Massacre Creek (Prologue Western) by Gordon D. Shirreffs

Author:Gordon D. Shirreffs [Shirreffs, Gordon D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Western
ISBN: 9781440548666
Publisher: F+W Media, Inc.
Published: 2012-06-15T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Fort Laramie lay over one hundred and fifty dusty miles behind Donaldson’s command. Far to the north, tall nimbi towered over the dim hills. Eerie sheet lightning played across the clouds scarring them brightly.

Sabin Shay drew rein on a rise ahead of the slow-moving column. The supply wagons bounced and joggled in the ruts of the road. The dust threading up from the mules and horses hung over the sweating infantrymen who slogged ahead of the wagons. One cavalry company led the column, while another closed up the rear, eating the dust. Now and then the vagrant wind tattered the dust and brought the sound of rumbling wheels and thudding hoofs to Sabin.

For two days there had been no Indian sign. No lone warrior sitting his paint horse on an elevation watching the passage of the column on the Great Medicine Road. There had hardly been a day on the long journey where at least a dozen warriors had been seen eyeing the Mila Hanska, the Long Knives, as they slogged along. But there had been no slashing raids by the Crazy Dogs, Dog Soldiers and Stronghearts.

Sabin rode on. A mile ahead of him he could see Cobb Howell and Uh-sah-wuck, Spotted Horse of the Pawnees, watering their horses at a buffalo wallow. Far on the northern flank of the column other cavalry scouts were paired up with Pawnees. Ames Lockerby and Si Webster were out there somewhere.

He joined Howell at the wallow. “Just look at this buffalo tea,” Howell growled.

The water was brown, and an odor of ammonia rose from it. Sabin shook his canteen. “I’ll do without it,” he said. “Never could figure out how a buffalo can stand in water, peeing and crapping into it while he’s drinking it.”

Spotted Horse was a thick-bodied man, wearing a cast-off issue undershirt hanging over his breechclout. His moccasins were worn thin. His hair was roached and from it depended a single feather. He looked like a typical Fort Laramie “ration Injun,” but he was a warrior of some standing in his home village of Arikararikuchu. He was a member of the Two Lances, entitled to wear the black moccasins during ceremonial occasions, for he had consecrated the buffalo four times.

Cobb jerked his head at the Pawnee. “Gabby, ain’t he?”

Sabin chuckled. He nodded at the Pawnee. “How does it go, brother?”

Spotted Horse glanced at the lightning-riven clouds. “No good. Voice of Great Spirit. No good.”

“You have seen the enemy?”

“No Cha-ra-rat.”

“What the hell is he saying?” Howell asked.

“No enemy.”

“Time to look for ‘em is when you don’t see ‘em.” Cobb took out three cigars. “Last of my tock from the sutler. Light up, Cap’n Shay.”

Sabin and Cobb lit up, but the Pawnee stuffed the dry tobacco into his mouth and munched on it.

“Look at that,” the big trooper said.

Sabin drew the smoke into his lungs. “Few Pawnees can smoke. They have to qualify in some ceremony.”

“Queer ducks.”

“Matter of opinion. We whites have some queer notions ourselves.”

Howell stood up and pointed east. “Column’s gainin’.

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