Fort Hays Bustout (A Searcher Western Book 9)

by Len Levinson

  133

  Out in Indian Country, a case of mistaken identity can cost a man his life …

  Getting ambushed by a pair of army deserters in the New Mexico desert wasn't part of John Stone's plans. He'd just left a job herding cattle in Texas, hot on a lead that his long-lost Marie was in Fort Hayes. But she's no longer there, as Stone learns in the stockade—where he's charged with desertion. Now he has to prove he's a civilian, and fast. The outpost is turning into a hellhole. General Custer's caught between Sioux warriors and murderous subordinates—and it looks like Stone will have to take them on all by himself ...

  FORT HAYS BUSTOUT

  SEARCHER 9

  By Len Levinson

  Copyright © 1992, 2015 by Len Levinson

  First Smashwords Edition: December 2015

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2015 by Tony Masero

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book ~*~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  John Stone lay on the ground, coughing violently. He had pneumonia, in the midst of a vast prairie, alone and getting worse. Sweat poured off his body. His canteen was empty.

  Sparse, stunted grass grew around him; it was a mild September day. His old Confederate cavalry hat hung from the pommel of his saddle. Two days ago he’d felt a mild tickle in his throat, and now he was falling apart. Tomahawk, his horse, looked at him with great concern.

  Tomahawk was hobbled by rawhide. If his boss died, he’d be prisoner of anything that came along. Stone looked through bloodshot eyes at Tomahawk, the idea traveled from horse’s brain to man’s. Stone rolled to his knees and raised himself from the ground. His head spun, a wave of dizziness assailed him. His cheek hit the dirt.

  He passed through memory and dream. A battlefield came into view, cannons fired, puffs of smoke arose from rifles. From behind a grove of trees, the Confederate cavalry charged.

  They were led by a young captain with pale blond hair, sword in his right hand, yellow sash flying behind him, Stone’s best friend, Ashley Tredegar. Canister ate holes in the ranks of the gray cavalrymen, but the charge thundered onward, Ashley far in front, his horse racing over the grass.

  His cavalrymen galloped behind him, wind in their teeth, following their gallant young commander into the jaws of hell. Then the Union cavalrymen emerged from their position behind a hill, and their commander also had blond hair. He was twenty-four years old, the youngest general in the history of the United States Army, and told his bugler to sound the charge. The sharp bright notes pierced the tumultuous morning, as the Michigan Wolverines counterattacked across a broad front.

  Cavalrymen in blue and gray galloped toward each other, whipping their swords through air filled with buzzing bullets and screaming canisters. Horses and men were ripped apart, but the Confederate cavalry plunged onward, uniforms ragged, low on ammunition, riding horses half-starved, while the onrushing Michigan Wolverines were well fed and in serviceable uniforms, their mounts the finest money could buy.

  The Confederate commander’s eyes glowed like red-hot coals. He was a graduate of West Point, a rich planter’s son, a lover of Shakespeare and Robert Burns. The Boy General was also a West Point graduate, son of a poor farmer, his passion was war. He wore a bright crimson necktie, his eyes bright with the excitement of the charge.

  The horsemen roared toward each other, officers urged their men on. Then the unthinkable happened. The young Confederate captain with pale yellow hair jerked in his saddle, his hat fell off his head. He leaned perilously to the side, and the color sergeant angled his gaunt horse toward him. Ashley Tredegar, in the first full bloom of manhood, fell out of his saddle. Men behind him tried to dodge away, but their horses’ hooves trampled Ashley Tredegar into the mud and muck.

  Tears came to Stone’s eyes, as memories of Ashley crowded his mind. Ashley was the bravest man he ever knew, a solid loyal friend. A man like Ashley Tredegar came along once in a lifetime. It was a terrible tragic waste.

  Stone spat a gob of something brown and terrible into the dirt. Life was a string of tragedies and setbacks. Nothing ever went right. A sound jogged him to awareness, he raised his eyes. Twenty Kiowa warriors rushed toward him, war hatchets in their hands!

  Stone drew both his Colts, thumbed back the hammers, opened fire. Tomahawk watched in alarm as his boss aimed a barrage of hot lead into thin air. Stone got to his feet and wavered. He was six feet four, broad-shouldered, narrow at the waist. He dropped his Colts into holsters on crisscrossed belts. He had thick dark blond hair, blue eyes, and hadn’t shaved in three days.

  He wobbled toward Tomahawk. A giant nutcracker squeezed Stone’s chest, but somehow he had to turn the faithful animal loose. He dropped to his knees before Tomahawk, reached for the hobble, his head fell onto Tomahawk’s right hoof. Tomahawk looked at him sadly. Stone spun through shrouds of time. Two men faced off on the desert of New Mexico, as the sun came over the horizon. One was John Stone, and the other Beauregard Talbott, Stone’s best friend in the world after Ashley Tredegar.

  They drew guns, Stone was faster. He shot his old schoolboy chum in the chest. Beau lay on the ground bleeding, but Beau had forced the fight. He’d gone insane, become an outlaw, and now haunted Stone’s fever dreams.

  Stone sobbed deliriously. He, Ashley, and Beau had grown up together, now he was the only one left, and pneumonia had beat him to the draw. He opened his eyes. The hobbled legs of Tomahawk stood before him. Stone rose to his knees and moved toward the horse. His head felt as if it were on fire, he coughed and slobbered as he reached toward the thick bands of rawhide.

  Everything went murky, he fell to his face once more. He felt alone, helpless, vulnerable. If only Marie were there to help him.

  He’d grown up with her in South Carolina too, had been in love with her since he was six years old. Her face floated before him, with her high cheekbones, golden hair. She was at Fort Hays, only a day away. He’d been searching for her since the war ended, she was so close, yet so far. Marie was all he had left in the world. Somehow he had to reach her.

  She was gone when he’d returned home from the war, every plantation in the county destroyed by Sherman’s marauding army. Stone’s parents were dead, and neighbors told him Marie went west with a Union officer.

  He’d followed her ever since, roaming the frontier like a vagabond, usually broke, drinking too much, showing her picture in every town he visited. People sent him on wild goose chases that took months to track down. He wandered long periods with no leads at all. Many times he wanted to give up, but somehow couldn’t, in the grip of a love that refused to die.

  Then, only a few days ago, he’d hit pay dirt. An army officer and his wife said they’d known Marie at Fort Hays, where Stone’s old West Point classmate Fannie Custer was commanding officer. They said Marie was married to the provost marshal, Bob Scanlon.

  Now he was on his way to Fort Hays, but might not make it. Illness was eating him alive. He’d never been so sick in his life, except for when he’d been wounded in the war. But he had to find Marie.

  She had a lot of questions to answer, and they tormented him along with his fever and the knot in his stomach. How could she run away without l
eaving a message? Why couldn’t she wait until he returned home? Had she stopped loving him?

  He raised his eyes, and she stood above him, dressed in a brown coat. “Marie,” he whispered, reaching for her hand. Her face disappeared, replaced by Tomahawk’s snout.

  Stone snapped awake. He took a deep breath, coughed, was attacked by the dry heaves. He focused all his remaining reserves of energy and willed himself to unclasp the hobble.

  Tomahawk stepped free. No saddle on his back, he could run away, but couldn’t leave now that Stone cared enough to set him loose.

  Tomahawk took a few steps back and watched solemnly as Stone hugged himself to keep warm. The sun was setting, and Stone felt like a block of ice. The only thing to do was light a fire. He’d rather be shot by an injun than die from the cold.

  He gathered buffalo chips, struck a match against a rock, lit a fire, and huddled against it, teeth chattering.

  Tomahawk stared at the endless rolling prairie. Great herds of wild horses were out there, he could join them, but he’d been born on a ranch and raised by cowboys. He knew no other life, and felt a strange connection to the tormented man at the fire, rubbing himself frantically, the Apache blanket wrapped around him. Tomahawk would stay till he died, then join the wild ones.

  ~*~

  “I smell smoke,” said Private Snead, wearing a blue army uniform with the insignia torn oft

  “Might be injuns,” replied Private Gotcher.

  They sat upon army saddles and horses, pulled back army reins, deserters on their way to the gold fields of Colorado. Snead was slim, with a narrow face. Gotcher was on the heavy side, brown stubble on his cheeks. Both joined the army for the free trip west, they never had any intention of being soldiers. Gotcher was wanted for armed robbery in Ohio. Snead shot a policeman in Baltimore. They teamed up at Fort Dodge, and went over the hill together.

  “Smell it too,” Gotcher said, twitching his round red nose. “We best steer clear of it.”

  “Might be a couple dumb cowboys, we can take ’em by surprise.” Snead drew his gun. “Git their money and rifles.”

  “What if it’s injuns?”

  “We’ll see ’em long afore they see us.”

  “I ain’t lookin’ fer an arrow in me gullet,” Gotcher said. “Count me out.”

  “Need money and civilian clothes. Got to take chances.”

  “Not me.” Gotcher raised his hand. “Guess we come to the fork in the road.”

  “That’s the way you feel about it ….”

  Gotcher turned toward Colorado, and the sleek cavalry mount plodded away. Snead lowered his hand to his gun. If Gotcher got caught, he might spill the beans, tell the army where to look.

  Snead drew his gun, thumbed back the hammer, click. Gotcher heard the sound, turned his head in surprise. A shot reverberated across the plains. Gotcher felt as though a mule team rammed into his back. He was thrown against his horse’s mane, then sagged to the ground.

  He rolled onto his back and looked at Snead, who was aiming for a second shot.

  “Should’ve knowed … you was a backshooter,” Gotcher gasped.

  “But you didn’t,” Snead replied, pulling the trigger.

  ~*~

  Ray Slipchuck, old stagecoach driver of the plains, opened his eyes in the Drovers Cottage, Abilene. The final orange rays of the setting sun slanted into the room, falling upon the face of the young prostitute sleeping next to him.

  She’d been expensive, but worth every penny. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, like the finest silk. It wasn’t every day an old ruin like Slipchuck could sleep with a young woman, but he’d just been paid after three long months on the trail with a herd of Texas longhorns.

  He gazed at her profile. She sure gave him a run for his money, did every weird degraded stunt concocted by his warped, lonely old man’s mind. They even did it on the floor like dogs. But now Slipchuck felt more dead than alive. His age finally caught up with him.

  The young prostitute opened her eyes, in yet another hotel room. Her life was an endless series of them. Who was the guy this time? She rolled toward him, saw a toothless geezer. He smelled like tobacco and whiskey, looked like a mongrel wire-haired terrier.

  “Howdy,” he said, tossing a little salute.

  She remembered him now, but she’d had worse, like the traveling salesman who tied her to the bed.

  “I was figgerin’ we could git us some grub,” Slipchuck said.

  “Got to go home,” she replied.

  With sinking heart, he watched her dress. Bit by bit her luscious body was covered by her red gown.

  “How’s about tonight?” Slipchuck said.

  “We’ll see,” she replied in a perfunctory way, and Slipchuck remembered when he was young, he didn’t always have to pay.

  “How’s about a good-bye kiss?” he asked hopefully.

  “You already got yer kisses, old man. Should be in the clink fer the thangs you made me do.” She smiled, blew him a kiss. “Maybe some other time, hey, cowboy?”

  “I’ll be a-lookin’ fer you at the Lone Star.”

  She left the room. He felt old, tired, defeated. But an old stagecoach driver has to keep clicking off the miles. If he lingered in Abilene, he might miss John Stone, his pardner, at Fort Hays.

  Slipchuck inhaled the fragrance of the pillow where the whore’s mahogany locks had lain. If only …

  ~*~

  Tomahawk fidgeted, someone was coming. His ears pricked up and he gazed in the direction of the sound. Help or trouble, hard to know. He moved next to Stone and prodded him with his snout, but Stone was out like a light. The rider drew closer, and Tomahawk didn’t want to get caught. He trotted away, where he could watch from the distance.

  Snead heard muffled hoofbeats, but didn’t know if they were his imagination, the wind, a tribe of bloodthirsty injuns, or blue-bellies tracking him down. He pulled back his horse’s reins, listened, but the sound didn’t repeat. Tomahawk stood quietly in the shadows. Snead thought it was the wind. A man’s ears played tricks on him.

  He’d seen the glowing embers of the fire from a hogback in the distance, and homed in on it. Didn’t look like injuns, but his regulation Colt .45 was cocked, ready in hand. He climbed from his horse, hobbled it, and moved toward the fire.

  He came to a small clearing, where a solitary man slept beside the ashes. Snead crept forward, as Tomahawk watched the gun in his hand. Stone felt something cold against his forehead.

  “Git up real slow,” Snead said, “keep yer hands where I can see ’em.”

  Stone wondered if this were a hallucination like all the others. He reached forward to touch Snead, who slammed the gun against Stone’s head. Stone’s eyes rolled up as he collapsed onto the ground.

  Snead undressed him, put on his clothes, took his twin Colts and gunbelts, rifle, saddle, money, even his Confederate cavalry hat. It was on the big side, but might be good for a free drink in a saloon full of Texas cowboys. He threw the regulation Colt and bayonet to the ground, not wanting anything that might identify him as a deserter.

  He found the picture of Marie in the shirt pocket, tossed it over his shoulder. He wished he could get his hands on the cowboy’s horse, but the animal kept his distance. “C’mon, boy,” Snead said, pretending to have a lump of sugar in his hand. “I got somethin’ nice fer you.”

  Tomahawk didn’t fall for it. Snead put Stone’s saddle and bedroll on his stolen army horse, planning to rob the first civilian horse he found. Stone lay naked on the ground, Snead’s clothes and army blanket nearby.

  Snead was ready to leave. He raised the gun to Stone’s head. Why waste a bullet on a dying cowboy? He climbed onto his horse and rode away, Stone’s cavalry hat on the back of his head.

  Tomahawk waited until he was out of earshot, then emerged from the shadows. He caught the blanket in his teeth and spread it over the naked man wheezing through a clogged and swollen throat. Tomahawk stood guard nearby, chomping grass, swishing his tail nervously.

&nb
sp; Chapter Two

  Stone shivered and burned. He threw the blanket off, pulled it on again. Coughing, hacking, spitting, he passed the night.

  He gained consciousness, his body a massive hurt, barely able to think. He’d lost weight, cheeks hollowed, eyes bloodshot. He saw the uniform nearby, arose laboriously, put it on. It was much too small, the trousers halfway to his knees, but a man couldn’t be naked on the cold prairie. His eyes fell on Marie’s picture, he bent to pick it up, and passed out again. He hit the ground, and Tomahawk covered him with the army blanket.

  Stone drifted into phantasmagorical nightmares. Tomahawk took his position as guard. Another long night of dangerous possibilities lay ahead.

  ~*~

  Slipchuck rode through the tall gateposts of Fort Hays, and the army post stretched before him, parade ground surrounded by wooden buildings. Enlisted men in one section, married officers in another, headquarters building straight ahead, flag of the Seventh Cavalry fluttering in the breeze.

  A group of mounted cavalrymen approached, led by a young lieutenant with his campaign hat slanted low over his eyes. The lieutenant touched his finger to the brim as Slipchuck approached.

  Slipchuck turned in the saddle, looked at the officer, ramrod straight, red hair, tanned, spiffy. “Bet he gets lots of girls,” Slipchuck muttered.

  He came to the headquarters building, climbed down from Buckshot, threw the reins over the rail, hitched up his gunbelt. He strolled past soldiers standing guard on either side of the door, and for all they knew, he might have ten pounds of dynamite tucked into his shirt.

  Slipchuck was lean, five and a half feet tall, and had been nearly everywhere, done just about everything. A gruff master sergeant with a face like a bulldog looked up from his desk. Another civilian to screw up my day.

  Slipchuck took off his hat. A large portrait of President Grant hung on one wall, the head of a buffalo mounted on the other. The office was spotless, and Slipchuck knew who kept it that way.

  “I’m supposed to meet a feller name of John Stone here,” Slipchuck said. “He check in yet?”