Fort Hays Bustout (A Searcher Western Book 9)

by Len Levinson

  Pollard and Slipchuck turned to the tall, husky figure silhouetted against the night sky.

  “If you’re going to shoot that old man,” Stone said to Pollard, “you’ll have to shoot me first.”

  Pollard guffawed out of the corner of his mouth. “Fine with me, cowboy. I’m takin’ on all four flushers and fools tonight.”

  Stone advanced toward the center of the saloon, and those on the floor took the opportunity to scramble out the front and back doors.

  “I got no respect for a man who’d gun down an old fart,” Stone said.

  “Now hold on, Johnny,” Slipchuck protested. “I ain’t that old.”

  Stone took a position opposite Pollard. “You want gunplay, I’ll give it to you.”

  Pollard didn’t know the cowpoke, but people would laugh if he walked away now. “Give it to me,” he said.

  Stone’s hand slapped the butt of his Colt, while Pollard’s fingers darted toward his Remington. The saloon reverberated with the gunshot. The bartender cringed behind a keg of beer. Pollard’s knees turned to jelly, he twisted to the side. His gun was halfway out of its holster, it weighed a ton. He tried to raise it higher, Stone fired again.

  The bullet struck Pollard’s heart, his lights went out, but his body didn’t know it. He stood unsteadily for a few seconds, then crashed to the floor.

  Stone stood still as a statue in the light of coal-oil lamps and candles, smoking gun in hand, the wide brim of his black cowboy hat casting a shadow over his face. Silence in the saloon, air bitter with gunsmoke. “Finished over there?” the bartender asked.

  Stone holstered his gun. He looked at the nearest glass of whiskey, fought the evil impulse. Pollard lay on his back, blood poured out two holes, soaking his shirt and the surrounding floor. A few feet away, Daugherty lay in a crimson pool.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Stone said.

  Stone and Slipchuck walked out the back door. Sheds, privies, stacks of wood, could be seen in the moonlight. The prairie stretched spectrally to the horizon.

  They strolled past outbuildings to the edge of town, sat cross-legged on the ground like a couple of injuns. Stone reached to his shirt pocket, took out his bag of tobacco. Slipchuck withdrew one of Daugherty’s stogies.

  “Got mixed up with a professional cardsharp,” Slipchuck explained. “Tired of bein’ a poor man.”

  “You want to go to San Francisco with me?”

  “You ain’t really a-thinkin’ about it, are you?”

  “I’ve been to the fort, found out Marie’s gone to San Francisco. Custer gave me a job. I can leave in two months.”

  “You don’t have to wait two months. I just won a big pot. We can go right now. Only thing is I cheated a poor farmer. I was a-thinkin’ I should give it back.”

  “Then do it. I’ll get you a job with the Seventh Cavalry.”

  The rear door to the saloon opened, men spilled into the backyard. Moon glinted on the badge of the sheriff. He and his men spread out and searched the area as Stone and Slipchuck puffed tobacco.

  “There they are!” somebody shouted.

  Stone rose to his feet, felt pain in his ribs and kidneys due to hard punches in his fight with Benteen. Even when I win, I lose. The sheriff approached, followed by a crowd of men. Stone and Slipchuck stood side by side, the top of Slipchuck’s hat level with the middle of Stone’s chest. The sheriff wore a sandy mustache, crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes.

  “Which one of you shot Jess Pollard?” the sheriff asked.

  “I did,” Stone replied, “and it was self-defense all the way. Anybody who was there’ll tell you that.”

  The sheriff’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he scrutinized the big cowboy. “What’s yer name?”

  “John Stone.”

  “You’d better watch yer step in Hays City, John Stone. This is a law-abidin’ town, and I ain’t afraid of you. You step out of line, I’ll lock you up.”

  A voice in the crowd said, “He cheated me out of my money!”

  The poor farmer stood at the edge of the crowd. Slipchuck reached into his pockets. “How much of yer boodle I got, sodbuster?”

  “Forty dollars.”

  Slipchuck placed the coins in the farmer’s eager hands. “Go home to yer wife and family. Stay the hell out of saloons.”

  “How ’bout me?” asked the corporal who’d lost an earlier pot.

  “And me!” chimed in another loser.

  Slipchuck paid them back. The crowd followed the sheriff to the saloon. Stone and Slipchuck sat on the ground. The half-moon sat on the horizon like a boat on a choppy sea. Slipchuck flicked an ash on the end of his stogie. “Wish I could be like the other fellers, who rob you with a smile.”

  Stone always felt wild and strange after a killing. A gypsy fortune-teller in San Antone had predicted he’d die young, and he wondered where he’d be gunned down. He turned to Slipchuck. “Do you remember how we used to get up before dawn when we rode for the Triangle Spur, how good the coffee tasted? I never felt better in my life. Somehow, we’ve got to get back to that, pard.”

  Stone missed the cattle drive, but had to go to San Francisco, nearly fifteen hundred miles away across plains and mountains swarming with injuns, because that’s where Marie had gone.

  “Let’s go to the post,” he said. “I want to see Custer first thing in the morning and put you on the payroll.”

  They walked through the alley. Men sat on a bench in front of the saloon, passing a bottle of whiskey. Others stood on the sidewalk, talking loudly. A hush came over them as Stone and Slipchuck appeared. A man thrust his hand at John Stone. “I’d like to say I shook the hand of the galoot what shot Jess Pollard.”

  Stone walked past him, repelled by the notion. He placed his foot in the stirrup, raised himself onto the back of his horse, a dark brown gelding named Moe, selected by Stone in the Fort Hays stable.

  Stone and Slipchuck rode side by side down the street, and the crowd watched silently as they were engulfed by darkness at the edge of town.

  ~*~

  Two o’clock in the morning, Stone opened the door of the Fort Hays guardhouse. Private Klappenbach jumped to his feet behind the desk.

  “Want to see Antonelli,” Stone said.

  “Get permission from the guardhouse sergeant.”

  Stone grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “I said I want to see Antonelli.”

  Klappenbach picked the iron key ring off the peg and opened the door. Stone entered a small pen in front of the bars, lit the lamp suspended from the ceiling. The pale yellow glow illuminated three men sleeping on the cold dirt floor.

  “Antonelli,” Stone said softly.

  A head popped up, tiny nose, scrawny mustache. Antonelli dragged his ball and chain toward the bars. “Johnny!”

  “You’re headed for the hospital. Maybe you can get discharged on a medical disability.” Stone winked.

  Antonelli nodded. The fix was on. It was something a New Yorker could understand. Stone reached into his shirt, pulled out half a loaf of bread and a two-pound chunk of cold roast beef taken from the officers’ mess. “Share it with the others.”

  Antonelli’s eyes goggled with pleasure as he accepted the food. “Don’t never turn your back on Buford. He’s madder’n a wet hen.”

  Stone reached through the bars and grasped Antonelli’s shoulder. “Just hang on awhile longer. You’ll be out of here before you know it.”

  ~*~

  General Custer lay on his back and stared at the ceiling as Libbie cuddled against him. He could feel the rise and fall of her respiration, her curvy body sheathed in a flannel nightgown.

  Fort Hays was grinding him down. He was meant for better things. Go east and become a businessman. Run for president. His popularity diminished every day his name was out of the newspapers. But he couldn’t leave the army.

  He loved uniforms, parades, guns. Nothing in the world quite like an all-out kick-’em-in-the-ass cavalry charge. The bed confined him, he rolled away from
Libbie’s warmth, gazed at the moonlit prairie through the window.

  Sitting Bull was out there, with Crazy Horse, Gall, and Dull Knife, raiding poor farmers, swooping down on army patrols, stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down. The Kidder Massacre opened Custer’s eyes to the truth of injuns. He’d seen soldiers with noses and ears cut off, private parts stuffed into their mouths, long deep gashes everywhere on their bodies, guts spilled onto the ground, filled with arrows. Easterners bewailed the plight of the poor unfortunate injun, but didn’t have to live with them.

  Injuns were moving toward their winter campsites. By December they’d be low on food, war ponies weak, the ideal time for the Seventh Cavalry to strike, but Washington was afraid to take a stand.

  Grant had gone downhill disgracefully since the war. He viewed the presidency as a reward for service to his country, lived like a king while corrupt cronies governed. Washington’s a mess, and somebody’s got to clean it up.

  But he was chained to Fort Hays, a controversial figure, his future cloudy. His reputation would be restored if he could win a great victory against the injuns. He’d led the Michigan Wolverines down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington during the Grand March after the Rebellion. Feted by one and all, now he was rotting in Kansas, forgotten by a people who’d praised him. He couldn’t fade away like other old soldiers. He was only twenty-nine, with the best years of his life ahead.

  “Something wrong, Autie?” asked the soft, sleepy voice of his wife.

  “Can’t sleep. If something doesn’t happen soon, I’ll lose my mind.”

  “I won’t let you. Come to bed. I’ll put you to sleep.”

  He crawled beneath the covers. She touched her lips to his cheek.

  “I don’t care where I am, as long as I’m with you, Autie. One day you’ll be vindicated, you’ll see. There’s a time to reap and a time to sow. Be patient. Men like you can never be held back long.”

  “If only something, anything, would happen,” he said.

  ~*~

  Private Klappenbach lay asleep on the cot in the guardhouse, when the front door opened. In a second he was upright, gun in hand.

  Sergeant Buford closed the door behind him. He locked his rifle in the rack on the wall. The lamp burned dimly on the desk. He glanced at the log. “Anything to report?”

  “John Stone was here,” Klappenbach replied. “Palavered with Antonelli, who’s goin’ to the hospital in the mornin’. Then he’ll git out on a medical discharge. Son of a bitch spit in an officer’s face, and they’ll turn him loose.”

  “Like hell they will!” Sergeant Buford entered the cell block, turned the lamp higher, peered through the iron bars. Antonelli slept near the wall, huddled underneath his blanket.

  Buford unlocked the door, charged across the cell block. Antonelli raised his head. Buford grabbed him by the front of his ragged shirt, lifted him off the ground.

  “What’s this I hear ’bout you gittin’ out tomorrow!”

  Antonelli wriggled frantically, trying to avoid whatever was coming. “I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout nuthin’.”

  Buford slammed him in the mouth. Antonelli dropped to the ground, escaped the kick to his liver, reached for his knife. He bared his rat-like teeth defiantly as the guardhouse sergeant drew his gun.

  “You just tried to escape.”

  Buford’s service revolver fired. Antonelli doubled over as if hit in the gut with an ax. Buford aimed at him and squeezed off another round.

  Lights went on all over the post. The sergeant of the guard came running. In the barracks, rifle racks were unlocked. The guardhouse filled with armed men, followed by Lieutenant Forrest, new acting provost marshal.

  “What’s going on here!” demanded Forrest.

  “Prisoner tried to escape,” Buford replied, sitting calmly behind his desk.

  Forrest pushed soldiers out of his way as he made his way to the cell block. Antonelli lay on the ground, clutching his stomach. “How’d he escape?”

  “Jumped me.”

  “Witness?”

  “Private Klappenbach.”

  Lieutenant Forrest turned to Klappenbach.

  “It was like the sergeant said,” Klappenbach testified.

  “Both of you were in this cell, both of you were armed, and the prisoner attacked you?”

  “Had a knife.” Sergeant Buford handed it to him.

  “He took on the two of you with this?”

  “Prisoner Antonelli always was a little tetched in the head, sir. It was him or me.”

  “I want your report on my desk no later than reveille. Carry on.”

  Lieutenant Forrest left the orderly room. He’d been awake and fully dressed when he’d heard the shot, on his way to a rendezvous with a certain lady. He approached Custer’s home, saw the general sitting on his porch, dressed in buckskin pants and jacket, wearing boots. The general had prepared for war at the sound of the first shot. Lieutenant Forrest saluted. “Sergeant Buford shot a prisoner, sir. Says he tried to escape, but I’m not so sure. At any rate, it’s all over now. No reason for you to stay awake, sir.”

  General Custer watched Lieutenant Forrest walk toward the headquarters. The camp became quiet again, lights went out in the barracks. General Custer looked at the sky, an inverted blue bowl covered with diamonds.

  It reminded him of the night he’d powwowed with Yellow Robe and Little Bear near the Wichita Mountains. He’d sat in a tipi and smoked the peace pipe, promised never to make war against injuns again, provided everyone upheld the terms of the agreement. The atmosphere was churchlike, and Little Robe told Custer solemnly that if Yellow Hair broke his word, he’d be killed.

  The treaty had been violated numerous times on both sides since that night, and the words of Little Robe lay like a curse on Custer’s soul. But all a soldier can do is follow orders. A coffin or a medal. Who wants to be an old man?

  ~*~

  Stone and Slipchuck peered out the window, looking for injuns creeping among the buildings. Time passed with no more shots.

  “Probably some young trooper shootin’ at his own shadow,” Slipchuck said.

  Before them were huts with adjacent tipis. Injun scouts lived in the tipis and used the huts for storage, but most were gone now that no campaigns were under way. Stone and Slipchuck returned to their cots. Stone pulled his blanket over his head. Marie still loved him, that was all that mattered. They’d be together soon, he was sure of it. I’ll find you if it kills me.

  They say a man should be careful what he wishes for, because he’s liable to get it.

  ~*~

  General Custer entered his dark living room, lit the lamp. He still couldn’t sleep, agitated by images of Yellow Robe. He looked at his collection of swords and knives mounted on the wall. His favorite was a prize of war taken from a young Confederate cavalry officer in White Oak Swamp, first man he’d ever killed. Custer pulled it down from the wall. The blade was double-edged, inscribed in Spanish: No me saques sin razon; no me envaines sin honor. Draw me not without reason; nor sheathe me without honor. The blade was made of Solingen steel, three inches longer and half an inch wider than the government-issue weapon, hefty and lethal in his fist. General Custer raised it high over his head. Before him stood Yellow Robe, tomahawk in hand. Custer grit his teeth, brought the sword down swiftly. The Cheyenne chief fell at his feet like all others who dared challenge the Golden Cavalier.

  Chapter Six

  Stone ate breakfast in the Headquarters Company mess hall, a wood-slatted building with rows of long tables lined up on either side of the aisle. The meal consisted of fried hardtack with molasses, bacon, and muffins. The bacon tasted rancid. A baked maggot resided in the muffin. The coffee was thick as mud and evil as Jezebel.

  His table was jammed with grumbling sleepy soldiers, some with hangovers, in various stages of uniform regulation. Except for an occasional request for the sugar or salt, they said little.

  Stone evaluated them with a professional eye. They’d joined for adventur
e, or couldn’t find work on the outside, and ended at this remote little fort in the middle of nowhere. They had nothing to hope for except discharge, and not much could be expected of them. He dropped his plate at the dishwasher’s sink, walked outside, and spotted an officer with the bronze leaf insignia of a major on his shoulder boards.

  “Don’t I know you?” the major asked.

  “We met at West Point, sir. John Stone.”

  “I’ll be damned!” Major Reno took a step backward and looked at the ex-cadet. “It’s you, isn’t it, Johnny?”

  “It’s me, all right.”

  Scheduled to graduate with the class of 1855, Reno didn’t get out until 1857, when Stone was a freshman. Reno accumulated 1,032 demerits – a West Point record.

  “What’re you doing here, Johnny?”

  “Hired to scout for the regiment.”

  “Worked as a scout before? I don’t mean to be rude, but the general appoints family and friends to jobs they’re not qualified to handle. You and he were quite close at the Point, isn’t that so?”

  “We were friends, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Unfortunately I wasn’t a friend of his, and he treats me like dirt. He’s a blowhard and a showpiece, yet he’s in command while far better men languish in the lower grades, because they didn’t know the right newspaper reporter.” Major Reno leaned closer to Stone and narrowed his right eye. “There’s a plot to keep me down, and Custer’s at the root of it. The man resents me, because I know how stupid and incompetent he really is.”

  Major Reno paused, a knowing smirk on his face, waiting for Stone to respond, but Stone didn’t say a word. He thought Reno was mad, and he was Custer’s second in command? How did this lunatic manage to stay in the army?

  “Custer knows how I feel about him,” Major Reno said. “I don’t care, really. And the feeling is mutual, I assure you. I won’t hold it against you, that you’re his friend. May we always cherish the happy days we had together when we were cadets at the Point.”

  Major Reno propelled himself toward the officers’ mess, while Stone resumed his walk. How could Custer go into battle with an officer like Major Reno? Stone approached Custer’s house, the door opened, General Custer stepped out, wearing his black hat and buckskin suit, dogs yapping at his heels.