down on the marauding Indians who were raiding new settlements along a line that ran from Mexico to the Dakotas. The white man’s westward expansion demanded something be done about the Indians despite the fact the Kiowas, Comanches, and Apaches had roamed that territory for hundreds of years. Marching under the banner of Manifest Destiny, the white settlers believed their cause justified and inevitable, and the sooner the savages were subdued and put where they belonged, the better.
Of course, the Indians thought differently and thus, the continuing conflict.
Fort Sill was laid out in squares with the parade ground serving as the centerpiece. Situated around the square were the trading post, quartermaster’s storehouse, the blacksmith, stables, bunkhouses, officers’ quarters, and, opposite of where they were now, the headquarters for the post commander.
From his place on the porch of the store, Percy took a moment to survey the area. Although called a fort, there were no exterior walls, moats, or anything that might slow an approaching army, which seemed strange to Percy, who had visited his fair share of forts over the years. And the inhabitants of this fort were also different from most. Fort Sill was a menagerie of humanity. In addition to the multitude of different Indian tribes, including different bands of the same tribe, the fort was also home to the U.S. Army’s 10th Cavalry Regiment, one of two cavalry regiments reserved exclusively for black enlisted men. Better known by their Indian name, the Buffalo Soldiers were a seasoned group of hard men presently under the command of Lieutenant Colonel John “Black Jack” Davidson, a man who had visited the ranch many times over the years and whom Percy considered a good friend.
“Isaac, you and Amos keep an eye on the horses,” Cyrus said as he stepped up onto the porch. “Them Injuns’ll steal ’em in a heartbeat.” Cyrus glanced at Percy. “You comin’ in?”
“Naw,” Percy replied. “I’m goin’ to mosey over to headquarters and get the lay of the land from John. We stayin’ here for the night?”
“Might as well. River’ll be up with all this rain. Ask John if there’s a place we can bed down.”
“I will. Think the trader has any whiskey hidden away?” Percy asked.
“Doubtful,” Cyrus said, looking at the Indians celebrating on the parade grounds. “Them Injuns would cave the door in to get at it.”
Percy stepped off the porch and threaded his way through the Indian gathering on his way to Sherman House. The structure was a large, two-story rectangular building that featured a long porch that fronted the first level and four chimneys, each located in a corner of the building When he arrived, Percy opened the door and entered the foyer, where a private was manning the reception desk.
“Evenin’,” Percy said. “Colonel Davidson in?”
“Who’s askin’, sir?” the private asked. The young man was trim and fit with closed-cropped frizzy hair and eyes as blue as the sky.
“Percy Ridgeway.”
“I’ll check, sir,” the private said as he stood and headed down the hallway toward the back of the building.
Percy had worked around and with black men all of his life, but never as a slaveholder, like many of his fellow Texans. He couldn’t abide one man thinking himself superior to another based on skin color or anything else. And despite tremendous pressure to join his fellow statesmen in fighting for the Confederacy, Percy had refused, as did all the men at the Rocking R. That refusal was based partly on their beliefs and the other part was that they already had plenty on their plate trying to keep the Indians from killing them or stealing everything they owned.
The private returned and said, “Follow me, sir.” He led Percy down a long hall and out onto the back porch, where Lieutenant Colonel John Davidson was standing near a couple of chairs, a bottle of brandy and two glasses situated on a small table between them. Davidson shook Percy’s hand and waved to the opposite chair and both men sat as the private retreated. A coal oil lamp flickered on the opposite end of the porch, drawing a horde of insects and casting a wan light that washed over the two men. Davidson poured, and the two men clinked glasses. Percy drained his glass in one long swallow and said, “What are the Indians celebratin’?”
Davidson poured more brandy into Percy’s glass. “Got a couple of Kiowa chiefs locked up in the stockade. Appears to have made some members of their tribe angry.”
“You goin’ to turn ’em loose?”
“Not up to me, but I hope not.”
“Why? Afraid they’ll start raidin’ again?”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Davidson said. “General Sherman is fit to be tied. I have a feeling a day of reckoning is quickly approaching, though.” Davidson drained his glass and refilled it.
“How quickly?”
“Spring, maybe. The buffalo herds are already thinnin’ out. Once their food source is gone, they won’t have any choice but to return to the reservation.”
“Still a lot of buffalo roaming the plains,” Percy said.
Davidson glanced over at Percy. “I didn’t say the Indians wouldn’t need some persuadin’.” He took a sip of brandy and stared out into the darkness for a few moments. Known for being a stickler for details, Davidson was thin-framed and had a long mustache that extended well beyond his face, along with a narrow goatee. “I’m tired of Indian talk. What are you doin’ up this way?”
“Tryin’ to track down a couple of rustlers.”
Davidson arched his brows. “Your father’s idea?”
“How’d you guess?”
“How many cattle are you running down there?”
“About ten thousand head at last count.”
“And how many cattle were stolen?”
“Two.”
Davidson smiled. “Ole Cyrus won’t give an inch, will he?”
“Nope,” Percy said. “We lost their trail in the rain, so I guess they got away this time, much to my father’s dismay.” Percy took a long pull from his glass and then said, “What’s life like commandin’ a Negro regiment?”
Davidson turned slightly in his chair so that he could look at Percy. “I’ll tell you, Percy, the vast majority of them are illiterate, but they’re some of the hardest-workin’ troops I’ve ever been associated with. They might not be book smart, but they damn sure know how to fight. And I’ll take a fighter any day. They seldom complain about anything and I’ve had troops do nothing but complain about all sorts of things. So, all in all, they’re a fine group of soldiers and their skin color doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.”
“I’m assumin’ you know what others call you?” Percy asked.
“Black Jack? Yeah, I heard. Nicknames don’t mean a damn thing to me.” Davidson pulled a couple of cigars from the pocket of his unbuttoned army tunic and offered one to Percy, who accepted. Davidson flared a match and lit both, fanned the match out, and refilled their glasses. Taking a long draw from his cigar, Davidson settled back in his chair. “Although I’ve been to the ranch several times, a report of a recent raid down your way got me to wonderin’ about somethin’.”
Percy blew out a stream of smoke and said, “What’s that?”
“With all the Indian depredations that have happened in Texas over the years, the Ridgeway clan remains relatively unscathed. Why do you think that is? I know that wagon you had built is one hell of a deterrent but that can’t be the only reason, can it?”
Percy shrugged and took a deep draw from his cigar. “Call it mutually assured destruction, John, or maybe mutual respect. As you know, we’re not short on firepower and the Indians have learned over the years that we fight back, and our response is often swift and deadly. We take a firm but fair approach with them, and if we leave them alone, they