Oushata Massacre

by Robert Vaughan

  Though the Indians had been surprised by the spirited defense, they had no “leader,” as such, to order them to withdraw and regroup. As a result, those who remained fought as ferociously as cornered wildcats. But their fighting, however vicious, was without a strategy. There were eight Indians left, but they fought as individuals, not as a unit.

  The six men on the stage, on the other hand, had been formed into one cohesive fighting force by the young lieutenant. Marcus commanded the farmer and the drummer to cover the left side of the coach, the lawyer and the guard to cover the right side, while he covered the rear and the front. Every time one of the Indians would break off for an individual charge, he would be cut down by a murderous barrage of fire from the coordinated defense of the coach.

  After a running battle of no more than ten minutes, there were only three Indians left. And the Indians, though courageous, seldom pressed a battle in which the odds were against them. The three who remained, turned and galloped away with bullets whistling by just inches from their heads.

  During the entire skirmish, the driver had kept the horses at a gallop. Now, with the immediate threat relieved, he pulled them to a halt and let them stand there, blowing hard in their harness.

  “Whoopi!” the guard said, slapping his knee happily. “That’s the best goddamned time I’ve ever had in my life! We was killin’ them red sons of bitches like they was flies!” “You done it, Lieutenant,” the driver said. “We’ll be into Cheyenne Wells in another hour. Don’t think they’s any way the Indians can get themselves together for another attack in that time.”

  The Kansas Pacific Railroad track, still under construction, had reached as far as Cheyenne Wells. Because of that, Cheyenne Wells had become a “hell on wheels” end-of-track town. The population had grown much faster than the town, so that while there were a few permanent buildings, there were many more which were constructed of wood and canvas, and a fair number of plain tents. Half the business establishments in the town were saloons, thrown up to take advantage of the good pay the railroad workers were receiving.

  The stagecoach pulled to a stop in front of the Railroad Hotel. Because it was so late, it drew several people to see what happened. As the driver and guard told their story, more people came, until soon, a substantial crowd was gathered around.

  “Why don’t the Army do somethin’ about them maraudin’ varmints?” someone asked. “We got a right to protection.”

  “Well, here’s one member of the Army who did do somethin’,” the guard said, pointing out Marcus. “The young lieutenant there took charge. I don’t know as we woulda got through without him.”

  At the guard’s words, the crowd which was gathered around the coach cheered and applauded. Marcus was embarrassed by the accolades, and all he wanted to do was cross the street to the railroad station and wait for the train. The lateness of the coach had not interfered with his train schedule, for the train wasn’t due until midnight.

  “Are you leavin’ us, Lieutenant?” one of the men asked.

  “Not permanently,” Marcus replied. “I’m going back to New York to take charge of a platoon of new recruits. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks.”

  “Well, it’s about time the Army woke up and started sendin’ us reinforcements. I’d say that calls for a drink. Come on in, Lieutenant . . . drinks are on the house.”

  “Thank you,” Marcus said. “But I’ve had nothing to eat since early this morning. I believe I’d rather find a restaurant and have a meal.”

  “Hell, you don’t have to look for no other restaurant. We serve the best steak this side of Kansas City right here in the hotel kitchen. If you won’t drink with us, at least let us feed you.”

  Cavanaugh smiled. “All right,” he said. “That’s an offer I’ll accept.”

  Marcus was swept into the Railroad Hotel with the others who had arrived on the stage. All six men were treated to a steak dinner while they were plied with questions about the Indian attack. Though Marcus was quiet about it, his role was increased by the others with each telling until he was beginning to get uncomfortable. He got anxious for the train to arrive so he could leave.

  Finally he heard the welcoming sound of a train whistle. Everyone there went to the depot with him to see him onto the train and give him a hero’s send-off.

  “Mr. Conductor, you see to it that this young fella has everything he needs,” the mayor of Cheyenne Wells said. “He’s what you might call a genuine hero.” The conductor was then filled in on the heroics of Second Lieutenant Marcus Cavanaugh.

  “You don’t worry about a thing,” the conductor said. “Why, if it weren’t for the brave young soldiers like the lieutenant here, the Kansas Pacific couldn’t be built. Lieutenant, I want you to enjoy every moment you’re on my train.”

  “I just need a seat in a darkened car somewhere,” Marcus said. “I’m going to try and sleep until morning.”

  “Seat? Nothing doing. I’m going to see to it that you have a bed.”

  Marcus held up his travel voucher. “But my orders don’t call for that,” he said.

  “Your orders are no good on this train, Lieutenant. I’ll take care of you,” the conductor promised.

  Half an hour later, true to the conductor’s promise, Marcus was stretched out in a bed on the sleeper car of the Midnight Flyer. In ten days he would be in New York.

  2

  The accolades Marcus had received at Cheyenne Wells were soon dropped. When he changed trains in Kansas City he was just another passenger. The farther east he traveled the less he was welcomed. By the time he reached New York he was, because of his uniform, being regarded as a second-class citizen.

  During the Civil War the military had been popular. The war used so many men that there were no families anywhere in America who didn’t have some close member in uniform. That gave everyone an opinion on the military. Soldiers were “our heroes,” our “brave boys in blue” or “gray.” It was “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again,” and “Hurrah Boys, Hurrah!”

  However, when the war ended the immediate danger to hearth and home, the military lost its support. As the nation came together again and licked its wounds, Americans— northerners and southerners—tried to forget the years of bloodshed and destruction. They didn’t want to be reminded of the agony they had just gone through, and all things military were shunned. Anyone who donned a uniform was considered a ne’er-do-well ... officers and soldiers alike.

  Marcus was aware of this attitude, for he had come to New York for two weeks after graduating from West Point in June of 1868. He didn’t let it bother him . . . and in some ways, because he was basically a modest and private man, he preferred this treatment over the slavish hero worship he had received in Cheyenne Wells.

  On the morning of the day after Marcus arrived in New York City, he stepped out of a horsecar and looked across Park Row toward the New York Times Building. Staring through the spider-web maze of telegraph wires which crossed and re-crossed the street, he could see a large sign on the building which read: American Newspaper Advertising Agency. Dozens and dozens of horsecars, carriages, wagons, and omnibuses moved up and down the street so that he had to be very careful in picking his way across. The sidewalks, like the streets, were crowded with men and women hurrying here and there, bound on some mysterious mission of commerce.

  As Cavanaugh crossed the street, he heard a familiar-sounding voice. It had an Irish lilt, and belonged to a huge Irishman, six feet five or better. He seemed to be having an argument with a New York policeman.

  “Come on now, you dumb mick. Don’t tell me you come to the new country without a penny to your name,” the policeman was saying. “You’ve got to have some money on you, I know you, mick.”

  “Sure, an’ you’re mistaken now, for the name isn’t Mick. ’Tis Sean,” the Irishman answered. “Sean O’Leary. And if I’d be havin’ a cent, ’twould only be enough to keep body an’ soul together until I can get a job.”

  “A job, is it?” the pol
iceman asked. “Tell me, have you paid your immigration tax? You’ll not be able to get a job until the immigration tax is paid.”

  “Glory, an’ I’ve heard no such thing,” O’Leary said. “’Twas no mention made of immigration tax when I got off the boat.” “That’s not my problem, is it now?” the policeman said. “How much do you have?” “Ten dollars.”

  “Then you’re in luck. Ten dollars is how much the tax is.”

  Marcus could stand by no longer. “Excuse me, Officer, but I know of no such tax.”

  The policeman looked up angrily. “And who would you be?”

  “Second Lieutenant Cavanaugh, and I’m an officer in the United States Army,” Marcus said. “I have only recently graduated from the military academy and studied the immigration laws. There is no such thing as an immigration tax.”

  “Well, maybe you need to go back to class and be taught a new lesson,” the policeman said, reaching for the nightstick on his belt.

  “Hold on here,” O’Leary suddenly interrupted. He looked at Marcus. “Tell me, is it the truth ye be tellin’? This policeman has no right to ask a tax of me?”

  “Butt out of this, Irishman. I’ll settle your hash later,” the policeman said menacingly.

  “No, sir,” O’Leary said. “I wouldn’t be for just standin’ by an’ watchin’ you go to work on this fine soldier on my account.”

  “All right, you dumb mick, then I’ll start on you!” the policeman said, and he raised his club over his head, then started down toward O’Leary’s head.

  O’Leary reached up and clamped his hand around the policeman’s wrist. The policeman, who was himself no small man, tried unsuccessfully to break the grip. O’Leary’s hand squeezed down on the wrist like a steel vise. Finally, with a gasp of pain, the policeman opened his hand and dropped the club. By now, there were several others who had gathered around to watch, and there was a light applause when the club fell.

  “You’re in trouble now!” the policeman warned. “I’ll get help and I’ll run both of you in to jail.”

  “No, you won’t,” a well-dressed man in the crowd said. “We’ll tell what happened.” The others backed him up, and the policeman, glaring first at the crowd, and then at O’Leary and Marcus, reached down meekly to recover his club. He hooked it onto his belt, then left amid the jeers and catcalls of those who had witnessed his humiliation.

  “I thank you for comin’ to my assistance,” O’Leary said to Marcus.

  Marcus smiled and rubbed the top of his head. “I’d say I owe you the thanks,” he said. “I wouldn’t have liked to be worked over with that club of his.”

  “Could I be botherin’ you for a wee bit more?” O’Leary asked.

  “If I can help.”

  O’Leary smiled. “Would ye be knowin’ where a man with a strong back an’ no fear of hard work could be findin’ lawful employment?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I just arrived today for . . .” Marcus rubbed his chin and looked at the big man in front of him. He was too large for the Cavalry, but the regular infantry could use him, he thought. “Are you interested in joining the Army?”

  O’Leary smiled broadly. “Would your fine country be havin’ the likes of me in its army?” “Come with me,” Marcus invited.

  The recruiting officer was a man named Captain Horner. Horner was in his late forties, overweight to the point of obesity, with a bald head and a large, brown, mutton-chop beard. The war over and peacetime promotions scarce, he was condemned to spend the rest of his career at the rank of captain at this same duty station. He was bitter about his dead-end assignment, and his bitterness had left a permanent scowl on his face.

  “I’m to give you thirty men,” Captain Horner said, looking at the orders Marcus handed him. He dropped them on his desk and leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin as he studied Marcus. “And just where am I supposed to come up with these thirty men, Lieutenant?”

  “Sir? I don’t know,” Marcus replied. “I thought I was just to come here . . .”

  “You thought you would just come here and get the men, with no thought of where they come from, right?” Horner asked. He leaned forward with a sigh. “It’s not your fault, Cavanaugh. You are no different from the War Department. They look at the city of New York as one great, unending source of men. Well, I’ll see what I can do about it. I have twenty-two men signed up now. Tomorrow is Friday, I always get a few men on Friday. Maybe I can give you what you need. Who is the big fellow who came in with you?”

  Marcus looked over toward O’Leary, who was busy studying pictures on the wall of the different types of uniforms worn by the Army.

  “His name is Sean O’Leary, an Irish immigrant,” Marcus said. “He wants to join the Army.”

  “Well, that will bring it up to twenty-three. I’ll only need seven more.”

  “But, Captain, he’s too big for the Cavalry,” Marcus said.

  “Lieutenant, these orders call for me to furnish you with thirty men,” Horner said. “They don’t say anything about how big or small the men must be. Only that they be able-bodied, and there’s no way you can tell me that Mr. O’Leary isn’t able-bodied.”

  “No, sir,” Marcus said. “He’s able-bodied, all right.”

  “Then I’ll swear him in. You come back here tomorrow at eleven and I’ll have your recruit platoon ready for you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said. He saluted Captain Horner, then withdrew from his desk. Before he left the building, though, he went over to talk to Sean O’Leary.

  “Would ye look at the fine-appearin’ soldier suits in the pictures here?” O’Leary said. “ ’Twould take a coldhearted man not to have pride in wearin’ one of these getups.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way, O’Leary,” Marcus said. “For by this time tomorrow, you’ll be Private O’Leary in my platoon. Go over there and see the captain, and he’ll swear you into the Army.”

  O’Leary smiled broadly. “Thank you, Captain,” he said, saluting.

  Marcus smiled, returning his salute casually. “You’re welcome—and it’s ‘Lieutenant,’” he said.

  “Yes, Lieutenant. Whatever you say, Lieutenant, sir.”

  There were twenty-nine recruits sworn in when Marcus returned to the recruitment center the next day. Captain Horner had the papers on the men in a large, brown envelope, and he slid the envelope across his desk toward Marcus.

  “Here they are, Lieutenant ... or at least, here is what I could come up with. Twenty- nine men, duly sworn and issued uniforms. But that’s the only thing that makes them soldiers. None of them have the least bit of training . . . I’m afraid that’ll be up to you when you get them to Fort Reynolds.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus answered. “We’ll take care of that.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” someone said. Marcus and Horner looked toward the man who had just entered. An exceptionally well dressed young man, approximately the same age as Marcus, stood just inside the door. He was about five feet eight, 140 pounds; the ideal weight and conformation for a Cavalry soldier.

  “Can I help you, sir?” Captain Horner asked. Marcus thought it odd that while Horner had not called any of the other recruits “sir” before they enlisted, he did this man. But then, the appearance and demeanor of this man was considerably different from that of the others. It wasn’t difficult to ascertain at once that this man was a gentleman.

  “I was told that this was the office for recruitment,” the new man said. “My name is Shield, William R. Shield, and I have come to offer my services.” Shield held up his hand for emphasis, and when he did, he staggered a little. That was when Marcus noticed that, though well in control of himself, the young man was drunk.

  “Have you been drinking?” Marcus asked.

  Shield smiled. “I am not normally a man who imbibes beyond his capacity, sir. However, I must confess that, as of this moment, I am one of Bacchus’s sons, yes, sir,” he answered.

  “Mr. Shield, are you an educated man?” Captain Horner ask
ed.

  “That, sir, depends upon your definition of the term education,” Shield replied. “Whereas I am a graduate of Yale, class of ’68, I am uneducated in the great school of life.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “And, as I learned this very morning, I am particularly naive to the wiles of women. That is why, sir, I am prepared to join the United States Army.” “Yes, but you would be wanting to apply for a commission. I’m afraid we can’t handle that in this office. You’ll have to—”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but I’ve come to enlist, not apply for a commission,” Shield interrupted.

  “Mr. Shield, might I suggest that you go home and reconsider this?” Marcus said. “If, after the drink has worn off, you still wish to—”

  “Mr. Cavanaugh,” Captain Horner said, coming down hard on the word mister. “I remind you that I am the recruiting officer here, sir, not you. If Mr. Shield wishes to be sworn in as a private I will be happy to accommodate him. And you should be, as well, for you will then have the thirty men you came for.”

  “But, Captain,” Marcus started, only to be interrupted by Horner.

  “That is all, Lieutenant. I suggest that you go outside and secure an empty omnibus. You will need it to transport your men to the railroad depot. In about five minutes they shall all be your responsibility.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said.

  With a travel voucher for thirty men, thirty- one counting himself, Marcus was able to secure an entire railroad car. He sat in the rearmost seat of the car and looked over the group of recruits as the train pulled out of Grand Central Station. A large number of them were Irish, and as O’Leary had already told them the story of the lieutenant coming to his aid against the crooked policeman, the Irish of the group were disposed to respect him. Their first day and night of the trip were uneventful.

  Cavanaugh knew he would need to appoint one of the men as his second-in-command for the duration of the journey, and so he spent the following morning looking over the papers to see who might help him.