Nathan Stark, Army Scout

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  He sighed and stretched out. After a while as the darkness deepened in the guardhouse cell, he dozed off to dream about a beautiful auburn-haired woman with green eyes.

  * * *

  When Nathan stalked out of Delia’s house, he had it in mind to get good and drunk. That impulse was fleeting, though, for a couple reasons.

  For one, he wasn’t sure where to get a drink around there. Cullen had mentioned a sutler’s store, but Nathan didn’t know exactly where it was located. He could hunt it up, of course—he wasn’t a scout for nothing, after all—but it didn’t seem worth the trouble.

  For another, he had never been the sort to crawl into a bottle whenever something didn’t go to suit him. If that had been the case, he would have drowned in whiskey long before now.

  He headed toward his cabin instead. Might as well turn in and get a good night’s sleep. The lack of supper might gnaw at his belly, but that would serve as a reminder he needed to keep a wall between himself and other people. He’d been foolish to think he could let that barrier down between him and Delia.

  His and Cullen’s cabins were located at the opposite end of the parade ground and on the other side from Delia’s house. Nathan could have cut diagonally across the parade ground, past the flagpole and sundial that stood in the center, but he walked up the path between the row of cottonwoods and the buildings on Delia’s side of the post. Even though he wasn’t actually in the army, a certain sense of protocol reared its head from time to time, more a matter of habit than anything else.

  Sort of like he was in the habit of killing Indians, he supposed.

  Most of the enlisted men were in their barracks, and the officers—the married ones—were in their homes with their families. The junior, unmarried officers were probably in their quarters, as well. Nathan looked across the parade ground, between the buildings on the far side and saw lights burning at the stables, which lay southeast of the post. Dark shapes came and went between him and the lights, which meant men were moving around over there. A patrol might have just come back in. One wouldn’t be going out after sundown.

  Something ahead of him caught his eye, and his right hand drifted toward the butt of the Colt holstered on his hip. A man was walking toward him. In the dark, Nathan couldn’t make out much about him, but his keen eyes told him something was odd about the man.

  A second later, Nathan realized what it was—the man wasn’t wearing an enlisted man’s cap or an officer’s hat. The rounded shape on top of the man’s head couldn’t be anything except a derby. That stirred something in Nathan’s memory, and so did the stranger’s tall, brawny form. A name popped into his brain.

  “Bucher?” Nathan called as he came to a stop. “Is that you? ”

  The other man stopped, too, about fifteen feet away, and muttered, “Was ist los? Gott im Himmel, is that Nathan Stark?”

  “I didn’t know you were assigned here, Bucher.”

  “Und I have had the distinct pleasure of not seeing your face for quite some time.” Bucher scratched a lucifer to life and stuck a cigar in his mouth. When he held the match to the fat cylinder of tobacco, the harsh glare revealed heavy features dominated by a thick black mustache under a hawklike nose. Bucher puffed the cigar to life and dropped the lucifer, grinding it out under a boot toe.

  Nathan had crossed trails with Dietrich Bucher half a dozen times in the past ten years. The son of German immigrants who had settled in Pennsylvania, Bucher had fought for the Union during the war, then become a scout for the army when hostilities moved to the frontier against the Indians. There was no love lost between him and Nathan, and it wasn’t only because they had fought on opposite sides. They would have rubbed each other the wrong way even if they had both been Yankees—or Rebs.

  Despite that, they had never had any real trouble with each other, had in fact worked together on several occasions. Nathan respected Bucher’s abilities as a scout and believed that Bucher respected his.

  Bucher and Cullen, on the other hand... those two didn’t get along at all, hadn’t ever since a knock-down, drag-out fight over a card game down at Fort Griffin in Texas a few years earlier.

  Since Bucher was at Fort Randall, Nathan knew he needed to alert Cullen to that fact before the two of them accidentally came face-to-face. Cullen didn’t go out of his way to start ruckuses, but he sure as hell wouldn’t back away from one, either.

  Those thoughts went through Nathan’s mind in the time it took for Bucher to drag in a lungful of smoke from the cigar and exhale it. “So you have come to help us fight the Sioux, ja?”

  “That’s right,” Nathan said.

  “Und bathe your hands in more redskin blood.”

  “I won’t deny that, but you’ve spilled a heap of it yourself,” Nathan pointed out.

  “Ja, of course. Und now hostilities loom again. Hanging Dog and his warriors would like nothing better than to ride down on this fort and wipe it from the face of the earth, annihilating everyone in it.”

  Nathan stiffened. He hadn’t been aware that there was such an imminent threat. Delia was there, and so were other women and children. By God, if this Hanging Dog and the rest of the Sioux were about to go on the rampage, the army ought to be moving the innocents out so they wouldn’t be in harm’s way . . .

  “But our noble commander believes the redskins are no match for the might of the United States army,” Bucher went on.

  The slightly scornful note in his voice when he referred to Colonel Ledbetter told Nathan that Bucher didn’t have a very high opinion of the colonel, either. That made the tension inside Nathan relax a little. They had that much common ground, anyway. “What’s he planning to do?”

  Bucher’s thick shoulders rose and fell. “The colonel does not confide in me. I just came in with Lieutenant Pryor’s troop from patrol. We encountered no hostiles. The lieutenant continues his report to Colonel Ledbetter even as we speak, but I was dismissed.”

  “Well, I reckon we’ll find out soon enough,” Nathan mused. He was debating whether to lie and tell Bucher it was good to see him again when the German spoke up.

  “Come have a drink with me, Stark,” Bucher said. “We will catch up on old times, ja?”

  As far as Nathan was concerned, he and Bucher didn’t have any old times to catch up on. He was about to say as much when he realized Bucher might prove the source of information that Doc Lightner had failed to be. “Sure. Why not?”

  Bucher clenched his teeth on the cigar, making it tilt up at a jaunty angle, and grinned. “We go to the sutler’s store,” he declared. “Jake Farrow has the best whiskey in the Dakota Territory!”

  CHAPTER 12

  Some commanding officers allowed a civilian sutler’s store on the actual grounds of a post, while others insisted that it had to be off government property. Given Nathan’s initial impression of Colonel Ledbetter as an arrogant, stiff-necked, by-the-book officer, he wasn’t surprised that the sutler’s store at Fort Randall was located just past the fort’s limits.

  It was a large tent, with the half to the right of the entrance taken up by shelves full of merchandise—food, tools, guns, clothing, knives, pots and pans, candy, jewelry, harness, gunpowder, and all sorts of other things that soldiers and their families might find useful.

  A canvas partition ran down the center of the tent to separate the right side from the left, which was the store’s busiest part once the sun went down. That was where Jake Farrow, the proprietor, sold beer and whiskey. The bar consisted of planks laid over barrels along the tent’s left-hand wall. Half a dozen tables had chairs around them, and in the back a small open area where soldiers could dance with Farrow’s “hostesses.” Those women were pretty blatantly soiled doves, and Nathan knew several smaller tents would be out back where those camp followers could conduct their business.

  He thought of Leah, back at Statler’s Mill, which reminded him of all the bitter things she had said when he’d asked her about Rena. For the most part, Nathan had succeeded in forcing that encount
er out of his mind so that he could concentrate on the business at hand, but it came flooding back and put a scowl on his face.

  Bucher glanced over at him. “What is wrong, Stark? You look as if you would like to kill someone, but I see no redskins in here.”

  Nathan gave a little shake of his head. “It’s nothing. Let’s get that drink and be done with it.” Suddenly he wanted to get out of there, but life at Fort Randall might go along more smoothly if he didn’t offend Dietrich Bucher. He could tolerate one drink with the German.

  Bucher led the way to the bar, past tables where soldiers sat drinking with the soiled doves and others where poker games were going on. There weren’t many open spaces at the bar as soldiers who had permission to be there lined up to sample the sutler’s whiskey. The two scouts stepped up to the planks and Bucher lifted a hand to signal the man behind the bar.

  “Jake Farrow, meet Nathan Stark,” Bucher said as the sutler came up to them.

  “Stark, eh?” Farrow was a rugged-looking man with a shock of graying blond hair. He wore canvas trousers and a woolen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal brawny forearms. He stuck a big hand across the bar and went on, “I’ve heard of you. I’m a little surprised we haven’t crossed trails before now, as many forts as we’ve both been at over the years.”

  Nathan clasped Farrow’s hand. The dry, muscular grip was a lot different from shaking with Colonel Ledbetter.

  “You have my special bottle, ja?” Bucher said.

  Farrow grinned. “Of course.” He turned to pluck a bottle and a small glass off some lined-up crates that served as a makeshift back bar. “Here you go.” He poured liquor into the glass.

  Bucher picked it up and threw it back in one swallow, then licked his lips. “Ah, who would dream that one could find good German schnapps in the middle of a wilderness?” he said in satisfaction. He pushed the empty glass back toward Farrow, who filled it again.

  “I can get whatever you want,” Farrow said, “as long as there’s a profit in it.” He held up the bottle and cocked an eyebrow at Nathan. “Want to give it a try?”

  “I’ll just take a beer,” Nathan said.

  Bucher said, “You do not know what you are missing, mein freund.”

  Nathan knew well enough. From other bars and saloons in the past, he remembered Bucher’s fondness for the fruity liquor. He also recalled how the big German had busted up a place or two because he couldn’t get what he wanted. And for that matter, he and Bucher were hardly freunden, or however the Germans said it.

  Farrow drew the beer and set the mug in front of Nathan, who placed a coin on the bar to pay for it.

  Bucher pushed the money back toward him and said, “Nein, nein, I invited you. This is on me.”

  Nathan didn’t waste breath arguing. He said, “Obliged,” picked up the coin, and took a drink of the beer. It was warm but not too bitter. Went down easy enough. It would do in place of the supper he hadn’t gotten.

  He could kick himself for the things he had said to Delia. On the other hand, what right did she have to tell him he was soulless? Just because she had lost her family, too, didn’t mean he ought to react to his own tragedy in the same way she had. She had lost her children to illness. In cases like that, there was nothing she could strike back against. And maybe she didn’t go out and kill Indians to avenge Stephen’s death because she couldn’t. If she’d had the ability to pick up a gun and blow a few of the red devils to hell, who’s to say she wouldn’t do exactly that?

  Nathan took another swig of the beer and then became aware of Bucher looking at him speculatively.

  “You appear as if your thoughts are a million miles away,” Bucher said.

  “Not quite that far,” Nathan said. Just at the other end of Fort Randall’s parade ground. He finished his beer while Bucher and Farrow talked. When he was done, he turned to leave.

  “You are going?” Bucher asked.

  “Figured I’d turn in.”

  Farrow leered. “Got poker games you can sit in on, Stark, if you’re of a mind to. Or other . . . entertainments, let’s say... if you’re more inclined that way. Take that little redheaded gal.” He pointed. “I can personally vouch for her. She can turn a man inside out—” Farrow stopped in midsentence at the look on Nathan’s face.

  Nathan had swung back toward the bar, and his pulse hammered angrily inside his head. He wanted to reach across the bar, grab the front of Farrow’s shirt, and jerk the sutler toward him so he could crack a couple blows across the man’s face.

  “Was ist los?” Bucher muttered. “Stark, what is wrong?”

  Nathan didn’t say anything.

  Farrow lifted a hand. “Take it easy, Stark. Whatever I said to put a burr under your saddle, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Forget it,” Nathan snapped. He got control of himself and turned away again. His mind still raged, for a couple of reasons. One was the fact that the girl Farrow had pointed out had red hair, like Delia, and the other was that the soiled dove was no more than eighteen, which made her Rena’s age. Those reminders of the two females most on his mind had been too much for him... but only for a moment.

  He stalked away from the bar, toward the tent’s entrance. He felt eyes watching him, not only Farrow and Bucher but also some of the soldiers who had seen him looking like he wanted to kill somebody. That didn’t bother him. He had seen outright revulsion on the faces of so-called civilized people many times when they found out who he was—and what he was notorious for.

  He paused at the entrance, realizing that he was too worked up to sleep. Ducking around the canvas partition, he went into the store side of the tent, rather than out into the night.

  A single lantern burned over there. It sat on a counter made from planks laid across stacked-up crates, rather than whiskey and beer barrels. A man stood behind the counter, shoulders hunched as he bent over an open ledger entering numbers into the columns with a scratchy pen.

  He glanced up as Nathan approached. Peering over the spectacles that had slid down to the end of his nose, he seemed to have trouble focusing at first. He was a slight man, with thinning, lank, fair hair. But then he pushed the spectacles up and gave Nathan a friendly smile. “Hello. Something we can do you for?”

  Nathan shook his head. “No, just looking around. I don’t suppose you do much business after dark like this.”

  “None at all, to speak of,” the man replied with a faint chuckle. He nodded toward the canvas partition. “All the nighttime business takes place on the other side of the establishment. Or out back.”

  “Not interested in any of that right now.” Nathan saw some boxes of .44 cartridges sitting on the counter. “Might could use some ammunition, though. In my line of work, I expect I’ll need it sooner rather than later.”

  “And that is?”

  “Civilian scout.” Nathan extended his hand. “Nathan Stark.”

  “Oh.” The little man looked surprised, as if few men out here on the frontier offered to shake with him. But after a second he gripped Nathan’s hand and said, “I’m Noah Crimmens. I work for Mr. Farrow.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Noah.” The clerk’s handshake was not as strong as Farrow’s nor as weak as Colonel Ledbetter’s, but somewhere in between. Just average and unassuming, as he himself seemed to be.

  Nathan went on, “I’ll take a box of those .44s.”

  “Do you want me to set up a tab for you?”

  “No, I’ll pay cash. Always believed in paying as I go, since I never know if I’ll be coming back from the next assignment.” A wry smile twisted Nathan’s lips. “Wouldn’t want to leave some poor businessman hanging for what I owe him.”

  Crimmens returned the smile. “I wish all our other customers felt the same way. Usually, though, Mr. Farrow collects what’s owed him... one way or another.”

  Having met Jake Farrow, Nathan could believe that. The hard-nosed sutler wouldn’t let anything stand between him and his profit.

  Something else caught Na
than’s eye—half a dozen Winchesters hanging on a rack near the counter. He frowned slightly as he picked up one of them and took a closer look at it.

  “Those are fine guns, if you’re in need of one,” Crimmens said. “The ’73 model. You won’t find a better rifle.”

  “I know,” Nathan said. “I already have one.” He tapped a finger against the double diamond design etched into the stock. “And it has this same marking on it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” Nathan looked at the other rifles. “All of these do.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s a distributor’s mark. These are all shipped out here from St. Louis through a company that Mr. Farrow and his partner own. You say that you have one?”

  “Yeah. Bought in a settlement south of here after my old ’66 let me down during a fight.”

  “Well, I know Mr. Farrow has sold a lot of them,” Crimmens said. “He’s set up stores at a number of different posts. And of course, weapons do get sold and traded quite a bit, so I’m not surprised that one found its way into your hands. Has your rifle worked well for you?”

  “Haven’t had any call to use it yet.” Nathan thought about the looming threat of Hanging Dog and the other Sioux warriors champing at the bit to go on the warpath and added, “But I reckon there’s a good chance I will before too much longer.”

  * * *

  Somebody was waiting for Dietrich Bucher when he stepped out of the big tent a while later and started toward his cabin. A man who was shorter than him but just as broad through the shoulders stepped out of the shadows and said quietly, “Bucher.”

  The German stopped short. He carried a .44 caliber Smith & Wesson Model 3 in a cross-draw holster under his brown tweed coat. His hand instinctively wrapped around the butt before he realized he knew the man who had spoken to him. In fact, they had ridden into Fort Randall together, along with the rest of the patrol led by Lieutenant Pryor, less than two hours earlier.