The Stalkers

by Terry C. Johnston

  They still could not see anything like the island Donovan had described, far down the riverbed. Around two more bends in the stream they raced. Stands of cottonwood blocked their view. Horses’ hooves pounded the hard ground. Yet from the looks of things, not the first hooves to hammer this riverbed.

  As they rounded a wide bend in the river, they got their first good view of a sizable stretch of the streambed. And with that view came the overpowering stench of death. Buzzards loomed overhead now.

  Suddenly he saw movement. To his left. A lone man darting for the trees, slow and ungainly, running for his life. He stumbled and fell. Got back up, hurrying before he fell again. Scrambling to pick up his rifle before disappearing into the trees.

  “Spread out!” Peate was hollering.

  “Spread out like he ordered!” Carpenter echoed.

  “They figure we’re Injuns!” J. J. explained, his words quickly sapped in a dry scut of wind.

  “Don’t shoot!” Donovan was hollering, waving to two men off to the right, north of the streambed. “It’s me, John Donovan, by God!”

  Suddenly the figure they had seen off to the left emerged from the trees, tossing both carbine and hat into the air, jumping clumsily again and again. His mouth like a tiny black O as he sang out.

  Careening through the thick brush, kicking up skiffs of sand, scrambled more of the gaunt, wolf-like survivors. Reuben sensed his heart rise into his throat. Burning like nothing he’d felt before.

  To his right, he watched the pair Donovan had first sighted, stumbling down the slope, hugging each other, stopping to dance round and round, then running arm in arm again. Something tugged at Waller now, unexplained, though he felt he recognized one of the two. Not sure, their wolfish, sunburned faces streaked, shining with tears.

  And of a sudden, Reuben tasted salt himself. Felt the sting of his own tears whipping from the corners of his eyes.

  He could never remember feeling this good in his life. Nor so close to his God.

  Chapter 42

  “By the saints!”

  Donegan was crying, hammering Sharp Grover on the back, while round and round they danced.

  Then raced down the dusty slope toward the riverbed, arm in arm, shaking their carbines in the air. Cracking voices crying out in whoops of joy.

  Then stopped again for a moment, clutching each other and dancing round and round before they would run a little farther, still heading for the island and Forsyth and the rescuers all at the same time.

  “Ain’t that Doc Fitzgerald’s dog?” hollered one of the scouts across the stream, pointing.

  “It is, goddammit! It’s Doc’s dog! I ‘member it from Wallace!”

  A slim, brown greyhound burst ahead of the horsemen, tongue lolling, weaving in and out of the plum and buffalo-grass, adding its crazed bark to this wild celebration of deliverance.

  From every bush and stand of swamp-willow on the riverbank rose the reedy huzzahs and cheers from the weakened, desperate men as they realized the horsemen were not painted warriors returned to finish them off. Instead, their lonely prayers had been answered. Someone had made it through to Wallace.

  They were like wild men, not only in appearance and ragged, bloody clothing, but in the way they gaped and danced, whirling nonstop, running about pounding comrades on the backs, hugging others. And in the midst of them all stood a few too stunned to grasp that they had been rescued. Cries of joy and pain from the wounded as well, the ones who could not rise from their bloody blankets to join in the celebration. Weeping, tears seeping ever so slowly, softening their wounds.

  Young Slinger ran to east end of the island to greet them, one of the few with any strength left. A soldier on a buckskin horse splashed out of the river, coming on at full tilt. Hollering out of the big hole in his black face. His momentum carried him past Shlesinger, but not before the young scout lunged for a hold on the soldier’s saddlebag.

  “Damn, you’re hungry, boy!” the soldier exclaimed, bringing his mount to a knee-jarring halt, spraying sand in a rooster-tail.

  “You got food? Gimme some of your food!” Slinger begged.

  Together they loosened the three straps on the bag, filling both of Slinger’s hands with the hard-bread. More scouts stumbled up as the soldier tossed out more of the “tacks” to the starving men. They cried and ate, filling their mouths and letting the tears pour. Then laughed and ate some more, and still the tears flowed.

  “They’ve come, Major,” Grover said to Forsyth as he and Donegan skidded to a halt at the edge of the rifle-pit, watching the men scramble for the bread, eating voraciously.

  Forsyth kept swallowing, as if the news were something hard to get down, to understand, to actually believe. His eyes misted, blinking again and again. His tongue worked a bit, trying to find words as he gazed downstream, watching the approach of a familiar figure. An old friend.

  The major turned momentarily to the Irishman. “D-Donegan?”

  Seamus snorted back some dribble at the end of his nose. “Major?”

  “Remember that book you found among Liam’s things?”

  “Oliver Twist?”

  He took a moment to answer. “Bring it to me … please.”

  Donegan could not remember scrambling so fast out of the pits as he did at that moment. Snatching the leather-bound volume, rushing back to hand it down to Forsyth.

  The major painfully shifted his position, dragging both bad, bloody legs across the sand. He opened the Dickens novel, shuffling to a page near the end of the story as he turned his back on the approaching horseman.

  Seamus sensed the clutch of something hot in his chest, knowing that Forsyth had never been prepared for this moment. As much as it had been anticipated, none of those men on the island had truly been ready for what they were suddenly made to feel. Yet still the major held his composure, as he had for long, long days of agony and waiting.

  It appeared George Forsyth had become suddenly fearful that he would break down in front of the men he had held miraculously together through battle and starvation. Perhaps most afraid to look upon the face of his old friend from the Shenandoah campaign.

  Donegan and Grover edged back, waiting, watching the drama. Three horsemen drew close, two white, one buffalo soldier. The white soldier in the center motioned for his lieutenant and the corporal to halt while he came on, alone.

  The captain halted his pawing horse at the edge of the bloody pit where Maj. George A. Forsyth lay in the light of a new sun. On one side the temporary grave of Lt. Fred Beecher. On the other the resting place of Dr. John Mooers.

  Beyond the circle others milled and swirled in a loud, profane celebration, soldiers and scouts and the rescued dancing, hollering, reveling in the approach of Fitzgerald’s ambulance, surgeon and his driver bouncing on the plank seat. Fitzgerald’s dog yapping at the spinning wheels.

  Capt. Louis H. Carpenter finally slid from his saddle, dropping his reins to the sand, staring down at his old comrade-in-arms. For the longest time, he looked as if he did not know what to do. His shadow eventually moved across Forsyth.

  The major slowly closed the book on a finger, as if to mark his place. Then turned, gazing up, squinting into the light in a shiny corona behind the commander of Company H.

  “S-Sandy?” Carpenter croaked, unable to believe his eyes, to say anything more from the appearance of the scene. He yanked a bandanna from his pocket and snorted into it, attempting to regain his composure.

  “Captain Carpenter…” Forsyth began formally, then bit his lip a moment.

  Carpenter saluted, tears streaming unrestrained now. “Reporting for your relief … as requested, Major!”

  “Lou——” Forsyth choked on the word, holding his hand up to his friend.

  “Sandy!”

  Carpenter tumbled down the side of the pit, taking Forsyth’s hand, falling to his knees, hugging the major all at the same time. Both of them blubbering like young classmates at the academy.

  “Mr? Mr. … Donegan?” />
  Seamus turned at the call of his name. Seeing the approach of a Negro soldier, the corporal. The hat he wore shadowed most of his face as he slid quickly from his lathered mount. From the looks of every one of the mounts, Donegan could tell the rescuers had charged the last few miles in.

  “I’m Donegan,” he answered, weak and limping toward the soldier. “Do I know you?”

  The soldier ripped his hat off his head, a solid layer of brown dust plastered against the damp, black face. “Don’t probably remember me.”

  “Waller? That you, Reuben Waller?”

  His dirty face brightened, his smile cracking the dust. “You … you ’member me?”

  “’Course I do,” Seamus replied quietly, dropping his carbine at last as he surged forward. More moisture suddenly stinging his eyes. He enfolded the buffalo soldier in his big arms, squeezing and pounding. Waller struggled to free his arms so he could return the embrace. Then they were bouncing together, laughing and crying as one.

  “Gawddammed right I remember you, Reuben Waller. By the Mither of Saints, it’s a blessing to see your ugly face!”

  * * *

  The main trouble for the ambulance was not in negotiating the sandy riverbed, but in steering clear of the gaunt, wolfish men who swarmed over it once told it carried rations.

  Major Forsyth had ordered Sergeant McCall to see to it that no man wolfed down too much at this first sitting, as he knew of the sickness caused by so much food after so long a period of starvation.

  Carpenter could not believe the stench of the place. But at his first mention of it, Forsyth realized he no longer noticed the decomposing animals, the rotting, maggot-infested wounds.

  “Let’s get you and the rest off this island, Sandy.”

  “Over there. That plum thicket—some good shade.”

  By the time Carpenter’s thirty had transported the last of the wounded off the island, Banzhaf’s teamsters had whipped their mules into the valley. In a matter of moments, the entire company of brunettes was attacking the wagons, pulling out tents, mess-gear, readying surgical equipment.

  Lifted onto a canvas stretcher, Forsyth was carried beneath the shade of the canvas fly surgeon Fitzgerald would use as his temporary field hospital. The doctor hovered over the folding table, inspecting both leg wounds. More so the shattered leg than the ugly thigh.

  “You did that surgery yourself, I’m told,” he mentioned gruffly, peering over his spectacles.

  “I did, Doctor.”

  A hint of a smile crossed his face. “Not bad for a novice, Major.” He sighed. “Trouble is, the left leg is filled with infection.”

  Forsyth felt the hot, midday breeze that rattled the canvas overhead as the surgeon settled on a camp-stool.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Major, I’m suggesting amputation.”

  Forsyth gazed down at the left leg, cursing the bullet that had shattered his leg. Cursing as well the man who had dropped him on the leg, driving bone from the skin.

  He swallowed hard. Looking back at Fitzgerald, he asked, “If I choose to keep the leg, what … what are my chances?”

  Fitzgerald scratched his cheek absently. “Seventy-thirty, Major.”

  “Against me?”

  He nodded. “Against you. And with your fever spiking like it is, I don’t think we have much time to wait.”

  Forsyth turned to Carpenter. “Lou, pour me another dram of that brandy, will you?”

  He threw the hot alcohol back, wiped his lips, then gazed at the surgeon. “Doctor, I’ll take those short odds.”

  “I must advise against wait——”

  “You have my decision. I refuse the amputation.”

  “I don’t think you understand. Your life’s worth more than that damned leg of yours.”

  “Dr. Fitzgerald,” interrupted Captain Carpenter, stepping to his elbow, “the major’s made his decision.”

  He pressed his lips in exasperation. “Then let it stand for the record that if we wait, Major—tomorrow will in all likelihood be too late.”

  “Understood, Doctor,” Forsyth replied, his head sinking to a canvas coat-pillow once more.

  Fitzgerald stood. “Short of amputation on that leg, I must perform some surgery … draining it before I set the bones … tenting the wounds——”

  “Do what you must … to save the leg,” Forsyth said.

  Fitzgerald turned to Carpenter. “Captain, I’ll need your men to chop down that small cottonwood at the end of the island.”

  “What in heaven’s name for?” the major asked.

  He turned back to Forsyth. “A splint. For that leg. It’s the only thing around here big enough, yet not too large.”

  “Perfect,” Carpenter replied. “The right length of it cut, chopped in half, then hollowed.”

  “We’ll pad it with some cotton field dressings I have, Major.”

  “I’m ready … when you are, Doctor.”

  * * *

  “I don’t really know any words,” Reuben Waller said self-consciously, rolling the brim of his hat in his big, black hands.

  Seamus looked down at the fresh soil they had tamped down in a long scar at the top of the slope, the new earth drying out beneath the hot sun late on the afternoon of this twenty-fifth day of September. The other fresh graves had been spread out. Those who had died on one end of the island were buried near the places they had fallen.

  Across his arms the Irishman had carried his uncle up this umber and red slope before he turned a shovel of dirt.

  “That’s all right, Reuben,” Seamus replied finally. “I think quiet is good for Uncle Liam. We’ll just stand here for a while … and let the wind blow across this place.”

  Later, Seamus turned to the soldier, throat burning. “Smells good up here, don’t it?”

  “It do at that … Seamus.” Reuben grinned a moment, self-conscious. “Still can’t get used to calling you by your Christian name.”

  “You’ll get used to it. It’s what my friends call me.”

  The wind that caressed this jutting finger of land overlooking the valley of the Arickaree sang no mournful song as had that cruel wind slashing off the Big Horn Mountains when Carrington’s men laid eighty-one of their own to rest. Instead, this wind whispered only softly spoken words at his ear, foretelling of winter-coming.

  Bringing with it remembrances of cold walks across the heath with his uncles. Coming home at the end of the day, to a house where his mother lived. Steaming kettle a’boil in the moss-rock fireplace, fragrances like strong perfumes he would likely never forget. The sound of those strong, male voices in that house after the death of Seamus’s father. There for him until the uncles sailed away to Amerikay.

  Now there was one. Gone west, Liam said. Yet not to California.

  He felt empty again, like someone had gone and sprinkled alum on his insides. No longer filled with the hope that had guided him since leaving behind the forts of the upper Bozeman Road a year gone by. Liam in the ground. Ian O’Roarke somewhere, out there.

  And Jennie.

  He remembered the fragrance of her hair after she had a chance to wash it. Remembered the play of light on the water droplets that clung to her freckled, ivory flesh in the Little Piney.

  “Were that love be stronger than need,” Seamus whispered. “Needing to know.”

  “What’s that you said?” Waller asked quietly.

  “Just remembering some poetry, Reuben.”

  “I don’t know any poetry, Seamus.”

  “Most of what I know is Irish. And I’m thinking on one written by a man from Balbriggan:

  “A growing youth—I was timid of tongue,

  And never trysted with ladies young,

  But since I have won into passionate age,

  Fierce love-longings my heart engage.”

  “Sounds like you said that for a woman.”

  He smiled, eventually, and nodded once. “Yes, Reuben. Were it not for love of a woman, I would not have come to Amerikay
… nor joined Forsyth’s scouts. And were it not for the love of another woman, I don’t believe I would have lived to see this day of rescue.”

  Reuben was silent for a long time, leaning on his shovel, staring at the sun settling on the far, far mountains. Then he finally turned to the Irishman. “Would you tell me some more of your poems … Seamus, friend?”

  Donegan grinned, cutting his dirty face with soft lines. “Yes, my friend.

  “The white bloom of blackthorn, she.

  The small sweet raspberry-blossom, she.

  More fair the shy, rare glance of her eye,

  Than the wealth of the world to me.”

  And with his whispering those words above Liam O’Roarke’s resting place along the nameless river, Seamus Donegan knew why he had survived the nine days with Forsyth.

  Epilogue

  “You figure that’s the Confederate?”

  “What the Cheyenne left of him,” Seamus answered Sharp Grover’s question. “Look at that scar high on the neck. The Confederate who killed my horse had a scar like that.”

  “If that’s his hand,” Grover said, pointing, “the one with no fingers on that left hand … it was the fella who signed on calling himself Smith.”

  Beneath this falling sun on the twenty-sixth, Donegan wore a clean bandage on his arm, the bullet wound purged at last of maggots and infection. He and Grover had left the plum thicket where Carpenter’s men had established camp upwind from the stench of the island. With a handful of scouts the pair had wandered far upstream, hoping for a look at the ground where the Cheyenne and Sioux villages had stood during the bloody siege.

  To their surprise, young Sigmund Shlesinger had discovered the butchered body in the middle of what had been a huge camp circle.

  “Bloody good at this, the bastirds are,” Seamus commented, long moments later as he had fought his belly down. Emotions roiled within him, like a stew coming to boil: anger, disappointment, sadness, and, above all, the awe of not fully understanding the great hand at work in the affairs of man.

  “I take it you seen this kind of thing before?”