by Len Levinson
It was better than killing Custer outright, because defeat would hurt more. Benteen yearned for the day Custer would be disgraced. He’d do his best to bring it about, now that he’d opened lines of communication with Reno.
Most men pray for peace and prosperity, but Captain Benteen wanted war. Time the world found out the truth about the Boy General. You think you’re smart, but I’ll show you. Your name will be mud, when I’m finished with you.
~*~
Stone opened his eyes. The sting in his forearm prodded him to consciousness. Thick clouds blocked the moon and stars. Slipchuck snored peacefully on the other side of the clearing.
The bleeding had stopped. He’d come through another fight in one piece, but how long could he keep it up? He picked up the Sioux knife and looked at the carvings on the handle. So strange, in the alley, he’d felt like an injun, crazy mind-rattling experience. His new knife had been christened with blood.
Stone lay the knife beside him. He was tired, but a few days of rest and buffalo steaks would rebuild his strength. His forearm throbbed, his mind blended with the pain as he drifted into the twilight world.
Above him floated the head of a grinning coyote, blood dripping from its fangs.
Chapter Seven
General Custer stood at attention, breeze lifting his long blond mustaches. His command was assembled on the cemetery ground, paying their final respects to the guardhouse sergeant, lying in his coffin beside an open grave.
The chaplain intoned theological platitudes, while General Custer worried that recent events at Fort Hays might draw the attention of the War Department. Captain Benteen beamed hatred at him, and Major Reno acted even more peculiar than usual. Libbie was a nervous wreck, though she kept it well hidden, and Custer was ready to draw his saber on Benteen. Custer still wondered whether he did the right thing when he walked away from the commander of Company B in the stable.
The bugler played taps, the guardhouse sergeant sank into his cold dark grave. Nobody cried, the troopers hated and feared him, he came to rest in the bottom of the hole. The bugler reached the end of taps. Custer gave the order to dismiss the men. The command was passed down, the formation broke apart. Custer walked toward his house, hearing shovels of dirt falling onto his former guardhouse sergeant.
Two riders entered through the front gate, Custer recognized John Stone and Ray Slipchuck returning from the buffalo reconnaissance. He remembered the last hunt of the season, his spirits rose.
“Found your buffalo, General.” Stone pointed toward the southwest. “Big herd with plenty of grass. Probably won’t go anywhere for a while.”
“What happened to your arm?”
“Fell down. By the way, injuns didn’t kill Major Scanlon.” Stone told Custer what he and Slipchuck had discovered at the Wakhatchie River crossing. “Had to be a white man.”
“Wonder who it was?”
“He have any enemies?”
“Worst enemy was himself, except maybe the …”
“The what?” Stone asked.
“Guardhouse sergeant. We just buried him this morning. Knifed in Hays City. When the soldiers aren’t fighting injuns, they fight each other. The guardhouse sergeant was no friend of yours, I don’t suppose.”
“Hell no,” Stone replied, not able to look his friend in the eye.
“Let the sawbones have a look at your arm. We’ll go after the buffalo first thing in the morning. You’ve done good work. Take the rest of the day off.”
~*~
Dr. Shaw sat at his desk, reading a book. He was in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair. “What can I do for you?”
“Had an accident.” Stone sat at the desk, untied the bandage. The wound was three inches long and bone deep.
“Looks like it’s healing all right,” Dr. Shaw said. “Best let Mother Nature take its course, but I’ll put on a fresh bandage. How’d you get it?”
Stone had the answer prepared in advance. “Fell on a nail sticking up out of a floorboard.”
“Looks like a knife wound. You hear what happened to the guardhouse sergeant?”
Stone nodded.
“I imagine he got a few licks in on whoever killed him, but that’s none of my business. You’re the gentleman who went to West Point with the general?”
“A long time ago,” Stone replied.
“Somebody told me you knew Marie Scanlon. Helluva nice person. She was a patient of mine.”
“What was wrong with her?”
“A cold, a pain, women’s troubles, all the usual symptoms. Boredom more than anything else. That’s our biggest problem here. She’s not the first person driven to desperation by day after day of nothing to do.”
“You ever meet Canfield?”
The doctor affixed the dressing to Stone’s wound. “He was a patient of mine too.”
“What’d he have?”
“Lung disease.”
“Serious?”
“Probably, but he was an interesting fellow. I can understand why Marie liked him. Marvelous sense of humor, could quote long passages of Shakespeare extemporaneously. Seemed to know about everything. Been in the war.”
“Somebody told me he knew Marie before the war.”
The doctor shrugged. “They certainly got along well. Some people on this post don’t have anything good to say about Marie Scanlon, but I thought she was a fine woman, and she always played fair and square with me. Many’s the afternoon we sat in this very office, talking about whatever came into our minds. Her opinions on army life had me rolling on the floor. I’m sorry about what happened to the major, but I don’t believe people ruin other people. We ruin ourselves. If Marie Scanlon walked through that door right now, I’d be happy to see her.”
~*~
Stone entered the sutler’s store. Slipchuck sat at the table against the far wall, with a few troopers. Two officers sat at another table. Stone made his way to the bar.
“What’s yer pleasure?” the sutler asked Stone.
“You got anything that doesn’t have alcohol in it, like sarsaparilla?”
“Sarsaparilla!” exploded the trooper next to Stone. Stone recognized him: Lieutenant Forrest’s supply sergeant. “Can’t be a man, you drink that pisswater.”
Stone looked at the sutler. “I said sarsaparilla.”
“Don’t got none. No root beer or ginger beer either. I can offer you a cup of coffee.”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not too much trouble?” the supply sergeant asked. “What kind of man’s afraid of whiskey? Are you a girl?” The supply sergeant pushed Stone contemptuously. “Get the hell away from me.”
Stone didn’t budge. The sutler placed the mug of coffee on the bar. Stone reached for it, but the supply sergeant whacked the mug into Stone’s belly, covering his new shirt with a dark stain. A fist flew at Stone’s face a second later. He leaned to the side, the punch whistled past his cheek. The supply sergeant grinned, showing a missing front tooth. His nose had a dent in its side, his features lumpy, veteran of many a barroom brawl, but you can’t let a man throw coffee at you and get away with it.
Stone stepped away from the bar. The supply sergeant followed him, his fists raised high, protecting his face peekaboo style. Stone carried his own fists low, to lure him in. The supply sergeant pawed with his right hand, measuring Stone for the straight right, but Stone was a veteran of many a barroom brawl too.
The supply sergeant snapped his left fist at Stone’s forehead, and Stone jerked to the side, opening himself wider. The supply sergeant unleashed his big straight right, and Stone was waiting. He blocked the punch with his left arm, and threw a right hook to the supply sergeant’s head.
It connected, and the supply sergeant heard bells clanging. He blacked out for a second, and when his vision cleared, he was shocked to see a fist streaking toward his nose. He couldn’t run, no place to hide. The fist connected, the supply sergeant was lifted off his feet. He crashed through the front window and flew through
the air. Two passing troopers watched in astonishment as the supply sergeant landed a few feet away.
Stone made his way toward the door, the bandage on his left arm soaked with blood. Frustration, mix-ups, failures, and defeats welled up in him like boiling acid. The supply sergeant dragged himself to his feet, saw three John Stones in front of him. He raised his hands to protect his shattered nose, and Stone’s fist rammed into his belly. The wind went out of the supply sergeant, he struggled to breathe, Stone bashed him again. The few bones still intact inside his nose were demolished, and the supply sergeant felt as if he’d run into a house. Tripping and sprawling backward, struggling to stay upright, Stone worked his midsection with short chopping punches. Again the supply sergeant was forced to lower his guard. Stone threw a hard left hook at his head. The supply sergeant was thrown to the ground. When he landed, he didn’t move. Stone returned to the sutler’s store, leaned his belly against the bar. “Another cup of coffee.”
The sutler reached for the pot. Slipchuck approached the bar. “You better git that wing looked at by the sawbones.”
“I want a cup of coffee.”
The sutler placed the mug on the bar. Stone raised it to his lips, feeling the wanton madness of fighting. He gulped the hot black liquid, it steadied him, but what he really needed was whiskey.
He had to stay away from the stuff. His left arm was going numb, he raised it into the air, blood soaked his shirt. Slipchuck led him out of the sutler’s store. A crowd gathered around the supply sergeant. Stone grit his teeth against the pain in his arm.
He couldn’t understand why people didn’t leave him alone. He never bothered anybody. At least one madman in every saloon. He and Slipchuck arrived at the hospital. Dr. Shaw arose behind his desk. “What’d you fall on this time?”
Slipchuck aimed tobacco juice at the spittoon beside the desk, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “He just beat the shit out of the supply sergeant of Company D.”
“That so?” Dr. Shaw asked. “He’s Jimmy Fitch, the heavyweight boxing champion of Fort Hays.”
Slipchuck slapped Stone on the back. “This is one tough son of a bitch.”
The doctor unwrapped the wound, sopped the blood with a white cloth that quickly turned bright crimson. “Maybe we should stitch it up.”
“Whatever you say,” Stone replied. “Just don’t cut anything off.”
The doctor took a bottle of whiskey out of his medicine cabinet. “You’d better have some of this.”
Stone stared at the whiskey. He hadn’t had a drink for two weeks, and didn’t want to start now. “Think I’ll try it without the whiskey,” he said.
The doctor held up the needle. “It’ll take about ten stitches. We’ll have to tie you down.”
“All right with me.”
“Whiskey makes it go easier.”
“I’m not a drinking man.”
“Got some laudanum, but folks say it’s worse than whiskey.”
“Nothing’s worse than whiskey.”
The doctor poured some into a glass, topped it off with water, handed it to Stone, who tossed it down in one gulp. It had a tart chemical taste, no kick at all. “Sure you gave me enough?”
“Have a seat, while I prepare.”
The door opened, and a group of soldiers carried the supply sergeant into the office. Still out cold, he was laid on a bed. The doctor bent over the supply sergeant and pulled back his eyelids. “What you hit him with?”
Stone rolled a cigarette with one hand, licked the paper, popped it into his mouth. Slipchuck lit a match and held it in the air. The doctor puttered around on the top of his medicine chest, passing the needle through the flame of a candle. The soldiers who accompanied the supply sergeant looked at Stone, and he stared at them maliciously.
They made for the door. The doctor chuckled as he threaded the needle. Stone looked at his wound oozing blood. He leaned forward, Slipchuck held out his hand. The last thing Stone saw was the needle gleaming in the candlelight.
~*~
Stone woke up with a headache and a sore arm. Slipchuck sat beside his bed, cleaning his Colt. They were in their shack at the edge of Fort Hays; it was growing dark. Stone raised his arm, saw the clean white bandage. He placed his feet on the floor, was assailed by dizziness.
“You all right?” Slipchuck asked.
Stone reached into his shirt pocket, took out his bag of tobacco. His shirt was torn, he remembered the one he’d left with the seamstress. “Be right back.”
He reached for the doorknob, missed it the first time.
“Want me to go with you?” Slipchuck asked.
Stone walked outside. The sun sank behind the stable, streaks of red and gold covered the sky. On the parade ground, the bugler blew tattoo, a guard detail lowered the flag. Stone made his way to Suds Row. The laudanum hadn’t left his system yet. Not bad stuff.
The pain hadn’t bothered him when the doctor sewed his arm. The Comanches could attack Fort Hays, he wouldn’t care. What was the use of worrying? He felt light-headed and free. The world wasn’t such a bad place after all. So what if he was on a remote post in the middle of nowhere, no money in his pocket, his girlfriend run off with a gambler. A man had to count his blessings.
He came to Miss Eggle’s cottage, knocked on the door. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.
“If it ain’t the new heavyweight champeen of Fort Hays.”
“My shirt ready?”
She pulled it off a peg, held out the lower hem. “Here’s yer bullets.”
They felt like smooth pebbles between his fingers. He removed his torn shirt, handed it to her. “Think you can fix this, and sew a few bullets in the hem like the other one?”
“Anything you say.” She moved between him and the door. “There’s somethin’ I want to ask you.” A naughty twinkle was in her eye.
“I’ve lost some blood,” he replied, putting on the clean shirt. “And I’m engaged to be married.”
She placed soap and water-reddened hands on his chest. “I’ve taken a shine to you.” She smiled, teeth green and black, cheeks ravaged by acne, eyes bright with desire.
“Got to go home.”
He leaned against her, she got out of the way, he nearly fell.
“You’re a fool,” she said. “All you care about is what you see, but things that count most ain’t on the outside. You and me could have a business. Fortunes bein’ made by folks with brains, but the fools with pretty faces, you know where they end up?”
There was a knock on the door. Miss Eggle reached behind her and turned the knob. A young private stood at attention. “General Custer wants to see Mr. Stone at his residence, sir.”
Stone turned to Miss Eggle. “Pick up my shirt tomorrow?”
“Think over what I told you.”
Stone followed the young private out of Miss Eggle’s cottage. Night coming on, sky stained with purple, lanterns burning in windows. Stone felt floaty and strange. The buildings were made of rubber, undulating in the night breeze. Did he love Marie just for her pretty face? What was beauty anyway? To the poor lonely soldiers at Fort Hays, Miss Eggle was the belle of the ball.
Stone and the soldier approached Custer’s house, sounds of merriment issued from within. The soldier opened the door.
“Who’s there?” shouted Custer.
John Stone walked toward the voice, came upon men and women seated at a table, platters of food before them.
“May I present the new heavyweight champion of Fort Hays!” General Custer said.
The assembly applauded. Custer sat at the head of the table. “Have a seat, Johnny. Help yourself.”
The fragrance of food rose to Stone’s nostrils. He realized he was famished. Someone passed him a platter covered with thick slices of meat. Custer held out a bowl of boiled potatoes in butter sauce. Stone tried to remember his South Carolina table manners as he filled his plate. The woman to his right poured water in his glass. He checked her profile, in her late teens. Across the table sa
t a lovely woman in her mid-thirties. Last night he’d slept beneath the stars, now dined with officers and beautiful females; it reminded him of the old days.
General Custer introduced Stone to his guests, names flew over his head. The only person who made an impression was the general’s kid brother, Tom Custer, with the same sharp nose and eyes as Fannie, wearing the gold bars of a second lieutenant on his shoulder boards.
“You must be a tough fellow, to knock out Sergeant Fitch,” Tom said. “He’s still in the hospital. You broke his jaw.”
There was silence. Stone had no idea of what to say. He looked down and saw himself sitting at the table, reaching for his utensils.
General Custer cleared his throat. “Thought we might organize an exhibition of boxing here. Our best men against the champions from Fort Dodge. Sergeant Muldoon of that installation is the present heavyweight champion of the Seventh Cavalry. We could put together an attractive purse. A hundred dollars to the winner.”
Stone woke up suddenly. If he had a hundred dollars he could leave for San Francisco immediately. “Who’s Muldoon?”
“A veteran of my old Michigan Wolverines. Don’t enter into this lightly, Johnny. He’s knocked out all his opponents so far, including Sergeant Fitch, the man you put into the hospital.”
“How long did Fitch stay in with him?”
“Nearly twenty rounds, wasn’t it?”
Captain Myles Moylan, sitting on the opposite side of the table, said, “Eighteen, I believe.”
Stone knocked Fitch out in a few minutes. But Fitch had been drunk. “Let me think it over.”
“Wouldn’t want to rush you. Muldoon is an awfully rough fellow. I can understand your caution.”
Libbie Custer interjected, “Stop it, Autie. You’re trying to goad him on. Muldoon is a terror. Boxing isn’t entertainment.”
“You could be disfigured for life,” said the young woman to Stone’s right. “Didn’t Muldoon thumb out somebody’s eye once?”
Custer said, “Nobody’d think the less of you if you don’t fight him, Johnny. He’s dangerous, no question about it. I thought you might be able to use the money, and you whipped Fitch. He was a first-class fighting man himself.”
