Crossed Arrows (A Long-Knives Western Book 1)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For the most part, the items in here reflect favorably on you not only as a soldier but as an officer.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You were an enlisted man for six years, rising to the rank of sergeant. That is an excellent record for a professional soldier in an army where it can take up to ten years to gain that grade. Also, I’m sure you used your fists and boots when you had to enforce discipline as a good sergeant will.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hawkins acknowledged. “When a trooper won’t do things properly, it can save a lot of time and trouble by changing his attitude with a swift kick in the ass.”

  “Your record as a leader under fire in the campaigns against the Apaches is filled with favorable reports and even commendations,” Bennington said. “That is something of which you can be truly proud.”

  “That I am, sir.”

  Bennington took a deep breath and slowly expelled it. “Then you received a commission.”

  Hawkins grinned in spite of himself. “I got a piece of paper that made me an officer and a gentleman.”

  “An officer maybe.”

  “Anyhow, I didn’t want it,” Hawkins said.

  “That’s what makes your commission so admirable,” Bennington said. “Not so much because you came up through the ranks, but because General Phil Sheridan himself kicked it through channels with his own personal endorsement.”

  “He wouldn’t let me turn it down. I had a heart-to-heart chat with the general and he told me that he thought I owed it to the Army to take on more responsibility. I’m an old-fashioned sergeant at heart, like you said, and I couldn’t refuse what was really an order to become an officer. Particularly from one hell of a fine commander like General Sheridan.”

  “Just my luck,” Bennington moaned under his breath. He raised his voice. “But you didn’t seem to realize that conducting yourself as an officer is much different than conducting yourself as a sergeant.”

  “I developed a style of command in the barracks,” Hawkins admitted. “Old habits are hard to break.”

  “Obviously! Officers and gentlemen do not engage in unnecessary fisticuffs when arresting deserters as you did over in the Oklahoma Territory. You know what you should have done, don’t you?”

  “Any other officer would have gone in there with a sergeant and a half dozen men and made the arrest,” Hawkins stated. “I realize that, sir.”

  “For the most part the men admire you, Hawkins,” Bennington said. “They even tend to imitate you.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, sir,” Hawkins commented. “I just perform my duties in my own manner.”

  “It’s bad enough when the sergeants ape your style, but there’s been more than one young lieutenant also trying to smash his way through his military career.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The colonel looked into Hawkins’s records for a few more moments. “Since becoming an officer, you’ve received several more commendations.” He scowled. “As well as quite a few reprimands in writing. They are all right here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bennington folded up the packet and pushed it aside. “All that is academic now.” He grabbed another piece of paper and shoved it across the desk at Hawkins. “This is a recently issued War Department Circular. Read it.”

  Hawkins took the document and carefully scanned it with obvious great interest.

  The colonel asked, “What do you think?”

  “I agree with it wholeheartedly, sir,” Hawkins said. “Enlisting Indians in the Army is a good idea. Even though I fought against them, I learned to respect ’em a good deal. Those warriors were damned smart and very brave.” He read some more. “It says here they’ll be called the U.S. Scouts and be used to maintain law and order, carry messages, guard military installations and wagon trains, apprehend deserters and criminals, patrol duties, and other missions as directed by the commanders of the military departments in which they serve.”

  “It sounds like you give the project your full approval, Captain Hawkins.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s pretty easy to see that by creating the U.S. Scouts, they’re establishing a new branch of the Army. It says here they’ll have their own insignia. Crossed arrows. That’s similar to the crossed sabers of the cavalry and the crossed rifles of the infantry.”

  Now Colonel Bennington smiled. “Well, Captain Hawkins, I suggest that you go immediately to the quartermaster stores and draw a few of those crossed arrow insignias to issue to your new command.”

  “Sir?”

  “The department commander and I have both recommended your transfer to the U.S. Scouts,” Bennington said. “In fact, you are going to recruit and organize the Kiowa-Comanche Detachment from among the Indians living at the agency in the Fort Lone Wolf area.”

  Hawkins had a sensation of extreme excitement. “Is the Army serious about using these scouts as the circular directs?”

  “It sure as hell is.”

  Hawkins grinned widely. “Sir, that means I’ll be getting out of all this dull garrison duty. Those scouts are going to be spending a lot of time in their saddles.”

  “Indeed, Captain.”

  “It’ll be like the old days when we were out campaigning in the Arizona Territory,” Hawkins said.

  “Yes!” Bennington commented happily. “You’ll be gone a lot, Captain Hawkins.”

  “I expect so, sir.”

  “As I stated previously, you’ll be transferred from my command,” Bennington said, chuckling with glee. “I’ll not have to answer for your personal conduct, deserters being beaten up, towns burned down or any other wild thing you might do.”

  “That’s good for you, sir,” Hawkins agreed. “Who do I belong to now?”

  “You’ll be quartered here on the military reservation, but you and your new command will have a separate camp at the Kiowa-Comanche Agency. You’ll report directly to the department commander. In fact, you are free to begin drawing the tentage, building supplies and other items you’ll need. A detail of soldiers will be given temporary assignment to you for those tasks. Are you ready to immediately take all that on?”

  “I can manage that, sir.”

  “Carry on, Captain. You’re dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Hawkins rendered another snappy salute, performed a faultless about-face movement and marched out the office.

  The sergeant major looked up from his paperwork at Hawkins’s approach. “How do you think you’ll like the U.S. Scouts, Cap’n?”

  Hawkins grinned. “You already knew all about it, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t be much of a sergeant major if I didn’t.”

  “Very true,” Hawkins agreed. “Well, to answer your first question, I consider it a blessing. Now I can really stretch my legs and see some action like we had in the years when we fought the Apaches.”

  The sergeant major shook his head. “You’re not like a lot of us, are you, Cap’n Hawkins? After all them thankless years of that God-awful desert and mountain campaigning, every old-timer is glad he got out of the Indian campaigns in one piece. You’re just giving yourself another chance to get shot up.”

  Hawkins shrugged. “Now that makes life worth living, Sergeant Major.”

  “Sir, with all respect, I have a feeling I’ll be among those hearing taps played at your funeral,” the sergeant said seriously.

  “Maybe so,” Hawkins admitted. “Well, I have some important matters to attend to. See you later.”

  The sergeant major watched the captain walk from the building, then turned back to the papers on his desk.

  Chapter Two

  The Plain—that famous parade ground of the United States Military Academy at West Point—was a scene of martial excitement, punctuated by the spontaneous outbursts of applause and cheering coming from the nearby crowd of civilian and military spectators. This occurred an instant after the West Point band struck the stirring march of Gerry Owen for the final review of the class of 1
890. This would be those cadets’ last parade as a group before receiving their commissions in the United States Army.

  Among the onlookers were Mr. and Mrs. Robert Dooley whose twenty-one-year-old son Ludlow was one of the graduating cadets. He and his classmates marched past the crowd with their gray-uniformed ranks in perfect alignment. Mr. Dooley, a cold, calculating financier who was the president of the Merchants and Investors Bank in New York City, was not overly impressed with the military pomp. He snorted under his breath, “What a waste of energy, time and money.”

  His wife Margaret gently nudged him. “Please, darling. You don’t want to be overheard.”

  “God!” Dooley exclaimed. “I cannot believe this sort of thing would appeal to a son of mine!”

  Dooley was a short stocky man whose height barely matched that of his svelte wife. It had been Dooley’s dream to send his boy to Yale to get a good, solid education for a career in economics and investments, as well as make contacts with other young men that would prove advantageous in later years. But the son Ludlow had always wanted to be a soldier, and chose to shun the entrepreneurial world. Eventually, through the boy’s insistence and his wife’s nagging, Dooley let him apply for a congressional appointment to the nation’s military academy. Mr. Dooley consoled himself with the comforting thought that at least Ludlow would get an engineering degree. When he outgrew the military nonsense, such an education could prove helpful in any number of profit-making enterprises such as railroads, bridges and other infrastructural construction.

  Mrs. Dooley, her slight build giving her above-average agility, raised up on her toes and peered at the long ranks of gray-clad cadets marching by. “Oh, goodness! I don’t see Ludlow. Can you see him, dear?”

  “They are all dressed alike, Margaret,” Dooley said. “They are marching in step and doing their damndest to smother any semblance of individuality they might have.” He shrugged. “On the other hand, Ludlow does have a certain look all his own.” He squinted his eyes and peered carefully at the young men passing by. Finally, he noted one who seemed to be about a half-step behind the others, his shako bobbing out of rhythm. “Ah, yes! Our Ludlow!”

  “Do you see him, darling?” Mrs. Dooley asked.

  “Oh, yes. There he is, dear.” He pointed. “In that last group toward the rear.”

  Mrs. Dooley looked hard, then smiled. “Yes! Yes! That must be Ludlow!”

  “I will never be able to figure out why a boy like that is attracted to military life,” Dooley said. “He’s such a skinny, awkward, bumbling kid. He seems the farthest thing from a soldier I can imagine.”

  “Now, dear,” Mrs. Dooley said. “He’s a bright boy, and he is a quick learner on any subject in which he has any interest at all.”

  “True,” Dooley agreed. “But Ludlow’s mind tends to wander. The results of his activities are filled with forgetfulness and misguided fervor that sometimes lead to the most ridiculous consequences.”

  “You must be understanding in your dealings with Ludlow.”

  “As you constantly remind me,” her husband fumed. “May I point out that I’ve been struggling with being understanding with that boy since he uttered his first words?”

  The march-by concluded as the Corps of Cadets paraded off the Plain. At that point, the crowd, with the Dooleys in the middle of the throng, began wandering off toward the large open area where the families and cadets could get together. The Dooleys peered into the crowd trying to find where their son might have gotten off to. It was Ludlow who sighted them. He waved and trotted toward them in his awkward gait, holding onto a U.S. Springfield Model 1890 rifle. His shako suddenly bounced off his head and he made a move to retrieve it. As he bent over, his cross belt slipped from one shoulder. Within moments he was struggling with shako, cross belt and rifle as he tried to straighten himself up. He eventually accomplished the task and joined his parents.

  Robert Dooley held out his hand. “Congratulations, son.” Then he added insincerely, “We’re very proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Ludlow said. He took more after his mother than his father, and was an exceedingly slim youngster. He had an elongated, friendly face that carried an expression that could only be described as showing a certain amount of confusion and perplexity. An unruly shock of blond hair had been exposed when his shako fell off. Ludlow dutifully kissed his mother on the cheek. “I’m glad you could come up for graduation.”

  “Now that you’ve completed your studies at West Point, what will you do in the Army, dear?” his mother asked.

  “Oh, I must tell you all about that,” Ludlow said. “Let’s find a table over by the pavilion.” He led his parents through the crowd, bumping into people and shyly apologizing for his clumsiness several times in his meandering trek through the throng. Finally they found an empty table. “I’ll get us some punch.”

  Dooley, his mind picturing his son struggling with punch glasses along with his military accouterments, shook his head. “That’s all right, Ludlow. We really don’t need any refreshments. Let’s just sit down and chat.”

  “Yes!” Mrs. Dooley said. “That will be nice.”

  They took seats on a bench along one side of the table, and Dooley came right to the point. “Now, Ludlow, tell me straight out. How long must you continue this army nonsense?”

  “Why, I suppose for the next thirty or forty years.”

  “That is ridiculous, Ludlow!” Dooley snapped.

  “Well, Father, I want to make the Army my life’s work. I told you, remember?”

  “I remember you talking about it when I arranged your appointment through Congressman Smithers. But naturally, I did not take it seriously. It seemed something you’d grow out of. Now let’s forget the Army for the moment. Tell me, are you or are you not an engineer?”

  “Oh, yes, Father,” Ludlow answered. “As a matter of fact, I have a bachelor of science degree in engineering.”

  “Then you can practice that profession in civil life, can you not?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Then why not be one instead of marching around like a—” Dooley lowered his voice to a whisper. “Why don’t you pursue a career in engineering and forget this army stuff’n nonsense?”

  “Father, I’ve always wanted to be a soldier,” Ludlow said. “And now I am one.”

  “Good God!”

  “Robert!” Mrs. Dooley snapped. “Watch your language in front of the boy.”

  “He is not a boy, he is a man, Margaret. I might also point out that he is an officer in the Army. An officer with an engineering degree.” He became thoughtful for a moment, the turned to Ludlow. “If you stay in the Army, you’ll gain engineering experience, will you not?”

  Ludlow smiled weakly. “No, Father.”

  “Why the hell not?” Dooley barked.

  “Robert!” Mrs. Dooley scolded. She smiled in embarrassment at the people who turned to look at them.

  “Because my grades weren’t good enough, Father,” Ludlow said. “You know what a struggle it is for me to pay attention sometimes.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Brilliant minds tend to wander,” Mrs. Dooley pronounced. “I read that some place or other.”

  “Without high grades I couldn’t get a commission in the Corps of Engineers, Father.”

  “So? You’ll be doing something else. Such as shooting cannons, right?”

  “I couldn’t get an artillery commission either, Father,” Ludlow said. “There was a lot of mathematics involved in that too.”

  “What’s left? The infantry?” Dooley inquired. “Those are foot soldiers, are they not?”

  “I didn’t get an infantry commission either, Father. I’m going to the cavalry.”

  Dooley shrugged. “Well! That doesn’t seem too bad. Even I know that many famous soldiers were cavalrymen.”

  “Well, Father, I’m afraid I’m not receiving a conventional cavalry commission. I was beaten out for that as well.” Ludlow hesitated before continuing.
“I took something none of the other fellows wanted.”

  “Mmm,” Dooley mused suspiciously. “Just what did you get, Ludlow?”

  “Well, I’ve been made a second lieutenant of cavalry all right, but they’re not posting me to a cavalry regiment. I’ve been assigned to a brand new branch. The U.S. Scouts.”

  “What the hell is that?” Dooley loudly demanded to know.

  “People are staring, Robert,” Mrs. Dooley admonished him.

  “Well, father, they’re Indians who are in the Army,” Ludlow explained.

  “You mean like Sioux and Cheyenne?”

  “Why, yes, father. The very same and even some other tribes.”

  This time it was Mrs. Dooley who yelled. “Ludlow!” she shrieked. “They’ll scalp you!”

  People turned once again to look at the source of noise. Dooley frowned at his wife. “Calm down, Margaret.” He looked back at Ludlow. “You went to the United States Military Academy and became an engineer to be with wild Indians?”

  “Oh, no, Father, that isn’t the situation at all.”

  “Then what is the godamn situation?”

  “They are Indians who enlist in the Army and have white officers like me to lead them.”

  Dooley snorted a laugh. “Boy! That’s just what those Indians need, isn’t it?”

  “Where will you go to be with the Indians, Ludlow?” Mrs. Dooley asked.

  “I’m supposed to go to a place called Fort Lone Wolf in the Indian Territory.”

  “What kind of work do those U.S. Scouts do?” Dooley asked.

  “They do special duties like law enforcement.”

  “Oh, God! They made you into a godamn policeman!” Dooley shouted.

  Mrs. Dooley yelled too. “A bandit will shoot you, Ludlow!”

  Everyone in the crowd stopped talking and stared at the Dooley table. Dooley sneered at them. “Go on about your business!” He jerked his head around and pointed a quivering finger at Ludlow. “Now listen, son. I’m going to our congressman and put an end to this nonsense. I’m not only going to get you out of the U.S. Scouts, but the whole godamn Army!” He pulled out his wallet and put some money on the table. “Buy yourself a ticket to New York City the first chance you get. I’ll see you home before day after tomorrow or I’ll know the reason why.”