Stryker's Misfits (A Stryker's Misfits Western Book 1)

by Chuck Tyrell

  “When all the Nakaye villagers were safe inside the adobe church, the soldiers lowered the barrier between the cannon and the plaza and fired it. My father died then, cut nearly in half by the chopped chain that came out of the cannon’s mouth. The soldiers knelt by the cannon with long rifles. They fired and fired again, time after time, until Apache warriors and women and children lay unmoving in the plaza. Some of us escaped. Forever will we take vengeance on Nakaye men. Women. Children. As they did to us.”

  “Your men and your horses lie dead in this place,” Stryker said. “Am I and the soldiers who follow me now your enemies forever?”

  Yuyutsu would not meet Stryker’s eyes. His thin lips parted, and the words that issued forth sounded like the growling of a wild dog that found itself cornered.

  “Gopan Nantan is young, Yuyutsu says. Perhaps too young to understand. Perhaps.”

  “In your lifetime, Yuyutsu, how many people—men and women—have died in your war with Mexico? One hundred? Two? Surely not three hundred.”

  Yuyutsu snorted, as if numbers made no difference.

  “Three years ago, when I was just seventeen, my general called everyone to battle, even boys such as I. We wore gray. We marched against soldiers who wore blue. In one day, almost fourteen hundred men died. But men fought men, so no women or children died. Our war is finished. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers—blue and gray—died of wounds and sicknesses. Now I, the one you call Gopan Nantan, wear blue, the color of those who were once my enemy. Yes, Yuyutsu, I am young. But I have seen enough death for a dozen lifetimes.” Stryker sat with his back straight as a steel rod, even though his legs were crossed.

  Yuyutsu forced his words out between clenched teeth. “I, Yuyutsu of the Chihenne people, would make peace with you, Gopan Nantan.”

  “I am not commander of the army. I am the youngest and the least experienced of all officers in the Southwest Army. Here, in this place and this time, we can have peace. But next time we meet, it may be war again. That is all I can offer.”

  Yuyutsu stared at Stryker, searching his eyes for a sign of deceit. He spoke.

  “Yuyutsu asks how long your promise will last.”

  “As I said, this place and this time.”

  “Then we will bury our dead brothers where they lie. Then we will take the canyon trail to our wickiups.” Yuyutsu stood.

  Stryker waited.

  “Tell your long shooter and your misfit men that none of Yuyutsu’s people will kill them. Today, there is no more fighting.”

  “So be it.” Stryker stood. “I hope we do not fight again,” he said, “but the day may come. Until then, we are at peace.”

  Yuyutsu nodded his agreement, even before Bly interpreted. “Until then,” he said in English. He remounted his big black and gigged the horse into a run back to his gaggle of waiting men.

  “Get that youngster back to his people,” Stryker said.

  “Yo,” Bly said, and made his way back to the circle where Samson and the youth had fought. Stryker picked up his weapons and followed.

  The Misfits, except for Lion Watie, Sharpy Bailor, and Samson Kearns, stood just west of the fighting circle.

  “Misfits,” Stryker said. “No more fighting here and now. We let Yuyutsu and his people bury their dead and take the canyon trail home. We’ve killed enough Apache warriors this time.”

  “Yo,” the Misfits said.

  “Set up over by the rocks. Let the Apaches do for their dead and leave. We’ll go back to Fort Bliss after that. And Bly, get that boy back to his people,” Stryker said, waving a hand in the direction of the young Apache who’d fought Samson.

  “Yo.” The men retired to the natural breastwork of rocks where the walls began to rise on the eastern side of the canyon.

  Stryker raised his voice. “Dahtegte?”

  “I am here.” Her voice came from higher in the rocks.

  “Where is Top?”

  “He is here, too.”

  “I’m going to check on Top,” Stryker said. “Charlie Greer, you’re in charge ’til I get back. Use Bly if you need to talk to the Apaches any.”

  “Yo.”

  Stryker shifted his Winchester to his right hand, carrying it with his fingers through the lever, ready to bring it into action instantly.

  Dahtegte waited for him at the base of the rock citadel.

  “Where’s Top?”

  She indicated a place further into the rocky lair. “He rests.”

  “I will see him.”

  “Yes.” She led Stryker back into the rocks, where they found Samson Kearns sitting with his back straight against a boulder and his legs spraddled. He held a Remington Army .44, cocked and ready for anyone hostile that might step into view.

  Stryker raised his hands shoulder high, palms out. “It’s me, Top. Matt Stryker.” He looked Samson up and down. No arrow protruded from his chest, though blood stained a pad of cloth held in place by what looked like an extra Apache breechclout. “Seems Dahtegte fixed you up good.”

  “She went and punched that arrah right on through me, Cap. Hurt like a sumbitch … ’scuse the language … but it ain’t in me no more, and the bleedin’s stopped. Dunno if I’m leaking inside, but nothings dripping off my outside.”

  “We’ll be heading back to Fort Bliss soon,” Stryker said.

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Stryker nodded. “Figured so.”

  “Cap!” The shout came from Charlie Greer.

  “What is it?”

  “Induns coming this way, Cap.”

  “You and Dahtegte get ready for the trail, Top. I’ll go see about the Apaches.”

  “Yo.”

  “Yuyutsu will honor his promise,” Dahtegte said. “Apaches place great value in keeping promises.”

  “I’ll go just the same.”

  “Go, then. I will help Samson Top Soldier get ready.”

  “Please do. Top. You do what Dahtegte says. Hear?”

  “Yo. I can do that, Cap.”

  Stryker grimaced a grin at his top soldier and left the shelter to watch Yuyutsu’s bunch for any squirrely actions.”

  “He will keep his promise,” Dahtegte said.

  “Hmmm. Maybe.”

  She puffed up like an angry horned toad. “Humph. So you do not believe me then?”

  “Dahtegte. This man is my enemy. And while we have a short truce, he could return to be my enemy at any time. It would be foolhardy not to watch.” Stryker trotted from the rocky lair to the little knoll Charlie Greer had chosen as best place to defend. The Misfits all sat, some distance apart, with their knees raised to act as rests for their elbows as they aimed their Winchesters.

  “Good job, Charlie,” he said, but his attention was on the line of Apaches coming toward the little knoll. When Stryker stepped out in front of his men, Yuyutsu also rode ahead, his right hand raised.

  “Gopan Nantan,” he called. “We go home.”

  “Very well, Yuyutsu. May we never meet again in battle.”

  Yuyutsu kept his hand up as he rode by, followed by a ragged line of warriors, some horseback, some on mules, and some walking. Some mules also carried packs, probably plunder from the Mexican town. All Apaches kept their eyes on the ground, but Stryker got the feeling they saw everything.

  The dead horses lay naked now, stripped of all useful gear. Mounds of fresh earth marked where Apache warriors had fallen to Misfits’ rifle fire. And to Stryker’s eyes, the line of Apaches didn’t have the pride and fire they’d shown before. But then, that could be just a show, too.

  When the Apaches were nearly out of sight, Stryker spoke. “Many Ponies, you trot along after that bunch. But run back and tell us if they go to doing tricky stuff like trying to intercept us on the way back to Bliss.”

  “Yo.” The black Seminole scout slipped away.

  “What happened to the ’Pache kid?” Stryker’s question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular, so no one answered. “Nobody kept a eye on him?”

  Silence.


  “Jay Soos. He coulda gone to ground, waiting for a chance to get back at us White Eyes.”

  “Norroso is here,” Dahtegte said from the rocks. “He says he cannot return to Yuyutsu’s band.”

  “Why not?”

  “He lost.”

  “A man loses more than once in his life.”

  “Still ... ”

  “I’ll be over in a minute.

  Dahtegte disappeared into the rocks.

  “Charlie?”

  “Yo.”

  “We’ll be wanting to get to Fort Bliss as quick as we can. I’m going to see about the Apache boy. You take charge of getting the Misfits together and ready for a march.”

  “Yo.”

  Stryker watched his Texan Misfit gather up the men and line them out. He’d be a good sergeant if he stayed on. He turned and went to the racks. Just to be careful, he called from the outside. “Dahtegte?”

  “Nothing to fear, Gopan.”

  Stryker stepped into the lair. Norroso sat next to Samson. His eyes watched Stryker carefully. His face was wrapped with strips of cloth that held his broken lower jaw up against his upper teeth, and another strip went around his face laterally, to hold the jaw back. Norroso held his right hand up, palm out.

  “Glad you’re OK,” Stryker said.

  “The boy wants to stay with us,” Samson said. “I vote to take him along.”

  Stryker grinned. “Since when’s the Army a vote-taking place?”

  “Dahtegte tells me that, not like a bunch a white men I know, Apaches keep their word. Norroso’s promised to do things our way. Our way, or no way.”

  Stryker cleared his throat. “Get ready to move out. We’ll leave when the sun hits the backside of these mountains.

  “Yo,” Samson said, and Stryker knew he’d be ready when the time came, top soldier that he was.

  Chapter Fifteen – Misfits Every One

  The Misfits worked just as hard going home as they did taking the field. Just because they’d kicked Yuyutsu’s butt was no reason to get careless. Besides, they had wounded to bring along. Samson with an arrow hole though his shoulder, Fergie with a broke leg, and Norroso with his mouth tied shut. Stryker with a stitched-up shoulder. But Fergie was the only one that couldn’t move under his own power.

  Three days after Yuyutsu’s band passed the Misfits on its way up the canyon toward their rancheria, Stryker’s band approached Fort Bliss from the west. They got by the sentry with the proper password and scattered to their tents in the A Squad bivouac area. They’d be up at bugle call and off to the rifle range to sharpen their skills with Winchester ’66 carbines.

  “By your leave, sir.”

  “What is it, Top?”

  “A Squad’s ready for morning review, sir.”

  “Very well. One moment.” Stryker tugged his high-collared, brass-buttoned uniform into proper position, then donned his regulation kepi. He buckled on his gunbelt with its .44 Remington Army secure in a flapped holster, and stepped from his tent into the blinding brilliance of a sun that beat down through a cloudless sky.

  Samson snapped to attention with only a slight grimace to indicate the pain caused by the Apache arrow he’d taken four days before. He saluted. “With your permission, sir.”

  “Lead on, Top.”

  Samson executed a precise about face. “If you’d be so good as to follow me, sir.” Without waiting for Stryker to say anything, Samson set out for the parade ground at a smart pace. Stryker followed.

  When Stryker and Samson rounded the corner and entered the parade ground, the regimental band, General Hunter’s own, broke out in “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again.”

  The Misfits stood at attention, every button in place, every bit of uniform properly dusted and buffed. They looked elite. The very best the U.S. Army had to offer.

  Samson took his place a long pace in front of the Misfits. Stryker halted a scant yard in front of him. The band finished its number. “Report,” Stryker said.

  “A Squad, Headquarters Division, present or accounted for, sir!” Top Soldier Reginald Kearns executed a precise salute, which Stryker returned.

  “Very well, Top. My thanks.”

  “Review the troops at your leisure, sir.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that.” Stryker marched to the end of the line of Misfits. Charlie Greer stood first in line, his Winchester carbine butt to the ground. “Good morning trooper Greer. May I look at your Winchester?”

  Greer brought his weapon to port arms and held it out to Stryker. “Permission to speak, sir.”

  “Speak.”

  “The rifle is loaded, sir. And I filed the trigger down some, sir. She’s what you might call hair triggered. Sir.”

  “Very well, trooper Greer.” Stryker handed the rifle as one would handle any loaded weapon. Greer’s Winchester was spotless, as was everyone in the entire A Squad. What’s more, every man wore proper uniform and accoutrements. Who’d have guessed what their tour of duty over the past few days had been like.

  “Mr. Stryker. Report, if you please.” General Hunter stood at the proper place for a regimental officer.

  “Yes, sir.” Stryker strode to a spot two paces in front of the general, where he came to rigid attention. “A Squad reporting, sir. All present or accounted for.” He gave the general the sharp salute called for in the regulations manual.

  General Hunter returned the salute. “Your men don’t look like Misfits, Mr. Stryker.”

  “Oh, but they are, sir, and proud of it.”

  General Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would you mind me inspecting your Misfits, lieutenant?”

  Stryker started. Inspection. No general ever inspected the troops. Reviewed, yes. Inspected, no. “Of course, sir,” he said, and prayed the Misfits would pass General Hunter’s inspection.

  General Hunter also began with Charlie Greer. “Name?”

  “Charles Elroy Greer, Sir.”

  “Hmm. Yes. Your drawl says you are from Texas.”

  “Yes, sir. Waco, sir.”

  “Your weapon.” The general held out his hand.

  Greer flashed a glance at Stryker, who gave the slightest nod.

  “Of course, sir. Loaded. Hair trigger. Be careful, sir.”

  General Hunter laughed. “You’re going to lecture me on handling weapons, soldier?”

  Again, Greer flashed a look at Stryker, who stood a step behind the general. But he was merely staring into the distance.

  “No, sir,” Greer said. “But it’s easier to handle a weapon, sir, if someone tells you its danger points.”

  “Hmph. Well. Yes. Well kept weapon.” General Hunter returned Greer’s weapon and stepped to the next Misfit, repeating the process he’d done with Greer. When he finished, he turned to Stryker. “Excellent. Wish every squad in the regiment were as good.

  “Thank you, sir. The men have worked hard.”

  “Dismiss them, then come to my office. If you please, Lieutenant Stryker.”

  “Sir.” Stryker held himself at attention until the general entered headquarters. “Misfits, you heard what the general said. I’m going to dismiss you, but you’ll go to the range and you’ll each take fifty shots at the target from a hundred yards. Likely as not, you’ll need your sharpshooting skills sooner rather than later. A Squad. Ten’hut. Dismissed.”

  The Misfits broke ranks, but before they scattered, Stryker barked. “Top. Charlie Greer. You stay here.”

  “Yo.”

  The Misfits headed for the bivouac area to get ammunition for their Winchesters.

  “Charlie Greer.”

  “Yo.”

  “As of this minute, you’re Sergeant Greer. Go lead the target practice. And you do whatever Top Kearns tells you. Hear?”

  “Yes, sir!” Greer took off for the tents at a trot.

  “Top. You come with me.”

  “Sir.”

  Stryker followed the general to the headquarters building
and mounted the steps. Samson Kearns stood at attention to one side of the staircase.

  “Top?”

  “Sir.”

  “Follow me.”

  “White officer territory, sir.”

  “The Misfit’s top soldier comes with its commander to report, Top.”

  Samson shrugged, looked at the sky, then at the ground. “Could be dangerous, Cap.”

  “Follow me, Top. Ya hear?”

  Samson visibly braced himself. “Yo,” he said, and climbed the five steps to the headquarters porch.

  Stryker went inside, with Samson a pace behind. “Morning Sergeant Major. I’m here to see the general.”

  The sergeant major looked up from his paperwork. “No darkies,” he said.

  “Reginald Kearns is Top Soldier in A Squad, sergeant major. If he stays out, so do I. If you still say ‘No Darkies,’ we’ll leave, and you can explain to the general why Lieutenant Stryker did not show up to report as ordered.”

  “What is going on?” General Hunter said from his office doorway.

  “I was telling the lieutenant ‘No darkies.’”

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Sir.”

  “We don’t allow Negros into the headquarters area.”

  “Then I request permission to resign my commission, sir. Reginald Kearns is Top Soldier with the Misfits. If he’s not welcome in this man’s army, then neither am I, Southern Rebel that I am. Sir.”

  “You swore an oath, young man.”

  “I did.”

  “Are you telling me you’ll disobey the legitimate command of your superior officer?”

  “As you well know, General Hunter, an officer is only as good as the men he commands. Sergeant Kearns is the best soldier I’ve got. Without him, sir, my report to you might not be complete. I’d rather not take that risk, sir.”

  “Hmph. Harrumph. Very well. Sergeant major, the Negro passes.”

  “Excuse me, sir. First Sergeant Kearns, sir. That’s his rank and name.”

  “Name? Oh yes, name. As the lieutenant says, sergeant major. Er. First Sergeant Kearns passes.”

  “Yes, sir. Git in here, boy.”

  “General Hunter, sir,” Stryker said.

  “What is it?”

  “Permission to lecture the Sergeant Major, sir.”