Buffalo War (The Dragoons #1) Read online

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  After a long and bloody campaign against Chief War Heart's fierce tribe, Major Matt Devlin and his US Dragoons have finally reached a truce. But the hard-won peace of the vast Dakota Territory was suddenly threatened when a vicious new enemy invaded the wild prairie. With their Sharps .50-caliber rifles spitting hot lead, Ned Wheatfall and his hide-hungry buffalo hunters stampeded the reservation, killing bison and stirring up storm clouds of war. Now Devlin and his Dragoons had to move fast to stop the senseless slaughter and prevent a savage uprising that could once again soak the sacred lands in blood!

  THE DRAGOONS 1: BUFFALO WAR

  By Patrick E. Andrews

  First Published by Zebra Books in 1993

  Copyright © 2016 by the Andrews Family Revocable Trust

  First Smashwords Edition: October 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Our cover features Never a Complaint, painted by Don Stivers.

  You can check out more of Don’s work here.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges * Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  This book is dedicated to Bill Fieldhouse.

  Prologue

  The raiding party, made up of two dozen warriors, rode down the hill at a full gallop. They bellowed no triumphant war cries, instead riding with grim expressions on their faces.

  One of their number, painted with white stripes across his face and upper arms, galloped a few strides ahead of the group, leading them in the direction he had chosen to go. The others followed him out of a combination of respect and habit.

  This man’s name was War Heart. He was an experienced fighter in his thirties, who had proven himself a clever and successful battle leader on countless occasions. Directly behind him, casting angry glances toward the rear over their fellow tribesmen was a young firebrand called Running Wolf.

  War Heart headed for a ford in the creek that lay just within sight. As he urged his horse into an even faster pace, he suddenly caught sight of soldiers coming out of the trees to the north. The mounted dragoons, sensing victory, galloped and hollered as they closed in on the Indians.

  Following their leader, the warriors made a turn toward the south, but another group of dragoons appeared from that direction. Now the Indians were pinned in and badly outnumbered by the troops. War Heart returned to his original direction, going straight for the creek.

  Shots exploded from the surrounding soldiers. Bullets split the air, and a couple of warriors lost their seating and slipped from the backs of their horses to bounce and roll into undignified positions of death.

  At the exact moment the hooves of the Indians’ horses hit the water, a third unit of dismounted soldiers suddenly rose out of the grass to the direct front. Bellowing smoke from the simultaneous volley they fired appeared an instant before the sound of gunfire reached the warriors. Ten of the Indians were knocked to the ground, killed or wounded by the swarm of close-packed bullets.

  War Heart, bellowing in frustrated fury, pulled on the rawhide reins of his horse. He circled several times while vainly looking for a way out. But he and his tribesmen had ridden into a situation where they were surrounded by a well-armed, determined enemy who would grant them no quarter.

  The Indian leader leaped from his horse and ran down the creek, seeking the cover of the trees that grew along the bank. Good concealment was available where the elms and spruce dipped their limbs into the slow-flowing water. War Heart’s dozen companions followed his example, splashing after him. More shots, these from mounted troopers just arriving on the scene, killed three additional warriors.

  The surviving Indians had no more ammunition. They went to their bows and arrows, readying them for possible targets as the one-sided battle rolled on.

  “Look!” Running Wolf hollered, grabbing War Heart’s arm. “Some of the bluecoats have left their horses and chase us on foot along the bank!”

  War Heart said nothing. He stopped long enough to loose three arrows, then turned and continued through the water that was now waist deep.

  Shots from ahead and the sound of army horses on both sides of the narrow waterway gave heartbreaking evidence to the warriors that no escape was available to them. One man, a warrior known for his recklessness, began singing his death song. Throwing away his bow and arrows, he grabbed the trading store hatchet he carried, and scrambled out of the water into the thick vegetation on the bank. A fusillade of shots detonated, and he fell back into the creek, his final shudder kicking up a scarlet foam in the water.

  War Heart looked around in his fury, trying to make sense of the situation. Running Wolf, his battle spirit soaring, shouted defiance at the soldiers who were now so close they could be heard shouting to each other.

  The soldiers began shooting in their fashion that always seemed so strange to the undisciplined Indian warriors. Taking turns, and reacting to the shouted commands of their officers, the dragoons sent several highly coordinated volleys of carbine fire slashing and slamming into the huddled Indians. When the gunfire ended, only War Heart, Running Wolf, and a warrior named White Elk stood in the bloody water.

  White Elk wiped at his face, smearing the war paint, and said, “I will sing my death song now.” He looked at War Heart to see what he would say.

  But another voice sounded from behind the trees on the bank before War Heart could respond.

  “Looks Ahead has told me he will not kill you if you surrender!”

  The voice was in the language of the Indians. Slightly accented, the words came from the black man called Night Face by the members of the tribe.

  Running Wolf, panting and tired, joined White Elk in waiting to see what War Heart would do.

  War Heart sighed and looked at his companions. “I am going to surrender.”

  “Why?” Running Wolf asked. “It is better to die a warrior than an old man.”

  “We cannot think of ourselves now,” War Heart said. “What we do at this moment will determine the fate of the women and children.”

  “Do you think Looks Ahead will go and kill them if we keep fighting?” White Elk asked.

  “If he doesn’t, another white man will,” War Heart said.

  “Yah!” Running Wolf snarled. “It is a good day to die.”

  Once more Night Face’s voice called out, saying, “Looks Ahead will not kill you if you surrender to him.”

  War Heart said, “You two do as you please. I have to trust Looks Ahead.” He pushed against the water as he waded to the bank.

  Running Wolf and White Elk looked at each other for only a moment before following after the veteran warrior they allowed to lead them.

  Moments later, the three surviving warriors stepped through the bushes to stand in front of the leveled carbines of angry-faced soldiers. The Indians dropped their weapons.

  One of the soldiers strode forward. He spoke through the black man, saying, “Do you surrender, War Heart?”

  “Yes, Looks Ahead,” War Heart said. “Your fighting medicine has been too strong for us.”

  The dragoon they called Looks Ahead peered into the trees along the bank. “Where are the other warriors?”

  “You killed them all,” War
Heart said.

  Running Wolf growled, “But there are more in the village.”

  “Do you surrender, Running Wolf?” Looks Ahead asked.

  Running Wolf, with water pinkish from blood dripping off him, said, “I do what War Heart does.”

  “And I,” White Elk echoed.

  “Our war has gone on long enough,” War Heart said. “I think it is over.”

  “As do I,” Looks Ahead replied with a tone of relief in his voice.

  Chapter One

  The gathering of men under the elm trees appeared almost gaudy in the somber mood that dominated the event. This was a meeting sanctioned by the federal government between Indians of the Kiwota tribe and the United States of America. The session had come about after three years of fierce fighting between the Indian warriors and soldiers of the U.S. Dragoons.

  Although the civilians were rather nondescript, the blue-and-yellow of the horse troopers in attendance, along with the accoutrements of the Indian warriors, made splashes of color in the shady area. The attendees sat almost motionless except for occasionally stretching or standing up to relieve cramped limbs after long hours of talk in the warm autumn weather.

  The non-soldiers among the whites were all official representatives from the U.S. Government. Some had come out to the treaty powwow as a lark, while others had real business to attend to. By then, for most of them, the week spent in the prairie wilderness had reached the point of monotony and discomfort. They were in an obvious hurry to wrap things up and get back to the luxuries of civilization where good food, comfortable living quarters, families, and other physical pleasures awaited them.

  The most unique person in attendance was a black man named Fred Jeffries, and he was also the busiest. Not one bit of the business could have been conducted without him. Called Night Face by the Indians, he acted as the interpreter for the session.

  Jeffries was an experienced and expert frontiersman who served as scout for the dragoon squadron under the command of Major Matt Devlin. The army officer was called, most respectfully, Looks Ahead by the tribe now gathered for this treaty talk. His successes in battle had at first dismayed the tribe who struggled against him. Several victories later, they had grown despondent and discouraged, thinking him invincible. In time, they believed his personal medicine strong enough to allow him to look into the future, thus the name Looks Ahead.

  The Indians were represented by their most popular war chief, a somber, dignified and handsome man named War Heart. His wives had seen to it that he was magnificently arrayed in buckskin moccasins, leggings and jacket decorated with intricate beadwork. War Heart also sported a war bonnet of eagle feathers. To show his intentions were peaceful, rather than carry a weapon, his right hand held a fan made from the tail of an owl.

  His tribe was called the Kiwotas only by the whites. They referred to themselves as the People in their own language as was common among most indigenous groups in America. Although their nomadic culture emphasized hunting and war making, they also had a deeply religious and spiritual aspect to their tribal life that was based on a dedicated and sacred rapport with nature. The arrival of the horse in their culture had enhanced these practices by making hunting easier, thus giving them more time to develop their intellectual and philosophical tendencies rather than spending endless days on desperate hunts, but also provided more time and mobility to war making.

  Their shaman had concentrated on making special medicine to assure success in the powwow with the whites. Now a lull in those talks followed the final agreements made in the negotiations, and everyone’s impatience had increased to the point that it was obvious the end of the proceedings was at hand.

  After conferring with Major Devlin, a small, bald, plump man stood up. Wheeler Coburn had been appointed by the Indian Bureau in Washington to take over what was to become the Buffalo Agency, which would administer to the Kiwotas.

  Jeffries, in his role as translator, clapped his hands loudly to attract everyone’s attention. He spoke to the Indians. “Your new agent, Coburn, now wants to recite the treaty for the last time.”

  Coburn held up a document of several pages that ended with signatures by the whites and duly witnessed marks made there by the Indians.

  “This is our treaty,” he said through Jeffries. “You have a copy and we have one. If any other white men come to you, you may show them this paper to prove you have made peace with the Great White Father and no longer fight or kill his people.”

  War Heart appeared impassive, sitting cross-legged and leaning forward slightly as he listened to the message changed into his language by Fred Jeffries. The warrior glanced at the rolled-up paper sitting in front of him. He had seen the strange, orderly inscriptions on it and had made his mark as prescribed by the white men’s instructions to him.

  “As it states, we have all agreed that peace must exist between the Kiwotas and the whites,” Coburn continued. “This can only be done if you stay on the reservation that is agreed upon to be your land. The north limit is Medicine Hills. Your land continues to the south until Bear Gap is reached. The eastern side is bordered by the Des Lacs River, and on the west, you must go no farther than Greasy Flats. That is the entire area called Buffalo Steppes.”

  War Heart looked up. “That is not enough land to hold the number of buffalo we must have to eat.”

  “Goddamn it!” Coburn swore angrily. He nudged Jeffries. “Tell that stupid redskin we already talked about the fact the hunting won’t be so good. That’s why the U.S. of A. government is giving these useless bastards quarterly issues of beef cattle.”

  The interpreter was more diplomatic as he translated the words. War Heart remained silent, once more staring at the ground.

  Coburn was still upset. “While you’re at it, tell that stupid son of a bitch that the Kiwotas is getting six hundred square miles o’ prime prairie land as it is.”

  Jeffries shrugged. “They ain’t got no numbers or measurement like that.”

  “Then, tell ’em it’s a heap lot o’ land or however you’re supposed to say it,” Coburn said. “You might throw in the fact that there’s plenty o’ white farmers that’d give their left balls to be able to push a plow into this dirt.”

  After Jeffries spoke, War Heart replied, saying, “Do you promise to keep other whites away from us?”

  “Yes!” Coburn exclaimed. “We’re gonna build an agency and trading post right here. This is the onliest place where you’re gonna see white folks. The army is even setting up a fort nearby to make sure nobody bothers you damn Injuns. You agreed to that already. You remember, don’t you?”

  War Heart nodded yes.

  “Is there anything else you want to ask about before we break up this powwow?” Coburn asked.

  “Who will be the soldier chief here?” War Heart inquired.

  “It will be Looks Ahead,” Jeffries answered.

  Now War Heart got to his feet. He looked at the whites for several long moments, particularly studying the stern face of Major Matt Devlin of the U.S. Dragoons.

  “We have given up much of our land,” War Heart said. “It is where the People have lived and hunted since the beginning of the earth. But the whites are too many, and their soldier chief, Looks Ahead, can tell what we are going to do in a fight before we even do it. How can we beat him? I do not want to see more of our young men die or the young women weep. So I tell you now that I will agree to stay on this Land of the Buffalo or whatever you call it.”

  The whites began to get restless. As far as they were concerned the job at hand was over. Hot food at the camp and a few good slugs of whiskey would make a fine ending to a fine day. They were all anxious for the Indian to shut up so that they could get to the social side of the situation.

  “I hope that there will be no more reason for the People to go on the warpath,” War Heart said. “All I can ask is that I be left to hunt buffalo and eat well and live in peace with my wives and my children. I think we are finished here. Goodbye.”

&nb
sp; War Heart knelt down and picked up the rolled-up treaty, then abruptly turned, walking away. The other Kiwotas followed him, leaving their side of the clearing completely vacant.

  Coburn and the whites watched the Indians go over to their horses and mount up. After the Kiwotas had cleared the area, the government representatives and the soldiers got to their feet to begin the short walk back to their camp. Major Devlin and Coburn walked together.

  The Indian agent glanced up into the face of the taller man. “Looks like you and me is gonna see a lot o’ each other, Major.”

  “I suppose,” Devlin said thoughtfully. A tall, muscular man, he was considered handsome by the ladies, he was a distinguished-looking officer with gray in the temples of his brown hair. He sported a moustache, turned down at the corners, which he kept meticulously clipped even when in the field.

  Coburn grinned. “Y’know, you’re a hard man to judge, Major. I can’t tell if you’re happy about this treaty or not.”

  “I’m happy, believe me,” Devlin replied. “After three years of fighting War Heart, I’m more than glad to see the hostilities come to an end.”

  “Sort o’ sounded to me like them Injuns is plenty scared o’ you,” Coburn said.

  “The feeling is mutual,” Devlin said.

  Another civilian joined them. DeWitt Planter was the official surveyor who had laid out the boundaries of the Buffalo Agency for the legal papers to be filed with the government.

  “D’you think them damn redskins is gonna stay on the up and up?” Planter asked.

  “War Heart will if he’s not provoked,” Devlin said. “I can’t speak for the others in the tribe any more than he can.”

  “What’re you talking about?” Coburn asked. “Them Kiwotas’ll do what he tells ’em, won’t they? He’s the chief.”

  “The Kiwotas don’t have any leadership like we know it,” Devlin explained. “As long as a warrior brings about successes in the war parties he leads, he is listened to and obeyed most of the time. But if some hotheads among the tribe’s fighting men decide to forget the treaty and go back to raiding, there isn’t much he can do about it.”