by Len Levinson
“I have a better idea,” Libbie said. “Why don’t we do a play? Something from Shakespeare. Macbeth, or Julius Caesar.”
“My wife wants to bring culture to the frontier. Unfortunately, the men aren’t interested. They’d rather see a good fight. Think it over, Johnny. Let me know when you make up your mind.”
Stone sliced his steak. Best to follow Marie soon as possible, while her trail was hot. A hundred dollars could do it. Travel by train. In a week, San Francisco.
“Johnny?”
Stone looked at General Custer. All eyes were on him. Had he done something wrong?
“You went away from us for a moment there,” General Custer said. “You all right? I was telling you about the buffalo hunt, but you weren’t listening. You sure Fitch didn’t hit you harder than you thought?”
“My grandmother hit me harder than Fitch.”
“Maybe we can sweeten the pot to more than a hundred dollars.”
Stone’s ears perked up. Most of his fights had been for nothing except the cuts and bruises he had when it was over. A hundred dollars was three months’ pay to a cowboy.
“Tell me about Muldoon,” he said.
“Couple inches taller than you, maybe fifty pounds more. A few years older. Nobody’s stood up to him before. Keeps coming at his opponents and wears them down.”
“Brute force, mostly,” added Lieutenant Varnum. “A man who knows how to box could beat him. Do you know how to box, Captain Stone?”
“A little.”
“Afraid you’ll need more than a little.”
“Saw him fight once at Fort Dodge,” Captain Yates said. “Man’s got a head like a block of granite. Took punches that would’ve stopped another man in his tracks, but he kept on.” The officer smiled at John Stone. “Give it some thought. Don’t be dazzled by money. A man like Bull Muldoon hits you in the right spot, he could kill you.”
At the far end of the table, Libbie frowned. They were all gentlemen until they talked about violence. Then a strange maniacal sheen came over their faces, they became ogres, her husband most of all.
“I saw him fight once at Fort Dodge too,” the Boy General said. “If I had to face him, I’d take a cannon into the ring. Only thing to stop Bull Muldoon.”
Stone reached for the salt, his arm brushed that of the lady to his right, their eyes met. He glanced away quickly, shook some salt on his potatoes. He felt her knee against his, then it moved away. Their eyes struck sparks again. He didn’t remember her name.
“We were all surprised to learn,” the woman said, “that you knew Marie Scanlon, and you were supposed to marry her?”
“That’s still my intention,” he said. “Were you a friend of hers?”
“Marie Scanlon and I didn’t hit it off too well. I’m from Vermont, and she didn’t cotton to Yankees.”
“Unless,” said another woman, whose name Stone also couldn’t remember, “you happened to be a high-ranking officer. Then she could be quite gracious. She certainly ruined Major Scanlon, and probably was responsible for his death.”
Eliza served cake and coffee. Stone’s left arm throbbed with pain. Injuns could heal it in a few days with plants. They knew more about medicine than white doctors who graduated from famous colleges, but you couldn’t ride to the nearest injun village for a consultation. They’d kill you before you got close, but your wound wouldn’t bother you anymore.
After the meal, the men retired to the parlor for cigars. The walls were covered with trophies, citations, swords, the heads of dead animals staring down balefully through imitation glass eyes. Stone slipped out the back door. It was pitch-black except for a fire burning beneath a cauldron of bones and fat in a thick malodorous porridge that reminded him of supper in the guardhouse. Stone wrinkled his nose as he moved into the darkness.
On the prairie, he longed for a town. When in town, he wanted the prairie. He never felt comfortable anywhere, a strange discomfort prodded him continually. But he’d been happy with Marie. Something about the way she talked and moved, and she told strange mysterious stories. If he held her in his arms again, he could do anything.
He heard a sound behind him, General Custer leaving the house. “Don’t shoot, Johnny. I’m not an injun.”
Stone pointed the barrel of his gun at the caldron. “That what you feed the prisoners?”
“It’s what I give my dogs.”
“Could swear it’s what we ate in the guardhouse.”
General Custer was hatless, hair thinning on top of his head, cigar in hand. “I’ve been thinking, Johnny. If I recommended you for a commission, General Sheridan would give his approval. I could use you here. You’d be a captain before long.”
Stone shrugged. “Don’t think so.”
“You’re just saddle-bumming around. You’d have a future, an outlet for your talents.”
“My scalp would end up on the belt of a Cheyenne warrior.”
“Happens to civilians more often than soldiers. What other alternative do you have? Can’t be a vagabond all your life.”
“I want to have my own ranch in Texas someday. I like to work outdoors with cattle and horses. When I came up the trail with the Triangle Spur, I was never so happy in my life. Hate to spend the rest of my days on this army post with Reno and Benteen.”
“If only I could replace Reno with you.”
“If Major Reno were my commanding officer, I’d go over the hill. How can you rely on him?”
“A lot of good men like yourself don’t want any part of the army.”
“No sense of duty, you probably think.”
“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I think.”
“Let somebody else lead the next charge.”
“You were on the losing side. It’s made you bitter, I’m afraid.”
“Stop playing soldier and come to Texas with me. I know cattle, and you know rich folks in New York. We could put a ranch together. I tell you, it’s the greatest life in the world.”
“Unless injuns pay you a social call. Then you’ll get down on your knees and pray for the timely arrival of men like me who play soldier. The life of a rancher isn’t for me, Johnny. Wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life playing nursemaid to a bunch of dumb cows.”
“Longhorns cost six dollars in San Antone, but four times that in Kansas. You have a few thousand head—add it up.”
“Mathematics was never my strong suit.”
“A profit in the neighborhood of forty-five thousand dollars a year, not counting your expenses, which maybe come to half that. I’d say that’s pretty good money.”
“When I was in New York, I met men who earned a million dollars in a year.”
“What good does it do them? I’d rather be in the open air, on a good horse, with my friends.”
“New Yorkers live quite luxuriously. They have everything they want, including the finest restaurants in the world. The women are truly amazing. Each is more beautiful than the last. They wear their dresses down to here.” He placed the edge of his palm against his chest. “You can see Christmas and a little bit of New Year’s.”
“You’re a married man. Better forget about Christmas and New Year’s.”
“I was thinking about you.”
“Sure you were.”
They laughed. The back door opened, and Libbie Custer appeared. “What’s so funny?”
“We were talking about New York,” General Custer said.
She approached, hugging the shawl around her shoulders. General Custer placed his arm around her.
“I’ve been trying to convince Johnny to join the Seventh Cavalry,” Custer said.
“Why would anyone in his right mind want to do that?”
Stone replied, “To save America from the injuns, but who’s going to save the injuns from America?”
“The injun is an extinct species,” Custer said, “but he doesn’t know it yet.”
“He knows it, but he’s not giving up without a fight.”
�
��He wants a fight—the Seventh Cavalry will make short work of him.”
“Are you talking about the same Seventh Cavalry that you said was the dregs of humanity?”
“They fought for me at the Washita, they’ll fight for me again.”
Libbie said, “Did the both of you argue like this at West Point?”
“Isn’t it strange,” Custer replied, “that I, who graduated last in my class, with tons of demerits, was the first to make general, while this man, who won high marks in everything, is working for me?”
Stone poked his forefinger into Custer’s chest. “You made general because you were a great soldier. That has nothing to do with grades at West Point. Look at Wade Hampton. The man never studied one page of military strategy in his life, and became the best cavalry commander we had. It’s a quality you have inside, and nobody could ever take it away from you.”
“You have it too, but don’t want to use it.”
“All I want is a ranch in Texas. Spit and polish isn’t my game.”
“When injuns raid your stock, you’ll run to the nearest army post.”
The door behind them opened, the woman who’d sat next to Stone appeared. “Thought I’d get some fresh air.”
Libbie shivered. “Getting too fresh for me. Think I’ll go inside.”
General Custer accompanied his wife to the door. As he passed the woman, he caught a whiff of rose perfume. So that’s her. She was full-bodied, pretty, dark hair. Stone still couldn’t remember her name. Was she wearing a wedding ring?
“Looks like rain,” she said with a frown. “Buffalo hunt’ll be postponed.” Her perfume wafted over him. They stood in silence for several seconds. “I hope you don’t intend to fight that Muldoon fellow.”
“I’ve pretty well made up my mind to do it.”
“Surely you’re not that desperate for money.”
“I don’t have a penny to my name, and I’m in debt to the general for the clothes on my back.”
“There must be another way to earn a hundred dollars. Aren’t they paying you for whatever you do around here?”
“I can earn more in one night than if I worked as a scout for three months.”
“What if you get hurt?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t think you understand. They’re just using you. They don’t care whether you get blinded or disfigured. It’s just another diversion to keep them from thinking about their boring stupid lives. If you get killed, they’ll bury you beside Major Scanlon, and next day they’ll go on a buffalo hunt. That’s the kind of people they are, and your Marie was worse than all of them.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Stone said, “but who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Annie Yates. We went to school together back east. My name’s Jane Hemphill.”
“Sounds like you didn’t like Marie very much.”
“A little flirt, beneath her fine southern manners. You’re throwing your life away on her. You want a hundred dollars? I’ll give it to you. You needn’t pay me back. Don’t fight for money. You’re too good for that sort of thing.”
“What makes you think so?”
She looked into his eyes. “Don’t fish for compliments.”
“A man can always use a few compliments.”
“You won’t get them from me. I’m bored too. That’s why I came to Kansas, but it’s worse than Burlington. I want to do something with my life, but can’t do it alone. I need a man, but so far all I’ve found are tin soldiers.”
“What would you do with the man when you find him.”
She gazed at him steadily. “Everything.”
He was about to invite her back to his shack when the face of Marie loomed before him. His feet shuffled nervously. She waited for him to say something. If Marie could sleep with Major Scanlon, Lieutenant Forrest, and Derek Canfield, why couldn’t he run off with Jane Hemphill?
“I guess you don’t like me,” she said.
“Until my wedding’s off, I’ve got to—”
“Idiot!” she said vehemently.
She marched back to the house. Opportunities constantly came his way. One man wanted to make him a banker. Another offered him half a town. He could’ve married a beautiful woman who owned a ranch near San Antone, and a man couldn’t ask for more. A lady with a big restaurant wanted him to be her fancy man, nothing wrong with that. What’s this outmoded moth-eaten code that I live by?
His worst fear was one day he’d be old and poor like Slipchuck, regretting the years he wasted in his futile search for Marie. But the search might be over soon. He’d hop the first train to San Francisco. All he had to do was defeat Bull Muldoon.
He knew how to beat a fighter who came straight at you. Give him side-to-side movement, pick your shots, wear him down. Don’t ever go toe to toe with him, stay off the ropes, and don’t get caught with anything. California, here I come.
Chapter Eight
The hunting party left Fort Hays at six o’clock in the morning, ladies bundled in coats and sweaters, a bright red scarf wrapped around General Custer’s neck. A detachment of cavalry and a wagon filled with supplies accompanied them. Some of the officers were in high spirits, the kind that flows from the mouths of bottles, and they sang ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’ as if going on a real campaign against wild injuns.
Stone and Slipchuck, a mile ahead, led the way to the killing ground. The sun shone brightly, the breeze cut into Stone’s jacket. Should be easy to find Derek Canfield in San Francisco. Just hit all the gambling joints.
“Injuns,” Slipchuck said.
Stone’s snapped back to Kansas. “Where?”
Slipchuck pointed. “To the right of the notch.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“He came up, took a look, ducked down.”
Stone glanced back at the shooting party. Thirty soldiers in the detachment should be able to handle any war party that might turn up. They were hunting buffalo, but were injuns hunting them?
“Johnny,” said Slipchuck, “I been a-thinkin’ about the big fight you’re a-gonna have with Muldoon. They say you can clobber him over the head with a sledgehammer, he won’t go down, and when he hits you, he breaks ribs. The odds is a-runnin’ agin’ you five to one, and there ain’t many takers. Maybe you should back out while you got the chance. Jest say yer arm ain’t good enough.”
“I can beat him,” Stone said. “Got him figured out. Wish I had some money to bet.”
“How can you figger him out if you ain’t never met ’im? I thought when you got sober, you’d be smarter.”
They spotted the buffalo herd in the distance, a vast dark brown blanket extending to the horizon. Stone pulled back his reins and brought Moe to a stop. He pulled the army spyglass out of his army saddlebags. A big bull stared at him, working his jaws, his head grotesquely huge, pointed beard on his chin.
“There that injun again,” Slipchuck said. “Lookin’ fer news, I reckon.”
Stone gazed at the unceasing prairie. He couldn’t blame land-hungry white men for coming here. It appeared uninhabited, but was home to injuns whose way of life had no place for ranchers and farmers. Stone hoped he’d be somewhere else when the big fight came.
He climbed down from his saddle, loosened the cinch, rolled a cigarette. The hunting party arrived. General Custer pulled out his spyglass and looked at the buffalo. “Meat for the winter.”
He took command as if planning a military campaign. The hunters would approach the herd from upwind. The detachment, commanded by Lieutenant Forrest, would remain with the women. General Custer kissed Libbie good-bye.
The officers and scouts rode toward the herd, Stone in front with General Custer. “I tell you, Johnny,” Custer said, “it’s wonderful to get away from that fort. Out here in the open air—that’s where I belong.”
The herd drew closer, peacefully munching grass. A few animals watched the hunters with dull blinking eyes. Stone had hunted buffalo with a long-distance
rifle. You shot one, the buffalo beside it chewed grass as if nothing happened. Death had no reality for them. You could shoot buffalo all day, the rest of the herd would ignore increasing numbers of brothers and sisters getting hit all around them.
Custer pulled his ivory-handled pistol, rolled the cylinder, checked his loads. They reached the edge of the herd, and buffalo stared at them blankly. Custer drew back the hammer of his revolver, and kicked his horse’s flanks.
The horse leapt toward the buffalo, and the officers followed, guns drawn. The hunt was on! Slipchuck rode among them, wind whistling through his beard, but Stone stayed back, leaning on his pommel, watching.
The hunters charged into the midst of the buffalo, firing their pistols. Buffalo in the vicinity stampeded, while only a short distance away, other buffalo continued their leisurely meal.
General Custer leaned to the side, fired his gun behind the left front shoulder of a racing buffalo. The immense animal lowered his head, his legs lost coordination, he hit the ground and did a somersault. Custer shouted victoriously.
Slipchuck rode low in his saddle like an injun, fired a shot into a big bull buffalo, the creature crashed into the grass. Nearby, Tom Custer aimed his pistol at a buffalo, hit his head, the bullet didn’t even faze the animal.
Stone sat cross-legged on the ground, puffing a cigarette. Dead buffalo dotted the ground, as hunters continued the rampage, killing wantonly. They cheered, urged each other on, and the buffalo seemed not to know what to do. If buffalo had intelligence, they could mass and trample the riders to death.
Stone thought he saw something several hundred yards to his right. When the sun shone on the prairie, he often saw dots and strange moving objects that disappeared. Hard to know what’s real out here.
What would injuns think of the spectacle before them? They used every ounce of the buffalo for tipis; clothing; food; sewing needles; water bags; bedclothes. It was an economic loss for injuns whenever a white man killed a buffalo. Travelers shot buffalo out the windows of trains. Professional hunters slaughtered them by the thousands for their hides.
The number of dead buffalo increased, as officers rode among them, firing guns. Buffalo hunting was good training for war, except the buffalo couldn’t fire back. The hunt continued until late in the afternoon, and the prairie was carpeted with corpses. At four o’clock, Custer fired three rapid shots into the air, signaling the end of the hunt. The officers dismounted, cut tongues out of the animals, added them to see who shot the most.
