Gunsmoke at Powder River (The Long-Knives #4)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Mulligan quickly obeyed, throwing the stones to the ground. When he finished he looked hopefully at the sergeant.

  Robertson sneered. “You’re a lousy Mick son of a bitch, Mulligan. I’d like to leave you here for the Sioux to play their games with you. But I reckon you’ve heard that from the others too, ain’t you? Too bad the Articles of War keep me from doing that.”

  Mulligan’s experience in punishment was varied and substantial. He knew things were now going to get a bit better, so he grimaced a bit to give the impression he was expecting worse.

  “You won’t have to dig no more holes during mess call,” Robertson said. “The commanding officer said I could make you shovel away for a half hour, but I don’t think you’re man enough to even keep that up. So you’ll eat like the others and dig at night instead. Fix yourself some chow.”

  “Yes, Sergeant!” Mulligan quickly turned and raced back toward the squad. He felt as if he could fly, with the horrible weight now gone from the haversack. He walked up to the fire, but before he could squat down, Baker pushed him back. Mulligan was angry. “Sergeant Robertson said I could eat.”

  “We took a vote in the squad, Mulligan,” Baker said. “You cook and eat by yourself.”

  Mulligan shrugged his indifference. He didn’t give a damn what they thought of him. He walked away a few paces and settled down to roast his own dried meat. He was just glad to be rid of the rocks and able now to eat three times a day.

  The meal break was a short one. Riker, eager to keep things moving, had the men up and marching again within the hour. The sun was hotter now, and they settled down into a mind-numbing routine of hiking slowly but steadily across the wild country.

  Tommy Saxon, Harold Devlin, and George Hammer once more sank into their daydreaming as they shuffled along in the column. Mulligan, refreshed and feeling better, kept to himself but was noticeably jauntier. The old soldiers Baker and O’Malley, along with Corporal Schreiner, endured as old soldiers will, simply going through the day if for no other reason than to get it over with.

  “Enemy sighted! Left flank!”

  All flankers and the men on point closed back into the column. Riker, with Robertson close by, waited for Corporal Bakker to make a proper report.

  “Sioux, sir,” the corporal said with a flourishing salute. “A small war party of a dozen.”

  “At least we outnumber them,” Riker said.

  Lieutenant Worthington, who had arrived in time to hear the report, was jubilant. “I’ll take some men and make fast work of the redskin bastards, sir.”

  “Stand fast, Mr. Worthington,” Riker said coldly. Worthington was persistent. “Sir, I can—”

  “Goddamn it, Mr. Worthington!” Riker snapped. “I gave you an order, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Worthington wisely shut up and waited for orders. Riker wasted no time in forming the company into a square. Lieutenant Worthington, the three section sergeants, and Trumpeter Melech formed up as a, fifth squad stationed in the middle of the formation.

  The Indians came into view, slowing their horses to a walk. From the way they lined up, the veterans knew the Sioux would not simply stand there and watch for very long.

  “Company load!” Riker commanded.

  The infantrymen chambered a round in their Springfields and waited to see what was going to happen.

  Now the Sioux went into action, galloping back and forth a bit to check out the situation for themselves. Several of the younger and brasher of the warriors made feints toward the soldiers, gesturing and yelling at them.

  On the second squad’s side of the square, Tommy Saxon nervously licked his lips. “Shouldn’t we shoot?” he asked of no one in particular.

  Schreiner glanced down his line of soldiers. “If shoot any of you do,” the Prussian warned, “I’ll have him digging holes wit’ Mulligan.”

  Riker noticed the agitated movements among the green soldiers of the company. “Stand steady!” he yelled. “And wait for orders!”

  The Sioux withdrew from sight. For five minutes there was nothing except silence. Now the soldiers fidgeted worse as the quiet slowly continued. But that was abruptly changed when the sound of pounding hooves could be heard and felt in the trembling ground. The Indians burst into view over the rolling horizon, charging straight at the company. Then they pulled off to one side, finally turning and riding back out of sight.

  Lieutenant Worthington, angrily clutching his Colt pistol in both hands, muttered to himself, “Come on, you sons of bitches! Come on!”

  A full quarter hour went by with nothing happening. Then, as before, the Sioux made a sudden appearance. This time the charge kept coming, headed straight for the second squad. Lieutenant Worthington and the others of the temporary fifth squad moved into position. They each placed themselves in an advantageous firing position beside one of Schreiner’s men.

  “Squad, aim!” Riker bellowed.

  Now the Indians cut loose with some ragged shooting, their bullets popping and buzzing overhead. George Hammer inexplicably walked forward a few steps and lay down.

  “Fire!”

  The volley roared, the soldiers pushed back by the violent recoil of the weapons. No Indians fell, but the hostiles turned away and went back out of sight.

  The Sioux made two more half-hearted rushes, but kept their distance, then disappeared from view again. After a half hour passed, it was obvious they had gone away. “Fall in!” Riker commanded.

  The men began to move back into column formation. Tommy yelled out at George, who still lay peacefully in front of the group. “George! What’re you doing? C’mon, George. We’re forming up.”

  Robertson, still standing with the second squad, walked over to the young soldier lying in the grass and turned him over. “Sir,” he yelled at Riker. “We’ve had a man killed.”

  Tommy lost his head and ran out to his friend. He knelt down and looked into his face. George’s eyes were open, but his face was a pasty gray color and there was no color in his lips.

  Robertson gave Tommy a shove. “Fall back in, soldier! Move it!”

  Tommy started to sob. He stood up and broke into tears. “George! George!”

  Robertson’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “You’ll see plenty of more dead bunkies before your hitch is up, son.”

  Tommy wiped at his tear-streaked face. “Yes—yes, Sergeant.”

  “Be a good soldier,” Robertson said quietly. “Be a brave soldier.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “There’s a good soldier lad,” Robertson said, keeping his voice calm. “Go back and report to Corp’ral Schreiner.”

  Tommy nodded and went to his squad.

  An hour later Mulligan and his little spade had scooped out a shallow grave for young George Hammer. The dead soldier’s friends in the second squad pulled the blanket roll from the corpse. They undid it and rolled it out, making up a bedroll by combining it with the shelter half of the dog tent.

  “His last bivouac,” Harold Devlin said, helping to fold George’s hands across his chest.

  Tommy wasn’t crying anymore, but he snuffled a bit as he straightened out George’s legs. A single, not too bloody, wound showed in the chest. First Sergeant Robertson explained that most of the damage done by the bullet was out of sight inside the body.

  They finally folded the blanket roll over the corpse and carried it to the grave; George was laid to rest. The other members of the company, who had been detailed to pick up three stones each, put the rocks down over the corpse; this would keep wolves from digging him up.

  When it was done, Mulligan filled in the remains of the excavation with dirt, tamping it down. Baker watched, remarking, “A hell of a way to go to your Maker, after having a thief stamp on you.”

  Mulligan ignored the gibe. He finished the work and stepped aside. Captain Riker came forward. With the third squad posted as pickets, he gathered the other men around.

  “I have done this many times,” Riker said. “And it never gets
easier to bid farewell to a brave soldier who has died for his country. We didn’t know Private George Hammer very long, yet I believe no faster bond can be created between men than in a war. None can grieve for him more than us, not even his family—for we loved him as a comrade-in-arms and shared the danger and hardship of soldiering with him.”

  The men kept their hats on per army protocol, because they were all armed.

  Riker went on. “Bow your heads and we’ll pray.” He waited a moment for the men to comply. “Lord, we ask you to accept this American soldier into the Kingdom of Heaven. He was a fine lad, true to his cause and deserving of a better end than he received. We ask you in Jesus’ name, amen.”

  “Amen!”

  “All right!” Robertson yelled. “Fall in!”

  After the company was formed, Riker moved them out for the rest of the day’s march. He watched his green men, visibly shaken by the death of Private Hammer, as they stepped out across the wild country. The captain knew there would be no more need for the noncommissioned officers to constantly harangue the soldiers to stay alert. After the attack, they would be expecting the worst—and probably getting it before the patrol was over.

  Riker turned his gaze from the main column to the point where Lieutenant Frederick Worthington led the way. Although only recently promoted from second lieutenant, Worthington was an experienced officer with ten years of service. Yet at times he displayed an alarming tendency to become uncontrollably excited. Riker knew he would have to keep an eye on his second-in-command.

  The column reached their objective early that evening. Thor stood on the banks where the Crazy Woman River flowed into the Powder River, the water veering sharply southward. With no enemy camps sighted, the patrol had been a bust.

  The men moved quickly into their bivouac routine. Harold Devlin, scheduled for picket duty with Charlie O’Malley, had quickly consumed his supper. He picked up his rifle from where it was laid across his gear. He noticed Tommy Saxon sitting by the fire, staring into it with a sad expression on his face. Harold walked over and put his hand on the younger soldier’s shoulder.

  “We’ll be starting the return trip to the main column in the morning, Tommy. Then it won’t be long until we’re back at Fort Keogh,” Harold said. “Why don’t we plan on going fishing the first chance we get?”

  “Sure, Harold. I’d like that,” Tommy replied.

  “I miss our squad mate too,” Harold said.

  Tommy sadly nodded his agreement. “I really liked ol’ George,” he said sadly. “Right off when I met him at the recruit depot in Columbus Barracks we was friends. He was a good feller. Too good to be put in a little grave so far from his home. I hope that don’t happen to no more of us.”

  “Me, too,” Harold said.

  He left his friend and walked out to join O’Malley. The long summer evening eased toward a close as the sun reluctantly began to give up its place in the sky. Harold glanced out over the open country, wondering if any more Sioux were nearby.

  “Good Lord,” he said softly. “What have I gotten myself into?”

  Chapter Seven – Private Harold Devlin

  For the most part, the economic classes of the town of Drury Falls, Massachusetts were neatly divided into two sections. This distinction had been in effect almost since its establishment as a village back in 1702.

  The finest homes of the community could be found on the west side of the Thunton River, which flowed through the center of the town. That section, known as Riverview, contained the domiciles of the better merchant class as well as those of the Grange family, owners of the large Grange Mill whose hundreds of looms were the backbone of Drury Falls’s economy.

  Across the river, in an area given the unambiguous name of the East Side, lived the workers who manned the cloth-weaving machinery. Underpaid and forced to work long hours in a dangerous environment, most were recent Irish immigrants. The laborers knew only the horrible poverty of their homeland. The mere fact that they could now get enough to eat without starving, and have a dollar left over for whiskey, gave them the impression that America was, indeed, the Promised Land. These people—men, women, and children alike—worked hard, played hard, and drank hard while brawling and blustering their way through their arduous lives. Yet even the toughest man always stopped to tip his derby respectfully when any of the Granges walked by, be it on the street or in the workplace. The mill workers knew when to be deferential. Even the hovels they lived in were owned by the mill.

  One family, however, didn’t seem to fit either of the town’s categories. The Devlins hovered between the two classes, depending on the conduct and fortunes of the father, Norman. He and his wife Elaine had moved to Drury Falls a year after their only son, Harold, was born. Devlin had received a small inheritance when his father died and had invested it in a dry goods store on the East Side. The business, located on a street that ran along the riverbank, was stocked with good merchandise and soon attracted even customers from Riverview. Devlin flourished in a limited way, but was able eventually to purchase a modest but spacious home down the street from his commercial enterprise.

  Elaine Devlin was a quiet, intelligent, and refined woman educated in a Catholic girls’ academy in Brockton. Like all the students, she was given an education that the good sisters considered proper for girls destined to be fine Christian wives. Elaine could cook, sew, keep house, and play the piano. The latter she did quite well, and she was sought out for weddings and other special occasions. Norman Devlin never allowed his wife to accept payment for the musical service, and his ego would not permit her to bring any money into the home. That, as far as Devlin was concerned, was the job of the man of the house. Also, he considered it beneath their dignity for her to perform for money. It didn’t make any difference to Elaine one way or the other. She enjoyed playing, especially for an appreciative audience.

  Devlin’s business continued to make money for several years. He had always been a bit of a tippler, and the habit grew as time went by. He did his drinking at home, but eventually he began to enjoy hitting the bottle a bit at the store during slow times. It relaxed him to withdraw back to the storeroom and imbibe a bit to relieve the pressures of the business.

  But that practice continued to grow until drinking was a big part of his day and he was intoxicated most of the time. The customers from Riverview thought it appalling to be waited on by a man reeking of liquor, while the East Siders thought it amusing. Either way, it wasn’t good for business.

  Finally the store went broke and he was forced to clerk in other town businesses. He lost those jobs one by one for drunkenness, until he sank to the level of working at a low-paying, unskilled job at the mill.

  During the periods of brief sobriety that occurred occasionally between bouts of lengthy drunkenness, Devlin was ashamed and angry. But he blamed all his troubles on everyone but himself. The family finally lost their nice house. Bitter and morose, Devlin drifted away from town for months on end, only to return to the various homes that grew poorer and poorer with the passage of time. Elaine was forced to give music lessons for a living. The little money she earned barely kept her and Harold fed and clothed, but the boy never missed school and was always present for class in worn, but clean and mended, clothing.

  Harold Devlin was a bright boy; the mother had passed her intellect and sensitivity down to the son. He did well in school, working hard and applying himself to his studies. At the end of his eighth year of study—the last school he was to attend—Harold had won the scholastic prizes in literature, mathematics, and history.

  Elaine Devlin beamed with pride at the ceremonies when Harold marched up to the front of the room to accept the grand prize of them all—a plaque with his name engraved on it. The faculty had chosen him as the outstanding student of his entire class.

  The event was marred somewhat by the unexpected appearance of Norman Devlin, who staggered into the auditorium in the middle of the presentation. Drunk and loud, he pushed and bumped his way down a ro
w of seats. He was politely but firmly escorted outside after taking a noisy, cursing fall.

  The next day, armed with several letters of recommendation from his teachers, fifteen-year-old Harold presented himself at the Drury Falls Bank and formally applied for a position as office boy. The president of the institution, a blustering but efficient manager named Erastus Brucker, accepted the keen young man without hesitation.

  Harold went to work with the same drive and determination he exhibited in school. Always arriving on time when Ferguson, the old guard, opened the front door, he would have the fire going and all pens, pencils, forms, and inkwells prepared for tellers and at the customer service desk as well. He was quick-witted and intelligent, his eagerness to please making him much more useful than most youngsters in similar jobs. Harold had worked for three years without missing a single day’s work when, at the age of eighteen, he was promoted to teller and given a salary of fifteen dollars a week. Since he was still living at home with his mother, he was able to add quite a bit to the family income. As a result, they were able to leave their home and move closer to the riverbank. In Drury Falls, this was a most visible and meaningful step up in one’s standard of living.

  Although they were never able to get a home as nice as the one the family had had when they first moved to Drury Falls, the house was comfortable and Elaine furnished it as best she could. During those times, Norman returned home less and less frequently. His times with his wife and son were made unpleasant with his drunken rages and their embarrassment. The father finally announced on a spring morning that he was leaving for good, and wandered off to destinations only he was to know.

  Harold grew into a fine-looking young man. Forced to wear glasses, he appeared a bit bookish because of his slight build and gentle way of speaking. But in the banking business, that was a plus for him. Elaine’s pride in her son grew with each passing year. Sensitive and attentive, Harold was a good son. He was also progressing well at the bank. Every day his books tallied and he made no mistakes in his accounting or when dealing with customers. At twenty-one, Harold Devlin was promoted to the prestigious position of chief teller. With a salary of twenty dollars a week, he supervised the other tellers and handled any difficulties that arose in the day’s business. Things could hardly have been better for Harold and his mother.