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

by Patrick E. Andrews

  The little bugler, in his position behind the first squad, stood up and trotted over. He reported in with his usual unmilitary salute. “Trumpeter Melech reporting as ordered, sir,” he said in his heavy accent.

  “In the case of a pitched battle, we’ll use your bugling skills,” Riker said. “I’ll have you simply sound Charge on my command to keep the men’s spirits up. There’s no sense in noise discipline in a close-packed fight as we’ll have.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How are you holding up under all this, Trumpeter?” Worthington asked.

  “I am fine, sir.”

  Worthington gazed thoughtfully at the smaller man. It was hard to guess his age, but there was gray in his hair. His face seemed worn, but not so much with age as with strife. “Someone told me you turned down a chance to transfer to the regimental band. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Melech said.

  “Are you really that fond of L Company that you can’t stand the thought of leaving?” Worthington inquired.

  “I don’t care to serve in the regimental band,” Melech stated. His English was fairly good, much better than Schreiner’s, but he had a heavy accent.

  “You play the bugle quite well,” Worthington said. “I’ve heard plenty of trumpeters but you’re the best, in my book.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “So you prefer to be posted as a field musician rather than the more challenging position in the band, hey?”

  “Yes, sir,” Melech said doggedly.

  “I don’t understand that, but carry on,” the lieutenant said.

  Melech went back to his gear and retrieved his instrument, slipping the mouthpiece into place.

  Worthington watched him for a few moments. “He’s a prime example of the simple fellows who serve in the ranks.”

  “I’m sure every man has a unique past all his own,” Riker said. “And, consequently, his own reasons for enlisting.”

  In less than ten minutes after Melech’s bugle was readied, a deep darkness settled over the scene of the camp. The Wyoming sky was heavy with clouds obscuring the moon most of the time. But from time to time, the aerial vapor drifted enough to allow brilliant light to show through for a few moments at irregular intervals.

  It was quiet on the side of the square occupied by the second squad. Tommy Saxon and Harold Devlin were so close to each other they were practically huddled. They stared out into the inky blackness, able to see nothing past the front sights of their Springfield rifles. As with all the weapons in the company, a .45-caliber round was locked and loaded in the chamber for immediate firing in the event of an attack.

  “You want to sleep first, Harold?” Tommy asked.

  “I’m not tired right now,” Harold replied. “Go ahead if you want. I’ll take the first relief.”

  “I can’t sleep neither,” Tommy said. “Maybe we’ll both just stay awake all night.”

  “If we do, we’ll be pretty miserable tomorrow when our strength gives out,” Harold said. “Are you sure you don’t feel at least a little sleepy?”

  “I sure don’t,” Tommy said. “Why don’t you close your eyes and try to nod off.”

  Harold grinned, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t do a bit of good. Knowing there are Indians out there that can pounce on us at any time is not conducive to sound slumber.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy said. He was silent for a while. “I’ll be glad when we’re back with the main column tomorrow night.”

  “Me, too,” Harold said.

  A muffled snort sounded off to their immediate right. It was Mack Baker, two scant yards away. He had been listening to them. “I wouldn’t be so damn sure we’re gonna make it.”

  “Why?” Tommy asked.

  “For one thing,” Baker said, “we’re outnumbered about a hunnerd or two hunnerd to one. Did that ever occur to you? We’re out here in the middle of Sioux country with nobody else around.”

  “God!” Harold moaned.

  “And not only that,” Baker continued. “Them Injuns got horses and we ain’t. They can ride circles around us—which they been doing if you ain’t noticed—and they can sweep over us any time they want to.”

  “Then why ain’t they?” Tommy angrily demanded to know.

  “Who knows?” Baker replied. “I’ve fought Kiowas, Comanches, and Cheyenne besides the Sioux. They all got one thing in common. None of ’em make a lick o’ sense in their decisions. That’s why nobody can figger out what they’ll do. You just got to wait and see.”

  “Maybe you’re wrong about how many there are and what their intentions are,” Harold suggested.

  “No, I ain’t!” Baker snapped. “And O’Malley knows it, too.”

  Tommy tried to see O’Malley but it was too dark to see past Baker. “Hey, O’Malley. Do you really think Mack is right?”

  “He’s asleep,” Baker said.

  “How can he sleep if there is such a strong possibility of a disastrous attack?” Harold asked.

  “Because he’s an old soldier and knows how important rest is,” Baker said. “And you Johnny Raws better do the same. Tomorrow is gonna be a hell of a day.” There was a rustling in the grass behind them and Corporal Schreiner’s angry whisper interrupted them. “It is not allowed talking!” he hissed at them. “On the alert stay and the mouths keep shut!”

  Harold nudged Tommy. “Go to sleep.”

  Tommy nodded and laid his head down on his arms. For almost a half hour his mind was filled with either agitated thoughts of the present situation or a fond remembering of the farm back in Ohio. But eventually he drifted off into a light slumber.

  After thinking so much about home, he dreamed about it. The mental images were confusing and nonsensical. He was in the barn pitching hay, but wore an army uniform. First Sergeant Robertson and Sergeant Duncan from Columbus Barracks were both there egging him on to work faster. Finally they inexplicably disappeared, and he lay down on the soft hay to rest and take a nap. But somebody started shaking him. He tried to resist, but they were persistent.

  “Tommy!”

  Finally he realized it was Harold Devlin. “Huh?”

  “It’s your relief,” Harold said. “Are you awake?” Tommy rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Yeah.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah,” Tommy said, becoming fully alert as the realization of his physical surroundings drove away the last vestiges of sleep. “Go ahead and get some rest,” Tommy said. “Are you tired now?”

  “I sure am,” Harold said with a yawn. “A few winks is exactly what I need now.”

  Tommy reached up to check the position of his rifle and the web cartridge belt. Then he settled down to wait, listen, and stare out into the darkness. Within a few moments, Harold’s regular breathing sounded softly beside him. He was glad Harold was there. He found comfort in the older friend’s company and quickness of mind. He was also glad that Captain Riker and Sergeant Robertson were close at hand too. Tommy was frightened of them in a way, but he had every confidence in their ability to deal with a bad situation. He just wished that Mack Baker would keep his mouth shut. The old soldier could make him extremely nervous with all his talk of the Indians being able to massacre them.

  A depressing wave of homesickness swept over Tommy. At that particular moment, as the penetrating cool of the night made him draw his arms around him, he wished like hell he had never joined the army. He wanted to be back in the house, seated around the big kitchen table with his family, listening to the hearty, humorous talk as they sipped coffee in the light of a kerosene lamp. His room, with its comfortable feather bed, was always close by and waiting for him. Tommy sighed and mentally calculated that he had a grand total of fifty-six months—four years and four months—left to do on his army hitch. At that moment, he swore that if he ever again walked into that farmyard, he would never go out of it except to work the fields or go into town on market day.

  Tommy stared out into the inky blackness. The more he stared, the more confused the sight becam
e. It seemed little dots of dim light sprouted up and quickly drifted away. He blinked hard and kept up the vigil.

  Then fear rushed through him.

  He could easily see an Indian’s head, complete with a war bonnet, a few yards to the front. Tommy thought of waking up Harold, but his friend’s deep breathing showed it would take too much time. Tommy grabbed his rifle, aimed as best he could, and jerked the trigger. The butt slammed back in his shoulder as it always did when he fired. He quickly pulled another bullet from the web belt and inserted it.

  Now firing exploded on all sides of the square. Brilliant flashes of light illuminated the open country for quick instances as the soldiers cut loose. Within moments, those who had been sleeping joined in the battle.

  “Cease fire!” Captain Riker’s voice sounded over the shooting. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  Tommy could hear footsteps behind him. Robertson’s voice was full of anger. “Who started the shooting over here?”

  “Me, Sergeant,” Tommy answered. “I seen an Indian out there. He was crawling toward me.”

  Now Lieutenant Worthington had joined them. “Where was he, soldier?”

  “Straight ahead, sir.”

  “Hold your fire, men,” the lieutenant said. “I’m going out there for a look-see.” Carrying his pistol, Worthington dropped down on all fours and crawled out into the grass.

  The men could hear the officer scurrying about. Captain Riker arrived on that side of the line. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Private Saxon seen an Indian, sir,” Robertson reported. “The lieutenant went out to take a look around.”

  Riker was angry and surprised. “He did what?” Robertson shrugged. “That’s what he done, sir.” Finally, after fifteen minutes, Worthington returned. “Anything out there, Mr. Worthington?” Riker asked. He wanted to scream in the lieutenant’s face about acting like an idiot, but he controlled his temper because of the proximity of the enlisted men.

  “No, sir. I didn’t find a thing,” the lieutenant replied.

  Riker nodded. “All right, men. Let’s quiet down. Stay on the alert.”

  After a few moments of excited whispering, the soldiers settled back to the routine they were following. Harold again drifted off to sleep, while Tommy continued his stint on sentry duty. He rubbed his sore shoulder, cursing the Sioux and the inventor of the Springfield rifle, while he scanned the black nothingness out in front of him.

  Then the Indian returned.

  The feathers on the bonnet danced with movement. Tommy, panicking again, fired. Once more a rapid, uneven staccato of shooting erupted.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” Riker commanded.

  Robertson returned to the second squad. “Saxon! Was that you again?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Tommy replied. “That Indian came back.”

  “I’ll take a look this time,” Robertson said. “Where was that Sioux?”

  “Straight ahead,” Tommy said, pointing.

  “Hold your fire, second squad,” Robertson said. The first sergeant, walking at a crouch and holding his rifle ready, stalked silently out into the night. He was back in five minutes. “I don’t know if you seen an Injun or not, Saxon. But if you did, the son of a bitch is gone now.”

  “Nothing out there, Sergeant?” Riker asked.

  “No, sir,” Robertson said.

  Riker, who had more faith in the first sergeant’s scouting abilities than he did in his lieutenant’s, began to doubt that there were Indians close by at all. “You men be damned careful that you can see something before you start shooting again,” he warned them.

  “Did you hear that, Saxon?” Robertson asked.

  “I seen an Indian out there, Sergeant. Honest!” Tommy exclaimed.

  “I’m sure you did, soldier,” Riker said. “But be very sure you do before you shoot again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  By then it was time for the first relief to come back on duty. Harold took Tommy’s place and the youngster, now tired and sleepy, was glad for a chance to doze for a couple of hours.

  Silence dominated the scene for a long time. Then a distant sound, so far away it drifted away when the breeze kicked up a bit, could barely be heard. Eventually, Tommy, like all the others, was awakened by it.

  A dull, rhythmic thud and high-pitched chanting sounded from the east a long way off. Mack Baker and Charlie O’Malley, the veterans, knew what it was.

  “Sioux drums,” O’Malley said. They’re getting ready for something.”

  “They’re singing their war songs,” Baker said.

  “And we’re the fellers they’re getting ready for,” O’Malley said. Then he spat and said, “Shit!”

  Chapter Ten – The Thin Blue Line

  “Hannah!”

  Trumpeter Uziel Melech spoke his wife’s name so loud that he woke himself. He sat up abruptly on his blankets, fully alert although he’d just come out of a deep sleep. He looked around the little camp. The forms of the men, some sleeping and others on guard duty, were barely visible in the pre-dawn darkness.

  Melech sighed sadly, then lay down and rolled over on his stomach, putting his face down into the warmth of his crude pallet. He could never decide if dreaming of her was a torture or a delight. He said the name again, this time in a barely audible whisper, the grief evident even in his quiet voice.

  “Hannah!”

  Her memory flooded into his mind in an unbroken tide of sweet pain.

  Most men would not have considered Hannah beautiful. She was small and thin with a funny little face crowned by the full black tresses of her hair. Prone to be a bit sickly, she walked with an awkward, almost boyish, gait, without grace or style. Melech loved her passionately and deeply, not in spite of her physical appearance, but rather because of her spiritual sensitivity and the beauty it caused to shine from those over-large dark eyes.

  They had met through a matchmaker who had almost given up getting the girl paired with the right man. But a friend, also in the same business, had a male counterpart of the problem. Her particular client was Uziel Melech.

  Thus, what might have been Rabbi Sawinsky’s lucky chance at marrying off a homely daughter in a logically and carefully contrived arrangement, turned into a passionate love match. Melech was a professional musician even then. He played second French horn in the Warsaw Simponia Orkestre. Although this was a national orchestra, Melech barely made a living. Melech’s matchmaker was faced with a multitude of problems about him. The young man wasn’t good-looking, either, and his economic condition certainly didn’t make him much of a catch. The fact that the rabbi agreed to the marriage was ample evidence of the difficulty he was having in getting a husband for his plain daughter.

  Later, Melech and Hannah decided that must have been what eventually drew them so close together in the marriage.

  “Opposites don’t always attract, do they, my beloved Uziel,” Hannah had said on many occasions. “Here we are, two bad catches for anybody else, yet we have found a complete happiness in each other that even other people in love rarely attain.”

  Melech always replied, “My darling wife, why do you refer to yourself as a bad catch? You are the most beautiful woman in the entire world!”

  “And you, my darling husband, are the handsomest man!”

  “We are liars, Hannah,” he used to say, laughing.

  “But we are loving liars, Uziel,” Hannah would reply.

  The country in which they lived, Poland, was under the thumb of czarist Russia in those days. Polish Christians were treated harshly, forbidden to speak their own language in schools or other parts of public life. Under those conditions, a poor little Jewish French horn player didn’t stand much of a chance of earning stature in the national symphony. In fact, it was Melech’s great talent that allowed him to win a spot in the orchestra at all. And it was to his great credit that he eventually worked his way up to the position of second French horn. But he wanted more from his professional life. Melech’s desire was to b
e able to progress as far as he could with his art. His ultimate goal was to be a conductor, something absolutely out of the question in Russian-dominated Warsaw.

  These desires were not all egotistical or the results of a creative man’s vainglory. More than anything in the world, Melech wanted Hannah to be proud of him and to live in a grand home, as she deserved.

  That was the reason for the decision to emigrate to America.

  Hannah didn’t want to go. She could not stand the thought of being torn from her parents and friends. “I don’t care if you are a famous musician or not, Uziel,” she said while begging him to change his mind. “Nor am I concerned with riches and a big house. I will remain in love with you, and ecstatic, right here in Warsaw.”

  But Melech was determined to follow his plan. Although realizing that it was breaking her heart, he stood firm in the matter. They would leave Poland and go to America. They sold what they had, borrowed what they could, and accepted what was given them as gifts until enough money was gathered for two passages. They sailed out of Gdansk on a gray spring morning and endured a month-long voyage before reaching New York.

  But Melech’s hoped-for favorable reception in the United States was not to be. Non-English-speaking players of French horns—or other instruments—were not in great demand in the New World. The best orchestras were already well manned and looked for talent only at specific times and places. Becoming a conductor of any musical organization of any import was next to impossible. Instead of practicing his art, Uziel Melech ended up wrestling a handcart around New York’s east side. He sold secondhand clothing from the mobile business. And that business definitely was not good. If Melech had been poor in Poland, he was an absolute pauper in America.

  Melech and Hannah lived in a tenement with no inside plumbing, or even stoves for heat. The outhouses in the back served the entire building, and the broken panes in the windows stayed that way, as the place was largely neglected by its owner, who sent a burly rent collector around on the first day of every month. No delay in payment was tolerated. It was “fork over or get out.” This situation humiliated an artistic man with talent, adding to his frustrations.