Free Kiowa Vengeance by Ford Fargo Page A

at
Casto Haston’s tannery. Seen ‘em a couple of different times.
Culley carried this rifle—he done the shootin’, and Les done the
skinnin’.”
    Captain Dent walked over and looked at the
stock. A crude B was carved into the metal patchbox.
    “ B for Bartlett,” Dent said. “Makes
sense.”
    Charley shrugged. “I never learned to read
sign in books, so I wouldn’t know.”
    “Well, you can read sign on the land
better’n anybody I ever seen,” Amos said. “So don’t let that bother
you none. They’s lots of us don’t know how to read and write, we
still get along.”
    Charley regarded the rangy Tennessean as the
man took off his hat and ran fingers through thin, black hair. The
fact that Charley was illiterate actually did not bother the scout
at all, he had merely stated a fact. It was never too late to
learn, if a person was of a mind to, but the Seminole saw little
need—Amos was right, he managed fine without it. Charley chose not
to correct the man, though, for he knew the trooper had good
intentions. He and Amos had seen the elephant together more than
once; he was a good soldier, and Charley respected him. It didn’t
hurt that, as an East Tennessean, Amos had been a good Union man in
the war. Charley flashed him a smile much different than the one he
had given Klein earlier.
    “I reckon you right,” Charley told Amos. “We
get along just fine.” He realized now that it was Amos who was
ashamed of his own illiteracy, and was trying not to show it.
Charley looked at the darkening sky. “But even I can’t read sign in
the dark,” he said.
    Dent nodded. “We may as well make camp
here.”
    Sergeant Nagy scowled. “Dere’s several
families hereabouts,” he said. “I hate to t’ink how many farms dem
savages might still come across.”
    “They’re a good ways ahead of us still,”
Charley said, “so any places for the next several miles have most
likely already been attacked, and there’s nothing we can do for
‘em. But the Kiowas won’t attack anybody tonight, not without any
moon. They won’t be travelin’, neither. We’ll just have to hit
their trail hard come daylight.”
    Nagy grumbled. “I know, you’re right,” he
said. “I just hate it, dat’s all.”
    “We’ll use what little light we have left to
get started burying these civilians,” Dent said. “We’ll make a dry
camp. We couldn’t risk a fire, even if there was anything around
here to burn.”
    “I bet dem Injuns has found t’ings to burn,”
Nagy said, then sighed. “Pittman! Cash!” he barked. “Grab your
spades. Dese men was partners, I don’t guess dey’ll mind sharin’ a
hole.”
    ****
    Once the burying was done, they spread
bedrolls and sat for awhile in the darkness. Their eyes slowly
adjusted to the dim starlight.
    “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like what we
seen today,” Trooper Pittman said softly. He was a stout young man
from Ohio, short but powerful looking.
    “I wish I could say you get used to it,
lad,” Corporal Sligo said in his Irish lilt. “But ye never do.”
    Nagy grunted. “I been fightin’ my whole
life, boys,” he said. “Mostly Italians and Poles, and damned
Austrians—when dey put down my people’s revolution in ’forty-eight,
I left Hungary and came here. Fought Comanches and Apaches in
Texas, took a few years off to fight Johnny Rebs, and been fightin’
Sioux and Cheyenne since. No, you don’t get used to it, but you
learn to move on and not dwell on it. Dwellin’ on it will get you
killed damn quick, and dat’s gospel troot’.”
    “They cut their peckers off,” Trooper Stacy
said. His voice cracked. “You think—you think they was still
alive?” Stacy’s eyes were wide. He was no older than Pittman.
    Sligo answered him. “I reckon that’s one of
them questions the sarge meant we ought not dwell on, boyo.”
    “I can’t help it.”
    “Maybe some of ‘em was alive,” Charley said.
“But probably not. The Kiowas are in enemy territory,