Fort Hays Bustout (A Searcher Western Book 9)

by Len Levinson

  “Never heard of ’im.”

  The sergeant returned to the paperwork on his desk; Slipchuck headed for the door. Johnny should be here by now. Hope the injuns didn’t get him.

  ~*~

  It was dark on the prairie, Tomahawk smelled lobos in the breeze, and heard their yelps in the distance. They’d found the rotting corpse of Gotcher, and Tomahawk hoped they wouldn’t drift in his direction. John Stone was helpless, Tomahawk couldn’t handle a pack of lobos himself, but he’d try.

  Tomahawk lowered his head and looked through large luminous eyes at Stone, who breathed noisily on the ground. Stone had tremendous powers of endurance when sober, but had been drunk most of the past six months.

  Lobos howled in the distance. Tomahawk was tired, hungry, thirsty, spooked. He hoped Stone would come around soon.

  The Tumbleweed Saloon was thick with smoke and conversation. Soldiers, civilians and whores swilled down whiskey, while against the far wall, a man in a striped shirt and arm garters sat at a piano and plunked a tune.

  Slipchuck made his way to the bar, hand near his Colt; a man could never tell when a bad penny from his past might show up. Two feet of space were available between two soldiers, and Slipchuck sidled in.

  “Whiskey,” he said to the bartender.

  Slipchuck rolled a cigarette, and checked the lay of the land. Mounted on the far wall was a cavalry sword, and near it a homemade Seventh Cavalry flag. A young freckle-faced soldier stood to Slipchuck’s left, staring into his empty glass.

  “Fill ‘er up?” asked the bartender.

  “No more money,” the soldier said sadly, with an Irish brogue.

  “Bartender,” Slipchuck said, “give this soldier a whiskey on me, if you don’t mind.”

  The bartender filled the glass, and the soldier raised it to his lips. He drained half the liquid, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t believe I got your name,” he said with a burr on his tongue.

  “Slipchuck. You ain’t been in America long, I don’t guess.”

  “Six months, most of ’em in the Seventh Cavalry. Five years to go, and by the great snappin’-toed Jesus, don’t think I’ll make it.” He lifted the glass and drained it dry. “Name’s O’Reilly.”

  Anybody stationed at Fort Hays was a potential source of information about John Stone’s former girlfriend, Marie. Slipchuck thought he’d gather information for his pard, and also satisfy his own curiosity about the woman who made John Stone tick.

  “You know who Marie Scanlon is?” he asked.

  “Sure I do. Wife of Major Scanlon.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “You must be new around here.”

  “Just showed up. Supposed to meet my pard here, name of John Stone. He’s a-lookin’ fer her.”

  “Tell him to keep on lookin’. She ain’t here no more.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “She go alone?”

  “A woman like that don’t do nothin’ alone. She run off with Derek Canfield, the gambler.”

  Slipchuck gazed into a dark corner, where two whores fondled a drunken corporal. Did Johnny find out about Marie’s departure and follow her? Maybe he went on a drunk, or shot himself. The man was crazy where that woman was concerned. Private O’Reilly, having drained the contents of his glass, placed it loudly on the bar.

  “Another whiskey for my friend,” Slipchuck instructed the bartender.

  As the bartender filled the glass, a loud argument broke out on the far side of the room. O’Reilly lifted his glass. “Why’d I ever leave the old sod?” He slurped an inch off the top. “If the whiskey don’t get me, Custer will. I wish somebody’d put a bullet in that goddamn poppycock’s head.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said the trooper to the left of O’Reilly. He had tanned cheeks, and the front brim of his campaign hat was turned up. Everyone touched glasses.

  “What’s wrong with Custer?” Slipchuck asked. “Heard he was a good man.”

  “Good for what?” asked O’Reilly. “Treats his huntin’ dogs better’n us.”

  “Hate the son of a bitch,” said the other trooper. “You want a good general, that’s George Crook. He knows a man has to eat and sleep. Old Iron Butt jest looks after his pals at headquarters. Like the man said, somebody’s gonna shoot that son of a bitch someday.”

  Slipchuck motioned to the bartender, who poured another round. The three men drank, then the trooper introduced himself: “Amos Thatcher.”

  “You know Marie Scanlon?”

  “Don’t care what they say about her. I always thought she was all right.”

  “What they say about her?”

  “Worst bitch in the world. Screwed all the officers. Don’t give a shit about nobody. Drove her husband to drink. Run off with Derek Canfield, the gambler.”

  “You ever see him?”

  “Used to play cards right in here. Tall skinny galoot, looked like death warmed over, but no accountin’ fer taste. Had me a little talk with Marie Scanlon onc’t, few months back. Was on a police detail near her house, she was in her backyard. Asked where I was from, said she grew up in the South, missed the trees and flowers more’n anything else. Had the feelin’ she was lonely.”

  O’Reilly grinned. “You should’ve gone inside and slipped it to ’er.”

  “She was a lady.”

  “Ladies like it more’n anybody else.”

  Slipchuck scratched his beard. The more he listened, the worse it sounded. When Johnny found out, he’d rip the town apart. Where the hell was he anyway?

  ~*~

  Tomahawk was thirsty. Coyotes howled in the distance. The last water was a half-day back, but Tomahawk didn’t want to leave John Stone undefended. Yet if Tomahawk didn’t get water soon, he’d die too.

  He had to go. Better one survivor than none. He looked at Stone lying on the ground, wrapped in his blanket. Maybe the coyotes wouldn’t find him. Either way, Tomahawk needed water.

  He touched his thick lips to Stone’s hair, and wished him well. We’ve covered many miles together, friend. Then Tomahawk turned toward the last water, pain and sorrow in his heart.

  ~*~

  The lobo watched from behind a mesquite bush, eyes glittering like diamonds. The man in the blanket looked dead or close to it as the horse plodded off into the night. The prairie became still. The lobo focused his ears and held his breath. He could hear the man breathing through his clogged throat—alive, but not by much.

  The lobo feasted on carrion that night, but there was always room for more. Quivering with excitement, licking his chops, he crawled toward the man wrapped in the blanket.

  ~*~

  John Stone dreamed of a gala plantation party at the beginning of the war. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above the ballroom floor as he held Marie’s hands and twirled her among the other dancers.

  Marie wore a maroon velvet hoop skirt and a white silk blouse with a jade heart over her breast, while Stone had on his new gray Confederate officer’s uniform. The fragrance of magnolia blossoms drifted through open windows, and the crescent moon rested near the tops of trees. He gazed into her shimmering blue eyes.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go away, Johnny.”

  “Be back before you know it. Yankees’ll leave us alone once we bloody their noses a few times.”

  “You’ll meet other girls, and they’ll fall all over you. You’ll forget me.”

  “I’ll never forget you, Marie. I’ll love you till the day I die. You’re the only girl for me.”

  She smiled, and the fetid odor of carrion rose from her lips. He opened his eyes. Only inches away was a lobo, fangs glittering in the moonlight.

  The lobo lunged for his throat, and Stone raised his arm to protect himself. The lobo’s teeth sank into Stone’s wrist, the sudden violent pain bringing him to total consciousness. He screamed as his final reserves of adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream.

  The lobo hung on, e
yes emitting sparks of light, growling and howling, calling his compadres. Stone jumped to his feet, but the lobo clamped down tenaciously. Stone grabbed the lobo’s throat with his free hand and squeezed, forcing the lobo to loosen his hold on Stone’s arm.

  Stone flung him to the ground, but the lobo landed on his paws, turned around and snarled. Stone’s heart chugged in his chest, blood rushed past his ears, he was light-headed, dizzy— where was Tomahawk? He heard coyotes yipping and yelling as they rushed toward him over the grass.

  Stone looked for a weapon, but saw nothing other than his bare hands. The lobo stood before him, growling and spitting, tensed to strike as soon as the others arrived.

  They sped toward him and called out to each other in the thrill of the chase. Killing was their greatest pleasure, they could taste fresh blood on their tongues. Ahead in the shadows their brother held the man at bay. The lobos shrieked with delight as they charged in for the kill.

  Stone wheeled to meet them with his bare hands. They dived onto him all at once, their sharp pointed teeth bared. He kicked, spun, slammed them with his fists, performing his dance of death in the moonlight. The lobos sensed his weakness and knew it was just a matter of time. They lunged again, sinking their teeth into his flesh.

  He tore a lobo off his arm and flung it howling and twisting through the air. Another lobo flew toward his throat, but when he punched it in the jaw, it fell unconscious to the ground. Another lobo dug his teeth into the ankle of Stone’s left boot, and Stone stomped on his head with his big right boot, crushing his skull.

  Another jumped Stone from behind, digging his teeth deeply into Stone’s ass. Stone jumped three feet into the air as two more lobos dived onto his left leg. He lost his balance and fell to the ground, where lobos swarmed over him, tearing his flesh. He dodged, whacked, elbowed, tried to shake them loose. Finally his eyes fell on something gleaming dully in the grass— the bayonet left by the army deserter.

  Stone scooped it up, whirled, lashed out, and the blade caught a lobo’s throat. Two lobos sailed through the air at him, and three more attacked from his rear. He dodged and whipped the knife, tearing an angry red gash across the coat of one lobo, then rammed the blade into another lobo’s mouth.

  A third lobo clamped his jaws onto Stone’s forearm. Stone jammed the bayonet to the hilt into the lobo’s belly, ripping it wide open. The remaining lobos realized he wouldn’t be as easy as they’d thought, and weren’t hungry enough to continue. They howled defiantly as they backed away.

  Stone stood unsteadily on legs far apart, his body covered with lobo bites, the bloody bayonet in his fist. “You want a fight, I’ll give you a fight!”

  Lobos wanted food, not a fight. Snarling, bodies trembling with tension, they retreated farther into the darkness. Well, wait till you drop.

  The night swallowed them up; Stone was alone with bleeding gashes and the saliva of lobos staining his blue uniform. He sucked the cool night air into his lungs and waited in case the lobos tried a sneak attack.

  Where was Tomahawk? His faithful horse had deserted him, and Stone guessed the reason: water. He gazed at dead lobos on the ground, but knew they’d get him in the end. He was sick, weak, feverish, adrenaline wearing off, mouth dry, stomach cavernous. He needed nourishment desperately.

  Blood glistened in the moonlight. Stone knelt before the lobo with the slashed throat, fastened his lips to the open wound, and sucked salty blood. It had a wild doggy taste, but Stone swallowed it down. He sat on the ground, butchered the lobo, and sliced off a steak. It was stringy, dreadful, and smelly, but food. His jaws ached as he chewed the tough meat, blood dripping down his chin, staining his fingers.

  Fatigue fell over him as he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Nightbirds squawked in the distance, stars emblazoned the sky. Dead lobos would attract wildcats. Best get moving.

  He pulled himself to his feet, saw a blanket, the army saddle, army uniform, bayonet, and regulation revolver with no bullets. Take the saddle? He picked it up, but couldn’t carry it far. It was difficult enough to carry himself.

  He affixed the bayonet scabbard to the belt and jammed the gun into the holster. Onto his head he dropped the too-small campaign hat, and missed his old Confederate cavalry hat, his good luck charm. He’d been through five years of war with it, now it was gone. He felt weaker somehow, and Fort Hays was twenty miles away. He looked to the sky and found the Big Dipper and the North Star. Fort Hays was in a northwesterly direction, so he tilted in that direction.

  Something bright and shiny on the ground caught his attention. He bent over and saw Marie’s picture. Dropping to his knees, he picked it up.

  Marie gazed at him. Don’t give up now. He tucked the picture into his shirt pocket, buttoned the flap, and staggered across the prairie, following the stars. Behind him, lobos howled as they devoured those Stone had killed.

  One foot in front of the other. March or die. He heard lobos on his trail, growling low in their throats. As soon as he fell, he knew, they’d be all over him. The bitter taste of lobo blood was on his tongue. His ears felt long, pointed toward the stars. The prairie was drenched with death. He raised his face to the starry heavens and howled like a lobo.

  ~*~

  Slipchuck checked the jail, but Stone wasn’t there. It was three o’clock in the morning, and Slipchuck was at a table in the Tumbleweed Saloon wondering what to do. He only had thirty dollars left out of the hundred he’d been paid after the drive. He’d have to slow down, start thinking about a job. Maybe forgo a hotel for the night and sleep on the ground like a man.

  A few civilian drunks and whores were the only ones left in the saloon. All the soldiers had returned to the fort, where they had to stand reveille in a few hours.

  A young Mexican whore dropped into a chair at Slipchuck’s table. “What you say, papi?” she asked in her south-of-the-border accent. “Want to go upstairs?” She had dark flashing eyes and a fine profile.

  “Not in the mood,” Slipchuck said.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Do not geeve me that sheet. You lie through your teeth. You do not have the money, go ahead and say eet.”

  “It’s true, I don’t have much left in my poke. I git a job, be back to see you.”

  She looked at him seductively. “Eet ees late at night. Beeziness ees slow. For only eight pesos you come to my room for the whole night.” She unbuttoned the front of her gown and peeled back the fabric.

  He gazed at her ripe young breasts. She couldn’t be more than twenty. What the hell was eight dollars?

  “You got yoreself a deal,” Slipchuck said. “Just let me finish my drink.” He raised his glass of whiskey. “Want one?”

  “Si, señor.”

  Slipchuck brought two glasses of whiskey back to the table, trying to walk steady like a young man, not like the arthritic disaster he really was.

  He sat opposite her. “Been in Hays City long?”

  “Few months.”

  “Ever hear of Marie Scanlon?”

  The whore smiled. “La Rubia? I know who she ees. I have even see her weeth my own eyes. What ees she to you?”

  “Friend of mine’s lookin’ fer her. What’s she like?”

  “A man weel shoot her someday, because she does what she wants, like me.” The whore laughed. “Let’s go to bed, papi. I show you a good time.”

  ~*~

  John Stone shuffled across the prairie, lobos following twenty feet behind. If he fell, they’d pounce. He had to keep going. Marie was waiting for him at Fort Hays. If he could find a water hole, he’d be all right.

  Instead he found a gopher hole; his leg dropped down halfway to his knee, and he pitched forward onto his face before he could raise his hands for protection. The lobos rushed forward, thinking he’d finally gone down, but he smashed one in the mouth with a backhand swing, then slammed another in the eye.

  Stone got to his feet, pulled his bayonet. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said to them. He beckoned, a growl in his throat. The
y looked at each other, then stepped back. He still had strength, they’d have to wait a while longer.

  Stone looked at the sky and found his direction. He stumbled toward Fort Hays, mouth dry, boots dragging over the grass. Keep going and don’t even think about stopping.

  ~*~

  Rosita slept on her back, hands folded neatly on her belly. Slipchuck held the covers up with his bony arm, gazed at her voluptuous naked body in the moonlight.

  He felt better with her asleep, because she couldn’t see his aged flesh, wrinkled knees, gray hair, pouches under the eyes, no teeth, the list went on endlessly. But in the darkness he could pretend he was a young stagecoach driver again, and all the pretty girls were in love with him.

  That’s the way it was in the old days. He’d walked into the stagecoach station, the owner came and shook his hand, nothing too good for him. Pretty girls from the East had been fascinated with him. He still loved them same as he always did, but now they saw him as a funny-looking old billy goat.

  Rosita opened her eyes. “I am cold, papi. Geeve me the blankets.”

  He dropped them over her, snuggled, closed his eyes. She felt warm and fabulously alive against his withered flesh. Thank you, Jesus.

  ~*~

  Stone saw the first dim glimmer of dawn, and thought his eyes were playing tricks. He’d hallucinated everything from injuns to monster bears in the course of the night.

  He stopped, took his bearings. If he were lucky he’d run into a stagecoach or troop of cavalry on patrol. He turned. Thirteen lobos trailed behind him, watching patiently. Stone drew the bayonet. “Come on, you sons of bitches!”

  They didn’t move. When he collapsed, they’d eat him. Simple as that. He put the bayonet away. The sun was a red-orange sliver on the horizon. A stream wound like a long thin snake in the distance. If he could reach it, he’d survive.

  The sun rose in the sky, and the stream came into sharper focus, lined by green grass and willows. Anticipation gave him strength, his feet came down more firmly. If a man keeps plugging away, he’ll be all right.

  Lobos whined and sniveled as they followed like ardent suitors. They still hoped he might fall into their jaws. A prairie dog raised his head out of his burrow and looked at Stone, who threw him a West Point salute. I’m at my best when I live like a soldier.