Fort Hays Bustout (A Searcher Western Book 9)

by Len Levinson

  “I wouldn’t dirty my hands.”

  General Custer walked away. Benteen stared at his back, tempted to pull his service revolver and shoot him down. The arrogance of the fancy priggish fool with his silly uniforms and giddy wife.

  Benteen was white with rage. If he shot Custer in the back, he’d get the firing squad. He withdrew his hand from his holster and closed the flap. Got to be a better way.

  ~*~

  Stone and Slipchuck rode past the parade ground, heading for the main gate. Bedrolls were tied behind their saddles, they were loaded with rifle and pistol ammunition, an odd pair with the faraway gaze of desert riders. They passed the sentries at the main gate and rode onto the open prairie, heading for the Wakhatchie River crossing.

  “Ain’t never liked army life,” Slipchuck said. “Officers a-struttin’ like poppycocks with gold braid, while reg’lar soldiers do the dirty work. Closest thing to bein’ a slave I ever seen. You ask me, General Custer can take the Seventh Cavalry and shove it up his ass.”

  ~*~

  Captain Benteen walked across the parade ground. The more he thought about General Custer, the angrier he became. Turned his back on Benteen and walked away. Wouldn’t fight a duel. Captain Benteen felt the urge to punch somebody in the mouth.

  He angled toward officers’ row, so he could have a cup of tea with his poor sick wife. She wasn’t holding up well to life in the remote army post. He wondered what he’d done to get trapped here with General Custer.

  A familiar figure appeared around the corner of a building, Major Reno. Benteen resented officers who’d been to West Point, but Major Reno didn’t like Custer either, and maybe . . .

  Captain Benteen walked toward Major Reno, who shuffled along with his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the ground, mumbling to himself. He’s losing his mind in this damned place, Benteen thought, but perhaps I can make use of him. He drew close to Major Reno, raised his hand in a snappy salute.

  Major Reno was drafting a mental letter to the War Department, requesting transfer to a more salubrious installation, when the tall, sturdy figure of Captain Benteen loomed before him. Major Reno returned the salute jerkily.

  “I was wondering if I might have a word with you, sir,” Captain Benteen said.

  Major Reno was surprised. What could Captain Benteen possibly want to say to him? “Go on.”

  “I’ll put my cards on the table,” Benteen said. “You don’t like Custer and neither do I. Why don’t we do something?”

  “Such as?”

  Captain Benteen glanced around. He wouldn’t want witnesses, and would deny everything if he was asked. “You’re his second in command, and I’m his third. We’re going to campaign against the injuns sooner or later, and you know how Custer pushes everybody to the limits. Maybe you and I won’t move so fast one day, or don’t do exactly what he wants. Maybe the great general finally’ll get what he deserves.”

  Major Reno was shocked. “Surely you’re not suggesting …”

  Captain Benteen glanced around again, to make sure no one could hear. “Custer could get his ass kicked by the injuns, and if we’re lucky, they might even kill him.”

  Major Reno looked him in the eye. “I ought to report you. This is treachery in the face of the enemy.”

  “Think over what I told you. We’ll talk again.”

  “But …”

  Benteen walked away, leaving Major Reno with his mouth hanging open, in the middle of his sentence.

  ~*~

  Stone and Slipchuck approached the Wakhatchie River crossing. They could see the trail left by the wagon that carried Major Scanlon’s mutilated corpse from the scene, plus the escort of cavalry. As they drew closer to the river, they found an area where wagon wheel tracks were deep and overlapped, the spot where Major Scanlon’s body had been loaded aboard.

  Stone and Slipchuck dismounted. No blood was on the ground, animals licked away every drop. “What do you see?” Slipchuck asked.

  “All these tracks are from shod horses.”

  “Injuns could be a-ridin’ stoled cavalry horses. If you was an injun, what you do with Major Scanlon’s duds?”

  “Wear them.”

  “If you wasn’t an injun, what you do with ’em?”

  “Hide them.”

  “Let’s start a-lookin’.” Slipchuck said. “We ain’t got all day.”

  ~*~

  Major Reno sat in his office, drinking a cup of coffee. He had a terrible pain in his groin, his face beaded with sweat.

  It was the hernia he’d acquired on the Rappahannock leading a cavalry charge against Fitzhugh Lee. Reno’s horse had been shot out from underneath him, and he couldn’t throw himself clear. The horse had landed on top of him.

  He hadn’t been right since. Mail order catalogues advertised trusses and devices to alleviate the pain of hernia, but none worked. His gut protruded from the rip in his stomach wall, producing a bulge the size of a plum beneath his skin. Sometimes it didn’t bother him, other times sent shock waves of pain through his body.

  He grit his teeth, unable to escape the sharp knifelike sensations. They stayed with him for days sometimes, especially when he did a lot of riding, but he didn’t dare complain. If they gave him a medical discharge, what would he do? His wife’s family was rich, but they hated him. Everything he’d ever done had gone wrong.

  It was galling to take orders from Custer, who’d been a plebe at West Point when Reno was a graduating senior. He was sure Custer held a grudge over the hazing. Why couldn’t a horse fall on Custer?

  Reno thought of Captain Benteen’s proposition. Custer deserved to be defeated by injuns. Show the world what a fraud he was. Divine justice. Major Reno shifted position on the chair, taking the pressure off his hernia.

  Maybe they’ll give me command of the Seventh Cavalry. My wife’s family might respect me at last The injuns were on their last legs, and anybody could whip them.

  Major Reno could see the victory parade, himself riding at the head of the Seventh Cavalry. Maybe he’d wear a unique uniform, like Custer. Sure made a man stand out in the crowd. He and Benteen would wait for the right moment, never do anything might draw suspicion.

  Colonel Marcus Reno. He liked the ring of it.

  ~*~

  It was late afternoon. Stone rode over the prairie, and all he saw were prairie dog burrows, gopher holes, mesquite, and patches of grass. Moe was surefooted, but not as smart as Tomahawk. Moe had been in the army too long, didn’t think for himself anymore.

  A shot! Slipchuck sat atop his horse, waving a rifle. Stone pulled Moe’s head around, gave him the spur. Moe plodded toward Slipchuck, and Stone spotted something on the crest of a hill, but it disappeared suddenly. Were his eyes playing tricks on him?

  Injuns saw you before you saw them. That was the law of the West. They might be watching him and Slipchuck, ready to spring the trap. Stone removed his Colt from its holster and pulled alongside Slipchuck. On the ground, a hole four feet deep surrounded by tracks. Stone dismounted, examined the sign.

  “What you see?” Slipchuck asked.

  Stone’s brow furrowed with thought. He took out his bag of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. Then he roamed about on his hands and knees like a dog, eyes close to the ground.

  “It’s starin’ you right in the goddamned face,” Slipchuck said.

  Stone rose to his feet and pointed back to the Wakhatchie River crossing. “Major Scanlon was killed back there by a white man who wanted to make it look like the injuns did it. He stripped Major Scanlon and mutilated him, but couldn’t leave his weapons and uniform lying around. He rode over here and buried them.”

  “That hole looks empty to me,” Slipchuck said.

  “That’s because the killer didn’t know injuns were watching him. After he left, they dug up the uniform and equipment, because injuns don’t let anything go to waste.”

  Slipchuck climbed down from Buckshot, and extended his hand. “You figgered it out. Ain’t much more I can teach y
ou. You know pretty much what I do.”

  They shook hands, the torch of knowledge passing.

  ~*~

  It was midnight in Hays City, and Sergeant Buford strolled past the hog pens, smoking a cigarette. His eyes were half-closed, he’d already hit several saloons, now wanted some loving.

  The walk was narrow, lined with small shacks. Whores stood in the doorways, and when a soldier came close, they opened their robes and showed what they had.

  “Hey, Sergeant, let’s have us some fun.”

  Buford passed her silently. He liked them with more meat on their bones. Bead curtains and crimson bedspreads could be seen through windows. A whore turned around, bent over, picked up her dress. Buford stopped in his tracks. Now there was a woman.

  She faced him, opened her bodice. Her breasts were low-hanging, plump blond in her mid-forties, face hard as a man’s.

  “How’s about it?” she said.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  He followed her. Someone plunked a banjo in the street. They entered her shack. She undressed, no preliminaries, he didn’t care, took off his clothes, hung them over a chair, placed his gun on the little table near the bed.

  “What you want that fer?” she asked, stepping out of her pantaloons.

  “Like to have it close by.”

  “I was guardhouse sergeant, I’d watch my ass too.”

  She knew who he was, a man of important position. She pulled back the covers and crawled into bed.

  “Let’s git it over with,” she said. “I ain’t got all night.”

  He crawled onto her soft body, buried his head between her breasts, saw a thin white scar across her throat from ear to ear.

  “Anything wrong?” she asked, noticing his sudden change of mood.

  It looked as though somebody tried to kill her. “Injuns do that?”

  She lowered her chin, folds of fat covered the scar. “It was a soldier boy like you. Liked to cut on women. You here for a conversation, or you want to fuck?”

  She was a tough one, but pretty for Hays City. He hugged her. It didn’t take long. The whore rolled out of bed and washed herself. “This ain’t no hotel room for the night.”

  “I know what it is. Not the first time I rutted with hogs.”

  She was accustomed to insults. Long as they paid their money and kept knives out of sight, she didn’t care what went down. He donned his uniform, tied his yellow bandanna around his neck.

  He didn’t want to leave her, but couldn’t afford more.

  He walked outside, and headed toward the Tumbleweed Saloon. A woman’s raucous laughter erupted behind him. Two young soldiers approached on the sidewalk.

  “Howdy, Sergeant Buford,” they said in unison.

  Everybody wanted to stay on the good side of the guardhouse sergeant, and they’d better. He ever caught them in the guardhouse, they’d wish they were never born. He placed his hands in his pockets and passed darkened storefronts closed for the night. Ahead, shafts of light angled into the street from the windows of saloons.

  “Buford!”

  The guardhouse sergeant turned at the entrance to an alley, and saw the silhouette of a man at the other end. “Who’s there?”

  “Come in and find out.”

  The voice sounded familiar. Something told Buford to get the hell out of there, but instead he advanced into the alley. “Show yer goddamn face, you son of a bitch!”

  John Stone stepped into the moonlight. “They’ll court-martial you someday, Buford, but I can’t wait that long.” He reached toward his boot, and pulled out his Sioux knife.

  Buford smiled. “I been a-hopin’ to see you again. I’m a-gonna hang yer hide on my wall.”

  Buford drew a knife from the scabbard on his belt. Both men dropped into crouches, but there wasn’t much room in the alley. They could advance or retreat, no circling. Stone got low, holding the Sioux knife before him, the balance felt right. His fingers pressed on the turtle, horse, eagle, and lobo. Buford advanced, probing with his blade, his free arm out for balance.

  Stone watched carefully. In the dark, a man with fast hands could kill you before you knew what happened. Stone thrust his knife forward, but Buford was waiting. He caught the wrist of Stone’s knife hand, pulled him closer, and drove his blade toward Stone’s guts.

  Stone’s forearm whacked Buford’s knife to the side. Both men crashed into each other, then pulled back. Buford slashed at Stone’s belly. Stone raised his hand to protect himself, but Buford cut Stone’s forearm to the bone. Stone pulled back, warm liquid trickling down his fingers. The parameters of the fight suddenly changed. Stone had to finish Buford before too much blood was lost.

  Buford spat contemptuously. “Want to knife fight me? I invented knife fights. Try that again, I’ll cut yer head off, and throw it in the gutter.”

  The odds were with Buford now. If he held Stone at bay, Stone would fall at his feet. “C’mon,” Buford said, beckoning with his free hand. “A little closer.”

  Blood spurted out the cut on Stone’s arm. Buford planted his feet firmly on the ground, bent his knees. “I’ll cut you from hell to breakfast.” He pushed his knife forward, free hand floating in the air.

  Stone rushed him, head down. Buford took a step to the side, but the wall prevented him from dodging farther.

  Stone sidestepped to cut him off, Buford took a swipe at Stone’s head, Stone ducked and thrust his knife toward Buford’s midsection. Buford lowered his arm in time, Stone’s blade slipped into Buford’s forearm muscle.

  Buford shrieked as Stone’s knife ripped meat like a chef boning the drumstick of a turkey. Buford crashed into the wall, bounced off, attacked Stone’s throat. Stone leaned back while Buford’s forward motion brought him closer. Stone’s knife plowed a jagged red furrow across Buford’s nose and cheek, nearly severed his ear from his head.

  Buford went mad with pain, screaming at the top of his lungs. On the backswing, Stone ripped his blade across Buford’s chest, then buried it to the hilt in Buford’s belly.

  Buford’s eyes protruded in horror, harelip grotesque, Stone’s hand awash with warm blood. He brought his face close to Buford’s and twisted the knife. “That’s for Antonelli,” Stone said. Buford moaned, blood tinged his lips. Stone turned the knife again. “That’s for me.”

  Buford’s legs gave way. Stone took a step backward and held the bloody Sioux knife in the air. Slipchuck’s voice came to him from the back of the alley. “Let’s git out of here, pard.”

  ~*~

  It was two o’clock in the morning. General Custer paced back and forth in his darkened living room, slapping his riding crop against his leg. He was furious with himself for backing down before Captain Ben teen. West Point indoctrination had done it to him. A commanding officer doesn’t brawl with subordinates.

  What was his breaking point? He wanted to take his trusty old saber down from the wall, and chop Benteen’s head off.

  But he was General Custer. His courage and fighting prowess had been demonstrated many times. He had nothing to prove. It took all of Custer’s much-vaunted willpower to hold himself back. What an ugly evil-looking monster. I can’t let him get away with it.

  He lit the lantern on the table, turned to the wall, pulled down his trusty old cavalry saber. He could see headlines in newspapers across the country:

  CUSTER DECAPITATES OFFICER IN ANGRY FRONTIER DUEL

  Let them write what they wanted. Nobody insulted Autie Custer and got away with it. He’d hack the son of a bitch to death. He drew the sword from its scabbard.

  “Autie?” Libbie at the top of the stairs, wrapped in her frowsy wool robe, looked down at him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  He gazed at the weapon grasped tightly in his hand. He’d actually been on his way to chop Captain Benteen’s head off! He smiled unsteadily. “I … ah … couldn’t sleep.”

  “Neither can I. The wind ... oh, Autie, I hate this place.”

  He dropped onto a chair. “I’m losing my
mind. If you hadn’t stopped me ...”

  She knelt beside him, lay her cheek against his leg. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

  “Maybe I should leave the army.”

  “When the next Indian campaign begins, you’ll want to be in the thick of it. I know you too well. You could never be an ordinary man.”

  He’d sit at a desk on Wall Street, and grow a potbelly. The dashing young cavalry commander would disappear. “Maybe I should put in for a transfer.”

  “And leave the Seventh Cavalry?”

  The Seventh was his own personal honor guard and striking force, held together by the strength of his will. But he couldn’t handle Fort Hays much longer.

  “Maybe you could get a furlough,” she said. “We’ll go to New York, and by the time we return, Washington will make up its mind about what to do about the Indians. I don’t think General Sheridan would turn you down, after all you’ve done for him. I’ll write the letter.”

  Libbie had a way with words, Little Phil liked her, the many advantages of a pretty wife. “Sounds fine to me.”

  She took his hand. “Come to bed.”

  He followed her up the stairs. She made everything sound so simple. They crawled into bed, giving each other solace in the cold Kansas night.

  ~*~

  A solitary light shone in the dining room of another house on officers’ row. Captain Benteen sat at the table, maps spread out in front of him. He was studying the Washita Campaign of 1867.

  An officer’s fighting style was a clue to his personality. At the Washita, Custer divided his men into four components that attacked from four different directions. It violated a basic rule of warfare, never split your forces in enemy territory, but Custer was a gambler. It was more important to confuse the enemy, the better to roll over him.

  Benteen leaned back in his chair and puffed his corncob pipe. Coordination was everything in a multipronged attack. If one or two units failed to reach their objective, the odds would turn against Custer. He never let anybody get in front of him during an attack, and once he got in among the injuns, he wouldn’t last a minute. Then the world would know at last that Custer’s luck was hot air.