Fort Hays Bustout (A Searcher Western Book 9)

by Len Levinson

  He sipped water, heard more commands from the parade ground, roll of drums. The Seventh Cavalry band played the infamous “Rogue’s March.” He arose, dragged his ball and chain to the window.

  Every soldier on the post was gathered in formation on the parade ground. The American flag on top of the pole whipped in the wind. In the center of the formation, a sturdily built captain with fluffy white hair and sideburns stood at attention, while out of the ranks marched the unfortunate wretch being drummed out.

  In the bright morning sun, Captain Benteen watched Lieutenant Classen approach with fine crisp movements. Resentment rose in Benteen’s craw, he was from the Volunteer Army, and didn’t like West Point officers. Lieutenant Classen came to a halt in front of Benteen, saluted smartly. A faint smile on his face, Captain Benteen reached forward and tore off Lieutenant Classen’s left shoulder board, flung it to the ground, stomped on it. Then he ripped off the right shoulder board.

  The drumroll sounded, every man in the ranks stood ramrod straight. Custer watched from a position twenty feet behind Benteen, who pulled away Lieutenant Classen’s sharpshooter medal, flung it over his shoulder. “I was in charge around here,” he mumbled threateningly, “we’d draw and quarter you, you goddamned coward!”

  General Custer said, “Just get on with it, Captain. We don’t need a commentary.”

  Captain Benteen shot an angry look to General Custer, then pulled a pocketknife from his pants, opened the blade, took a shiny brass jacket button in his left hand, cut it off Lieutenant Classen’s tunic. “I had my way, I’d cut your no good throat!”

  Lieutenant Classen’s face showed no emotion, and it annoyed Captain Benteen that he was so firmly under control. “I ever see you outside this post, I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

  A crowd of civilians from Fort Hays gathered in front of the orderly room, and Slipchuck was among them, with Daugherty the gambler, watching the show. Both were bleary-eyed and hung over. “You see that tall lieutenant in front of Troop D?” asked Daugherty.

  Slipchuck turned his eyes in that direction, spotted the jaunty young red-haired officer who’d saluted him when Slipchuck first came to Fort Hays.

  “That’s Forrest, the one what put it to Major Scanlon’s wife.”

  On the other side of the post, in a darkened room, Major Scanlon sat with a glass of whiskey in hand, unshaven, shirt half unbuttoned, a stain on his pants. He heard the drumroll, couldn’t bear to watch the young man’s misery. He sipped his glass of whiskey. If it weren’t for General Custer’s intervention, he’d be drummed out too. Major Scanlon smiled grimly, as drums rolled in the distance. You can’t court-martial a dead man.

  Captain Benteen sliced off Lieutenant Classen’s final button, then unfastened the young officer’s belt buckle, pulled the sword out of its scabbard, an inscription on the blade caught his eye:

  To Ronald with love always from Mother and Dad

  “Congratulations,” muttered Benteen. “You’ve made your parents proud of you.”

  Benteen saw the flicker of a smile on Classen’s face. He removed the hat from Classen’s head and threw it to the prairie wind that wafted it toward the horizon.

  The drums continued their steady roll, like the crashing of surf on a beach. Captain Benteen drew back his arm and slapped Lieutenant Classen across the cheek. At that moment, Lieutenant Classen was expelled from the army.

  Captain Benteen took a step backward. Lieutenant Classen performed a left-face. The gate of Fort Hays lay straight ahead. His face like a statue, not the faintest inkling of an emotion showing, the former Lieutenant Classen moved his left foot forward as drums pounded.

  All eyes were on him. His collar flapped in the breeze, trailing threads that had held insignia. His jacket hung open, buttonless, patches of white lining showing through tears in the fabric. General Custer was surprised and even heartened by Lieutenant Classen’s proud performance. There was no stoop of shame in his shoulders, no falter to his step. He was leaving proudly, firm in his convictions. So he’s got guts after all. Good for you, boy. Don’t let it get you down.

  Classen marched onward, and General Custer wondered what would happen to him. Might get a little dangerous in Hays City before the train arrived. Soldiers don’t like cowards, and Classen wouldn’t have the protection of the army. Might find himself wishing he’d fought those injuns.

  Captain Benteen seethed with fury as he watched Classen get away without a scratch. If he were commanding officer of Fort Hays, Classen would be found dead behind the stable, and the morning report would say the injuns got him.

  Big black shadow at the front gate, clatter of hoofbeats, everyone turned toward a stagecoach drawn by six horses, crimson tassels on their harnesses. Two men sat on the seat with the driver, a third on the baggage compartment, strumming a banjo. The stagecoach passed through the gate and entered the fort. A pink silk-clad arm with jeweled bracelets hung out a stagecoach window, champagne glass in hand. Women’s laughter could be heard as the high-stepping horses turned the stagecoach broadside to the parade ground.

  Everyone stared in astonishment. It was a party on wheels, ladies and gentlemen dressed in the latest eastern fashions. One sweet young thing poked her pretty head out a window, stared wide-eyed at the formation of Seventh Cavalry, and giggled uncontrollably. A hoot went up from the carriage as a man’s hand pulled her back inside.

  The door opened and a tall, slim woman stepped to the ground. Classen advanced into the outstretched arms reaching toward him from the dark interior of the stagecoach. The woman slapped his butt saucily as he passed her, then she followed him in and closed the door.

  The driver flicked his whip, the horses strained against their harnesses. The stagecoach moved toward the front gate. Officers and men from the Seventh Cavalry ogled with jaws agape as Lieutenant Classen leaned out the window and made an obscene gesture with his fingers toward Captain Benteen.

  General Custer nearly folded with laughter. Captain Benteen sputtered, as his right hand dropped toward his service revolver.

  “As you were, Captain!” General Custer shouted.

  Captain Benteen’s hand froze in midair. Everyone watched the stagecoach rumble through the gate; shrieks of laughter from the women could be heard in every trooper’s ears. They imagined Lieutenant Classen lying on the floor with naked women, while they were still in the army, forty miles a day on beans and hay.

  The drum-out ended in a completely unpredictable way. Everyone stood at attention wondering what to do, except Sergeant Major Gillespie. “Sir,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth to General Custer, “I think it’s time to dismiss the formation.”

  In matters such as parade-ground etiquette, General Custer always deferred to his sergeant major. He opened his mouth to give the command when a deep booming voice bellowed: “Fannie!”

  The command caught in General Custer’s throat. Had it been his imagination? He filled his lungs once more, when the name struck his ears again. “Fannie!”

  He spun around. “Who said that!”

  “I believe,” replied Sergeant Major Gillespie, “it’s comin’ from the guardhouse.”

  “Get me out of here!”

  General Custer strode toward the guardhouse, wide brim of his hat hiding his face in shadow. Sergeant Major Gillespie became confused for a moment, then pulled himself together and shouted: “Atten-hunt! Dismissed!”

  The formation broke apart, Sergeant Major Gillespie followed General Custer, whose brow was furrowed, his profile like a hawk. He threw open the guardhouse door. Private Klappenbach leapt to attention behind the desk.

  “Open the cell block!” General Custer ordered.

  Private Klappenbach threw the bolt. Custer entered a vestibule and looked through the bars. A tall, powerfully built prisoner in a too-small uniform, face covered with beard, filthy from head to foot, stood in front of him.

  “Don’t you recognize me, Fannie?” the prisoner asked. “It’s John Stone.”

 
General Custer flashed on a smooth-faced young cadet in West Point uniform, captain of the lacrosse team, champion of the fencing team, they’d been friends and tipped many a mug together at Benny Haven’s. “What the hell’re you doing here?”

  “A deserter robbed me and took my clothes. I’ve been in your guardhouse two days, and I haven’t done anything.”

  “Free him!” General Custer declared.

  Sergeant Buford sputtered, “But he killed a man!”

  “He came at me with a knife,” Stone explained. “It was him or me.”

  “I thought I said free him?” Custer gazed angrily at Sergeant Buford.

  “But, sir, he’s a deserter!”

  “From where?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Sergeant Buford, you don’t unlock that cell, I’ll throw you in the guardhouse.”

  General Custer’s mustaches quivered with tension, his eyes shot painful rays into Sergeant Buford’s brain. “Yes, sir.” Sergeant Buford unlocked the door. Stone lifted his ball and chains, shuffled out of the jail.

  “Tell the blacksmith to fire up the forge, Sergeant Buford. We’ve got to take off that ball and chain. Let’s not tarry. He’s an innocent man.”

  “But he’s wearin’ an army uniform, sir!”

  “Even an idiot can see it’s not his. I thought I told you to rouse the blacksmith. All you other men, clear out of here!”

  They fled toward the door, the guardhouse was emptied in seconds. General Custer led Stone to the chairs. “I was camped on the prairie,” Stone began, and told the story from pneumonia to the drum-out. “When I called your name, I didn’t know if you could hear me. Thank God you did, because this is some guardhouse. Sergeant Buford is awfully free with that riding crop of his.”

  “Just what I need to keep the men in line. What’re you doing in Kansas?”

  “Do you remember my girlfriend from South Carolina, I used to talk about her all the time?”

  “You ever marry her?”

  “I’ve been looking for her since the war ended, been just about everywhere, followed a million wrong leads, and finally tracked her here, but now she’s gone. Her name was Marie Higgins, and evidently she became Marie Scanlon.”

  General Custer’s foot fell from the desk. “Are you sure they’re both the same woman?”

  Stone took the picture out of his shirt pocket and handed it to General Custer. “You tell me whether or not this looks like Marie Scanlon.”

  General Custer looked at the picture. “I were you, I’d forget her. She’s trouble, you can take it from me. How’d your face get cut up?”

  The door opened, Sergeant Buford thrust his head inside. “The blacksmith is ready, sir.”

  “Help Mr. Stone with that iron ball, will you, Sergeant?”

  Sergeant Buford’s eyes hooded with barely suppressed rage as he approached Stone and lifted the heavy iron ball. Chains dragged over the floor of the orderly room as Stone stepped toward the door. The fresh air hit him, he took a deep draught, soldiers in the vicinity watched curiously. The word had spread like wildfire across the post. One of Custer’s old friends had been thrown into the guardhouse by mistake.

  “Did you know the man Marie Scanlon left with?” Stone asked Custer.

  “Derek Canfield, the gambler. Sleeps all day, up all night, hard drinker, talks a good game. Wasn’t here that long. They knew each other before the war.”

  Stone racked his brain, but couldn’t remember a Derek Canfield. Maybe he’d changed his name. He couldn’t imagine Marie being with such a person. “Anything else you can tell me about her?”

  “They say she had a romance with Lieutenant Forrest, executive officer of Troop D.”

  Stone swallowed hard. Didn’t sound like the Marie he knew, but many years had passed and he’d changed considerably too. The chain pulled his arm. He turned to Buford, carrying the iron ball. Their eyes met and silent messages of hate passed between them. Stone was tempted to punch him in the mouth, but remembered his West Point training. Always plan your battle in advance, fight when you’re ready, on the ground of your choosing, and once you commit yourself, pull out the stops.

  The blacksmith worked the huge bellows, the fire roared. “Have a seat,” he said to Stone.

  Stone placed his left ankle on the anvil. He grit his teeth against the hammer’s shock. The blacksmith raised his hammer, took aim. It landed with a loud clank; Stone felt the shock in the marrow of his bones.

  “I guess I should congratulate you on your stars,” Stone said to Custer.

  “Everybody used to say you’d be the first to make general. By the way, what do you do for a living?”

  “My last job was trail boss for a herd of longhorns, brought ’em from Texas to the railhead at Sundust.”

  “Ever tangle with injuns?”

  The hammer came down again, Stone’s brain was jarred in his skull, he lost consciousness for a split second. “Now yer hands,” the blacksmith said.

  Stone placed his hands on the anvil. “Tangled with them a few times.”

  “If you need a job, I could use another scout.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “You haven’t asked how much it pays. Same old Johnny. What were you in the war?”

  “Company commander.”

  Clang! Stone’s teeth rattled, the cuffs fell off his wrists. He was unencumbered, a free man once more. He felt light as straw without the ball and chain. He faced Sergeant Buford. “We haven’t seen the last of each other.”

  “Ready when you are,” Sergeant Buford replied.

  General Custer took Stone’s arm. “Let’s get you a bath, Johnny. You’ll need new clothes, and you’ll have dinner with my wife and me?”

  John Stone walked across the parade field with General Custer, reflecting on the value of old West Point friendships. Without a powerful friend, man could rot and die in a military prison, be buried as a deserter, and no one would ever know.

  “There’s something I’ve got to talk with you about, Fannie,” Stone said. “There’s a man in the guardhouse who helped me, and I want to do something for him. He’s sickly and might die, just because he spit in Captain Benteen’s face. I know a trooper isn’t supposed to spit in his commanding officer’s face, but it’s not serious enough to die for. His name’s Antonelli. Can’t you help him?”

  “He’s the worst soldier on the post, but if he spit in Captain Benteen’s face, he can’t be all bad. I’ll see what I can do. Why don’t you stop first at the sutler’s, while I have an orderly draw you a bath. When you’re finished with everything, come to my office.”

  ~*~

  Tomahawk walked alongside the strawberry roan toward a herd of wild horses grazing in the middle of a vast basin. Visible two miles away was an immense herd of wild buffalo. No humans in sight.

  Freedom felt weird. Tomahawk shied as he drew closer to the herd. The strawberry roan reassured him with a comforting sound in her throat. Tomahawk could feel a strange power coming from the horses, different from the submissiveness of ranch horses. These brothers and sisters lived off the land, ran untrammeled, adjusted their lives to the twin cycles of sun and moon. They weren’t the property of cowboys. They belonged to themselves.

  Tomahawk drew closer, they made a path for him. A lifetime of captivity had made him a cautious creature. Come join us, they said. We’re headed for the land of the sun.

  He moved toward them, and they crowded around, rubbing against him, brushing him with their lips.

  ~*~

  Stone walked toward the combination bar and sales counter in the sutler’s store. The sutler arose from his chair, putting his newspaper to the side. “What can I do fer you?”

  “Need civilian clothes.”

  The sutler was a crafty-faced bald man with long black sideburns. He looked Stone up and down, and Stone was a mess in his ragged, overtight, too-short uniform, surrounded by the stink of the jail, but he was a personal friend of General Custer. “Anything the gentleman wants
,” the sutler said unctuously with a little bow.

  Stone heard something rustle behind him. He spun around, saw Captain Benteen sitting at a table in the corner. His eyes were large and bulged oddly, with a mean glint. Neither said a word, but Stone felt intense hostility coming from the officer. The sutler returned with an armful of clothes.

  Stone picked a red shirt, and dark blue pants. He put on a pearl cowboy hat and looked in the mirror, but somehow it wasn’t right. He missed his old Confederate cavalry hat, but the new one would have to do.

  He heard footsteps behind him, two more officers entered the sutler’s store. They strolled toward the table with Benteen, spurs jangling. Stone selected a brown cowhide belt with a plain brass buckle.

  “Need a knife,” Stone said.

  The sutler dropped one on the counter. The blade was ten inches long, handle made of bone, carved with the figures of a turtle, horse, eagle, and lobo.

  “Know what the carvings mean?” Stone asked.

  “Ask the injuns who made it,” the sutler replied. “They were Sioux.”

  One of the officers at the table said, “Honest soldiers get no credit, while the deserter gets an invitation to Iron Butt’s house. Somebody ought to shoot the son of a bitch.”

  Stone dropped the belt on the counter, and looked at the officers. They had smirky, insinuating expressions, and Stone felt his temperature rise. He’d been on the dirty end of the stick for the past several days, and enough was enough.

  He walked toward the table. Sarcasm on the officers’ faces turned to surprise. Benteen half rose, hand moving toward his holster, but he couldn’t shoot an unarmed man on a military installation, with witnesses. He let his hand fall. Stone came to the edge of the table. The officers got to their feet.

  The sutler was sure his establishment would be damaged within seconds. He came out from behind his counter. “Please, gentlemen.”

  Stone made eye contact with each officer, then said, “Anybody wants to take a shot at me, take it now.”

  “You’re not armed,” said Benteen. “Strap on a gun, somebody might take you up on it.”

  Stone returned to the counter. “Colt with a holster.”