Chapter Eleven—The Surprise at Ft. Tyler

     I couldn’t push Ol’ Paint too hard, and we still had to get out of these mountains, but within a couple of hours, we were on more level terrain and I put him into a ground-eating canter that wouldn’t tire him out too quickly. Fort Tyler was a good 50 miles away, and we’d have to stop and rest sometime during the night. From what I could tell, the Indian contingent wasn’t preparing for an immediate assault anywhere, so hopefully, there would be time for the army to do something. But with the size of that Indian force, some extra arrangement would need to be made because Fort Tyler would have no more than 200 troops, if that many.
     I got about halfway and could tell that Ol’ Paint was tuckered out. So I found a good place to camp, with water, and grass for the horses, and I ate a bite and got a few hours sleep.
     I was up and on my way before dawn, and about the time the sun was some 25 degrees above the horizon, I spotted the fort. The gate was open, but I was stopped.
     “Who are you, mister, and what can we do for you?” Not-so-friendly yet friendly.
     “My name is Robert Con-“—and here I coughed, thinking quickly—“Constance. I want to see the commanding officer, if I may.” I had come up with a name for when I finally moved north.
     “What about, if I may ask?”
     “Indians.”
     “Seen any lately?”
     “A passel of ‘em. Let me talk to the commanding officer and I’ll tell him all about it.”
     “Yeah, maybe you should. Let him pass, sentry.”
     It was a typical army fort. High, log walls with lookouts posted on the ramparts, barracks and mess to the right, offices to the left, stables and armory at back, parade ground in the middle with Old Glory unfurled at the top of the flagpole. “I’m Sergeant McCoy, sir,” a burly, sergeant-looking fellow said to me as I dismounted. “We’ll take care of your horses and Colonel Ratliff will see you.” He looked at the pony behind. “Injun, ain’t it.”
     “Yep. And there’s a lot more where that one came from.”
     He led me into the office to the left. An adjutant was sitting behind a desk in the outer office, shuffling papers. A nameplate on his desk read “Major Underwood.” There was a room in back, and the door was open. The colonel’s office, no doubt.
     McCoy saluted and spoke to Underwood. “Major, this man claims to have some information for Colonel Ratliff about some possible Indian activity. Requests to see the Colonel.”
     Underwood looked me up and down and didn’t appear to be terribly impressed. Which was fine, his curly, golden locks and boyish face didn’t impress me, either. But he stood up. “Let me check with Colonel Ratliff.” He disappeared into the back office, I heard some mumbling, and Underwood came out a few moments later and nodded at me. “The Colonel will see you now.”
     “Thank you,” I said, and went to tell my tale of woe.
     Ratliff—whose first name was Benjamin, at least according to the nameplate on his desk—rose to meet me. He was every bit a United States Army colonel, from his white hair to his George Custer beard. His gray eyes examined me closely, but not suspiciously. We shook hands and he said, “Colonel Benjamin Ratliff. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
     He may not have been overly electrified by my appearance, either. I hadn’t had a chance to shave that morning, my hair was doing its best Beethoven imitation, and my clothes were dusty from being on the trail. But he’d no doubt seen worse, too. And probably commanded some of them.
     “My name is Robert Constance, sir.”
     “Please be seated, Mr. Constance. Would you like to have something to drink? You appeared to have ridden hard to get here.”
     “A drink of water would be fine. I try never to get drunk before 10 o’clock in the morning.”
     He gave me a rather disapproving glare on that one, but went over to a table in the corner and poured me a glass of water. As he was doing that, I glanced around the room. Map of the territory on one wall, picture of the president on the other, and a couple of bookshelves and stands with various army manuals, history books, and other knick-knacks of a military nature. A picture of two women on his desk, one older, the other younger; wife and daughter, I supposed.
     The Colonel handed me the glass of water, for which I thanked him, then went back around his desk to sit down. “Now, what’s this I hear about Indians?”
     I shook my head, and said, “You’re going to find this a little hard to believe, Colonel. I thought my eyes were deceiving me as well…” And then I proceeded to tell him just what I saw.
     I was right. His face clearly indicated that he found my narrative incredulous. “Several hundred savages, at least, you say, Nipita, who’ve never been known to gather in such numbers. It is a little hard to believe, Mr. Constance. How did you recognize them as Nipita?” I guess he wanted to make sure I really knew my Indians.
     I told him. His countenance got sterner and he seemed a little more trusting.
     “That certainly describes the apparel and markings of those bands. Just who are you, Mr. Constance, and how is it that you know so much about these Indian groups?”
     That was a little trickier, but I had been thinking of a reasonable answer to that question on my way to the fort. “I was a small rancher northeast of here, near Dry Gulch. Sold out recently and was headed north. I’ve lived in this territory all my life, am familiar with those mountains and Indians. Believe me, Colonel, I was as astounded as you are when I saw that many Nipita together in one camp.”
     He nodded. “I didn’t think there were that many Nipita left and that they were all on reservations now.”
     “Yeah. What I thought, too. But they like to stick to the mountains so they are hard to find and number.”
     He nodded, then leaned back and rocked in his chair, staring at me thoughtfully. “Do you have any idea, Mr. Constance, what those Indians might be gathering for?”
     “No, sir, I don’t, but I seriously doubt they intend to invite you to tea.”
     He gave me a wry smile, that didn’t reach his gray eyes. “No, I’m sure you are correct about that. No women and children you say?”
     “Every one, whom I saw, was a warrior. They could have perhaps had their squaws and little ones in the teepees, but when I saw the 40 or so arrive that I told you about, they were all braves, no women and children among them.”
     “Mr. Constance, if what you say is true—and I don’t mean to question your word here—then this is a most alarming circumstance. We have less than 200 fighting men here, many of whom have never been in an engagement, and the nearest fort to us is 300 miles away. And they don’t have any more seasoned troops than we do. If there are 1,000 Indians in that canyon ready to attack somewhere, we’ll need the whole United States army to turn them back.” He looked at me again, his face hard. “Again, I do not mean to question your integrity, but obviously I would need further verification of this before I could make any move.”
     “I understand that. I’d do the same thing.”
     “Could you find their encampment again?”
     “Yessir, I could.”
     “I’d like to send one of my scouts and have you take him to canyon. I will also send Sergeant McCoy and a small contingent of troops with you for protection.”
     I thought about what he said. “You know, I mentioned that I killed an Indian while I was there. I don’t know if he was a sentinel or not, but if they spot army troops, then they may pack up the whole camp and move to another location.”
     “We could follow their sign to the new camp.”
     “That might take days. And as you know, Indians are awful good at covering their tracks. Even 1,000 of them could do it. Or they could attack wherever they intended while you were running around the mountains trying to find them.”
     Ratliff leaned back in his chair again. “What do you suggest, Mr. Constance?”
     “Just me and your scout. Quick in, a quick count, quick out. We could leave today, be back tomorrow, certainly no later than Monday.” Today was obviously Saturday. “I don’t know when those Indians intend to do whatever naughtiness they have in mind, and it didn’t look like they were fixing to move immediately. But still, with that large a contingent, you’ll need some time to prepare.”
     He nodded. “You’ve had some experience at this, Mr. Constance.” It was a statement, not a question.
     I gave him a half-smile. “I’ve been in the mountains and know what an Indian looks like, Colonel Ratliff.”
     He grunted. Then stood up and went to the door. “Major Underwood, have Wigwam come to my office, on the double.” He came back over to me. “Wigwam McDougall is half-Indian, half-white, and all scout. He’s my best and he’s one of the best in the territory. If he confirms your report, I’ll contact Washington immediately.” He sat down, thoughtfully. “What would they be gathering that size force for? Full-scale attack to drive us out? Possible, I suppose.”
     “They could launch an attack on a nice sized town with that force. A terror tactic that would sure make the news and scare a lot people out of here, and keep many others from coming,” I replied.
     “Yes, that’s true, too.” He stood up and looked at the map. “Let’s see. You say you saw them about right here…”
     I joined him. “Yes, there’s a box canyon there, maybe 3 miles deep, by 300 yards wide.”
     The colonel’s finger traced the map. “Whitewater is the nearest town of any size. Mining town. Then there’s…”
     I stopped him. “Mining town? Whitewater isn’t a mining town. Just farming and ranching.”
     He looked at me. “No, they found some copper deposits in the Turtle Mountains just north of there about 2-3 years back. Been digging for at least a year now, maybe two. Kilmer Mining Company, I believe, is doing the digging. You didn’t know that?”
     “No, haven’t been to Whitewater in years.” I shook my head. “Oh, Lord. There’s your answer, Colonel.”
     “What?”
     I looked at him, a very serious expression on my face. “Turtle Mountain is one of the most sacred mountains in Indian lore. Nearly every tribe venerates it, but especially the Nipita. They will not let it be defaced by white men’s mining operations.” I paused, for effect. “Colonel, get ready for an all-out Indian attack on Whitewater.”
     And one word flashed through my mind…Robin…

     What I had just told Colonel Benjamin Ratliff created a look of extreme consternation on his countenance.
     “That definitely could be it,” he said. “In fact, it most probably is. Why weren’t we told that it’s a sacred mountain to so many Indian tribes?”
     “I don’t know. I’m not sure how many people, even in Whitewater know it. I enjoy Indian folklore, so I was aware of it, and I’m sure many other people, too, but it probably wasn’t much of an issue when Kilmer started digging. Or, more than likely, it was ignored.”
     Ratliff nodded grimly. “Yeah, you’ve probably hit the nail on the head there.”
     We heard someone come into the room and turned. I saw a short, squat man who appeared to be almost as broad as he was tall. He had a square head, long dark hair, dark eyes, dark, Indian complexion, dark everything with a head that sat on his shoulders. A bull or a bulldog, I couldn’t tell which.
     “Wigwam McDougall, Robert Constance,” Ratliff said, introducing us.
     We shook and I wince as Wigwam took my hand in what felt like a vice. He nodded, smiled briefly, then looked at Colonel Ratliff. “Got some work for me, boss?”
     “Mr. Constance here says he saw a massive ingathering of Nipita up in the Santo Colorado Mountains here. Have you heard of any mass movement or war plans among any of the tribes?”
     Wigwam shook his head, and looked at me. “What did you see?”
     “Box canyon, about here…” I pointed on the map. “Hundreds of warriors, and warriors only. Nipita bands, some that never associated with each other. They weren’t making peace pipes, either.”
     “Impossible,” Wigwam said. “Some of those Nipita bands hate each other more than they do Santara or Tilachi. They would kill each other before they banded together to fight the white man.”
     “Even if Turtle Mountain was involved?”
     Wigwam’s eyes narrowed. “What’s Turtle Mountain got to do with it?”
     “Mining being done there for the couple of years or so,” Ratliff said.
     Wigwam’s face now grew ugly. “Fools. I told them not to dig there.”
     “Told whom?” Ratliff asked.
     “The mayor, the town council, the emperor of the universe, I don’t know. I heard rumors a couple years ago that there was some mining company thinking about digging there so I went to Whitewater and tried to convince the town fathers, or whatever you call them, that that was a sacred mountain and that the natives wouldn’t stand for mining there. They told me they’d think about it, but they probably never did. I haven’t been over there in a long time so I didn’t know they had started the digging.”
     “Well, they have,” I said, “and apparently it’s gotten back to the various bands of Nipita. And they appear to be ready to do something about it, hate each other or not.”
     Ratliff said to Wigwam, “I want you and Mr. Constance to go and take another look at the camp. Get as accurate a count as you can, whatever intelligence you can gather, and report back to me as soon as possible. If what Mr. Constance says is true, then we’re going to have to act in a hurry.”
     Wigwam nodded, then said to me, “You ever done any scouting?”
     I made a “kinda-sorta” face. “I know those mountains, and I’ve been around where there’s Indians, and I still have my hair. I don’t think I’ll get you killed.”
     He grunted. “I’ll kill you first if you do.”
     Then a voice from the outer office. “Father! Can I see you a minute?” And into the room, in a rush, came a startling young woman. Medium height, brunette with slightly wavy hair running just below her shoulders, vivid green eyes, sensuous lips, fair skinned, but lightly tanned, and she was holding her skirt up to her ankles as if she had been running.
     She saw Wigwam and me and stopped. Wide-eyed, as if amazed that anyone could be in her father’s office, she put a hand to her mouth and uttered, “Oh!”
     “Ah,” I commented quietly. “The belle of the ball.”
     Ratliff threw me a rather coarse glance, and said to what was obviously his daughter, “Julie, can you wait just a minute? I’m almost through with these gentlemen.”
     “Julie,” I said, in the same quiet tone. “My wife’s name was Julie…” Then I almost bit my tongue, because I was supposed to be Robert Constance, not Robert Conners.
     “Was?” she said, her eyes fixed on mine.
     I nodded, squeezing my hands, fighting down the agony in my breast. “She…died.”
     “I’m sorry,” she said.
     “Thanks.” I turned away from her, my face hard. “Anything else, Colonel, or we’ll be on our way.”
     He shook his head. “Have Major Underwood requisition what you need. And again, return quickly, please.”
     Wigwam and I nodded, and headed for the door. Julie stepped aside to let us pass. Wigwam went through first and then I stopped and looked down at the colonel’s daughter.
     Our eyes met again, hers questioning. My face must have been granite hard, because I simply could not let it crack even the smallest amount or my whole body might collapse. “Julie,” I said very softly. “Why did your name have to be Julie? And why do you have to be so beautiful?”
     She didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter. I had already turned and followed Wigwam into the outer office.

     Julie watched his back as he left, thoughtful. Where did HE come from? Not that he was overly handsome or anything, but he had gotten inside her with those brief, touching words he’d spoken to her. And his eyes spoke, not just of sadness, but of intelligence, passion, strength. She turned back and walked over to her father. “Who was that, Father?”
     “Oh, just some fellow with some information for me. I’ve hired him to do some scouting. He’s not much account, certainly not in your league, my dear.” And he smiled at her.
     That frustrated Julie, it always did. She was 22 now and she wanted to make her own decisions about who was in her “league.” She had to admit she wasn’t terribly impressed with the clientele at the fort, but there were a few intelligent gentleman-types that attracted her. She wanted to go back east, but she couldn’t leave her father. And she usually—not always—tried to placate him when they disagreed. She was wise beyond her years, and realized that some things weren’t worth arguing over. And this was one of them. For the time being.
     So she responded, “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I just wondered where you keep finding these semi-barbaric types that seem to be covered with half the dust of the territory.” And she smiled.
     “Yes, well, the cat drug him in.” Her father was somewhat distracted, Julie could tell. So whatever the cat had drug in had told him something that had disturbed him greatly.
     But then he looked at her and smiled. She was his only child, and she reminded him so much of his beloved, and late, Dora. He’d be lost without Julie, but he knew it was selfish of him to keep her out here where she didn’t really want to be. But he couldn’t turn loose of her, either. He wished she’d marry one of the officers here so that she’d have a reason to stay. “What is it, my dear?” he asked her. “Why did you come in in such a rush?”
     “There’s a horse salesman outside and he has the most beautiful horse….”
     Colonel Ratliff sighed internally. Of course he’d buy it for her. Anything to make her happy….