by R. W. Stone
Corporal Shaw looked up at the jungle foliage overhead. “Not much of that here, now, is there? Say, you want a swig of whiskey before I cut?”
Thad looked up eagerly. “You brought some?”
Corporal Shaw shook his head. “Nah. Just wonderin’ is all.”
“Asshole!” McCallum groaned as Shaw began to cut into the leg. Then Shaw bent over and began to suck whatever poison he could out through the cut.
“Just get this straight, Sarge. This don’t make us no goddamned blood brothers or anything of the sort,” Shaw stated, after spitting out the venom.
“You go to hell!” McCallum grunted.
The corporal next took a shell from his cartridge belt and, using the side of his pocket knife’s blade, pried the bullet off the casing.
“What’s that for?” Thad was almost afraid to ask.
“Read once where the Vikings used to cauterize bad wounds with heated swords. This’ll be quicker.” He then handed McCallum a small stick. “Here, you’re probably gonna need it. Put this in your mouth and clamp down. It’ll help you with the pain and keep you from bitin’ your tongue.” As an afterthought, he added, “Might keep you quiet, too.”
“Asshole,” Thad repeated as he placed the stick between his teeth and bit down.
Before the sergeant could react, Shaw emptied the gunpowder from the shell into the wound. McCallum grimaced but it was nothing like the pain that followed when the corporal struck a match and ignited the powder that was in the wound. “There, that should be good and cauterized.”
“Oh, you lousy son-of-a-bitch,” McCallum muttered just before passing out.
When he came to, it took a few seconds before he knew where he was. He finally realized that Corporal Shaw was carrying him through the jungle on his back.
Thad managed to look down and he saw that his leg had been wrapped in a field dressing. He figured he must have been out for an hour at the very least.
“Leave me here, Al,” Thad urged. “We both can’t make it and that message must get through.”
“We’ll get through, all right. I figure it can’t be too far now, so stop tryin’ to play the hero again. Besides, think of all the glory. I can see the headlines now. The Iron Sergeant delivers crucial dispatch on one leg with unknown corporal along merely for company.”
“Screw you. Now leave me here and go on alone.”
“Whose gonna make me? You gonna pull rank on me?” Al laughed.
Thad groaned. “Yeah, Corporal, that’s an order.”
“All right, Sergeant, fine. As soon as we get where we’re goin’, you can put me in for a court martial.”
“Al, cut the bullshit. You know how important that dispatch is. Our boys’ lives might be depending on it. Leave me. The orders were to get there as fast as we can.”
Al Shaw nodded. “And that’s exactly what we’re doin’. We’re goin’ as fast as we can. Now shut up. All your yammerin’ is makin’ this harder. Ever think of eatin’ less?”
Fortunately, the gods of war were on their side, and after one more day and a half the two men collapsed into the Rough Riders’ lines. They were out of food and down to a few drops of water in their canteens.
“Sergeant McCallum has a dispatch for Colonel Teddy,” Shaw said, glancing over at his friend. Thad was slumped on the ground. “After you wake him up, that is.”
Corporal Shaw did receive a minor commendation later, but by that time the Iron Sergeant’s fame had grown such that everyone simply took Al Shaw’s word that the brigade owed everything to Sergeant McCallum. It only served to add to his already growing legend.
Obliged? Of course, he was. Thad owed the man his life.
* * * * *
“Whatcha bet you gonna find your friend’s boy shacked up with a young señorita?” Pedro joked across the dinner table.
McCallum shook out the cobwebs from the past and considered that for a moment. “Won’t say it ain’t possible, but from what my friend tells me, this here’s a good kid. Doesn’t seem the kind to just up and disappear. Anyway, I’ll find out soon enough.”
“You gonna take the black?” Pedro asked, referring to McCallum’s favorite horse.
“More than likely, but I’ll probably travel part of the way with him on the train. These old bones don’t like saddle-back riding all day as much as they used to. No sense pushing it when I don’t have to.”
Pedro nodded at him. He knew perfectly well the jefe was more than capable of riding just as far and as well as he ever had, but he also knew that as of late his friend had been complaining of rheumatism.
Peralta was a bit younger, but even he was beginning to have good days and bad days when it came to his joints. Especially first thing in the morning or when the weather suddenly turned cold.
“I’ll make sure they double check his hoofs and I’ll have your pack made up.”
McCallum smiled. “Don’t be such a damned mother hen. You know, you worry way too much, Pedro.”
“And don’t you forget to oil your Winchester if you are taking it along, jefe,” Pedro reminded.
“Now I know you’re getting addle-brained. When did I ever forget that?” McCallum joked.
When the US Army went to war with Cuba, they generally carried either Springfield .45-70 single-action trap-door rifles or the newer .30-40 Krag side-loading, bolt-action rifles and carbines.
At heart, Colonel Theodore Roosevelt was a Winchester man and carried a model 1895 into battle instead of the Krag. In fact, he liked it so much he ordered another hundred and handed them out among his troops. The Winchester ’95 was a John Browning design that could handle unbelievable breech pressures without a hitch. Thaddeus McCallum hadn’t been separated from his since the day he first received it.
Chapter Three
The following morning Thad McCallum awoke early and checked his personal supplies. He buckled on his holster, pulled out the Colt Single Action, and checked the cylinder. Out of habit he always carried five rounds instead of six, making sure that the chamber directly under the firing pin was empty. It was a common practice that prevented accidental discharges should the pistol ever be dropped on its hammer. After replacing the pistol, he put on his overcoat and patted the side pocket, checking for his pipe and tobacco pouch.
McCallum looked around and scooped up a small bag of licorice treats that was on a table near the door. He then put the bag in his other pocket.
Thad had started chewing the treats when someone mentioned licorice might help with the indigestion that was plaguing him as of late. It also seemed to help rid him of any aftertaste from long hours of pipe smoking and, as an added benefit, kept his breath fresh. Besides, he’d grown to enjoy the taste of the small candied bits.
Pedro Peralta was nowhere to be found inside the house, so Thad assumed he had simply gotten an early start on his morning chores. He took one last look around the cabin, reached up, and took down his Winchester from the pegs on the wall next to the door. Sighing, he opened the door and walked out toward the corral.
When he turned the corner, he found to his surprise that his was not the only horse saddled and ready to go. Pedro was sitting on his favorite tobiano, a large black-and-white pinto gelding. Thad noticed that his friend was wearing his old holster belt with a Remington Single Action .44 caliber revolver on one side and the old machete hanging down to the left. It had been years since Pedro had regularly worn that rig. McCallum immediately knew at a glance what it meant.
“Going somewhere, muchacho?” he asked suspiciously.
“Sí, jefe. I am going with you,” Pedro answered firmly.
“Since when do I need a nursemaid, Pedro?” Thad asked his old friend.
“Yesterday I see an owl hopping on the ground and hooting during the day. Last night, too, there was a bird tapping on the window of your house. Then the sign over the main gate, she worked lo
ose and fell down. Bad signs all. Pedro has a bad feeling about this trip. Better I should go with you.”
“Oh, hell, you know I’ve been meaning to renail that damned sign for months. It was just a matter of time before it fell off. And since when are you worried about a damned owl?” McCallum asked as if annoyed.
“The owl was outside, hooting during the daytime, that’s why. And the sign, why she took all this time only to suddenly fall off now? No, these are bad omens.” Pedro was insistent, stubborn.
After all these years McCallum knew better than to argue with his friend, especially when it came to his superstitions. Besides, deep down, Thad knew he would enjoy having some company on the trip.
“But what about the ranch?” he asked, feigning anger.
“We already had the spring roundup and I checked last night with Drago. He can handle things right good. The bank will give him credit for anything that comes up,” Pedro assured Thad.
Drago Wilson was one of their oldest wranglers and a very dependable man. He was widely known as a man of true sand who would ride for the brand whenever necessary. It was hard to argue with Pedro about Drago’s ability to handle the job.
“Damn, you are one obstinate old lady,” Thad said, shaking his head. “All right, dammit, I guess you can mosey along with me.” He slid his Winchester rifle into his saddle scabbard.
The old vaquero just looked back at him firmly and nodded. There had never been any doubt in Pedro’s mind about whether he would go. If necessary, he had been prepared to wait until McCallum rode out, and then follow him at a distance.
McCallum didn’t want to put anyone in jeopardy because of his personal obligations, let alone his old friend. Also, it bothered him that Pedro was acting as though he felt Thad couldn’t handle things by himself anymore. The last thing McCallum needed now was a worry wart mothering him. However, despite all this, deep inside, he was glad to have his old companion riding along.
McCallum took up his reins and started to mount. When he flexed his knees, he suddenly felt the early morning weakness typical of arthritis. He grunted and walked the horse over to a mounting block he had built a year or so ago. It was basically nothing more than a box fashioned into a couple of wooden steps, but it helped make it simpler for kids, women, and apparently, now, old men to mount up.
He looked around, embarrassed, climbed the steps, and swung his leg over the horse. He adjusted his round-brimmed campaign hat with the four-corner Montana crease and cleared his throat as if to redirect attention away from his deficiency.
“Well, if we’re going, we might as well get on with it,” he said sharply.
“Vamanos,” replied the old vaquero, putting a soft spur to his horse.
It was a two-hour uneventful ride to the railhead. When they finally arrived at the station, McCallum noticed it was a little more crowded than usual. The two men rode to the ticket window of the El Paso and Southwestern Railroad Company. McCallum dismounted and handed his reins to his friend.
“Two tickets to Columbus,” McCallum said, sliding a couple of bills through the window slot. “We’ll be needing passage for our horses, also.”
The ticket manager nodded and made change. He slid the change back to McCallum, then the two tickets. “The livestock cars are at the back of the train. Just show the conductor your tickets.”
Thad took his reins back from Pedro and they walked their horses toward the end of the train. They took their place in the back of a line of men waiting to board their horses and mules.
The two livestock cars had wooden ramps leading up into them where stalls had been built. Straw lined the floors and there were small wooden troughs for hay. Water buckets were securely hung inside each stall.
Things seemed to be proceeding as needed when suddenly a stranger, leading a chestnut horse, butted his way into the front of the line, shoving another passenger aside.
McCallum mentally recorded his appearance almost by reflex. The man, who was a stranger to him, was of average build, wore a fedora creased fore to aft, and was wearing a long brown jacket. He sported a large mustache and had a small scar under his left eye.
The intruder tried to lead his horse up the ramp much too quickly and, not surprisingly, the animal spooked. Instead of backing up and reassuring his horse, the man raised his voice and jerked even harder on the bridle.
Horses are herd animals and are used to the soft tactile responses of other members of their herd. Loud noises and pain represent a warning and create a fear response. This stranger obviously either didn’t know this or didn’t care, and when the horse began whinnying and continued backing up, the man pulled out a quirt from under his coat and began whipping the poor animal.
“Move it, you dumb beast, I’m in a hurry!” he shouted angrily.
McCallum watched him use the long crop a couple of times more, sighing in disgust to himself. He then turned and again handed his reins to his companion.
“Here, hold these, Pedro,” he instructed. Looking up, he noticed a large branch that hung directly in front of the ramp. Reaching over, Thad pulled a lariat from his saddle and tied the long end around his saddle horn. He then tossed the rest of the rope over the tree limb and caught it by the looped end. Walking up quietly behind the poor animal’s abuser, he tossed the rope over the man’s neck and quickly tightened the noose.
Almost at the same time Pedro backed up the big black horse. This in turn created more tension on the rope. Since the lariat was directed down from the tree branch, essentially the pulley effect could hang the man. He went up on his toes and was forced to stay there. To struggle anymore would mean a broken neck.
McCallum went over to the frightened horse and began rubbing his hand gently along the chestnut’s neck. He slowly removed his coat and gently placed it over the animal’s head, creating the same effect as a set of blinkers. The old cavalryman spoke soothingly as he led the horse up and into the car and tied him into a stall. Once back outside of the livestock car, he glanced at Pedro.
“OK, that should be enough, I reckon.”
Peralta loosened the rope from around the saddle horn and the man collapsed to the ground face-first, coughing and gagging. McCallum removed the rope’s noose from around the man’s head, bent over, and murmured in his ear, “If I ever hear of you beating a horse like that again, I’ll come back and finish this little necktie party. Might even quirt you first. Now you just remember that.”
The stranger was writhing on the ground, choking too much to reply, but Thad assumed he had gotten the drift of his warning.
Pedro walked up and McCallum replaced the lariat on his saddle. Then the two led their horses into the livestock car with little effort. Once they had assured themselves that the horses were well stabled, McCallum pulled his Winchester from its scabbard and the two men went forward to the nearest passenger car.
Chapter Four
When the train finally pulled out, McCallum and Peralta were seated in the back of their passenger car. Pedro was once again whittling on a small stick while Thad had the usual pipe in his mouth, billowing enough smoke to be in competition with the engine. Propped on the seat next to him was McCallum’s ever-present Winchester rifle.
After they had been under way for a while, Thad set down his pipe and then lowered the window shade. Reclining back in his seat, he pulled down the brim of his campaign hat and took a nap. If he had learned anything in the cavalry, it was to grab as much sleep as you can when you can. One never knew when the next opportunity for sleep might occur while out in the field.
After a spell, McCallum woke up. Pedro was still whittling the stick that was now much thinner. He was also smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.
“Don’t expect anything exciting happened while I was out?” McCallum asked.
Pedro shook his head. “Nada. The train stopped for water a short time ago. Only other thing was a small boy carrying a char
ola … a tray of candy, fruit, and tobacco. He went through to the next car.”
Thad nodded. “Catch him when he comes back. I should fill up my tobacco pouch while I can.” He arched himself and stretched out his arms to ease the stiffness in his lower back. Opening the shade, he glanced out. Almost immediately he noticed the shadows cast on the ground from the train top. Perhaps it was his years as a detective or his natural curiosity that got the better of him, but McCallum was troubled by what he had seen. He raised the window way up, took off his hat, and stuck his head out the opening.
Pedro was curious. “Whatcha doing, jefe? Getting a breath of fresh air?”
McCallum shook his head. “Thought I saw something funny. Hold on a second,” he said. Looking back, and then forward again, Thad finally saw what was making the shadows on the ground as the train traveled along. Pulling his head in, he turned to his friend. “We’ve got company.”
“How’s that?” Pedro asked.
“There’s at least two men up on the roof. If it was just one man, it might be a railroad employee, but two, right after a water tower stop? It has to mean a robbery is in progress.”
“So, what do we do?” the vaquero asked. Unconsciously Pedro had begun fingering the grip on his pistol.
McCallum looked at him a moment before answering. “Oh, I suppose some damned old fool’s gotta go up there after ’em.”
“How many times have you told me that, when you were in the army, they always told you never to volunteer for anything? Eh, jefe?” Pedro joked, removing his pistol and checking its cylinder.
McCallum stood and picked up his Winchester. He lengthened its sling and put the rifle over his shoulder. He shrugged. “Well, if we don’t do this, who will?” He pointed to his hat lying on the seat bench. “Keep an eye on that. Don’t much fancy having it blown off up there.”
“Be careful up there, jefe. Your knees … they aren’t what they used to be.”
“Oh, go screw yourself,” Thad replied angrily. “Yours aren’t any better than mine.” Even so, deep down he knew his friend was right. “Anyone comes through that door who isn’t carrying a candy tray,” Thad continued, “you’ll probably need to shoot. Just be careful. I don’t want to have to break in a new foreman.”