shuck!” Scratch tracked one of the running figures with his Winchester and squeezed off another shot.
The fleeing outlaw tumbled off his feet. Bo threw lead after the others but couldn’t tell if he hit any of them. Over at the camp, Gustaffson yelled, “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
“Countermand that order!” Lieutenant Holbrook shouted, his voice a little higher than normal from excitement and probably fear. “Continue firing! Over there in those trees!”
“Better duck, partner,” Bo warned.
Both Texans hunkered as low to the ground as possible while a storm of lead tore through the trees above them. During a brief pause in the firing, they rolled away from each other and crawled behind a couple of pines, putting thick trunks between themselves and the camp.
After a few moments, the shooting trailed off again. Bo heard Gustaffson saying, “Lieutenant, I think that’s where Creel and Morton were!”
“My God!” Holbrook yelped. “Why didn’t someone say so?”
Because you didn’t give them a chance to, Bo thought. But now that the guns were silent, he took advantage of the chance to cup his hands around his mouth and call out, “Hold your fire! It’s us!”
“You reckon the Devils left behind any sharpshooters?” Scratch asked as the Texans got to their feet.
“I hope not,” Bo said.
He hoped their horses had been picketed far enough into the trees that the animals had remained safe during all the shooting, too. He hadn’t heard either of the horses scream, so maybe they hadn’t been hit.
Bo and Scratch reloaded, then held the rifles ready as they trotted toward the camp. Bo noticed that the fires had been doused completely, plunging the whole area into darkness. Probably Gustaffson’s idea, he told himself.
“Hold it!” a voice said as they approached. Bo recognized it.
“It’s just us, Sergeant,” he said.
Gustaffson stood up from behind the rock where he had been kneeling. “Come ahead,” he told them. “Either of you fellas hurt?”
“No,” Bo said, and Scratch added, “Nope.” Bo heard a man groan somewhere nearby and went on. “Sounds like somebody else is, though.”
“Yeah, we’ve got casualties,” Gustaffson said, his voice grim now. “Including the lieutenant.”
That surprised Bo. “I heard him just a few minutes ago.”
“He ain’t dead, just wounded. He’s being tended to now. Come on, I’ll take you to him.” To the troopers scattered behind the rocks, Gustaffson said, “The rest of you men stay where you are, and for God’s sake, stay alert. If you see anybody move out there, chances are it ain’t a friend.”
The sergeant led Bo and Scratch to the largest of the tents, where a makeshift field hospital had been set up. By lantern light, one of the troopers was cleaning a bloody gash on Lieutenant Holbrook’s upper left arm where a bullet had creased him. Holbrook looked pale and queasy, and he turned his head away from his wounded arm as if he was afraid the sight of the blood would make him sick.
“How’s he doing, Wilson?” Gustaffson asked the trooper. The man was older than the usual cavalry private. His weathered face and iron-gray hair put him at least in his forties.
“He’ll be fine, as long as he doesn’t get blood poisoning,” Trooper Wilson replied. “And I’m doing everything I can to prevent that. The lieutenant was lucky.”
Luckier than the two soldiers lying on the ground with blankets pulled up over their faces, Bo thought. Blood soaked through those blankets in places. Those troopers hadn’t made it.
A couple of other men, one with a bloody bandage around his right thigh and another who had been shot through the hand, were in better shape, certainly better than the two fatalities. Holbrook’s wound appeared to be the least serious of the lot.
The lieutenant winced as Wilson used a carbolic-soaked rag to clean the gash. “Where were you two men?” he demanded of the Texans. “You’re supposed to be helping us! Instead you let those outlaws attack us!”
“If we hadn’t fired those warning shots, the first shots you heard would have been the ones that killed all your pickets,” Bo said bluntly. “And then the Devils would have riddled all the tents before your men could even crawl out of their blankets. They had plenty of light to aim by, after all, with those fires still burning.”
Holbrook flushed angrily, which at least got a little color back into his face. “This was our first night out here,” he said. “I didn’t think the Devils would attack us yet—”
“I don’t reckon they saw any reason to waste time,” Scratch said. “They didn’t like the idea of havin’ a cavalry patrol out here huntin’ ’em.”
“They’ll soon learn they can’t get away with ambushing the United States Cavalry,” Holbrook snapped. “Sergeant, did we suffer any other casualties?”
“A few nicks,” Gustaffson answered. “Nothing the men can’t tend to themselves.”
“Very well.” Holbrook flinched again, this time as Trooper Wilson bound a dressing in place around his arm, and went on. “Organize a burial detail. We’ll lay Troopers Rutherford and Bennett to rest first thing in the morning. Assign one of the uninjured men to accompany Mitchell and Stoneham back to Deadwood.”
The man who had been shot through the hand spoke up, saying, “Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant, but I don’t have to go back. I can ride just fine, so I should stay with the patrol.”
“You may be able to ride,” Holbrook said, “but you can’t handle a rifle one-handed, Stoneham. You’re going back.”
“I’ll see to it, Lieutenant,” Gustaffson said before the young soldier could protest again.
