Ain’t gonna be easy on any of us.”

The sheriff stood up, just as yet another
intruder charged into his office. Satterlee gave the newcomer a
dour look—it was that damned photographer.

“What the hell do you want, Marsh?”

“Sheriff, I overheard. I want to ride
along.”

“Who are you, sir?” Captain Dent glowered at
the smaller man. Shifty eyes, thin lips, a two-day stubble of
beard, shabby clothing and hair all greased straight back—this
didn’t present a comforting picture of a man likely to be of
assistance. More to the point, no sidearm or shoulder rig was
visible.

“Wil Marsh, Captain Dent. I heard the
private use your name. That’s how I know.”

“He takes photographs,” Satterlee said with
some disdain.

Dent wanted to ask the sheriff about this
obvious animosity, but there was no time. With Stone Knife’s band
so close to town, every minute counted.

“I take photographs for the
Wolf Creek
Expositor
. You can ask the editor about that, if you please,”
Marsh said.

Dent wondered at the strange undercurrent in
what should have been a simple statement. It was as if the
photographer dared him to ask the editor—and yet he knew what the
answer would be.

“You ever take pictures in combat, sir?”

Dent saw the subtle change in the man’s
demeanor and wondered what that meant. He had gone from shifty to
determined without seeming to move a muscle.

“I won’t be a burden to you, Captain.”

“I need to find my scout and—”

“Charley Blackfeather’s at Asa Pepper’s
saloon.”

“Not much gets by you, does it, Mr. Marsh?”
Dent wondered how long the photographer had been eavesdropping.

“By the time you find him, I’ll have my
wagon ready.”

“Wagon?” asked Dent.

“A rolling dark room. I can develop my
photographs as we go.”

“No, definitely not. Either you pack
everything on a single horse or you stay. You can bring the plates
back to Wolf Creek, if you choose.”

“You ain’t lettin’ him take pictures, are
you, Captain? That’s crazy.” Satterlee pursed his lips, then
apparently changed his mind. “Go on, take him with you. This’ll get
him out of my town and maybe get him out of my hair
permanently.”

Dent thought that was a strange comment, but
felt the pressure of time on him. To the private he said, “C Troop
is just west of town. Report what you’ve told me and pass along my
orders to move out right away. I’ll join the column as quickly as I
can.”

“Sir!” The private saluted and dashed
out.

“You won’t regret letting me ride along with
my camera, Captain. I promise.”

“I hope not, Mister Marsh, oh, dear God, I
hope not.” He spoke to empty air. The photographer followed the
private out, moving even faster, if that was possible. Dent began
to regret his decision, but it was too late.

“The town’ll be ready, Captain, if they get
through your line,” the sheriff said.

Dent put his hand on the holster at his
right side and knew the pistol would be used all too soon. He went
to see if Nagy had found the Seminole scout.

***

Charley Blackfeather had become a fixture at
Asa’s Saloon for the past couple of weeks, ever since the posse had
returned from their pursuit of the Danby Gang that had terrorized
Wolf Creek. Almost all the outlaws had been killed, including the
leaders—but the one Blackfeather had wanted the most had escaped.
Clark Davis was his name, and during the war he had beheaded a
young man who had been under Charley’s protection. The Black
Seminole knew that Sango’s ghost must still be restless, and would
remain so until he was avenged.

Doctor Munro told Charley that he would be
avenging no one until his leg healed. It was doing well, and was
coming along much better than the more serious leg wound Marshal
Gardner had received during the robbery. Charley had decided that,
so long as he had to stay off the limb, he might as well sit at
Asa’s—that way he could get his healing, brooding, and drinking all
done at the same time. He felt well enough now, and planned to
return to Indian Territory soon—someone there must surely have seen
Davis. The knowledge that his quarry had escaped galled the scout
beyond words.

His friends George Alberts and Emory
Charleston sat with him today. They each joined him when their
respective jobs allowed. They were not sure what he was brooding
about—Charley was not the sort of man to say, and neither of them
was the sort to ask—but they were content to keep him company just
the same. The three men had become fast friends soon after Charley
started bringing his furs in to Wolf Creek.

They had more in common than just the color
of their skin. Em Charleston, who worked at the blacksmith’s forge,
had been born a slave; ten years ago, just as the war was getting
underway, he had taken a hoe-handle to his Louisiana overseer’s
head and made his escape. Now, he and Spike Sweeney were full
partners in what had been Spike’s business, alone. Spike had
befriended Em and made him a silent partner, though they had fought
on different sides in the War. There was a bond of trust between
them that Em had never had with anyone else. George Alberts, who
now owned a leatherworks shop, had made a similar escape from
Missouri, and had spent the war in the same colored Kansas Union
regiment as Charley, although he had only known the scout then by
sight.

Charley Blackfeather was the sort of man who
stood out in a crowd. He stood a couple of inches over six feet,
over two hundred pounds of muscle. His hair was tied back in a long
ponytail. He wore a Union-blue slouch hat, decorated with a crow
feather, high-topped moccasins, and a vest with no shirt underneath
in the summer. He had never been a slave, but his father was. After
escaping from a Georgia plantation, Charley’s father had been
adopted by the Seminoles and married one of their women. Father and
son had fought against the U.S. Army for years, during the Seminole
wars in Florida, and then during the Civil War Charley, like many
Seminoles, had worn the same blue uniform he’d once fought
against.

Asa Pepper, the man who owned and tended the
saloon, had been a slave as well. He ran the sort of place that
served anyone who had the money to pay, regardless of race or
position. At any given time, the saloon might feature customers who
were black, white, Mexican, or even Chinese. At the moment, Charley
and his friends were the only patrons, not unusual for this time of
day.

No one thought it strange, therefore, when
two cavalry troopers walked in.

Sergeant Nagy and Corporal Sligo walked up
to Charley’s table.

“Figured we’d find you here at your favorite
waterin’ hole, boyo,” Sligo said.

Charley looked up. He nodded politely to the
troopers.

“Howdy, fellas,” he said. “From the looks
you’re wearin’, I reckon this visit is more business than
pleasure.”

The Hungarian sergeant nodded. “Stone Knife
is raidin’,” he said. “We need to find him before a bunch of
farmers and ranchers get killed.”

Charley drained his beer in one great
swallow, then brought the mug sharply down onto the table. “Let’s
go,” he said.

George Alberts looked concerned. “Charley,”
he said, “you reckon that leg of your’n is healed up enough to
ride?”

Charley waved the idea away. “I hardly
notice it,” he said. “I’ve fought with a whole lot worse wounds,
and fresh ones at that.”

He dug into a pouch in his belt, took out
some coins, and slapped them on the table as well.

“I’ll see y’all when we get back,” he said.
“Asa, don’t let these fellas drink the place dry while I’m
gone.”

Charley followed the troopers into the
street.

***

Wil Marsh had to restrain himself from
skipping with glee as he hurried back to his studio. This
opportunity would put him in clover. He knew of no fewer than four
magazines back East that paid top dollar for photographs of
Indians. In war paint, dead or alive, the price went up like a
Fourth of July skyrocket. He had taken many pictures of dead men
for Gravely and knew how to pose them for the best effect. It
couldn’t be much different for an Indian. He had seen enough Kiowas
since coming to town to know they had a fierce expression at the
best of times. To capture that on their dead faces—
warriors
killed by valiant cavalry soldiers defending the frontier
—would
earn him a small fortune.