Trouble Trail (14 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘WADE!’ Never would Calamity forget the sound of Molly’s voice as the wagon came to a halt outside the circle in the early light of the dawn. Nor the sight of the sedate, modest little schoolteacher springing from her uncle’s Conestoga and running forward clad only in a flimsy nightdress which did not conceal as well as the more conventional flannel bedwear what lay underneath.

The explosion had woken the camp and people peered from their wagons, then started to climb out and make their way towards Calamity’s party. Molly, oblivious of everything except that her beloved Wade had come back to her, flung her arms around the captain’s neck and kissed him. Nobody could blame Bigelow for grabbing a good double armful of his sweetheart and kissing her back.

‘All right, folks,’ Calamity snapped as people began to gather and stare at the lovers. ‘Let’s get back to our wagons, shall we?’

Her orders received backing from Resin and Muldoon, both of whom could turn a blistering phrase when needed and were used to enforcing their will on other folk. While the men held back the crowd, Calamity managed to separate the lovers and haze Molly back to the wagon with orders to get dressed afore she started every man on the train going love-sick.

Not until some time later did Calamity remember her own appearance. She had headed for Killem’s fire and noticed the way the men glanced down at her feet, as she thought, and grinned broadly.

‘As a fashion I can’t see it ever catching on,’ said Eileen’s voice from the wagon.

‘Huh?’ Calamity grunted.

‘The new style pants.’

Looking down, Calamity realised that she still wore the legless levis and for once in her life felt embarrassed. With an angry, squealing blanket curse at the grinning men, she dashed to the wagon and changed into a more conventional—Calamity’s own convention, that is—pair of pants.

Over breakfast Resin told the wagonmaster, Killem and Grade what had happened at the Cheyenne camp.

‘Get your boys out to take a good look ‘round,’ the scout suggested. ‘It’s my reckoning that the explosion stampeded the Cheyenne remuda to hell and gone and they’ll not get enough hosses back to come and try to re-take the arms wagon.’

‘Probably,’ Grade agreed. ‘You know, Beau, the colonel at Sherrard’s not going to look too hard at why Wade got himself captured when he hears what you’ve accomplished between you.’

‘That’s likely,’ agreed Resin. ‘Happen Sand Runner had come through with all these arms, he could have set this whole damned territory on fire.’

‘And he was a white man.’

‘Yep.’

‘I’d like to take a look through that book he mentioned,’ Grade said.

‘Wade’s got it, though how in hell he expects to find time to read it and convince Molly he’s all right, I’ll never know.’

Scouts went out and made a thorough search of the area, seeing no sign of the Cheyenne. So the wagon train resumed its journey at the usual hour, carrying on westwards. Eileen sat on the box of Calamity’s wagon, handling the ribbons and allowing the red-head to catch some sleep. With the well-trained team, Eileen found no difficulty in keeping the wagon moving over the gently rolling, open plains through which they travelled.

Along towards noon there came an interruption to the journey.

A shot roared out from behind a rim and Bear Trailer, the interpreting war-bonnet chief rode into sight, his rifle held in peace fashion. Leaving the wagon where he bad been sleeping, Resin borrowed a horse and rode to meet the advancing chief, wondering what had brought the other to the train.

‘Damned Comanche!’ grunted the chief, a twinkle in his eyes that belied his expressionless face. ‘You plenty spoiled Sand Runner’s medicine this time.’

‘You found him then?’

‘All over the camp.’

Neither man spoke for a time, but sat facing each other; hereditary enemies from the days when the white men first began his abuses against the Indian yet each capable of admiring the other as a fighter and a man.

‘Didn’t hurt you, did we?’ asked Resin.

‘A few bruises, nothing more,’ answered the chief and reached behind him to pull something from his waistbelt. ‘Reckon maybe you’d want this.’

For once in his life the taciturn, unemotional scout almost let out a whoop of joy as he stared at the object in Bear Trailer’s hand. Only a thousand Ames knives had been made and were issued to the 3rd Cavalry back in the days when they went under the name of the Regiment of Mounted Riflemen, Resin had obtained his from a dead trooper at the Battle of Shilo during the War Between the States, taken a fancy to its heft and balance and retained it. One grew used to a good knife and Resin thought his Ames to be gone for ever and irreplaceable as the company no longer existed. Yet there the knife lay, in Bear Trailer’s hand, its hilt pointing towards him.

‘You treated me with honour,
Tshaoh
,’ the chief said. ‘I bring your knife.’

‘My thanks, Bear Trailer,’ said the scout, taking and sheathing the knife. ‘What do you do now?’

‘Go back to our people. The men have no wish for war and we must think of the future. Goodbye,
Tshaoh
, one called Bear Trailer will not forget you.’

‘Ride warily, brother,’ Resin answered and took out his filled tobacco pouch. ‘May the smoke remind you of me.’

With that the two men parted. Maybe the next time they met one or the other would die, but that did not mean they would ever lose their respect for a bold, noble, fighting man.

Although Bigelow listened to Grade and Eileen telling him he had nothing to fear, each mile he came nearer to Fort Sherrard the more he thought of thç court of inquiry he must face. It was all very well for Grade and Eileen to say the colonel would overlook his capture and think only of the death of the renegade, recovery of arms and ending of a major raiding party of hostile Cheyenne. Neither of them gave a thought to the fact that Bigelow belonged to the Quartermaster Corps and had hoped to obtain a transfer to the cavalry regiment at Sherrard. No colonel would willingly take an officer stupid enough to let himself be captured by the Indians.

Then one day the fort came into sight. A cavalry escort had come out the previous day and a rider returned with Bigelow’s full report. It also took a letter from Eileen to her husband and a second from the young lady to the colonel. The results of Eileen’s letters showed when the train pulled in at just before noon.

‘Captain Bigelow?’ said the officer of the day. ‘The colonel presents his compliments, and asks you to dine with him. The court of inquiry into your report will be held at three o’clock.’

‘Well, Molly,’ Bigelow said, taking the girl’s hands in his. ‘We’ll know by four whether your husband is still in employment or not.’

‘You won’t be my husband until five,’ she replied. ‘And I don’t care which way things go, as long as we’re together.’

‘We’ll be that. Here’s Eileen and her husband now.’

Captain Tradle, tall, handsome and more masterful than Eileen could ever remember, exchanged salutes with Bigelow and grinned. ‘You’re a blasted nuisance, Wade, why didn’t you hold back your report for a few days, Eileen and I were going—deer-hunting—for a three-day pass and now we’ve got to wait until after the court of inquiry. Congratulations, we’ve been after that renegade for some time now, and expecting Sand Runner to blow the whole territory apart and you’ve nailed them both. Come on. we’re all invited to dine with the colonel and his wife looks disapproving if her guests don’t arrive promptly.’

‘Is Calamity coming?’ Molly asked Eileen as they walked off together.

‘She excused herself,’ Eileen explained. ‘Said she was so damned scared at having to go witness at the court of inquiry that she daren’t come.’

For a scared girl Calamity looked mighty cool, calm and collected as she sat at the long table and faced the board of officers assigned to investigate Bigelow’s report. There was none of the awe-inspiring ceremonial seriousness of a court martial, the officers did not wear their best parade dress but sat in their working clothes, and the evidence was not given on oath. Anyhow, Calamity had never been a girl unduly worried by atmosphere. So she gave her evidence in a clear voice that bore the ring of pure, driven truth.

‘So you say that you and Miss Johnson went for a joy-ride while the men skinned out and dressed the buffalo,’ said the major in command after hearing the girl’s ‘truthful’ account of the incident, ‘and that Captain Bigelow came after you, then sacrificed himself to prevent the Cheyenne finding you.’

‘Yep!’ she replied, meeting his eye without flinching.

‘That is not what Captain Bigelow told us.’

‘Likely. He’s an officer and a gentleman, so wouldn’t want to show a couple of gals as having made a damned fool mistake. Nor would any of you!’

Grins flickered on to at least three faces and Captain Tradle went so far as to give Calamity a quick wink. However, one of the board of officers had to be a green young shavetail second-lieutenant on his first court of inquiry and full of remembrance o lectures on court procedure received at West Point. Being more inclined than the others to treat the matter seriously—after all, they were cavalry officers dealing with a mere shiny-butt—he did not smile.

‘Would Miss Canary give the same evidence under oath?’ he asked.

Grins died away and frowns took their place, promising extra officer-of-the-day and other onerous duties in the near future.

‘There is no need to go into extremes. Mr. Bolroyd,’ the major growled. ‘I accept Miss Canary’s st—evidence.’

Even a green shavetail with the mud of West Point hardly worn from his boots knew better than argue with a major, especially one holding the brevet rank of brigadier-general and next in line for command of their mutual regiment.

‘Yes, sir,’ Bolroyd said.

Taking up Bigelow’s report in one hand, the major extracted a pipe from his blouse, thrust its stem into his mouth and produced a match which he lit on his trousers seat.

‘Our friend Sand Runner appears to have made a fair profit over the past two years, according to his bank-book, but it gives no clue to his real identity. I think we will leave the disposal of his ill-gotten gains to the Adjutant-General’s department.’

While speaking, the major accidentally allowed the light of his match to come into contact with Bigelow’s neatly-written report. Even as the paper took fire, Tradle threw over his chair and came to his feet. First he rammed his elbow hard into the eager young Bolroyd’s ribs and staggered the young gentleman to one side; then, to make further sure of the safety of the report, grabbed at and knocked over the water jug.

‘That was clumsy of me,’ said Captain Tradle. ‘I’m afraid your report’s gone, Wade.’

‘The moral of which, gentlemen,’ the major went on, ‘is never smoke on duty. Now, I think we can say that no further action need be taken against Captain Bigelow and that he acted in the finest traditions of the U.S. Cavalry. I would also suggest that when he re-submits his report, he keeps it to matters of military interest, such as the death of the renegade and Sand Runner, the capture of the arms wagon and the disbanding of the Cheyenne war band. Anything else smacks of self-advertisement and I object to any officer assigned or transferred to my command acting in such a manner.’ He paused and ground the ashes of the report to powder under his thumb, then took out his watch. ‘Gentlemen, the time is four o’clock and I have it on good authority that my wife and Mrs. Tradle plan to give us all hell if we make Captain Bigelow’s wedding start late. Dismissed.’

Outside the building used for the court Bigelow left his fellow officers and walked up to Calamity.

‘Calam,’ he said. ‘I’ve never kissed a bare-faced liar before. But I aim to right now.’

‘Then get to kissing afore either Beau or Molly gets here,’ Calamity challenged, and much to her surprise he scooped her in his arms and gave her a kiss.

‘Now get the hell to the colonel’s house. Molly’s got a surprise for you,’ Bigelow ordered when he released the girl.

Which proved to be one hell of an understatement as Calamity discovered on entering an upstairs room of the colonel’s house. She found herself surrounded by Molly, Eileen, Russian Olga and Mrs. Bloom and something told her she was not going to like what they had in mind. Her eyes went to a white dress lying on the bed, it looked a mite too large for M—

‘Oh no!’ Calamity yelped.

‘Oh yes,’ Eileen replied, rolling up her sleeves in a determined manner. ‘We’ve decided you’re going to be a bridesmaid. Do you put on the dress, or do we do it the hard way?’

Seeing the grim determination on each face, Calamity had the good sense to yell ‘calf rope.’ So it came about that, looking all sweet, innocent and virginal in a white gown, Calamity joined Eileen as bridesmaid and matron-of-honour at the wedding of Miss Molly Amelia Johnson and Captain Wade H. Bigelow, recently, very recently, transferred to the 6th U.S. Cavalry. If anybody noticed that a pair of Indian moccasins hid under Calamity’s gown, they did not mention the fact. There were some sacrifices Calamity refused to make.

Being its first ever wedding, Fort Sherrard set out to celebrate it in style and make sure it be an event never forgotten. There was entertainment, dancing, all the liquor anybody, even the mighty Muldoon, could handle and a good time was had by all. However, the bride and groom disappeared before midnight—and who can blame them. Roughly at the same time Captain and Mrs. Tradle left to start a three-day deer-hunting trip based on the cabin which would be their home while at Sherrard. Two other noticeable absentees being a lady freighter called Martha Jane Canary and a bone-tough plains Scout by name Beauregard Chesley Ryan Resin.

At nine o’clock the following morning Mrs. Tradle, Mrs. Bigelow and Miss Canary gathered in Eileen’s new home’s dining-room for breakfast.

‘It was wonderful,’ Molly breathed, sinking into a chair with a blissful sigh.

‘It sure was,’ agreed Eileen, dreamy-eyed at the thought of two more days of—deer-hunting.

‘Yep,’ Calamity finished. ‘If the good Lord made men for anything better, he kept it to himself. Not that I’d know about it, of course.’