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

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Issue out enough ammunition to fill the empty loops in the cartridge belts, Sergeant,” Riker said. “Then pass the word to the noncoms. We will move in a single file. Noise discipline is a must.”

  “What about the horse, sir?”

  “We’ll use blankets over his hooves,” Riker said. “That will help.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see that the thief Mulligan and the drunk Baker make generous donations,” Robertson said.

  “Let’s get this organized before it is completely dark,” Riker said.

  The company prepared for the night walk with only the slimmest of guards staying on the alert. Working fast, they drew enough ammunition to fill out all empty loops in their cartridge belts. Mack Baker and Mike Mulligan had to do more than just give up their blankets. Robertson made them fold up the covers and wrap them securely around the horse’s hooves. The animal, used to having things strapped on him, stood dumbly and endured the treatment with the same acceptance he would have displayed if a Gatling gun had been put across his back.

  Finally, taking advantage of the time between the sun’s disappearance and the moon’s emergence, Robertson hurriedly but quietly made the men fall in. They’d already been told of the importance of keeping as quiet as possible, and they formed up without speaking.

  The desperate nature of the escape also was not lost on them.

  Tommy Saxon stood in the second squad between Mack Baker and Harold Devlin. Harold, as usual, didn’t have blind faith in Captain Riker’s decision. “I hope he knows what he’s doing,” he whispered.

  Mack Baker looked over Tommy’s shoulder and remarked, “There ain’t a hell of a lot of choice, Devlin. If we stay here, them Sioux is gonna butcher us like the main column.”

  “Shush!” Acting Corporal Charlie O’Malley walked up to them. “Keep your mouths shut! Save your energy for walking, cause that’s what we’re gonna be doing until we got to stop and fight.”

  The squad settled down, each soldier feeling lonely in the darkness in spite of the closeness of the other men around him. A bare five minutes passed before the word was given for them to move out. The column began that phase of the march slowly, snaking out of the tree line and turning due north to follow the river up toward the far distant sanctuary of Fort Keogh.

  Tommy was barely able to see Harold in front of him. He was terribly tired. His legs felt sluggish and his feet seemed terribly heavy. As the fatigue settled in more heavily, so did his homesickness. Each step seemed an individual, painful effort. He thought about home, picturing the house that sat in the middle of the farmyard not far from the barn. For a moment he felt like crying. It would be easy to do in the dark; nobody would know about it if he kept his sobbing silent. Sadness and regret pulled down on his spirits as the awful tiredness did on his body.

  He suddenly remembered the Indian he’d killed with his bayonet. The fellow was about his own age, and Tommy remembered the wide-open eyes and the gurgling croak when the blade sliced into the young Sioux’s throat. The last time he had seen the corpse was when some of the fellows from the fourth squad had thrown it on the pile of other dead Indians left in the trees.

  Harold Devlin’s physical and spiritual well-being were in as bad a shape as his young friend’s. He was third in line in the second squad. O’Malley was first and Tim O’Brien second. He could barely see O’Brien’s bleached field hat ahead of him. It bobbed a bit with every step the soldier took.

  Harold realized his rash act of leaving Drury Falls had indeed been a headstrong, foolish act. He should simply have swallowed his pride and stayed there at the bank while making job applications in other towns if he wanted to leave. There were plenty of opportunities he’d not even considered because of his hurt feelings. But at that point, in a lost column of infantrymen stranded in hostile country, it was too late to do anything about past imprudence.

  “Stupid! Stupid!” Harold mouthed in a silent castigation of himself.

  An image of pretty Nancy Reardon swam into his mind. He felt a stab of hurt. She had such a lovely smile and a charming way about her. She had been so graceful and lovely in her party dress. Knowing that she felt him beneath her cut deep into Harold’s most sensitive feelings. He fully knew that he hadn’t been in love with her, but he’d quickly developed an overwhelming crush that had kept her constantly on his mind. He’d even wondered if they might get married someday, and the idea had seemed wonderful. His imagination created a picture of a good and happy life as he continued to grow in the business world.

  Now he felt angry.

  He was damned well going to do something about that whole situation, Harold decided. When his hitch in the army was up, he would strive toward nothing less than becoming extremely wealthy. It could be done out west, in this new country. There had to be literally hundreds of ways for a man to amass wealth if he was smart enough to recognize the opportunities and take advantage of them. The new idea and resolution made him feel a bit better. He unconsciously stepped out a bit faster as the surge of determination overrode his fatigue.

  “Oof!”

  “Excuse me, Tim,” Harold whispered. “I didn’t mean to bump into you.”

  “That’s all right,” Tim O’Brien said, grinning in the dark. “You must have really been deep in thought.”

  “Yeah,” Harold said.

  “I heard you whispering to yourself,” O’Brien said. “What was you talking about? That Indian you beat to shit? I seen you, Harold. You was really a wild man. You whacked that son of a bitch like a lumberjack taking down a tree.”

  Harold grimaced as he suddenly recalled the incident when he had turned into a primitive, enraged animal. He pressed on silently, damning the army in general and Captain Riker and Sergeant Robertson in particular. He turned and looked out into the darkness where the Sioux were. He mouthed a silent curse: “And goddamn you, too!”

  The hours of walking through the dark night melted into each other until time meant nothing. Life for the riflemen of L Company had been reduced to simply trudging after the dim figure of the man ahead, forcing the aching fatigue from the conscious mind as the small column snaked its way up the Tongue River.

  After a long period of the strength-draining routine, Tommy Saxon noted that it had grown a bit lighter. He could clearly see his feet, the worn-out army shoes he wore in plain sight. Even the dew sticking to them was visible. Now Harold Devlin in front was easy to view. Tommy turned his head and glanced back at Mack Baker. He was shocked at the appearance of Baker’s face: it was drawn and sallow, with dark circles under the eyes. The strain was telling plainly on the hard-drinking old soldier.

  Tommy wasn’t doing very well himself. He wanted to lie down and go to sleep. He didn’t give a damn if the grass was sopping wet and cold. The young man simply wanted to get some blessed, refreshing sleep. And then something to eat.

  “Enemy right!”

  A half-dozen Sioux horsemen appeared in the heavy morning mist. Now knowing they’d been spotted, they gestured and yelled defiant threats at the soldiers.

  “Comp’ny, halt!” Captain Riker’s voice was loud and strong. “Right, face! Load!”

  The Indians responded by bolting forward, approaching the formation at an oblique angle. They brandished bows and arrows rather than rifles. Riker, afraid they might be a feint for a larger group that would come head-on at his command, did not order a volley to be fired. He wanted to take no chance of having to go through a loading and aiming procedure while a large number of hostiles closed in on the company. The Indians were smart enough to have figured out that that was the best way to break through the limited volleys of the company.

  The Sioux shot several arrows and immediately turned away, galloping into the mist and disappearing from view.

  “Oh, man! Shit!”

  Tim O’Brien, with one of the shafts deep in his shoulder, dropped his rifle and staggered in a circle. He finally knelt down, moaning softly.

  First Sergeant Gordon Robertson immediately leaped into ac
tion. “Get that gear off the travois!” he barked to Tommy and Harold. While they obeyed, he went to O’Brien and helped him to his feet. He led him over to the travois and allowed him to lie down on it.

  Riker came over to see what had happened. He quickly summed up the situation. “You men grab your haversacks and blanket rolls off the travois to make room for O’Brien. Quickly! We can’t stay here.”

  The riflemen complied, sorting through the gear for their own stuff, donning it speedily.

  Robertson made O’Brien as comfortable as possible. “We’ll get that arrow outta you the first chance,” he said. “Just hang on ’til we get to a better place.” He glanced up at Riker. “Ready to go, sir.”

  “Right, Sergeant.” The company commander took another look out into the mist to see if any more Indians were approaching. There was nothing but vapory silence. “Company, fall in! Sling arms! For’d, march! Route step, march!”

  With O’Brien lying on the travois and clasping at the arrow sticking from his shoulder, the column renewed their march across the Wyoming wilderness.

  Chapter Seventeen – The First Sergeant Plays Doctor

  Newly appointed squad leader Charlie O’Malley hurried forward through the first section to Acting Sergeant Karl Schreiner. “Hey, Corp’ral,” he called out.

  Schreiner, his head bent with the effort of walking, turned around. “Sergeant Schreiner,” he said. “To be called Sergeant Schreiner I am. Is the same being acting as for real.”

  “Oh, yeah?” O’Malley said, almost sneering. He read the Prussian’s insistence on proper protocol through the mangled syntax of his sentences. “You ain’t getting paid for it.”

  “I am still sergeant!” Schreiner insisted.

  “Well, I ain’t taking this acting corporalcy too serious ’til they gimme orders to slap a coupla stripes on my arms,” O’Malley asked. “And I want to see that extry two dollars a month when I make pay call, too.” Schreiner, not wanting to get into a deep discussion involving American logic, sighed. “What is it about which you wish to speak, Corporal O’Malley?”

  “I think O’Brien has got to get that arrow pulled out,” O’Malley said. “He’s hurting something awful.”

  “Is bleeding badly O’Brien?”

  “I can't tell,” O’Malley said. “He was already soaked in blood when Sergeant Robertson laid him down on the travois. But it’s starting to look like a fever is building in him. That’s a bad sign.”

  Schreiner nodded. “Ja. To the first sergeant I go.” He picked up the pace, making his way to the head of the column where Robertson led L Company’s march across the wilderness. “Sergeant Robertson, O’Brien has hurting very bad. Out must come the arrow.”

  Riker, nearby, overheard. “We’ll stop long enough to remove it. Who’s good for the job?”

  “I can do it, sir,” Robertson said. He raised the flap of his haversack and fished around inside, finally withdrawing a piece of hooped wire. “This here is perfect for jerking out arrows. I seen a surgeon with one, so I had this made in case I ever caught one o’ them damn things in my own carcass.”

  “Company, halt!” Riker called out. “Go to it, Sergeant.”

  Robertson hurried down the column, grabbing ex-sergeant George Callan by the arm. “You got a chaw working?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Callan said. “Are you goin’ to pull out that great bluddy arrow?”

  “Yeah. C’mon.”

  The two went to the travois and found Private Tim O’Brien in a great deal of pain. He was speaking with Tommy Saxon and Harold Devlin.

  “I’m real sorry to be the cause o’ you fellers having to pack them blanket rolls and haversacks,” he said between groans.

  “Don’t worry about it, Tim,” Harold said. “You just relax and rest up.”

  “Sure, old feller,” Tommy said kindly. “We don’t mind a bit.”

  Robertson wasted no time. “Get that ammo crate off the travois.”

  Tommy and Harold got the wooden box that O’Brien had been lying beside on the carrier. They set it down and waited to see what was going to happen.

  The first sergeant was primed and ready to operate. “I hear you’re having a rough time of it.”

  “I seen better days,” O’Brien remarked.

  “We’ll take care o’ that now,” Robertson said. “Devlin, get his feet. Callan, hold that right arm, and you, Saxon, kneel down here with me and keep a good grip on the left.” He looked at O’Brien. “You look like death warmed over, O’Brien.”

  O’Brien grimaced, his face an ashen color. “I suppose I do. To tell you the truth, Sergeant, I feel sorta poorly.”

  “Then we got to get that arrow outta there, soldier,” Robertson said. He pulled back the bandage that had been made from the wounded man’s extra shirt. “If we don’t, the damned thing is gonna move around and cut you worse. Then some real bad festering is gonna set in.”

  “Yeah,” O’Brien said. “I think—ow! I think it’d be better if ’n it got pulled out.”

  Robertson adjusted the size of the wire hoop. “Indians used to make them arrowheads outta flint, they tell me. But that was a long time ago. Now they make ’em outta sheet iron they get from trading with no-good, whiskey-peddling bastards.”

  Callan worked the chaw in his mouth. “Yeah. Them traders would sell their own sisters to a Mexican whorehouse if they had a chance.”

  “That’s for sure,” Robertson said. “They carry sheet iron just ’cause they know the Indians want it.”

  Callan said, “Yeah. And them kind o’ arrowheads can bend real easy when they hits you. That’s what makes ’em hard to come out.”

  “That’s what this wire is for. I’m gonna put this hoop in beside the arrow, and work her over the point,” Robertson said. Then he added, “It’s gonna hurt.”

  “I figgered that,” O’Brien said.

  “It’s gonna hurt like hell,” Callan added.

  “Then let’s do it and get it over with,” O’Brien said, bracing himself.

  Robertson stuck the loop of the wire in his mouth to wet it, then leaned down toward the wound. Opening up the slash caused by the arrow’s entry, he slipped the device into the interior, probing a bit as he felt it slide along the arrowhead.

  O’Brien grimaced, gritting his teeth so hard that they squeaked. Tommy and Harold held on tightly, both looking away from the awful sight. Callan, on the other hand, slowly chewed on his tobacco, watching the procedure with a sort of detached interest.

  “I hit the bottom,” Robertson announced. “Now I gotta slip her over the point.” He looked at O’Brien. “You ready, young soldier?”

  O’Brien nodded.

  Robertson worked rapidly and violently as he maneuvered the loop into position. Finally O’Brien emitted a loud, piercing shriek that lasted for three full seconds. The first sergeant ignored it as he felt the wire slip over the arrowhead. He nodded to Callan. “Is that chaw all worked up?”

  “You bet, Sargint,” Callan answered.

  Robertson pulled a bit to make sure all was ready. “Here we go!” He jerked violently upward. The arrow came free with a spurt of blood as O’Brien yelled again. Callan leaned forward and spat deep into the gaping wound that Robertson held open. O’Brien fainted as the bandage was slipped back into place.

  Robertson stood up and dropped the arrow on the travois beside the unconscious wounded man.

  “O’Brien’ll want to keep that. He can tell his grandkids about the time he got a arrow shot into him by the Sioux.” The first sergeant signaled to Riker. “Ready to move out, sir!”

  The column shuffled forward as the first sergeant trotted ahead to take the point.

  Tommy and Harold walked beside the travois, keeping an eye on their friend. Tommy, noting that the outside seam of one his trouser legs was coming loose, asked, “How’s your thread, Harold?”

  “I have a bit, but I’m running short,” he said. “I see you’re about to get some unwanted ventilation there. I can let you have enou
gh to mend that.”

  “These dang clothes just keep coming apart,” Tommy complained. “I ain’t got a speck o’ thread left to fix nothing.”

  “We’re giving them a lot of wear and tear,” Harold said. “Of course, they’re not made too well in the first place.”

  “Why is that, Harold?” Tommy asked. “You’d think the army would want us soldiers to have good clothes to wear when they send us out in the field.”

  “I’m sure they do,” Harold said. “But the companies that manufacture for the government cut corners where they can.”

  “I reckon these uniforms is good enough if you’re back east at some fancy-pants fort,” Tommy said. He remembered drawing the clothing at Columbus Barracks and having the post tailor make alterations. “They oughta have a special field uniform or something for out here on the frontier.”

  Harold grinned. “Why don’t you make a suggestion to them?”

  “Sure,” Tommy said, smiling back. “And I’ll also tell ’em about my idea of doubling our pay.” He started to say something else, but he noticed Tim O’Brien on the travois. “Tim is awake!”

  Harold looked down at him. “Hello, Tim. How’re you feeling?”

  O’Brien answered by leaning over the side of the travois and vomiting. He hacked and spit as he lay back down. “God! That hurt!” He moaned. “It still does.” Tommy got the soldier’s canteen, lying beside him. He pulled the stopper. “Want some water?”

  “Yeah,” O’Brien said. He took a couple of sips and handed it back. “Thanks.”

  Harold pulled his extra bandanna from his haversack and poured some water on it. He folded it and laid it across O’Brien’s forehead. “How does that feel?”

  “God! That’s real good, Harold. Thank you,” O’Brien said weakly. He closed his eyes and drifted back into unconsciousness.

  Mulligan, close by, chuckled. “Say! Don’t youse two look like a coupla old hens clucking around him or what?”

  Harold looked at him. “What’s the matter, Mulligan? Haven’t you ever seen a human being show compassion or care for another one,”