Fort Hays Bustout (A Searcher Western Book 9)

by Len Levinson

  “Who the hell’re you?”

  The two men stared at each other, then the supply sergeant arose behind his desk. He was the same height as Stone, but fifty pounds heavier, big beer belly.

  “Out of my supply room,” the sergeant said, “or I’ll throw you out.”

  “Try it.”

  The supply sergeant advanced. Stone raised his fists. A voice said, “At ease.” The tall, young, red-haired officer at the rear of the supply room said, “I’m Lieutenant Forrest. Who might you be?”

  “John Stone.”

  Forrest hesitated. “Fight or talk?”

  “Talk.”

  The supply sergeant stared at Stone with an expression that said: I’m going to kick your ass someday.

  “Anytime,” Stone replied to the unspoken words.

  Lieutenant Forrest sauntered toward the door. “Come to my cottage. We’ll be alone there.”

  Stone followed him out of the supply room. Lieutenant Forrest had an aquiline nose and the full petulant lips of a child, plus a lanky ambling gait. “Heard you were on the post,” he said. “Figured you’d stop by before long. Thought you might want to shoot me.”

  “I want information about Marie. Where the hell’d she go?”

  “If I tell you, don’t let Scanlon know. She doesn’t want him following her.”

  “You have my word.”

  “San Francisco, but maybe they changed their minds since I talked with her last. If you ever find her, come up on her real easy. She thinks you’re beneath six feet of Virginia.”

  “You ever meet Canfield?”

  Lieutenant Forrest nodded.

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Six feet, sickly looking, coughed a lot. Black mustache startin’ to go gray.”

  Stone couldn’t place him. Lieutenant Forrest opened the door to his cottage, took out a bottle and two glasses.

  “Don’t drink,” Stone said, gazing with desire at the bottle.

  Lieutenant Forrest poured himself two fingers, threw his campaign hat onto a peg, and his thick burnished hair caught the last rays of sunlight streaming through the windows.

  Stone sat on the sofa, Lieutenant Forrest dropped onto a chair. Outside, the bugler blew retreat. The staccato music reminded Stone of West Point. Live by the bugle, die by the bugle.

  Lieutenant Forrest sipped whiskey. “She talked about you a lot. I’d say she was obsessed with your memory. She never loved me, and we both knew it. We were just—”

  “If only she stayed one more week.”

  “Couldn’t take it anymore. Was at the breaking point.”

  “Sounds like she confided in you quite a lot.”

  “She needed somebody to talk with. Wasn’t the most popular person on the post.”

  A powerful thirst for whiskey forced Stone to gaze at the bottle on the coffee table. All he had to do was reach over and take a drink.

  “Did Marie have any other men on this post?”

  Lieutenant Forrest laughed sardonically. “I’m sure a lot of them wished it, but I don’t think so. Marie was rather straight-laced underneath her bluff exterior.”

  Stone took out her picture. “This is what she looked like when I knew her.”

  Lieutenant Forrest smiled faintly. The setting sun rimmed his profile in gold; he resembled a cherub in an Italian Renaissance painting. “Hasn’t changed much. Maybe a few more pounds. A beautiful woman, no question about it.”

  ~*~

  It was dark when Stone knocked on General Custer’s door. Eliza, the maid, opened it and looked him up and down. “You must be John Stone. The general’s been talkin’ ’bout you all night. Was he ornery when he was young?”

  “Worse than now,” Stone said, handing her his new cowboy hat.

  She led him into the living room. General Custer rose to his feet, wearing fringed buckskin pants and a blue army shirt without insignia. On the other side of the room, an exquisite woman sat near the fireplace, attired in a high-necked green velvet dress and black boots. Her hair was lustrous dark brown, a book in her hands.

  General Custer bowed slightly. “My wife, Elizabeth Bacon Custer. I’d be in a gutter someplace, if it weren’t for her.”

  She curtsied, held out her hand. Stone took it and bowed as though in the drawing room of his family’s home before the war.

  “Most people call me Libbie,” she said. “Have a seat—may I call you Johnny? So you went to West Point with Autie? I’ll bet you could tell me interesting stories about his time there.”

  “He won’t,” General Custer said, “on penalty of the firing squad.”

  “Autie said you were engaged to marry Marie Scanlon? How odd.”

  “Did you know Marie well?”

  “I knew her, but couldn’t say how well. I had no idea she’d run off with Derek Canfield. He’s about as far from Lieutenant Forrest as you could get. Derek Canfield is a sick man. Isn’t that so, Autie?”

  “You smoked and drank as much as Canfield, you’d cough too.”

  Stone asked, “What was he doing at Fort Hays?”

  “Came to see Marie Scanlon, what else?” Libbie replied.

  The black maid entered the room. “Supper’s ready.”

  Libbie took Stone’s hand, led him to the dining room. A brace of plovers and haunch of antelope sat on the table, filling the air with mouth-watering fragrance. Pots of sweet potatoes and regular potatoes were nearby. They sat, Libbie said a brief prayer, General Custer carved the antelope, Stone looked at Custer’s knobby red hands. He’d always been an awkward soldier, earned more demerits than anyone in the class, graduated last, restless energy. Now he was the same rambunctious boy bent under the weight of command, and Libbie had him wrapped around her little finger.

  She was a great beauty, with magnificent hair, dressed at the height of fashion, immaculately groomed, the kind of woman a man would want to keep him interested in life.

  “What was your unit during the war?” General Custer asked, holding up the platter of meat.

  Stone selected a thick savory slice and lay it on his plate. “The Hampton Legion.”

  “What rank did you attain?”

  “Captain.”

  There was silence for a few moments. Libbie passed him the potatoes. “We don’t get a variety of vegetables here,” she explained apologetically. “We’re at the end of nowhere. Prices are sky high.”

  “I thought the army could get anything it wants.”

  General Custer shook his head sadly. “Congress and the President keep military appropriations down, because nobody wants to pay taxes. Quite frankly, the men’s food is terrible. If I were an enlisted man, I’d desert too. They’re paid practically nothing, compared to what civilians earn in this area.”

  “They work so hard, and suffer so much,” Libbie said. “They’re the best men in America.”

  Stone gazed into her almond eyes. Fannie Custer had found himself one hell of a woman, but her view of the troopers was at variance with his. The Boy General didn’t challenge her. He’d attack the Sioux nation with a handful of potential deserters, but avoid confrontations with his little wife at all costs.

  General Custer turned to his former classmate from the old days. “I must confess my surprise you only became a captain, Johnny. Most of the men in our class did far better than that, and you were a friend of Wade Hampton’s, weren’t you? What happened?”

  Stone sliced into his antelope steak. He normally didn’t like to speak of these things, but the man was his host and a dear old friend. “It was all I could do to handle my company.”

  “You doubted yourself. So did I, sometimes. But I never let it stop me. I was a damn sight better’n the other hacks and charlatans with stars on their shoulders. But maybe you were the smart one. You did your duty and got out when it was over. Sometimes I wish I got out too. I’ve had opportunities, let me tell you. But I love the army, and somebody’s got to defend the people out here.”

  There was a knock at the front door, and a f
ew moments later the black maid entered the dining room. “General,” she said, “Sergeant Major Gillespie wants to speak with you.”

  General Custer wiped gravy from his mustache as he left the dining room. Stone welcomed the opportunity to be alone with Libbie. “Were you on friendly terms with Marie?” he asked, trying to draw her out.

  “She made it difficult. I feel sorry for her, but I feel even sorrier for Major Scanlon. The poor man is finished.”

  “What did you think of Canfield?”

  “Not much to look at, but quite a charmer. Some officers spread the rumor that Autie was one of Marie’s lovers. They’ll say anything to discredit him. Petty men, they’ll come to a petty end.”

  “Not all are that way, fortunately,” General Custer said, returning to the dining room. “I have many good officers, and a few worthless backbiting sons of bitches. They resent me and do their best to subvert and undermine everything I do. I wouldn’t put anything past them. They want to get ahead not by their merits but by dragging somebody down. They’ve met their match this time. I won’t give in to them. They’ll have to kill me, to get me out of the way.”

  Stone replied, “Ran into a few of them in the sutler’s store, nearly came to lead.”

  “Did one of them have a round face, bug eyes, white hair?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Captain Benteen, worst of the lot. The man hates me with maniacal passion. If I could get rid of him, the morale of this post would increase one hundred percent. I don’t know what I ever did to him, but it must’ve been pretty bad.”

  “You didn’t do anything,” Libbie said, placing her hand on his. “It’s just the hatred an ordinary man feels in the presence of his betters. He’s jealous, that’s all.”

  “What’s his background?” Stone asked.

  “Citations for bravery, steadily promoted throughout the war. Recommended for the brevet rank of general, but didn’t get it. I was recommended, and did get it. I think that’s at the core of the problem. He’s also five years older than I, and nobody likes to take orders from a younger man. A group of officers have gathered around him, and their main goal is harassing yours truly.”

  “I’m sure you can take care of yourself,” Stone said. “You’ve General Sheridan on your side, if a man can believe what he reads in the papers.”

  “Depends on the papers, but General Sheridan and I are friends, thank goodness. One of these days I hope to convince him to send Benteen to China. If I win a significant victory against the injuns, he’ll do anything I ask. But the politicians can’t figure out what to do about the injuns. Some think we should conquer them and get it over with, others say we should send them to college and turn them into scholars. Liars and four flushers’ve been debating it in Congress for nearly two years. If they ever turn the Seventh Cavalry loose, I’ll wipe the injuns off the face of the earth.”

  “I know they’ve committed atrocities,” Stone said, “and they’ve even killed friends of mine—hell—they’ve just about killed me a few times, but all they’ve got to look forward to is a reservation where they’ll live on the starvation level for the rest of their lives, guarded by soldiers who despise them, and traders’ll kill them with whiskey, for the almighty dollar. I was on the losing side of a war. I know how the injuns feel.”

  “You ever see a massacre?” Custer asked.

  “Quite a few.”

  “I know the injuns been mistreated, but that doesn’t give them the right to kill women and children, torture people, and mutilate them. They’ve got to learn to live at peace with the rest of us, or else.”

  Stone didn’t like to argue about injuns. Everybody had his position, and nobody changed his mind. “If you had your choice, where’d you like to be posted?”

  “New York City. Ever been there? Marvelously stimulating. A man can make a lot of money in New York.”

  “Why don’t you resign your commission and go there?” Stone asked. “Fort Hays isn’t exactly the garden spot of America.”

  “Don’t want to spend the rest of my life in an office. I need the open land, fresh air, the feeling you get when you’re riding where no white man has ever been.”

  “Speaking of garden spots,” Stone added, “that guardhouse of yours should win a special prize. Did you take care of Antonelli?”

  “He’ll be sent to the hospital in the morning. I’ve already issued the order.”

  “He might make a good soldier. The loyal type. During the war, some of the most unlikely men became first-class soldiers. I was in awe of their day-to-day courage.”

  “They were good because of your leadership, Johnny. You knew how to get the best out of them.”

  “They didn’t do it for me. They did it to save their families and their way of life, and they did it for Bobby Lee. If men believe what they’re fighting for, all you have to do is explain what they have to do. They’ll go out and wage war with everything they have.”

  “I don’t believe in telling them anything,” Custer said. “I don’t want to confuse them. Not good for a soldier to think too much. I want them to obey commands the moment they’re given. That’s what I’m working for here. The men don’t care about injuns the way the Wolverines cared about the Union. Quite a different situation. The primary ambitions of men on this post are whiskey and the hog pens. They expend more energy avoiding work than actually doing it. They have no sense of pride in anything, least of all themselves or their unit. And then there’s Major Reno. About the only thing Captain Benteen and I agree on is Major Reno. The man’s an idiot through and through. You remember Reno, don’t you? Jimmy Whistler’s friend?”

  “Good God, is Reno here too?”

  “In the flesh. The most indecisive and confused man in the world. Wherever he goes, the cloud of gloom follows. Yet here he is, on this very post, my second in command. I tell you—the dregs of the world are congregated here at Fort Hays, and I must be the dregs myself, because I’m their commanding officer.”

  Libbie turned to her dinner guest. “Don’t let him continue like this, Johnny. I feel as if I’m sinking in a sea of black ink.”

  General Custer threw his hand in the air. “What’s the use of trying, when nobody gives a damn? Maybe I should’ve accepted one of those offers in New York when I was there, but it’s not too late, maybe I will yet. An office in a nice building on Wall Street, my club around the corner, the opera, the theater, why do I stay here?”

  “I have no idea,” Stone said. “I’m leaving for San Francisco soon as I can.”

  Libbie gazed at Stone’s fine profile. His nose looked slightly bent out of shape. She noted strong cheekbones, firm jaw, dreamy eyes, beneath numerous scars and bruises. Not a bad-looking man, in a rough sort of way. “What’ll you do if you find Marie in San Francisco, Johnny? Will you try to take her away from Derek Canfield?”

  “She’ll join me of her own free will.”

  “What if she tells you to go away?”

  “She won’t.”

  “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

  “Till she tells me otherwise, I’m a-gonna keep on coming.”

  Chapter Five

  Slipchuck stood at the bar of the Tumbleweed saloon, sipping whiskey. It was night, the saloon jam-packed, card games going full blast at several tables. Nobody paid any special attention to Slipchuck, another face in the crowd.

  He looked at the big round table where Daugherty played poker. Daugherty had been at it an hour, winning some, losing others, breaking even overall. As soon as an empty seat opened at the table, Slipchuck would take it.

  Cheating didn’t come easy to him, but at least he wouldn’t handle the deck. That was Daugherty’s job. Slipchuck wanted to win a big stake, live like a king for once in his life, dress like a dandy, screw until he dropped in his tracks, but he couldn’t think of a better way to go.

  A short man in a stovepipe hat arose from the table. Slipchuck moved through the crowd. “Mind if’n I sit down?”

  “Come on,�
�� said a man in a black vest. “You got money to lose, make yerself comfortable.”

  Slipchuck glanced at Daugherty a few chairs away. The slick gambler wore his derby tilted forward, puffed a stogie. The air was a fragrant blue cloud that scratched the back of Slipchuck’s throat. A farmer dealt the cards.

  Slipchuck played conservatively, waiting patiently for the deck to circle the table and come to Daugherty. He studied the other gamblers: businessmen, cowboys, farmers, one professional gambler complete with diamond stickpin on his shirt, and the old stagecoach driver of the plains.

  Slipchuck felt a moral qualm. Cheating wasn’t fair, like shooting a man in the back. Slipchuck tried to swallow it down, justify, forget. Everybody was cheating, from the Indian agent who stole food from women and children, to the businessman who shipped rotten beef to the army, to the cowboy who burned a new brand over an old one. Slipchuck decided it was time to get his share. He’d been a straight shooter too long. The deck came to rest in Daugherty’s hands. “Draw poker, and the joker is wild.”

  He shuffled the deck with fast hands, stacked it the way he wanted, palmed a card, dealt. Some cards came off the top, some off the bottom, but nobody detected anything in the smooth practiced movements of his manicured hands. The diamond ring on the third finger of his right hand sprayed a rainbow of light at the ceiling.

  Slipchuck picked up his cards. Two aces and two treys, with the five of hearts. The farmer to the left of Daugherty opened, Slipchuck threw his coins into the pot. He tossed down the five, took one card, turned it up.

  Another ace, producing a full house. In an ordinary game, Slipchuck would consider it an extraordinary stroke of luck, but instead he felt like a sinister demon. There was no joy when he placed his bets. Coins dropped into the pot, which grew to ten dollars, one third of a cowboy’s pay for a month. Then the air became too rarified for some. One by one they dropped out. Even Daugherty folded his hand. Finally it was Slipchuck and a corporal with the top three buttons of his blue tunic unbuttoned. The corporal called Slipchuck but didn’t buck him. Slipchuck concluded the corporal was reaching the limits of his resources. Slipchuck matched his bet and raised him again.