They moved closer and the pair of Sioux simply watched in a bored fashion, gazing over the heads of their mounts. When the three got within effective rifle range, the Indians pulled on the reins of their horses and slowly rode away. After a last look at the army men, they disappeared.
“Let’s get back to the comp’ny,” Robertson said.
When they returned, Riker was anxious for a report. “What seem to be their intentions, Sergeant Robertson?”
“I don’t know for sure, sir,” the first sergeant answered. “They rode away when we got close enough to take shots at ’em. I reckon they’re just out keeping track of us.”
Riker stuck his field glasses back in the carrying case.
“The tribe is moving. None of the warriors wants to leave his women and children while they’re vulnerable. These two were probably sent out on a scout just to see what we were up to.”
“You’re right, sir,” Robertson said. “But once they’re settled into their new campgrounds, them braves is gonna be back here to settle the score.”
“Let’s keep it moving, Sergeant,” Riker said.
The commands were again shouted, and the soldiers of L Company stepped out again in their slow, agonizing trek.
Chapter Nineteen – Horsemeat and More Sweat
Mike Mulligan glanced ahead in the column where Tommy Saxon and Harold Devlin walked together. He had an overwhelming desire to join their company. The only thing that held him back was a sincere fear of rejection. That was something he’d never given a damn about before. If he said a word or two to somebody and they either ignored or snubbed him, he hadn’t much cared. In fact, he was used to such treatment from others and he generally shrugged it off. But this time, he really wanted to chat with someone. He felt an overwhelming need for human companionship and some sort of rapport with another person.
Finally he picked up his step a bit, increasing his stride until he was directly behind Tommy Saxon and Harold Devlin. “How many Indians was back there?” he asked, to make conversation. He waited for their reaction.
Tommy, surprised at this unusual behavior, answered, “We figure there wasn’t more’n two. We watched them and they watched us for a while and they rode away.”
“Yeah? What do you figger made ’em do that, huh?” Mulligan asked, as he pressed for more conversation.
Harold, as astonished as Tommy at Mulligan’s sudden socializing, slowed down to allow the New Yorker to catch up with them. “We don’t know. They seemed to be simply observing us.”
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Sergeant Robertson and Cap’n Riker seem to think the Indians are staying away from us long enough to move their families someplace.”
“I imagine that’s correct,” Harold said. “Our valiant leaders are of the opinion that these were young warriors sent out by the others.”
“I reckon they’re bachelors,” Tommy added.
“Yeah,” Mulligan said. A few moments passed while he tried to think of something to say. “I suppose the captain and the first sergeant should know more about Indians than anybody else in the comp’ny, huh?”
“Charlie O’Malley has a lot of knowledge,” Harold said. “And so does Mack Baker.”
“I reckon Cap’n Riker knows more’n all of ’em put together, though,” Tommy said. “Remember when he grabbed my rifle and shot Sergeant McCarey? He knew what would happen to him if he got took away alive.”
Everyone in L Company had gone through unconscious pains to avoid speaking of the awful situation. Mulligan’s artless conversation making had brought up a painful subject.
The New Yorker realized what he’d done. He wanted to keep up the friendly rapport with Tommy and Harold. His mind raced rapidly for a subject of conversation. “Hey, did youse know that Callan was a sergeant before youse come to the comp’ny?”
“I heard he was reduced in rank after telling off Lieutenant Worthington,” Harold said.
“I heard that, too,” Tommy added.
“Yeah. That’s the truth of it,” Mulligan said. “I seen it all wit’ me own peepers. Callan din’t like Worthington wort’ a shit.”
“What brought about the argument between them?” Harold asked.
“I t’ink it was over some inspections in the evening,” Mulligan said. “The lieutenant was allatime coming in the barracks and t’rowin’ surprise checks on our equipment. And he’d look to see if the floor of the billets was clean, and even if there was dust up on the rafters. Callan was gettin’ tired of that shit and wanted Worthington to stop doin’ it.”
“Lieutenant Worthington seemed to have the soul of a tyrant,” Harold remarked.
“He was driving us crazy,” Mulligan said. “He’d come in and tip over the bunks and yell. No matter how careful we was, he’d find something the matter.”
“It rather sounds like Callan stood up for his men,” Harold said.
“Sure he did,” Mulligan said. “But a lot o’ good it did him.”
They nodded and continued to trudge. “I’m hungry,” Tommy finally said.
“When is the last time we ate?” Harold wondered.
“Day before yestiday,” Mulligan said. “Maybe the cap’n will go hunting again, huh?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “At least I hope so.”
The three young soldiers fell back into silence. Mulligan’s thoughts turned inward. He remembered the tenderness and care shown O’Brien in his last hours. The New Yorker had rarely seen such concern or affection among human beings. Mulligan’s own mother had never as much as reached out and touched him, except to take a swat at his face when he’d done something to anger her.
Mulligan pondered the possibility of getting wounded. Everyone knew the chances of getting back to Fort Keogh were growing slimmer and slimmer. In actuality, Company L was on foot trying to outrun Indian horsemen. Even if they managed to pull off such a miracle, it would still mean that a few more of the soldiers were going to go down by way of Indian bullets or arrows.
The thief from the Bowery wondered what would happen if he was hurt. Would the fellows give him drinks from their canteens and wipe his face with wet bandannas to comfort him? Probably not. They’d take all his stuff, more than likely, and leave him somewhere to die alone. The best he could hope for would be to bounce around on the travois, ignored until he finally expired from bleeding to death. Nobody—not one single other soldier in the company—liked him a bit. A couple, like Mack Baker, actually hated him.
Such thoughts confused and disturbed Mulligan. He wasn’t used to pondering the consequences and effects of his actions. The possibility of quick and easy reward was always enough to justify his conduct. After another hour of walking and thinking, the reason behind this mental turmoil finally dawned on him.
He needed those other fellows.
And if they felt they didn’t need him, they wouldn’t mind abandoning him in the slightest. If he was a necessary or valuable part of the team, the company would never leave him behind as long as there was even the shallowest of breath in his body.
Mulligan made a momentous decision. He was going to make damned sure he became a significant and worthy member of Company L.
The next time they were attacked by Indians, he’d aim and shoot as carefully as possible in order to kill the maximum amount of Sioux. And he also vowed to keep an eye out for game. Perhaps if he sighted elk enough times, and the soldiers were able to fill their bellies, they would start to like him. Mulligan even daydreamed about them coming up to him and saying they were sorry that Schreiner and Baker had beat the shit out of him back at the bivouac on the Powder River.
“Company, halt.”
Riker’s loud shout broke into Mulligan’s reverie of forgiveness and friendship. The soldiers, instantly nervous, glanced around to see if something was the matter. When all seemed normal, they turned their attention to their company commander.
Riker waited until Callan and Harrigan came in from the flank. He waved at them. “Stay out a bit as pickets,” he ordere
d. “I want to have a talk with the men.”
“Do you want a formation, sir?” Robertson asked.
“No,” Riker said, shaking his head. “Everybody gather around and get comfortable. Sit down if you like, but I want you all to listen to me.”
The riflemen, curious about this unaccustomed happening, obeyed in the same manner in which they’d been walking—lethargically.
“I’ve noticed how tired you are,” Riker began his address. “The pace is falling off at an alarming rate. I know you’re tired, but I don’t want you to lose heart. We have a damned good chance of making it.”
There was more than one expression of skepticism on the faces of the soldiers.
“And I have a damned good reason for thinking we’ll march through that front gate at Fort Keogh,” Riker continued. “The Sioux are moving their villages. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. Perhaps another expedition has been sent out from the post. At any rate, the individual warriors have decided to stay with their families before going back on the warpath. That gives us a good breathing spell and a chance to move that much closer to Fort Keogh.”
Robertson roughly nudged a couple of the men who were dozing off.
“But the main reason we’re going to make it is the same reason the whites are going to win the West from the Sioux and their brothers. That rationale is based on the Indians’ lack of discipline. Nobody—no one chief—is in overall command. Now and then some individual takes charge of a particular war making effort on their part, but most of the time they do pretty much as they want to as individuals. Even guard duty around their camps is voluntary. They do no serious planning that they stick to. The Sioux squabble among themselves about those plans they do make. When they do decide to fight, they place too much emphasis on individual battle honors and not enough on accomplishing the overall mission.”
Harold Devlin, realizing he was listening to a man seasoned in both fighting and living among Indians, was attentive and interested. He stood up and went to the back of the group so he could see a bit better.
“Without that discipline—which we have—the Sioux, the Cheyenne, and other tribes that include even the Apaches, are sure to lose out in the fighting,” Riker said. “And, as I stated, that is the primary reason why the white man can take their land away from them.” He paused as he noted the men absorbing his words. “So we are going to buckle down and move rapidly and purposefully toward Fort Keogh. We shall do so in a calm but vigorous manner, strengthened by both our resolve and our discipline. After our return, we will rest, re-equip ourselves, and come back out here to beat hell out of those Indians.”
The men seemed to feel a bit better.
“I know you’re hungry,” Riker said. “But we can’t go hunting. It will slow us down too much.” He pointed to the horse. “That brave old soldier has one more duty to perform for the army. He’ll feed us.”
Robertson, knowing what to do, grabbed the horse and led him away a few yards. Without hesitating, he chambered a bullet and aimed at the animal. The shot exploded over the silence of the scene and the cavalry mount went to its knees, then struggled to get up. A second shot finished the job. “Baker!” Robertson yelled. “Donegan! Do the honors.” Pulling their large knives, the two veterans did a quick butchering. While that was being tended to, other men were sent to get dried limbs from the deadfall beneath the trees by the river. Hunks of meat were passed out and the men allowed to quickly roast them over a bonfire lit away from the woods.
Mike Mulligan, gnawing at a piece of meat on the end of a stick, walked over to the second squad. Mack Baker saw him and growled, “Get the hell outta here, you son of a bitch!”
“Let him stay,” Harold Devlin said in a serious tone.
“Sure,” Tommy said. “Why not?”
“Let bygones be bygones,” Harold added.
Baker, in no mood for an argument, shrugged. “Suit yourselves. I don’t give a shit no more.”
Mulligan was inwardly happy. He made a silent vow to do something nice for Tommy and Harold. They might just turn out to be his very first friends.
The rather slipshod and untidy mess call went on for less than a half hour. When the column moved out to renew their march, greasy horsemeat was stuffed both in their bellies and in haversacks.
The march continued for another two hours before dusk began to darken the sky. Riker would have liked to press on, but he knew the men had to stop. Their hunger was satisfied, but they needed rest badly. He picked a good defensive position in the nearby trees and moved L Company into it. Section and squad leaders quickly arranged their men and appointed the first guard relief. Those scheduled to stand watch first sighed wearily and braced themselves for the dreary hours ahead. The ones who could sleep immediately lay down and sank into the deep, dreamless slumber only hard physical exhaustion could bring on.
The exception was Mulligan. He seemed strangely agitated. Although slated for the second relief, he volunteered to stand the first for Mack Baker, in addition to his own turn on guard.
The old soldier was suspicious. “I ain’t paying you nothing for this, Mulligan.”
“I know,” Mulligan replied. “But I ain’t sleepy, see? So why should we both stay awake?”
Baker looked over at O’Malley. “Whattaya say, acting corp’ral?”
“It’s all right with me,” O’Malley said.
Baker, afraid a good thing might come to an end, quickly flopped down, using his haversack for a pillow. “Wish me sweet dreams, you son of a bitches!” he said happily.
Mike Mulligan stood with Charlie O’Malley as the moon came out. The pallid light dimly lit the landscape around them. “Y’know,” Mulligan said. “I was t’inking I might stay in the army.”
O’Malley gave him a hard look. “Maybe you’re learning something about comradeship, Mulligan.” He hadn’t failed to notice that the New Yorker had been friendly with Tommy Saxon and Harold Devlin.
“Yeah,” Mulligan said. “Ever’t’ing out here looks different, y’know? I mean it’s like I’ve joined me somet’in’.”
“You better stop stealing stuff,” O’Malley said coldly.
“Yeah. You’re right.”
O’Malley vaguely wondered if there had been a real change in the soldier. The possibility that he would quickly revert to his old self if they made it back to Fort Keogh was pretty certain. But nobody could really tell—only Mulligan.
The first two hours of guard duty ended with the rustle of men getting up and the usual yawning and sleepy muttering. Mack Baker, his Springfield rifle in hand, joined O’Malley and Mulligan.
“I’m off to beddy-bye,” O’Malley said. “You got your regular relief to stand now, Mulligan.”
“Sure. I’m fine,” Mulligan answered.
Baker settled in beside the thief. For a long time, they said nothing, only looking out into the open country in front of them. Finally, Mulligan spoke.
“Hey, you, Baker,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I lifted your watch.”
Baker’s mouth dropped open. But he said nothing.
The long hours of guard duty drifted on.
Chapter Twenty – A Soldier’s Seed
The smoke of the cook fires drifted slowly across the primitive bivouac through the heavy air of early morning. The men occupying the campsite were ragged and sleepy, going about their routine in lethargic, numb acceptance of the situation they were in. Several looked at rips and tears in shirts or trousers, trying to mend them with the small bits of thread left in their haversacks.
Mack Baker poured himself a cup of weak coffee from the communal pot shared by the members of the second squad. He paused, thoughtfully, then glanced over where Mike Mulligan was tying up his blanket roll. Several times he started to holler over to the New Yorker. But each time he changed his mind, finally, after one more hesitation, Baker called out:
“Mulligan!”
Mulligan, the brim of his worn and salt-encrusted campai
gn hat drooping over his rugged young face, looked over. “Yeah?”
“Why don’t you have some coffee?” Mack asked.
Tommy Saxon grinned. “Sure, Mulligan. C’mon and have a cup. It’s nice and hot.”
The gesture was not lost on the New Yorker. He felt a surge of emotion that choked off his words. He pulled his cup out of his haversack and walked over to the fire, saying nothing, but his hand holding the utensil trembled slightly.
Baker took his cup and filled it, handing it back. “There you go.”
Mulligan had never expressed gratitude to another human being in his life. The young soldier simply did not know how. He took a sip from the cup. “That’s good, fellahs.” One more gulp and he felt awkward at not being able to say what he meant. The best he could do was, “Well, I gotta get back and tie up that blanket roll.” He went over to his gear and squatted down, finishing off the cup with small swallows, savoring both the taste and the friendly gesture shown him. After sticking it in his haversack, he donned his equipment and joined the second squad.
O’Malley got the men on their feet and checked them out. After taking a look at his small, shabby command, he grinned. “Well, you ragamuffins, ain’t you a sight? Now, what would the post commander think if you ever showed up for a Sunday parade looking like this?”
Mulligan answered. “He’d make us stand downwind from the mules so’s they wouldn’t be offended.”
The squad exploded into laughter.
Baker slapped Mulligan on the shoulder. “Ain’t you a caution, though?”
Mulligan was surprised and pleased. No one had ever found anything he said amusing before. He liked the feeling.
Any further joking was interrupted by Sergeant Robertson’s command to form up the company. The other men obeyed dully, showing little life as they assembled in squad and section formations. Only Mike Mulligan seemed to show any enthusiasm. The second squad, their spirits lifted by the sudden laughter, stepped a bit livelier than the others. Mike Mulligan was the most active of the group. He took his spot in the squad, snapping to attention and bringing his rifle to a soldierly position of order arms.
Gunsmoke at Powder River (The Long-Knives #4) Page 20
