Hays dropped to a crouch and began pulling the trigger on the Colt without aiming. One bullet went wild, the other hit Bobby Slowfoot and spun him around to dump him into an undignified position on the deck. The dragoon captain swung the muzzle toward Kenshaw to shoot again, but the percussion cap had popped off. His effort brought only a sharp rap as the hammer smacked the empty nipple.
Kenshaw saw his chance and raised the pistol as Hays made a clumsy move to withdraw. The whiskey peddler sneered as he readied himself for both the final shot and a dive over the side to swim to freedom.
The two arrows hit so fast they seemed simultaneously to spring from his chest. Kenshaw staggered backward and fell onto the paddle wheel. Still moving backward, the huge wooden affair lifted him up, then carried him down to the water. He reappeared only to be carried aloft and dunked again—again—again—and again.
Hays turned and limped up the steps to the upper deck. He passed Eagle Talons, who still stood with his bow at the top of the stairs. The captain nodded to his Sioux companion, saying, “Thanks. That’s one more time you saved my life.”
“That is what warriors must do for brother warriors,” Eagle Talons said.
The remark pleased Hays, but he had no time to consider it as he hurried to the pilothouse.
Tim, still covering the pilot and the captain, turned at his entrance. “I was wondering what the hell was going on,” he said angrily. “You left me stuck up here.”
“Sorry,” Hays said. “It couldn’t be helped. Things just happened too fast. They’re all dead, except one who’s laying at the back of the boat. One of ’em is caught in the paddle wheel.” He gave the captain a rough nudge. “Stop the boat. We have to pull your friend’s corpse free so we can continue on up toward Fort Laramie.”
The backward motion of the riverboat halted as the wheel ceased its revolutions. Under Hays’s supervision, several members of the crew worked at freeing what was left of Rollo Kenshaw from the paddle wheel. Then they turned their attention to Bobby Slowfoot, who, lying almost unconscious, bled heavily from his wound. Hays had him picked up and readied to be taken off the boat when they reached their destination.
The passengers, shocked and frightened, stood in little groups on the deck. Hays, now ready to renew the trip to its landing, had the boat’s bell rung so he could address the upset crowd of people.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called out. “I am Captain Darcy Hays, of the Dragoon Regiment at Fort Laramie. Although the situation momentarily got out of hand, we have managed to apprehend part of a gang of whiskey smugglers who’d been operating in the Indian country of the Black Hills. Now that control has been regained, we may safely continue the journey up the river toward the garrison.”
He had no sooner spoken than a shower of arrows hit the boat and shots splattered into the railings and the deck house. He looked out at the riverbank and saw Buffalo Horn and the furious band of the Wolf Society firing at the craft.
“Everybody get down!” Hays yelled. He scampered up toward the pilothouse, yelling, “Full speed ahead! Damn your eyes! Full speed ahead!”
The boat, with bullets and arrows coming in fast and furious, once more leapt to life. Tim took a cautious view through one of the side windows of the wheelhouse.
“Isn’t this ever going to end?” he remarked to himself.
Twenty-Two
Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory, was in a state of shock.
The arrival of the dragoon escort from the shot-up riverboat—with outraged and panicked passengers, corpses, two renegade army officers, a wounded whiskey peddler, a boat captain in chains, and a Sioux warrior caught the garrison by complete surprise. So did the fact of a most unusual attack on the steamer by a band of enraged Indians who seemed to be after one man in particular—Captain Darcy Hays.
No one at Fort Laramie—dragoons, civilian teamsters, laundresses, visiting immigrants from the Oregon Trail, numerous children, nor anyone else—could fathom what remarkable circumstances had brought such an extraordinary and interesting event into their usually drab lives. At first, all they could do was speculate and spread wild rumors about the origins of the strange circumstances.
One individual, much more perplexed than anyone else, was the commander of the Dragoon Regiment, Colonel Isaac Cowler. As he sat in his office, his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands, he listened to Captain Darcy Hays and Lieutenant Tim Stephans make a complete and confusing report on what they had been doing since sneaking off into that dark night several weeks before.
When they had finished relating their exciting experiences in the Black Hills, they wisely stopped speaking and simply stood in silence awaiting the regimental commander’s response.
The good colonel reached into his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He reached for a glass, then thought better of it. Putting the bottle to his lips, he tipped it up and took a half dozen deep swallows. After a gasp, he returned the bottle to its place and spent several quiet but unsettled moments gazing at the men in front of him.
When he spoke, his voice seemed a bit strained. “I think,” he said, “I shall have both of you shot.”
“You’re upset, sir,” Hays said. “I can tell, but—”
“Or perhaps hanged,” Cowler said. He thought a moment. “No ... the rope would probably break, and you’d both scamper away, laughing. I’ll have you shot.”
“This is not a time for dramatics or loss of control,” counseled Hays. “You haven’t the right to have us executed without a proper general court-martial. Besides, we’ve committed no capital crimes.”
Cowler suddenly leaped to his feet and screamed at the top of his lungs. “What the hell do you think I should do? Have you both brevetted to higher rank?”
Hays smiled and nudged Tim. “Will you excuse us for a bit, Lieutenant? I would like to have a word with our gallant commander in private. I must help him put things in their proper perspective.”
“Of course, sir,” Tim said. He saluted, made a snappy about-face, and marched out of the office.
Hays walked over and got a chair by the wall. He carried it over and sat it down beside the colonel. Then, with a gentle pressure from his hand, he pushed the other officer down until he was once more seated. Hays also sat down.
“Now, Isaac,” Hays said, “let’s look at this situation in a calm manner. It’s all salvageable, believe me.”
“Please, please,” Cowler pleaded. “Show me how. Please!”
“Don’t you see?” Hays said. “Lieutenant Stephans and I have returned from a secret mission in which we tracked down a liquor smuggler in the Black Hills country.”
“You did?” Cowler said in a dull voice.
“Yes,” Hays answered. “You should know that. After all, it was a mission you personally sent us on, because you couldn’t spare any extra men from patrolling the Oregon Trail. With the help of a loyal and steadfast Indian ally named Eagle Talons, we spent weeks in the wilderness risking our lives to bring a satisfactory conclusion of the task lawfully assigned us by our regimental commander.”
“You did?” Cowler repeated.
“When we finally ran the villains to ground, they were making a transfer to the riverboat of the furs gained in their illicit activities in exchange for more whiskey to sell and trade to the Indians,” Hays said. “Our actions there solved the mystery of how they obtained the liquor. The captain of the boat brought it to them. He, of course, has been delivered to you as a prisoner, along with one of the smugglers who was wounded in the final moments of our expedition. I might add, the smuggler, a very intelligent lad named Bobby Slowfoot, has agreed to testify for the government’s case.”
Cowler turned and faced his old friend. “But, Darcy, there were two known criminals who were fighting on your side!”
“Yes, Isaac,” Hays admitted. “Those unfortunates would be Mister Chet O’Dell and Mister Norb Walton. The gallant fellows had seen the error of their ways and wished to atone for past crimes by
aiding Lieutenant Stephans and me. They died nobly for the cause of justice.”
“Oh, God!” Cowler moaned.
“You see, Isaac,” Hays assured him. “All you have to do is write all that up in an official report. You will be praised, I will leave the Army under honorable conditions, Lieutenant Stephans will receive a nice commendation to go into his records, and all this will be added to the great and glorious annals of the United States Dragoons.”
“Oh, God!” Cowler moaned again.
“Trust me, Isaac,” Hays said as he stood up. “I know what I’m saying.” He walked to the door and turned around with a little wave. “I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
“Oh, God!”
Hays went out into the hall and took Tim by the arm. “Not to worry. It is of utmost importance that you say absolutely nothing to anyone. I want you to simply go on back to your quarters and wait.”
“Wait for what?” Tim asked.
“It will be one of two things,” Hays said. “Glory, or a court-martial.”
Hays watched the younger man walk off, then went over to his company’s orderly room. First Sergeant George Aldridge greeted him with a respectful salute, saying, “I am not going to ask any questions, sir. I am not curious about what you and Lieutenant Stephans have been up to. If I should weaken and ask you, please promise you will not answer me.”
“I promise,” Hays said. “Do you have anything special to report?”
“Outside of two officers absent without leave who have returned to the garrison, nothing,” Aldridge said. “Oh! I almost forgot. You have a letter.”
“A letter?” Hays asked. “I’ve received no letters from anyone in more than twenty-five years. Who is it from?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Aldridge said. He retrieved the missive from his desk and handed it over. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, thank you, Sergeant,” Hays said.
“Will you be here tomorrow, sir?” the first sergeant inquired.
“Of course,” Hays answered.
“And Lieutenant Stephans?” Aldridge asked.
“I believe he will be taking reveille,” Hays said. “Good afternoon, Sergeant.”
“Good afternoon, sir,” Aldridge said. “And thank you, sir!”
“For what?” Hays asked.
“For honoring my request and not telling me what you and the lieutenant have been doing,” Aldridge said.
“You’re welcome,” Hays said pleasantly. “I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”
“But not at reveille, correct?” Aldridge asked. “Correct,” Hays answered.
The captain returned to his quarters before he looked at the envelope. He saw it was from Cumberland County, North Carolina. After pouring himself a generous tumbler of whiskey, he sat down to open the letter and read it.
Captain Darcy L. Hays US. Dragoon Regiment Fort Laramie, Wyoming Territory
My dear Uncle Darcy,
It has taken me quite a time to locate you, but the War Department finally responded to my inquiries after almost a year and a half of effort. Thanks also to a family friend in Congress, I have found your address, and a bit of information about you, such as the fact that you are a bachelor gentleman.
Uncle Darcy, I am your nephew Francis Marion Hays, son of your brother Thomas. I fear, Uncle, that this letter will bring you the sad news of the deaths of your father and your brothers some years ago. This grievous situation has left me as your only living relative, outside of my wife and children.
Uncle, I am aware of some unhappiness in the past that has estranged you from the family, and I must confess I am aware of all the details of the tragic situation. But, Uncle, I do not share the animosity which was heaped upon you, and it is my hope that we can establish the sort of relationship that is generally enjoyed between uncle and nephew. I know nothing of your present situation, but wish to extend to you an invitation to come visit your old home and give me a chance to know you. If, in fact, it is ever your desire to return to your former home to live, my wife and I would welcome you warmly and sincerely. There is plenty of space in the house, as I am sure you well remember, in spite of the passage of so many years. Your old room is available, and if it would ever be convenient for you to seek quarters there, you would find it most suitable.
I pray there is no bitterness on your part toward the family, dear uncle, and you will be pleased to communicate with me, who remains, affectionately, Your nephew and obedient servant,
Francis Marion Hays read the letter twice. Then he quickly downed the liquor and sat in the chair for a few more pensive minutes. After a bit, he got up and walked to the window and stared out over the scene of Fort Laramie. He felt a bit of moisture in his eyes, and wiped at it. Then he spoke aloud to himself, his voice low but emotional.
“I’m going home.”
Twenty-Three
Major Darcy Lafayette Hays, United States Dragoons, retired, stood by the wagon which would carry him and a few other travelers from Fort Laramie up to the landing on the river where a boat would begin the long journey that would take them back to civilization.
His retirement had been given an administrative postponement by the departmental commanding general when Colonel Isaac Cowler’s official report on the Whiskey Campaign was forwarded to Headquarters, Department of Dakota.
The rousing success of the mission, which included the destruction of an entire whiskey-smuggling ring and the capture of a corrupt riverboat captain, made anybody even remotely connected with it look good. The steamer’s skipper, in trying for a reduced sentence, identified the main liquor supplier in St. Louis who would be charged and tried by federal officials in that city.
After the smoke cleared and everyone concerned settled down to congratulate themselves, letters of commendation went to Colonel Cowler, Lieutenant Tim Stephans, and Captain Darcy Hays. A few days later, the latter was promoted to major, prior to being put on the
retired list. This was a double blessing, in that it meant his pension would be larger.
The Sioux warrior Eagle Talons, although eligible for some sort of reward, did not tarry at the garrison. Rather than remain in the white men’s crazy fort, he made a quick return to his people. There, with his grandfather, Owl-That-Cries, he steamed away the fatigue and strain of his adventure in the relaxing atmosphere of a sweat lodge.
Meanwhile, several parties honoring Major Hays took place at Fort Laramie prior to his departure for civilian, life. The official function, held at post headquarters with the officers’ wives present, was really a formal ball. The regimental band played, and all the celebrants, in full dress uniforms for men and evening gowns for the ladies, danced into the wee hours of the morning. Tim Stephans, feted and congratulated, had a couple of dances with Miss Loralie Campbell, but found the close contact too much to bear after her refusal of his proposal of marriage. He wandered off after a bit and ended up at Major Hays’ quarters, drunk and miserable.
Another affair, this time all male, was held in the back room of the sutler’s store. It was a wild, drunken bash in which furniture was smashed, bottles were broken, a lot of intoxicated dragoon officers yelled, and Lieutenant Tim Stephans vomited on someone’s shoes again—this time those of his harried regimental commander, Colonel Cowler.
Now, subdued and hung-over, everyone was at the front gate so that Major Darcy Hays and a few other passengers could board the wagon for the trip down to the place on the river where they could be picked up by the steamer—under the command of its new captain.
Hays kissed Margaret Cowler on the cheek. “You will always be in my heart, Margaret. Your kindness and consideration will not be forgotten.”
Margaret smiled, but said, “You have whiskey on your breath, Darcy.”
He grinned back. “Nor will I forget your bluntness at getting to the truth of things.” He turned to the colonel. “Goodbye, Isaac, old friend.”
“Goodbye, Darcy,” Cowler said. He started to say more, but the emotions began
to catch up with him. The colonel patted his old friend on the shoulder.
Margaret said, “You don’t know how happy I am about you being able to return to your home in North Carolina.”
“Yes,” Hays said. “It was an unexpected boon to my retirement.”
Further conversation was interrupted when Company “L”, under the command of Lieutenant Tim Stephans, marched up to make its goodbyes to the departing company commander.
Major Darcy Hays left his two friends to give each man a personal farewell. He began with First Sergeant George Aldridge, then went to Sergeant Sean O’Murphy and Corporal John Grady, continuing down the ranks until he had shaken the hand of the lowest ranking private of the organization. When that was done, Hays marched to the front of the company and took the final salute. Smiling proudly, he said, “The United States Regiments of Dragoons are more than uniforms, guidons, and bugles. They are people—the finest on God’s green earth—and I am proud to have been numbered in the ranks of this proud branch of our nation’s Army. As I stand here now, I realize that I regret nothing of my service and will treasure every memory of thirty years. We knew hardships such as cold, hunger, and danger, so one might conclude that not all the recollections are happy or glorious ones. But they are all filled with immeasurable pride. It is with that thought in mind that I bid you goodbye.”
A dragoon shouted, “Three cheers for the major!”
“Hip, hip, hoorah!” came the first.
“Hip, hip, hoorah!” they shouted the second.
“Hip, hip, HOORAH!” the dragoons yelled out the third and final cheer.
Hays came to attention and rendered as snappy a salute as he had ever done since his days on the plain at West Point. Then, the emotions churning through his entire being, he turned and walked back to the crowd. When he got there, much to everyone’s surprise, he took Loralie Campbell by the arm and took her off to one side where they could speak in private.
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