Gunsmoke at Powder River (The Long-Knives #4)

by Patrick E. Andrews

“You don’t need a big shovel,” Robertson said. “And I was worried about you having to tote one anyhow. That’s why I picked out a little spade. Ain’t I nice? So you can use that.”

  “I ain’t gonna use that!” Mulligan protested. “It’ll take a long time to dig any kind o’ hole with it.” Robertson stepped forward and delivered a solid punch straight to the soldier’s chest. He waited while Mulligan, fear and anger in his gaze, struggled back to his feet. “And before you start digging, I want you to scout around here for rocks. Gather up a load of ’em.”

  “Can I take off my haversack and blanket roll?” Mulligan asked.

  “Hell no, you thieving son of a bitch,” Robertson hissed. “Now get to work!”

  Mulligan, fearful of a real beating, got quickly to the task. It took him a half hour to gather up a pile of stones that he stacked in front of the first sergeant.

  “That’s enough,” Robertson said. He chose one of the larger rocks. “Put that in your haversack.” Mulligan did as he was told.

  “And that one. That one and the other there. Quickly! Quickly!”

  Now Mulligan stood with the overloaded pack pulling him down on one side. He knew better than to complain. Numbly, knowing the suffering was really only starting, he waited for his next orders.

  “Get out that spade and start digging.”

  Mulligan shifted through the stone-laden haversack and retrieved the digging implement strapped to it. Sinking to his knees, he began to make the hole, scooping out the dirt with the small tool.

  The other troops, sipping coffee and eating, watched in interest the thief’s punishment. All were happy to see the unpopular man catching hell from the first sergeant.

  Baker, the old soldier, leaned toward O’Malley, the other veteran. “Mulligan will be a wreck in three more days.”

  O’Malley shook his head. “He’ll be doing good if he can crawl by tomorrow night.”

  In spite of working fast under Robertson’s less-than-gentle supervision, when the order was given to fall back in to continue the day’s march, Mulligan had managed to work his way down only a couple of feet.

  “Don’t worry,” Robertson said with a wry grin. “You’ll get better at it.”

  The afternoon was a repetition of the morning, with one exciting exception. During the second break, Captain Riker gathered the men around him for a little talk.

  “The first thing I’d like to say is that I’ve been very pleased with your performance during all the time we’ve been out on this expedition,” Riker said in a cheerful tone. “I realize that most of you are new soldiers, and I must compliment you on the fine job you’ve been doing. No veteran outfit ever performed better.”

  The recruits’ chests puffed out a bit at the white lie. The veterans, knowing that no one had really been under much of a test, took it as just one more condescending remark from an officer, though they truly liked and respected Captain Riker.

  “Now we’re a long way from civilization and there’s a pretty good chance we just might run into a few hostile Sioux,” Riker said. “And we sure want to be ready for that, don’t we?”

  “Yes, sir!” Tommy Saxon shouted. Then his face reddened as the others laughed at him.

  “Good attitude, Private Saxon,” Riker said with a smile. “So, since we’re on active campaign right now, I thought it might be a good idea for each of you to fire a round through your rifles. None of you new men have ever fired the Springfield, and if you must in battle, we want you to have more than some dry-firing experience with the rifles. Any questions?”

  George Hammer raised his hand. “Sir, if we shoot at Indians, where are we supposed to aim? At their heads?”

  “Aim right at their chests here,” Riker said tapping himself on the solar plexus. “A head shot is difficult. But if you happen to shoot low while trying to hit them in the chest, your bullet will strike their bellies. If you go a bit high you’ll blow their brains out. In case that happens, we’ll send ’em to serve in the cavalry.”

  The men laughed at the joke, greatly appreciating it.

  “Now, a squad at a time, let’s line up and face the river,” Riker said. “We’ll pretend there are Sioux in the trees there.”

  The first squad, under Corporal Raymond Marteau, marched up on line as skirmishers. Following Riker’s orders, they blasted a volley toward the trees. Several spurts of dirt erupted yards short of the target, and some leaves in the top of the trees were clipped by others.

  First Sergeant Robertson hung his head and groaned.

  “Second Squad!” Riker barked.

  Corporal Karl Schreiner brought his men up on line.

  “Squad, load!” Riker ordered.

  Tommy Saxon, like the others, brought his rifle up from the order arms position and opened the breech. He pulled one of the fat .45 caliber bullets from the loop in his canvas cartridge belt and inserted it into the chamber. Then he locked the breech down.

  “Squad, aim!”

  He’d done this many times in the dry firing. He lined his sight up on an imaginary Indian, playing as if the warrior was also aiming at him.

  “Squad, fire!”

  The Springfield exploded and slammed back into his shoulder so hard it took his breath away. The pain brought tears to his eyes.

  “Open breeches!”

  Now barely able to move his arm because of the sore shoulder, he popped the breech open again. Corporal Schreiner checked them all to make sure no rounds were still in the weapons. Then he marched them away as the Third Squad came onto line.

  After the firing, the hike south resumed. It continued until early evening, when a halt was called. The men prepared to go through the complicated tent-pitching routine in which the canvas shelters would be perfectly aligned and dressed down in a strictly defined pattern. But Captain Riker surprised them.

  “There will be no more dog tents used until we return to the main column,” the captain said. “You’ll maintain squad integrity, but you’ll make bedrolls and sleep on your tent halves. Spread out a bit and keep in mind that we are in a territory that is effectively controlled by hostile Indians. Sleep with one eye open and remember that those on guard duty are our first line of defense in the event of attack.”

  The first sergeant immediately took over and the night’s camp, informal and untidy in appearance, was organized. It was another of those American eccentricities that baffled Corporal Karl Schreiner, ex-Prussian noncommissioned officer.

  Afterward, the fires were lit and they had more roasted salt pork and hardtack in coffee. Even Mulligan was allowed to eat, but when the meal was finished, Schreiner sent him over to report to Robertson.

  Tommy Saxon and Harold Devlin were detailed for the first relief of guard. Picking up their rifles, they followed Schreiner out to where they would be posted. Tommy glanced over and saw Mulligan in the twilight, digging away at the ground with his little spade.

  Tommy thought it justice. “That will teach him to steal, huh, Harold?”

  Harold Devlin looked at the field prisoner laboring at the make-work task. “Barbarians,” he said under his breath. “Damned Philistines!”

  Chapter Six – First Blood

  Now that they were separated from the main column under General Leighton’s command, the men of L Company saw a different side of Captain Charles Riker’s character.

  Riker’s battle experience, both in the Civil War and the Indian Wars, had made a practical military leader out of him. A battle leader could not have survived the murderous fighting of the war against the Confederacy and the countless bloody clashes in Indian fighting without becoming adaptable and practical. The mindless following of spit-and-polish ritual was not part of the commanding officer’s procedures.

  The first example the soldiers experienced of this officer’s pragmatism was his announcement that no tents were to be pitched. Most commanders in the field, particularly the priggish sort, would have insisted that a proper bivouac be organized with the men’s shelter halves buttoned togethe
r to form the dog tents. This would include having them set at the proper intervals in squad and section formations.

  Instead, the captain personally addressed his small column and gave instructions to spread the tents out on the prairie grass and use them as ground sheets. The soldiers were to sleep in blankets on top of them. Riker followed this course of action for two reasons.

  First, it made the camp less visible and harder to locate during the hours of twilight, darkness, and dawn. He’d known instances in the past when marauding Indians easily slipped through even the most alert sentries and found no difficulty at all in finding the places where soldiers slept. The thud of a tomahawk or the slice of a knife had taken many a slumbering trooper’s life in such instances.

  The second reason was that in responding to trouble the troops could roll out of blankets in the open a lot more quickly than if they had to struggle through the small opening of dog tents to meet an attack. They also had a full view of the situation by simply raising their heads and looking around. That saved the time of having to assemble the individual squads and send them off in the right direction.

  Another martial custom that Riker ignored was the use of bugle calls. Trumpeter Melech, instead of blowing notes through his instrument, was sent scurrying from place to place to deliver verbal messages. Bugle calls worked well with great masses of troops, but to a small, isolated unit on its own in hostile territory, they did nothing but let the Sioux know that soldiers were close at hand.

  Thus, at dawn on the second day of the patrol, the sergeants and corporals shook the men awake rather than yelling at them through the openings of dog tents. The soldiers responded quickly, knowing that First Sergeant Robertson would soon be on the scene looking for lazy bodies that would be exposed for an easy kicking to full wakefulness.

  Breakfast fires sprang up and the inevitable water for coffee began to boil. Even Mike Mulligan was left in peace as he prepared and ate his breakfast. The only harassment he received from Robertson came as they formed up to begin the day’s march. The first sergeant made sure the thief still had the heavy rocks in his haversack, with the spade strapped into place. At that point, even the small extra weight of the tool added perceptibly to the thief’s burden.

  Riker, waiting until the flankers and point detail were set, started the day rolling with his now familiar command of “Sling arms! Route step, march!”

  It was the third squad’s turn for flanker duty that day. Tommy Saxon and his bunkies Harold Devlin and George Hammer stayed in the main column. Except for the physical fatigue, it was rather pleasant. They were able to walk along, heads down if they wished, lost in their own private thoughts.

  George Hammer concentrated on what he would buy from the sutler’s store when they returned to Fort Keogh. He’d developed a taste for canned sardines and soda crackers. The combination made a dandy snack during an evening in the barracks.

  Harold Devlin, on the other hand, mentally glossed over the chapter of the book he was now reading. Written by Frank Stockton and published the previous year, it was called Rudder Grange and was about the adventures of a family who lived on a boat. When Harold finished that one he still had Thomas Hardy’s The Return of The Native to read. He’d read the brand new Ben Hur by Lew Wallace during the first part of the expedition. It now nestled in the bottom of his haversack.

  While his friends daydreamed, Tommy Saxon enjoyed his own reveries. He thought about his return from the army to Columbiana County and what a hero he was going to be to everybody. Tommy figured he’d have some pretty good Indian-fighting stories to match those of his uncles by the time his five-year hitch was up. Then, of course, there was Rose Becker. He’d harbored a secret crush on her for as long as he could remember. Tommy loved to picture her admiring reaction at seeing him in uniform. He always imagined the scene with him in his full-dress outfit complete with helmet, ignoring the fact that discharged soldiers did not take the fancy clothing with them when they left the service.

  Mike Mulligan walked ahead of them in the column. He was beginning to stagger a bit as the weight of the stones in his haversack pulled down cruelly on his shoulder. No matter how many times he shifted the weight, it always ended up giving him a severe muscle ache on the right side of his neck. The handle of the spade slapped against the side of his leg with every step. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now the sensation was beginning to be painful. Getting the hell beat out of you was bad enough, but at least it was over in a relatively short time. Enduring long hours of torment was something else. He glanced back at Tommy, Harold, and George, wanting some sympathy, if nothing else.

  “It’s hurting me, boys.”

  They looked at him but said nothing.

  “I done wrong and I paid for it, din’t I? I got whipped by two other fellahs.” He wheezed. “I’m telling you, boys, I’m dying. This extra weight is pulling me down.”

  Mack Baker overheard from the rear of the squad. He hurried forward. “Don’t listen to the son of a bitch,” he told the recruits. “There ain’t nothing lower’n a barracks-room thief that’d steal from other poor soldiers that ain’t got no more than he has.”

  Charlie O’Malley, up ahead, glanced back. “Maybe somebody oughta whip your ass again, Mulligan.”

  “You’re lucky you got caught in the army,” Baker said. “This here treatment is gonna save you from prison. If you’d stole a watch on the outside, the judge would put you in jail for two or three years.” He spat at Mulligan’s feet. “The army’s too good for you, you bastard! We oughta leave your ass out here for the Sioux to chop up or burn up.”

  “Yeah,” O’Malley agreed. “You ain’t a real Irishman, are you, Mulligan?”

  Mulligan gritted his teeth through the pain and didn’t answer.

  O’Malley continued. “Maybe us Irishmen ought to put you through a special session to set you right. That’d teach you not to shame the race. You prob’ly got English blood in you, anyhow.”

  Suddenly Mulligan staggered to the side and fell down. He sat up, moaning. “I can’t go no further, boys.”

  Baker and O’Malley ran over to him and jerked him to his feet, giving him a shove. Mulligan stumbled forward and started to fall again, but Sergeant Robertson, who had been watching from the side of the column, rushed over and grabbed him.

  “Keep going, Mulligan,” Robertson hissed. “Or, so help me God, I’ll leave you here for the damn Indians.”

  “You wouldn’t do that!” Mulligan cried. “For the love of God, Sergeant Robertson, leave me take these damn rocks outta me haversack. Please!”

  Tommy, watching, swallowed hard. He felt sorry for the other youngster, thief or not. George Hammer looked the other way. Harold Devlin started to say something, but changed his mind. Any protest he made might cause his own haversack to be filled with rocks.

  Robertson gave a convincing demonstration of his own attitude toward thieves in his company by delivering a hard kick to the soldier’s buttocks. “Move! Goddamn your eyes, Mulligan! Move! Or the Sioux are gonna find you here and roast you alive over a fire!”

  Mulligan, frightened he would indeed be abandoned to a hideous fate, controlled his desire to weep. Although his legs were wobbly, the fear gave him the strength he needed to keep moving.

  Robertson went back to his place next to Captain Riker. Riker, who had watched the episode, was worried. “What’s Mulligan’s condition, Sergeant Robertson?”

  “He’s about done for, sir,” Robertson admitted.

  “I want those rocks taken out of his haversack after we break for the midday meal,” Riker said sternly.

  “Yes, sir,” Robertson said. Then he asked, “Do I have to let him eat?”

  “Give him a half hour of digging, then allow the man to take some sustenance,” Riker said. “And let me impress on you that I’ll expect Private Mulligan to be an effective soldier in case of attack.”

  Robertson knew what the captain meant. “Yes, sir.”

  “And I want him to have three meal
s a day every day from now on,” Riker added.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can give him extra duties in the evening until dark,” Riker said, relenting a bit.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The little column struggled on through a large patch of thick buffalo grass, keeping close to the banks of the Powder River. Riker maintained a distance from the trees along the bank, in order to keep the column far enough away to prevent a devastating ambush from hitting them out of the woods. The thick foliage there offered excellent concealment to any hiding Indians. On the other hand, he wanted the narrow stretch of trees to be close enough to be easily accessible in case they were attacked from the open country.

  The flankers, though new soldiers, were well aware of the danger they faced. Their squad leader, Corporal Bakker, had to yell at them only a couple of times to keep them on the alert. On the point, Lieutenant Worthington trudged on, hoping like hell he was leading the company into some sort of action. He had the flap of his holster undone in case the excitement he hoped for actually occurred. Mumbling to himself in impatience, the officer trudged on, his eyes darting back and forth between the river and the open country.

  Riker pulled his watch from his blouse pocket and checked the time. “Sergeant Robertson, we’ll stop for mess call.” He turned toward the column and yelled, “Comp’ny, atten-hut!”

  The men went from route step to a regular march, falling into step as they straightened up.

  “Comp’ny, halt!” Riker commanded.

  The outfit abruptly stopped and formed up properly except for the third squad who, as flankers, stayed out on picket duty. Robertson marched to the front of the formation, saluting the captain.

  “Take charge of the company for mess call,” Riker instructed.

  “Yes, sir.” Robertson saluted. He made an about-face and set the midday routine into action.

  The men settled into their little groups, getting the fires going. Mulligan limped up to Robertson. His face was red from exertion and his uniform was sopping wet with perspiration.

  Robertson studied the soldier, staring into his sweating, pain-wracked face. “Take them rocks outta your haversack, Mulligan.”