The Stalkers

by Terry C. Johnston

  * * *

  “Damn right, I’ll ride with you to Wallace,” Seamus Donegan agreed, staring up through the murky haze of a Hays City saloon at the civilian scout standing over him. “Thanks for asking.”

  Sharp Grover dragged up a chair, sitting across the table from Seamus. He slipped the glass from Donegan’s hand and tossed the whiskey against the back of his throat. “You’ll owe me for this one, Irishman.”

  Donegan’s eyes narrowed. “Never will forgive me for me drunken rage last winter, will you?”

  “That? Shit!” Grover roared as he poured himself another drink into Donegan’s glass and threw it back. “That was over the minute I walked away from you far as I was concerned. Man wants to punish himself in the cups as bad as you was doing … not my place putting a halter on him.”

  “Army work taking you to Wallace?” Seamus asked after he sipped slowly at his whiskey.

  “Yes,” the scout answered. “And no.”

  “You’re a puzzlement, Sharp Grover. Far be it from me to try sorting you out. Just as long as I’ve got me your company on the trail.”

  “Still set on going there to wait for O’Roarke to return from the land of Deseret, eh?”

  “Aye. I talk to every one who comes here if they’ve heard tell of Liam showing up at Fort Wallace. It’s go there, or I go to work laying track to work me own way west.”

  “Got an easier way to make a living, Seamus.”

  “Working for the army?”

  Grover rocked back on two legs of his chair, his thumbs stuffed in the pockets of his greasy, round-collared vest. “Been all right to me, it has.”

  “Some men don’t mind having any kind of work, I suppose.”

  Grover chuckled at that. “And here you sit, all high and mighty, eh? That it, Donegan? ’Bout starved yourself when you wasn’t froze up last winter … chopping wood, driving mule-teams to Harker and Dodge … anything for money to drink on, right?”

  Seamus eventually smiled. “You got me to rights, Sharp. Man does what he has to, doesn’t he?”

  “Want work?”

  “Got something on your mind, don’t you?”

  “Just asking if you want work.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Army’s looking for scouts——”

  “There you go again. You tried that on me last winter,” Donegan snapped, irritated as he cut Grover off. “Didn’t work then either. No scouting.”

  “Major George Forsyth can use a man like you. Good on a horse.”

  “Lot of us come out of the war what can ride a horse, Sharp.”

  “Not many can track well as you, Seamus. Shoot center either, forked on a horse or planted on foot.”

  “What’s this leading to?”

  “Told you. Army’s hiring.”

  “Means nothing to me.”

  “Forsyth is putting together a company of fifty scouts. He and his lieutenant—one I told you about—fella named Beecher, already hired thirty men out of Fort Harker.”

  “And?”

  “They come in here last night. Figure to fill out the fifty here.”

  “I won’t be one, if that’s your angle, Grover.”

  “Pay’s good.”

  “Army work’s not.”

  “You sure you don’t want to walk on over with me and sign on?”

  “You’re going with this Forsyth?”

  “Major’s already counted on me. I had no choice, Seamus.”

  “See what I mean about the army, Sharp? Man doesn’t have much say-so, does he?” Donegan saluted the scout with a shot of whiskey, tossing it back, then wiping his lips with the sleeve of his dirty shirt.

  “Well, can I at least count on you riding along to Wallace with me?”

  “When you leaving?”

  “Day or two at the most. Major finishes out his brigade of plainsmen—we’ll be marching.”

  “I’ll be ready, Sharp.”

  Grover scooted his chair back, a hand on each knee, staring at the whiskey bottle a moment. “Some news you might think worthwhile, Donegan. Seems Major Forsyth is leaving one slot open for an old friend of mine, someone he’s picking up at Wallace. Telegraphed ahead to have Colonel Bankhead hold the scout there … wait for Forsyth to arrive.”

  Seamus squinted as the tobacco smoke clouding the room singed his eyes. “Major must want this man in a bad way.”

  “The fella’s one of the best scouts in my book.”

  “You know ’im, you said.”

  “I do. Major Forsyth is marching to Fort Wallace … expecting to find Liam O’Roarke waiting there.”

  His throat constricted on that shot of whiskey he had just thrown back. Donegan sputtered. Wiping his chin. No longer did the big Irishman have the full beard he had worn since the middle of the war. Now he sported a full mustache curled at the ends and clean-shaven cheeks. But on his chin he boasted a sporty Vandyke, trimmed neatly of late. Wet with whiskey at the moment.

  “Liam? Liam O’Roarke?”

  “I know of no other scout with that name out in these parts, Irishman!”

  “Your rag-tag band of civilians going to Wallace to pick up O’Roarke?”

  “Major Forsyth read the telegram this morning from Wallace. Said Liam should be there … waiting his arrival by the time we get in. Word has it, O’Roarke can’t wait, Major said—what with the Cheyenne raising all kinds of hell west of——”

  Donegan suddenly grabbed hold of Grover’s hand, shaking it. Then nearly knocked over the whiskey bottle as he rushed to jam the cork in the neck before stuffing it in his coat pocket. Grover was laughing as Seamus picked up the full shot and drained it before the Irishman enthusiastically yanked the army scout toward the door, sweeping chairs aside.

  “Gawddammit, Sharp Grover! Will you hurry up! That Major Forsyth of yours best not have all his recruits signed on before I get there … or I’ll be one to skin you alive!”

  Grover stopped dead in his tracks at the door while Donegan plunged on into the August sunlight. “This mean you’re joining us?”

  “By damn—if Liam O’Roarke’s going to ride with Forsyth, it’s for certain Seamus Donegan will as well!”

  Chapter 5

  “How do you spell that?”

  “S-H-L-E-S-I-N-G-E-R.”

  “And your first name?” asked the soldier with chevrons on the sleeves of his damp shirt.

  “S-I-G-M-U-N-D.”

  “Got a horse?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sign here. Then go with Issac there and he’ll get your gear assigned.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank Major Forsyth, Mr. Shlesinger. He’s the one said hire you.”

  Bob North watched the young man nod his head and without reply follow the civilian named Issac into the bright light of the Fort Hays parade.

  “Name?”

  “Smith.”

  Sgt. William McCall halted his pen and gazed up at the man before him. “Smith ain’t a very common name down South, now, is it?”

  “Got a problem with the name my dear departed daddy give me, Sergeant?” North made it sound as sweet as molasses on johnny-cakes.

  McCall smiled. “No problem … Smith. Got a first name?”

  “Bob.” No lie this time, but sweetened every bit as much by that tobacco-stained smile of North’s.

  The white man-turned-Arapaho-renegade had pulled in here at Fort Hays late last night. For the past hoary winter and the better part of hellish summer, North had been stalking the ghostly trail of a particular tall, dark-haired Irishman who rode a monster of a gray horse. Trouble was, until of late Bob North had been inquiring as to the whereabouts of a full-bearded Irishman.

  Only two suns back at Fort Larned had he learned there was just such a fella working out of Hays. A ways up north.

  The renegade had scrambled into the saddle and had not climbed down until he reached Fort Hays. Cursing both that nameless Irishman, along with the hole in North’s belly the Irishman’s bullet had mad
e better than a year and a half ago on a cold December day up the Bozeman Road.

  North never had been one to loosen up on a grudge, especially when he had been nursing it through two long prairie winters. Hatred of that caliber was sure to keep any man warm.

  Not finding the tall one when he had scoured Hays City, North rode out to the fort. It was there among a swelling group of civilians lounging round the post that the renegade thought he had at last found his man. Only to discover he was about to lose the Irishman every bit as quickly.

  Didn’t take long for the sweet-talking Confederate to talk a loose-tongued soldier into spilling it all. In horror North learned that some damned major was leading those rowdy civilians on west with him to Fort Wallace. From there, word was they’d be tracking Cheyenne.

  That bit of news caused one hell of a chuckle for the Southerner. These fellas—most of them dressed like dirt-farmers—tracking Cheyenne?

  About the time North himself had bid farewell to the Big Horn country, he learned Roman Nose had already headed south from Red Cloud’s land—last Drying Grass Moon it was … October. Crossing the plains of Colorado Territory and into Kansas, the white renegade had followed rumors the Cheyenne war-chief was himself leading the parties who were wreaking such havoc on settlements and the K-P’s track’s end, every chance they got to attack freight-haulers and harass small details of soldiers.

  So Bob North had had himself a good laugh on that—damned funny notion too … knowing a warrior such as Roman Nose was not about to let himself get tracked by the likes of these sod-busters.

  Why, some of ’em look like their mamas was wiping their noses just last …

  “You fight for Lee himself?”

  McCall’s question snapped North’s thinking back like a hard, sudden tug on a rawhide rope. “Yeah.”

  McCall leaned back in his chair. “Lord, did you boys in the Army of North Virginia make things hot for me a time or two.” And he smiled.

  North grinned in return. Things were going well. Then a thin, cadaverous officer appeared, almost out of nowhere, and looked over the sergeant’s shoulder.

  “You made it here just in time … uh, Mr. Smith,” said the officer. “I’m Lieutenant Fred Beecher. Second to Major George Forsyth.”

  “Yessuh.”

  Beecher eyed the side-arm slung at the front of the newcomer’s hip. “You any good with weapons?”

  He snorted. “Lieutenant Beecher, is it?”

  “Yes … Beecher.”

  “Well, now, sir. I reckon I’m better at this pistol than just ’bout any of those fellas over there.” He flung a thumb back toward the various groups milling in the shade of Fort Hays’s quartermaster depot. “I’d dare say I’m better than your best, it comes down to a match of it. Who is your best, Lieutenant … say, that tall one over there—with that pretty beard of his?”

  “Donegan?” Beecher replied, eyeing the distant group. “I figure he may be about as good as most. But, I’d put my money on old man Farley over there … alone with his boy, Hutch. Either one the man to beat.”

  “Donegan, you say?”

  “No, I said old man Farley was the best shot going with us.”

  North shook his head. “That tall one with the pretty beard. Name’s Donegan?”

  “Yes,” Beecher answered, his eyes going back to McCall. “Mr. Smith, I’ll sign you on—if you can take orders.”

  North turned back round, reluctantly tearing his eyes from that Irishman … named Donegan. Smiling, he said, “Yes, Lieutenant. I understand the taking of orders, sir. Sergeant here … and yourself too—look like good men to ride under.”

  He watched Fred Beecher eye him a little harder, then soften as the velvet-lipped compliment worked its magic.

  “Sergeant McCall here will get you commissioned. You showed up just in time. I have one more slot to fill here … then we’re on our way to Wallace come morning.”

  North grinned, those teeth of his once more shining like pine-chips. “I always was a lucky sort, Lieutenant.”

  * * *

  “Helluva time for the major be saddling us up,” growled the stranger with a drawl as he threw the saddle he had stolen at Fort Lyon atop the saddle-blanket on his pony. “More likely it’s time for a man to find himself a piece of shade. Hear you’re called Donegan.”

  It was nearing four in the afternoon on 29 August. Saturday.

  Seamus Donegan nodded in reply as he looped back the cinch for his Grimsley saddle, then patted The General on the neck. The animal that had carried him through the last year of that bloody war back East sensed some of the Irishman’s anticipation. He nuzzled Seamus on the back of the shoulder as Donegan walked round to the newcomer.

  “Name’s Seamus to me friends.” He held out his hand.

  The stranger grinned widely inside his patchy, unkempt beard. “Seamus Donegan, is it? How-dee-do! I’m Bob Smith, Seamus.”

  “You done much of this scouting before?”

  He wagged his head and spat a stream of juice into the powdery dust near the pony’s hooves. “A little while I was galvanized up to Reno on the Bozeman.”

  “Fort Reno, was it? You was one of the Confederate war prisoners who come out here to fight Injins, eh?”

  “Appears I ain’t quite had my fill of killing the bastards, don’t it?”

  “Maybe we’ll both be lucky, Bob—and we won’t see a warrior’s feather or smell a squaw’s fart on this ride with Forsyth.”

  The stranger laughed loud and hard, almost doubling over as he slapped his knee. “Damn, if you Irish boys don’t have a way of saying the damnedest things to make a fella bust his gut, Donegan.”

  “Told you, Bob. My friends call me Seamus.”

  “All right, Seamus. Care if I ride with you?”

  “Be my guest, friend—I figure the major’ll have us march column of twos.”

  “Be obliged, Seamus. I’ll mess with you if you don’t mind——”

  “Mount!” bawled Sgt. William McCall.

  It sent a familiar chill of anticipation right up Donegan’s neck. His scalp prickled with an old, comfortable excitement as he settled in the Grimsley atop The General.

  “About-face!” McCall hollered. “For you civilians who don’t know any better—bring your goddamned horses round to face me in a line!”

  As Seamus gently reined The General about to face the sergeant, that long, thick, saber scar on his back went stone cold. Donegan looked over his shoulder as Smith drew alongside, smiling. Seamus was certain he had just been told something, warned of something deadly. Ominous. But, for the moment chose to shrug it off. The Southerner wasn’t all a bad sort. About ten years older, but a friendly cuss as well.

  For a moment Seamus hunched his shoulders in hopes of shaking the ghostly cold nagging that strip of white flesh across the great muscles of his back. Maj. George A. Forsyth reined up before the fifty scouts there on that hot, dusty, treeless parade at Fort Hays.

  “Gentlemen, I’m glad to be the one leading you. Into what, none of us know. General Sheridan himself has agonized over these depredations of the Cheyenne and their hangers-on. But this entire department has been assigned no more than twenty-six hundred men, both mounted and foot, to police a vast area. So it was we determined the need to enlist a fast-moving force of civilian scouts the likes of which this country has never seen.”

  Not considering himself a part of Forsyth’s scouts, Donegan did not join in the cheers that rocked over most of the others. Beside him, Bob Smith turned, nodded, and grinned. He too refrained from joining in the high spirits of the rest.

  “If we rode out in any greater numbers, we would not be able to move as fast as need be … as fast as our enemy. Anything smaller than this fifty—and we would be too tempting for a small war-party to ambush us. As it is, I am in hopes of finding our enemy, causing him to turn—and fight.”

  This time Seamus could not help but be stirred. Some of the old sensations rumbled through the bowels of him. Once more he was amo
ng fighting men. Not reluctant recruits or martinet officers. These frontiersmen and the three soldiers—fighting men all.

  The General pranced a moment, perhaps sensing the same shift in the air as did Donegan. Snorting. Pawing with a hoof. Anxious for the trail and what would next be required. Seamus patted the big gray’s neck, calming the animal.

  “Simply put, gentlemen—our job is to track the war-parties responsible for the thefts, rapes, kidnapping, and murders on this frontier. And if need be, our job requires us to kill Indians. So—by God—I plan on scalding the bastards good!”

  A shrill rebel yell burst from the throat of Bob Smith. Others as well noisily hooted in anticipation of settling old scores with the Indians.

  “By the time we strike the Saline tonight, Sergeant McCall will have you men organized as a unit of cavalry. You’ll ride, mess, sleep, and fight in platoon. Do not be confused because you have been hired as civilian quartermaster employees. The army is paying good money to each man of you to perform under my orders. If you fail to understand that, I would prefer that you stay behind rather than to cause the death of one of your fellows.”

  Donegan found Smith grinning at him. The former Confederate nodded as his azure eyes went back to Forsyth. Eyes as cold as chips from a blue china plate.

  “General Sheridan has seen to it that you men will not be found wanting for the best of firepower. One hundred forty rounds for your repeating Spencer. Another thirty rounds for your percussion Colt’s pistol. Sergeant McCall has equipped you with mess equipment and tack. Anything more you better leave behind. An extra few pounds on this ride might just kill your horse … or you.”

  Forsyth drew in a deep breath, then settled himself atop his McClellan saddle. The fort fell silent. At least a hundred soldiers lounged in the shade of buildings surrounding the flat, dusty parade, watching the show. Here and there a horse snorted or pawed, tails switching to shoo nagging flies. A man slapped at one of the huge flies landing on the back of his hand. But, for the most part, the place fell as quiet as the passing of the summer sun.

  “Sergeant McCall,” Forsyth said dramatically as he reined to his left, “let’s go find us some Cheyenne.”