Fort Hays Bustout (A Searcher Western Book 9)

by Len Levinson

  The sutler disappeared into his back room. Stone glanced at the officers. Soldiering had changed since he was in the Confederate Army. Officers were gentlemen then. These were bullies with officers’ shoulder boards.

  The sutler placed a holster and gunbelt on the countertop, plus two guns. “Here’s a Colt, but I thought you might want to look at this Starr Double Action. Has the advantage—you don’t have to cock it.”

  Stone ignored the Starr. He didn’t think a double action was as accurate as a single action. The Colt had hard use, blueing rubbed off the metal parts, wood grips smooth and dark, three notches cut below the trigger guard.

  “Who owned it?” Stone asked.

  “Was in a consignment shipped from Abilene. Lots of riflin’ still in the barrel. Good shootin’ condition, as you can see. Charge it to the general?”

  Stone was sure his friend would understand. He loaded the gun, left the sixth chamber empty for safety purposes. Then he dropped it into his holster, adjusted the belt so the holster was in the correct intermediate position, tied the bottom of the holster to his leg.

  The officers watched his every move. They were seasoned fighters, violence was their lives, and the stranger appeared ready to take on all of them. They weren’t quite sure of how to proceed, for they were U.S. Army officers, not gunfighters.

  Stone was ready, and his military background taught him to strike before the enemy could get ready. He walked toward the table, and the officers rose, moving their hands toward their guns. The sutler opened the window behind the counter and hollered: “Help!”

  Stone stopped in front of the table, took a solid grip on the floor. “I’ve got a gun now,” he said. “Who wants to go first?”

  The officers looked at each other. They understood forward march, charge in echelons, retreat in an orderly fashion, this was something new.

  Stone faced Captain Benteen. “How about you?” he asked. “You had a big mouth a few minutes ago.”

  Captain Benteen saw diamond-hard determination. Something told him to back off.

  “I’m waiting,” Stone said, eyes glittering in the light of the candle.

  The officers hesitated. The man might be a gunfighter, and they wouldn’t have a chance. The longer they looked at Stone, the more he was a professional. He was too sure of himself.

  In a sudden move, Stone stepped forward. He pushed one officer out of his way, grabbed Captain Benteen by the front of his shirt, put him up against the wall. “You talk a lot, but that’s about all.”

  Benteen’s face turned red, eyes popped out. “You have me at a disadvantage. If I fight you on this post, your friend General Custer will court-martial me.”

  “Pick your spot.”

  “Behind the stable, after taps. Bare knuckle, just you and me, no weapons.”

  “Look forward to it,” Stone replied. He walked to the counter, picked up his clothes, and headed toward the bachelor officers’ quarters.

  ~*~

  Slipchuck sipped a glass of whiskey at the bar of the Tumble-weed Saloon. He’d stayed at Fort Hays long enough to see Lieutenant Classen ride away, and been sick at heart ever since.

  Always the other fellow who got fancy suits, pretty women, pink champagne, the easy life. You need money if you want to enjoy life. A poor man lives like a cockroach.

  “You look like somebody just shot your horse,” said a voice beside him.

  Slipchuck turned to Daugherty, the gambler, sunlight glinting on the gold watch chain that covered his belly. “Sometimes life don’t seem worth livin’,” Slipchuck said. “A man works hard, what does he get? One day I’ll keel over, that’ll be the end of me, and I won’t never have the things I always dreamed of.”

  “What is it you dreamed of?”

  Slipchuck waved his arm wearily. “Oh, just the silly stuff goes on inside my poor ole head.”

  “The world is full of possibilities,” Daugherty replied. “Tell me what you want, and who knows, maybe I can get it for you.”

  “How can you git it fer me, if’n you cain’t git it fer yoreself?”

  “If it’s money you’re talking about, I can and do get it for myself. Take a look at me. Do you think I’m poor?”

  Slipchuck focused his old rheumy eyes on Daugherty, who wore a frock-coated suit, gold ring with big diamond, mucho dinero. “Are you really rich?” Slipchuck asked.

  “I live in the best suite in the hotel. I eat the best food. And at night, I play cards. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t lose often. Let’s have a seat and talk business. Maybe you and me can do something for each other. Bartender, a bottle of your best, please, and if there’s any steaks around, send two platters to that table over there.”

  Slipchuck followed the gambler to the table, they sat opposite each other. The bartender placed the bottle between them; Daugherty pulled the cork and filled Slipchuck’s glass. Then he handed Slipchuck a stogie.

  “Folks get suspicious if I win too much, because they know I’m a gambler. They figure I’m cheating, and I am. Now let me make a proposition to you. You’re a smart man—I can tell by talking to you. I don’t want to insult you, but you look like an old cowpoke down on his luck, and nobody’d ever suspect you of cheating. This is the way I see it: we sit at the same games, I feed you the cards, and you bet ’em.” Daugherty winked. “You look like you been around a few poker games. You know what to do with a good hand, am I right?”

  “I get the right cards, I know how to play ’em. But it’s the other feller what always gits the ace high straights.”

  “That’s about to change, Slipchuck my friend. You and me, we split everything fifty-fifty. Maybe we should try it here tonight on a small scale, find out how it works.”

  “People seen us talkin’.”

  “Since when can’t a man play cards with a friend? You want to fart through silk, this is your big chance.”

  “What if we get caught?” Slipchuck asked.

  “Only fools get caught, and we’re not fools.”

  ~*~

  Stone soaked in the hot bathtub, bits of dirt and dried blood loosening from his body, while his lice drowned en masse. Stone’s eyes were closed and he felt almost normal again. An orderly brought a steak sandwich and a glass of milk. Stone wanted to lie in the tub for the rest of his life.

  Marie had come and gone, he’d missed her by days, a rotten stroke of luck in a long line of catastrophes. According to everybody, she’d been screwing the troops. Well, not all of them. But enough to break his heart.

  It wasn’t the Marie he knew, the sweet, innocent girl who’d loved him so much. Well, maybe not that innocent. Marie had been nobody’s fool. Ran off with a tinhorn gambler. Stone was anxious to get the full story from Major Scanlon.

  He arose, lathered his face in the mirror, and shaved with the straight razor General Custer lent him. It was a painful job performed gingerly, due to the many bruises and contusions on his once-proud visage.

  He rinsed his face, and dried it with a fluffy white towel. There was a knock on the door, and General Custer entered. The hero of Gettysburg looked at a tall, bruised cowboy, strapping on a gunbelt.

  “Charged some weaponry to your account,” Stone said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “A man needs to be armed,” General Custer replied. “Did you get a rifle? You’ll need one. Pay me back when you get the money.”

  “Might not be for a long time.”

  “Go to the orderly room and tell Sergeant Major Gillespie to put you on the payroll.”

  “First I want to speak with Major Scanlon, if you don’t mind. It’s kind of important.”

  “Libbie’s expecting you for dinner. Don’t keep her waiting.”

  They left the cabin. Stone made for officers’ row. Now at last he’d find out what happened to Marie. Stone hoped Major Scanlon was sober, but if not, Stone would sober him up. Stone had traveled too far, suffered too much, to be put off now.

  ~*~

  Tomahawk walked at the rear of the her
d, heading south toward the land of the sun. It was a bright cloudless day, with plenty of green grass and water every few miles, but soon demon winter would be there. A horse could starve or freeze to death.

  The strawberry roan jacked her head up and down, always in his line of vision. No longer would Tomahawk spend nights tied to the hitching posts of noisy saloons, while John Stone drank himself into a stupor. Never again would he be awakened in the middle of the night, and expected to run at full gallop while other two-leggeds shot at him.

  Movement caught Tomahawk’s eyes. At the head of the herd, the leaders broke into a trot. No danger, doing it for fun, the rest of the herd surged forward, straining against the wind, gathering speed over the open range.

  Tomahawk loved to run unrestrained by a saddle and heavy John Stone. He loosened his muscles and shook his head, his long black mane trailing behind him. The churning breeze whistled past his ears, a stream of saliva flew from his mouth into the air. He examined the ground carefully in front of him, wary of holes that could break a horse’s leg at the knee. The herd spread out, so fewer horses would eat dust. It became a race among the males, showing off for the females.

  Tomahawk hadn’t been ridden hard for several days. He turned to see the strawberry roan behind him, observing his form. The only thing to do was turn it on.

  Tomahawk filled his lungs with air, reached for more prairie. Horses in front veered to the side as he passed among them, his mouth unfettered by a painful bit. He was free, it felt better with every passing moment.

  He thundered toward the front rank of horses, where the herd’s leaders held their positions. They heard him coming, glanced nervously behind them. Tomahawk neighed as he came abreast, gobbling up sod with long strides. Inch by inch he pulled ahead, his heart pounding like a drum as he led the wild ones to Mexico.

  ~*~

  Stone approached a two-story cottage on officers’ row. The sign on the door said MAJOR ROBERT SCANLON. Windows were shuttered though it was only midafternoon. This was where Marie lived until a week ago. Stone stepped forward and knocked.

  There was no answer. He hitched up his gunbelt, took out his bag of tobacco, rolled a cigarette. Then he knocked again. Silence came from within the house. Had Scanlon gone out, or was he passed-out drunk inside? Stone puffed the cigarette, looked toward the parade ground, where men snipped the grass. At the other end, a squad practiced close-order drill. A luckless private ran around the parade ground, carrying a full pack on his back and his rifle in his hands high over his head, shouting something Stone couldn’t hear precisely.

  Stone turned the doorknob; it was locked. He hoped Scanlon hadn’t gone over the hill, with his valuable information about Marie. Stone walked toward the rear door of the house, feeling out of balance. He was accustomed to two guns, which provided a six-bullet added margin of safety. He’d buy another Colt soon as he received his first pay.

  He came to the back door, knocked, again no answer. Glancing about, he saw children playing in a yard nearby. He reached down and turned the doorknob. It opened. Stone slipped silently into a small kitchen.

  He felt Marie’s emanations immediately. This had been her kitchen, no mistake about it. A chill crept up Stone’s back. The tub in the sink was filled with dirty dishes and glasses. The reek of stale whiskey was in the air, empty bottles everywhere. Stone entered a passageway, came to the living room. A man with graying hair and a mustache sprawled on the sofa, clothes rumpled and stained.

  Stone bent over him, shook his shoulder. “Major Scanlon?”

  A sigh escaped the major’s lips, his eyelashes fluttered. Stone shook him harder. The major grumbled in his sleep, rolled over, faced the back of the sofa. Stone looked at the crisscrossed suspenders on the major’s back. He didn’t come through five years of hell to be put off by a drunkard.

  He returned to the kitchen, worked the pump, filled a bucket with cold water. Then he carried the bucket to the living room and dumped it over the head of Major Scanlon.

  The provost marshal of Fort Hays felt as though he’d been plunged headfirst into a river. He sputtered, coughed, rolled over, saw a tall, brawny cowboy standing in the middle of the living room, wide-brimmed hat on his head, cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth.

  Major Scanlon raised himself to a sitting position on the sofa, wondered if he was hallucinating. “Who the hell’re you?” he asked.

  “John Stone.”

  There was silence for a few moments as both men examined each other. “You’re not dead?” Major Scanlon uttered.

  “Not yet. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Can I get you something (burp) to drink?”

  “I’ve come a long way, and I wonder if you’d be kind enough to answer a few questions about Marie.”

  Major Scanlon’s gaze faltered. The muscles of his face sagged in misery. “Are you the John Stone that she …?”

  “I was supposed to marry her, but she was gone when I returned home after Appomattox. She left with you?”

  “You weren’t killed at Sayler’s Creek?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “That’s what she heard. It wasn’t much fun playin’ ... second fiddle to a ghost, only ... are you sure you’re John Stone?” Major Scanlon blinked his eyes in befuddlement.

  “What made her think I was dead?”

  “It’s what somebody told her, right after her mother died in the Siege of Columbia. I found her living in the open with some other people. She was half-crazy with grief over the both of you, and scared to death. I thought she was a beautiful lady in distress, I’d read my Sir Walter Scott, you see. So I helped her, ended up marrying her, brought her west with me.” Major Scanlon closed his eyes, and tears ran down his cheeks. “But she never loved me.”

  “She must’ve felt something, if she came with you.”

  “She needed a man to lean on, and I happened along at the right time.” With a rough gesture, Major Scanlon reached for the jug of whiskey sitting on the floor in front of the sofa. “So you’re alive. Isn’t that a kick in the ass?” He pulled the cork out, leaned back his head, drank some down. Then he held out the jug to Stone and shook it. “Sure you don’t want a swallow? You might need one, after I finish with you.”

  “I don’t drink,” Stone said, tempted by the slosh in the whiskey jug. “Do you know where Marie went?”

  “Never told me, never even said goodbye. You might want to ask Lieutenant Forrest. They were quite … friendly.”

  Stone looked at the room where she’d lived. Now he knew why she’d left no message for him in South Carolina. Corpses can’t read, and that’s what she thought he was. Now the pieces fell into place. “Did she speak of me often?”

  “Too damn often. She told me one night you were ... the only man she ever loved.”

  He’d believed it five years. It led him across the length and breadth of the frontier. Now at last he knew it was true, but couldn’t imagine whether to laugh or cry. Major Scanlon raised the jug to his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbled, whiskey spilled down his chin. His eyes were red and baggy, his complexion sallow, ready to give up the ghost.

  “You poor son of a bitch,” Stone said.

  “I don’t want your pity,” Major Scanlon replied, turning down the corners of his mouth. “She was mine, or almost mine, for a little while. My troubles be over soon, but what’re you going to do?”

  ~*~

  Stone walked toward the orderly room, overjoyed to know that Marie still loved him. Now all he had to do was track her down, but where the hell was she? The more he thought about it, the more he was sure he didn’t know Derek Canfield. Maybe she’d met him while Stone was away in the war.

  He came to the sutler’s store, licked his lips. A glass of whiskey to steady him, but it was never just one. In the last town, a friend had been shot due to Stone’s drunkenness, and Stone swore never to touch another drop. He looked at the flags in front of the orderly room. Work a few months, save his money, resume his search for Marie.
He squared his shoulders and walked past the sutler’s store. A man’s sardonic laughter came to him from one of the windows, but Stone didn’t turn around. How strange that Marie lived on this very post and transversed these same paths.

  He entered the orderly room, Sergeant Major Gillespie looked up from his desk.

  “I’m the new scout,” Stone said.

  “Yer name?”

  “John Stone.”

  Once again the name rang in Sergeant Major Gillespie’s brain, and repetition paid off. “Somebody’s been in here lookin’ fer you.”

  “Old feller?” Stone placed his hand at chest level. “About this tall?”

  “ ’at’s him,” said Sergeant Major Gillespie.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Didn’t say, but if I had to guess, try the hog pens.”

  “Where’s Lieutenant Forrest?”

  “Company D.”

  Stone left the orderly room. A big black stallion hitched to the rail reminded him of Tomahawk. It was the first time Stone thought of his trusty mount since he got out of jail. What happened to poor Tomahawk?

  The animal did anything asked of him, always gave one hundred percent. A shame if injuns got him, but they wouldn’t eat him. He was too fine an animal. Stone wondered how Tomahawk would handle a warrior on his back.

  Stone never treated Tomahawk well, but hadn’t been much better to himself. Should’ve bought apples and cubes of sugar for Tomahawk once in a while, instead of drinking all that whiskey like a fool.

  He came to the Company D orderly room. The first sergeant, a white-haired old trooper who looked like he should’ve retired years ago, looked up from a list of requisitions.

  “I’d like to find Lieutenant Forrest,” Stone said.

  “Supply room,” the first sergeant replied.

  Stone strolled outside into the late-afternoon sun. A squad of troopers on horseback rode by, jangling equipment and the creak of leather reminded Stone of the war. He walked through an alley to a crudely planked building behind Company D headquarters. The supply sergeant read an old newspaper at his desk.

  “I’m looking for Lieutenant Forrest,” Stone said.