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Authors: Ford Fargo

Tags: #action western, #western adventure, #western american history, #classic western, #kiowa indians, #western adventure 1880, #wolf creek, #traditional western

Kiowa Vengeance (6 page)

BOOK: Kiowa Vengeance
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Knowing human nature as he did, there
wouldn’t be any lack of soldiers willing to pose, rifles at order
arms, over the bodies. Captain Dent might order his troopers to
refuse such a pose, but a few dollars went a long way when the
average soldier wasn’t likely to see five dollars in a month.

He shot into his studio and did a quick
inventory. Not being able to take his darkroom wagon wouldn’t be
that much of a hindrance. He couldn’t carry as many unexposed glass
plates and had to be more careful packing them, but he had done
such expeditions in the past and knew how to wrap the exposed glass
for maximum safety. Not only did he need to be certain they didn’t
shatter, he had to prevent light from caressing the sweet, exposed
surfaces that would make him rich!

The camera and tripod folded up quickly. The
carrying case for the plates had to be loaded in his dark room.
Once on the trail, he need only use the special shutters and
envelopes to maintain their integrity. In less than ten minutes, he
wrestled his gear out the door and went around to the side of his
studio.

There, a lean-to sheltered his swayback
horse. With enough good photographs of dead Indians, he could
afford a better mount. This one had come to him through a trade of
blue pictures of soiled doves he had taken in St. Louis. Marsh
wasn’t sure the man who had the horse originally hadn’t skunked
him. For all he knew, the horse had been stolen. But the
photographs had been taken while the whore was passed out from too
much laudanum, so his only cost had been the plate and developing
chemicals.

Quick, sure movements lashed the camera and
other gear to the horse. He led the protesting beast out, then
started to vault up in front of the pack. Marsh stopped and stared
at the church south of his studio, across an empty lot. He led the
animal forward a few yards, found a dirt clod and juggled it a
couple times in his hand. Then he hauled back and sent the dirt
sailing through the air to crash into the side of the church. He
missed the window he had aimed at by inches.

He mounted then and rode past as the Wolf
Creek Community Church’s preacher, Obadiah Stone, bustled out to
see what the commotion was. He saw the circle of dirt on the wall
and turned to Marsh.

“Urchins,” the photographer called. “Little
sons of bitches don’t have any respect.” Before the preacher could
reply, Marsh kicked at his horse and got it moving at a steady
walk, heading south through Dogleg City. He overtook Captain Dent,
his two noncommissioned officers, and Charley Blackfeather just
this side of the Wolf Creek crossing.

The Indian scout frowned and nudged the
cavalry officer.

“He comin’ along?”

“Only if he can keep up,” Dent said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll stick to you like glue.
You’ll have some of the finest photographs ever taken since Mathew
Brady’s glory days.”

Blackfeather said something in a low tone to
the captain, who shook his head decisively and then snapped his
reins, heading south at a trot. Marsh was hard-pressed to keep up.
But he did. The lure of wealth was too great not to expend the
effort.

***

“That’s gunfire,” Wil Marsh said, his breath
coming a trifle quicker now as excitement grew. They had scoured
the countryside and found only traces of the Kiowa war party. From
the spoor, the Indians were pursing the cavalry patrol, not the
other way around.

Blackfeather had ridden out on a scout,
leaving Dent and his troopers to follow at a slower pace. Marsh had
been able to maintain the gait without fear of his mount dying
under him. Riding without a saddle proved difficult, but the less
weight the swayback nag carried, the better. His camera, tripod and
supplies weighed close to fifty pounds. He vowed to give the old
boy a well-deserved nosebag of oats when they returned to town.

He urged his horse to pull even with the
captain. Dent spoke rapidly with his sergeant, pointing out the
hillocks and rolling plains ahead to determine the best
approach.

“Sir, we ain’t got time to be all cautious.
If the Kiowas are attackin’ that woeful patrol, sooner is better if
we ever want to go drinkin’ with dem at the post.” Sergeant Nagy
pushed his kepi back, swiped at the sweat released from under the
band, then pulled it down. He took the time to secure the leather
band under his chin.

Seeing that put Marsh on edge. He knew a man
preparing for a fight. This was such an unconscious gesture.

“We go charging on and we might find
ourselves in an ambush,” Captain Dent said. “Where’s Blackfeather?
We need his report before tangling with a war party that might be
twice our size.”

“Won’t be twice if we join up with the other
troopers, Cap’n,” the sergeant said. “Might even be ’bout equal
fightin’ forces.”

The captain chewed over this, then said to
his sergeant, “When we come out from this stretch of hills, and if
we sight the enemy, have the bugler sound ‘charge.’”

“Yes, sir!”

“Where do you want me to ride, Captain?”
Marsh called out.

“Out of the path of a bullet or arrow.
Otherwise, I don’t much care.” Dent’s attention focused on the
meandering road ahead.

The sergeant rejoined him and nodded. Dent
lifted his arm and signaled for the column to advance. Marsh fought
to stay up and failed. The last of the troopers trotted past,
leaving him to eat their dust. He cursed, but knew it was going to
be worthwhile. The sporadic reports now became more insistent. More
lead flew not a half mile beyond the hills. In his mind he framed
the photographs of the dead Kiowa he’d send back East. Their
warriors shaved the left side of their heads, leaving long hair on
the right. A scalp lock gave them a fierce look. Some of them might
have foreheads flattened by cradle boards when they were babies. He
hoped those would have war-paint on. That would double the price of
the pictures.

Dead Indians all decked out for war. He
might even pose one or two with bow and arrow in their lifeless
hands.

His horse faltered when the sounds of combat
reached a crescendo and then fell utterly silent. The quiet got on
his nerves more than the gunfire. For the first time, doubt gnawed
at his guts. Turning and riding back to Wolf Creek might save his
life. The Kiowa wouldn’t have spotted him.

But he wouldn’t have any photographs. None.
Fear and greed fought. Greed won.

He forced his horse to keep a steady walk
forward. In less than ten minutes he came out on a broad plain that
stretched to the horizon. Deep ravines cut the arid land. Many of
Dent’s troopers had dismounted and paced along the bank of a large
gully. Marsh rode straight for them since they were the most keyed
up of the troopers. Those still in the saddle strained to see
something in the distance.

Marsh shielded his eyes with his hand,
trying to see what the soldiers hunted. A small dust devil whirled
some hundreds of yards away. Otherwise, nothing moved.

He drew rein at the edge of the ravine. A
lump formed in his throat that refused to go away. When Captain
Dent spoke, Marsh could hardly answer.

“You ever see men killed before, Mister
Marsh?” The captain’s bitter tone told the story. C Troop had
arrived too late, perhaps by minutes, to save their comrades. Nine
soldiers sprawled in the graveled ravine bottom. Some had been
scalped, but all had been shot or hacked to death. Only buzzing
green bottle flies hovering over the corpses moved.

“Can’t say I have, not like this anyway.
Where’re the Kiowa? The Indians they killed?”

“Doesn’t look as if there are any bodies.
Oh, they might have wounded some or even killed a few, but Stone
Knife carried away any of his dead.”

“Smart,” Marsh said. “You don’t know how
many braves he’s got, don’t know how many have been killed.”

“More than that,” Dent said. “My men likely
wonder if any of the fallen managed to kill even one of the enemy.
It makes the Kiowa into ghost fighters, and that wears at a man’s
confidence something fierce.”

Marsh saw that the bodies had been hastily
stripped of weapons and leather belts. The soldiers’ horses were
nowhere to be seen.

“What are you going to do, Captain?” Marsh
spoke to thin air. Dent had wheeled about and galloped eastward. A
solitary rider approached.

Marsh shielded his eyes again and recognized
Charley Blackfeather. The scout and Dent spoke at length, then
Blackfeather rode back in the direction he had come.

“Troopers, mount up!” Dent cried. He
beckoned to his sergeant. They palavered a few minutes, giving
Marsh a chance to edge closer to them.

He caught enough of the orders to know that
Blackfeather had found the Kiowas’ trail, and Captain Dent intended
to put an end to Stone Knife’s predations or know the reason.

As Dent finished giving his orders to his
sergeant, Marsh called out, “What are you going to do about the
dead troopers, Captain?”

“You, sir, are going to return to Wolf Creek
and bring wagons to retrieve their bodies.”

“That a good idea?” Marsh bit his lip. Dent
was less focused on the decaying bodies and the condition they
would be in if Gravely drove out with a large wagon than he was in
finding the Kiowas responsible for the men’s deaths.

“Do as you are ordered, sir, or be returned
as a prisoner.”

Marsh knew the captain wouldn’t do any such
thing. Placing him under arrest would require a trooper to
accompany him back to Sheriff Satterlee’s jailhouse. Captain Dent
wanted as many soldiers as possible for the fight ahead—when he
tracked down the war party.

“As you wish, Captain,” Marsh said. Dent and
the troopers were already moving at a quick gait on the trail left
by Charley Blackfeather. In minutes their dust had settled, and he
was alone on the achingly quiet prairie.

He dismounted and returned to the ravine
bank. Nine bodies, already beginning to stink to high heaven in the
summer heat.

Nothing if not a determined man, Marsh
unlimbered his camera, tripod and carrying case, made his way down
the crumbling embankment and prowled about among the bodies. If he
couldn’t get pictures of dead Indians, soldiers would have to do,
even if he faked several arrows pincushioning their bodies.

In an hour, he had his photographs and
turned his horse’s face back in the direction of Wolf Creek. The
photos weren’t what he had expected, but they might be worth a few
dollars if he played his hand right with Editor Appleford.

CHAPTER THREE

Wichita

 

Sampson Quick added his signature beneath
the round blustery likeness of Colonel Magnus McNulty. He signed
the work
James Reginald De Courcey
. It wouldn’t do to sign
his work
Sampson Quick
—not when there was a reward on his
head for murder. While in the guise of De Courcey, he took great
care to use the proper Received Pronunciation, like a well-educated
Englishman, and not let his
r
’s betray his lower class
Cornwall background. To frontier Americans all Limeys no doubt
sounded alike—but Quick could not take the risk someone might make
the connection.

Since his release from a Union Prisoner of
War camp, Quick, on more than one occasion, had donned a black hood
and taken up the life of a highwayman and road agent. His victims
were the banks, rail lines, and companies owned by those he
considered war profiteers and carpetbaggers.

There was a five hundred dollar reward for
the Cornishman and former Confederate raider. He was wanted dead or
alive.

Quick stepped back and took a moment to
quietly appreciate the painting. Rendered in oils, the wealthy
owner of the McNulty Cattle Company stared out at his home’s
sun-drenched library from the canvas surface of Quick’s masterwork.
Within the borders of a gold leaf frame, Colonel McNulty affected a
regal pose, complete with the nattily tailored military uniform he
had worn while serving as an adjutant to General Meade, the
victorious Union general who turned back Lee at Gettysburg. McNulty
posed against a panorama of open conflict, the sweep of battle,
exploding shells, clashing sabers, and in the background, infantry
from both sides locked in mortal combat. At first glance, a casual
witness to the depicted scene might assume Colonel Magnus McNulty
singlehandedly stopped Pickett’s charge, routed General Lee and
sent the army of Northern Virginia limping home to Dixie.

In truth, McNulty’s war experience had been
confined to the Quartermaster Corps, and the nearest he had come to
danger was the time a crate of hardtack had toppled from the back
of a supply wagon and landed on his foot.

“Why Mister De Courcey, I was under the
impression the portrait was completed. Yet here you stand, brush in
hand.” McNulty emerged from the sun parlor at the rear of his
estate and entered his study. Sunlight streamed through
floor-to-ceiling windows, washed the air with a warming glow, and
turned the dust motes into dancing flecks of gold. The former
officer wore the uniform of a successful businessman now—a frock
coat, matching brushed brown woolen vest and trousers. A checkered
cloth had been tucked inside his stiff collar and draped across his
ample belly. The cloth was spotted with egg yolk, coffee, and
biscuit crumbs. McNulty placed his hands on his hips and paused to
bask in the illusion of glory the artist’s skill had brought to
life. His jaw worked slowly as he chewed a morsel of sausage.

“I always sign my work in front of my
patron, it is a tradition with me.”

McNulty had no way of knowing the man in his
study was the notorious rascal the authorities were determined to
bring to justice. Sampson Quick had been labeled a murderer. To his
way of seeing things, Major Seth Allison—the Union officer he’d
gunned down—was the criminal. The Major had a sadistic streak, and
vented his twisted nature on his bedraggled prisoners. He was a war
criminal. But the victorious Federal authorities saw things
differently. After the war, Quick had hunted the man down and shot
him dead.

BOOK: Kiowa Vengeance
13.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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