by Tony Roberts
They were put through their paces by Kenny very rigorously. “I don’t want to see no slackers here. Anyone who thinks they’re here to have a life of luxury can think again,” he bellowed one frosty morning in early November. The ground was hard and the wind blew strong and chilly across the plains. “Today we’re going for a little ride into the wilds of the territory. I don’t want to see nobody fall off their horse, or anyone falling behind saying they can’t keep up. We in the Seventh Cavalry pride ourselves on being tough, and we don’t give in to nothing. Got it?”
The troopers responded, staring straight ahead, their breaths clouding the air before them. Kenny grunted. “Mount up, we ride in column, two abreast.”
They left the fort and followed the sergeant out to the west, away from the river. There were ten of them following the sergeant, all recent recruits. Casey had asked around if anyone had heard of a man called Stoneleigh but nobody had. Certainly F company didn’t have anyone who even resembled Casey’s quarry, so if he was here he’d be in one of the others. There were twelve in all, so he’d have a task searching all of them. Maybe he could somehow get hold of the rolls and look through the entire regimental lists. There must be a way to do that.
Their uniform was made up of a black velvet hat with a wide brim, but Casey had noticed some of the older or veteran members wearing straw versions. They had a blue army issue blouse and a sky-blue kersey pair of trousers with the seat and inside legs reinforced with canvas, to stop any wear from riding.
There was a haversack, ammunition belt, carbine sling, poncho, a shirt of their own choice, so Casey had his white with light brown checkers on, an overcoat which they were wearing that day, else it would be rolled up and tied behind them to the saddle. On the belt they also carried a cartridge box, and a sabre hung down one leg from the waist. On top of this there were a canteen, tin cup and a coffee pot.
The patrol they were on was nothing special. They were merely on a routine route so that they got used to the territory, the horses, and riding in a group together. Kenny rode to a river, the Heart River, he told them as they stopped. All around the land gently rolled, with very few trees. Near the river there were creeks that wound this way and that, and what trees there were, were usually here in the dips created by the watercourses.
The Heart River itself was a gently flowing course, that bent to the right in one direction. Where they were, it was shallow and the water chuckled over the stones and mud flats. In the Spring it would be deeper, and some recent rains had swollen it from the Summer low, but here it was still fordable.
“Over there,” Kenny pointed into the distance ahead, “is the Arickaree, Mandan and Gros Ventre reservation. Nothing to fear from them, since they are in conflict with the Sioux.”
He then waved to the south, off to their left. “On the other hand, over there is the Great Sioux Reservation. Big area. Plenty of trouble in that direction, and off to the south-west. The hostiles have set up camp over there, so we’re told, and they ain’t moving. Likely outcome is that next year we’ll be sent to pacify them. Be prepared for some fighting.”
Back at the fort Casey began to use his spare time to try to find a way to check the muster rolls. The fort itself was made of wood, the timber having been transported up on the Missouri from the south. There was a post office, a telegraph post, a bakery, a hospital, a laundress quarters and granary besides the expected barracks, officer’s quarters and stables. The fort had recently been expanded on the south side to accommodate the recent arrivals – the 7th Cavalry had been at the fort for two years, brought in to protect the expanding North Pacific Railroad from the natives.
Much of the fort was stoutly constructed; there were blockhouses, which were thickly built square fortifications with narrow shooting loopholes and slits, constructed in a square shape and of two floors with a walkway at the top. It was a formidable defensive bastion to take on, and there were four at the corners of the main fort. Inside there was the parade ground and the main buildings around this, and the stables were outside with a barracks.
Casey was after the administration block, at the end of the parade ground. He needed to get in there and look down the lists, wherever they were. They would be in a ledger or ledgers, and it meant a night time activity, breaking in and using a light and lots of luck.
First, an excuse to get into the clerk’s office. He kept an ear out for jobs that needed doing, hoping he’d hear one that involved the office. He was in the canteen with the others, discussing the possible war that was looming. President Grant had decided the only way to get the natives into the reservations was to threaten them with war unless they complied, and time had run out. Sitting Bull wasn’t co-operating so once the spring came, force would be used. The winter would be spent by the administration planning the campaign, co-ordinating a number of columns to converge from different directions.
Casey left that to the planners. He wasn’t concerned with the whys and hows; he would be a mere trooper following orders. He couldn’t prevent what was coming, and the sooner it was done the sooner the suffering would end.
“Hey, you seen one of those Gatling gun things?” Travers said, leaning over his bowl of stew. “Pumps out bullets faster than the rain,” he nodded to emphasise his words.
“Big thing, isn’t it?” McFaddean added. “Like a cannon. Awkward to move about.”
“I’m more interested in those Winchester repeaters,” Musson said. “Better than our carbines. Why don’t we get those?”
Casey shrugged. “Use bullets faster. You’d use up your ammo in no time, and I hear the Winchester has half the stopping power of our Springfields. You want to drop an enemy as far away as possible before they close. All very well blasting away with scores of shots, but that’s no good if you don’t aim properly. I could drop someone with one shot at a couple of hundred yards with my carbine, while you’d blast away with your repeater and hit nothing.”
“Huh, you talk big,” Musson said morosely. “Not seen you shoot yet. You might not hit anything.”
Casey had an idea. It all depended on a number of factors but he reckoned he could get what he wanted. He grinned. “Want to bet, you miserable bastard? How many shots in a minute? Bet I can fire off twelve shots and hit the target with every one. I bet you’ll struggle to match that.”
“Yeah, go on,” Travers shoved Musson on the shoulder. “Or do you Frenchies talk big and do nothing?”
“Shut up,” Musson snapped.
“Got him annoyed now,” McFaddean chuckled. “I’d love to see a competition. I’m getting bored sitting around here.”
The two shook hands and went out into the cold air. They had twenty rounds in their cases and selected a couple of targets on the range. It was a hundred yards and the targets were two large hay-filled butts with rudely painted circles on them.
The Springfield was loaded with a single bullet into the breech, the breech lock being hinged. With it flipped open, a bullet was inserted, the block snapped shut, the hammer was cocked and the carbine fired. Casey found it a huge improvement on the muzzle-loaders he’d had to use up to now. From firing 3 shots a minute, he could now feasibly do fifteen, but that was top speed. He didn’t want to rush. There was no fussing about with a ramrod, or biting off cartridges and pouring the black powder down barrels and into the pan.
The weapon still discharged the pall of white smoke that obscured his vision for a moment, then he could see the target once more. Musson, to his left, was firing but much more slowly. Casey wondered how much action he’d seen in the recent war with Prussia. From what he’d heard, the French had been out-maneuvered and boxed in at Sedan where they’d been forced to surrender.
As they finished, some men came running out of the fort, including a couple of officers. Casey eyed Musson triumphantly; both knew the scarred warrior had won easily, but his moment of victory was short-lived.
“What in the name of hell are you doing?” a lieutenant demanded. “Nobody authorized target practice!
”
“Sir,” Casey stood smartly to attention. “Testing out the Springfield Carbine.”
“Not without proper authorization. You two, come with me!”
The two handed their guns over to the others and followed the officer and his guard detail back into the fort proper and along to the offices. Up a few wooden steps to the entrance and inside. There was the duty office and the two were ordered to stand before the lieutenant who dropped into his chair angrily. Armed guards stood to either side.
The lieutenant looked up irritably at the two stood before him. “An army exists because of discipline. Without discipline it would be nothing more than a disorderly rabble. I do not wish to command a disorderly rabble, privates. Is that understood?”
“Sir,” the two responded.
“Discipline comes from giving orders which are obeyed. You did not receive any orders to carry out target practice, therefore you should not have been out there shooting. You have wasted army ordnance as a result.” He sighed and interlocked his fingers. “If everyone took it into their heads to do something without orders, we would have chaos. Is that understood?”
“Sir.”
“I do not wish to see a repeat of this, ever. So, whose idea was this?”
“Mine, sir,” Casey said instantly. “I bet Private Musson here that I could outshoot him. I was right.”
The officer frowned. Cocky bastard. “Did you now? You seem very confident of your ability, Private.”
“I am, sir. I can outfight anyone here.”
“Alright, no need to display a high regard for your own abilities before me. I’m not impressed. You seem to be trouble. What company are you a part of?”
“F, sir.”
“Captain Yates’ company. I shall inform his as to your conduct. No doubt he shall inflict some appropriate field punishment on you, soldier.”
“Thank you, sir, as long as it’s not in the office doing clerk business, I don’t care, sir.”
“And what’s wrong with that, soldier? An army needs administration to survive!”
“Below a soldier’s dignity, sir.” Casey chuckled inside. This officer was swallowing the bait whole without any trouble.
“Is that so? Well, we’ll see about that!”
So Casey was given a week’s punishment duty in the clerk’s office.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
One week later he was still frustrated. No Stoneleigh on the muster rolls, but it was a possibility the man had changed his name. It was also a possibility he never joined up. He gauged the period that Stoneleigh could have joined up and it would have been between the end of 1873 and the end of summer 1875. He had then checked those who had joined in that time and found that there were dozens who had joined the Seventh. There was no way to check through all of those.
The clerk with whom he was working, treated him civilly enough and confided in him that it was a hard job keeping track of everyone what with the comings and goings. They were expected to recruit a large number in the new year before they began the campaign. Casey asked about men who looked like the man he was after but the clerk shrugged. “You looking for someone in particular?”
“Well,” Casey looked furtive for a moment, and gestured for him to lean closer lest anyone was overhearing. “This guy I know joined up about eighteen months ago to escape being married to a girl I know. She was mighty sore in him running out on her, especially as there’s now a kid for her to feed.”
“Hell, that’s not good! What was this guy’s name?”
“Stoneleigh, but he ain’t on the muster rolls. Was told he joined the Seventh, though.”
“That why you’re here?”
“Nope. Was going to join anyway but I was asked because I was joining up to look for him and ask him to go back to her. Don’t think he will but I think he oughta know. Maybe send some money to the girl he got pregnant?”
“Heh, I see your problem. Who’s taking care of her, then?”
“Her folks, in Wyoming. Anyone come from there in that time?”
The clerk checked. In the end it was down to seven people who it may or may not be. Companies B, G, H, K and three in L. At the end of the week Casey thanked the man and had a list of who it may be. He was allowed home the following day and spent much of it catching up with Lisa. She was getting on well with her job and had decorated the home with a few plants and a brand new checkered tablecloth.
She took him by the hand and dragged him upstairs and subjected him to a week’s worth of frustration, which got rid of some of Casey’s too. Later she spoke of her week and asked about his. He grinned and told her he had been on punishment duty. “At least it wasn’t outdoors – it’s getting damned cold out there. Snow’s getting pretty thick, you know. Lucky the river’s still ice-free at the moment or I’d have trouble getting here.”
“Well we got the summer to look forward to,” she chuckled, much happier now he was with her and had eased her frustrations. “Come on, let’s go for a walk!”
“What, outside?”
“Where else? I want to spend time with you. Not seen you for a week and I’ve been going crazy here. We got gloves, boots and coats. Come on!” she dived out of bed, shrieking with the cold and hurriedly dressed. Casey laughed and shrugged. He joined her and they went for a long walk through the crunchy snow south of the town. They chatted about the future. Casey wasn’t sure what was going to happen. The war ought to be a short one if everything went well, but in war hardly anything went as planned.
He discussed his search for Stoneleigh. “He’s changed his name for sure, if he’s here. Got to find a way of checking the seven on my list. They’re in different companies so I’m going to have to be careful. I’ve really got no business asking around but I’ll find a way.”
Back at the fort he made himself useful to people, offering advice on using the carbine and in tactics. He had centuries of experience in warfare so nobody knew as much as he did. It got him noticed by many, and not all of it friendly. Some called him a braggart, and one or two of the NCOs told him to shut it.
He didn’t care much; he’d been called worse in his time. The corporal took him aside one afternoon and stood him before the target butt, the rest of the company lined up behind him. “Now, Long, I’ve heard so much about you being an ace with the carbine. So show us, dead-eye, just how damned good you really are.”
Casey hefted the Springfield and looked at the target. “Seems simple enough, Corp.”
“With fifteen shots in a minute?”
“Ah, that’s going to make it a mite harder.”
The corporal put his hands on his hips and stared hard at him. “What’s the matter? Got butterflies all of a sudden? Lost that loud-mouth attitude?”
Casey pulled a face and flipped open his cartridge case. The distance wasn’t a problem, it was the number of shots needed in a short amount of time. He would be at the extreme edge of the performance stats for both him and the weapon, but he was confident he could do it. Others had come out or were watching from the ramparts. Clearly word had gone around that the trooper’s boasts were going to be put to the test. He waited while the corporal got out his pocket watch and held up his hand.
As the corporal dropped his hand, Casey lifted the carbine and squeezed off the first shot. He cleared his mind of any other thought. Shoot, eject the cartridge, load, snap shut, aim, shoot and repeat. He fought down any urge to look at anyone, or to see how the corporal was reacting. This was just him against the target. The carbine was a part of him, an extension of his being.
The only part of his mind still working independently was the bit counting the shots. At thirteen his heart began to beat faster. The corporal still hadn’t called time. Fourteen. Casey rammed the last cartridge into the breech and aimed. Just as he fired, the corporal called time.
Casey stepped back a pace and breathed deeply. The men behind him cheered, hats thrown onto the air and whistles carrying in the frosty air over the ramparts. The corporal raised an eyebrow.
“Fifteen shots in exactly one minute. All hitting the target, too. Very impressive. Seems you ain’t such the big-mouth after all, Private.” He then smiled. “And my thanks.”
“My thanks, Corp?”
“Sure. You just won me a whole lotta dollars. I bet on you doing it and these guys here,” he jerked his thumb at the other NCOs stood just a little distance away, all scowling, “bet you couldn’t. I owe you a drink or two.” He laughed and walked off, shouting gleefully to the others to pay up.
Casey grinned and shook his head, then wiped his brow. It may be deepest winter but he was sweating. Smelled too, with the discharged powder over his face and uniform. What he discovered though was that now other troopers came to him for advice and tips. Shooting every four seconds was better than every six or eight. That way Casey got to see a few of those on his list, and found they weren’t the elusive Stoneleigh. It appeared that his quarry wasn’t here, after all.
Winter passed and spring began to peek its head above the horizon. More troopers came to the fort, joining up in a recruitment drive, and things got busy. They were sent out on patrols, did more drill, more firing practise and listened to the talks by the senior officers. It seemed the Indians were gathering strength by the Bighorn Mountains. More braves were leaving the reservations and flocking to Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse, his warrior leader, along the Powder River in south-east Montana Territory. The Sioux were going to those two while the Cheyenne tribe was gathering under another leader, Old Bear.
Moves were afoot with the army, though. They sat and listened to the words of Captain Yates in early March. “General Crook is at this moment leading a column north from Fort Fetterman in Wyoming Territory with the intention of breaking up the hostiles, who are believed to be in the Big Horn Valley. Colonel Gibbon meanwhile is further west in Fort Ellis,” he pointed to a map behind him, “and he will march east while we here will gather under the command of General Terry and march west. We plan to trap the hostiles between the three forces and drive them back to the reservations.”