No Good Like It Is

  Smith stood and walked to a sideboard where he poured a mug of coffee, giving Fetterman a moment to digest his racing thoughts. It’s them for sure. Rebs and them breeds and niggers must’ve taken out a army payroll. Must be real money in this. I ought to go along with these two, use ‘em to help me find them bastard Rebs. Or maybe not.

  Smith held up a flask. “You like a little touch, Marshal? You think of anything you seen, might help us?”

  Fetterman nodded and reached for the spiked coffee as he made up his mind. “Yes sir. Thankee. I think I seen exactly who you’re looking for. Big sidewheeler was through Mason’s Landing, maybe a week ago. Name of the ‘Bernice Ann,’ I think. Let off some travelers and bought some pigs. Now, they was trying to lay low, but I seen a couple of Rebs with a wagon, had them a couple of niggers and some women. One of ‘em coulda been a breed or quadroon. They didn’t get off the boat, but the mate said they was bound for New Orleans, and was all together. Said they was real close-mouthed and nervous.”

  “Damn.” Smith sat up and banged the table with his fist. “Got to be them. Don’t you think, Jones? Listen, Marshal, we need you to travel with us, since you can spot ‘em.”

  “Wisht I could, but I’m duty-bound to finish my own pursuit. Hell, you can’t miss ‘em. Make this boat go like hell, and you’ll overtake ‘em for sure, since they’s stopping for every little town along the river. Now, is that good enough to get me some traveling money? I need to get doctored, armed, mounted and back after my own bandits.”

  Smith looked at Jones again. “I don’t know. We ain’t sure it’s them, and we sure ain’t caught ‘em. They get to New Orleans ahead of us, they’ll be hell to find.”

  Fetterman shrugged. “Well, give me what you can. You know where I live. If you do catch ‘em, you can bring me my fair share on your way back north. I trust you.” Like hell I do. And I ain’t splitting that payroll with you two yokels, neither.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  For most of their lives, the boat trip would remain the most relaxed period that any of them ever experienced. “Like a furlough,” said Dobey.

  The Blue Cat chugged on, north and west, through the twists of the Arkansas River. The travelers lazed on deck during the day and got to know each other better each night.

  Bear and Big William slept in the wagon. The Watsons slept in or under theirs. Marie-Louise and Honey shared a cabin, as did Dobey and Melton. Unlike the Memphis Belle, the Blue Cat was a happy boat, with an honest crew and captain. Dr. John and Junebug slept with the crew, in different senses of the word.

  They learned that Big William went to war with his master on a Rebel gunship, cooking for him, cleaning and loading his guns, til the master died from bad water. Put ashore to bury him, Big William did that, then walked down river until he landed a job in a riverboat engine room. He survived several disasters: fires, groundings, sinkings, and shelling by Yankee gunboats. Engine room men were always needed, and pay for Negro engine room men ranged from little to none. Just prior to working on the Memphis Belle, he served on a Yankee gunboat, until it hit a torpedo and sank in shallow water.

  Jimmy decided that Big William was dependable, and pulled Dobey’s old Spencer carbine from the wagon’s false bottom and trained Big William with it. Or tried to. It became apparent that Big William couldn’t shoot well enough with the carbine to hit oak trees at thirty yards. Large, stationary oak trees. Jimmy began calling him Blind William.

  “You drank that damn whiskey, din’t you?”

  “Nossuh,” William smiled. “Just I gets a fog on my eyes, do I try to look too far.”

  Reluctantly, Jimmy gave him the Colt shotgun to try. At thirty yards, no one could miss with it, not even Big William. When Dobey asked where it was, Jimmy said that he was tired of it rubbing his back. “Blind-assed Big William might need it, we fetch some Indians,” he added. Dobey’s old Spencer was retired again, but only until Bear pushed for it to be “loaned” to Buck.

  ***

  Near Fort Smith, a massive tornado crossed the river in front of them. The boat captain saw it coming and reversed engines, then turned the boat to be ready for an escape back downstream.

  The monster missed them by less than a mile, raining branches, dead birds, and one live polecat onto the boat. When they crossed the path of the storm, both riverbanks looked as if they had been pounded by artillery. Dazed animals wandered along the shores.

  “A few things about the Great West I ain’t missed so much,” Jimmy observed. “Back in ’54, I found a dead horse in a tree after one of these.” Honey and Marie-Louise thought he was teasing them; Bear believed anything that Jimmy said; Dobey and Big William knew he was telling the truth.

  ***

  On a hair pin curve of the Canadian, three days after leaving Fort Smith, they ran firmly aground on a shifting bar. On the bow, the ship’s captain gave hand signals to his first mate up in the wheelhouse, backing one paddle, then the other, trying to ease her off.

  “I fear I’ve come too far upstream,” he opined. “I been past here before, but it do get tricky from here on.” The second mate handed him a mug of coffee.

  Dobey nodded his understanding, just as a bullet thudded into the second mate’s chest. The mate fell on his butt, then scrambled aft, moaning and pouring blood.

  About twenty-five Indians opened fire from the south bank, raining musket fire on the Blue Cat. Less than forty yards of water separated them, and that was dangerously shallow.

  “Stay below the gunnels and get inside,” the captain shouted. Looking at Dobey, he added, “Your men return fire.”

  Dobey, crouched behind the gunwale, fired steadily with his two long Colts, which slowed the Indians’ fire. Jimmy scurried up to his captain and handed him his Henry, then opened up with his own Spencer. Within two minutes, Bear and Big William were blazing away, too, from the stern. Dobey said, “Where the hell are the Watsons?” Jimmy told him he had ordered them to watch the other side of the river.

  By the time that Big William emptied the five chambers of his shotgun, Dobey fired thirteen aimed shots from the Henry. Bear and Jimmy each emptied their Spencers and reloaded.

  On the beach were three dead Indians wearing gray uniforms, and five dying ponies. Perhaps seven other Indians were wounded and crawled or were dragged away. The astounded ‘war party’ backed away, having never seen such firepower before. Armed only with muzzle-loading shotguns, single shot Mississippi rifles, and a few Sharps, they were no match for the repeaters on the boat.

  As it turned out, Buck quickly decided that there was no threat from the north bank and ignored Jimmy’s order. He arrived on the port side in time to fire three rounds from his Spencer and take a splinter in the face from a musket ball that hit the gunwale in front of him. A ball passed through Big William’s shirt under his left arm, lacerating the arm and his side; Jimmy stitched him up, as Dr. John had not yet sobered up from the previous night.

  Among the Blue Cat’s crew, the second mate was gravely hurt, coughing blood. The first mate had glass slivers in his hand and neck from a ball through the wheelhouse window, and one engine room hand, having run on deck to see the action, took a ball in his thigh to satisfy his curiosity. The first mate cut it out and poured rum on it, as well as on all the other injuries. He gave the rest of the rum to the dying second mate.

  Jimmy reported to Dobey that he’d posted guards on both sides, and told everyone to reload.

  “You seen some of them was wearing Confederate gray?” Jimmy was fired up. “Prob’ly took ‘em off our boys they’d ambushed. Maybe scalped ‘em, too. By God, you cover me, Cap’n, and I’ll go ashore and scalp those three dead ones.”

  “This might be something entire different,” interrupted the boat’s captain. “Last year, Confederate Cherokees took and captured a steamboat back a ways on the Arkansas River. Might be that same bunch, or some like ‘em. They been fighting all over this area for three years. Hell, you might have just defeated your own men.”

  T
en minutes later, they were hailed from the south bank. “Hallooo, the boat. Hold fire. We parley. You hear me good?”

  “We hear you just fine,” shouted Dobey. “We’ll hold fire.” He pulled on his jacket and cap, and showed himself.

  A well-built Indian in the uniform of a Confederate officer rode out onto the beach and stared, surprised at Dobey.

  Jimmy shouted, “You kill the men that was wearing those uniforms?”

  “No. These are our uniforms. What are you doing on a Yankee boat? Did you change sides? Are you the ones who shot my men?” He was as hot as Jimmy.

  Dobey put his hands out in a calming gesture. “We shot ‘cause you attacked us. And you hit some of us, too. And this is not a Yankee boat. War’s over. We’re just catching a ride toward home in Texas. Who are you?”

  “War ain’t over, here. I’m Captain John Ridges, First Cherokee Mounted Rifles. Who are you?”

  “Captain Thomas Walls, Eighth Texas Cavalry. This here’s Sergeant Major Melton. There’s no Yankees on this boat, and it ain’t military. We paid to ride it.”

  “You won’t ride no further upstream. It’s full of logs from a storm. Damn, this is bad business. My colonel is back with the wounded. Told me to tell you to surrender and stop the killing, and we wouldn’t burn your boat. But he don’t know we was fighting with other Rebels. He damn sure don’t know the war’s over. You better come talk to him.”

  The Indian turned back toward the embankment and shouted, “Jimmy.” Jimmy Melton, pulling on his gray jacket, almost answered the imperial summons, but realized Captain Ridges was not speaking to him. A young Cherokee, wearing sergeant’s chevrons, trotted up to the captain, and they talked briefly.

  Turning back to the boat, Captain Ridges shouted, “This here is Sergeant Jimmy Ridges. He’s my baby brother. He’ll come on board as a hostage, and you ride his horse back there with me. You want him to leave his guns here?”

  Dobey shouted back, “If I can wear mine, he can keep his. Come on out. It’s most shallow up front here.” He handed Jimmy Melton his Henry, and said, “You hold on to this.”

  “Damn, Cap’n, I don’t know about all this.”

  Dobey turned to the boat captain and asked, “You got any advice?”

  “I think you’ll be all right. They didn’t burn that other boat, nor murder anyone. Ransomed the boat and prisoners, after stripping ‘em of goods. They’s got maybe six hundred men.”

  “Six hundred?”

  “Oh, yes. Two regiments. Mostly Cherokee, but some Seminoles and Osage too. Commander is named General Stand Watie. Been beating the stuffing out of the Yankee Regulars and Indians ‘round here.”

  The two Cherokees had ridden close to the bow of the boat, and the young sergeant dismounted. Dobey vaulted over the side into thigh deep water, and was caught and stabilized by Sergeant Ridges, who then handed Dobey his reins. Big William leaned over, and pulled up the slender Indian, who held up a bandaged arm, smiled and said, “You fellows shoot good. Glad you ain’t Yankees.”

  Jimmy Melton shook his hand and said, “Y’all ain’t bad yourselves.” He pointed to William and Buck, who showed their injuries. “I’m pretty good at stitching. Lemme look at that arm.”

  From the river, Captain Ridges shouted again. “I want to recover my dead, and finish off those horses. Maybe butcher ‘em?”

  Jimmy Melton shouted back, “Thanks for warning us. We won’t be startled now. Listen, you got my cap’n. We ain’t gonna fire on you, and we ain’t going no where, even if this boat does suddenly float. Go ‘head on and talk.” He saluted, and added, “Sir.”

  Captain Ridges returned the salute and they rode away.

  ***

  As their horses jogged up the embankment from the sandbar, Dobey saw at least a dozen gray-clad Indians behind cover, rifles trained on the Blue Cat. Captain Ridges nodded to them, and said, “What we’ve got here is the headquarters company of First Regiment. We should have waited til one of the line companies got here.” He frowned. “But then, you and I might not be talking now.”

  “Glad you didn’t wait. Couple of hundred men, you’d have shot us to pieces.”

  “Sort of what I thought. Colonel wanted to try it, though. Outdo the general, you know.”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. This that General Watie I heard about?”

  “Yep. He took a steamer on the Arkansas last June, but had the whole First Regiment with him.”

  “So, there’s two regiments of you?”

  “First and Second Cherokee Mounted Rifles, and three battalions of infantry; mixed Cherokee, Osage, and Seminole. I guess you’d call Stand Watie the Brigade, or maybe Division Commander. He’s a good ‘un.”

  In a grove a quarter mile from the boat, six wounded were being cared for by a small medical team. A tall thin man in the bloodstained uniform of a colonel moved to greet them. “Ho, John. I should have listened to you. Did they surrender? Damn, they fought good. Hit me in the rib. Who’s this?”

  “He’s Captain Walls, Eighth Texas Cavalry. Captain, this here’s Joshua Creek, colonel of the First Cherokees. You ain’t gonna believe this, Colonel. That won’t no Yankee boat. It was Captain Walls and his men we was fighting.”

  Dobey dismounted and shook hands with the astounded Colonel Creek; Dobey’s opinion of him had risen sharply when he learned the colonel had led the assault on the Blue Cat, and with a small force. Some colonels wouldn’t have done that. General Forrest, the Wizard, would have.

  “But, but, you flew the Yankee colors. I saw it. I am sure.”

  “They’re just American colors now, Colonel. We lost. War’s over. Lee surrendered to Grant weeks ago. It really is not a Yankee boat. My party is the only passengers, and the boat captain was good to us. Thought highly of you, too.”

  Creek was immediately suspicious. “I doubt he knows me.”

  “Nossir. I meant your unit. He said y’all had whipped the Yankees all over these parts for years. I hope you’ll let us unload here, and let him go. We’re his only cargo.”

  Colonel Creek thought a moment, then slapped his leg. “Well, by Damn, we still ain’t been beat by Yankees. I should have known. John, tell the wounded that we was shot up by other Rebels. They’ll feel better, for sure.”

  Captain Ridges glanced at the wounded, and deadpan, said, “Yessir. Is it all right for them to cheer?”

  “Hell, John, how was I to know? Did you? No, you didn’t either, and accidents happen, so get on with it. Got to put the best light on it. You know I’m right.”

  John Ridges grunted and moved off. The colonel turned back to Dobey and asked, “How many men do you have? Or did you have—I know we hit some.”

  “There are seven men in my group, Sir, and four women. Oh, and a sort of doctor and his, uh, female helper. Then there’s the boat crew. You hit two of my men, and three of the crew. One’s probably dead. Turned out pretty even, seeing as you attacked over open ground and we were behind some cover.”

  Colonel Creek was flabbergasted. “Seven? No. It’s not possible. There was too much fire. Must have been twenty people shooting.”

  “Five of us had repeaters, Sir. Captured from Yankees. Five men can shoot like twenty.” Dobey let Colonel Creek digest that for a moment. “If y’all don’t surrender soon, you’ll be facing entire regiments armed with repeaters.”

  “Maybe we’ll just kill ‘em, and take their guns, like you did. Anyhow, that’s up to the general. Let’s go get your men off that boat. I want to see those guns.”

  ***

  Sixteen year old Sergeant Jimmy Ridges was lithe, about 5’8”, one hundred sixty pounds, and very handsome, or so thought Amanda Watson. She leaned over Jimmy Melton’s shoulder to watch as he worked to dig out the ball lodged in the Cherokee’s left forearm. Melton used a rum-soaked thin bladed stiletto he had borrowed from the first mate, as his own blade was too big.

  He paused now, wiped away some blood and poured rum on the wound. The young man jumped and said “Durn,” smiling at Ma
ndy.

  “Indians ain’t supposed to flinch,” said Melton, as he started back in with the knife.

  “I mean to work on that, but it does smart.”

  “Maybe a lot of Indians ain’t had whiskey poured in open wounds,” offered Mandy in his defense.

  They determined with some confidence that Jimmy Ridges had been on the receiving end of one of Big William’s shotgun blasts. His horse went down with several hits to its neck and chest, and at the same moment, a ball passed through the leather sling on Ridges’ rifle, and imbedded in his arm.

  “Buckshot,” said Jimmy Melton. “Rifle ball would have gone right on through your arm, smashed the bone. This one used up its force punching through that leather sling. Lucky.”

  Ridges frowned. “If I was lucky, I’d have been riding with my uncle today, instead of with my brother. My horse would still live, and my arm would not have an English pouring rum on it and cutting it.”

  “I ain’t English, and I wish all of you had been off riding with your uncle, wherever the hell he is. And what I meant was, you’re lucky you had your sleeve rolled up. There ain’t no cloth pushed up in this wound. There, see? It’s a buckshot.” He handed it to the boy.

  Jimmy Ridges held it up for the others to see, grinning. “Thank you. I will keep this as a great trophy. And I made joke; I know you are Texas, but a lot of our old people still call all of you English.” He grimaced as Melton started to stitch him up. “Like you call all of us Indians.”

  “Ain’t you?”

  “He’s Cherokee,” said Mandy, proudly. And brave, she thought. He didn’t flinch much.

  “Yessir. Like I was Mandinka,” said Big William.

  Jimmy Melton’s eyebrows shot up. “You telling me you’re an Indian too?”

  “Nossir,” laughed Big William. “You’re thinking of Mandan Indians. My mammy and pappy was from the Mandinka tribe, back in Africa. Man that owned me tole me so. Famous warriors, he said.” He turned back to Ridges. “Sorry ‘bout your arm and horse.”