Under the Sweetwater Rim (1971) (2 page)

Devereaux was touched. Never in his military career had such an offer been made to him. He knew he was respected, but this he had not expected; yet he was rational enough to realize that it was mostly because of Mary herself. She was unfailingly gracious, always thoughtful and considerate of the feelings of the enlisted men.

"Thank them for me, Turpenning. I appreciate it, but the command must hold strictly to its orders."

Still the man did not leave. "Suh, we're just a-hopin' you won't cut it any finer for Miss Mary than for any other woman who might be out there.

We're just a hopin' you'll throw away the book an' let us go find her." "That will be all, Turpenning."

"Yes, suh." The Tennessean saluted and turned away into the darkness. Devereaux waited until the final report. Nine women, fourteen children, and twenty-one men, all dead, all mutilated.

When he settled into his blankets he was thinking of Mary. She was out there somewhere. He could not and would not believe her dead. Somehow, somewhere, her wagon had turned off, leaving the seeming security of the wagon train to travel alone. To where? For what?

He awoke in the chill of the pre-dawn darkness with a hand on his shoulder. "Sir? Can you come? There's something out there in the dark. . . something hurt."

Harrison, the corporal of the guard, was not a man to be disturbed by shadows. Major Devereaux threw off his blankets and, shivering at the morning chill, reached for his boots. Nearby, Cahill was tugging on his. It was still dark. The coals of the campfires were a dull red glow; a tiny flame flickered about one last twig in his own fire. Mark Devereaux followed Harrison through the camp in the direction of the trouble. At the camp's edge they paused to listen. They heard a rustle of water, and a faint stirring in the brush across the stream. A whimpering sound came to them, the sound of an animal in pain.

Cahill drew his pistol. "Sir, I am going down there. That's an injured man."

Ignoring Harrison's whispered protest, Devereaux followed, though it was an irresponsible thing to risk both officers at one time, in such a place. Under the trees it was even darker. When they could make out anything they could see a faint shine of light on brass buttons. At that moment there was a low moan, and the brush crackled as the wounded man tried to heave himself onward.

A gun flashed, and something struck with a thud into a tree near Devereaux.

Cahill and Devereaux fired at the same time, and a second bullet clipped a twig from a branch over Cahill's head. Someone rushed, then crashed in the brush and was still.

Cahill knelt beside the wounded man. "It's Gogarty, sir. He's bought it." Devereaux dropped to his knee. "Wagon . . . west of here." The words were mumbled through bloody froth.

"fbree riders. One of them is Brian, sir."

Their eyes were accustomed to the darkness now, and they could see his skull was matted with blood, his uniform shirt stiff with it. How he had made it this far was one of those small miracles that are forever happening to tough men.

"What tribe, Sergeant? What kind of Indians?"

Gogarty tried to speak. "Don't trust . . .

Plunkett is . ." The dying man caught at Devereaux's sleeve. "No Indians! No..."

His voice faded out, and Devereaux spoke loudly, hoping to get his words through to him. "You're a good soldier, Gogarty. There are none better." He felt the Sergeant's grip tighten momentarily on his arm. It might have been a twitch of dying muscles. The Major hoped it was a response to his words, for, he knew what such words could mean to an old campaigner. Harrison came up to them. "You hit something across the creek, sir.

Turpenning has gone to look."

Cahill sat back on his heels. "The Sergeant is dead, sir," he said. The sky was growing gray with faint light showing through the trees.

Yes, Gogarty was dead. How many patrols they had ridden together. How much dust they had shared from Texas to Dakota, from Wyoming to Arizona. The creek was a dozen feet wide and no more than six inches deep. Turpenning stood beside the man they had shot. A bullet had ripped through his chest and smashed his spine, and another had torn through his stomach. He had lived only long enough to know that he was dying.

Turpenning turned the body over. It was Plunkett. The man from the Smoky Mountains had found Plunkett's horse and led it near.

"Somethin' here you should oughta see, suh." He indicated the saddlebags.

In one of the bags was a bandana handkerchief bulging with coins some silver, some gold. There were also several rings, and two spare pistols.

"Loot," Cahill said, and with one finger he indicated a gold signet ring. "That belonged to Johnny Shaw."

Shaw had been a trooper of the 7th Iowa Cavalry, invalided to California after losing a leg in the service. He had been riding with the wagon train. "Plunkett has been in touch with them, then." Devereaux was thinking aloud. "He has seen them since the massacre."

He thought back to attacks on other wagon trains. How many had Plunkett spotted for the renegades? For Plunkett was often off the post scouting for Indians, and he could easily have reported the movements of both troops and pioneers to whoever he worked with.

Gogarty had said they were not Indians, and until there was further evidence, Major Devereaux decided he would think of it that way. If they were renegade white men or Confederates sent west to stir up the Indians, the chances were they had been or would be coming into Julesburg. Men of that stripe would want to spend their money, and Julesburg was the closest place. They might be easier to trace than Indians.

"Request puhmission, suh?"

"What is it, Turpenning?"

"I'd like to take Plunkett's horse an' look about, suh."

"Go ahead. Report directly to me when you come in. Plunkett and Gogarty had been buried, and break fast was finished when Turpenning rode back into camp. "Back-trailed Gogarty," he said, "an' found where Plunkett cut his sign.

Plunkett rode up an' joined him, waited his chance, an' hit him over the head. I seen where Gogarty fell, seen the mark left by a bloody gun-butt. Seen where Plunkett wiped blood from his knife on the grass after stabbin' the Sarge.

"After Plunkett rode off, the Sarge, he dragged hisself maybe a hundred and fifty feet, grabbed a stirrup, pulled himself up an' got into the saddle. Plunkett, he must've heard him, come back an' took after him."

"You found wagon tracks?"

"I did, suh. Lieutenant Brian is with the wagon, suh. Seen the tracks of that big gray of his'n."

So . . . it was true, then.

"Suh, I got me a bad feelin' about that outfit. I mean those murderin' men. That's a bad bunch."

Devereaux was listening with only half his attention.

He was thinking of Mary-of Mary and Tenadore Brian.

"Suh, they's maybe forty men in that outfit, well found and well mounted." He gestured toward the north. "They camped two, three days. Had grub to waste, because they wasted some. Stacked arms, an""

"Stacked arms?"

"Yes, suh"

A military command, then. Or a man who could enforce such discipline on rabble, and therefore a dangerous antagonist.

Forty seasoned men, and he himself had only sixty, most of them raw recruits who had never, so far as he knew, been under fire. And he could ill afford the loss of Sergeant Gogarty.

"What about those with the ambulance, Turpenning7 Would you say they had knowledge of what happened to the wagon train?"

"I'd say so, suh. I don't know how that could be, seein" when they left the train, but that Ten Brian, suh beggin' your pardon, suh, Lieutenant Brian-he don't miss no tricks. He was holdin' that ambulance to low ground an' plenty of cover. I seen where he cut their trail . . . the one they made two, three days ago ridin' into the camp where they waited. He cut their trail an' he knows about them. He knows all about them"

The thought came to him then, came and was quickly dismissed as unworthy. But it returned, nagging for attention.

"Turpenning"-he spoke carefully-"could you identify the track of the leader's horse? I mean, could you tell which animal he rode?" Turpenning hesitated only a moment, his eyes flickering to the Major's, then away. "No, suh. I surely couldn't."

Tom Cahill's head had come up, and Devereaux was conscious of his stare. "You said the ambulance had gone west, didn't you? Not back toward the post?"

"West it was."

Mark Devereaux was silent, but his mind was piecing it together, fighting what common sense seemed to indicate. He was worried for fear his opinion was shaped by dislike. Was he allowing himself to be influenced by his conviction that a drifting man was an unreliable man?

"Lieutenant Brian," Devereaux said, "has overstayed his leave." There was a moment of silence while they absorbed this fact and its ramifications.

He had not only overstayed his leave, but the wagon in which Mary Devereaux and Belle Renick rode was being directed away from the post. Brian had left the post before the wagons departed, and had been seen around Julesburg, a hangout for all the riffraff in the country around.

The ambulance was rolling westward. By keeping to low ground and under cover, it could not move as rapidly as its occupants might wish, and by a forced march it might be overtaken.

Major Devereaux mentally retraced the route back to Fort Laramie. By stretching a march here and there an extra day might be saved. A day saved and two days' extra rations meant three days in which to find his daughter and punish the renegades.

"Lieutenant Cahill, can you think of any reason other than the supposed understanding with my daughter why Lieutenant Brian should have joined the wagon train?"

"No, sir."

"Can you think of any reason why he should overstay his leave? Or why he should continue toward the west?"

"No, sir. Only-was "Only what?"

"Fort Bridger, sir. He might be trying to reach Fort Bridger. It is closer than Laramie now, sir."

Of course. Major Devereaux was irritated that he had not considered that. It was the result of being so anxious to find Brian in the wrong. Nevertheless, a lot was left that needed explanation. Why had Ten Brian gone to Julesburg when he should have gone to St. Louis? "Corporal Harrison, you are acting sergeant. Cahill, if you will mount the command, we will move out. Turpenning, you will act as scout.

Fiend the trail of the ambulance. I want to overtake it within twenty-four hours. When you find the tracks of the ambulance, the renegades, or anyone else, notify me at once. Is that clear?"

"Yes, suh. It is, suh"

As the command was formed, Devereaux reviewed the situation and found nothing good about it.

The grass was turning green, which meant there was feed for the Indian horses. The Cheyennes and the Arapahoes would be riding the war trail.

Collins would need every man at Fort Laramie, and every day, even every hour that he remained away from the post was a risk. His orders allowed little room for deviation, but if he could recover the ambulance and return within the allotted time all would be well. As to the renegades, it was unlikely they would attack an army command, unlikely they would even show themselves, for their success in raiding depended on their not being known for what they were. Indians had been blamed, and they planned for the blame to continue to be placed on the Indians. Nevertheless, if opportunity offered . .

.

A fight with the renegades, even if he won, would seriously cripple his patrol, a fact they could not conceal from the Indians. Roman Nose and Black Kettle could assemble two thousand warriors if need be, and there was much anger in the lodges.

The terrain as it opened before them was a succession of valleys divided by long ridges crested with pines, their slopes sometimes dotted with clumps of aspen.

To the northwest, far beyond the ridges, loomed mountains heavily forested, still white with the winter's snow.

There was danger of ambush. From Plunkett, the renegades knew of Devereaux's force and its make-up. However, they were interested in loot and his command offered nothing but its horses, and horses might be obtained in easier ways.

Turpenning rode back. "Right through the trees there, suh. That's where the wagon trail lies."

"Turpenning," Major Devereaux said, "be careful. And if you come upon their camp, keep your eyes open for a man on watch. They will have pickets out, and I want a prisoner. If you find their camp, report to me at once."

To Major Mark Devereaux, the Army way was his life, but the frontier had a way of making light of the rule book, and he was wise enough to temper the rules with judgment. While his discipline was strict, his care for the health of his men and the condition of their horses and equipment was painstaking and thorough.

Privations there would be, but most of them could be avoided by care in planning.

The same was true of military action. The ideal situation-and he had attained it twice-was where no battle need be fought. To put the opposing force in such a position that effective resistance was impossible that was the ideal, and the two occasions when he had attained it were small actions, and his prisoners few in number.