Stryker's Misfits (A Stryker's Misfits Western Book 1)

by Chuck Tyrell

  The sergeant showed a hint of a smile. “All right, lieutenant. I suggest you get rid of the stripes and get some bars.”

  “Just ain’t got around to that yet, sarge, but you’re dead right. Maybe I’d better do that right here, while Stroud’s getting ready to leave. Got a knife?”

  Stryker unsheathed the Bowie that hung from his army-issue gunbelt behind his right hip, unbuckled the gunbelt, and caught it by the flapped pistol holster. “Mind if I just lay this on the desk?”

  “You can hang it from a peg.”

  “Sure. Didn’t think of that.” Stryker hung the belt, shucked his blue shirt, and sliced the stitches of sergeant stripes with the tip of the Bowie.

  “Knife cuts,” the sergeant said.

  “Shaves, too. Holds and edge like nobody’s business. Man I got it from said it’s a genuine James Black knife, made with a piece of a star.”

  “Nah.”

  “Needle and thread anywhere around?”

  “Nope. We don’t do mending here.”

  “Never mind.” Stryker put his shirt back on. “Now, if you’d bring Ben Stroud out here, we’ll get out of your way.”

  “Your funeral.” The sergeant waved at the cellblock. “Get Stroud out here, Tygart.”

  The corporal grabbed the keys and unlocked the cellblock door. Stryker followed him in.

  “Ben Stroud,” Tygart said. “Lieutenant Stryker’s taking you out of this here guardhouse.”

  “Ain’t going.” Stroud turned over to face the wall.

  “Unlock the cell,” Stryker said.

  Tygart unlocked it.

  “Now, Stroud. Either you come along on your own two legs or I’ll break them for you and you can spend a couple of months learning how to walk again.”

  “Shee-it. Ain’t no buck sergeant gonna beat on me. I’s a buffler sojer.”

  Stryker glared at Ben Stroud’s hunched back. “Alright, Big Ben. Just lay there while there’s work to be done. Just lay there ’til Samson Kearns comes to getcha. Just you lay there.”

  Stroud’s shoulders scrunched up, but he said nothing.

  “Lock it back up, corporal. I’ll send Sergeant Kearns for him later.”

  Tygart slammed the cell door and clicked the big padlock closed. He headed toward the cellblock door with Stryker right behind.

  “I say, guv. Might ah have a minute?”

  Stryker threw a glance at the skinny little man in the second cell.

  “Just half a sec, guv. Thass all I want.” The man’s eyes were owlish behind thick wire-rimmed glasses.

  “What is it?”

  “Sounded to me like ya’s clampin’ t’gether some kinda special outfit. I volunteer, I do.”

  “A man don’t just up and volunteer,” Stryker said.

  “You ask for a black Injun, I heardja. And you’s white and they’s a tinge of south in ya talk. But cher in here askin’ a Injun rummy fer hep.”

  “Shut up, Limey,” Tygart said.

  “Hold up. I’ll be out directly,” Stryker said. Something told him the little Brit was worth a word. He stood just outside the cell and stared at the man.

  “Think a bad eye’ll put a scare inta Willem Black, do ya?”

  “Have your say, man.”

  “I volunteer.”

  “You got no idea what we’re gonna do.”

  “You tol’ Ben over there ya’s gonna hunt Apach’s. An’ nobuddy builds a bettah blast than Willum Black. Not bloody one ... Sir.”

  “You artillery?”

  “Nah. They’s got me cookin’.”

  “Why in the good Lord’s name are you in the guardhouse?”

  “Nabbed some grub.”

  “Wha-a-a-at?”

  “Some of the Suma and Jumano Injuns what hang around the fort get awful hungry. I stole a peck a maize ’n’ a haunch a beef for Cueloce’s people. I got caught comin’ back.”

  “You stole for Injuns?”

  “They was awful near ta starvin’. Mexes and Yanks’re ’posed ta feed ’em. Injun agent keeps all of what’s meant for Injuns an’ sells it ta the army. I reckon by rights, I’s just givin’ them Injuns what’s already theirs.”

  “Willem Black, then?”

  “Of da Quahter Master’s corps, I am.”

  “Come on, then. Corporal Tygart, unlock Trooper Black’s cell, if you would, please.”

  “If you say so. That little rat don’t look hefty enough to carry his own weight. Not to me, he don’t.”

  “His looks to you, corporal, mean somewhat less than nothing. No offense intended.”

  “Come on outta there, Black.”

  Willem Black stood impatiently at the cell door, and slipped out the moment it opened wide enough. “Where we going, luftenant?”

  “Just follow. Where are your duds?”

  “Dunno. Time I wakes up, I was in the clink all decked out in stripes, I was.”

  “Where’s Black’s uniform, Corporal Tygart?”

  “At Chung Ho’s laundry, I reckon. Black’s stuff was all covered in puke and blood and gunk. Dunno if Chung Ho could get it clean, but he runs the best laundry in town.”

  “How far away?”

  “Half a mile. Three-quarters, maybe.”

  “How do we get Black’s duds back?”

  “Gimme an hour or so. Better yet, give me ’til morning.”

  “Black. You stay here ’til morning,” Stryker said. “Your duds’ll be ready then.”

  Black didn’t like it, but he did as Stryker ordered. “Just when I was ‘bout to get shut o’ this joint.”

  “Tomorrow, Black. Don’t you worry none.”

  Tygart shut Willem Black in his cell again. Ben Stroud seemed to pay no notice, but Stryker had a feeling the black Apache catalogued his every word and movement.

  On the way to temporary quarters, Stryker stopped by the sutler store. He waited while Miss Elsinore served two customers.

  “What may I do for you, Mr. Stryker?”

  Surprised she knew his name, Stryker was unable to answer for an embarrassing moment. “Actually, I’m looking for a needle and some strong thread.”

  “May I ask for what?”

  Stryker showed her the lieutenant straps, “Sew these on my tunic.”

  “I can do that in a jiffy. Give me your shirt.”

  “No ma’am. That would not be proper.”

  “That you, Stryker?” The sutler’s booming voice came from the back room.

  “It is.”

  “Might I suggest a new blouse? The places where your stripes were are quite obvious.”

  “That’s right, and I want to keep it that way. Don’t want the troop thinking I’m better than them.”

  “Speaking of thinking. I thought you might like one of those loose muslin shirts the Apaches seem to favor. You know, the natural colored ones.” McCabe came from the back room with a shirt in his hands. “Here, you might like to try this on. Elsinore can sew on your bars while you’re trying this. Come on back here to the gun room.”

  Stryker did as the sutler suggested. The muslin shirt fit just right.

  “I’ll slip out and give this to Elsinore,” McCabe stuck his hand out. “The shoulder straps, please.”

  Stryker handed them over.

  “Good. I’ll be right back, and we can talk.”

  When McCabe returned, Stryker showed him the letter from General Hunter. “Remember those Winchesters we talked about? I’d appreciate it if you’d put a dozen by, and give me one today. That, and a Remington Army converted to the same cartridge. You can have the Colt M1860 that I’m carrying.”

  “And send the invoice to General Hunter?”

  “Yes. I’ll sign whatever’s necessary.”

  “Lieutenant Stryker’s uniform blouse has lieutenant straps on it now,” Elsinore called.

  “I’ll stay in this shirt, if you don’t mind,” Stryker said. “I’ll just carry the tunic. By the way, McCabe, do you know who commands the Twenty-Fifth Infantry? You know, Buffalo Soldiers. “
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  “You’ll be looking for Colonel Joseph Mower, that’s who.”

  “Thank you. I’ll go see him now. Hang onto my goods until I return, if you would, please.” Stryker shucked his Colt Army M1860 from its holster. “I’d appreciate one of the Remington Conversions.

  “Certainly.” McCabe removed a well-blued Remington Army M1858 from a peg and handed it butt first to Stryker. “Just a moment, now, and I’ll get cartridges for it.”

  Stryker spun the cylinder. “It’s loaded. That’ll be enough.”

  “Never be sorry, Stryker. Take along some extra.” He held out a box of .44s.”

  “You’d better put a bandolier in that order of munitions, one for each rifle.” Stryker extracted six cartridges from the box and put them in a pocket. He handed the box back to McCabe. “I’ll be back,” he said.

  “If the store’s closed when you return, come ’round to the back door and knock. That’s where we live, and I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you.” Stryker left the sutler’s store and walked to the long, low building that housed regimental commander offices. The Twenty-Fifth Infantry was the right-hand office, or so the sign said. Stryker tapped on the door and opened it.

  “What is it?”

  “Lieutenant Matthew Stryker to see Colonel Mower,” Stryker said.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “That’s right.”

  The desk sergeant eyed Stryker with disbelief. “You’re not even in uniform.”

  “Special assignment, sergeant.”

  The sergeant’s eyes still registered disbelief.

  “Colonel Mower, if you please.” Stryker’s voice carried a hint of steel.

  The sergeant went to the office door. “Man who says he’s Lieutenant Stryker wants to see the colonel, sir.”

  “Stryker?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Send him in.”

  The sergeant beckoned to Stryker, who entered the office and came to attention. “I’m fully aware of being out of uniform, Colonel, but would you be so kind as to read this letter from General Hunter before getting upset?”

  Colonel Mower’s piercing dark eyes first skewered Stryker, then focused on the letter he held out. “Letter from George Hunter, is it, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mower took the letter and scanned its contents. “So? What’s this got to do with the Twenty-Fifth?”

  “I’d like to release two men to my special troop, sir, if you please.”

  “Who?”

  “Sergeant Reginald Kearns and Private Benjamin Stroud, sir.”

  “Stroud’s in the guardhouse. The man’s never seen a moment in his entire army career that he’s not been inebriated. Sergeant Kearns, eh. Hmmm. The general says give you every courtesy. All right. I assume your troop is temporary, so see that Kearns is returned to the Twenty-Fifth when your troop breaks up.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  “Sergeant Rierson!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stroud and Kearns will be on detached duty, assigned to Lieutenant Stryker.”

  “As you say, sir.”

  “If you need anyone else, talk to Sergeant Rierson. He’ll see to it that you get what you need.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  On the way out, Rierson said, “What are you up to, Stryker?”

  “General told me to carry the war to the Apaches, Sergeant Rierson, and that’s just what I’m going to do.”

  Chapter Four – To Be An Apache

  Next day, Stryker sat in the Skillet, a no-nonsense eating place that catered to off-duty soldiers, teamsters, and people passing through on their way farther west.

  Ma Raskin, wife of the owner and the only one any customer ever saw, brought plates heaped with scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and crisp and crunchy bacon. “Don’t have darkies in here usually, Stryker, but y’all vouched for ’em ... ” Her voice drifted off, but the disapproval remained in her eyes.

  “We’ll eat’n git, Ma,” Stryker said.

  Well. Breakfast is over and dinner’s more’n a hour away. So hurry up’n eat while they ain’t nobody else here.”

  Ben Stroud, Samson Kearns, and Willem Black shoveled the food into their mouths like they had not eaten for at least a month.

  “Sure and this beats army grub,” Willem said, “‘specially when I was making it.”

  The two black men, dressed like Stryker in muslin shirts and canvas pants, kept their heads down and their forks traveling between plate and mouth at a brisk pace.

  Ma brought a large plate of biscuits and a pot of coffee. Hands reached, biscuits disappeared, and each face took on a beatified smile. “Prime,” Samson said. “Purely prime.”

  When the food was gone and the men were taking their last few swallows of coffee, Stryker posed a question. “Be honest. If you were out in the country between here and the Cooke’s, and there were Mimbrenos and Warm Springs Apaches around, who’d you want along with you? Who’d be the best in a scrap, and who’d be the best at keeping you out of a scrape?”

  “Mick Finney,” Stroud said.

  “Why?”

  “He’s got Apache blood. Ain’t nothing like being born Apache.”

  Stryker made a mental note. “Where’s he at?”

  “Tenth Cavalry. He likes riding horses.”

  “We’ll be walking.”

  “He can do that. Any Apache can.”

  “Paddy O’Malley,” Will Black said.

  “Why.”

  “He’s never been beat, in the ring or in the alley. The man knows how to scrap.”

  Stryker made another mental note. He turned his attention to Sergeant Reginald Kearns. “Samson? Who’d you bring along, if you could.”

  “Well, sir, Sharpy Bailor, for one. He’s white, but I ain’t never seen no one outshoot him. And I hear he was pure-dee-hell against the Rebs.”

  Stryker nodded. “Where’s he at?”

  “Thirteenth Infantry, last I heard.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Well, if we’re gonna be around animals, they ain’t no better wrangler than Boogie Hill.”

  “Twenty-Fifth?”

  Kearns nodded. “Twenty-Fifth.”

  “Right.”

  ~*~

  In the heat of mid-afternoon, Stryker called upon Major Adams. Despite the heat, the Major had his uniform tunic buttoned and cinched at the waist with a broad black leather belt. His red face reflected the heat, and the tip of a white handkerchief protruded from his left sleeve. He plucked the handkerchief out to mop his face. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir. Hot day outside, sir.”

  Major Adams eyed Stryker’s muslin shirt and canvas trousers. “You seem to be dressed for it.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve come with a requisition, sir.”

  The Major sighed.

  “A list of men, sir, to round out my hit squad, sir.”

  Adams held his hand out. “Show me.”

  Stryker gave him the list of names and positions.

  “Hmmm. Says you’ve already pulled Reginald Kearns, Benjamin Stroud, Willem Black, and Boogie Hill from ranks.”

  “Yes, sir, but I figured a word from the General would be faster than me going around to each regiment, sir.”

  The Major scanned the names again. “Lion Watie. Winston Ponies. Albert Ferguson. Paddrick O’Malley. Charles and Jonathan Greer. Mickey Finney. Richard Grady. Orson Bailor. Edward McKinnister. Ten men. Are these those whom you wish for your ... what did you say? Your ... hit squad?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just one, sir.”

  What is it?”

  “I’d like every man to receive a sergeant’s pay, sir, and a signing bonus, as it were, of fifteen dollars, sir.”

  Major Adams’ mouth hung open for a moment.

  “They’ll be doing very dangerous work, sir.”

  “Hmm. Well. I’ll speak to the General about it. Is that all, Lieutenant?
”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Carry on, then.”

  “Sir.” Stryker turned on his heel and left. He had a job to do.

  General Hunter named Stryker’s hit squad A Squad, Headquarters Company. That enabled him to requisition tents and stake out a place for his squad. He worked alongside Samson, Stroud, Will Black, and Boogie Hill.

  “We work together. We fight together. Tomorrow, you’re in charge. You teach us how to be Apaches. How to think like ’em. How to move like ’em. How to live like ’em. Savvy?”

  Stroud shrugged. “Sure would do for a drink.”

  Stryker uncapped his canteen. “Here.”

  Stroud’s eyes lit up. He grabbed the canteen and took a big mouthful, then spit it out. “Water! What kinda drink is water?”

  “Keeps a man alive. By the way, Ben, I’ve never seen an Apache carry a canteen. Why?”

  “Why carry one a those? ‘Specially when yer going fur’n fast.”

  “I’d say a man’s gotta have water to last.”

  “Plenty a ways to get water, er somethin’ that passes fer it.”

  “OK, sun comes up in the morning, we’ll be well on our way.”

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t matter. No canteens. No guns. Nothing but one knife. Kearns, Boogie. Will Black. You all hear me?”

  “Yo,” came their answering chorus.

  “No breakfast. No canteens.”

  But when Stryker’s misfits gathered in the predawn, only Boogie Hill and Willem Black showed. Stryker’s temper came within a hair’s breadth of exploding. Then Samson’s voice came from somewhere beyond the tents. “Mistah Stryker. Lieutenant, we be coming.”

  And he did, dragging Ben Stroud by a stick-thin arm. “Little Ben din’t get the message good enough last night, Lieutenant. I reckon he thought to run off from the army, but I talked some reason into him.”

  “Stroud!”

  The black Apache swayed and seemed about ready to pass out.

  “Where’d he get the booze?”

  “Looks like he spent most of the night drinking tiswin at the tame Apache camp over by the Rio,” Samson said.

  “Ben Stroud, look at me!”

  Stroud squinted. “Too dark to see ya right, mister bright white pecker what thinks he can do one better than the Indeh.”

  Samson cuffed Stroud on the ear. “You watch your words, black boy, or I’ll take you apart better’n any Apache you ever seen.”