“I wanna sew Will’s shirt,” the child protested.
“Emma,” Sarah stated sternly, “I don’t have time for this now.” She immediately stepped closer to Will, threaded the needle, and set to work on the rip.
While the child puckered her lips in protest, Will glanced up at Bradley, enjoying the lieutenant’s irritation. His attention was quickly captured, however, by the clean smell of soap that he always associated with Sarah. And suddenly it became painful for him to be near her and he was relieved when she tied the knot and broke the thread off with her teeth. “There, that oughta hold it,” she announced.
“I’m much obliged,” he replied gratefully.
“No trouble,” she said. “I’m glad that you’re going to be along on this mission tomorrow. I hope you will keep an eye on my fiancé, and see that he gets back for his wedding day.”
Her remark stung like fire, reminding him once again that the only woman he had ever loved had chosen the lieutenant instead of him. I could have taken care of you, he heard a voice deep within him crying. He could not take consolation even in the expression of humiliation on the lieutenant’s face, but he strived to keep his own face expressionless. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he said. Then, longing to be somewhere else, he quickly said good-bye, reached down, and gave Emma a hug. “Take care of your mama, Whiskers.” Careful not to glance in Sarah’s direction, lest she read the hurt in his face, he offered a quick expression of appreciation for the mending job and headed for the door. Outside, he breathed in deeply, feeling he needed to sweep the hurt from his body.
Inside, Braxton spoke for the first time since the encounter. “A most confounding man,” he stated, “just as wild and uncivilized as any red savage on the plains.”
Sarah smiled, having already realized Braxton’s tendency toward jealousy. “We owe him a lot,” is all she said, but she could not help wondering if things might have taken another path had not Braxton proposed. She would always wonder about Will and how strong her attraction was to him. She reminded herself then that she had made a decision based on what she thought best for her welfare and her daughter’s. Marrying Braxton was a solid future for both of them and a sensible decision when all was considered. Braxton, as an officer in the army, would provide a comfortable life for her, with no worry about food or housing. She owed Emma that. Will was as fine a man as she had ever known, but who could say what their future would be? A solid marriage could not be based on physical attraction alone. She sighed sadly, hoping that Braxton did not notice, and vowed to think no more on the wisdom of her choice.
Threatened by an attack of melancholy, Will decided he could use a drink before supper. He couldn’t honestly say that whiskey ever helped his moods one way or another, but on occasion it seemed the right thing to do. So he guided Spades off the post and headed for a popular saloon much like Mickey Bledsoe’s back at Camp Supply. It was named the Soldier’s Friend, run by an amiable man named Johnny Tate, and most folks simply called it Johnny’s Place.
It was a busy evening at Johnny’s Place, although it was still early. Will wasn’t surprised, what with the entire regiment taking the field in the morning. Johnny’s tent was not really big enough to accommodate the number of soldiers and scouts who had chosen his establishment to patronize. On this evening, it was lit up like a giant Halloween lantern. Hardly in a mood to rub elbows with a mob of drunks, semi-drunks, and unruly drinkers, he almost turned Spades around, hesitating for a moment before thinking, What the hell? I want a drink.
Stepping inside the tent, he paused to look the crowd over before weaving his way to the bar. A harried bartender looked up and forced a smile for Will when he found a small place to belly up to the bar. “Looks like you’re doin’ a helluva business,” Will said.
“I reckon,” Johnny replied, wiping the sweat from his face with the bar towel. “But it’s about to work my ass off. What’ll you have?”
“I just want a shot of whiskey,” Will replied. “Some of that sour mash you had last time I was here.”
“If you don’t mind waitin’ a minute or two,” Johnny came back. “I’m outta glasses right now, but there’ll be one come along any minute.”
Will forced a chuckle. “Hell, Johnny, you’re gonna make enough money tonight to retire.”
“You think so? Wait till tomorrow. The whole damn regiment will be gone who knows how long and I’ll be lucky to see a soul for the next few days.”
“Hell, you get most of the regiment’s pay, anyway, you’re just takin’ it all in one night this month.” Will turned to see who made the remark, then made room as Kincaid elbowed his way in beside him. The corporal was well on his way to a rendezvous with a miserable morning hangover. His speech was already slurring as he grinned at Johnny. He shoved his empty glass toward the bartender and signaled for a refill. “I wanna buy my partner, here, a drink,” he said, and fished around in his pocket for some money. When he found none, he complained, “What the hell happened to my money?” Then, favoring Will with another foolish grin, he said, “I spent it. You’re gonna have to buy me a drink.” Then he took on a serious face for a moment when he said, “I was gonna save enough for a go-round with Pauline back yonder.” He shrugged, the smile returned, and he mumbled to himself, “She’s gonna be disappointed.”
Will exchanged glances with Johnny and they both shook their heads. “I’ll buy you one more,” he said to Kincaid. “Then I think you’ve had enough. Your head’s gonna be so big in the mornin’ you might have to carry it on a packhorse.”
“Aw, Will, I ain’t even drunk yet,” he complained, although already holding on to the bar to steady himself.
“You’re broke, though,” Will said, “and Johnny don’t give no credit, so you’re done.” Nodding toward Johnny, he said, “Pour it.” Johnny did as he was told, filling the empty shot glass, and Will put his money on the bar just as Kincaid slid down on the floor, passed out. Will glanced down at the unconscious man for a moment, then picked up the glass of whiskey and tossed it down. Looking back at Johnny, he said, “One’s all I wanted, anyway. I expect I’d better get him up before somebody steps on him.”
Asking some of the patrons to step back and give him some room, Will hefted Kincaid up onto his feet. Kincaid was not a big man, but even a small man is heavy when he’s out cold and nothing but deadweight, so Will shifted him around until he got him settled squarely on his shoulder. Then, telling the crowd to make way, he carried the corporal outside and draped him across his saddle. There was no sound from Kincaid except one grunt when he met the saddle with his belly. Reasonably certain that the body would not slide off the saddle, Will led his horse back to the C Company barracks. Kincaid was cooperative enough to keep from falling off the horse until Will stopped in front of the barracks, where the corporal slid off the saddle and crumpled onto the ground. Will left him there while he went inside to find the soldier unfortunate enough to have gotten barracks orderly duty on the last night in camp. With his help, he carried Kincaid in and dropped him on his cot. He pulled his boots off and set them at the foot of the cot, then stood watching his drunken friend for a moment. “That’s as far as I go,” Will said. “If he wants his clothes off, he’s gonna have to do that himself.
Kincaid’s eyelids fluttered for a moment and he murmured softly, “Thanks, Will.” Then he was out again.
Will didn’t reply, but just stood there for a moment looking at the sleeping man. The picture was enough to cause him to be thankful he had decided not to drown his sorrows that night. I wouldn’t wanna be inside that head in the morning, he thought.
The departure on the following morning was not as early as it could have been. At least that was Will’s opinion. But then it was always that way when an entire regiment took to the field. With plenty of time to spare, Will dropped by C Company to have breakfast. While he was sitting at the end of a long table, Kincaid came in and headed straight for the coffee urn. With shaking hands, he grasped the cup and tried to steady it long e
nough to get some of the hot black liquid inside. After a few quick gulps that burned the inside of his mouth, he looked around the room and spotted Will with a wide grin on his face, watching him. He made straight for him and plopped down heavily on the bench opposite his friend.
“Good mornin’, Corporal Kincaid,” Will greeted him in as cheery a voice as he could effect. “My, but you look like you’re rarin’ to go this mornin’.”
“Damn,” Kincaid responded. “I ain’t ever gonna get that drunk again. I’ve already chucked up three times this mornin’. I hope to hell I can keep this coffee down. I swear, I can feel the skin on my stomach rubbin’ up against my backbone.”
“You need the hair of the dog that bit you,” Will said.
“The hell I do,” Kincaid blurted. “I’m done with drinkin’—tired of throwin’ my money away on it. I woke up this mornin’ flat on my back with a puddle of puke on my chest—don’t even know how I got there. Bradshaw said you brought me home. Did you?”
Will nodded. “You gonna be able to make it this mornin’?”
“Hell, yeah,” Kincaid exclaimed. “This ain’t the first time I’ve been drunk. I’ll be there when it’s time to go. I’ll just wish to hell I wasn’t.”
“Well, I reckon it’s gettin’ pretty near that time. I guess I’ll go saddle up my horse,” Will said. “I’ll see you on the trail.” He left Kincaid to wrestle with his demons.
Apart from all the routine formations and protocol that had to be performed before the troops could actually mount and start moving, the column would be accompanied for a mile or so by the regimental band with a stirring sendoff to the spirited strains of “Garry Owen,” George Custer’s favorite marching tune. Will sat patiently through the procedure as the bugle sounded Boots and Saddles, and the troopers stood ready with horses saddled. Next came the command “To horse!” Each man stood by his horse, ready to mount, waiting for “Prepare to mount!” followed by “Mount!” It always seemed like an awful lot of fuss to Will, when they could have simply told everybody, “Climb on your horses and let’s go.”
Finally on the move, the regiment paraded by the cavalry barracks and the hospital, where many of the wives stood watching their gallant men march off to war. Will tried to pretend he didn’t notice Sarah and Emma waving as he loped off in front of the column, but Emma’s wave was so frantic, he didn’t have the heart to ignore it. He touched the brim of his hat with his forefinger as he passed them. The column was a mile outside the post and the sun was already high in the morning sky before the band dropped off and returned to the fort, leaving only the monotonous sounds of the padding of horses’ hooves, creaking leather, and the jingle of bit chains. Added to these, the small bits of casual comments between the men that normally occurred at the start of a long march would soon die out as the sun rose higher in the summer sky.
Among the spectators that had come out of the sutler’s store as the regiment marched out of the post, a half-breed Comanche named French and a one-eyed man named Boley stood watching with considerable interest. “Now, that oughta be somethin’ to make ol’ Ned smile,” Boley commented as he flipped his black eye patch up on his forehead while he dabbed at the empty socket with the point of his bandana. “That there’s damn nigh ever’ soldier in the place.”
The sullen half-breed grunted in response. The deployment of the entire regiment would indeed be of particular interest to the man who had recently taken the two of them as partners. Opportunities had been scarce of late with the added army patrols out to stop the bloody attacks on the smaller ranchers in the territory. With the regiment on a campaign, there would be fewer patrols to worry Ned Spikes. He was well known by the garrison at Fort Dodge, but they had been unsuccessful in catching him in the act. Unknown to the army, Ned had picked up two men to help him in his bloody crimes. Free from suspicion, French and Boley were able to come and go unhampered when the three outlaws needed supplies or wanted to see what the soldiers were up to—as on this occasion.
There was little expected of Will and the other scouts during the first couple of days of the march. The column knew where it was heading, and there was no concern on the officers’ part for the possibility of ambush or open attacks upon a column of regimental strength. Consequently, he was free to do pretty much what he wanted. So he ranged wide of the flanks, just looking around, coming back to join the others at meal-time, usually with Lieutenant Bordeaux’s company. The colonel wanted to make it to the Smoky Hill in two days, but due to the lateness of their departure, they went into camp the first night at Pawnee Creek, leaving a long day’s ride before striking the banks of the Smoky Hill approximately fifteen miles below the last reported location of the Cheyenne village. It was now time for Will to perform the duties he was hired for. The colonel’s plan was to make a night march the following night in hopes of a surprise attack at dawn. Just like the one Colonel Custer led against Black Kettle’s village on the Washita, Will thought when told of it. Captain Fischer had the same thought when they went after the war party that ambushed the patrol out of Fort Larned. It ain’t none of my concern, but it seems like every officer wants to follow Custer’s example. Before the colonel could plan his attack, however, he had to know exactly where the village was now located. That was Will’s job, and he had until dark the following day to do it.
Gone before sunup, he followed the river, just as he had before when he had scouted for Captain Fischer. This time, however, he was reasonably sure the Cheyenne were not expecting him. Even so, he kept a keen eye for any sign of Cheyenne hunting parties that might warn the village to make ready to fight or run. Early in the morning he passed the place where C Company had made their stand against the Indians, and proceeded across the narrow valley where he and Kincaid had to run for their lives. All was peaceful now as he rode close to the trees that lined the river. On he rode until the sun was high overhead and he decided it time to rest Spades.
He guided his horse into the trees on the riverbank and dismounted where a series of gullies led down to the water. From the multitude of old tracks, he could see that it was a popular watering spot. Looking around him, he saw an abundance of dead limbs for a fire, so he decided he’d take enough time for some coffee and the biscuit he had carried in his pocket. Feeling confident that there was no one to see his fire, he nevertheless built it in a pocket created by a gully in the side of the bank. It was more or less a habit. In a short time, he was sipping his coffee and eating his biscuit while watching the big bay grazing on some shoots growing out of the water. It was peaceful until an image of Sarah strayed into his thoughts. He shook his head, trying to cast such thoughts out of his mind forever. It was hard to do, maybe impossible, he admitted, and the realization of it almost caused him to cry out in frustration. He might have done so had he not just then noticed Spades’ ears, almost always twitching, were now pricked up and motionless. Will realized at once that the horse heard something—maybe another horse. A moment later the bay whinnied inquisitively, which told Will that Spades had detected a strange horse or horses approaching. Not waiting to find out, he quickly kicked dirt over his fire and scrambled up to the head of the gully to scan the prairie beyond the river.
There were four of them, hunters as far as he could tell, and they appeared to be heading directly toward the spot that he had picked to rest his horse. The whole damn river to choose a spot and they have to pick this one, he thought. He knew he didn’t have a lot of time to decide what to do, but he waited a few seconds longer in case they suddenly changed their minds and moved farther up the river to water their ponies. Damn, he said to himself when they were within fifty yards and continued on a straight line directly toward him. Next time I’ll be more careful where I decide to make coffee. There was no thought toward ambushing the hunters. Since there were four of them, he had no guarantee that he could kill them all. The odds were too great that one or more of them would escape and alert the village. Even if he got all four of them, the sound of the gunshots might reach the
village, especially if the village had not moved, because he estimated that he was no more than two or three miles from where he had last seen it.
He quickly looked behind him at Spades, the horse watching him with interest now. Then he looked up and down the river to decide which way to run. From where he crouched in the gully, the trees were closer downriver, but the foliage was thicker in the trees upriver with thickets of berry and plum bushes. He decided upriver was best. The other was closer, and he could hide behind a tree, but it wasn’t so easy to hide a horse. He wasted no more time. Scrambling back down the gully, he picked up the hot coffeepot, grabbed Spades’ reins, and ran along the water’s edge, leading the horse. Once he reached the thicket, he led his horse behind the thickest part and dropped the reins to the ground so Spades would know not to stray. Only then could he empty his coffeepot in the bushes and put it away. Then, with his rifle out, he crawled back to a point closer to the edge of the thicket where he could watch the hunters. He thought about his fire that he had covered with dirt and hoped that, if they found it, they would not be overly interested in it, perhaps thinking that it had been made by one of the many Indian visitors to the water hole.
Close enough to catch a word or two of the conversation, and with a fair knowledge of the Cheyenne tongue, he was able to determine that their hunt had not been very successful. One of them, a taller than average man with a muscular body, seemed to be the leader, for the others were inclined to go along with whatever he said. Will couldn’t help but speculate that the man would be a formidable foe. There was no indication that the hunters suspected anything out of the ordinary, and appeared content to water their ponies and move on. From what he could hear of their comments, they were returning to their village with plans to hunt again the next day. The muscular one determined that tomorrow would be a better day, and they would find the game that had eluded them today. Sounds like a good idea to me, Will thought, lying there in the brambles, get on your ponies and go.
War Cry Page 14