Stamping Ground by Loren D. Estleman

Dakota territory.
    â€œHow in hell should I know why?” Hudspeth demanded. “He’s crazy mad. He’ll do anything.”
    â€œI don’t think so. If he were that crazy he’d have been dead long ago. Ghost Shirt must have had a reason to attack that patrol.”
    â€œIt don’t much matter if he did or didn’t. What matters is he went ahead and attacked it. I wired Flood to tell him we got the message, and Fort Ransom to let them know we’re coming.”
    â€œAny answer from the fort?”
    He shook his head. “Likely they’re on alert. Operator’s too busy hunting up reinforcements to acknowledge.” He grunted and flicked a drop of sweat from his beacon of a nose with the tip of a blunt forefinger. “The only good thing about this whole business is now we know he ain’tmet up yet with the Sioux and Cheyenne from around the territories.”
    â€œMaybe. Or maybe it’s a trap.”
    â€œWe’ll know soon enough.” He swung back into the saddle. “Mount up. We’re heading out.”
    I straddled the bay. “What’ll we do once we get there?”
    â€œWe’ll think of something on the way.” He wheeled west.
    Pere Jac didn’t move. “Where is my whiskey, A.C.?”
    The marshal reached into a saddle bag, hoisted out a quart bottle full of tobacco-colored liquid, and tossed it to the breed, who caught it in one hand. “There’s ninety-five more coming day after tomorrow,” Hudspeth told him. “You want to see the receipt?”
    Jac drew the cork and helped himself to a swig. “I trust you, A.C.,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
    The métis slid the bottle in with his other belongings, said his good-byes all around, and stepped into the paint’s leather with the ease of a man forty years his junior. Five minutes later we were clear of camp and heading southwest, fifty miles of which separated us from our destination.
    We reached the Sheyenne at dusk. There, a shallow ford stretched between us and the fort, which was a purple blemish on the muted red glare of the setting sun. No sooner had Hudspeth set a hoof in the water than a shot rang out. Riding behind him, I heard a
thup
and saw his broad-brimmed black hat tilt over his left ear. He hauled back on the reins to keep his horse from spooking, but it was too late. The buckskin kicked up its heels and arched its back, whinnying and trying to turn so it could bolt. The marshal spun it around three times before dizziness took over and the animal stopped to regain its bearings.
    â€œHalt! Who goes there?”
    A lanky trooper stood up to his knees in water in the middle of the river, a rifle braced against his shoulder, smoke draining from its barrel. The challenge lost a greatdeal of its force, however, when the young voice issuing it cracked in the middle.
    Hudspeth let out a roar and sprang to the ground. He hit the water running, tore the rifle from the trooper’s hands before he could react, and sent it spinning far out into the river. Then he swept the trooper off his feet and prepared to send him after it.
    â€œDo it, and you’ll be dead before he hits the water.” A harsh croak, dry and empty as a spent cartridge. It crackled in the charged air.
    The marshal froze, legs spread apart, the trooper squirming in his arms. He turned his head slowly in the direction of the voice.
    Three soldiers were mounted on horseback on the opposite bank, each with a rifle snuggled against his cheek. The broad brims of their dusty campaign hats left their faces in shadow. Two of them, anyway. The man on the left, although obviously cavalry, wore the cocked forage cap of an infantryman, a style of headgear made famous by both sides during the late unpleasantness out East. A rain cape hung to his waist, performing double duty as a duster. His features were invisible against the sun. Softer now, the wallowing