Bohanin's Last Days

by Randy D. Smith

  “After Chancellorsville, I doubt that he had the stomach for it. Hell, I was out of line and I knew it. I just had a belly full of seeing my men cut to ribbons so’s he could get back to his whore.”

  “And now what?” Whitehead asked.

  Bohanin rose from his chair and stiffly worked his way to the window. He gazed out across the parade ground and watched a stubby sergeant assemble his squad for morning drill.

  “My sister’s family has the farm in Illinois. They’ve got plenty of mouths to feed. They sure as thunder don’t need a worn out old cavalry goat like me underfoot and I sure as hell ain’t ready for the old soldier’s home.”

  “No other family?” Whitehead asked.

  “This is my family,” Bohanin said. “At least all the family I’ve known since I was a pup.”

  There was a strained moment of silence as the realization that this would be Bohanin’s last morning of service worked into their acceptance.

  “You could go back for a visit. See what works out,” Whitehead said as he attempted to reconcile himself to the idea that Bohanin had nothing other than the service.

  “They wouldn’t even know who I was. Hell, I don’t even know the names of most of em,” Bohanin said before taking another sip of whiskey.

  “What then? Just going to cruise around in that new buggy?” the physician asked.

  Bohanin turned and smiled. “Hell, yes. I’ve never been to California. Almost got stationed there after the war in ‘48. I’ve heard San Diego is pleasant enough; no hard winters. I’ve had me a belly full of hard winters.”

  “Take up storekeeping I suppose,” Whitehead said.

  “Or lawyering. Thought I might hang out a shingle and live off my pension. Lord knows I remember pitifully little of my legal readings.”

  Bohanin turned to the center of the room and placed his empty glass on the table. “I’ve never seen the Grand Canyon. Thought I might take a look-see on my way to California.”

  “I want to look at that wrist before you go,” Whitehead said as he rose from his table.

  “What fer? It ain’t changed one way or the tother.”

  The doctor forced his attentions upon the officer’s right hand. It was horribly scarred and slightly twisted. Whitehead slowly worked it back and forth in a slight circular fashion as he mocked his way through a physical examination of a condition that he knew he could do nothing to correct.

  “The way that Injun bullet shattered it, I’m surprised it’s any good at all. I’d reckon you’ve got a good thirty per cent mobility left. But its going arthritic and it won’t be too many years before its completely stiff.”

  “Saw bones told me that nine years ago. Said I ought to retire. I proved him wrong. I had to work at it. Hurt like hell for years. Even now it’ll fit me some if I place it wrong,” Bohanin said as he rubbed the ache from it after the doctor’s examination.

  “The only thing I can tell you is to take aspirin daily. Stay away from opiates. They’ll do more harm than good in the long run,” Whitehead said.

  “And my morning whiskey?” Bohanin asked with a smile.

  “I can’t think that would do you any harm,” Whitehead winked. “But that damned horse liniment.

  That shit’s too hot for human use. I can prescribe you something milder.”

  “Won’t work as well and you know it.”

  “How you expect the girls to pay attention to ya if you smell like a hard rode gelding?” Whitehead asked.

  Bohanin chuckled as he lifted his hat to his head and made for the door. “Any heifer that’ll pay attention to me will more than likely look like a horse. I doubt that she’ll be scared away by the smell of a little pony liniment. Hell, she’ll probably use the stuff for perfume.”

  “Probably,” Whitehead said with a nod.

  “You’ll be coming to the doing’s they’re throwing for me at Captain Lyster’s tonight?” Bohanin asked. “How the hell did you learn of that?” Whitehead asked.

  “Damn little I don’t know that goes on at this post. I’ve been stationed here at Fort Larned off and on for close to fifteen years,” Bohanin said as he walked from the infirmary out onto the covered boardwalk verandah.

  “I suppose you’ll show up in dress blues wearing your medals and claiming you’re surprised,” Whitehead said as he followed the Captain to the door.

  “Damn straight,” Bohanin said as he waved the doctor off and made his way toward the corrals. “Why I’ll be positively flabbergasted.”

  Whitehead watched Bohanin’s progress and noted the more fluid nature of the officer’s gait after his morning medicinal treatment. Moments later, Bohanin turned past the end of the barracks and started on the path toward the corrals.

  Jenny Lyster, the post commander’s daughter approached Doctor Whitehead unnoticed. When Whitehead saw her, he smiled and nodded. Jenny acted disappointed when she noticed that the doctor was alone.

  “Good morning Doctor Whitehead, I was hoping to catch Captain Bohanin,” Jenny said as she looked past the surgeon.

  “You just missed him, Miss Lyster. I believe you’ll probably locate him inspecting the mounts,” Whitehead said.

  Jenny grinned. “Or admiring that fancy new buggy?”

  “Chances are that’s where you’ll find him,” Whitehead said and smiled.

  Jenny excused herself and straightway made for the shop where Bohanin had his new buggy parked.

  “We’re expecting to surprise him around seven. You’ll be sure to be there, won’t you?” Jenny called as she scurried down the boardwalk.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Whitehead said as he tried to imagine the mock surprise antics that Bohanin would perform for the girl’s benefit.

  Jenny lost her bonnet as she recklessly careened around the corner of the shop. She collided into the Captain as he inspected the new black wheeled single horse buggy parked under the protection of the porch.

  “Careful there, young lady. You’ll hurt yourself or ruin that lovely dress,” Bohanin said as he grabbed her in his arms to keep her from falling.

  “Momma said that you was to come to dinner at seven and that you was to dress up because her and Daddy want to make this a sort of special occasion and she wants you to look your best so she can remember you in your uniform and she said you was to wear your medals.”

  “Hold on child, take a breather. You’re talking so fast that I can’t hardly get your meaning,” Bohanin said.

  Jenny collected herself and quickly adjusted her bonnet squarely back on her head before repeating the statement with an exaggerated deliberation.

  Bohanin gave her an expression of disbelief. “She wants me to wear all my medals?”

  Jenny nodded.

  “Well, I don’t know. I don’t know that I’ve ever worn all my medals.”

  “Why not?” Jenny asked.

  “Well, there’s so many. I don’t know that there’s room on my jacket.”

  “Captain Bohanin, you’re teasing me again. You don’t have that many medals and you know it.”

  “Well, I don’t know. Must be fifty or sixty I’d reckon.”

  Jenny placed her hands on her hips and shook a finger in his face, “You know better. When are you

  going to take me serious? We just want you to look nice so we can remember you in your dress uniform.”

  “Why not remember me as I am?” Bohanin said as if he was hurt by an insinuation that he wasn’t

  presentable as he was.

  “Because you’re so pretty when you dress in your good uniform.”

  “Don’t you think I’m pretty anyhow?” Bohanin asked.

  She thought for a second before answering. “But you can be so much prettier in your dress uniform. For me.”

  “For you?” he asked.

  “For me.”

  Bohanin smiled and nodded.

  Jenny rushed off to inform her mother that the uniform would be worn and the secret had been kept.

  Bohanin stood alone by h
is buggy absentmindedly rubbing his hand against the rim of the wheel. He wondered whether or not he would have had such a daughter if he had chosen any other career. He thought of Jasmine Martin, the lovely beauty that he had escorted to that last dance in Chicago before he left for the Mexican War. He remembered that she was small and round like Jenny and how he had thought of asking her to wait for him. At the last moment, there on that marble dance floor, he had decided that he wanted to see the West. He could remember her look of expectation as she waited for a question. He also remembered her vailed disappointment when he lost his courage and changed the subject. For a moment, Bohanin felt a lump grow in his breast, a misty presence form in his eyes. He straightened himself, adjusted his jacket and cleared his throat. Stables and tack needed inspection. He still owed the cavalry one full day of service.

  Chapter III

  Behind the leggy brown carriage mare’s easy gait, Bohanin’s new buggy rolled with smoothness and exhilarating comfort. Bohanin leaned back into the cushions of the black leather seat and allowed his thin frame the enjoyment of the turnout and the cool prairie morning. Tall bluestem, carrying a heavy load of seed, bordered both sides of the simple trail leading toward Dodge City to the southwest. To his left, the Arkansas River, shallow, wide and pristine, made slow progress through newly emerging cottonwood groves that had taken root along the bank.

  The cottonwoods would forever change the appearance of the countryside. Bohanin remembered the early days of service at Fort Larned just after the Civil War when this stretch of the Santa Fe Trail was barren except for miles of open grassland. The young cottonwood saplings held promise of cool shade along the river’s edge during the torrid months of July and August.

  He remembered his patrols during the height of Indian resistance in the late 60s. The hot, sweaty encampments, the dry taste of the air when constantly surrounded by exhausted men and horses, the gritty clinging of the heavy blue uniforms. He remembered days of grinding endurance to the elements of the prairie interrupted with moments of terror. Patrol duty was a daily drudging of men and horses under a harsh sun constantly exposed to strength sapping winds. Brutish endurance in search of an enemy that would hit and run, never choosing to take a stand unless numbers or conditions were greatly in their favor. His men would become frustrated and short-tempered after long periods of searching for an opponent that would most likely be miles away. It seemed odd how the presence of a few struggling saplings held a promise of a different, more docile land especially now that the Indian was gone, replaced by the occasional homestead of freshly-worked farm ground.

  Bohanin tugged the brim of his hat to draw it closer. He adjusted himself in the buggy seat and straightened the folds of his light brown tweed traveling suit. The casual fit of the civilian fabric presented an odd contrast to the heavy cavalry blue. After thirty years of service, it would take a while to condition himself to his new status and dress.

  Tucked in a simple cross-draw holster at vestline on his left side was his .44 cartridge conversion open framed Colt revolver. Bohanin had not purchased a new .45 Colt Army, which was an officer’s choice, when they began being issued in ‘73.’ He had converted his 1860 percussion Colt several years before and preferred its balance. He had a local gunsmith shorten the barrel from the issued eight inches to a more manageable five. Bohanin never considered himself to be a gunman. He wore the revolver because it was the fashion. He favored the model ‘66’ Yellowboy Winchester lever action carbine resting in a scabbard on the seat. Bohanin was a rifleman and the carbine had been his first choice since he had purchased it.

  Bohanin held up his mare at a particularly nice spot along the river and gave her some time to blow. He stepped from the buggy to stretch his legs. Watching the water he thought of the farewell reception. Only a few officers attended. Farewell toasts, a fine dinner and easy conversation had been much to his favor. More than an hour had been spent after most of the guests had left in conversation with the Lysters. He had always been fond of them and envied his friend for his fine family. Mrs. Lyster teased Bohanin about starting a family of his own now that he was free from the service. Bohanin knew he was too old to ever be able to conform to the demands of a wife and children. He would live out his days as a bachelor in modest comfort.

  Bohanin stepped into the buggy and urged the brown on. There was a trading post a few miles on at a new town called Kinsley and he wanted to spend the night there with his old friend Buck Gunnison. There would be plenty of nights on his trek to California when he would have to sleep on the ground. He had seen enough of that sort of life in the service. A good cigar, a quiet glass of whiskey, a friendly card game with Buck and a soft bed would be an excellent way of celebrating his first night of retirement.

  Gunnison’s Trading Post was built along the river several years before the railroad settlement. The business sat apart from the rest of the town that twisted along the open area between the old Santa Fe Trail and the new AT&SF rail line. The old soddy had been replaced by a more modern frame building Gunnison had erected to service railroad workers. The establishment was a place to get a room, a decent if not extravagant meal and a few supplies. There was also a corral for the mare and the original soddy for a stable.

  Bohanin drove his buggy to the soddy and asked a stable boy if he knew whether there were any rooms available for the night. The boy only pointed toward the house and mumbled like a half-wit. Gunnison, an old spike hunter who had given up chasing the beasts stepped from the back of the building.

  “You don’t need to worry. He understands you,” Gunnison said.

  Bohanin smiled. “Got any rooms?”

  Gunnison sat on the steps, wiped his forehead and smiled. “A few. For the illustrious Captain Bohanin, I suppose the best. At no extra charge.”

  Bohanin wondered if the “best in the house” meant less than the usual number of bed bugs that Gunnison had cultivated.

  Gunnison was Bohanin’s age and just as crippled. The Plains took an early toll on most men. Gunnison had twisted his back and walked in a stiff, hunched position. There was always an odor of buffalo hunters. It was the result of so many years of engaging in the rough existence of the gritty trade that men like Gunnison really didn’t know what clean was. A semi-annual bath had served then and it served just as well now, in spite of the fact that most of his business was conducted in the close quarters of a hot, badly ventilated frame building. Gunnison was a good friend. He had been with Bohanin at the Battle of Coon Creek when the cavalry had saved some buff hunters from annihilation by Kiowas in ‘69. When Bohanin’s horse had been shot from under him, Gunnison rushed to his aid. In spite of Gunnison’s faults, Bohanin never forgot how the spike hunter had drug him free with arrows and bullets raining down upon them. Other than Chancellorsville during the war and the Battle of the Willows in ‘68, it was one of Bohanin’s closest calls.

  Gunnison smiled as Bohanin took a sip of the dark bitter brew. The spike hunter spoke through a jagged harelip.

  “Well, now that you’re a man of leisure, what are your plans?”

  “I’m heading for California by way of the Grand Canyon.”

  “There’s Apaches down there, Captain. Mind yourself or you’ll be buzzard bait fer sure,” Gunnison said.

  Bohanin nodded and tried another drink of the beer, hoping it would improve. “I’ll stay way north of them. I’ll cut west from Fort Garland and see the canyon from the north end.”

  “You might look up old Tom Tobin when in Garland. I hear his daughter’s married to Kit Carson’s kid and they’re storekeeping down there,” Gunnison said.

  Bohanin never thought much of Tobin. The old scout and mountain man had too hot a temper and too mean a mouth. But Bohanin knew Gunnison thought a lot of Tobin and didn’t want to offend him.

  “Yeah, I’ll have to do that. I’ll give him your regards if I run across him.”

  “I’d appreciate that. I’d like to empty a keg with old Tom myself,” Gunnison said.

  Bo
hanin turned and looked at the filthy room. “How’s business?” he asked.

  “Can’t complain. Don’t get much town trade except for the gents that come by for a drink and horse feed. The women can’t abide the look of the place. But I’ll be damned if I’ll change my ways for a baggle of snooty skirts. I wouldn’t want them to smudge themselves.”

  “Don’t approve, huh?” Bohanin said.

  Gunnison shook his head and poured himself a beer. “Made me get rid of my whore, ya know. Yeah, old Prairie Dog Woman. Said if I was going to keep her around that I ought to marry her.”

  Bohanin smiled. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Judas priest. Even I got some pride. She weren’t too bad if a man needed some comfort in the night. That was the ugliest squaw I believe I ever did see. Hell, I bought her for a buff hide. And the feller that sold her to me acted like he got the best end of the bargain.”

  “But you kept her around for so many seasons, Buck. I would think that a fellow would become attached after a while,” Bohanin said.

  “I did miss her some last winter. Had to put an extra robe on the bed. But, she was past her prime if she ever had one. Nobody was willing to pay for her favors. One feller even suggested that I pay him,”

  Bohanin looked at his full mug of beer but decided that he would wait a bit before drinking any more. Gunnison would probably just fill it again and he wasn’t sure he could down a third mug without getting sick.

  “What did you do with her?”

  “I gave her ten dollars and sent her down the road. Last I saw of her she was heading for Dodge City. I figure she’ll make her way down to the Nations and find herself a feller with an empty tipi.”

  “You don’t regret it?”

  Gunnison took a drink of his beer. “Well, sometimes. I mean she was ugly as sin but I did have her to help with the chores and such. You saw that kid out back. A damned train orphan. I don’t know where he came from. Just showed up at the door one day, a blubbering about being hungry. Ain’t got all his marbles, ya know. He ain’t no fit company. Can’t even fry bacon without burning hell out of things. But he’s more respectable to them crows in Kinsley. You know what I think?”