Beyond Squaw Creek

nearby blacksmith shop, Prairie Dog hiked a hip on the edge of a water barrel. “We been havin’ trouble off and on for three weeks. That’s when the Assiniboine started raiding the trading posts and little settlements popping up along the creeks and streams.

“We didn’t think we had a serious problem till an eight-man woodcutting crew was sent out last week and never came back. We found ’em butchered in a ravine about three miles west, along Squaw Creek. Decapitated. Mutilated in ways I ain’t even seen the Comanches do. Their mules shot, wagons burned. Then, three days ago, we spied smoke rising from the direction of our sister fort, William, down along Little Muddy Creek.”

About to set his saddle on a stall partition, Fargo froze and glanced sharply at the old scout. “They burned Fort William?”

Prairie Dog shook his head. “Don’t know for sure. I rode out to have a look, and the Injuns—more’n a dozen mixed Assiniboine and Blackfeet—chased me back, killin’ my pony in the run. Lost the three boys who rode with me.”

The old scout squinted one eye and gestured with his hand. “I can tell you this about William—we ain’t seen hide nor hair of their soldiers since we spied the smoke, and we usually exchanged couriers daily. Since another patrol was wiped out day before yesterday, Major Howard’s ordered the gates closed. No one leaves till we can come up with a way to turn those savages’ horn back in. We have little hope of help from outside, as we can’t get couriers through to the forts along the Missouri.”

Fargo set the saddle across the stall partition, then grabbed a burlap sack from the hay-flecked floor. Brows ridged with consternation, he set to work rubbing down the pinto’s sleek, sweat-lathered coat. “You still haven’t told me what got those Injuns’ tails in a twist, hoss.”

“That’s the ugliest part of this bailiwick, Skye.” Prairie Dog picked up a handful of dry straw and went to work on the Ovaro’s hindquarters, scrubbing off the lathered, muddy sweat. “One of our own men might’ve riled those savages. A lieutenant named Mordecai Duke.”

The Trailsman frowned and glanced around the Ovaro’s head at Prairie Dog. “Duke? Seems I heard that name before.”

“He was once a fine officer. Straight outta West Point. His family ran a shipping business in New York. Friends of all the mucky-mucks. Hell of an Indian fighter, old Mordecai. Till he went crazier’n a tree full of owls.”

The old scout stopped working to lift his hat from his horribly scarred scalp and run a gloved hand through the remaining salt-and-pepper hair tufting up around the knotted, grisly scars. “He went so nuts, drinkin’ like a fish, laughin’ and cryin’ by fits, that the major decided to ship him back to St. Louis, to some special institution for army officers who got their bellies a little too full of the frontier life…if you’re gettin’ my drift.”

With his index finger, Prairie Dog made a swirling motion in front of his ear. “He wasn’t more than twenty miles southwest of the fort when he broke out of the wagon, killed two of the guards with his bare hands, and hightailed it into the tall-and-uncut, like a mustang with tin cans tied to its tail.”

“Well, how in the hell…?” Fargo let his voice trail off, pricking his ears. Voices rose from beyond the barn’s open doors, growing louder as men approached.

Prairie Dog glanced outside, then turned to the Trailsman and said softly, “Best not talk about this in front of the enlisted boys. They don’t know about Lieutenant Duke and the Injuns. Let’s finish up here, and we’ll finish our powwow over a drink in the sutler’s saloon.”

While Prairie Dog smoked a cigarette outside the barn, the Trailsman finished rubbing down the Ovaro, stabling it, and measuring out oats, hay, and water. He told the remount sergeant, an irreverent, craggy-faced Scot named Drake, to turn the pinto into the corral after the mount had cooled off and had eaten and drunk its measured portions.

“Don’t put him out with any mares in rut,” Fargo warned as he grabbed his rifle and saddlebags. “Once he sets his hat for a filly, it’ll take a dozen men to change his mind.”

He moved off down the barn alley, the crotchety Scot grumbling his displeasure at taking orders from a civilian while running a file across the horse hoof wedged between his knees.

7

Fargo and Prairie Dog tramped over to the sutler’s store in the early afternoon sunshine. The two-story log structure with a lean-to addition housing the saloon was shaded by a giant cottonwood tree rustling its silver leaves in the perpetual prairie breeze.

The store smelled like molasses and flour and cured meat. The Trailsman and Prairie Dog were the only saloon customers at this hour. They sat at a table under a large bison trophy mounted on a square-hewn ceiling joist. Through the open shutters emanated the phlegmatic barks of an infantry sergeant, the thuds of an ax, and the occasional stamp of horses passing the store on cavalry drill.

Between the sounds was an eerie, tense silence, as if the fort were awaiting an Indian attack similar to the one on Fort William. In the blockhouses, the guards had been doubled or tripled, and extra soldiers were perched on the shooting ledges along the stockade walls, facing the endless swell of prairie around the fort.

The sutler’s stoic Indian wife brought Fargo and Prairie Dog each a schooner of surprisingly cold ale and a whiskey shot. Collecting Fargo’s coins, she shuffled sullenly back to the store, where she’d been tying and wrapping the deer roasts her husband had carved from the carcass outside.

Fargo sipped the whiskey suspiciously, made a face as he swallowed. “Did Smiley Bristo have a whiskey contract with the sutler, by any chance?”

Prairie Dog downed nearly half of his own shot, and smacked his lips. “Nectar of the gods, ain’t it?”

“Wrathful gods,” Fargo muttered, and washed down the camphorlike taste of the liquor with several deep swallows of the wheaty, refreshing beer. Setting the mug down, he tossed his hat on a chair and sank back in his seat. “Finish the story, hoss—what’s this crazy Lieutenant Duke have to do with the uprising?”

Prairie Dog tossed down his own hat and fingered the tooth dangling from his right ear. He claimed it was a tooth from the Comanche who had scalped him down in Texas. When he’d looked around the saloon, making sure that he and Fargo were alone, he propped his elbows on the table, looked across at the Trailsman with a serious expression, and kept his voice low.

“You see, Lieutenant Duke spent a lot of time with a band of Assiniboine camped on the far side of Squaw Creek. Now, that’s against regulations, and most of this is hearsay, but rumor has it he married the daughter of Chief Iron Shirt. Iron Shirt took a liking to the lieutenant, even though Duke was obviously crazier than a pack of wild lobos on the night of the first full moon. Or maybe because he was crazy. The Injuns often take craziness for wisdom, don’t you know?”

Fargo nodded. He’d been around Indians enough to know that men and women whom white folks would normally lock up in a funny farm were often given special privileges amongst the natives. Many were respected for their “crazy wisdom” and insight into the “ether regions.” Some tribal leaders had been known to call upon these people for advice on hunting or battle strategies or to cast spells on their enemies.

“To make a long story short,” Prairie Dog continued, “Lieutenant Duke and Iron Shirt have been seen riding together with a whole passel of painted warriors. Apparently, somehow, Lieutenant Duke—in his crazy, mixed-up mind—decided the Indians oughta be killin’ the whites. And, somehow, he got the Blackfeet to throw in with the Assiniboine to do just that.”

“Two tribes that normally fight each other,” Fargo said, daring another sip of the rotgut whiskey. “You reckon the major’s attempt to trot Duke off to a nuthouse turned him against the entire army?”

“And the poor white settlers and trappers in these parts,” Prairie Dog said. “Possible.” He chased the whiskey with the beer, draining his schooner in three long chugs, then plunked the glass back down on the table. “Now, ain’t this a fine sichy-ation?”

“You have any idea what the major intends to do about it?”

Prairie Dog grinned. “No. But I got a feelin’ it’s gonna involve you, Mr. Trailsman, sir.” He slid his chair back. “Now, if you’ll excuse this rancid old hide, I’m due over to Lieutenant Donovan’s office to see about puttin’ a huntin’ expedition together. One that won’t lose its hair and other sundry body parts. We have enough food for a few more