The last word on her lips before she fell asleep was Caleb.
* * *
The ride had been long and hot. Columns of dust billowed behind the hooves of their many horses. Early on in the mission, Caleb had felt reinvigorated. Action was welcome after weeks of routine drilling, but the constant glare of the sun and the wind cutting across their faces had made parts of their trek unrelieved misery. Maddeningly, the marauding Indians had been canny in their efforts to elude the troops. Even when the army scouts located them, often by the time the column of riders arrived at the rendezvous point, the enemy had vanished into the endless rolling prairie. The high point, thus far, had been searching for and finding a five-year-old boy who had wandered away from his wagon train encampment.
Despite the heat and the lack of success in fighting the Indians, it was a comfort to be back in the saddle, performing familiar functions and sleeping under the stars. The final night’s bivouac was a scant ten miles from Fort Larned. After making a routine sweep among his men, most of whom were already asleep, he bedded down shortly before midnight.
He had barely closed his eyes when he was awakened by a sentry. “Horse thieves,” he muttered. Caleb struggled into his boots, grabbed his rifle and took off at a lope toward the perimeter where the horses were tethered.
The sentry whispered hoarsely, “Indians. They’re hiding among the horses.”
Caleb whistled for Bucephalus, then fired a warning shot in the air. Several more troops staggered toward them. “Rout them out before they steal our horses.”
Led by Caleb, several of the men plunged into the mass of horseflesh. With only a sliver of a moon for light, it was difficult to distinguish between horses and Indians, especially when they were adept at straddling an animal, clinging to the mane and dropping over the side so as to be undetectable.
Caleb leaped on Bucephalus, clutched his mane with one hand and prodded him forward. In the distance he could barely make out a group of eight horses slowly detaching from the herd. He galloped after them as they began moving more swiftly toward a nearby hill. To his right he noticed one of his cavalrymen. “Follow me!” he shouted. They charged into the open prairie fifty yards or so from the group of stolen horses. The Indians, slowed by the horses they were leading, tried to escape. By then a few more mounted cavalrymen had joined the hunt. When they narrowed the gap, Caleb yelled, “Spare the horses, but fire on the riders.”
In the ensuing fray, three cavalry horses broke loose and galloped off, but five still remained in enemy hands. Every time Caleb thought he had a clear aim, the Indians changed direction. Finally he drew a bead on the leader. With one shot, he succeeded in bringing him down. Almost simultaneously, other deafening shots rang out, felling two more thieves. One pinto tore for the hills, its rider bent low.
The remaining horses were rounded up by morning. Thankfully, no cavalry mounts had been lost. The three dead Indians would either teach their fellows a lesson or incite them to retribution. Yet Caleb took no satisfaction in killing. This was a war without rules and little way to distinguish peaceable Indians from their more hostile numbers.
After burying the dead and packing their gear, the troop made its way toward the fort. Even considering the excitement and danger of the night, Caleb, instead of feeling spent, was energized. They had foiled the horse thieves and were headed home at last. The steady rhythm of horses’ hooves and the creak-crack of saddle leather provided accompaniment for the mental exercise of preparing his report for the colonel. Before he knew it, they had crested the rise just beyond the fort. Something clenched within him, and he knew, despite Will Creekmore’s remarks about courting, he had been counting the hours until he would see Lily again. As they trotted into the fort, it was all he
* * *
The ride had been long and hot. Columns of dust billowed behind the hooves of their many horses. Early on in the mission, Caleb had felt reinvigorated. Action was welcome after weeks of routine drilling, but the constant glare of the sun and the wind cutting across their faces had made parts of their trek unrelieved misery. Maddeningly, the marauding Indians had been canny in their efforts to elude the troops. Even when the army scouts located them, often by the time the column of riders arrived at the rendezvous point, the enemy had vanished into the endless rolling prairie. The high point, thus far, had been searching for and finding a five-year-old boy who had wandered away from his wagon train encampment.
Despite the heat and the lack of success in fighting the Indians, it was a comfort to be back in the saddle, performing familiar functions and sleeping under the stars. The final night’s bivouac was a scant ten miles from Fort Larned. After making a routine sweep among his men, most of whom were already asleep, he bedded down shortly before midnight.
He had barely closed his eyes when he was awakened by a sentry. “Horse thieves,” he muttered. Caleb struggled into his boots, grabbed his rifle and took off at a lope toward the perimeter where the horses were tethered.
The sentry whispered hoarsely, “Indians. They’re hiding among the horses.”
Caleb whistled for Bucephalus, then fired a warning shot in the air. Several more troops staggered toward them. “Rout them out before they steal our horses.”
Led by Caleb, several of the men plunged into the mass of horseflesh. With only a sliver of a moon for light, it was difficult to distinguish between horses and Indians, especially when they were adept at straddling an animal, clinging to the mane and dropping over the side so as to be undetectable.
Caleb leaped on Bucephalus, clutched his mane with one hand and prodded him forward. In the distance he could barely make out a group of eight horses slowly detaching from the herd. He galloped after them as they began moving more swiftly toward a nearby hill. To his right he noticed one of his cavalrymen. “Follow me!” he shouted. They charged into the open prairie fifty yards or so from the group of stolen horses. The Indians, slowed by the horses they were leading, tried to escape. By then a few more mounted cavalrymen had joined the hunt. When they narrowed the gap, Caleb yelled, “Spare the horses, but fire on the riders.”
In the ensuing fray, three cavalry horses broke loose and galloped off, but five still remained in enemy hands. Every time Caleb thought he had a clear aim, the Indians changed direction. Finally he drew a bead on the leader. With one shot, he succeeded in bringing him down. Almost simultaneously, other deafening shots rang out, felling two more thieves. One pinto tore for the hills, its rider bent low.
The remaining horses were rounded up by morning. Thankfully, no cavalry mounts had been lost. The three dead Indians would either teach their fellows a lesson or incite them to retribution. Yet Caleb took no satisfaction in killing. This was a war without rules and little way to distinguish peaceable Indians from their more hostile numbers.
After burying the dead and packing their gear, the troop made its way toward the fort. Even considering the excitement and danger of the night, Caleb, instead of feeling spent, was energized. They had foiled the horse thieves and were headed home at last. The steady rhythm of horses’ hooves and the creak-crack of saddle leather provided accompaniment for the mental exercise of preparing his report for the colonel. Before he knew it, they had crested the rise just beyond the fort. Something clenched within him, and he knew, despite Will Creekmore’s remarks about courting, he had been counting the hours until he would see Lily again. As they trotted into the fort, it was all he
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