River Otter

Chapter 2

Chapter 2An hour later, I spotted the Confederate warriors riding abreast, still at an easy pace. Although I could not hear because of the roar of the rushing river, they appeared to be laughing and talking as if unconcerned by their deadly mission. Were they roostered on white man’s liquor? I put a ridge between us and allowed Patch his head. He broke into a gallop that would put me well ahead of them. Once I was out of sight, I slowed to a canter and moved closer to the riverbank. I didn’t want to miss the trooper if his horse failed him.

I spotted his dead mount on the far shore after another hour, but there was no sign of the rider. I was beginning to wonder if Scar and his men had somehow passed me and caught up with the messenger when I saw him staggering along in the twilight no less than five miles from Yanube City and safety. There was no walk-across at that point, so I was forced to put Patch into a gallop to reach the bridge spanning the river at the outskirts of town. Once on the south bank, I headed east again. With any luck, I would reach the trooper before the Cherokee came upon him.

As soon as I approached him, he reached for his handgun. He had lost his carbine, which was likely pinned beneath his dead mount. Exhausted and uncertain on his feet, he was slow. I brushed past him and tugged the reins, causing Patch’s rump to send him tumbling in the dirt. I was off the horse and had a knee in his back before he had a chance to recover.

“Listen to me. I am Otter from Teacher’s Mead. The Cherokee are on your trail. They’ve found your dead horse by now and will be coming to run you down. I am going to get up now. Do you understand I mean you no harm?”

He nodded mutely and scrambled to his feet when I rose, backing away from me, wild-eyed. He was young and probably inexperienced. I mounted and offered him a hand up. After a moment’s hesitation, he accepted. I pulled him aboard and wheeled Patch, making for the fort.

The dispatch rider got us an audience with the commandant much faster than I would have been able to do. James tried to hide his surprise at seeing me, but that was quickly wiped away as the young trooper came to attention and reported that Fort Ramson was under attack by the Rebels and requested relief. I then added what I knew.

“McComber’s Battalion,” James said to his adjutant, a lieutenant I did not know. “That’s a mounted infantry unit out of Arkansas, I believe. What the devil do they want with Fort Ramson?”

The lieutenant shook his head.

When James looked at me again, I saw he longed for a private moment, but there was no time. “Thank you, Otter, for your aid. This man owes you his life.”

I nodded acknowledgement with a solemn face while my heart lifted at what I had read in his look.

Within minutes, the post came alive. Although night had fallen, James sent a message to Yanube City’s mayor advising him of the situation. After furnishing me with a fresh mount and making arrangements to house Patch until I could return, he turned out the fort, leaving only a single troop to guard the post and the town.

James had less than a full battalion under his command. Many of his units had been ordered back east and the remaining ones were seldom up to strength. The two troops on the move should have represented about two hundred cavalrymen. I doubted they would reach half that number.

I took my leave of James and crossed to the north side of the river over the bridge, trailing two signalmen and two troopers to provide protection for them. James and the rest of his column intended to proceed up the main road on the south side of the Yanube. I pushed my party hard, and we were soon ahead of the battalion. They were some distance behind us by the time we skirted the hills sheltering the Mead. Shortly before dawn, I hailed the house lest Cuthan think he was under attack.

I quickly explained the situation to him and to Mary’s father, Hans Jacobsen. Her brothers, Jacob and Christian, had not yet arrived. They were leading the Jacobsen’s livestock to the Mead in case their farm was attacked. Then I led the four Blue Coats up the easternmost of the three hillocks behind the house.

The wig-wag signalmen chose a bald spot big enough for them to work. I watched in the growing, rose-tinted dawn as they unfurled signal flags and set up their equipment. My curiosity was immediately aroused, but all they had time to tell me was the flags signaled the numerals one through five in pre-arranged groups. A signalman on the receiving end then converted the wags into letters. It was a clever way of communicating over long distances. I had heard some of the southwestern tribes did the same thing with mirrors and bits of metal to reflect the sun.

As the light grew stronger, we could make out the battalion moving on the other side of the river. The officers rested their men on the plains directly south of the Mead. The forced march would have taken a toll, particularly on the animals. They needed time to recover. I feared James would attempt the dangerous river crossing, but he elected to communicate with us by means of signal flags.

When Cuthan joined us on the hill, he told me they had seen no sign of the Cherokee since the foreign Indians crossed the river yesterday. No doubt the warriors had made haste toward Fort Ramson upon discovering their target had eluded them. I had no idea if there had been eyes on me when I picked up the dispatch rider. If so, we could expect retribution.

Cuthan went back down the hill as Jacob and Christian herded their horses and cow into the yard. After the men drove the livestock into the Mead’s large barn, Cuthan appeared indecisive for a moment before walking to his fields in an attempt to make at least some part of this day appear normal.

I remained on the hill to keep watch with the signalmen and their guards. Across the river, the column had settled down to a meal before resuming its march. Two Absaroka—or Crow—scouts struck out eastward. They did not get far. One of the signalmen let out a shout and pointed downriver to a column of men approaching from the east. This was no party of Indian irregulars; it was a military unit in force directly in the path of the Union battalion.

Immediately, the two signalmen conferred to compose a message. I watched, fascinated, as one of them grabbed a pole holding a four-foot black flag with a white square in the center and began waving it continuously back and forth. When he had the attention of the signalmen across the river, he undertook a series of movements that began at the vertical and ended in the same position. It was a laborious procedure, but much less time consuming than sending messages back and forth by horseback.

“He’s alerting the major there’s troops approaching,” a corporal named Nelson explained.

I pointed to the tree line on this side of the river. “Then he ought to also tell him the Cherokee Irregulars are already here.” I turned and called down to Cuthan, who was tilling the near field with Alexander leading the plow horse. John and Rachel Ann followed along behind to break up excessively large clots.

“Get everyone inside. The Cherokee are back, and they have soldiers with them.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to stay with the signalmen. An extra rifle might come in handy. You protect the family.”

“How close are they?”

“Five minutes.”

He immediately took the horse to the barn and locked the building behind him before herding the children toward the house. Hearing little John demand a rifle to shoot the renegades made me smile. The child’s Indian name was War Eagle, our way of calling a golden eagle. With his thick black mop laced with strands of his mother’s yellow hair and his onyx eyes studied with gold flecks and his bold, fearless manner, the boy was well named. In the old days, those traits would have given him powerful medicine.

Christian, a tall, good-looking zjee-zjee near Mary’s age, labored up the hill. A moment later, his older brother, Jacob, joined us. They would help out on the hill while Cuthan and Hans held the house.

The Cherokee went to ground the moment they spied us atop the hill. Despite the approach of the enemy, the signalmen—or at least the one doing the wig-wagging—needed to stand in clear sight of his own men across the river, which put him at risk from enemy fire. But no gunshots came, even though there were furtive movements in the trees below us from time to time.

What would I do if I were Scar? I’d bring up the Confederate soldiers accompanying me and mount a diversionary assault straight up the hill while my warriors and I crept up on the defenders from another front. I looked around. The center hill topped this one by approximately twice my five-nine height. If Scar gained control of that point, he could gun us all down.

“Corporal Nelson, the hill behind us is higher than we are. I’ve met the Cherokee leading those warriors down there. He is a fighting man. He’ll creep up the back side of these hills and take that ground.”

“And we’ll be like ducks without feathers on a smooth pond.”

“Aptly said. I’m going over there.”

“Take Miles with you. The three of us and your friends will stay and fend off the attack from the Rebs from below.” He waved at another man, this one with some years on him. He bore no stripes on his arm, but I saw faint outlines where two had once rested. He’d gotten into a bit of trouble, probably recently.

I collected my soldier and navigated the small depression between the two adjoining hillocks. It was obvious Miles had seen action before; he immediately selected a good position and settled down to wait. I wasted breath telling him what he already knew, but it was important we both saw the situation the same way.

Half an hour went by, and there was still no assault. The soldiers would wait until Scar had time to get into position. I glanced across the Yanube River where James was getting the reduced battalion into a defensive skirmish line, using the rushing river to anchor his left flank. The wig-wag signalman from the battalion was busy with his flag. It was an oddly graceful dance for something so serious.

“Hey, Miles,” the corporal yelled. “Scouts say the Rebs ain’t got no cannon with them, so all we gotta do is hold off the ground troops.”

“That’s a blessing,” the man lying prone nearby remarked sourly.

Still nothing happened, except the approaching Confederates straightened ranks and began marching to the beat of a drum. I’d anticipated a sea of gray, the color of their uniforms, but most seemed to be in work clothes with a few martial touches such as campaign hats or sashes. The officers appeared to be the only ones in full military dress. The column wheeled about and marched south, so that their lines faced the Union soldiers. Shouted orders were barely discernible at this distance, but the troops dismounted and turned their mounts over to others who led them to the rear, eight horses to one tender.

“s**t,” Miles said. “They ain’t cavalry. They’s mounted infantry.” He spat a wad of tobacco and swiped his mouth with a sleeve. “That’s all right, we ain’t much more’n that. Only the officers carry sabers in our outfit.”

“Seems to me a six-shooter’s reach is longer than a saber’s blade.” I said.

“‘That’s the truth, and a carbine’s longer than a handgun. And we tote them both.”

“What do you judge their strength to be?”

“Near to our own. If they come all the way from Ramson, their boys is tireder than ours.”

Our attention had been diverted to the plains south of us. “Well, that battle’s theirs,” I said. “Ours is up here. Keep an eye out. Those Cherokee are close.”

“You can bet on that.”

Just then, a figure rose to the left of Miles. I jerked up my rifle and pulled off a shot, catching the warrior in the throat as he raced to bring his tomahawk down on the soldier’s head. I immediately threw myself to the side and twisted around. A second man popped up from behind the hill and loosed an arrow. It passed through the space I had occupied a moment before. I got off a second shot but wasn’t sure if I hit the man.

I heard sustained firing from the western peak. The signalmen were under attack. That must have been a sign to the Rebs. Fighting broke out on the plains beyond the river.

I rolled to my right and reached the cover of a fallen tree, putting my back to the south. The warriors would have climbed the north side of the hollow hill. I couldn’t see Miles, but he was still with me because I heard the bark of his carbine. With the element of surprise lost, the Cherokee opened with their firearms. Miles kept up a steady stream of curses as he returned fire.

I spied two warriors running at him from the west and shouted a warning. I took out the one in the lead. Miles brought down the second man. Where were Scar and his other red Rebs? The hair on the nape of my neck rose. I whirled to find the Cherokee leader rushing up the slope at me. Abandoning his rifle to fight in the old way, he had worked his way around the hill until he was behind me. With no time to bring my Henry to bear. I dropped it and twisted away. His hatchet lodged in the log I’d used for cover. I rolled into his legs. He went down.

Quick as a snake, he struck my jaw with his elbow, sending my senses flying. Instinctively, I brought my knee up into his groin and kicked him over my head. He must have been in agony, but he got to his feet and faced me, knife in hand. Snarling, he came for me.

He was bigger than I was and faster. I saw no profit in hand-to-hand combat. I feigned a lunge at his legs.

He drew back, expecting me to drop and roll into him again. Instead, I threw myself at the log where my rifle lay abandoned. He caught his balance and leapt at me, knife raised.

I made it to the log, but again I had no time to get off a shot. Instead, I swung the barrel against his head with all the force I could muster. The scar from which he took his name split apart, and blood flowed like a river. He stood transfixed for a moment. Then he shook his head.

As I took aim at his broad chest, a man raced from the forest to aid his companion. I swung around and shot him through the belly. When I turned back to Scar, he was gone. Vanished. I glanced at Miles to ask if he’d seen the Cherokee leave and found a renegade standing over him, pulling a long blade out of his back. I shot that one through the head.

Corporal Nelson and his group still had a battle on their hands, but I wanted Scar. To my mind, he was more devious and dangerous than all the rest. He would not forget or forgive my betrayal and the slaying of his companions. My head was finally clearing, so I got to my feet and began tracking him.

He had fallen when I brought my rifle to bear, probably to evade my shot. I found where he had lost his purchase and rolled part way down the hollow hill. After about twenty feet, he’d struck a sapling and saved himself from sliding farther. From there, the blood trail circled around to the west where he gained the cover of the forest on the backside of the hill.

As I pursued the wounded Cherokee, a bullet slapped into the earth beside me. I ducked and turned to see three Confederate soldiers in the Mead’s yard. Two rifle shots from the house dropped one rebel where he stood and struck another in his leg. The third one hightailed it out of there. Cuthan and Hans were effectively guarding our flank.

I returned to tracking the Cherokee. Spatters of blood made the task easy, even after the man reached the forest. When the blood trail dried up abruptly, my skin crawled. A trap!

The noise he made launching from a tree behind me gave me time to throw myself backwards. He overshot me, but his left foot caught my right shoulder, throwing me hard against the bole of a pine. I lost my grip on the Henry. We both reached the weapon at the same time.

Scar grasped the stock and swung the rifle up in a vicious arc. I evaded the blow and barreled into him, throwing him against a tree trunk and separating him from my rifle. He was hurt, but I didn’t wait to find out how badly. I lunged again, this time with my knife in hand. The blade bit deep. He cried out and rolled away, wrenching the hilt from my hand.

I watched in amazement as he plucked the blade out of his side and pushed himself upright. I lost a precious second gaping at him before scrambling for the rifle. He tried to brush it aside, but my shot tore through the wound I’d made with my knife. He staggered and then came at me again. This time, I shot him through the heart.

As I lay recovering from my exertions, distant gunfire brought me back to the present. A battle was still raging out there. Using the rifle stock as a prop, I levered myself to my feet and made my way to the top of the hollow hill.

The situation there was in hand; the fighting had ended on this side of the river. Corporal Nelson bent over one of the signalmen, who lay sprawled in the dirt. Christian was examining Jacob’s bloody shoulder. The younger brother laughed and rumpled Jacob’s hair. The wound wasn’t serious.

I hailed Nelson, who yelled that the major had sent a squad across the river walk, and they were now chasing the Rebs back downstream. I glanced to the far shore and found the battle had progressed perhaps half a mile to the east.

As weary as I was, I crossed the small valley between the two hills and joined the Jacobsen brothers and the soldiers. The surviving signalman was waving his flag earnestly in that odd wig-wag ballet.

Corporal Nelson took a deep breath. “We whipped them, uh…”

“Otter. I’m Otter. These men are Jacob and Christian Jacobsen, our neighbors.”

“Howdy, gents. Appreciate your help. We whipped them, Otter. The Rebels are in retreat. About all they can do now is fight a rear-guard action to slow the major in relieving Fort Ramson.”

“You mean they’ll battle for the next hundred miles?”

“Off and on. We outfought this bunch pretty bad, so they’ll just try to turn a two-day forced march into a four-day fight, but they don’t have much pluck left. How about the Irregulars?”

“All I saw were six, and there are six dead Cherokee on the hill over there. Miles didn’t make it. One of them knifed him in the back.”

Nelson shook his head. “He was a mean bastard but a good soldier.” The corporal’s eyes came back into focus as he looked at me. “The major sent a signal saying we done a good job. Guess we did too. He’s sending a detail up this side of the river from the fort. They’ll keep a signal post here for the time being. The others will guard them and get rid of the bodies. Clean up your hill some, I guess. Oh, and he said to tell you they’re bringing your horse.”

“Thank you. James…uh, the major said something back at the post. He said he didn’t know why the Confederates would want Fort Ramson.”

“Me, neither. It’s got no strategic value to the Reb cause. Unless they just want to tie some troopers down while they go off and do something sneaky somewhere else. I’m sure Fort Ramson telegraphed for help, so there’ll be reinforcements coming from other places.”

“Unless they cut the lines before they attacked,” Christian said.