Armstrong

by H. W. Crocker

  Realizing that I was in danger of exposing your identity—and mine—I had to respond quickly. I said: “A mere spelling error, ma’am. A Chinaman did it. It’s meant to say ‘Liberty’—the Liberty that Major Gillette and I will soon restore to Bloody Gulch. And that woman—that woman is a representation of the Roman goddess Libertas.”

  Beauregard, the fool, said, “Well, what do you know? Would never have guessed that, Marshal. Never seen the like. I thought only convicts and sailors were tattooed. But mighty handsome all the same.” He raised his cup. “To liberty, ma’am.”

  “But what will you do?” she asked me, wisely ignoring that Southern card sharp, her pleading eyes tapping my every reservoir of sympathy.

  “All military campaigns,” I said, asserting my commanding presence over Beauregard, “depend in the first part on the gathering of information about the enemy, his strength, his dispositions, the surrounding terrain. You, Miss Johnson, have an important role to play in this. Reporting directly to me, you will be my Indian scout, advising me on everything I need to know about the Largo Trading Company, its operations, its men, its location—and the location of its foundry and mine. Everything you tell me I will use to make a battle plan. And, ma’am, with one grievous exception, where I was betrayed, I have never lost a battle, and I will assuredly not fail you in this one.”

  She ran her fingers over my “Born to Ride” tattoo, and then looking directly into my eyes she said, “No, general, I don’t believe you will fail me. You will have my full cooperation.”

  “Thank you most kindly, ma’am. Our first consideration should be your own safety. I am presently booked in rooms at the Bloody Gulch Hotel and Spa, but if you would prefer, I could stay here as your guardian.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, general,” said Beauregard, “it might be better if I stayed here. I won’t be missed from the town. People expect card players to drift. But you, sir, as a marshal—they have their eye on you. And there’s your troop, sir. They’ll be needing you for training and instruction. And I assume you’ll have to make arrangements with Miss Saint-Jean.”

  “Who is Miss Saint-Jean?”

  “Another lady in distress, ma’am,” I said, forthright and honest.

  “One of many, ma’am, who are in the custody of the good general,” added Beauregard.

  “Yes, thank you, Major.”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “Perhaps, Miss Johnson, you could billet Major Gillette in your barn with the other animals.”

  “Yes, of course, my father often slept in the barn loft.”

  “Well, then, Major Gillette, I will leave Miss Johnson in your good care. I will come in disguise, when I am able, to receive your reports. Major, get your horse out of sight—and if you need to reach me, you know where I am.”

  He saluted. “Yes, sir, Yankee General, sir.”

  I returned my hat to my head, tipped its brim, and said, “Farewell, Miss Johnson. I trust you’ll be safe with the major.”

  I rode away with that thought much in mind.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In Which I Find Myself at War Again

  The Chinamen had little grasp of English, Miss Saint-Jean had no grasp at all of Chinese (she simply had a gift for making her wishes—or demands—known), and my own knowledge of Chinese dialects was limited. Nevertheless, I thought the strongman would make an impressive sergeant major, the acrobats passable “foot cavalry” in the manner of Stonewall Jackson’s Brigade, and the magician a second lieutenant, as he seemed a man of some intellect, and perhaps cunning.

  As in Applejack, the saloon at Bloody Gulch featured a more than serviceable stage. Using my authority as marshal, I commandeered it, when the saloon wasn’t otherwise in use, to train my deputies. In the wee hours of the morning, when the barkeeper had closed up shop and the drunks had been swept out the swinging doors, we conducted rehearsals for the Chinamen’s new martial role. I had no rifles or carbines to distribute, but they did have long single-edged swords they called daos, which they used as part of their act and which looked quite fearsome, especially as they swung them with the speed and facility of jugglers. It wasn’t anything like the saber drill we have in the Army, but it was quite impressive in its own way and was sure to befuddle, if not perhaps affright, our adversaries.

  And I did get the Chinamen lined up in formation and marched them around the stage a bit. Since verbal communication was difficult, we learned to work together silently, via hand signals. At one point, the strongman got my attention by grabbing me respectfully by the neck and placing me in position to watch a demonstration of Chinese hand fighting—another skill at which the acrobats were adept. They did not actually strike each other, but went cartwheeling around the stage ducking and dodging as they kicked and punched the air—the punches very different from boxing as we know it. Whether it could be effective as a means of self-defense, I had no notion. But again, it might easily befuddle an enemy shocked at the spectacle.

  The uses of the strongman, whom I took to calling Hercules, were potentially manifold. More of a mystery was what I could do with the magician, whose specialty seemed to be making fans appear and disappear. But a man’s a man for all that, as I read once somewhere, and I figured that he would be of use to us in some way.

  Miss Saint-Jean, meanwhile, kept her dancers in tip-top condition; and while she had not yet announced a date for our first performance, it was clear that we would have an avid audience from the male employees of the Largo Trading Company. I was regularly accosted on the street by them with the question, “Pardon me, Marshal; do you know when them showgirls is going to be kicking up their legs?” These men did not have regular access to the theatre, as we do when we’re in New York, so you can imagine their anticipation. When I finally could tell them, “Why, the posters are going up now, boys. The first show will be this Thursday night,” they pumped my arm with a gratitude that was both rare and gratifying.

  Even though I no longer had a formal role in the performance, I had opening-night jitters just the same—perhaps particularly acute because I now considered Rachel something of a protégé. It is true that I could teach her nothing of the cancan—though she seemed to have mastered that quite well without me—but I did try to pass along to her, during breaks in rehearsals, my own insights into stage presence and posture, and the importance of enunciation and projection when she sang in a chorus, “Buffalo gals, won’t you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight,” etc. She was an apt pupil, and we often practiced late into the night after formal rehearsals. She also often watched as I drilled the acrobats. She had picked up a bit of their lingo and could advise them on Indian fighting methods—at least those of the Boyanama Sioux.

  The day of the performance, I went to the town barber for a shave and haircut—the price of which was two bits—and settled down to one of man’s simple pleasures. The lather had been applied and the first delicate scraping had been done, when the doorbell jingled and the shop door opened. I smelled them before I saw them. It was the Indian bounty hunters. There were three of them this time.

  “This man not wanted.”

  “You’re right about that,” I said.

  “Give us real poster.”

  “Don’t have it yet.”

  Three rifle barrels were pointed at me. “You lie.”

  “You think so?”

  “Give us poster.”

  “Or what? You’d shoot a U.S. Marshal?”

  “Plenty more of us—not so many marshals.”

  “Should I take that as a threat, I’m a trifle confused.”

  “Poster!”

  The barber had stopped his shaving and, trembling a little, said, “Marshal, these men help the Largo Trading Company enforce the law. I think you’ll find them quite useful. I’d definitely cooperate with them.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  I stood up suddenly, yanked the barber’s cape off me, and in one swift motion threw it in the
faces of the Indians. I slammed my boot into the knee of the nearest one, and he fell like a leveled tree. I wrenched the rifle from the second and smashed its butt into his face; and as he fell, I was in a perfect position to pivot and smack the barrel into the face of his companion, who likewise fell backwards. I dropped the rifle and then spun out my revolvers, cocking the hammers so that they heard them click.

  “Now listen here, I represent the law; and if you don’t like it, you can take it up with the U.S. Government. In the meantime, I suggest you leave these rifles in my care, drop those ammunition belts, and hightail it back to the Largo Trading Company. You tell your boss that there’s a new law in town, and if he’d like to powwow with me, I’m more than ready to meet with him. Shoo out of here now—and leave that picture of Grant if you don’t mind.”

  The one whose knee I had kicked was hobbling. The fellow who had been rifle-butted was still groggy. And the third had a cut over his eye but was stoic about it all the same. They did as I told them and stumbled out into the street.

  “Oh, dear, sir, oh, dear, I wouldn’t have done that, sir, no, I wouldn’t have done that.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t have. You’re not Marshal Armstrong of the West.” I picked the barber cape off the floor and tied it around my neck. “Let’s finish my shave, shall we?”

  “Do you think it’s wise, sir?”

  “I think it’s wiser than going half shaved.” I had my revolvers back in their holsters. I patted them. “Two guns against three disarmed Indians isn’t bad odds. Come on now; there’s a show tonight. That’s a reason for a man to look his best, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Not to mention that we’ve got President Sam Grant looking up at us. I’m sure he’d like to see the job done right.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His shaking hand had me more worried than the Indians, but he did a decent job. I gave him another two bits for his trouble and a spray of cologne (Miss Saint-Jean had put me on an allowance, but, as you know, Libbie, money doesn’t rest easy in my pockets) and then picked up Sam Grant’s picture. I decided I ought to return it. But I needed to do something else first. If the Largo Trading Company thought I could be bullied by three Indian bounty hunters, they needed to be set right—and a trip to the telegraph office and another “message to Washington” might establish that I had more power and perseverance than they imagined.

  I gathered up the rifles and ammunition belts and carried them like a clerk in a dry goods store to the telegraph office. Somehow I wasn’t surprised to see Dern sitting behind the counter, leaning back in a chair, boots propped up on a desk.

  “Well, howdy, Marshal. What can I do for you?”

  “You can handle a telegraph?”

  “Well, actually, no, sir, but don’t have much use for a telegraph anyway—not here in Bloody Gulch.”

  “Where’s the funny little man, the clerk?”

  “Homer? Oh, I reckon he’s off for a spell. Wasn’t sure he liked it here.”

  “So, you’re sitting in for him?”

  “Somebody’s got to, and I like to be useful. Say, Marshal, you looking for a posse? That’s quite a load you’re carrying; I can handle a gun right well myself.”

  “Winchester repeaters; I got them off some Indians. They’re not supposed to have them, are they?”

  “Indians with Winchesters? In town? I do declare that sure is plumb peculiar. I mean, I know they’re allowed for huntin’, but . . .”

  “You wouldn’t know how they got them?”

  “No, sir, I surely wouldn’t.”

  “The Largo Trading Company trades with Indians, don’t they?”

  “Well, yes, sir, we have a government contract, but we surely wouldn’t be selling Injuns repeatin’ rifles unless they was authorized—as I say, for huntin’ and whatnot. No, sir, that wouldn’t be right at all.”

  “They didn’t act like it was a secret around here.”

  “Well you know Injuns, Marshal—peculiar, ain’t they? They got their own way of doin’ things. Me, I’m kinder a live and let live feller, if you know what I mean. I never look for no trouble, Marshal, not with Injuns, not with anyone. I reckon there’s a lot of people like that around here in Bloody Gulch.”

  “Yes, it appears so,” I said and stepped out the door.

  Riding up the street in my direction on a painted pony was an Indian dressed in buckskin and moccasins and a bowler hat. He was young, strong, and handsome in that impassive Indian way, as though carved from red rock. His horse pulled a drag sled with a trunk on it—like a shipping trunk—just the right size for smuggling rifles, I thought. He stopped when he drew even with me. He was no more abashed at staring than I was. Finally he nodded and pointed up the street. Walking towards me were the three Indians I had disarmed at the barber shop. They had knives and hatchets tucked in their belts. In their hands, aimed in my direction, were old single-shot pistols. The door of the telegraph office opened and Dern leaned against the jamb. He looked at the Indian on the horse, seemingly puzzled; then he looked down the street.

  “Them the Indians you took the guns from?”

  “Yes.”

  “Looks like they want ’em back.”

  Indians are bad shots, and they’d have to reload after they missed, so you might think the odds weren’t so bad. But Dern wore a gun belt; so did the Indian in the bowler hat. I wasn’t sure which side they were on.

  The Indians hadn’t broken stride. They were close. They’d be firing soon. I trusted my instincts.

  I tossed a Winchester to the Indian with the bowler hat, dropped to one knee, let Grant, the ammunition belts, and one rifle fall to the floorboards, and spun the other rifle around in my hands to cover Dern. Three pistol shots pinged and ricocheted off the floorboards and the wood railing; three rapid rifle shots answered. I looked down the street; the Indians were dead.

  Dern snickered. “Why you pointing that at me, Marshal? I ain’t done nothin’. And who’s that Injun? Friend of yours? I thought they weren’t supposed to have repeaters.”

  “There’s a time and a place for everything,” I said. I picked up my gear—the rifle, the ammunition belts, Grant—and said to Dern, “You like to be useful. Make sure those men get buried.” Then I walked out onto the dusty street. The Indian with the bowler hat dropped the rifle into the stack on my arms.

  “Nice weapon,” he said.

  “Awful nice. Good shooting too. What’s your name?”

  “Guillaume, Guillaume Jacques.”

  “Guillaume?”

  “It is a French name. Do you speak French?”

  “No, not really; I had to study it at West Point, but . . .”

  “Spanish?”

  “No.”

  “Latin?”

  “Latin?”

  “Yes, Latin, the language of the ancient Romans.”

  “Yes, I know what it is, but no.”

  “A priest gave me that name; he made me a Christian. He was an educated man. You speak English, at least.”

  “Yes, yes, of course I do.”

  “In English, Guillaume is William, Bill, Billy; Jacques is Jack.”

  “I don’t care about that. You’re a Crow, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am a Crow.”

  “And you recognized them as Sioux.”

  “Yes, enemy of the Crow. Your enemy too, I see.”

  I paused and silently cursed myself for mentioning West Point. “What’s in the chest?”

  “Books. I’m educating myself. The priest who made me a Christian introduced me to books. I have much to learn, but I have learned much already.”

  “Like how to fire a Winchester.”

  “I prefer fighting with my hands—and my feet. My Crow name is Pony-that-Kicks. As a boy I liked to fight. I have ridden with the pony soldiers too.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I look for you. Your enemies,” he nodded at the dead Sioux, “are my enemies. I come to help, as one pony soldier to ano
ther.”

  I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to pursue this line of questioning. I couldn’t tell how much he knew, and I wondered whether ignorance was bliss.

  He dismounted and we walked together down the street to the stables, he leading his horse.

  “You know about Greasy Grass,” he said, “Little Bighorn? A massacre—pony soldiers, more than 250, and Custer, dead.”

  I nodded.

  “Sioux and Cheyenne—thousands of warriors; some are here too.”

  “Not the same?”

  “Still Sioux; still Cheyenne.”

  We stepped into the livery stable. The manager looked as perplexed as Dern had been, eying the bowler-hatted Indian and the trunk on the travois. “He with the Largo Trading Company?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, “but his stable fees can go on their tab.”

  “You think that wise?” said the Indian.

  “From the point of view of my wallet, yes; and yours?”

  He nodded, and it was done. We removed the travois and stuck it in the corner of a stall. We each grabbed a side handle on the trunk and brought it to the hotel. The clerk at the counter stopped us.

  “Uh, Mr. Armstrong, isn’t it? Is that Indian gentleman a friend of yours?”

  We put the trunk down and I drew myself up to my full height, chest out, chin down. “It’s Marshal Armstrong, and this man here, Guillaume Jacques—that’s William Jack to you—is my deputy.”

  “Do you intend on him staying here . . . uh, Marshal? The hotel is completely full, what with all these showgirls and Chinamen and everything, I don’t know how we can possibly . . .”

  “He’ll stay with me.”

  “I don’t mean to be a problem, Marshal, but you and Miss Saint-Jean have put the reputation of this hotel at risk.”

  “More likely we’ve made your reputation, Mr . . . .”

  “Smithers, Smithers, sir, and your friend will still have to sign his name on the ledger—he can write, can’t he?—and pay for half a room.”

  “Miss Saint-Jean booked me a full room—that should cover it.” I nodded at the trunk. “Any additional charges can go to the Largo Trading Company.”