The Scout E-Book

Larry Boucher

• Herausgeber: BooxAi
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

It’s 1862, and Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors are raiding into western and central Kansas. Chad Dixon, returning to southeastern Kansas to settle his uncle’s estate, accepts a job as scout with the US Cavalry, sent to retrieve freight wagons ambushed by the Indians. Over the course of the patrol, Chad finds and is saddled with the care of a stranded beautiful woman and a rescued young boy until they reach civilization. All the while, he continues to deal with his scouting duties, raiding Cheyenne and Arapaho warriors, and an unknown assassin who’s hell-bent on killing him. 

Leseprobe

Larry Boucher

The Scout

All rights reserved

Copyright ©️ 2022 by Larry Boucher

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by BooxAi

ISBN: 978-965-577-994-3

THE SCOUT

LARRY BOUCHER

To Tony Boucher

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to take a moment to thank and acknowledge the many people who encouraged and helped me develop and polish this story and bring it to fruition. First, a special thank you to everyone in my Novel and Journal Writing class many years ago who made helpful suggestions and were instrumental in helping me develop my writing style, dialogue, settings, and characters. Also a very special thanks to my family members and friends who read and offered their suggestions and approval of the story before sending it to the publisher. Finally, a very special thank you to BooxAI for their helpful guidance and assistance in getting “The Scout” into print.

CHAPTERONE

Chad Dixon sat in his saddle, concealed by the stunted oak trees and brush of the draw. His rifle was laid loosely across his lap, his hand resting on the action, ready to quickly swing it up if needed. His brown eyes scanned the lush green Kansas prairie that stretched away from the head of the draw.

It was spring on the plains and numerous species of wildflowers dotted the landscape. A small trickle of water from the spring runoff ran past his place of concealment along the edge of the draw.

He was returning to eastern Kansas from the Colorado Rockies. Numerous wild horse herds roamed throughout the state, and in the last two days, he’d come across the tracks of several of these groups. Then, a couple of hours ago, he’d come across fresh unshod tracks trailing off to the northeast.

Unlike wild horses, whose tracks were usually scattered over a large area as they grazed along, these tracks had been tightly grouped and had been traveling in a fairly straight line, indicative of horses that were being ridden.

He’d sat and carefully studied the tracks and surrounding terrain for a time. The tracks had been relatively fresh, made within the last hour. Finally, he had pulled his rifle from its scabbard, and laying it across his lap, he’d continued along, riding cautiously, ready to kick the dun into a run at the first sign of trouble.

Then, an hour ago, in the distance to the north, he’d heard a sudden burst of gunfire, followed by a scattering of shots, and he’d quickly veered off the trail and into this hidden draw.

Now he waited, ready in case of trouble. His eyes continuously shifted from the rim of the draw to the prairie stretching away in front of it. He watched and listened intently for any sight or sound of movement. The gunfire had stopped shortly after it’d started. Now, the only sound was the chuckle of the spring runoff, the stirring of the leaves on the trees each time a breeze blew, and the normal spring sound of birds singing.

He knew his nondescript clothing and the dun’s coloring would make him hard to see in the brush, and the trees and hillside behind him broke up his silhouette.

As he waited, the angle of the afternoon sun shining through the leaves and branches of the tree above him cast his shadow on the ground beside him, making his five-foot-ten-inch, broad shouldered frame look taller and heavier than he actually was.

Reaching up, he pulled off his hat and pushed an errant strand of hair back in place before settling the hat back on his head. Keeping his eyes and ears tuned in on his surroundings, he let his mind run through the events that had led him to this spot and moment in time.

Two years ago, his uncle, Phillip Dixon, the man who’d raised him after his parents died, had been seriously wounded in the War between the States. Once he’d recovered from his wounds, the two had come west looking for a fresh start and had settled on a piece of land in southeastern Kansas.

As they worked around the homestead, they’d quickly found that Phillip’s wounds kept him from being able to do much of the heavy work required to run the place. After they’d finished building a comfortable cabin and had thrown a barn and corral together, Phillip had begun talking about his younger days when he’d spent several years trapping in the Rockies of the Colorado Territory.

One night, sitting in his rocking chair in front of the fireplace, he’d confided that his dream before he died, was to find a little valley at the foot of those mountains with a year-round spring. There, he would like to spend his remaining days. But because of his age and his wounds, he knew he couldn’t go rambling all over the mountains in search of a final place to settle.

“If you really wanted to settle in the mountains, why’d we stop here?” Chad had asked.

“By the time we got this far, Chad, I was plumb wore out,” Phillip had answered. “Now that I’ve had some time to rest up and recover a bit, I’m getting the itch to move on again!”

Gold had been found in the Colorado Rockies around the towns of Denver and Colorado City. The two had talked it over and eventually it had been decided that Chad would head west alone. Once he reached the Rockies, he’d do some prospecting to help pay for any expenses that may have been run up on the homestead and to help with traveling and resettling costs. While he was looking for gold, he’d keep a lookout for a location fitting Phillips description along the foothills.

After arriving in Colorado, Chad had had some luck placer mining, finding enough gold for a decent-sized stake. While roaming the mountains, stopping here and there to pan for ore, he’d found a secluded valley that perfectly matched his uncle’s description.

Before winter had set in, he had cleared ground and built the foundation for a cabin.

The winter snows had already begun falling heavily across the mountains and plains when Chad rode into Colorado City. Checking at the post office, he’d found that he had received a letter from Riley Weston, a friend of the family who owned the general store in Fort Scott.

Several months before, because of guerilla and Indian trouble, his uncle Phillip had been forced to leave their homestead and band together with other homesteaders at a ranch called Ferris Station. The ranch had been attacked by guerilla and Arapaho forces, and his uncle, along with numerous other homesteaders, had been killed in the ensuing battle. Phillip’s body had been taken to his homestead and buried there.

With a heavy feeling in his chest, Chad had reasoned that Phillip would have run up some bills at the hardware, livery, and general stores during his absence. These he’d have to pay when he returned to Fort Scott to settle his uncle’s estate and sell the homestead.

Realizing he couldn’t make the trip through the coming winter storms, Chad had taken a job as a gold-shipment guard. Renting a small shack at the edge of town, he’d stayed away from the saloons and gambling houses, adding his wages from the mine to what he had already set aside.

One day, during his stint as a guard, there had been a holdup attempt and he’d had to kill one of the outlaws. He later heard that the remaining members of the gang had been identified and had fled the state.

By the time spring came and the snows had melted, he’d had a nice sum set aside. So, he’d saddled up the dun and headed back to Fort Scott with the intention of visiting his uncle’s resting place and settling any debts Uncle Phillip had left behind.

Leaving Colorado City, Chad had ridden south to the Arkansas River. Upon reaching the mountain route of the Santa Fe Trail, he’d followed it east to Fort Lyon. There, he’d joined a group of freighters returning to Fort Leavenworth from Santa Fe. After sixteen days on the trail, they’d reached the Fuller Ranch on Running Turkey Creek, in central Kansas.

During a short lay-over at Fuller’s, he’d been informed that the Cheyenne had been raiding in the area and he’d been cautioned to ride carefully.

Now, sitting in the draw, Chad removed his hat, and holding it up to shield his eyes, he calculated by the movement of the sun and the length of the shadow of the stunted oak, that it’d been an hour since he’d heard the last shot. Knowing that impatience often led to a man’s death in Indian territory, he put his hat back on and continued to wait.

Thirty minutes later, he carefully nudged his horse forward and cautiously, every sense alert, worked his way back to the mouth of the draw.

Stopping just short of the edge of the brush and keeping a low tree behind him to break up his outline, he studied the surrounding countryside. Satisfied the area was clear, he looked to the north, the direction the shooting had come from. A small plume of smoke drifted lazily up into the sky.

He waited a few more minutes, then slowly moved out into the open. Seeing no sign of Indians, he reined the horse around and rode toward the lifting smoke.

Two miles northwest of the draw, he slowly approached the top of a narrow valley and drew up when the bottom came into view. A rarely used wagon road ran east and west along the bottom of the slope. In the center of the valley stood several wagons.

Two of the wagon tarps had been hastily set on fire and were now smoldering, sending the tendrils of smoke he’d followed into the air. Scattered on the ground around the wagons, he could make out several bodies. Debris and broken boxes littered the area. No horses or other livestock were in sight.

Both hillsides were covered with clumps of brush and large rocks, and he figured the Indians had used those for concealment until the wagons had drawn abreast of the hidden warriors. Then they had opened fire, catching the unsuspecting freighters in a crossfire.

He studied the area for any sign of movement, then nudged the horse forward. Slowly and cautiously, he made his way down the hill. Drawing up several feet from the smoldering ruins, he sat and contemplated the scene.

The teamsters had obviously been taken completely by surprise and had been cut down quickly and efficiently. Once they’d disposed of them, the Indians had looted the wagons. After they’d taken whatever they needed; or could carry off, the two wagons had been set on fire, and the livestock had been driven off.

Walking the dun through the wreckage, Chad found that all the weapons and ammunition had been taken, along with whatever supplies the Indians had deemed might be useful to them.

Drawing up beside an uncharred wagon, he checked the nearby hills a moment, then swung down. Leading the dun and keeping a wary eye out for trouble, he slowly checked each body, taking time to go through each man’s pockets, looking for identification or personal effects. The final body was lying in the middle of the road, slightly ahead of the wagons. In an inside jacket pocket, he found a bill of lading.

Opening the page, he saw it had been printed for Williams Freight Line. In another pocket he found a letter addressed to Stanley Williams, outlining delivery instructions upon reaching Santa Fe. Chad assumed this must be William’s body and added the letter to the bill of lading.

The man was still wearing his belt, and knowing some businessmen wore money belts, Chad unfastened the buckle and pulled it from around the man’s waist. Hidden on the inside of the belt he found several pockets. Combined, the pockets contained a couple hundred dollars.

After stuffing the money back where he’d found it, he pushed to his feet. Stepping over to the saddlebags on his horse, he carefully pushed the letters and money belt inside. As he refastened the straps, he looked across the horse’s back and noticed an arrow sticking in the side of one of the unburned wagons.

Leading the horse over, he studied the arrow and recognized the telltale markings on the feather. After being informed about Indian raids in the area while at Fuller’s, he wasn’t surprised to see that it was an arrow commonly used by Cheyenne warriors. Breaking the arrow midshaft, he added the feathered end to the money belt and letters in his saddle bag.

Figuring he’d learned all he could from the ambush sight, he searched through the wreckage for a shovel. All usable tools had been carted off, and he felt a pang of regret that he couldn’t bury the bodies. After a quick final look around, he swung back into the saddle. Fort Scott was a few days’ ride to the east. They’d want to know what had happened out here and that Cheyenne warriors were raiding this deep into Kansas. Turning eastward, he trotted the horse up the slope and back out onto the plains.

Once out of the valley, the plains stretched out, and he rode cautiously, once again laying his rifle across his lap and keeping to low ground as much as possible. The sun was hanging low in the west, and the terrain had turned to rolling hills and shallow valleys as he neared the Verdigris River.

Finding a game trail through a brush-choked draw he figured led to a valley he’d seen in the distance that led to the river, he turned into it. Thirty yards from the mouth of the draw, he drew up sharply.

On the opposite side of the valley and several hundred yards farther down toward the river, three Cheyenne braves rode out of another draw angling away from him, heading toward the water.

CHAPTERTWO

Chad sat perfectly still, watching the warriors. He knew a quick motion was often caught out of the corner of a person’s eye, and hopefully by keeping still, he wouldn’t attract the Indians’ attention. With luck, the braves would have no reason to look back and see him.

A gentle breeze was blowing up the valley toward him, so the Indian’s horses wouldn’t be able to catch a whiff of the dun’s scent and alert them to his presence. He breathed a sigh of relief when a few tense moments later, the braves rode around a bend and disappeared from sight.

Reining quickly around, he rode back up the draw. After a mile, he followed a dim game trail up to the rim and drew up when he could just see over the top. After checking the surrounding countryside for any sign of movement, he nudged the dun up onto the prairie. With his head swiveling back and forth as he watched for more Indians, he rode parallel to the river for several miles before finding another draw, which he followed down to the riverbank.

After filling his canteen and giving the dun a drink, he led the horse fifty yards back up the draw and finding a small open area out of sight of the river, he picketed the dun. Digging in his saddlebag, he pulled out a strip of jerky. Taking a bite, he found a large rock against the bank of the draw and sat down. There, watching the dun tug at clumps of grass and listening and watching for any indication of trouble, he waited until dark.

For the next two days, he traveled only at night, laying up during the day to prevent being seen by any wandering Indians. On the third morning, after having seen no further Indian sign for over a day, and feeling confident he’d see no more Indians, he mounted and continued on in the daylight.

At dusk, he was approaching a cluster of trees at the base of a ridge. As he drew near, he caught a whiff of smoke and drew up. Searching the trees, he saw the faint glimmer of a campfire in a clearing near the edge of the steep slope. Cautiously nudging the dun forward again, he drew up at the edge of the tree line. On the far side of the trees, he saw three men sitting around a fire.

Behind them and against the steep embankment of the ridge, Chad could see several horses milling around in a makeshift corral. That, and the cowhand clothes the men were wearing, suggested that they were probably wranglers from a nearby ranch. Whether or not they were friendly, he had no way of knowing

Shortly after his uncle Phillip had taken him in, he’d started drilling into Chad that in these times, trouble often comes upon a person without warning. A man had to learn to respond quickly to danger or die. Giving the boy his father’s old Colt, he’d had Chad start practicing getting his pistol quickly out of the holster and into action.

Knowing that bands of guerillas and outlaws occasionally roamed the countryside, he reached down and slipped the thong off his pistol. He felt that if he had to face the three men, the pistol would be the better choice of weapons. With the rifle, he might get one shot off, but felt that with the pistol he could take out at least two of the three if it came down to a shootout.

Deciding to take a chance, he called out, “Hello the camp.”

All three men came to their feet and turned toward him. A man with a stocky build and dark hair, about five feet nine inches tall casually replied, “Come on in if you’re friendly! Keep on riding if you’re not!”

“I’m friendly!” Chad responded, riding cautiously forward. He drew up near their horses, climbed down by a patch of brush and tied the dun to a branch. “Mighty glad to see someone,” he stated, stepping forward. “Been a lonely week. Haven’t had anyone to talk to since I left Fuller Ranch! Name’s Chad Dixon.”

“I’m George and these here galoots are Clarence and Frank,” the man replied, pointing each of the men out as he introduced them. Then he wrinkled his brow in thought and said, “Dixon! You wouldn’t be related to Phillip Dixon, would you?”

Chad nodded. “His nephew.”

George turned and pointed to the coffee pot. “Help yourself to some coffee, and if you haven’t eaten, there’s beans in the pan there.”

Turning back to the dun, Chad dug out his cup and a tin plate, then crossed to the fire. Bending down on one knee, he poured himself a cup of coffee, and as he dished up a helping of beans, said, “Been living off the land the past couple days. Laying up during the day and riding at night. Couldn’t chance a fire, so I’ve been living off jerky and hardtack.”

“Dodging trouble?” Frank asked suspiciously, looking over at him as Chad dropped down on a nearby rock and began eating.

“You could say that. Been dodging Cheyenne,” Chad said scooping up a spoonful of beans and shoving them in his mouth.

All three of the men looked nervously through the trees toward the prairie.

“Haven’t seen them or any sign of them for a couple days now,” Chad stated, noting the concerned looks on their faces.

After another careful look around, George turned back to him, “Heard you might be coming this way sooner or later. Weston, at the general store in Fort Scott said he sent you a letter and that you’d be showing up.”

“Got the letter after the first snow fell. Had to wait for the spring thaw to make the trip.” Chad shrugged.

He set his empty plate aside, refilled his cup, and sat back. Studying the makeshift corral, he saw that branches and poles had been tied in place between the trees in front of a deep depression in the embankment. The sides of the ridge at this spot were too steep for a horse to climb out of, and a gate had been constructed between two wide-spaced trees, completing the enclosure.

George saw Chad looking toward the horses and said, “They ain’t stole, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Chad looked over at him, shrugged indifference, then George added, “We ride for Ferris Station, a ranch southeast of here. The boss sends us out to round up wild horses. Once we get a bunch gathered up, we take ’em back to the ranch, break ’em for riding and sell ’em to the army.”

He sat down on a stump, looked over at Chad, and said, “Why don’t you fill us in on the Indians you’ve been dodging?”

Between occasional sips of coffee, Chad filled the three in on the events since leaving Fuller Ranch. When he got to the part about the ambushed freighters, George said, “Knowed Williams. He comes through Fort Scott on occasion.”

“Been traveling by night since then. Hadn’t seen any Indian sign for a day or so and switched to riding during the day this morning,” Chad finished.

“Better get those letters to Fort Scott and let ‘em know what happened out there. They’ll be wanting to send a patrol out to look the site over,” George said.

“That’s the plan.” Chad nodded. He drained the last of the coffee from his cup, then added, “Figured I’d stop and visit Uncle Phillip’s grave on my way through. That’s why I’m not farther north of here. I figured another day or two wouldn’t make much difference one way or the other.”

Looking at him over the rim of his cup, George speculatively asked, “You plan on settling back on that homestead you and your uncle had?”

Chad had been reaching to refill his empty cup and paused, his fingers inches from the pot. He slowly raised his head and looked over at the man, “What do you mean, the homestead we had?”

“Young couple by the name of Perry moved onto the place last fall,” George explained. “Everyone knew you was trying to find you and your uncle some land out west.” He shrugged. “Nobody figured you’d have an issue with it.”

He took a sip of coffee, watching the thoughtful look on Chad’s face a moment, then added, “They’ve proven up on the place, built a spare room onto the house, planted a few trees around for shade, and built a couple outbuildings.”

Then he added, “From what I hear, they’ve been taking care of you uncle’s grave too. Built a little picket fence around it, put up a headstone, and when they’re in season, Millie keeps fresh flowers on it.”

Contemplating this new development, Chad finished filling his cup, then raised it and took a sip while George continued, “They’ve planted a corn crop along the creek bottom and some wheat on the plains above the valley.”

Chad lowered his cup, resting it on his knee. “Well, I did find a place against the mountains that I plan on going back to once I settle Uncle Phillip’s estate. And, while I’m here, I want to visit his grave too.”

“The Perrys are a nice couple and you’ll be welcome,” George assured him. “Seeing’s how you’re headed that way anyhow, you might as well ride along with us. Ferris is a might closer than the Perrys. Won’t matter much if you’re with us or riding alone. Either place is a full day’s ride from here. It’d be close to dark by the time you get there.”

George took a sip of coffee, then added, “I figure you can stay the night at the ranch. The boss has gotten along right well with the Perry’s and can fill you in with more details about ’em than I can. Besides, he’ll be wanting to hear about the Cheyenne raiding this far east.”

“I could do that,” Chad nodded. “Uncle Phillip and I stopped and visited the Greene’s a couple times. They’re nice people, and I sure wouldn’t want to accidentally get shot by Perry prowling around Uncle Phillip’s grave in the dark.”

“We’ll head back first thing in the morning then,” George said. “We would’ve stayed out longer, but now we need to get word to the ranch about the Indian trouble.”

After breakfast the next morning, Chad helped the men break camp, then he, George, and Clarence mounted and kept the horses from straying while Frank rode inside the corral and drove the milling animals out.

Once they had the herd out of the trees, Frank and Clarence took flanking positions on either side of the herd, and with George and Chad following behind, riding drag, they got the animals headed southeast toward the ranch.

Once the horses were moving well and had settled into a routine, George rode over to Chad, “You sure those were Cheyenne you ran into? This is Arapaho country. The Cheyenne are Colorado and New Mexico Indians.”

“That’s what I thought,” Chad replied with a shrug. “But I dug a Cheyenne arrow out of one of those wagons to show the army at Fort Scott.”

“I’d heard them and some of the more rebellious Arapaho braves were banding together, but I hadn’t heard that they’d come this far east!” George exclaimed, shaking his head.

They took a noon break beside a stream surrounded by low hills. A small meadow full of lush green grass lay between the stream and the hillside. They let the horses graze, and Frank stayed mounted, riding slowly back and forth along the base of the hill, keeping the horses from wandering or making a break for freedom.

Chad, George, and Clarence dismounted next to the stream and after digging a fire pit, they quickly put a fire together near a deadfall and put a pot of coffee on.

Chad sat on the trunk of the downed tree, and watching the pot boil, he contemplated the best way to deal with the news about the Perrys.

George squatted on his heels on the far side of the fire, and after studying Chad a moment, asked, “You figured out what you’re going to do about the Perry’s yet?”

“Thinking on it,” Chad replied with a nod. “Can’t see much point in making a fuss over it. I’ve already started proving up on the ranch in Colorado and plan to head back as soon as I get settled up on any debts Uncle Phillip might have left.”

“Coffee’s about done,” George commented, pulling the pot away from the flames.

They each poured themselves a cup, then Chad looked over at George, “To tell the truth, I hadn’t given much thought to what to do with the place. Until you told me about the Perry’s, I’d figured I’d hand the deed over to Mr. Weston and let him decide who’d be best to settle there.”

He shrugged and added, “Seems like that decision’s already been made for me.”

“They’re good people,” George nodded. “You could do worse!” Pushing to his feet, he said, “I’d better get out there and relieve Frank. He gets plumb cranky if he misses out on coffee.”

“I can understand that!” Chad laughed. “I’d get a mite upset myself.”

He watched George mount and ride away, then took a sip of coffee. Maybe just riding away and leaving the place to the Perrys might be the best idea.

CHAPTERTHREE

The small wagon train of settlers heading for the gold country of Colorado had been following the Santa Fe Trail west through Kansas. They had stopped for a couple of days on the Pawnee Fork of the Arkansas River to rest up and do minor repairs.

Eleven-year-old Matthew Jameson, who went by the name Matt, had gone down to the water’s edge along with two sisters, Mary, and Jessica Swenson, age eleven and ten, and were in the process of playing and splashing each other when the Cheyenne war party attacked.

The stream they were playing in was separated from the clearing where the wagons were parked by a long stand of trees and brush. At the first burst of gunfire, all three of them jerked erect. Terrified, they stood staring toward camp as the yells, war cries, and sound of gun fire erupted and echoed through the trees.

Matt was the first to respond, and grabbing Mary, the older of the girls, by the arm, he pointed to a thick patch of brush and excitedly said, “We need to get out of sight and hide before the Indians find us.”

The girl stood there, staring at him dumbly for a moment, so Matt pulled her toward the brush. Jessica quickly fell in behind them, and following the brush line a few yards, Matt found a small game trail leading into the thicket. After a quick look around, he quickly pushed the girls into the trail and followed behind them a few feet before they were stopped by a tree that had been blown down, blocking the path.

They all dropped to their knees and Mary pulled the scared, sobbing Jessica to her, shushing the girl, as she tried to quell her crying.

Matt was trying to peer through the brush toward camp when a shadow fell over them. Turning quickly and looking up, he saw a Cheyenne brave sitting on his horse at the edge of the brush, looking down at them.

“Matt!” the younger girl cried out as the brave dropped off the horse. Stepping to the end of the path, the warrior reached in and grabbed Matt by the arm.

As he was dragged from the brush, Matt desperately began kicking with his feet and swinging at the Indian with his free hand, trying to fight the brave off. Then two other warriors raced up, swung down, and rushed toward them.

The brave holding Matt by the arm grunted as one of Matt’s kicks caught him on the shin. A vicious look crossed the brave’s face, and he doubled up his fist and punched Matt in the head hard enough for him to see stars and almost pass out.

Dazed, he stopped resisting, and his hands were quickly bound in front of him. Then he was roughly thrown astride the brave’s horse. As he groggily shook his head and struggled to regain his senses, he was vaguely aware of other Indians rushing by and of the girls shrieking and crying as they too were pulled out of hiding.

Once the girls had been pulled into the open, they too were thrown onto horses. Then Matt felt a tug at his right ankle. Looking down, he saw the Indian who’d pulled him from the brush tie a rawhide strap around his foot and pass the free end under the horse’s belly.

His left foot was roughly grabbed, and turning his head, he saw a second Indian quickly wrap the end of the strap around that ankle and tie it off, securing Matt to the horse’s back.

Tearing his eyes from the sight, he looked around and saw the girls were being tied similarly to other horses. Then the big brave swung up behind him, and other braves climbed on behind the girls. With cries of triumph and wild yells they raced away.

As they broke out of the trees, the warriors reined in with Matt’s captor waving his bow over his head and shouting his pleasure. Matthew quickly took in the melee at the campsite and saw Mr. Winters, his foster father, down on one knee. He had his rifle at his shoulder. As he watched, he saw the man jerk, drop the rifle, and grab his chest. Then Mr. Winters fell onto his side. Mrs. Winters, who’d been kneeling beside the wagon, jumped to her feet and ran over, dropping to her knees beside him.

As she was leaning over her husband, a large Cheyenne brave raced past her, and Matt cried out as he watched the brave viciously drive a war lance into Mrs. Winters’ back. He saw flames erupt from the wagon as it was set on fire, then their captors reined away from the sight and raced away.

They drew up again just out of rifle range of the wagons. There, they turned their horses around and sat whooping and hollering encouragement as they watched the carnage happening at the wagons.

A lone brave suddenly raced over a low rise and up to a Cheyenne warrior who was sitting his horse off to one side. The lone brave had been watching the attack and had a long lance in his hand and two feathers attached to his hair. The two conversed excitedly for a moment, then the Indian Matt assumed was the leader let out a shrill yell and waved his lance over his head, signaling his braves to break off the attack.

The Indians broke away from the fight and throwing shots back at the wagons and following their chief, they raced toward, then past them. As the retreating group raced by, his captor and the braves with the girls kicked into a run and fell in behind them.

Matt held tightly to the horse’s mane to keep his balance as they raced along, while the big Cheyenne behind him guided the horse.

After an hour, the group pulled to a stop, and several of the braves gathered around the leader. The warriors talked fast and excitedly while waving their arms, obviously upset that the attack had been broken.

The leader raised his lance, and when the group had settled into silence, he began talking rapidly for a minute, but Matt couldn’t understand what they were saying. Then the chief clearly spoke two words he could make out, “pony soldiers,” and he sat up hopefully.

There was more excited talk, then the leader waved back the way they’d come, and they all reined around and sat stoically, watching their back trail.

Matt didn’t know how long they sat there before, in the distance, he saw a fast-approaching warrior. The brave raced up to the chief and drew in sharply. Gesturing back the way he’d come, he talked excitedly, and once again, Matt heard the words, “pony soldiers.”

There was more excited talk, then they reined around again and raced away.

As they rode along, Matt, clinging tightly to the horse’s mane, felt somewhat relieved, knowing from those two words and the fact that they’d quickly started moving again, that the cavalry must be in pursuit.

For two days, they rode toward the southeast, stopping infrequently to rest briefly, take a few sips of water, and gnaw on dried jerky. During those stops, Matt and the girls were allowed to climb down and walk some of the numbness from their legs. Cheyenne scouts raced in periodically with updates on their pursuers, then they’d be off again.

Running Deer, an Arapaho chieftain from the Indian Territory just south of the Kansas border, was leading a hunting party when one of his scouts came in and reported the approaching Cheyenne war party and pursuing cavalry. The band followed the scout to a tree-lined ridge where they could watch the approaching Cheyenne without being seen.

“Pony soldiers three, four hours behind,” the scout reported, pointing to the northwest.

As the Cheyenne band drew near, Running Deer could just make out the slumped forms of the children riding in front of several of the warriors. From the way the group moved and the drooping heads of the horses, he could see that the animals were about played out.

Realizing the army patrol would not let up on their pursuit until they caught the Cheyenne band and rescued the captives, he felt it was only a matter of time before the Cheyenne disposed of them in an effort to lose the troopers.

The war party was now only a hard days’ ride north of Indian Territory, and Running Deer surmised that the cavalry could assume that the Arapaho had been involved in whatever raid the Cheyenne had taken the captives on.

His father was an elder in the Arapaho village and would respect any decision Running Deer made at this point, so he decided to approach the Cheyenne war party and negotiate a trade of fresh horses and food for the children.

If, and when the trade had been made, the Arapaho could then send a runner to Fort Scott, report the trade, and have the army come and take the prisoners back to the fort. His decision made, he led his band in a circular swing to get ahead of the Cheyenne and approach without alarming them.

Moving out into the open, his band sat silently in plain view as the Cheyenne approached. As they drew near, he raised his right hand in greeting. The Cheyenne band drew up and Running Deer nudged his horse forward, stopping halfway between the two groups.

The Cheyenne chief nudged his horse forward, hand outstretched, and drew up a few feet away.

“Ho, brother. Your braves and horses look weary!” Running Deer commented nodding toward the group.

The Cheyenne leader sat a moment, then swiveled slightly, and after looking back at his band, he turned his gaze back to Running Deer. “Very weary. Pony soldiers chase for two days. No stop.”

“Because of captives,” Running Deer, said matter-of-factly, nodding to the children.

The brave nodded solemnly, and Running Deer continued, “I am Running Deer, chieftain of the Arapaho.” He gestured toward the Cheyenne braves. “I will trade my Cheyenne brothers’ fresh horses and food for your white captives.”

“Me, Standing Bear,” the warrior replied. “Chief of Cheyenne.” He looked suspiciously at Running Deer and asked, “Why you want white prisoners?”

Gesturing to the south, Running Deer said, “You have brought the pony soldiers close to our lands. If you harm your captives or leave them dead, pony soldiers think the Arapaho were with you on raid.”

Running Deer waited patiently while Standing Bear thought about it. Finally, Standing Bear asked, “Pony soldiers will punish the Arapaho for having the prisoners! Why you do this?”

Running Deer smiled, “We give back to pony soldiers. Tell them, me good Indian, you take.”

The captives had been a burden for the Cheyenne, and Standing Bear had indeed been thinking about killing them. But that would leave them in the same situation they were in now. Worn-out horses and warriors, and the soldiers would be even more eager than before to find them.

“How we get away from pony soldiers?” he finally asked.

Running Deer nodded, realizing Standing Bear preferred a trade over being run-to-ground by the cavalry. “Ahead is a rocky valley. Hard to find tracks. On one side is brush-choked draw. Running Deer, Standing Bear, and hostages hide in draw, and braves clear away tracks. When pony soldiers’ approach, your braves let them chase them. Then we ride to Arapaho village for horses and food.”

“How my braves get away from soldiers?” Standing Bear asked.

“Once out of valley, your braves split in small groups and scatter. Pony soldiers not know which to follow and turn back.”

Standing Bear considered the proposition. His band could use this tactic to lose the troopers and keep the hostages, but he’d still be left with no food and worn-out horses. With a nod, he reluctantly agreed.

Two hours later, Running Deer’s band, Standing Bear, and the braves keeping the captives tied to their horses, were hidden at the back of the draw. A small group of Standing Bear’s warriors wiped away any tracks around the draw and having traded their mounts for Running Deer’s band’s fresher horses, waited in the center of the valley until the army patrol came into view.

They’d gagged the children so they couldn’t shout out for help. As the patrol came into view, Standing Bear’s warriors threw themselves onto the fresh horses, fired a few shots at the patrol then turned and raced up the valley, whooping and hollering.

Hiding in the brush, Running Deer watched the patrol race by, their eyes locked on the retreating warriors, determined to catch the Cheyenne braves.

When the troopers were out of sight, he led the group out of the brush, mounted, and turned south toward Indian Territory.

CHAPTERFOUR

Ferris Station was a former stage station that had been sold to Adam Greene when the stage line had been shifted farther east. Greene had then successfully converted it into a working ranch. He and his riders rounded up wild horses on the vast Kansas plains, broke them for riding, and sold them to the army.

The ranch was located in a sheltered valley roughly five miles long and a mile wide. The western side of the valley was a grassy slope that tapered from the flatland down to the valley floor. The eastern edge of the valley was a steep embankment that had cut into the hillside by the flow of Eagle Creek.

Chad and the three Ferris Station hands reached the western edge of the valley mid after-noon on the second day with the horse herd intact. As they approached the western slope, George reined his horse away from the herd and trotted over to Chad.

Swinging in beside him, he said, “Adam isn’t expecting us back for another week or so. He’ll be wanting an explanation as to why we’re back so soon.” He placed his right hand on the small of his back and straightened up, trying to work out a kink. “I’ll make the introductions and tell him all I know, but you’ll probably need to give him a more detailed account of what went on out there.”

“Not a problem,” Chad nodded.

With Clarence and Frank herding the horses down the slope, Chad and George drew up and looked over the layout of the ranch. In the past, Chad and his uncle Phillip had visited the Greene’s on several occasions. As he sat there taking in the layout, he remembered the large old cottonwood trees lining the bank of the stream, gradually thinning out and giving way to the rich green grass of the valley floor. To the south, a well-used road angled down off the prairie. A mile inside the valley stood the buildings of Ferris Station.

The house, barn, tack shed, and bunkhouse were situated in a rough square, each building sitting at one corner of the ranch yard. The windows of each building could be quickly sealed with heavy slotted shutters and had been positioned so each building could provide cover for the others. The corrals were located between the barn and the bunk house for easy access from either building. In the center of the yard, Chad could make out the covered well.

During the long hours of the drive, George had told him how when the guerilla activity had been at its peak, the settlers had banded together here at Ferris Station for protection. Here, they’d fought off an attack by a combination of guerillas under John Jacobs and Arapaho Indians, led by a warrior named Kicking Wolf until a troop of cavalry arrived.

Looking over the layout of the ranch, Chad remembered that each of the buildings was made of native stone, and all had shod roofs. With the exception of a few cottonwoods left standing around for shade, the area around the buildings had a clear view and a field of fire that extended out into the valley for several hundred yards. Perfect for defense.

George pointed to a covered platform on the peak of the barn. The sides of the platform were lined with sandbags. “That’s the lookout nest,” he explained. “During the guerilla trouble, we just piled a bunch of sandbags up there for protection.”

He looked sideways at Chad, shook his head and continued, “We found out that after a couple hours a settin’ up there in the hot sun on that peaked roof a person got mighty uncomfortable. So, once things settled down a bit we cut us a hole in the roof, propped a ladder from the loft up to it and built a flat wooden platform with a roof over it for the lookouts.”

He pointed down to the lookout perch. A man was leaning over the edge of the sandbags, calling down to another standing near the well. As they watched, the man at the well turned toward them, shading his eyes. After a moment he dropped his hand and walked over to the house.

“That’ll be Hank, one of the new hands, letting Adam know we’re back,” George commented.

Kicking their horses into a lope, they rode down the slope, hazing a couple of stragglers back into the herd.

Adam Greene was standing by the corral gate as they approached the buildings. He unlatched the gate and swung it open, and Chad helped herd the animals inside. Then Greene reclosed and latched the gate.

Turning back toward them, he took a moment to study Chad, then turned his attention to George. “You’re back a bit early, aren’t you?”

George pushed his hat back on his head, leaned on the saddle horn, and nodded, “Yep. Indian trouble. Seems the Cheyenne’s been raising hell a few days west of here where we was rounding up horses.” He jerked his thumb toward Chad and said, “Chad here stumbled into camp one night after dodging them for a couple days.”