Crossed Arrows (A Long-Knives Western Book 1)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “You will be back in your own little room, Ludlow,” Mrs. Dooley said.

  “You don’t understand,” Ludlow protested.

  “Come, Margaret,” Dooley said, taking his wife’s arm and tugging her to her feet. “Let’s leave this madness.”

  Mrs. Dooley, being pulled away by her husband, looked back at Ludlow and waved. “We’ll see you soon, dear.”

  Ludlow sat at the table for a long time, unaware of the people around him as he pondered what had just happened. This was decision time. He knew that his father had the money and influence to get him out of the Army; West Point graduate or not. The question now was did he break ties with his family and pursue the career he had always wanted. If he left the Army, his record at the academy would preclude him from ever getting back in the service. On the other hand, if he disobeyed his father, he knew he would never be able to return home to New York City.

  Ludlow got up from the table and walked slowly back toward his quarters, a very lonely, sad, gawky, unmilitary-looking figure.

  When Ludlow got to his room in the cadet barracks, he pulled off the cross belt and tossed it on his bed. An army blue uniform complete with the blank shoulder straps of a second lieutenant was spread cross the bare mattress. Ludlow picked up the cap, staring at the crossed sabers pinned to the front.

  “That means cavalry in all cases but mine,” he said to himself. “I’ll be going to a newly formed unit as the lowest man in my graduating class.” Ludlow set the cap on his head, and went to the room’s full-length mirror, staring at his reflection. “Maybe father’s right,” he murmured.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his roommate Donald Chesterson who was at the top of the class. The other cadets all looked up to him for his savoir faire, good looks and deep intellect. They also thought it ironic that he have someone like Ludlow Dooley as a roommate.

  Chesterson began pulling off his West Point uniform. “Well, we won’t be wearing these again, hey, old man?”

  “I guess not,” Ludlow said.

  “Say, I couldn’t help but notice your parents yelling at you. I hope it wasn’t anything serious.”

  “No,” Ludlow said sadly. “Father just made me feel as if I’ve been wasting my life and haven’t accomplished a thing.”

  “It’s because you’re going to that new outfit, isn’t it?” Chesterson observed. He picked up his own new army cap that bore the insignia of the Corps of Engineers. “You should have studied harder, old man. I told you that many times during the past four years.” He began to change into his new army blues. “You just didn’t concentrate enough, Dooley.”

  “I guess I should have done a lot of things differently,” Ludlow admitted. “I fear I’m not going to amount to much no matter what course I choose to follow. In the Army I’ll serve in an isolated, unpopular unit. If I choose to be a civilian I’ll have to be an engineer and build bridges and things. I hate engineering! So I’ll end up living off the charity of my father with a useless job in his bank.”

  “A lot of fellows would be happy to trade places with you,” Chesterson quipped.

  “Maybe it’s time for me to do something,” Ludlow said. “You know, really do something! Like take an unfortunate situation and work it into a triumph.”

  “Listen, Ludlow, old man, you’re a nice chap, really,” Chesterson said. “But I’ve seen you struggle with your studies, get beaten senseless in the boxing ring, fall off horses, be refused dances at the cadet hops, and God knows what other terribly embarrassing things. Chuck it all and go with your father. It’s for the best, believe me.” Chesterson finished dressing and checked himself in the mirror. “Well, I’ll send an orderly to finish my packing and pick up my things. So long, old chap, and best of luck, hey?”

  Ludlow watched him leave, then turned his attention back to his own set of army blues. After a few moments he slowly began to take off the cadet gray. Five minutes later he stood in a full U.S. Army officer’s uniform bearing the rank that his country had bestowed on him: Second Lieutenant of Cavalry. He walked up to the mirror and stared at his reflection. After a moment he saw more than himself. His concentration fell on the uniform and everything it stood for. Officers wearing army blue were not supposed to falter or whimper. They made up their minds, by God, and charged ahead.

  Ludlow saluted himself and assumed a determined expression on his face. “Indian Territory, here I come. Ready or not.”

  Chapter Three

  It was a late spring afternoon at the Kiowa-Comanche Agency School, and the teacher Miss Kristina Halverson had just dismissed her class for the day. She stood in the door of the frame building, watching the children heading for home after a day of learning.

  Some of the boys rode horses, but most of the kids walked as they made their way across the prairie in small groups. Their people’s customs included the habit of never doing anything singly unless absolutely necessary. Such activities as the men making war or hunting; the women working together skinning game, erecting lodges or going outside the village to gather eatable flora were all collective efforts. This was not social protocol; the tradition was based on security and survival.

  Kristina’s student body was made up of two dozen Kiowa and Comanche children ranging in age from six to fourteen. They lived on farms established on Indian lands granted their families as part of treaties made a dozen years earlier when both tribes had been beaten down by the U.S. Army. Rather than being confined to a reservation, the Indians were given their own land after agreeing to follow the “White Man’s Road” and become farmers. Most of the students could still remember the old days when their nomadic people followed the buffalo, and the young men were all warriors who went raiding and fought pitched battles against soldiers and tribal enemies.

  ~*~

  Kristina Halverson was a twenty-five-year-old spinster of Norwegian ancestry who had been born, raised and educated in Minnesota. She stood two inches over five feet and had the solid body of a Scandinavian farm woman, with a feminine muscularity that gave her figure an attractive shape that even a long dress couldn’t completely hide. Her hair, always worn in a bun, was flaxen and her blue eyes were striking in their brightness that complimented her Nordic features.

  Kristina had been a superb student in the little country school she attended, and her scholastic record impressed the local Lutheran minister enough that he and his wife loaned her the money to attend Gustavus Adolphus College in Saint Peter. Her father groused about his daughter going to a prominently Swedish institution, but smothered his Norwegian pride and allowed her to enroll as an undergraduate. He recognized that because of Kristina’s superior intellect, she would never be happy as a farmwife. Guttorm Halverson loved his daughter, and wanted her to have the kind of life she desired.

  Kristina did well in her college studies, and earned a liberal arts degree after four years. She reasoned that as an educated woman she should see as much of the world as possible to expand her practical knowledge. Even though her gender limited her employment to that of schoolteacher, the profession offered opportunities to work in almost any part of the country she chose. Thus, after graduation, she decided to apply for a teaching position through the U.S. Government rather than the state of Minnesota. Kristina went to the Federal Building in nearby Minneapolis, and made application for a government job in education. The result was an opportunity for employment she had not expected. She was offered a position at the Kiowa-Comanche Agency School in the vicinity of Fort Lone Wolf, Indian Territory. Kristina found the prospect of teaching Indian children fascinating, and she happily accepted the job.

  ~*~

  Now, with the day’s work done, Kristina started to go back into the schoolhouse when she saw a sight that did not please her. A buckboard, driven by a soldier, approached and in the back seat sat no less a personage than Mrs. Colonel Daphne Bennington. She was the wife of Colonel John Bennington the commander of the garrison and cavalry regiment stationed at Fort Lone Wolf. The vehicle came up to
the porch and was brought to a halt. The soldier was an old professional private whose loyalty and dependability had earned him a soft job in the twilight of his thirty-year career. He climbed down from the seat, and helped the Mrs. Colonel to the ground.

  “Hello, Miss Halverson,” the Mrs. Colonel said. “I apologize for arriving unannounced, but there are several important matters I must discuss with you.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” Kristina said in her accent that gave evidence of both the upper Midwest as well as the influence of the Norwegian language she spoke in Minnesota. “Please come in.”

  The two women went inside where Kristina sat down at her desk while the stout woman settled onto a nearby chair. The Mrs. Colonel had been a beauty in her youth, but now that comeliness had fleshed out into the appearance of a plump dowager.

  “What can I do for you, Mrs. Bennington?”

  “There are a few things that I have noticed, Miss Halverson. I hope you will accept my remarks in the spirit in which they are given.”

  “I suppose we shall have to see,” Kristina said.

  “The last time I was at the agency trading post, I saw some of your students who were hanging about. At least they were pointed out to me by the agent Mr. Jordon that they attended school here.”

  “I am sure Mr. Jordon was correct,” Kristina said. “He knows all the Indians at the agency.”

  “Well, Miss Halverson, there were two things that disturbed me about the children. The first was that the majority of boys were wearing their hair in braids.”

  “I believe that is the tradition of both the Kiowas and Comanches,” Kristina remarked. “All the Indian men do the same.”

  “There isn’t much we can do about those adult savages,” the Mrs. Colonel said. “However, it is the United States Government’s intent to civilize the young ones. Being allowed to parade about with long hair is hardly going to make the right impression on the youngsters. After all, we are expecting them to grow up to be farmers.”

  “It has become apparent to me that the Indian men are not adapting well to that line of work,” Kristina said. “In fact, several of the army officers have stated that it would be better if they took up cattle ranching. The Kiowas and Comanches are excellent horsemen and would do quite well at such an occupation. They would be able to use some of the cattle for food. The animals are very similar to the buffalo the Indians consumed for eons. And, since the railhead near Fort Sill is not too far away, they could ship much of the herd to market and earn good money.”

  The Mrs. Colonel smiled in a superior, condescending manner. “You are making a moot point, Miss Halverson. It has been decided by others much wiser than you that farming will bring the Indians closer and faster to civilization.”

  “Then those decision makers must also be wiser than the army officers who disagree with the program,” Kristina replied. “Those men who fought the tribes have a very intimate knowledge of the Indians’ customs and traditions as well as their temperament.”

  “Be that as it may, the Indians are going to be farmers,” the Mrs. Colonel said in a firm tone of voice. “Now let’s turn to my second point involving the children. While I was in their presence I observed that none were speaking English. All babbled in their tribal languages. That is as damaging as allowing the boys to wear long hair, if not more so.”

  “I teach in English and my students are all fluent in it,” Kristina said. “They speak, read and write the language. I have some papers they’ve written that I can show you if you find that information hard to accept. However, I allow them to speak their native tongues during recess if they wish. Most do.”

  “For heaven’s sake!” the Mrs. Colonel exclaimed. “Burdening them with two languages will bring nothing but confusion to their little minds. They will end up not speaking either tongue well.”

  “Mrs. Bennington,” Kristina said, “I grew up speaking English and Norwegian, and in the small town where I lived, there were also Swedish and German people who did the same thing in their languages. None of us were impaired from being bilingual. I think we were enriched by the ability.”

  “I do not think so, Miss Halverson,” the Mrs. Colonel said. “And I shall write a very stern letter to the Department of the Interior about you allowing the boys to wear braids and the children to chatter in the tribal languages.”

  “Is there anything else, Mrs. Bennington? I have arithmetic to grade.”

  “Yes there is, Miss Halverson. There is a very sensitive issue I feel I must discuss with you.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “It involves Captain Hawkins,” the Mrs. Colonel said. “It is well known that he calls on you at your residence here at the agency.”

  “Indeed he does,” Kristina said. “I consider the captain a friend. We make no secret of our friendship, nor is there a reason for us to do so.”

  “Miss Halverson, you are a single woman living alone. It is not appropriate behavior having a man visit you inside your house without a chaperone or other person present.”

  “If anybody is maintaining a strict surveillance of Captain Hawkins’ visits, they should have also noted that he arrives and leaves during daylight hours,” Kristina said. “And I resent the implication that there is any misconduct occurring when he calls on me. He also takes me to the military balls at both Fort Lone Wolf and Fort Sill, as I’m sure you have observed. And I appreciate having the gentleman as an escort.”

  “Captain Hawkins is a boorish ruffian who should never have been made an officer!” the Mrs. Colonel snapped, getting to her feet. “Propriety, Miss Halverson! Propriety, decorum and respectability. These are especially important for one who teaches school. And that is all I have to say. Good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bennington.”

  She followed her uninvited guest to the door. When they went outside, the old private helped the Mrs. Colonel into the buckboard just as Captain Mack Hawkins rode up. He dismounted and nodded to the colonel’s wife, then stepped up on the schoolhouse porch to join Kristina. They both watched the buggy being driven away.

  “What a horrible old heks!” Kristina murmured. “That’s Norwegian for ‘witch’.”

  “Uh oh!” Hawkins said. “Has there been another run-in with the colonel’s lady?”

  “The woman is a shallow cow, trained to be no more than a conformist to useless social mores while entertaining her guests in her parlor. She has also been tutored in tinkling at the piano and doing simple embroidery. And I am sure there are other mindless activities in which she excels.”

  Hawkins chuckled. “I hear she’s a terrible pianist.”

  “She’s a terrible human being!”

  “Well, be careful of her,” Hawkins warned. “She has the ability and meanness to make trouble.”

  “I’m going to lock up,” Kristina said. “Wait here and we can go over to the house for coffee.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” he replied, saluting. Kristina laughed and saluted back, then turned to make sure everything was in order in the building.

  A few minutes later the couple sat in Kristina’s kitchen while she put a pot of coffee on the stove. The house was small with the front divided into a parlor on one side and the bedroom on the other. The back half was a third that size and served as the kitchen. Her outhouse was several yards behind the structure.

  “I have some news,” Hawkins said. “I’m moving out here to the agency.”

  “What in the world is going on?” Kristina asked, setting cups and saucers on the table.

  “Colonel Bennington has realized his fondest dream and found a way to kick me out of both his regiment and Fort Lone Wolf. The Army is activating the Kiowa-Comanche Detachment of the United States Scouts and it will be stationed here. And I am to be the commanding officer.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Indian men are going to be enlisted just like white soldiers and be in a distinctive outfit with special assignments,” Hawkins explained. “I’m going o
ut tomorrow to call on a few farms and find some fine strapping fellows to join up.”

  “Won’t that take them away from farming?”

  “It sure will, and they’re going to jump at the chance,” Hawkins said. “I’m very enthused about the whole set-up. Most of those fellows were in their teens when the treaty was signed. They were raised in the warrior tradition and they’ll make excellent soldiers when properly trained and disciplined.”

  Kristina poured the coffee then went to the cupboard to get a jar of cookies. Her Norwegian upbringing taught her to always have baked goods handy when coffee was served. With the cookies on the table, she sat down. “Let’s talk about anything but the agency, Fort Lone Wolf or the Army.”

  “Sure,” Hawkins said agreeably. He grabbed a cookie, and took a bite. “Mmm! Ginger!”

  “Traditional Scandinavian baking.”

  “Well, it’s delicious,” he said chewing with pleasure. “So—to change the subject as you wish to—what kind of flowers are you planting around your house this year?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered. “But they will be something to remind me of Minnesota.”

  “Do you miss your old home?”

  Kristina smiled at him. “Not right now at this moment.”

  Hawkins had not really come visiting to tell her about the scout detachment. There was a very special subject he wished to discuss with her. He cleared his throat. “Kristina.”

  “Yes, Mack?”

  “Uh … uh…”

  She gave him a look of puzzlement. This was the third or fourth time he had started to say something to her during a visit, then hesitated. Kristina repeated, “Yes, Mack?”