Free Kiowa Vengeance by Ford Fargo Page B

trying to
kill as many people as they can. They can’t take time to really do
their worst to them they catch.”
    Charley was stretching the truth, and the
veterans knew it. For one thing, it was hard for even a warrior
with the charisma and prestige of Stone Knife to keep complete
control over his men in the field—it wasn’t the Indian way to take
or give orders, just suggestions. And even when pressed for time, a
skilled and determined warrior could put a world of hurt on a dying
man in his last five or ten minutes of breathing.
    But about half of the soldiers in this troop
were recent replacements, and had never been in the field. They
deserved to know the truth, but they didn’t necessarily need to
know all of it on a night when their life might depend on a decent
sleep.
    “Damned savage animals,” Stacy said. His
voice was a mixture of grief, fury, and terror, and he seemed near
tears. Dent knew that the trooper was at least eighteen years old,
maybe nineteen, but he seemed younger than he had earlier in the
day. The captain felt a twinge of sympathy for his subordinate.
    Charley Blackfeather did not feel any
particular sympathy. Neither of his own sons had lived to see
eighteen summers, but they had both been more seasoned than most of
these soldiers. Charley himself, by the age of eighteen, had been
at war for years.
    “Damn savage animals!” Stacy repeated. He
pounded his fists into his legs. “Filthy Injuns. We ought to kill
them all. Every dirty one, everywhere we find them—men, women and
children. Wipe them out!”
    “We ain’t hard to find,” Charley said,
although not unkindly.
    Angry as he was, it took Stacy a moment to
comprehend Charley’s words.
    “Oh,” he stammered, once the Black
Seminole’s meaning sunk in. “Oh! I didn’t mean you. You’re—well,
hell, Charley, you’re civilized.”
    “You reckon so?”
    Stacy heaved an exasperated sigh. “You know
what I mean. Civilized men don’t do things like we seen today. Just
them dirty savages.”
    “That’s enough, Stacy,” the captain said.
“We all need to keep our heads.”
    “If’n we want to keep our hair,” Amos
interjected.
    Captain Dent flashed an annoyed glance at
Amos, then continued. “Too much anger, too much fear, can cloud
your mind. I’ve seen it more than once.”
    “Yes, sir,” Stacy said sullenly.
    “But he’s right, sir,” Trooper Pittman said.
“We ought to kill all the savages, it would save all this from
happening.” He looked apologetically at Charley. “I mean, you know,
not the civilized ones,” he said.
    “We’ll catch these renegades,” Dent said
firmly. “But we can’t punish every Indian we see after this, for
things they didn’t individually do. That’s what started the present
mess to begin with. Buffalo hunters firing on a Kiowa hunting party
that had a treaty right to be where they were.”
    “Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, sir,” Sligo
said. “But it also didn’t help, that Wolf Creek posse—you was in
that, wasn’t you Charley?—killin’ several Kiowas what attacked them
first. And then that rancher, Ward Sparkman, killin’ several from
the same group—for stealin’ his cattle. I’m surprised they didn’t
ride for his Crown-W ranch, west of here, to get revenge on him for
that.”
    “Sparkman has a small army of cow hands,”
Charley said. “These raiders was goin’ for easier targets.”
    Dent spoke. “The cases you speak of, Sligo,
involve Kiowa combatants. I’m expressing my anxiety that—not only
you boys, but the other troops, when they find out what
happened—may misdirect your anger toward Old Mountain’s village, or
at him if he still comes in to the fort to meet with Colonel Vine
as he promised to do. That would have far-reaching consequences.”
He looked at Stacy and Pittman.
    “Yes, sir,” Stacy repeated, just as sullenly
as the first time. Dent stared at them for a moment, then heaved a
deep sigh.
    “You’re from Pennsylvania, aren’t