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

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “We’ve got a crate of ammunition to tote, men,” he reminded them. “So before we leave we’ll take down one of these thick saplings and rig it up so two men can carry the load. Mulligan will be permanent porter. The rest o’ you can take turns with the miserable thief.”

  Mulligan, knowing he was still regarded as an undesirable, didn’t much care one way or the other. He’d gotten a pretty good break from the manual labor of digging holes, so he still considered himself better off than when the hike first began. In his world, any physical advantage was always to be worked to the limits.

  After detailing a couple of men to arrange the load for carrying, Robertson reported to Captain Riker for a last minute conference. With the lieutenant gone, the first sergeant was now second-in-command.

  “We’ve plenty of ammunition now,” Riker said, watching the sapling being stripped of limbs. “But that’s not the end of the problem.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said. “We’re still outnumbered. All the bullets in the world ain’t gonna help us if we don’t have repeaters to load ’em into.”

  “I wonder when the powers-that-be in the ordnance department will come up with an acceptable repeating infantry long arm,” Riker wondered aloud.

  “It’s too late to help us now, sir,” Robertson said. “When all them scattered Sioux finally get together, they’re gonna be able to roll over us just using the weight of numbers.”

  “And that’s exactly what they’re going to do if we tarry here much longer,” Riker said. “We’re going to have to strike out cross-country. That means we won’t have much natural defense until we reach the Tongue River.”

  “We’ll be like ants on a picnic tablecloth, sir,” Robertson said, “Easy to spot if somebody wants to squash us.”

  Riker smiled wryly. “We’re doing quite a job in pointing out our problems to each other, aren’t we, Sergeant?”

  “We got to be practical about it, sir,” Robertson said. “It ain’t gonna do us or the men no good to play like ever’thing is fine.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Riker said. “Our only hope is to run into another column of troops from Fort Keogh. But there isn’t much chance of that. I’m not aware of any plans to send out any more units into the field.”

  “And they couldn’t have found out what happened to the main column yet, either,” Robertson said. “I suppose when they finally notice that General Leighton ain’t sending dispatch riders back, the staff at Fort Keogh will figger something awful happened.” The sergeant was a seasoned noncommissioned officer. He knew the conversation going on with Captain Riker was mainly an opportunity to give the commander a chance to think and plan as he talked. Robertson’s responsibility was to help that process along with comments and a few suggestions.

  “It’s all up to us, Sergeant Robertson,” the company commander said with a tone of finality in his voice. “Our chances of being found and rescued are nil, but there always exists that wild chance of a little luck.”

  “If we don’t have any, sir,” Robertson said, “we’ll soon be paying the devil his due.” He glanced over at the column to see that they were now ready to move out. “Shall I take the point, sir?”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Riker said.

  Robertson, having already confirmed his estimate of the war camp’s location with Riker, Callan, and Baker, chose a more southerly direction to avoid it. From the description of the warriors’ antics he knew that when the Sioux who had attacked the patrol arrived there, they would find no effective fighters—only sleeping, helpless, and sick drunks. If there was any whiskey left, they would undoubtedly consume it. That would cause even more delay and confusion on the Indians’ part.

  Because of the possibility of an attack from all directions, the column was formed into a diamond formation, each man charged with a certain area over which to maintain watch. The countryside was wide open, giving them plenty of visibility, so at least they didn’t have to worry about being ambushed or suffering a surprise assault.

  Riker took a position toward the rear where he could keep an eye on everyone. The exact middle of the configuration of men was occupied by Trumpeter Melech, Mulligan, and whoever was assigned to work with the thief in carrying the crate of ammunition.

  Tommy Saxon was the first man detailed to help the New Yorker carry the vital load of Springfield bullets. Both young soldiers followed Charlie O’Malley’s suggestion and also put their haversacks and blanket rolls on the pole cut from the sapling. With the burden evenly distributed and balanced, it really wasn’t too uncomfortable.

  Tommy didn’t mind the situation too much, but he wished he was with Harold Devlin instead of Mike Mulligan. Like the other men, he’d never gotten to know the thief very well. Mulligan always stuck to himself most of the time, even when everyone wasn’t angry with him.

  “How’re you doing up there, Mulligan?” Tommy asked. He thought it would be more pleasant to talk a bit.

  Mulligan, lost in his own thoughts, turned his head as much as he could to look back. “What?”

  “I asked how you was doing,” Tommy said.

  “Awright,” Mulligan answered. Then he asked, “How’s it wit’ you, then?”

  “Pretty good,” Tommy replied. He tried to think of something to talk about. “The weather’s nice, ain’t it?”

  “It’s awright.”

  “It’d be nice back home right now,” Tommy said. “Unless it was raining.” He walked a bit more. “Would it be nice where you’re from?”

  “It’d be awright.”

  “You’re from New York City, ain’t you?” Tommy inquired.

  “Yeah.”

  “You got family back there?”

  Mulligan shrugged, making the pole bounce a bit. “Just my ma,” he said. “And my big brudder. I t’ink they’re still living together. You got family?”

  “Back in Ohio? Sure,” Tommy said. “There’s my folks and aunts and uncles. We lived on a farm.

  “Wit’ pigs and shit?” Mulligan asked.

  Tommy laughed. “Yeah.”

  “I lived on the toid floor of a doity ol’ building,” Mulligan said. “On the Bowery. There was a saloon on the foist floor. It was called McGinty’s. When my old man was home he’d send me down there for buckets o’ beer.”

  “Did your pa die?”

  “I dunno. He went outta the house one evening and never come back,” Mulligan said. He blurted out a sardonic laugh. “And Jeez! Was that ever a blessing? You bet!”

  “What’s it like there in New York City?” Tommy asked. “I bet she’s pretty big, ain’t she?”

  “It’s great for a sharper like me, kid,” Mulligan said. He didn’t get much chance to talk with anyone. “I had a gang. They was a bunch o’ tough bruisers, you bet.”

  “Yeah?” Tommy used to read about robber gangs in dime detective novels. “Were you the leader?”

  “Don’t you know it! We called ourselves the Doiby Hats on account o’ it was the rules I made up, see? All them oafs wore one,” Mulligan said. “And, say! Let me tell you, they done ever’t’ing I told ’em to do. Din’t they, though?”

  “Really?” Tommy was impressed.

  “Sure, kid. You know what we did? We’d go up to a store owner, see? And we’d say, ‘Hey, you got a nice store here. You wanna keep it this way?’ They shake in their shoes, see? And we’d say, ‘Kick in five greenbacks a week and it’ll stay that way, see?’ Did they pay up or what?”

  “Did you make a lot of money that way?” Tommy asked.

  “Did I? Hey, kid, that’s why the judge made me join the army, see? The bigwigs in the mayor’s office was afraid o’ the Doibies, see? They seen that the day was coming that New York was gonna be run by Mike Mulligan and his boys. Was they scared or what?” Mournful Melech, striding nearby, listened to the exchange. He’d paid protection money on his handcart to gangs in several neighborhoods. He’d learned to hate the petty tyrants, but had been helpless to do anything about them. Melech knew that no sne
ak thief like Mulligan ever ran a gang or had the gumption to collect from merchants in a racket. The real gangs would have broken every bone in his body.

  Mulligan, enjoying himself, went on. “You know what, Saxon? I been thinking about getting up a gang in the army, even. How’d you like to join, huh?”

  Tommy shook his head. “I don’t think that’s my style, Mulligan.”

  Mulligan was thoughtful for a moment. “Yeah. You ain’t the type, anyhow. And am I choosy? Say! You better believe it. Maybe we could go talk to the store owners in town, huh?”

  Tommy wasn’t certain that was a good idea. “I don’t know, Mulligan. Don’t all them fellers out here carry guns?”

  Melech laughed. “You could shake down the sutler, maybe, Mulligan.”

  “Hey! Mind your own business, Jew-Boy,” Mulligan snarled. “Maybe I’ll bounce that bugle off your noggin. Would I do that or what?”

  Tommy, unhappy that the conversation was taking an unpleasant turn, quieted down. He shifted the pole to his other shoulder and plodded on.

  Riker finally decided to call a halt in mid-afternoon. He would have preferred to keep moving, but his experienced eye noted the awful fatigue setting in on the men. They’d been too long without proper rest. The soldiers walked listlessly, even in that dangerous situation, stumbling a lot. Several even fell fast asleep on their feet, waking up only when they tripped over something.

  When the column reached a shallow, wide ravine that offered a bit of a defense, Riker gave the command. “Comp’ny, atten-hut!” The men came out of route step and picked up the cadence, marching as if they were on a parade ground. “Comp’ny, halt! First Sergeant!” Robertson left the front of the formation and trotted in to receive his instructions. After speaking with the captain, he situated the men for an hour’s break. Half would be allowed to sleep for the first thirty minutes, the second half could nap the final period. When he inspected each position, he also took a close look at the soldier manning it.

  He didn’t like what he found.

  Robertson returned to Riker’s place in the middle of the ravine. “We got problems, sir.”

  Riker looked at him and laughed. “I thought we had already determined that, Sergeant Robertson.”

  “I mean something else now,” the first sergeant replied. “The men’s shoes is getting bad now. Most of ’em are on their second pair.”

  “God!” Riker moaned. “Now, that’s all we need is to try to get a company of barefoot men across this cursed wilderness.”

  The footgear issued to army troops was manufactured in the military prison at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. The shoes, made of coarse leather with the soles attached to the uppers with brass screws, were uncomfortable under the best of conditions. Most were so badly made that it was virtually impossible to tell the rights from the lefts. That didn’t make much difference, since they were as bad a fit on either foot. An old soldier’s trick, adopted quickly by the Johnny Raws, was to rub soap on the feet to reduce friction and blisters while on the march.

  “If some of the men’s footgear wears out, we’ll have to share, somehow,” Robertson said. “But I’m afraid we’re gonna finish this here march looking like a band o’ goddamned tramps.”

  “I’ll settle for that if we get back to Fort Keogh,” Riker said. “Frankly, I don’t think shoe leather is going to be the most important thing on our mind.”

  “It’s my duty to report it, sir,” Robertson said.

  “That’s correct, Sergeant,” Riker said. “And I appreciate your attention to your duties.”

  “We’re also running short on rations,” Robertson said. “Most o’ the men are down to their last hardtack biscuits. And there ain’t any salt pork left in the comp’ny.”

  “I’m out, too,” Riker admitted. He sank deep into thought for several long minutes. “Son of a bitch!” he finally said. “I’m going to have to split out some men to go ahead and hunt game.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said.

  “We can’t take the whole damned outfit,” Riker pointed out. “Any game around would be alerted by the noise and the scent.” He stood up and pointed. “See that hill way off there to the northwest?”

  Robertson also stood up. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to take a couple of men to go hunting,” he said. “We’ll meet you there.”

  “Yes, sir. Who are you taking?”

  “Baker and Callan,” Riker said. “They proved to be pretty good on that scout. They’re experienced men and should be a lot of help on a hunt.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said. “I’ll fetch ’em for you now.”

  The first sergeant went over to the first squad, where he found the ex-sergeant asleep. Shaking him, Robertson said, “You’re going hunting with the old man. Report to him.”

  Callan instantly came awake. As a veteran soldier, he was not surprised by any orders or instructions. “Right, Sergeant.” He stood up and grabbed his gear, hurrying over to the company commander.

  Robertson hurried to the second squad where Baker and O’Malley shared a common position. “On your feet, Baker.”

  Mack Baker groaned. “Oh, shit.”

  “Move it,” Robertson said.

  Baker reluctantly stood up. He turned and faced the first sergeant. “Yes, Sergeant!” He swayed a bit, displaying a silly grin.

  Robertson’s face blanched with anger. “You son of a bitch! You’re drunk!”

  Baker continued his idiotic grinning. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Where in the hell did you get the goddamned liquor?” Robertson demanded to know.

  “In the Indian camp,” Baker said. “There was a bottle laying by the ammunition crates. A little ol’ pint bottle some dumb Sioux dropped. I picked the little darling up and shoved her in my blouse.”

  “It looks like Mulligan is going to have some permanent company with that load of bullets,” Robertson snarled. He kicked O’Malley. “On your feet!”

  “Jesus,” O’Malley said, rubbing his sore leg. “What’s the idea? I ain’t drunk, Sergeant.”

  “You damned well better not be,” Robertson said. “Come with me. You’re going hunting with the captain.”

  The two joined Riker and Callan. Riker wondered why O’Malley was with the first sergeant.

  “Baker is drunk, sir,” Robertson said. “He swiped a bottle when the patrol snuck into the Sioux camp.”

  Riker fought a desire to laugh. “I am beginning to think that Private Mack Baker and Mister John Barleycorn were made for each other.”

  “A match made in heaven, sir,” O’Malley said, grinning.

  “Shut up!” Robertson snapped.

  “Yes, Sergeant!”

  “We’ll leave now,” Riker said. “My reckoning is that the break will be over within a half hour, Sergeant. We’ll see you on that hill and you know what to do if we’re not there.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said. “I’ll proceed on to the Tongue River and follow it up to Fort Keogh.”

  Riker nodded to his two companions. “Let’s go.” He waved to Robertson.

  “Good luck, sir,” Robertson said. As soon as the hunting party walked out of the perimeter, he turned and hurried over where Mack Baker had already situated himself with Mike Mulligan. “Where’s that bottle, goddamn you, Baker?”

  Baker pulled the empty container from his haversack. “All gone.”

  Robertson hit him hard, knocking him to the ground. “You’re gonna pay for this, you bastard! You don’t get drunk on me in the field and get away with it.”

  “Shit, Sergeant,” Baker said, wiping at the blood on his mouth. “We’re gonna die out here. Can’t an old soldier get drunk just one more time?”

  Robertson kicked him once, then did it again. “Don’t hang your gear on the pole, Baker. You wear it, hear?” Baker got to his feet, warily watching out for more kicks. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  A half hour later, right on the dot, Robertson had the column moving once again. They traveled across a gentle
swell in the land that eased upward toward the hill where they were supposed to meet Captain Riker and Privates Callan and O’Malley. The men weren’t rested much, but they were still slightly better off than they had been before having the hour to take it easy.

  It took them two hours to reach the hill, but a mile from it, they could see the three-man hunting party waiting for them. Although the vision was distant and blurry, it appeared they had a horse with them. When the company finally arrived, they found a happy trio.

  “What do you think of our luck, Sergeant?” Riker asked.

  They stood with a cavalry mount that had an elk buck slung over its back. Robertson was amazed. “What happened, sir?”

  “Our shot brought down the elk,” Riker explained. “And it also attracted this horse to us.” He patted the “US” branded on the animal’s flank. “He’s a good soldier and knows a Springfield when he hears one.”

  “I reckon the Indians stole him when they massacred the column, huh, sir?” Robertson asked.

  “It would have to be so,” Riker said. “It probably got away from those drunks and started wandering around. When it heard us, it figured a feed of oats wasn’t too far away.”

  Robertson laughed, but not with humor. “Well, the son of a bitch isn’t any better off than we are. He’ll have to wait ’til we reach Fort Keogh before he gets any government chow.” Then he added, “If we get there, that is.”

  Chapter Fourteen – The Charge on the Tongue River

  Tommy Saxon staggered sideways, colliding with Harold Devlin. Both young men lost their balance and fell to the ground. Tommy, the stronger, was on his feet first, though he was slow and clumsy about it. He helped his friend to stand.

  “I’m sorry, Harold. I reckon I stumbled,” Tommy said.

  “That’s all right,” Harold replied. “We’re all getting dog-tired.” He pointed to the column where the weary members of Company L moved like the walking dead.

  Both young men hurried forward a few steps to regain their place in the formation. None of the other soldiers who had seen the incident saw any humor in it. They gritted their teeth and pushed on, weariness soaking down to their souls.