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

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “He’s a thief, Charlie,” Worthington reminded him. “You must remember that life in the barracks isn’t the same as it was for us at West Point. There is no honor code among the enlisted men. Harsh physical punishment is the only method we have to protect the honest soldier from his unscrupulous mates. We’re dealing with simple fellows who need the basest and most primitive discipline to get them to behave in an acceptable manner.” He yelled to Trumpeter Melech by the fire. “Bring the pot over here.”

  The little man immediately obeyed. He quickly refilled the officers’ cups and returned to his position.

  “I know Mulligan is a thief,” Riker said. “And I also know that as an officer I shouldn’t interfere in something that concerns the enlisted men.”

  “That’s right,” Worthington said. “There’s such a thing as the unwritten regulations pertaining to soldiers’ business among themselves. That is the sole reason for having noncommissioned officers. If we dealt personally with the enlisted men’s lives, we wouldn’t need sergeants and corporals.”

  “But I’m beginning to feel that the efficiency of my company may be at stake,” Riker said.

  “Over one man?” the lieutenant asked.

  “That’s right, Fred,” Riker said. “One man means one rifle. Have you given any serious thought to the predicament we’re in out here?”

  “You know me, Charlie,” Worthington said. “My motto is ‘damn their eyes, shoot ’em down!’”

  “A bit of inappropriate bravado,” Riker said. “We’re on foot, two days away from the main body, and the damned Sioux not only know how many there are of us, they also know exactly where we’re located at all times.”

  “They’ve been scouting us, all right,” Worthington agreed. “That war party we faced up to yesterday has more than likely spread the story of the fight throughout several Sioux villages.”

  “It didn’t take you ten years out here to figure that out, did it?” Riker asked.

  Worthington smiled and shook his head. “I suppose it didn’t, Charlie. And I’m well aware we’re under the gun—literally.”

  “I was afraid you really didn’t appreciate the situation,” Riker said seriously. “On the way back, I don’t want any flankers out, and no point. We’ll keep together to be able to get the most weaponry on target in the least amount of time.”

  “Good idea, Charlie.”

  “You lead the column, but only to show the way. I don’t want you getting too far in front of the company yourself,” Riker said.

  “Right,” Worthington said. “I presume that the sergeants and myself—with Melech, of course—will still act as a fifth squad.”

  “Correct, Fred. And I’ll expect you to do a good corporal’s job,” Riker said with a wink. “Now give Robertson the word to get things packed up. The sooner we start, the sooner we get back.”

  “Or the sooner we die,” Worthington said.

  Riker again was not amused. “You worry me, Fred.” Worthington laughed. “You’re so serious sometimes, Charlie. It’s just that I like a damned good fight. And I’m no baby-faced second lieutenant either. I’ve been under fire plenty of times, so don’t bother to preach to me.”

  “I won’t preach, Fred,” Riker said coldly. “But I’m not George Armstrong Custer who will charge with blaring bugles into the unknown. So I’ll goddamned sure give you precise orders that I expect to be carried out to the letter.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  In the middle of the small camp, Tommy Saxon sat cross-legged on the ground, pensively sipping his coffee. He could see the ostracized Mulligan sitting by his own fire doing the same thing. Harold Devlin, packing his belongings into his haversack, looked at his younger friend. He’d become a bit concerned about Tommy’s periods of quiet since George Hammer’s death. “A penny for your thoughts, Tommy.”

  “I was just wondering why God let Mulligan live and made George die,” Tommy said.

  Harold shrugged. “They say everything that happens is part of a divine plan.”

  “That’s what I was taught in Sunday school,” Tommy said. “But it don’t make any sense. George was a nice feller. Ever’body liked him, too. Mulligan steals from folks and he goes right on living. So why would God take George away from us and leave Mulligan?”

  “It’s confusing, all right,” Harold said. “Maybe you should talk to the post chaplain about it when we get back to Fort Keogh.”

  “I don’t like him,” Tommy said. “I think he drinks.”

  “He does,” Harold said. “Anyway, are you feeling any better, Tommy?”

  “Nope,” Tommy responded. “My mind keeps churning up thoughts on George. I never thought when I met him at Columbus Barracks that he’d die in a battle so damn quick.”

  “I’m certain he didn’t think so, either,” Harold remarked.

  Mack Baker had been listening to the conversation while wrapping his blanket roll. “It’s tough to lose a bunky, but in war that’s just part o’ the game.”

  “Sure is,” Charlie O’Malley agreed. “We was in a fight against Kiowas down on the Washita and there was five fellers in my comp’ny killed in a space of two or three minutes.”

  “I’ve heard soldiers who fought in the Civil War talk about thousands dying in a matter of minutes,” Harold said. “A fellow I know back in Drury Falls, Massachusetts, once told me that he’d seen fields where you couldn’t take more than two steps without walking on a corpse.”

  “My uncles used to talk about that war a lot,” Tommy said. “But they never said much about the killing part of it.”

  Then they didn’t see much of that,” Baker said. “Maybe not,” Tommy said. “I think they was on detached service with the provost guard or something.”

  “That means they stayed behind the fighting,” O’Malley said.

  “Yeah,” Baker said. They must’ve pulled a hell of a lot o’ guard duty, though.”

  “It’s better’n dying,” O’Malley pointed out.

  “I think getting hurt and crippled up is worser than dying,” Baker said.

  “I’ve heard o’ fellers that’s been hit in the face so bad that if they lived they’d look like monsters,” O’Malley said.

  “Yeah! Me, too!” Baker said. “And I heard that the surgeons let ’em die.”

  “Or give ’em extry chloroform to let ’em croak easy,” O’Malley added.

  “For the love of God!” Harold exclaimed. “Can’t we change the subject?”

  Baker shrugged. “Anyhow, Tommy’s uncles was more’n likely just doing sentry duty through the war.”

  “They sure had some fun, though,” Tommy said. “They even seen General U.S. Grant a coupla times.”

  “Ain’t that a hell of a name?” O’Malley remarked with a laugh. “Imagine anyone named United States.”

  “The U.S. stands for Ulysses Simpson,” Harold said.

  “The hell it does!” O’Malley snapped. “His name is General United States Grant.” He looked for support to Baker. “Wasn’t it, Mack?”

  “Shit, I don’t know,” Baker admitted.

  “Well, it is,” O’Malley insisted. He glared at Harold. “Just ’cause you read books don’t mean you know ever’thing, Devlin.”

  “Forget it,” Harold said.

  O’Malley pressed his point. “You can learn a hell of a lot more about life by getting out and living and seeing things.”

  “I’m sorry I brought it up,” Harold mumbled. “And you can learn by hearing stuff too,” O’Malley said. “Like General United States Grant’s name.” Further argument was impossible when Corporal Schreiner walked up to the fire. “Put it on your gear!” he snapped. “We’re moving out.”

  Now Robertson’s bellowing voice sounded over the scene. “Fall in, L Comp’ny!”

  Harold laughed as he slung his blanket roll over his shoulder. “Who else is out here?”

  “That’s the army way of calling a formation, Devlin,” O’Malley said angrily. He was beginning to doubt he was right about Gra
nt’s name and it upset him.

  Devlin, who had been in difficult moments before with other bigger and stronger men not as bright as himself, let it pass. He joined the others as they fell into formation to be marched into the first section’s place by Schreiner.

  The entire company, with the exception of a couple of lookouts, were drawn up with as much precision as if they were in a formal garrison back east. Robertson faced Captain Riker, saluting and reporting:

  “Sir! L Comp’ny all present ’n’ accounted for!”

  “Take your post, Sergeant,” Riker said. He waited until the noncommissioned officer went to the back of the formation. Then he ordered, “Parade, rest! Men, we are two days away from the main column. I need not emphasize the importance of keeping up a continuous, vigorous pace. The war party of Indians who attacked us are but a small part of a much larger force. There is no doubt they will return in larger numbers to seek us out. We will post no flankers nor a formal point. Each and every man will stay within the formation and maintain an intense state of alertness to avoid a surprise attack. Lieutenant Worthington will lead the way. It is a simple matter of following him and keeping a sharp eye out at all times. Do as you’re told and we’ll get safely back without any trouble.” He smiled. “You’ll have some fine stories to tell your grandchildren when you’re old and gray.” He turned serious again. “Company, atten-hut! Sling arms! Left face! For’d, march! Route step, march!”

  They moved out as the lieutenant trotted to a position in front of them. The men settled into their march routine, although this time there was very little listlessness. The proximity of hostiles and the probability of an attack swept away any casual drowsiness they might have felt. They constantly looked up and scanned the far horizon on one side while the squads nearest the river peered into the dense vegetation there for any sign of ambush.

  The morning passed fretfully for the column. Riker decided that stopping for a noonday meal was a luxury far more dangerous than beneficial, so he kept the men pressing on. No one complained as the march routine was altered to five-minute breathers every two hours. Even then, the sergeants and corporals did not have to remind the company to keep a sharp lookout for marauding Sioux.

  The Indians did not arrive until mid-afternoon. Uncontrolled shouting heralded the Sioux appearance and it took Robertson’s infuriated bellowing to bring order back to the column. Riker had more time to react this time than during the previous encounter.

  He moved the men toward the protection of the riverbank and formed them up in two lines. The first section knelt in front of the second while Lieutenant Worthington, Trumpeter Mournful Melech, and the sergeants arranged themselves as they saw fit.

  The Indians stayed out of range, however, simply galloping back and forth and shouting unintelligible taunts at the soldiers. They brandished their weapons, and several rode forward, trying to egg the white men into shooting at them.

  “Nobody fires!” Riker barked. “They want to check out the range of your rifles. We’ll save that as a great big surprise for them.”

  One of the soldiers in the second section nervously brought his Springfield up to his shoulder. Luckily, First Sergeant Robertson stood close by him. “Put that weapon back at high port, you bastard!” Robertson hissed. “Or I’ll cram it up your ass sideways.”

  The young soldier, having no doubt that Robertson would do exactly what he said, swallowed nervously as he lowered the rifle. “Yes, Sergeant!”

  Tommy Saxon, Harold Devlin, Mack Baker, and Charlie O’Malley knelt together in a row. Harold was fascinated at the sight of the Indians in their war regalia.

  “Just think of it,” he said. “We’re among the last white people ever to see those magnificent aborigines as God made them.”

  Tommy licked his lips. “What’re you talking about, Harold?”

  “They and their way of life are going to be destroyed,” Harold explained. “It happened to the Indians in the East and it’s as inevitable out here as it was back there.” He shook his head ruefully. “It’s a shame.”

  Mack Baker spat. “You’re crazier’n hell, Devlin! I hope to God we don’t never see no more of ’em.”

  “That’s exactly what’s going to happen to them,” Harold said. “And we are all instruments of their destruction.”

  “Jesus!” Charlie O’Malley exclaimed. “Will you listen to him?”

  “You read too damn many books, Devlin,” Baker said. “If anybody is going to get destructed around here, it’s prob’ly going to be us.”

  “Yeah,” O’Malley said.

  Tommy didn’t like the way the two were talking to his friend Harold. “There’s more of us than there are of them,” he pointed out.

  “Sure,” Baker said. “Maybe here. Maybe now. But them bucks can go back to their village and bring three or four hunnerd warriors whenever they want to.”

  “Quiet in the ranks!” Sergeant McCarey yelled.

  All talking ceased. The Indians continued to mill about and shout. Then suddenly, as if by a signal, they broke away and left the scene.

  Riker waited fifteen minutes; then he ordered, “Fall in!”

  The column moved out again; slogging on through the deep grass the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Finally, as dusk swept down over the open country, Riker called a halt for the night. He wanted to get a good defensive camp organized before complete darkness settled in.

  The men arranged themselves in a square to pass the night. As before, half would sleep while half guarded. This time, however, they didn’t spread out their shelter halves. They piled up the haversacks and blanket rolls as rifle rests. The long night would be spent in the wet grass.

  Mack Baker, wishing like hell he had a tall bottle of whiskey to nip at, adjusted his rifle on his pack. “Well, boys, there ain’t none of us gonna have sweet dreams this night!”

  Chapter Nine – Moonlight and Shadow Warriors

  First Lieutenant Frederick Worthington walked the square formed by the men of L Company. The short, husky officer stopped here and there to adjust a soldier’s position or to make sure he had a good field of fire.

  “You have that bush directly in front of you,” he said to Tommy Saxon. “That will keep you from being able to shoot at anything farther out. Shift to the right a bit.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tommy said. He was glad for the move. It put him closer to his good friend Harold.

  Worthington hurried to the next squad. He had to work fast in the gloomy twilight to be certain that each rifleman was fully prepared for the hours of darkness. When he had completed his inspection, he reported back to Captain Riker.

  “Everything is as good as it can be, Charlie,” he said. Then he added with a wink, “We can be thankful the Sioux don’t have artillery.”

  “What are you talking about?” Riker asked.

  “We’re violating military doctrine,” Worthington explained. “The men are so close together that one shell could wipe out the entire company.” He chuckled.

  Riker didn’t appreciate the humor. He had experienced the flesh-shredding force of fused cannon rounds during the war against the South. At one point in the Battle of Antietam, a Confederate barrage hit the regiment ahead of his on the line. The men there had evaporated in the detonating hell of the shells’ impacts and explosive fury. The soldiers were there one instant and gone the next.

  “We’ve plenty of trouble as it is,” Riker said dryly. “Goddamn that Leighton for sending us on such a foolhardy mission.”

  “The general was concerned about the horses,” Worthington said.

  “Well, thanks to his kind attitude toward animals, we’re on foot, surrounded by a stronger enemy, and still a day’s march from our main force. Frankly, I can’t figure out what’s keeping the Sioux from launching a massive attack and wiping us out in one fell swoop.”

  “Perhaps they’re scattered, Charlie,” Worthington suggested. “After all, we didn’t spot any camps along the river.”

  “Could be,
” Riker allowed. “But it won’t be long before they gather together when the news about us is spread through the council fires.”

  The conversation was interrupted when Sergeant Robertson presented himself with a sharp salute. “The men are well situated for the night, sir. They’re formed into a square with a squad on each side.”

  Riker knew that Robertson was aware Worthington had already made an inspection and report. But in the first sergeant’s mind, that was his responsibility, too. The noncommissioned officer damned common sense, as he often did, and followed the book.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Riker replied.

  “The men are close enough that even in the dark they can deliver some pretty solid volleys if need be. But it’ll still be far from a regimental front like we had in the war,” Robertson said.

  “Indeed it will,” Riker agreed.

  Worthington, who had entered the service after his graduation from West Point in 1870, had missed the war. He envied the two their experience, saying, “By God, I would have loved to see fighting like that. Corporal Schreiner was in the Franco-Prussian War and he told me of massed infantry fire against rank after rank of charging enemy. It must have been magnificent!”

  “It was hell on earth,” Riker said.

  “That it was, sir,” Robertson added.

  “Have you passed the word on guard duty and fires?” Riker asked.

  “Yes, sir. We’ll be on fifty percent alert and no fires allowed,” Robertson said. “After the long march today, even a cold meal of hardtack and water will taste good to the men.”

  “I doubt that” Riker said. “But it’s the best they’re going to get.”

  “Any special orders for the noncommissioned officers, sir?” Robertson asked.

  “Yes, Sergeant Robertson,” Riker answered. “Mr. Worthington and yourselves will continue to act as a fifth squad. In the event any side of our little square needs reinforcing, you shall do the honors.” He looked around for Melech. “Trumpeter!”