Wrath of the Savage Read Online Free Page A

crossed back over the river and headed up in the hills.”
    â€œThat makes sense to me,” Johnny Duncan said as he walked up to join them. “But first, we need to make sure they headed north.”
    There were many tracks, going and coming, along the wagon road that followed the Yellowstone River, most of them recent. But Coldiron soon isolated the unshod tracks of the Indian ponies, and they were heading north, as he had predicted.
    â€œNow all we gotta do is find where they crossed the river, but I’ll guarantee you it’ll be before we get to Benson’s,” he said.
    â€œAll right,” Bret said. “We’ll let the men drink their coffee. The horses should be rested by then.” He turned to Coldiron. “You can go on ahead and scout the riverbanks if you want to, unless you want to have some coffee first.”
    â€œI don’t need no coffee,” the scout responded. “My horse is ready to go. I’ll go on up ahead and wait for you boys.” He took his horse’s reins and started walking along the wagon track, his packhorse trailing along behind.
    Over beside the river, a small fire was burning, and the eight troopers lay sprawled around it, tending the metal cups that held the scalding black coffee.
    â€œLook at ’em,” Private Brice McCoy slurred, “over there lookin’ all around that damn house for tracks. Hell, them Injuns are long gone.”
    â€œMaybe, maybe not,” Private Tom Weaver remarked. “And maybe they’re up ahead somewhere fixin’ up an ambush, hopin’ we chase after ’em.” The eight men knew very little about each other, all being new recruits, and having known each other for less than a couple of months. But that was all the time needed to learn that Weaver was a chronic complainer, and the only one he could count as a friend was Brice McCoy, who complained almost as much. A tall, wiry man with dark eyes that peered out from under heavy black eyebrows, Weaver never volunteered any facts about his life prior to enlisting in the army. “I ain’t anxious to get my ass shot full of arrows while Lieutenant Fancy Pants tries to go after some glory for himself,” he drawled. “Ain’t that right, McCoy?”
    â€œDamn right,” McCoy responded.
    â€œI think you men mighta judged Lieutenant Hollister wrong,” Private Pruett said. “He seems like a decent sort. I doubt if he wanted to go on this patrol any more than the rest of us.”
    â€œShit, Pruett,” Weaver snapped. “He went to West Point. That’s what all them assholes are in the army for—medals and promotions to generals. Hell, why do you think he went to West Point? I just don’t want him steppin’ on my dead ass to get his glory.”
    â€œAll I know is I sure as hell didn’t know what I was doin’ when I volunteered for the cavalry,” Private Joe Lazarra complained. “My ass is so sore I’m gonna have to sleep on my belly. If I had it to do over, I’d sure as hell rather be a walkin’ soldier.”
    â€œHell, I didn’t get any choice,” Bill Copeland chimed in. “They just sent me straight to the recruit depot at Jefferson Barracks in Missouri, and told me I was in the cavalry. I was hopin’ to get sent to Washington, D.C., maybe to guard the president or somethin’.” His remarks brought a derisive laugh from the others.
    â€œHold your tongue,” McCoy warned. “Here comes Duncan.”
    â€œAll right, ladies,” Duncan mocked. “Let’s get mount-ed—tea party’s over.”
    â€œMy horse ain’t hardly rested enough, Sarge,” Weaver complained.
    â€œIs that a fact?” Duncan replied. “Well, in that case, I reckon you can tote him till he gets rested up enough.”
    â€œNice try, Weaver,” Pruett said sarcastically.
    â€œKiss my ass,” Weaver shot back as he