Free Trumpet on the Land by Terry C. Johnston Page A

means, sir!”
    Stanton stood, dusting the back of his wool britches. “When do you want us to detach, General?”
    Carr turned to Keyes. “When can you have C Troop ready, Lieutenant?”
    â€œHalf an hour, sir.”
    â€œMake it fifteen minutes, Lieutenant.”
    Keyes saluted and was gone, trotting off toward the horses tethered nearby.
    Carr turned back to Stanton, but for a moment his eyes connected with King’s meaningfully. “I’m giving you Little Bat as guide. White will stay with me. Gentlemen, it is crucial that you reach the Cheyenne River as quickly as possible. Sheridan wired down from Red Cloud that the warrior bands are abandoning the agency en masse. I need you on the Cheyenne, and I need you there as fast as you can cover that ground.”
    â€œUnderstood, General,” Stanton said, tapping the sawed-off blunderbuss of a rifle he carried on a sling looped over his left shoulder.
    Minutes later, as King stood in a narrow patch of noonday shade tightening his cinch, Carr strode over. The lieutenant colonel spoke softly, almost fatherly.
    â€œLieutenant—I feel I must warn you: these Indians ofthe plains aren’t like those Apache we fought down in Arizona.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œThese are horse warriors. Nothing against the Apache, but those renegade Chiricahua could move faster on foot in those rugged mountains of theirs than a man on horseback.”
    â€œHow well I remember.”
    â€œYes, of course you do,” Carr replied, glancing at King’s shoulder. “But these Sioux and Cheyenne, Lieutenant—never underestimate them when they climb on the back of a pony. Watch yourself.”
    King slipped the big curb bit back into his horse’s mouth. “I will, General.”
    â€œSee that Keyes doesn’t get rattled, either.”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œAnd by all means—keep the company together. If these horse warriors get the troops scattered in a running fight of it—they’ll eat you alive.”
    Swallowing hard, the lieutenant saluted. “I’ll remember, sir.”
    â€œHave at them, Mr. King. Have at them.”
    Two hours later, having crossed one wide valley after another in that unforgiving country, reaching ridge after naked ridge, Baptiste Garnier finally signaled to halt the column of forty men. King, Stanton, and Keyes came forward on foot to see what the scout had discovered.
    â€œThat’s the first war trail of the campaign,” Thaddeus Stanton cheered, pulling his hat from his head to swipe a damp bandanna across his broad forehead.
    â€œLead on, Mr. Garnier,” Keyes ordered as the group got to their feet there above the troubled, flaky earth where more than a hundred unshod ponies had crossed the bare ground.
    The tracks led straight down the valley. Heading north for the Mini Pusa, the Cheyenne River. C Troop rode on into the afternoon’s waning light. Every hour it seemedmore and more small groups of Indian ponies joined up, uniting with the main band as it continued north.
    While the sun settled off to their left, the lone company noticed a single column of signal smoke climbing into the clear summer sky far to the north in the direction of Pumpkin Buttes. In less than ten minutes another signal column rose off to the west.
    â€œIf that ain’t the damnedest luck,” Stanton growled. “Looks like they know we’re coming.”
    â€œI don’t think it will do them a bit of good to try hitting us, Major,” King advised. He pointed off into the distance. “We’re in open country. Not a tree or bush to hide them sneaking in on us.”
    â€œYou’re right, Lieutenant,” the old workhorse replied. “Absolutely right. Besides—we’re not stopping until we’re at the Cheyenne, fellas.”
    In the lengthening, indigo shadows of twilight, as the breezes stiffened and cooled, King caught sight of Little Bat