swinging on his heel, nearly catching the trailing saber on the leg of the desk. As he reached the door of the tent, Menges called him back.
'Crow.'
'Sir?'
'I'll also say this to you, in front of this witness and not in your damned orders.'
'Go ahead.'
The Captain stood up, thrusting his face close to Crow so that the taller man could smell the stink of his sweat and the sweet scent of whisky on his breath. There was so much hatred in Menges that Crow almost expected it to burst through the flushed skin like wriggling white worms.
'You're goin' to die, Crow. Like that slut of a wife will die. She might get to live a little while the bucks have their way with her, but in the end they'll kill her.'
'If they get her back to the camp they'll probably let her live. It's only white women taken in a raid and killed on the spot that suffer. The Sioux and lots of tribes have kept white women for years without harming them.'
'Yeah. Indian-lover like you would say that. I guess that they'll kill her. Shame there's nobody here but Simpson to hear this, ain't it, Mister Crow? But don't worry on it. I figure you'll be buzzard-meat before this day's out and not a damned thing you can do about it. Refuse and I'll have you shot. Obey and they'll cut you apart while I watch. And there isn't a move you can make.'
'Is that all?'
'Yeah.' Menges laughed.
Without another word Crow left him.
* * *
An hour later they were all on the trail Crow had thought out a plan that might work but it depended on so many factors that he didn't bother passing it on to anyone else. The biggest factor of all that he would be depending on was luck.
The troop as they rode out kicked up a great towering cloud of dust from the dry grass of the Dakotas. Crow and his band of ten Troopers led the column, with Menges and the main body of men a couple of hundred paces behind.
And a quarter of a mile back from them came Lieutenant Kemp with the supply wagon and the wounded. Sergeant McLaglen refused to ride with the sick and maimed and insisted on straddling a huge bay mare, his injured arm bandaged to his side.
They twice saw Indian scouts on the horizon, appearing briefly like shimmering phantoms from the heat-haze and then vanishing. Whatever else happened, nobody could doubt that Crazy Horse was going to be able to pick the time and the place when he finally committed his warriors to the attack.
When they were ten miles from their camp-site, Menges sent a galloper spurring forwards to tell Crow to press on with his men while the remainder of the column rested up for an hour.
The dark, deep-set eyes never altered, and the mouth remained a thin slash across the pale face. Crow nodded to acknowledge the order and spurred on forwards, followed by his ten soldiers. Cantwell and Stotter were the first pair in the double columns with Trooper Baxter in the second file.
For the first quarter mile nobody spoke, the shadow of the brooding Captain Menges seeming to spread out across them, over the sun-baked grass and rolling hills.
Then Trooper Baxter called out to Crow.
'Permission to sing, Sir?'
Despite the rules of the commanding officer, Crow knew damned well that the Indians would have seen them leave their camp site and would have shadowed them all the way. Would know where they were going. If he knew anything about Crazy Horse, the wily leader would even have guessed from the splitting of the command what Menges was planning.
'Sure. Give us something sweet and low, Trooper.'
'Somethin' my Ma taught me back at White River Junction, Sir? Gospel Song?'
'Sure. Go ahead. But keep your eyes skinned for an ambush. That means all of you.'
His voice clear and high in the afternoon heat, Baxter sang out the popular old hymn,
We Shall Gather At The River.
The rest of the patrol joining in with him on the chorus. Far away from Menges and his menace, even Crow found his lips moving to the words.
'Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we all our burdens down,
Raise
'Crow.'
'Sir?'
'I'll also say this to you, in front of this witness and not in your damned orders.'
'Go ahead.'
The Captain stood up, thrusting his face close to Crow so that the taller man could smell the stink of his sweat and the sweet scent of whisky on his breath. There was so much hatred in Menges that Crow almost expected it to burst through the flushed skin like wriggling white worms.
'You're goin' to die, Crow. Like that slut of a wife will die. She might get to live a little while the bucks have their way with her, but in the end they'll kill her.'
'If they get her back to the camp they'll probably let her live. It's only white women taken in a raid and killed on the spot that suffer. The Sioux and lots of tribes have kept white women for years without harming them.'
'Yeah. Indian-lover like you would say that. I guess that they'll kill her. Shame there's nobody here but Simpson to hear this, ain't it, Mister Crow? But don't worry on it. I figure you'll be buzzard-meat before this day's out and not a damned thing you can do about it. Refuse and I'll have you shot. Obey and they'll cut you apart while I watch. And there isn't a move you can make.'
'Is that all?'
'Yeah.' Menges laughed.
Without another word Crow left him.
* * *
An hour later they were all on the trail Crow had thought out a plan that might work but it depended on so many factors that he didn't bother passing it on to anyone else. The biggest factor of all that he would be depending on was luck.
The troop as they rode out kicked up a great towering cloud of dust from the dry grass of the Dakotas. Crow and his band of ten Troopers led the column, with Menges and the main body of men a couple of hundred paces behind.
And a quarter of a mile back from them came Lieutenant Kemp with the supply wagon and the wounded. Sergeant McLaglen refused to ride with the sick and maimed and insisted on straddling a huge bay mare, his injured arm bandaged to his side.
They twice saw Indian scouts on the horizon, appearing briefly like shimmering phantoms from the heat-haze and then vanishing. Whatever else happened, nobody could doubt that Crazy Horse was going to be able to pick the time and the place when he finally committed his warriors to the attack.
When they were ten miles from their camp-site, Menges sent a galloper spurring forwards to tell Crow to press on with his men while the remainder of the column rested up for an hour.
The dark, deep-set eyes never altered, and the mouth remained a thin slash across the pale face. Crow nodded to acknowledge the order and spurred on forwards, followed by his ten soldiers. Cantwell and Stotter were the first pair in the double columns with Trooper Baxter in the second file.
For the first quarter mile nobody spoke, the shadow of the brooding Captain Menges seeming to spread out across them, over the sun-baked grass and rolling hills.
Then Trooper Baxter called out to Crow.
'Permission to sing, Sir?'
Despite the rules of the commanding officer, Crow knew damned well that the Indians would have seen them leave their camp site and would have shadowed them all the way. Would know where they were going. If he knew anything about Crazy Horse, the wily leader would even have guessed from the splitting of the command what Menges was planning.
'Sure. Give us something sweet and low, Trooper.'
'Somethin' my Ma taught me back at White River Junction, Sir? Gospel Song?'
'Sure. Go ahead. But keep your eyes skinned for an ambush. That means all of you.'
His voice clear and high in the afternoon heat, Baxter sang out the popular old hymn,
We Shall Gather At The River.
The rest of the patrol joining in with him on the chorus. Far away from Menges and his menace, even Crow found his lips moving to the words.
'Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we all our burdens down,
Raise
Similar Books
