by Len Levinson
“You look a little pale this morning, Johnny. Anything wrong?”
“I just ran into Major Reno.”
“He’s enough to ruin anybody’s day.”
“Wouldn’t turn my back on him if I were you. Don’t depend on him for anything.”
“I have to. He’s what the army sent me.”
“I’ve got just the man you’re looking for. Do you remember me telling you about a great tracker? He showed up in Hays City, and if you could use another scout, hire him. He can look at the ground and tell you everything that happened for the past week.”
“I’ll have Sergeant Major Gillespie put him on the payroll.”
They arrived at the headquarters building, guards at the door saluted Custer. Sergeant Major Gillespie looked up from his desk as General Custer and John Stone entered the orderly room. “Here’s the report on last night’s shootin’, sir. The prisoner who tried to escape is dead.”
“Who was he?”
“Private Antonelli.”
~*~
The hospital contained two rows of beds separated by the middle aisle. Dr. Shaw directed Stone to a room where Antonelli lay on the table, draped with a white sheet. Stone pulled it away. Antonelli’s scrawny frame was marred by two ugly gunshot wounds crying out like angry mouths. The New Yorker’s rodent features were frozen in a grimace of pain, his skin was white, Stone covered him with the sheet. Somebody’s going to pay for this.
He returned to Custer’s office. The general sat behind his desk, signing his name to correspondence and documents. “I’m drowning in a sea of paper,” Custer muttered, scratching his pen on the bottom of a requisition for ammunition. “I feel like a clerk.”
“You’ve got trouble in your guardhouse,” Stone replied. “Antonelli was shot by Sergeant Buford, I’m absolutely sure of it. If a man’s trying to escape, how can he get shot in the chest?”
“If you have witnesses, I’ll court-martial Buford. What makes you so sure? Maybe the prisoner tried to rush him.”
“The prisoner was too smart to rush a man with a gun.”
“What kind of vermin spits in his company commander’s face? The main problem in this command is lack of discipline. The shooting might send the right message to the garrison: Step out of line, you can be killed.”
Stone’s anger skyrocketed as he walked out of the orderly room. Nobody cared about the petty criminal from New York City, but Stone had seen his warrior soul. He flung open the guardhouse door. Sergeant Buford looked up from his desk, made a motion toward his gun, so did Stone. Their fingers rested on their handles as they glowered at each other.
“You killed Antonelli,” Stone said evenly, “and I’m going to kill you.”
“Name the place and I’ll be there.”
Stone slammed the door in his face. The gunshot corpse of Antonelli loomed before his eyes. The scrawny denizen of a thousand gutters never had a chance, nobody would cry at his funeral, but somebody would die, that was for damn sure.
Stone arrived at his cabin, threw open the door, Slipchuck sprang up from a dead sleep, aimed his Colt at Stone’s head. Stone sat on the bed and worked his jaw muscles.
“What’s wrong, pard?”
He told the story of Antonelli’s murder as Slipchuck dressed in black britches, yellow shirt, brown cowboy hat.
“Sergeant Buford ain’t long fer this world,” Slipchuck said, strapping on his gunbelt. “Anythin’ fer breakfast?”
“General Custer wants to meet his new scout. Then you can eat, but the food’s pretty bad, I warn you.”
They walked side by side across the parade ground, tall muscular cowboy and short old man. Slipchuck was nervous, about to meet the great man. Slipchuck read about Custer and seen his picture in newspapers over the years. “What’s he like?” Slipchuck asked. “He treat you like a friend, or a shithouse rat?”
“He’s still the man I knew at school, only older, wiser, and more disillusioned with life. He’s stuck with rotten men and officers, and it’s made him glum.”
They came to the orderly room. Sergeant Major Gillespie gave them the fisheye as they made their way to General Custer’s door. Stone knocked, Custer’s voice bade them enter. He sat behind his desk, working through paper.
“This is my pard, Ray Slipchuck,” Stone said.
General Custer stared at the bearded old man. A strong wind would blow him away. Could he see anything out of those wrinkled old eyes? “Howdy, Mr. Slipchuck. Johnny here told me you’re a great tracker.”
“Lived with injuns here and there in me life,” Slipchuck replied. “Even had me an injun wife onc’t. I knows what the injun knows, and I goes where the injun goes.”
General Custer leaned back in his chair. “I know a little about injuns myself. Admire them in a way, but can’t tolerate their butchery and lawlessness. One of these days we’ll move against them, and maybe you’ll be with us.”
“Injuns’re gittin’ mad,” Slipchuck told him. “The big tribes ever settle their grudges and come together, you’ll have yer hands full, let me tell you.”
“They’ll never come together,” Custer replied. “They’ve been fighting each other too long, and don’t understand modern warfare. The Seventh Cavalry’ll ride right through the injun nation, if we ever find them.”
Slipchuck doubted the Seventh Cavalry could ride through a Sioux war party, never mind the whole injun nation. He stood uneasily, unaccustomed to the offices of generals, but Stone was at ease. He dropped into a chair in front of Custer’s desk, indicated Slipchuck should sit too.
Slipchuck lowered himself, cushions swallowed his bony behind. He crossed his legs and examined the famous war hero at close range.
“Now that I have two good scouts,” Custer said, “maybe we ought to organize a buffalo hunt. Why don’t both of you see if you can find a herd? Take a detachment with you, in case you run into injuns.”
“D’ruther go alone, jest Johnny and me,” Slipchuck said. “Soldiers make too dad-gummed much noise.”
General Custer pointed his finger at Slipchuck. “You remind me of somebody, and I just realized who it was: my chief of scouts, California Joe.”
“That old polecat? Hell, him and me did some trappin’ onc’t, out in the Rockies. Hell of a good egg. Where’s he now?”
“God knows,” Custer replied. “Maybe trading with the injuns.”
“You ever see him again, you say hello from Ray Slipchuck, got me?”
“I got you,” the general said. “What part of the country’re you from?”
“I’m like horseshit, I been all over the road.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” shouted General Custer.
The door opened, and Sergeant Major Gillespie stood there, an expression of dismay on his face. “Sir, Major Scanlon’s been killed by injuns!”
General Custer’s face became alert, his eyes flashed danger.
“They’re bringin’ him in now. Lieutenant Varnum’s patrol found him near the Wakhatchie crossing.”
Custer put on his hat, strode out of his office. Stone and Slipchuck followed him to the veranda of the headquarters building. A column of soldiers accompanied by a wagon headed their way, led by a lieutenant with a pointed nose and chin, wearing a forage cap with the crossed swords insignia of the U.S. Cavalry on the front crown.
Custer’s lips were set in a grim line. ‘This country won’t be safe until every injun is dead.”
The patrol came closer. General Custer descended three stairs to the ground. The lieutenant saluted. “Not pretty to look at, sir.”
General Custer moved to the side of the wagon. Major Scanlon lay naked on the floorboards, barely recognizable. Long slashes were on his arms and legs, he was disemboweled, his guts and private parts stuffed into his mouth, nose cut off, eyes gouged out.
General Custer said, “All the tender souls who worry about the so-called plight of the Indians should look at this. There’s nothing noble about savages who mutilate
and kill.”
Slipchuck turned to Lieutenant Varnum. “Any arrows stuck in him?”
“We didn’t see any.”
“Usually they shoot arrows in, make a man look like a porcupine.”
“Maybe they were short on arrows,” Lieutenant Varnum said.
“Not fer killin’ blue-bellies,” Slipchuck retorted.
General Custer remembered the Kidder Massacre, arrows protruding from bodies of the victims. “Why didn’t they use arrows, Mr. Slipchuck?”
“Maybe they wasn’t injuns.”
A crowd of officers and enlisted men gathered around the wagon. Stone gazed at the man who slept with Marie until a few weeks ago. “We might find something interesting, we went to where he was killed,” Stone said.
“Don’t go alone,” General Custer replied. “I’ll assign a detail to escort you.”
Lieutenant Varnum raised his hand. “I volunteer to lead the patrol, sir.”
“I’ll go too,” said a crusty old corporal.
“Don’t leave me out,” added a young private.
Every man in the vicinity volunteered, surprising Stone. Maybe they weren’t such bad soldiers after all.
“We’ll go alone,” Slipchuck grunted. “You can hear the goddamn cavalry a-comin’ twenty miles away.”
Stone and Slipchuck headed for the stables. Custer frowned as he climbed the stairs to the orderly room. If the injuns didn’t kill Scanlon, who in hell did?
~*~
Private Klappenbach entered the guardhouse just as Sergeant Buford was leaving. “They found Major Scanlon dead near the Wakhatchie River crossing,” Klappenbach said. “Sendin’ out scouts to check. Don’t think it was injuns, cause no arrows was found in Major Scanlon.”
“Maybe the injuns ran out of ’em.”
“You ever hear of an injun without an arrow?”
“Stay here till I get back.”
Sergeant Buford walked across the parade ground, forage cap low over his eyes. John Stone was a troublemaker, but they wouldn’t find anything at the Wakhatchie crossing. Sergeant Buford had been careful to hide everything. Maybe one day he’d bushwhack John Stone too.
He arrived at the Company B area, and entered the orderly room. Captain Benteen sat behind the desk in his office, a sheet of paper half filled with writing in front of him.
“What’s on your mind?” Benteen asked.
“General Custer was a-gonna let Private Antonelli out of the guardhouse this mornin’. Thought you might want to know that.”
“He wouldn’t dare!”
“Don’t matter now. Antonelli’s dead.” He winked. “The main thing is who’s gonna be the new permanent provost marshal. I think it should be you. The man who runs the guardhouse can do pretty much whatever he wants around here.”
Every soldier lived in fear of the guardhouse. Benteen would have an additional instrument of control at his disposal, if he were provost marshal. John Stone could be locked up when Custer wasn’t around to protect him, and shot trying to escape, like Antonelli.
“I thought you were one of Custer’s boys,” Benteen said to Buford.
“A man’s got to look out for his own self. You and me can do business, Captain Benteen, that’s all I care about.”
~*~
Libbie sat in her living room, trying to read a book of French grammar, but the wind distracted her. It blew constantly, day and night, no escape from it. She yearned for a silent spot where she wouldn’t have to listen, but it was everywhere. Day after day, month after month, wind wailed in her ears.
Sometimes she thought she was losing her mind. She wanted to place the palms of her hands against her ears and scream. Once she tried to hide in the closet, but the wind followed her in. I’ve got to calm down.
Autie needed her, depended on her, loved her. And she loved him. He wasn’t the smartest man she ever met, or the most handsome, and certainly not the richest, but he was the most exciting, and that’s what she wanted more than anything else.
She wondered if rumors about his dalliances were true. They said he made a squaw pregnant during the Washita Campaign, but Autie swore he was innocent, and Libbie wanted to believe him. The shadow of doubt occasionally crossed her mind. Difficult for a lusty man like her husband to deny himself on a long campaign, with young injun beauties flirting.
The breeze rattled the windowpanes, she lay the book on her lap. If she ever found out Autie had been unfaithful, only one way to pay him back. Maybe handsome young Lieutenant Forrest. John Stone wasn’t bad either.
The wind whined over the shingles of the roof. Libbie wanted to bury her head underneath a pillow, but willed herself to remain seated. I’ll get through this somehow. I can’t let Autie down.
~*~
Captain Benteen entered the headquarters building and hollered at Sergeant Major Gillespie: “Custer in?”
“At the stable, sir.”
Benteen strolled toward the stable, thumbs hooked in his front pockets, twin silver bars of his rank shone on his shoulder boards. If Buford hadn’t shot Antonelli, Custer would have let him out of the guardhouse. What worse insult could there be?
West Point fancy pants publicity-hungry son of a bitch. Thinks he’s better than everybody else. I been around some generals in my timey but I’ve never seen such bragging.
Benteen hated Custer and his entourage. The son of a house painter and storekeeper, Benteen worked his way up from the bottom, fought for everything he had, while Custer arrived with his pretty blond curls, and they handed the world to him.
Benteen considered Custer a fraud perpetrated on the army by the popular press and sniveling federal government. It was humiliating for an officer of Benteen’s experience to take orders from a man five years younger, and so pretentious. Custer strutted around like a peacock, surrounded by ass-kissers and hunting dogs, but this time he’d gone too far.
Benteen balled and unballed his fists as he made his way toward the stable.
~*~
On the other side of the fort, Stone walked down Suds Row, where laundresses washed the troopers’ clothes. The women lived in wood shacks with chimneys that belched smoke into the sky. The smell of soap and lye was in the air.
He came to a hut with a sign that said: EGGLE. He knocked on the door, it was opened by a woman with the long sad face of a horse. She wore an apron and dress wilted by steam and splashes of water. “What can I do fer you?” She pulled a strand of damp hair away from her eyes. On her chin sat a mole with hair growing out of it.
“Hear you do sewing.”
“You must be the new scout who knowed old Iron Butt back when.”
Stone entered the room. A sturdy table held a washboard and tubful of blue army clothes. Stone lay his black shirt on the table. “Sew a few bullets into the seam.” He dropped bullets onto the shirt.
She drew back her thin lips and showed snaggled teeth. Hair grew out her nostrils. “A man never knows when he might need a few extry bullets, eh, cowboy?” She looked him up and down, and her tiny deep-set eyes took on that special glow. “I got a few minutes.”
At first he didn’t know what she was talking about, then the awful truth dawned upon him. “My pard’s waiting for me. Maybe some other time.”
“Won’t take long.” She winked lasciviously. “Only cost you five dollars.”
“Haven’t been paid yet.”
“How much you got?”
“Couple dollars.”
“I’ll take ’em, you can gimme the rest payday.”
“Got to meet my pard. Sorry.” He backed toward the door.
She raised her dress, showed bony knees and skinny thighs. He swallowed hard, opened the door, smiled nervously.
“I knows what you’re thinkin’,’” she said, lowering her dress. “You don’t figger I’m so purty, but let me tell you somethin’, big boy: After you’re in Fort Hays a few more months, you’ll come a-crawlin’ here on yer hands and knees, but then the price’ll be higher.”
~*~
He looked at a chestnut stallion with black boots, beautiful flowing lines, intelligent eyes. General Custer moved closer to the animal, stroked the animal’s forehead and long nose, felt his tremendous power. The big eyes gazed at him calmly. Horses had been shot out from underneath General Custer during the war. They were warriors too.
The stable was General Custer’s favorite place. He liked the healthy animal odor arising from the stalls, mixed with the fragrance of hay. In another part of the stable, men groomed the horses. It went on constantly, keeping them healthy and clean for the next campaign.
General Custer heard a footfall behind him. Captain Benteen stood in the middle of the aisle, thumbs hooked in his pockets, deep-chested, agate eyes without expression.
“Just heard a rumor,” Benteen said. “You were releasing Antonelli from the guardhouse, although he spit in my face.”
“I don’t answer to you,” General Custer replied. “You answer to me.”
Benteen turned down a corner of his mouth. “Same thing happened to Antonelli might happen to you.”
General Custer gazed unflinchingly at him. “This is still the army, Captain Benteen. You threaten me, I’ll place you under arrest.”
Benteen sneered. “Hide behind regulations, you goddamned coward. I’ll take you on anytime, anywhere, name your weapon. You’re a liar and everybody knows it. How you ever got to be a general is beyond me.”
General Custer quivered from the tension required to keep himself under control. “If you attack me, I’ll be obliged to defend myself. So come on.”
Benteen wanted to jump all over him, but consequences would be disastrous. Custer was Phil Sheridan’s fair-haired boy. Benteen would get the firing squad. “You’re brave when troops’re around to stop the fight. How’s about meeting me at night, when it’ll be just the both of us.”
