Gunsmith #362 : Buffalo Soldiers (9781101554388)

by Roberts, J. R.

  “Get outta here before I put you both on sentry duty,” he growled.

  The two younger men laughed and carried their beers up the stairs to the second floor.

  Jefferson sat alone, not bothering to look around him. He knew what he’d see. Tables of white faces, glaring at him. He didn’t care. He was used to the white man’s hatred. He had enough black man’s hatred to give right back to them, but he held it in check. If they hated him now, wait until he and Washington and the rest of the men got through with this town.

  He finished his beer and decided to walk around town. Although Sergeant Washington had told him their next job was in Kilkenny, Jefferson still didn’t know exactly what the job was. He was going to walk around town and try to guess, maybe stop someplace and get something to eat.

  And hope to stay out of trouble.

  Washington led the way, with Gordon and Franklin riding behind him. Jefferson was the only one of his men who he really talked to. The corporal was older than he was, and Washington made as much use as possible of the man’s experience.

  But the other men had to look to him as the leader, so the only time he spoke to them was to tell them what to do. He never asked for advice, or comments. Their job was to just follow orders.

  And not question him.

  Gordon and Franklin rode behind Washington, wondering what the man had on his mind. They also wondered where Edwards, Bush, and Davis were, if they were going to meet them in Kilkenny along with Jefferson and the others.

  “I still don’t think we been doin’ the right things, Gordo,” Franklin said.

  “What you wanna do, then?”

  “I think you and me gotta go out on our own,” Franklin said. “Get our own business done.”

  “You really think we can do better that way?”

  “Don’t nobody ask us what we think,” Franklin said, “ever. I would like to be treated like I was a man, just once.”

  “Yeah, but”—he lowered his voice—“Washington is the sergeant, ya’ll…”

  “Well, that’s another thing,” Franklin said. “Gordo, man, we ain’t even in the Buffalo Soldiers no more. We just wearin’ the jackets.”

  “Keep your voice down,” Gordon said. “He hears us talkin’ about goin’ out on our own and he’ll kill us.”

  “And I don’t need to be afraid that no man’s gonna kill me if’n I say somethin’ he don’t like,” Franklin said. “I swear, Gordo, this should be our last job with him.”

  Gordon didn’t know what to think, but he was glad when Franklin finally quieted down.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Clint and Reeves stopped to rest the horses. Actually, they stopped to rest Bass Reeves’s horse. Clint’s Darley Arabian could have gone on all day, and Reeves knew it.

  “That damn horse of yours don’t never get tired, does he?” the big black man asked.

  “I’ve never gotten to the bottom of him,” Clint said. “Not yet. I don’t even know if he has a bottom.”

  Reeves stroked his horse’s neck and spoke to him, telling him not to be intimidated by Eclipse.

  “You think he understands you?” Clint asked.

  “No, he don’t,” Reeves said. “He ain’t like your horse, but I figure I’ll talk to him anyway.”

  They drank from their canteens, hung them back on their saddles, and mounted up.

  “We’ll ride awhile longer and then camp,” Reeves said. “We’ll make Kilkenny by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Hopefully,” Clint said, “we’ll find what we’re looking for when we get there.”

  * * *

  Jefferson stood across the street from the bank, watching. It didn’t look like they did much of a business—at least not people walking in. It was a small building, probably had a small safe. This could not be the next job that Washington had been talking about. There had to be something else.

  He kept walking.

  Washington halted their progress by raising his gloved hand. Gordon and Franklin rode up on either side of him and reined in.

  “Where are we?” Gordon asked.

  “Kilkenny is over that rise,” Washington said.

  “That’s where we’re goin’, ain’t it?” Franklin asked.

  “Yeah,” Washington said, “that’s where we’re goin’.”

  “What’s the job?” Gordon asked. “What’s there?”

  “You’ll see,” Washington said. “You’ll both see when we get there.”

  “Are we goin’?” Gordon asked. “Now?”

  “In a minute,” Washington said, dismounting. “I want to rest my horse.”

  “Now?” Franklin asked.

  “Yes, now.”

  He walked his horse away from the two men, started checking his saddle, made sure the cinch was tight, let the horse take a breather—and looked behind them. As far as he could see, there was nobody there—but there was. He knew there was.

  Bass Reeves was there.

  He wondered what Reeves would think when he saw him.

  “Bass?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you think of anyone who would do this?” Clint asked. “Any Buffalo Soldier you ever knew who might use his training, and his men, to do something like this?”

  They were riding along at an easy pace, side by side, probably less than an hour from stopping for the night.

  “I been thinkin’ about that,” Reeves said. “Askin’ myself the same question.”

  “You come up with an answer?”

  “No,” Reeves said. “The Soldiers I knew were honest, decent men.”

  “No angry men?”

  Reeves smiled tightly.

  “We’re black men, Clint,” he said. “We’re all angry.”

  “Even you?”

  “I said ‘we,’ ” Reeves answered.

  Clint let the subject go.

  They camped. All they had left was some water in their canteens, and a few pieces of beef jerky. They had not stopped in any town to restock.

  “If they’re not in Kilkenny,” Clint said, “we’ll have to do some shopping.”

  “Then we will,” Reeves said. “We’ll keep huntin’ until we catch ’em.”

  “What about Judge Parker?”

  “What about him?”

  “Won’t he wonder where you are?”

  “No,” Reeves said. “If his deputies are not in town, he assumes they are out doin’ their jobs.”

  “You could send him a telegram, tell him where we are, what we’re doing.”

  “He would wonder why I am doin’ that,” Reeves said. “No, there’s no need.”

  “What if one of his deputies never comes back?” Clint asked.

  “He assumes they are dead.”

  “Without proof?”

  “The fact that they didn’t come back is all the proof he needs.”

  “I guess…”

  After a few minutes Reeves said, “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “How many times has the Judge asked you to wear a badge?”

  “Too many to count.”

  “And you always say no.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  “Haven’t we talked about this before?” Clint asked.

  “About why you don’t wear a badge anymore,” Reeves said. “But why do you keep turning down the Judge?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Clint said. “I don’t like him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure,” Clint said. “Maybe it’s because he doesn’t require proof before assuming one of his men is dead.”

  Washington and his men rode into Kilkenny just before dark. They stopped in front of the hotel. Washington gave his horse to Gordon, told them both to take care of the mounts.

  “Both of us?” Franklin asked.

  “Yeah, both of you.”

  They rode off toward the livery.

  Washington went into the hotel. Jefferson was sitting in the lobby, waiting.
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br />   “Where are the others?” Washington asked.

  “In their rooms, or in a whorehouse, one of the two,” Jefferson said.

  “Do I have a room?”

  Jefferson nodded and handed him a key. Gordon and Franklin would get their own room when they came in.

  “Are you sure Reeves will come?” Jefferson asked.

  “I’m sure,” Washington said. “Ain’t you?”

  “I think so,” Jefferson said, “and I hope so, but—”

  “Don’t worry,” Washington said, putting his hand on the other man’s arm, “I’m sure.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Clint woke Reeves in the morning and said, “Let’s go to Kilkenny for breakfast.”

  “Suits me,” Reeves said.

  They saddled up, and within two hours, they were riding into Kilkenny, Kansas. It was a small town, and Clint wondered what could possibly interest the Buffalo Soldier Bandits—as he had come to think of them—in this town.

  “They got a bank,” Reeves said as they rode past it.

  “Kind of small, though.”

  Reeves nodded.

  They rode a little farther and Reeves said, “Two hotels, two saloons.”

  “We’ll pick one of each later,” Clint said, “but maybe we should talk to the local law first.”

  “Right.”

  They found the sheriff’s office and reined in.

  “You better do the talking,” Clint said as they dismounted. “You’ve got the badge.”

  “Yeah, you keep remindin’ me,” Reeves said. “You sure you don’t want me to hide it?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I think it’s important the sheriff sees it—oh, yeah, you were joking. You do it so rarely I didn’t notice.”

  Reeves gave him a look, and they mounted the boardwalk in front of the office.

  Across the street a black man stood in the shadows, watched Clint and Reeves enter the sheriff’s office. Then he came out of the shadows and hurried down the street.

  Sergeant Lemuel Washington nursed his beer, sitting across from Corporal Jefferson. Three of the other four—Franklin, Weatherby, and Webster—were elsewhere. Their only instructions were to stay out of sight.

  The batwings opened and Private Gordon entered, walking fast. He hurriedly joined Washington and Jefferson at the table.

  “They’re here,” he said.

  “Are you sure?” Jefferson asked.

  “Yeah,” Gordon said, “one of them was a great big black man.”

  “Reeves,” Washington said.

  “And the other man was white.”

  “Don’t know who that is,” Washington said, “but it don’t matter. As long as Bass Reeves is here.”

  “So what are we gon’ do now?” Jefferson asked.

  After Private Edwards—who Washington was sure was dead—Jefferson was the oldest of the men, and the sergeant often looked to him for advice.

  “Gordon,” Washington said, “get yourself a beer.”

  “Yessir. Don’t got to tell me that twice.”

  “Then sit by yourself and drink it.”

  “Uh, okay, yessir.”

  “Now!” Washington said.

  Gordon got up and walked to the bar.

  “What are we gonna do now?” Washington asked. “I’m gonna talk to ’im.”

  “Talk to Bass Reeves?” Jefferson said. “You sure that’s smart?”

  “I want him to know,” Washington said. “I want him to know it’s me.”

  “But—”

  “Ain’t no buts, Corporal,” Washington said. “That’s part of all this, that Bass Reeves ends up knowin’ it’s me behind all this.”

  “Don’t you think,” Jefferson said, “we should find who’s with him before we make a move?”

  Washington frowned.

  “You’re probably right,” he said, “but I can do that at the same time. After all, I’m just gonna talk to him first.”

  “When you gon’ do that?”

  “I guess,” Washington said, “as soon as he cuts into a nice juicy steak.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Sheriff Harry Riggs,” the lawman said after Reeves introduced himself. “Glad ta meet you, Deputy. I heard a lot about you.”

  “This here’s Clint Adams, he’s ridin’ with me,” Reeves said.

  Now Riggs’s eyes really widened.

  “The Gunsmith?” he said. “In my town?”

  “We’re trackin’ some men,” Reeves said. “The trail has led us here.”

  “Well, have a seat,” Riggs said. He lowered his bulk into his chair. He wasn’t fat, but he was so barrel-chested his chair creaked in protest.

  Reeves and Clint remained standing.

  “We’re lookin’ for black men,” Reeves said. “Either three of ’em, or six.”

  “Three or six?”

  “There’s two groups, but they may have joined up,” Reeves said.

  “Well,” Riggs said, “we got some black men in town, but I don’t think you’d be trackin’ them.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “These here fellas is Buffalo Soldiers,” Riggs said.

  Clint and Reeves exchanged a glance, then looked back at the sheriff, who was sure that settled that…

  Washington caught Gordon’s eyes and waved him over. The man hurried to join them, carrying his beer.

  “Finish that up,” Washington said.

  “Yessir!” Gordon thought his sergeant wanted him to finish so the man could buy him another beer.

  “I want you to find the others,” Washington said instead. “I want you to make sure that you, and they, stay out of sight until you hear from me, or from the corporal. Understand?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, you don’t have to understand,” Jefferson said. “Just do it.”

  “Yessir. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Then go!” Jefferson said.

  “Sir!”

  The man hurried out of the saloon.

  “If they’re talkin’ to the sheriff, he’s gon’ tell him we’re here, ya know.”

  “I know,” Washington said. “I’m countin’ on it.”

  Jefferson shook his head and drank some of his beer. Washington was just looking off into the distance.

  * * *

  “Buffalo Soldiers?” the sheriff said. “Robbing bank? Shootin’ folks?”

  “That’s the way it looks,” Reeves said.

  “Well, I find that hard to believe,” Riggs Said. “And if they was, what’re they doin’ out in the open here in Kilkenny?”

  “We’re in Kansas,” Reeves said. “They been doin’ all their dirty work in the Territories.”

  “You sure it’s these fellers?” Riggs asked.

  “That’s what we’re here to find out, Sheriff,” Clint said.

  “Well,” Riggs said, looking distressed, “I’ll do what I can to help you…”

  “Do you have any deputies?”

  “No,” Riggs said, “we’re a small town. There’s just me.”

  “Have you spoken with these men?” Reeves asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t see no reason to,” Riggs said. “They’re Buffalo Soldiers. I figured if they needed my help, they’d ask.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “that would make sense if they were still Buffalo Soldiers.”

  “They’re not?” Riggs asked. “They’re wearin’ the jackets.”

  Clint and Reeves remained silent and exchanged a look.

  “What is it?” Riggs asked.

  “Just a thought that we both had,” Clint said. He looked at Reeves again, who nodded. “If these are the men we’re looking for,” Clint said, “we assumed they were no longer Buffalo Soldiers.”

  “But now you think…”

  “If they are still Buffalo Soldiers,” Reeves said, “then this is even worse than I thought.”

  “We should check,” Clint said. “Do you have a telegraph in town?”

&
nbsp; “No.”

  “We don’t have any names,” Reeves said. “We’ll have to do it another way.”

  “How?” Riggs asked.

  “We’ll ask ’em.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “So where do we go now?” Jefferson asked.

  “I go nowhere,” Washington said. “I’ll just wait here for Bass Reeves to find me.”

  “And what do I do?”

  “I want you to keep an eye on the white man with Reeves,” Washington said. “They’ll probably come in here together. You let me do the talkin’, and you just watch. If the white man makes a move, you kill him. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “And go slow with the beer,” the sergeant said. “Just nurse one. I don’t want you drunk when they get here.” Washington slapped Jefferson on the shoulder. “This is goin’ the way we planned, Corporal.”

  Actually, Jefferson thought, this was going the way Washington had planned. Jefferson had just come along for the ride, like the others. For money, because they were tired of doing the white man’s work for peanuts.

  “Okay, Sarge,” he said. “Okay.”

  * * *

  Reeves and Clint left the sheriff’s office, stopped just outside by their horses.

  “How do you want to play this?” Clint asked.

  Reeves thought a moment.

  “If they rode into town bold as brass with their Buffalo Soldier jackets on, then they’re expectin’ us to find them.”

  “You think they’re waiting for us?”

  Reeves nodded.

  “Then they’re probably in one of the saloons,” Clint said.

  “Probably.”

  “Which one you want to try first?”

  “None,” Reeves said. “Let’s make them wait for us. We’ll take care of the horses, get our hotel rooms, and something to eat. Then we’ll go and find them.”

  “Unless they find us first.”

  “They might do that,” Reeves said, “but back when three of them ambushed us, they all could’ve done it. They probably could’ve killed us then.”

  “But they didn’t want to.”

  “No,” Reeves said. “They wanna talk to us.”

  “To you,” Clint said. “They want to talk to you. They probably don’t even know who I am.”

  “You’re right,” Reeves said. “That’s good. We won’t tell them who you are until we have to.”