picket line close in. Establish the guard posts at once.”
Again he checked the country around. There was a good field of fire on three sides and, except for the small ravine, no available cover for at least a hundred yards in that direction.
“Corporal Hessler,” he directed, “when the horses have been watered for the second time, I want that brush dumped into the ravine. Arrange it so that we cannot be approached up that ravine without a disturbance being created.”
Dr. Hanlon dismounted. “You’re expecting a fight?”
“This is Indian country,” Mellett replied. “I always expect a fight.”
The men of M Troop, who knew their commander, were already busy shaping the camp into a crude but effective temporary fort, dragging a fallen log into position here, throwing up a modest breastwork there.
Mellett’s rules were few but definite. Every camp a defensive position, all cookfires out before twilight, all horses picketed close in by sundown, each camp chosen not so much for their own comfort as to deprive an enemy of cover or concealment.
Captain Mellett had fought the Sioux and the Cheyenne, the Arapaho, Kiowa, and Comanche, the Nez Percé, and the Apache, and he knew what an Indian was like. The Indian he knew was a wily and dangerous warrior, a first-class fighting man who had his own set of rules and his own ideas of bravery.
As the camp was settling down for the night, Dr. Hanlon commented over coffee, “We’ve seen no Indians.”
Mellett took out a cigar and lit it. “I never like to argue with my superiors, and Webb knows this business as well as I do, but at a time like this, with Buffalo Horn out, I think he had too small a force for a patrol.”
“You think he’s in trouble?”
“I doubt it, but it’s taking a chance, Cart. You know that yourself. Oh, I’m not particularly worried about Buffalo Horn. The last we heard, he’s away up north and west from here…he’s Harney’s problem. But there’s something else in the wind, and I don’t like the smell of it.
“Jim Webb knew that when he was sent up here from Halleck. We’ve had no burned ranches, no settlers killed in this area, though there’s been a lot of it over west. That argues that somebody is keeping them from it, and the question is—why?”
“They may be taking a spoke from Washakie’s wheel. He’s avoided any sign of trouble with the whites.”
“I know. This is something else, because those Indians south and east of here have turned mean. Mean, but quiet, and that’s not their way. Webb’s theory is that somebody who carries a lot of weight with them is holding them back for something really big.”
“What, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know.” Mellett looked at his cigar tip. “Just the same, I’m glad that K Troop is back there at the post with Paddock.”
“A drunk.”
“Basically a good soldier, Cart. He’s been drinking, I’ll allow, but the man knows the way of things, and when the chips are down, he knows what to do.”
“Did you know Kilrone?”
“Served with him. He never went by the book, but he was good. Maybe the best I ever served with, unless it was Paddock himself.
“We used to talk about Indians, and believe me, nobody ever knew them better than Kilrone. He said something once that I’ve never forgotten. We’d been talking about the way the Mongols banded together under one man after all their tribal wars, and swept over most of Asia and part of Europe.
“Kilrone commented, ‘You can just thank the Good Lord that the Indian never developed such a man.’ His theory was that the only thing that saved us from being swept away was the fact that the tribal thinking of the Indian kept them from uniting.
“Suppose Tecumseh—and he had the idea—had been able to weld the tribes together under some such leader as Crazy Horse or Chief Joseph? We’ve never whipped a well-armed Indian force, you know. They never had as many rifles as they needed, and never enough
Again he checked the country around. There was a good field of fire on three sides and, except for the small ravine, no available cover for at least a hundred yards in that direction.
“Corporal Hessler,” he directed, “when the horses have been watered for the second time, I want that brush dumped into the ravine. Arrange it so that we cannot be approached up that ravine without a disturbance being created.”
Dr. Hanlon dismounted. “You’re expecting a fight?”
“This is Indian country,” Mellett replied. “I always expect a fight.”
The men of M Troop, who knew their commander, were already busy shaping the camp into a crude but effective temporary fort, dragging a fallen log into position here, throwing up a modest breastwork there.
Mellett’s rules were few but definite. Every camp a defensive position, all cookfires out before twilight, all horses picketed close in by sundown, each camp chosen not so much for their own comfort as to deprive an enemy of cover or concealment.
Captain Mellett had fought the Sioux and the Cheyenne, the Arapaho, Kiowa, and Comanche, the Nez Percé, and the Apache, and he knew what an Indian was like. The Indian he knew was a wily and dangerous warrior, a first-class fighting man who had his own set of rules and his own ideas of bravery.
As the camp was settling down for the night, Dr. Hanlon commented over coffee, “We’ve seen no Indians.”
Mellett took out a cigar and lit it. “I never like to argue with my superiors, and Webb knows this business as well as I do, but at a time like this, with Buffalo Horn out, I think he had too small a force for a patrol.”
“You think he’s in trouble?”
“I doubt it, but it’s taking a chance, Cart. You know that yourself. Oh, I’m not particularly worried about Buffalo Horn. The last we heard, he’s away up north and west from here…he’s Harney’s problem. But there’s something else in the wind, and I don’t like the smell of it.
“Jim Webb knew that when he was sent up here from Halleck. We’ve had no burned ranches, no settlers killed in this area, though there’s been a lot of it over west. That argues that somebody is keeping them from it, and the question is—why?”
“They may be taking a spoke from Washakie’s wheel. He’s avoided any sign of trouble with the whites.”
“I know. This is something else, because those Indians south and east of here have turned mean. Mean, but quiet, and that’s not their way. Webb’s theory is that somebody who carries a lot of weight with them is holding them back for something really big.”
“What, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know.” Mellett looked at his cigar tip. “Just the same, I’m glad that K Troop is back there at the post with Paddock.”
“A drunk.”
“Basically a good soldier, Cart. He’s been drinking, I’ll allow, but the man knows the way of things, and when the chips are down, he knows what to do.”
“Did you know Kilrone?”
“Served with him. He never went by the book, but he was good. Maybe the best I ever served with, unless it was Paddock himself.
“We used to talk about Indians, and believe me, nobody ever knew them better than Kilrone. He said something once that I’ve never forgotten. We’d been talking about the way the Mongols banded together under one man after all their tribal wars, and swept over most of Asia and part of Europe.
“Kilrone commented, ‘You can just thank the Good Lord that the Indian never developed such a man.’ His theory was that the only thing that saved us from being swept away was the fact that the tribal thinking of the Indian kept them from uniting.
“Suppose Tecumseh—and he had the idea—had been able to weld the tribes together under some such leader as Crazy Horse or Chief Joseph? We’ve never whipped a well-armed Indian force, you know. They never had as many rifles as they needed, and never enough
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