Kilrone (1966) Read online

  “Take your time, make every shot count, that’s al l anybody can do.”

  When McCracken had left, Kilrone got up an d walked to the hospital, eased in, and talked to Ryerson.

  He saw that several cases of ammunition and food ha d been brought over from the warehouse. Everythin g looked ready. Only then did he return to the silen t Headquarters and stretch out on the floor, lying on hi s bedroll. Almost instantly he was sleeping.

  Major Frank Bell Paddock, camped near Twin Buttes , at the head of Toppin Creek, could look north towar d his destination, still a hard day’s ride from where the y were. They could not wait as long as a night here. Fou r hours of rest, he decided, with a chance for the horse s to graze; then up, a light breakfast, and in the saddl e once more.

  Hank Laban squatted on his heels near the fire, a littl e apart from the others. He held his cup in both hands, an d sipped the hot black coffee with slow pleasure. He was a coffee-drinking man, and he relished these minutes b y the fire, which were too few. He was a man withou t illusion, looking on life with ironic appreciation of it s realities, and watching with a jaundiced and halfamuse d eye those who viewed life through the mist o f their own desires, fears, or ambitions.

  Nor had he any illusions about Indians. He knew the m and, generally speaking, liked them. He had lived thenlif e and found much of it good; but he knew that th e red man, like his white brother, could be led down th e garden path by a good talker. And somebody had bee n stirring the Indians into trouble. Buffalo Horn was on e thing—he was torn between leading his people in a rightful fight for Camas Prairie, where they had dug th e camas roots from times unknown, and his own desire t o outdo Chief Joseph. But Buffalo Horn was already a half-tame Indian, Medicine Dog was another matter: h e was not tame.

  The Dog was a broncho Indian. Like Geronimo, h e was not a chief, merely a warrior who attracted t o himself the unsettled youngsters, eager to make themselve s big Indians, the malcontents, and the hardhead s who refused to know when they were whipped. Th e Dog was tough, mean, and cunning as a wolf, dangerou s as a prairie rattler.

  Nothing was ever simple any more. Hank Laba n would have liked to ride with Mellett. Mellett was a soldier, pure but far from simple. He was smart an d direct, and when he hit he hit hard, and no nonsense.

  Paddock was a good enough man when sober, and h e was sober now, but Paddock wasn’t simply riding afte r Indians, he was riding after a reputation. Laban was a n old coon from the high-up creeks, and he knew the signs.

  Young. Pryor was riding for the same reason, onl y where Paddock was desperate and at the end of hi s tether, Pryor was bursting at the seams to fight somebody , anybody. He wanted glory—or what he though t would be glory—and he wanted promotion. He wouldn’t even mind a scar if he got it in a romantic-seemin g place. Pryor was impatient with all of them—with Mellett , with Paddock, with Webb. Ride right out and rid e the Indians into the ground—that was his idea. What h e Wanted was a cavalry charge, and he bitterly regrette d that the saber was no longer used on the western prairie.

  Hank Laban continued to sip his coffee, and he speculate d on his horse. That was a fast-running horse he had.

  Come to the worst, he might make it out … and if i t came to the worst, he was going to try. He did not like t o ride with ambition. He wanted to ride with soldiers, wit h fighting men doing a fighting job, solid, steady men wh o fought to win, but fought with common sense, not bravad o and dash. That sort of thing could get a ma n killed.

  In a lifetime on the frontier Hank Laban had manage d to keep his scalp. He had held onto his hair by fightin g when he could, running when he could no longer fight , or lying quiet when outnumbered. He was a disciple o f the philosophy that nothing has to be done all at once.

  The fact that they were riding away from where h e believed most of the Indians to be made him no happier.

  He had never gotten used to seeing the ravished an d scalped bodies of men, and especially those of wome n and children. In his own mind he was gospel sure tha t Was what they would find on returning to the post. He was not reconciled to the idea of riding where they wer e riding; he knew they’d find Indians enough themselves , and they’d find them when they least wanted them.

  The canyon of the Owyhee was rough and rugged.

  This whole country was rough. Earthquakes and volcanoes in prehistoric times had had their way with th e land, and they had upset it here, ruptured it there. I t was ambush country, no mile of it safe. Hank Laban ha d lost nothing on the North Fork, and he wanted to los e nothing there, least of all, his scalp.

  The risks he had accepted when he took the job. He had ridden with good men, and he had ridden with th e glory-hunters and the hardheads. A man had to take it a s it came.

  Paddock walked back to the fire and sat down on a rock, stiff and saddle-sore. He looked over at Laban. “Yo u think we’re on a wild-goose chase?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “We won’t find any Indians?”

  “Oh, you’ll find Indians, all right. You’ll find a passe l of them when you want ‘em least. Only you won’t fin d the Dog. Right about now he’s burning your post.”

  “Nonsensel” Pryor said sharply. “No Indian woul d dare attack an army postl”

  Hank Laban did not bother to reply. He almost neve r bothered to reply to Lieutenant Eden Pryor, and th e Lieutenant was growing irritated. He resented Laban’s attitude and his own inability to impress the scout. Pryo r disliked Laban’s careless, almost slovenly appearance a s much as he disliked the respect that all the older soldier s gave to his opinions.

  Paddock smoked in silence for a few minutes and the n suggested, “Laban, why don’t you sketch out the rout e for me? I’ve never been over this trail before.”

  Laban hunched forward and took up a twig from th e edge of the fire. He poked in the ground. “Here we are.

  Well cross the upper canyon of the Little Owyhee righ t about here,” and he drew the line in the sand. ‘Then’ w e’ll strike out for Pole Creek. Over yonder there’s a travois trail and we’ll follow it right up into the corner | h ere where the Owyhee and the Little Owyhee join j up.”

  He made a cross in the sand “Right there, Major, we’ m ay run into plenty of grief. There’s an Injun trail dow n the cliffs—the boys will have to hoof it and lead the! h osses. Now, I say there’s a trail. It’s just a rock slide , and if the shelf along there should topple over some o f that trail would be gone. I mean, if the trail’s still ther e we’ll take it. Ever’ time I go that way I expect to find i t gone.

  “That’s rough country with a lot of weathered rock,” h e went on, “and if a few feet of it should go we’d be u p the creek. Well, we go down that slide, an’ we’ll have a time. What we’d best d o is put a few men on the ri m and then send a few more down below to cover us. I f those Injuns catch us on that slide they’ll cut us in half.”

  “Then why do we go that way?” Pryor interrupted.

  “After we cross the plateau between the rivers, wel l still have the Middle Fork to cross. From there on it’s ten, twelve miles to where Mellett will be.”

  “I asked you why we didn’t go around.” Pryor’s ton e was coldly furious.

  Paddock looked up sharply. “Lieutenant Pryor, Mr.

  Laban is explaining a route to me. I would be pleased i f you would not interrupt.”

  Pryor started to reply, then stood up and turned awa y abruptly. Corporal Steve Blaine, who had no particula r liking for Pryor, nonetheless felt sorry for him now.

  “Long way around,” he commented to nobody in particular; “might be fifty miles further.”

  “I didn’t ask you!” Pryor snapped, and was immediatel y sorry. He strode off into the darkness, feeling like a spanked schoolboy.

  By the Lord Harry, he was thinking, if he had tha t Laban in his command for just one week! Just one week!

  The trouble was, Hank Laban was a civilian employe e and able to quit whenever he liked; and as Pryor ha d been given to
understand before this, he was inclined t o do just that on the slightest provocation. And Colone l Webb had assured Pryor only a week before that suc h men were hard to get.

  Later, after Laban had disappeared to his blanket s isomewhere out in the dark, Frank Paddock explained to Pryor: “There aren’t many trails in this country, Eden , and Laban knows them. There are very few men wh o do. We need him very badly.”

  After that Paddock went to his bedroll and stretche d out. He was dead-tired, and every muscle ached. He wa s confused as well, for now that he had gone too far t o turn back he was attacked by doubts. When he ha d made his decision he had been positive it was the righ t one, and he still told himself this was so. But what if h e was wrong? What if the post, so ill-defended, was attacked?

  He sat bolt upright, and for a moment was in a state o f blind panic, on the verge of ordering the command t o return to the post. Then he fought back his fears, an d presently he lay down again.

  Maybe he had been a fool to go. So why had he gone?

  Was it really because he could trap Medicine Dog an d score a decisive victory? Or was it to settle once and fo r all his situation with Denise? If Denise and Kilrone too k this opportunity to leave together … But if they di d not?

  He turned restlessly, unable to relax, driven to wakefulnes s by the ghosts of his fears and doubts.

  He was right, he decided finally. They would no t attack the post. The major Indian force was here, lyin g in wait for M Troop and Mellett.

  At last he slept. The firelight flickered against th e rocks and on the faces of the sleeping men.

  Miles away to the south, Barney Kilrone awakene d with a start. Only a faint glow from the stove illuminate d the office of the post commander, where he was.

  In a corner, on a pallet, were Denise Paddock and Bett y Considine. Stella Rybolt lay against the inner wall, an d Hopkins and his wife not far away.

  For several minutes Kilrone lay quietly, wonderin g what it was that had wakened him.

  And then he heard it again.

  Somebody outside was digging, digging under th e wall, under the floor where he lay.

  The sound was faint but unmistakable; it was a whispering sound of movement, and the rustle of dirt fallin g in a narrow space. Somebody was trying to undermin e the back wall of Headquarters building.

  Undermine … mine!

  Explosives…

  Swiftly, silently, he got to his feet.

  Chapter 10

  There was no sound inside the building, nor did Kilron e make any in his passage. Tiptoeing, he moved a s one accustomed to a need for silence. The firelight fro m the grate of the stove gave a faint red glow in the room , showing here and there the face of a sleeper—child , woman, or man—each seeming to rest in the comfort o f a dream.

  For a moment Kilrone looked on them, careful not t o fix his eyes long on any one of them, for such an inten t look, he knew, seemed to have a way of making a sleeper awaken. He looked on them with gloom, for wha t lay before them in a few hours might be violence an d death; some of these had seen violence and death befor e this, and might again if they survived. He could no t promise anything, either for them or himself.

  In the outer room Draper, one of the teamsters, sa t reading a battered magazine. He was bearded and somewha t bald—a tough, strong man, and a veteran of severa l Indian fights. He sat near enough to the wall to hea r anything stirring outside, and his rifle was close to hi s hand. He looked up when Kilrone came into the room.

  “Quiet so far,” he said, ‘Taut that means nothing.”

  “There’s something out back,” Kilrone said. “I’m goin g to have a look.”

  “Guards just came in,” Draper commented. “Gittin’ n ear the time.”

  “All right. Watch for me.”

  Kilrone eased the door open, listened, and then wa s gone into the darkness. Draper stared at the closed doo r a moment, and picked up his magazine again. But h e did not read; he simply held it in his hands, listening.

  Kilrone had moved only a step after closing the door.

  The night was dark, overcast, and cool. After the stuff y atmosphere of the building the outside air felt wonderful.

  He took time to fill his lungs a time or two while h e listened for movement.

  Then he went to the corner of the building, cast a quick glance around the corner, then stepped past, carefu l not to let his clothing brush the wall. He wasted n o time, but moved on cat feet to the further corner an d peered around.

  A man was crouched in the darkness at the foundation , working stealthily. But even as Kilrone saw him , the man got up swiftly and moved away, stringing somethin g out behind him.

  Kilrone waited, watching him slip into a ditch tha t drained runoff water away from the buildings and th e parade ground, and then he waited a little longer. He saw the man move away, and he was lost in th e darkness.

  Kneeling where the man had been, Kilrone dug carefully into the loose earth. His hands found a box and a i fuse leading from it. Gingerly, he lifted the box from it’s hole. The cover was merely laid on, and he lifted i t Inside were three cans of black powder, blasting powder.

  Placed as they had been, there was enough to hav e I blasted a good-size hole in the back wall of the building , and to have stunned or killed anyone in the room. Fo r an instant he crouched there, considering. Then, wit h the box under his left arm, his six-shooter in his righ t hand, he followed the fuse.

  It ended beside a rock at the edge of the ditch. Th e idea was clear enough. Once the attack began, the fus e would be fired and the resulting explosion would com e close to putting anybody inside the Headquarters buildin g out of action.

  How about the other buildings? There was little time , but they must be checked.

  Who had done this? It was no Indian trick, he wa s sure of that; and die man he had seen, although he ha d seen no more than his bulk in the blackness, had been n o Indian.

  He knelt beside the rock and moved some of th e stones where the fuse had been waiting for the match.

  Then he dug out a chunk of sod with his bowie knif e and quickly dug further into the soft earth beneath.

  When he had hollowed out a hole there, he cut the fus e to six inches, replaced it, and buried the box in th e bank, as carefully as he could in the darkness. The res t of the fuse he left as it had been, trailed out upon th e ground.

  He went first to the warehouse. The back wall was th e likely place, but he found nothing there. Undoubtedl y the ground had been too hard to dig there withou t making noise, for a path led right along that wall. On the far end, however, he found another box, this on e containing only one can of powder. He followed it ou t and did the same thing as before.

  Next he went to the hospital, but after searching for a few minutes he found nothing. By now it was growin g light, and he did not dare to search any longer.

  Draper was at the door to let him in. Kells an d Hopkins were standing by, and Rudio was at the stove , making coffee.

  Betty Considine was waiting for him. “Where woul d you like the children to be?” she asked “Over in th e corner?”

  “We’ll pull that desk over and turn it on its side,” h e said, “and put the filing cabinet there, too. Drape wha t bedding you can spare over the desk and the chairs. I’v e seen a folded letter stop a spent bullet.”

  “I’d like to feed the stock,” Kells suggested.

  “Stay where you are. It’s my guess you’d never mak e it. Anyway, they’ll take the horses if they haven’t already.”

  No doubt the Indians were waiting for just that sort o f thing. Lying in wait, they could attack the force remainin g inside with small risk to themselves.

  The fire in the stoves—there was one in each roomha d been built up. Outside, the sky was faintly gray; th e shapes of the buildings were taking form. No light s appeared anywhere.

  Men moved to each of the windows, where the y crouched, waiting. Stella Rybolt took over serving coffe e and preparing breakfast, an
d Rudio took up his rifle. No lights were lit. Stella Rybolt worked by the glow fro m the grate of her stove, and as the food was prepared , carried it to the men at the windows.

  Under the low clouds of morning the parade groun d looked gray and forbidding. The buildings, standin g silent and unlighted, were bleak. Nothing stirred.

  Betty brought coffee to Kilrone and sat down on th e floor beside him “Are they out there?” she asked.

  “You can bet on it.”

  She spoke softly then, that only he might hear. “Di d you love her very much? Denise, I mean?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? It was Brittany, in th e spring, and we both were young.”

  “I somehow thought it was Paris.”

  “Paris was in the fall… By that time we were older.”

  “You are cynical.”

  “No … Just wise enough to know that all loves do no t last out the summer. And many of them should not. Le t that be a lesson to you, Daughter of the General.”

  “And when you saw her again she was married t o Frank Paddock?”

  “Yes … and I was courting a dancer from Vienna.”

  “Then why?”

  “Somebody talked to Frank, and he believed ther e was more than there was. Apparently the idea becam e something of an obession with him.”

  “Kilrone?” Hopkins spoke from his window. “Somethin g moving down there.”

  He got up and went to the window, but stayed wel l back where he could not easily be seen. Looking dow n the length of the parade ground, he at first saw nothing.

  And then he saw a slight stir of movement in the shadow s near a barracks. One, then another.

  “Hold your fire,” he said; “so far they’ve done nothing.”

  He went to the window that looked toward the warehouse across a few feet of intervening space. He opene d the window and called, “McCracken?”

  “There’s about a dozen of them in the brush along th e creek,” McCracken answered , “Well, hold your fire.”

  The post, which was usually stirring with soldiers an d military activity by this time, was all dark and still. Th e Indians would have seen or smelled the smoke from th e stoves, but nothing moved about the post buildings.