Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869

by Terry C. Johnston

  “Major and captain, is it?”

  The officer waved the burly bartender down their way. “Both served with honor during the war—though neither one of ’em has regular army rank.”

  “But you look every inch a soldier,” exclaimed the bartender to Brown. “Dave Perry’s the name.” He held out his hand.

  “Captain William Brown, Fifth Cavalry, sir,” Brown replied. He motioned to his companion. “Bill Cody, chief of scouts for the Fifth.”

  Cody could smell the strong stench of old whiskey on the bartender’s breath. Perry’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, as if he was of the kind to punish a bottle hard, day in and day out. The man moved with that kind of looseness that spoke of too much whiskey sloshing about in his ample belly. The scout put out his hand, willing to try at friendly.

  Perry eagerly shook hands with Cody. “Pleased to meet you both. What you drinking today?”

  “Whiskey—make it a bottle,” Cody was quick to answer. He didn’t like the cocksuredness of the man, the way he strutted just by talking. Better to be wary of this kind, he thought as Perry turned to snatch up a bottle.

  Brown laid a single eagle down on the bar.

  “You’ll be wanting change, Captain?” Perry asked behind that loaded grin of his. “Or, will you be drinking up your ten dollars’ worth?,” he asked with undisguised scorn for the young man.

  Brown opened his mouth, but Cody spoke first. He wanted out of the man’s way, knowing even with his few years on the frontier there were two types of drunks. The friendly ones, and the mean ones. If he did not know a man who had been punishing the bottle hard, better to stay out of that man’s path.

  “Keep our tab open, Mr. Perry,” Cody snapped a little too quickly. The scout turned, and was about to drag the bottle and two glasses from the bar, when Perry stopped him.

  “You got yourself a chip on your shoulder, I’ll bet, Mr. Cody.”

  Bill felt the first boil of hate stirring in his belly, something simmering like anger ready to ignite. He stopped a few feet from the bar, then turned back on Perry.

  “You got your nose stuck in the wrong place, shopkeeper.”

  “Shopkeeper, is it?” and Perry roared. A few of the patrons laughed as well. “Far as I can see, I’m proprietor of a thriving establishment, thanks to the railroad and the army.” He leaned across the bar in Cody’s direction. “No thanks to young jackasses like you who feel froggy enough to go spouting off at the mouth.”

  “Anytime you want to find out how froggy—”

  “I think you both just got off to a bad start,” Brown sputtered, coming between the two, attempting to nudge Cody off toward an empty table.

  Perry kept that same implacable grin on his face as he wiped a dirty hand-towel across the rough bar. That frozen grimace reminded Cody of a rusted iron hinge no longer capable of movement.

  “Mr. Cody, I imagine you’re just feeling what we in the business world call the squeeze of authority.”

  “No—I’m feeling nothing more than the need to whip some of the smart out of your fat ass.”

  Perry laughed again, and when he finished, the smile had disappeared. He laid the towel down as he rumbled to the end of the bar. “For days now we’ve heard the Pawnee scouts were coming in to join up with you soldiers out at McPherson. Talk had it that your bunch of scouts hasn’t been doing the job up to the standards of the army. I hear the Pawnees coming in to save your ass from the fire, Cody.”

  “No goddamned Pawnee needs to help William F. Cody—”

  “Let’s just sit and have our drinks in peace, Cody!” Brown lunged for the scout.

  Perry was pushing his sleeves up to his elbows, past his thick forearms. “Hear it said the North brothers gonna show you and your ragtag bunch of civilian scouts how to catch some Cheyenne. About time it is too.”

  Cody turned, mechanically, shoving the bottle and glasses into Brown’s reluctant hands, then turned back like a mainspring, lashing out with the right fist. It caught Perry square on the jaw, staggering the bar owner two steps, making him blink his eyes in disbelief.

  Cody swallowed, startled that the man had not gone down with that blow, the best the scout had to give. His right hand hurt where the knuckles had smashed against Perry’s cheekbone, like a mule stomped on it. A small cut had been opened there on the barkeep’s cheek, the only sign of any damage to the hulking man.

  The young scout drank deep of the smoke-filled barroom air as he set his feet. He knew it was bound to be a tussle just staying on his pins—realizing Perry wasn’t the out-of-shape, larded barkeep normally found back with the bottles and glasses and the smoked mirror. What was beneath Perry’s apron was every bit as hard as Cody’s hand was sore.

  He had size and strength on the young scout. Cody had only speed.

  The young man ducked, driving a right into the man’s belly. It was tough, but Perry still winced a bit, the wind driven from him. Cody jabbed with the left, hard beneath Perry’s ribs. A second time, searching for the kidney. Then he pushed off backward just as Perry went for the clench.

  The man’s big hands clawed for Cody’s head, raking across the long, deep scalp wound still pink and healing from the Spring Creek fight.

  Cody pulled his head free, seeing stars, reeling a moment.

  Perry was on him quickly. Popping a big first against Cody’s jaw. A second then a third time, each sharp jab sending the young scout backward a step.

  Cody felt an eye puff up. A cut opened across one cheekbone. It stung almost as much as his pride.

  “You had enough, Mr. Cody?”

  He shook his head, his neck feeling loosened, like thick mud beginning to set along a creekbank. Not able to hold his head up, and with it growing heavier all the time.

  “Stop this!”

  He heard Brown hollering, stepping in front of him. Cody shoved the officer out of the way.

  “He’s the one who can stop it, Captain,” Perry replied.

  “No need to stop,” Cody said, a lip growing puffy. “I ain’t pounded you into this floor yet.”

  Perry laughed as Cody came on, swinging, connecting at times, lunging and falling against a table as Perry stepped aside. He knew he had to control his temper—figuring that was how he would defeat the bigger man.

  “Had enough yet, Cody?”

  He got to his hands and knees, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, the one eye he had left to see out of glazing over. Slowly he raised himself on the table and turned to find Perry standing near.

  “Had to come in here and see for myself,” Cody said quietly. “Heard this place was run by a fat coward made his living off the railroad and who word has it waters his whiskey down to serve for hardworking soldiers.”

  Cody watched the big man’s cheeks flare. Not that he had called him fat, or a coward. But to attack the man’s honesty was the ticket. And whiskey was the most sensitive of subjects when it came to a saloon owner.

  Perry came on like a cannon loosed from its moorings. At the last moment Cody stepped aside, foot out, fists clenched together, and chopped down on the man’s neck. Perry collapsed on the table, splintering it and a chair on the way down.

  He rose, even more angry as Cody backed against the bar. Perry licked at the blood leaking from his lower lip. The scout inched along the bar, feeling his way behind him. Lunging for Cody, Perry met instead a chair that split apart as it crashed against his shoulder. The barkeeper stood, massaging the side of his neck.

  “You’re sport enough, Cody—but you’re afraid of these fists of mine, ain’t you?”

  He nodded. No sense in denying it. “True enough, Perry. You’ve hammered me like iron on an anvil. But I ain’t done in.”

  What Perry did next surprised Cody. The saloon owner sighed, volving his neck a bit. “You punch good for a youngster without much meat on his bones. I’ll bet you get good when you grow up. You may not be done—but Dave Perry is willing to call it a draw.”

  Bill Cody squinted that one good eye,
fidgeting a moment, wary of a ruse. Perry was backing away. Some of the patrons were patting him on the back, others picking up tables and chairs and gaming chips, slowly going back to their cards. And here he stood, still flush with hot adrenaline firing his veins.

  “Perry.”

  The barkeeper turned. “I said you should let it go, Cody.”

  He licked his own puffy lips. “I’ll run any man into the ground says I can’t find Cheyenne for General Carr’s cavalry.”

  Perry chuckled, a wry grin crossing his face. “I’ll bet you can find them Cheyenne can’t you, Bill Cody? Way you stand up and don’t give in—I’ll bet you can find them Cheyenne at that.”

  * * *

  “In the name of God, General—I beg you let me ride with your men!”

  Tom Alderdice stood before Major Eugene Carr and his staff officers in the rosy streaks of dawn’s first light Seamus Donegan felt sorry for the man.

  “I quite understand your situation, Mr. Alderdice,” Carr tried to explain.

  “I can carry my own weight, General. I was with Forsyth last summer.”

  “Mr. Donegan told me that before he brought you here this morning.”

  “Then you know how I want to give them back—”

  “You’re distraught right now, Mr. Alderdice.”

  “The hell! Wouldn’t you be—returning home from a trip clear down to Hays City for supplies … find the whole settlement wiped clean. All them bodies with arrows stuck in ’em—starting to swell up and go black. All them scalped bodies—and you can’t find your wife among ’em?”

  Carr backed a step as Alderdice came on. The civilian’s hands were trembling, his voice rising like a man on the edge of a great precipice who knows it is up to him to jump.

  “I have a full complement of scouts, Mr. Alderdice,” Carr explained, his eyes saying he could find no better way to apologize.

  “I’ll damn well won’t use up as much victuals as them Pawnee gut-eaters you’re packing along!”

  “Lieutenant—see that the post guard escorts Mr. Alderdice to a holding cell in the guardhouse until we are three days out.”

  The man’s eyes grew wild, darting over the soldiers who moved forward to take him. “Three days? Didn’t you understand—they’ve got my wife, goddammit!”

  “Tom. Tom,” Seamus was whispering, gripping the civilian’s greasy, sweat-stained shirt as two soldiers restrained his arms. “We’ll find her. Believe me—we’ll find her.”

  Alderdice struggled, finally loosening when he discovered he could not fight his way from the three. He seemed to shrink in their arms, sobbing, the tears so long held in abeyance coming now in a gush to wash down his dusty face.

  “Susanna,” he whimpered, gazing up into the tall Irishman’s face. “Her name is Susanna. Find her for me, Seamus.”

  “I will, Tom. Count on it.”

  “Don’t matter what them red devils done to her—I want her back.”

  “We’ll bring her back to you.”

  “Seamus,” he said, ripping one arm free of a soldier and grabbing hold of the Irishman’s wool vest. “Promise me something else.”

  “Anything, Tom. Just ask it.”

  “I can’t go and do it myself,” he whispered hoarsely, finally bringing his eyes off the ground. They implored Donegan. “Bring me the scalp of the red bastard—the one been … been … abusing my woman.”

  Chapter 19

  June 1869

  “Really like that big son of a bitch, don’t you, Cody.”

  He turned to find Major Eugene Carr approaching. Cody went back to currying the big yellow horse. “About the best animal I’ve ridden, General.”

  “Major North told me you took a fancy to a horse belonging to one of his Pawnees.”

  “Traded him for it—fair, General.”

  Carr moved close, stroking the animal’s neck as Cody brushed a rear flank. The camp of the Fifth Cavalry bustled about them. “You name him yet?”

  “Buckskin Joe.”

  The officer nodded. “Buckskin color, all right. Better looking than that army mule you were partial to.”

  A new voice came up behind them. “General Carr.”

  Both Cody and the major turned to find Carr’s orderly bringing up a pair of pedigreed greyhounds at the end of short leashes.

  “Holloman,” Carr replied.

  “The dogs are ready for you, sir.”

  Carr took the leads. “Bring up my horse, Private. We’re ready to march.”

  Cody smoothed the saddle blanket then cinched the army saddle on the buckskin. “You exercising the dogs today, General?”

  Carr grinned within his brown beard. “You might say that, Cody. I’m bringing them along with me this morning—going to ride with you on the advance.”

  Eyeing him for a moment, Cody said, “Them hounds of yours any good at hunting?”

  Carr took the reins to his horse from the veterinary sergeant. “Let’s you and me go catch up with the Pawnees riding the point—and see just how good these two are.”

  “Lute North is out with them,” Cody replied sourly as he settled in the saddle.

  The major climbed up as well. “You don’t have much use for him, do you?”

  “Neither one of ’em. Made a name for themselves on the plains using the eyes and ears of their Pawnee Battalion. Just natural that I don’t take a liking to folks who ride the coattails of other men.”

  “The North brothers have a handsome reputation, Cody,” Carr commented. “I certainly hope you will continue to work with them and their Pawnees.”

  Cody nudged his horse out. “I won’t do anything to cause trouble, General. Won’t be me starts anything.”

  Ever since leaving Fort McPherson on this march south to hunt for the marauding Cheyenne, the Pawnee Battalion was always the first to rise in the morning and the first to be in the saddle. Under Luther North, the younger of the brothers, the Pawnee kept ahead of the Fifth Cavalry a distance of two to three miles throughout the day, covering a wide piece of country on both flanks as well.

  This second day since leaving the Platte River, Carr and Cody loped ahead of the main column to catch up with the Pawnees.

  “Captain North!” Carr shouted. His adjutant, the orderly and two more staff officers rode on the major’s heels.

  Luther North turned in the saddle, his eyes narrowing when he found Cody riding with Major Carr. “General. You here for inspection?”

  Carr removed his hat and swiped at his brow. Already the sun was growing hot, having made its appearance in the east less than an hour ago. “No, Captain. I came up here to give the dogs some exercise.”

  North regarded the two greyhounds. “I see. You think those two skinny dogs good for hunting?”

  “I do.”

  North grinned, like he was rolling something around in his mind. “You think them two can catch an antelope?”

  Slapping his thigh with one hand, Carr replied, “Yes—they sure as hell can.”

  “Sounds to me like Captain North here figures your hounds aren’t up to the task, General,” Cody said. He watched the growing consternation come across Carr’s face.

  “Suppose they show you, Mr. North—show you they can catch an antelope.”

  “No need to show me, General. Antelope is a fast animal.”

  “So is a blooded greyhound, Captain.”

  North finally nodded. “All right. You’re on. We’ll have to ride far enough ahead of the others that we don’t spook any goats out there.”

  “Very well, Captain North. Lead on.”

  Cody, Carr and the major’s orderly followed North. The rest of the major’s staff turned back to ride with the advance guard.

  “There,” Cody said minutes later, pointing into the shimmering distance of the plains.

  “I see him,” Carr replied, excited.

  “Just a lone buck,” Cody said. “If we take our time, leading your dogs off yonder, down in that ravine, we can get up on him. That way your hounds will ha
ve a good jump on him.”

  “Splendid, Cody.”

  The quartet followed the course of the dry ravine for better than half a mile until they were within two hundred yards of the antelope buck. The men dismounted and bellied against the slope of the ravine to watch the show.

  “Holloman,” Carr whispered to his orderly, “take the hounds up the bank—where they can get sight of that buck antelope.”

  The orderly struggled to get the pair of dogs up to the prairie, then released them from their long leashes. He plopped on his belly to watch as the hounds started off on the lope. No sound had come from their throats.

  After a moment more the antelope turned, spotting the dogs, which began baying as they closed the gap. But instead of running, the antelope bounded toward the pair of skinny, earth-colored canines.

  “That damned stupid animal figures to be sociable, General,” Cody whispered. “Gonna meet a couple more antelope, looks like.”

  “Time for us to make our show, boys,” Carr said, getting to his knees then moving quickly to his horse.

  As soon as the four horsemen leaped up the bank of the ravine, the antelope bounded in a tight circle and took off at full speed. By this time Carr’s hounds were already running flat out. They had closed the gap on the buck in the first few seconds.

  “They’ll catch that antelope before he even gets started, fellas.”

  All four men gave a wild whoop as they hammered their horses into a gallop, following the dogs up the steep slope of a hill. By the time the horses made it to the top, Cody suggested a stop to let the animals blow. Down on the wide, dry flat below, the dogs continued their chase as the quartet watched, intrigued. In less than a minute the buck disappeared over a far hill, the hounds still some two hundred yards behind him. When the pair reached the crest of that same hill they stopped, milling about and sniffing over the ground. Then, as if in agreement, they turned and trotted casually back to the horsemen.

  North had not said a thing, merely leaning forward in his saddle, watching the whole show. Holloman and Cody were quiet as well while the hounds came up. Carr stepped from the saddle, kneeling to pet the dogs.