“How’s he doing, Wilson?” Gustaffson asked the trooper. The man was older than the usual cavalry private. His weathered face and iron-gray hair put him at least in his forties.
“He’ll be fine, as long as he doesn’t get blood poisoning,” Trooper Wilson replied. “And I’m doing everything I can to prevent that. The lieutenant was lucky.”
Luckier than the two soldiers lying on the ground with blankets pulled up over their faces, Bo thought. Blood soaked through those blankets in places. Those troopers hadn’t made it.
A couple of other men, one with a bloody bandage around his right thigh and another who had been shot through the hand, were in better shape, certainly better than the two fatalities. Holbrook’s wound appeared to be the least serious of the lot.
The lieutenant winced as Wilson used a carbolic-soaked rag to clean the gash. “Where were you two men?” he demanded of the Texans. “You’re supposed to be helping us! Instead you let those outlaws attack us!”
“If we hadn’t fired those warning shots, the first shots you heard would have been the ones that killed all your pickets,” Bo said bluntly. “And then the Devils would have riddled all the tents before your men could even crawl out of their blankets. They had plenty of light to aim by, after all, with those fires still burning.”
Holbrook flushed angrily, which at least got a little color back into his face. “This was our first night out here,” he said. “I didn’t think the Devils would attack us yet—”
“I don’t reckon they saw any reason to waste time,” Scratch said. “They didn’t like the idea of havin’ a cavalry patrol out here huntin’ ’em.”
“They’ll soon learn they can’t get away with ambushing the United States Cavalry,” Holbrook snapped. “Sergeant, did we suffer any other casualties?”
“A few nicks,” Gustaffson answered. “Nothing the men can’t tend to themselves.”
“Very well.” Holbrook flinched again, this time as Trooper Wilson bound a dressing in place around his arm, and went on. “Organize a burial detail. We’ll lay Troopers Rutherford and Bennett to rest first thing in the morning. Assign one of the uninjured men to accompany Mitchell and Stoneham back to Deadwood.”
The man who had been shot through the hand spoke up, saying, “Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant, but I don’t have to go back. I can ride just fine, so I should stay with the patrol.”
“You may be able to ride,” Holbrook said, “but you can’t handle a rifle one-handed, Stoneham. You’re going back.”
“I’ll see to it, Lieutenant,” Gustaffson said before the young soldier could protest again.
Holbrook nodded. “Excellent. The rest of us will continue searching for the enemy.”
“What about you, sir? You’re injured, too.”
Holbrook’s face hardened. “I said, the rest of us will continue searching for the enemy. That’s exactly what I meant, Sergeant. Tell the men we’ll be leaving as soon as it’s light enough to follow a trail.” He frowned at Bo and Scratch. “That is, if our scouts think they’ll be able to pick up the trail of the men who ambushed us.”
Bo could tell that Scratch was about to make some angry response, and he couldn’t blame his old friend for feeling that way. The lieutenant was making it sound like they were somehow responsible for what had happened, when the truth was it had been Holbrook who had ordered those big fires built. Chances were, things would have been a lot worse if the Texans hadn’t done what they did.
But Holbrook was in no mood to listen to that, Bo knew. To keep Scratch’s hot temper from annoying the officer any further, Bo said quickly, “We’ll be ready, Lieutenant. The Devils may have overplayed their hand this time. Could be they’ll lead us right to their hideout.”
CHAPTER 18
When Bo got around to checking his watch, he saw that it was only an hour or so until dawn. No point in trying to go back to sleep now, he decided, and Scratch felt the same way, so they walked back to the trees where they had been camped earlier and fetched their horses to the main camp. The animals were unharmed, as Bo had hoped.
It was unlikely the Devils would come calling again tonight, and if they did, all the troopers were alert and on edge after the attack. They wouldn’t be surprised a second time.
As a cold gray light appeared in the sky, Bo saw that more clouds had moved in. The wind picked up, blowing harder. Scratch gazed at the thick overcast and said, “Looks like we might be in for a blue norther.”
“I don’t think they call them that up here in Dakota Territory,” Bo said.
“Well, whatever they call it, could be some rough weather on the way.” Scratch looked over at Bo. “Say, what’s the date?”
Bo pondered that for a moment, then said, “The twenty-fourth, I think.”
“Son of a gun. Tomorrow’s Thanksgivin’. No turkey feast for us, I reckon.” Scratch shook his head. “Although with that wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant in charge, I reckon I’ll be plenty thankful if we’re still alive tomorrow.”
Bo couldn’t argue with that.
He and Scratch rode over to the trees where the Devils had hidden to launch their ambush, and they had a look around. There wasn’t much to see, just some empty shell casings littering the ground. Any wounded outlaws had been taken with the rest of the gang. The Texans dismounted and walked the same direction the outlaws had fled the night before. Scratch pointed out some broken branches and rocks that had been turned over.
“They were in too big a hurry to cover their tracks,” he said. “If we’re lucky, maybe they were that careless all the way back to their hideout.”
Bo grunted. He didn’t think that was too likely.
They found the spot where the outlaws had left their horses. Hoofprints led away from there, following the ridge to the southwest. Of course, there really wasn’t anywhere else for the gang to go. The walls of the gulches on both sides of the ridge were too steep for the horses to handle in all but a few places.
By the time the Texans returned to camp, the two troopers who were killed in the ambush had been buried, and Gustaffson was getting the men ready to ride. Lieutenant Holbrook came up to meet Bo and Scratch. He wore his left arm in a black silk sling that Trooper Wilson had rigged.
“Did you find the trail?” Holbrook demanded.
Bo nodded. “It won’t be much trouble to follow.”
“Good! I’d like to catch up to those outlaws and deal with them today, if possible. There’s no need to give them another chance to ambush us tonight.”
“Now that I agree with, Lieutenant. Are you sure you’ll be able to handle the ride?”
“What should I do?” Holbrook snapped. “Go back to Deadwood with my tail between my legs and leave the patrol under the command of Sergeant Gustaffson and a couple of civilians?”
“Well—” Scratch began.
“We just don’t want you to get blood poisoning, like Trooper Wilson warned you about,” Bo cut in.
“I’m fine.” Holbrook made a curt gesture with his right hand. “Let’s get on the trail of those thieves and killers.”
The sky had lightened a little more, but the clouds were so thick Bo figured the heavens would remain gloomy and overcast the rest of the day.
Sergeant Gustaffson must have felt the same way. As the patrol proceeded along the ridge, the non-com brought his horse up beside Bo’s and said, “That sky looks so threatening I expect old Odin to part the clouds at any minute and glare down at us with his one good eye as he pronounces judgment on us. He’ll have all the rest of those grim, gray gods with him.”