Action at Beecher Island: A Novel

by Brown, Dee

The train was an empty work shuttle headed east for supplies. Its crewmen wasted no time helping Grover aboard. They made a canvas pallet for him in a freight car, and waited patiently for him to gather enough strength to tell his story. They also had news for him. Hostile Indians had struck an advance work camp of the railroad, wounding several of the construction crew, and there were rumors of other raids across the Colorado line.

  Late that afternoon the train rolled to a stop beside the water tank near Fort Hays, and Grover dropped down on the graveled platform. His swollen shoulder throbbed and he felt hot with fever, but he had regained some of his strength. With a wave of thanks to the train crew, he started in a fast walk for the station down the track.

  In front of the telegraph office, a lieutenant sat propped in a chair. He glanced twice at Grover before recognizing him. “Sharp!” he called, and rocked forward to his feet. “What happened to you?”

  “I’ll tell you as soon as you clear a telegraph line to Fort Wallace.”

  “You ought to see a surgeon first.” The lieutenant stared at the dried blood on Grover’s buckskins and undershirt.

  “You send a message to Lieutenant Beecher, then I’ll see a sawbones.”

  The lieutenant held the door open. Inside, a signal corporal was jotting down a message coming in dots and dashes over a chattering sounder in front of him. Grover and the lieutenant stood patiently for a minute or so until the sound stopped.

  “Another Indian raid on Pond Creek,” the corporal said. “Killed a woman and two children. General Sheridan is ordering all spare troops to move out of Hays.”

  The lieutenant took the message sheet, read it, and shook his head. “Nothing left in here now but a garrison guard. Corporal, clear your line to Fort Wallace. Sharp Grover here has an urgent message for Lieutenant Beecher.”

  Grover sat down in a cane-bottomed chair offered him by the lieutenant and began telling the corporal what he wanted in the message. When he finished, the lieutenant was gone but he reappeared in a few moments. “I told my messenger to round up a surgeon for you.”

  Grover leaned back in the chair, letting his tired muscles relax. His shoulder felt as if it had a red hot poker in it.

  Half an hour passed before the messenger returned with a doctor.

  “What took you so long?” the lieutenant growled.

  “All post surgeons are in the field, sir,” the messenger replied. “I found a civilian doc in Hays City.”

  The doctor pushed his way inside and dropped his leather bag on the floor in front of Grover’s chair. He had Mooers. “You must be the wounded scout.”

  Grover leaned forward to let Mooers assist in removing his buckskin and undershirt. With gentle fingers the doctor examined the wound. “Bullet went clean through. You’re lucky. A little carbolic acid, Mr. Grover. It’ll burn a bit.”

  After strapping bandages around the shoulder, Mooers smiled. “A week in bed, and you’ll be good as new.”

  The corporal swung around on his swivel chair. “Reply to your message, Mr. Grover.”

  “What does it say?”

  “ ‘Grieved to hear of Bill Comstock’s death. General Sheridan has ordered cavalry to Solomon Valley to pursue Turkey Leg’s band. Will try to recover Comstock’s body. General Sheridan orders you to report to Fort Wallace immediately. Fred Beecher, Lieutenant.’ ”

  Grover nodded. “When’s the next train west?”

  “Six o’clock in the morning,” the lieutenant answered. “Didn’t you inform Beecher you were badly wounded?”

  “No.” Grover’s teeth showed in a flash of a smile. “I can rest up on that train.”

  Dr. Mooers shook his head. “You ought to be in hospital, Mr. Grover. That bullet may have got a piece of your lung.”

  “Bill Comstock’s dead,” Grover replied bitterly. “I figure I owe him, all I can do, and that’s to help the Army punish his killers. The Army needs me at Fort Wallace.”

  Late the next day, Grover was on the regular stage when it stopped in front of the post trading store at Fort Wallace. Lieutenant Beecher was waiting for him.

  Beecher frowned when he saw the scout’s arm in a sling. “You didn’t tell me about that,” he said accusingly.

  “Nothing but a scratch,” Grover replied.

  “You sure? You look pale around the eyes, Sharp.”

  “Too much sleep, I reckon.”

  “All right. Something big is in the wind for the scouts. I have orders to report with you to Major Sandy Forsyth.”

  3

  Major George (Sandy) Forsyth

  August 24–25, 1868

  MAJOR GEORGE (SANDY) FORSYTH was a handsome square-jawed man in his early thirties, a veteran of four years of Civil War and three years of uneasy peace in the South and West. Except for a mustache his face was clean-shaven, and he wore his straw-colored hair much shorter than most frontier officers. His large expressive eyes betrayed his impatience as he glanced frequently at a ticking clock on the wall of Colonel Bankhead’s office.

  Bankhead, who was studying a map spread over his desk top, looked up at him. “I believe I hear the stagecoach coming in now, Sandy,” he said.

  Forsyth strode to a window and stared across the parade ground. “Sure enough, there it is, half an hour late as usual.” He frowned. “Sharp was on it all right, but his arm’s in a sling.”

  Bankhead joined him at the window. “Don’t worry about that. It would take more than a winged arm to stop Grover.”

  In less than five minutes there was a knock on the door and in response to Bankhead’s gruff “come in,” Lieutenant Beecher and Grover entered. The colonel kept his seat, but reached for a tin pitcher and poured two glasses of water. “You could probably do with stronger stuff, Sharp, but at least this is chilled from our ice-house.” Grover picked up a glass and drank thirstily.

  “Why didn’t you inform us you’d been wounded?” the major asked, and then without waiting for a reply waved the scout and the lieutenant to a battered bench against the wall. “General Sheridan asked me to express his regrets to you personally, concerning your friend Bill Comstock.”

  Grover shook his head. “Bill didn’t have a chance. Hostile Cheyennes had us ringed in. It was near dark, but I’m pretty sure Two Crows was leading the bunch.”

  “Two Crows?” Bankhead’s face showed surprise. “He was with Roman Nose’s outlaw band last year, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s right, Colonel.”

  “Then Roman Nose must be somewhere around.”

  “I figger so.” Grover shifted slightly on the bench to ease his wounded shoulder.

  “Does that arm pain you?” Forsyth asked.

  “I’ve had worse, Major.”

  Forsyth smiled faintly. “I suppose there’s no need my going into the reasons why I want to see you and Fred Beecher. You both know that Indian attacks are increasing every day. We’re so short of troops out here we can’t protect the railroad work crews or the settlers. We’ll have to try something new, and try it fast.”

  “Are no more troops to be assigned this department, sir?” Beecher asked quickly.

  “Not even a company,” Forsyth replied. “General Sheridan and I have discussed every possibility. We finally decided on this as a starter.” He drew a folded sheet of yellow paper from his blouse pocket and held it out to Beecher. “The general issued the order much quicker than I expected him to, but that’s his way. I’d like to know frankly what you and Sharp Grover think of the practicalities.”

  Beecher unfolded the yellow flimsy and read the order aloud:

  Major George H. Forsyth: The general commanding directs that you, without delay, employ fifty first-class hardy frontiersmen, to be used as scouts against the hostile Indians, to be commanded by yourself, with Lieutenant Beecher, 3rd Infantry, your subordinate. You can enter into such articles of agreement with these men as will compel obedience.

  As he finished, Beecher gave Forsyth a look of admiration. “A splendid idea, sir. I shall be honored to serve i
n your command.” He smiled. “This certainly proves there’s more than one way to raise a company of soldiers.”

  “Not soldiers, Lieutenant. Scouts. We’re not authorized to recruit soldiers, so let’s not forget to keep this within regulations.” Forsyth’s eyes twinkled. “What do you think, Mr. Grover? We’re counting on you to ride as chief of scouts.”

  Grover replied slowly, as though choosing his words carefully: “I reckon you can round up fifty good scouts, Major, but they won’t likely take to having commands shouted at them. Some of the best of these fellows have done their army time in the war, and they don’t want no more of a uniform. You find a good scout, you also find a pretty independent codger. Got his own notions about doing things. Plain ornery sometimes.”

  “How about you?”

  “Oh, count me in on it, if Fred Beecher’s the lieutenant.”

  “Good. Now I think we’d better clear up a few points. In the first place, Mr. Grover, the scouts will wear what they please. No uniforms. Our primary purpose will be to locate the main camps of these small bands of hostiles who are doing all the raiding. If challenged by war parties, we shall fight them, but our main objective is to locate their big camps. Once they are located, I shall dispatch scouts to the nearest forts to bring up enough soldiers to defeat or force these hostiles to surrender. As it is now we have companies marching all over the plains searching for Indians but traveling so slowly and stirring up so much dust and noise that the Indians constantly elude them. When our soldiers do pick up a fresh trail and start in pursuit, the marauders separate, turn off by twos and threes from the main party and scatter. They’re tricky and dangerous, and have more and better horses than our cavalry. Our green troopers can beat them any time in a standup fight, but they don’t know enough about prairie craft to go after the hostiles in twos and threes. For the same reason they’re not much good at courier work, either. We need men who know the country, who know how the Indian fights as an individual. You see what I’m driving at?”

  Beecher was leaning forward, listening intently. “Yes, sir,” he answered. Grover squinted at the ceiling a moment, and drawled: “Suppose we do find a hostile village, Major? Them Indians are not going to just sit in their lodges while our messengers go riding for soldiers. Wild bucks get mighty touchy when their squaws are in danger. They’ll either come out and fight us or break camp and skedaddle fast.”

  “If they attack us,” Forsyth replied, “we’ll defend ourselves, until help comes. If they run, we’ll keep on their tails and keep the soldiers informed where they are.”

  Still nodded his head, the scout eased his wounded shoulder against the back of the bench. “Might be worth a try at that.”

  Colonel Bankhead spoke for the first time: “It strikes me as about the only way we can stop them, Sharp. And we have to do it quickly. Every settler and rancher, every workman in the railroad construction camps has heard of Roman Nose’s boast that he and his Dog Soldiers will stop the iron horse or die in the attempt. Two or three more dirty raids, and the railroad builders will pack up and go, and not another foot of rail will be laid.”

  Grover’s only indication that he had been listening was a loud sigh. “Course you can’t blame them buffalo-hunting Dog Soldiers—”

  The major’s voice cut in harshly: “If you don’t think our plan will work—” A knock on the door interrupted his retort.

  “Come in!” Colonel Bankhead shouted.

  A tall man with a bushy beard stood in the open doorway. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked apologetically.

  “No, no.” Forsyth arose quickly. “Come in, McCall.”

  “Your messenger just now found me,” the tall man explained. “We were out in the hayfield.”

  Forsyth introduced the new arrival to the others. “William McCall outranks all of us,” he said. “He was breveted a brigadier general during the last Virginia campaign.”

  McCall shrugged. “Out here, Civil War rank doesn’t carry much weight unless you’re in uniform.”

  Lieutenant Beecher made room for him on the bench, and asked: “Weren’t you back at Fort Harker early in the summer?”

  “Yes, I was clerking in the sutler’s store. We unemployed generals take our work where we can find it.”

  Forsyth drew a pipe from his pocket and began tamping tobacco into the bowl. “I hope you’ve decided to come in with us, McCall.”

  The veteran of Virginia campaigning rubbed his fingers over his unkempt beard. “I suppose I’ll have to give this brush a military cut, Major. As I see it, better a first sergeant than a forgotten general.”

  “Excellent!” Forsyth lighted his pipe, puffing out a cloud of smoke.

  Colonel Bankhead applauded by slapping his desk top with the palm of his hand. “Gentlemen, may I offer my congratulations and best wishes to the staff of Sandy Forsyth’s Scouts. Major Forsyth, Lieutenant Beecher, First Sergeant McCall, and Chief of Scouts Grover.”

  “Thank you, sir,” replied Forsyth, “and thank you, gentlemen. General Sheridan will be delighted when he learns how quickly you’ve all responded.” He pointed his pipe stem at Grover. “Even though our chief of scouts seems to have some reservations.”

  “I told you, Major, I thought it was worth a try.” Grover’s tone was peevish. “Could I have another drink of that cold water?”

  Forsyth reached for the tin pitcher, and when he handed the glass to Grover he peered closely at the scout’s face and then gently touched a hand against his forehead. “You’re burning up with fever, Mr. Grover. Come along, we’re going to the hospital.”

  Next afternoon after a dreary ride on one of the railroad’s work trains, Major Forsyth, Lieutenant Beecher, and First Sergeant McCall established a recruiting office in the quartermaster warehouse at Fort Harker. Sharp Grover, although protesting vigorously, had finally agreed to remain for a week in the Fort Wallace hospital. It was he who suggested Fort Harker as a recruiting station because of the large number of buffalo hunters, teamsters, bullwhackers, and scouts who used it as a base.

  Forsyth had telegraphed ahead to the post commander, announcing the plan to organize a company of scouts. Before former Brigadier General McCall could trim his beard, get fitted for a new sergeant’s uniform, and obtain a muster-book with pen and ink, more than a dozen hard-bitten plainsmen were gathered outside the warehouse, eager to volunteer. They were of all ages, from unbearded youths to grizzled veterans, and they were dressed in everything from jeans to buckskins and leather breeches.

  Inviting them all inside, the major patiently explained the purposes of the scouting company. “We have no authority to enlist you into the Army,” he continued, “but General Sheridan has obtained funds to employ fifty scouts at seventy-five dollars per month if you furnish your own horse, fifty dollars per month if the Army furnishes the horse. If your horse is worn out or killed in service you will be paid full value for it. Only Lieutenant Beecher, Sergeant McCall, and I will wear uniforms. Scouts will dress as they please. The Army will furnish rations and equipment for men, forage for mounts. Each scout will be issued a Spencer seven-shot repeating carbine and a Colt Army revolver. Any questions?”

  One man wanted to know how long they would be in service. “No definite term,” Forsyth replied. “But we’ll expect every man to stay with us and obey orders of the officers as long as we’re scouting in the field.” There were no more questions, and none of the prospective recruits made any move to leave. “All right, men, line up in front of Sergeant McCall’s table. Lieutenant Beecher probably knows all of you or has heard of you. He’ll choose the men he wants.”

  Beecher, who had been sitting on a wooden ammunition box, arose and limped along the line. He reached out to touch one man on the shoulder. “Dave, you couldn’t last two days with this outfit and you know it.” The man grinned sheepishly. “If you say so, Lieutenant. No harm trying.” He dropped out and started for the door. Beecher stopped suddenly beside another applicant, leaning close to him. “Anderson, if you come
in here sober tomorrow, we might give you a second chance.” The man protested, but Beecher turned his back on him. “All right, Sergeant McCall, muster in the rest of them.”

  A young boy dressed in a fringed jacket, a pair of faded Kentucky jeans, and well-worn army boots appeared suddenly in the doorway near where Major Forsyth was standing. He had bright blue eyes and long auburn hair which fell over his forehead in curls. Removing his dusty wide-brimmed hat, he asked politely: “Is this where they’re enlisting men for Major Forsyth’s Scouts?”

  Forsyth nodded, barely suppressing a smile. “Who do you want to see, son? I’m Major Forsyth.”

  The boy blinked his eyes. “I’d like to join on, sir.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Fifteen or sixteen would be closer to the truth, wouldn’t it?”

  Shaking his head, the boy insisted he was nineteen. Lieutenant Beecher turned to look at him, and asked: “What’s your name?”

  “Simpson Stilwell, but most folks call me Jack.”

  “Have you ever scouted for the Army?”

  “Last summer. Out of Fort Dodge.”

  “You’ve also hunted buffalo with Pete Trudeau?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Beecher glanced at Forsyth. “I’ve seen the lad around, Major. He might do.”

  “With those curls he looks like a girl,” Forsyth replied sharply. “Can he ride and shoot?”

  Young Stilwell held himself proudly erect. “As well or better than any of those fellows over there.”

  Forsyth frowned at Beecher. “If that boy is nineteen I’m old enough to be retired from service.” He hesitated a moment. “All right Mr. Jack Stilwell, you bring your horse around here in the morning at seven o’clock on the dot. We’ll have a look at what you can do.”

  The boy grinned and pushed his hat down over his mass of curly hair. “Thanks, Major, I’ll he here as sure as my name’s Jack Stilwell.”

  4

  Jack Stilwell

  August 26–27