by Len Levinson
The outcome wasn’t a surprise, Custer the winner. A few of the animals were butchered, meat loaded onto the wagon. The rest were left for lobos, buzzards, and rats.
Custer rode toward Stone. “Don’t like hunting buffalo?”
“Not in the mood,” replied Stone, back in the saddle again.
“Great sport,” Custer said, his face radiant. “Not as easy as it looks. One wrong move, a buffalo could gore a man.” The smile on his face vanished as he stared over Stone’s shoulder. Stone turned, an injun war party appeared out of a ravine behind him. They were led by a chief wearing a long warbonnet of eagle feathers. Custer stuttered in astonishment; Stone pulled his new army carbine out of its scabbard. Officers and hunters in the vicinity hopped on their horses and rode toward Stone and Custer.
Custer looked at the detachment guarding his wife and the other women. It was a lethal situation, the women needed the detachment more than he. He looked at the approaching injuns, and wondered if Wounded Bear’s prophecy was about to come true. He raised his arm in a gesture of peace.
Stone didn’t trust injuns who carried rifles and lances and wore garish war paint. The wind rustled the feathers in their hair. They stopped one hundred yards away, then the chief in the warbonnet and two warriors left the assembly and rode toward them.
“Must’ve recognized me,” Custer said. “Wish I had an interpreter.”
“I speak some injun,” Slipchuck said.
“Johnny, you want to come with us?”
Tom Custer prodded his horse forward. “Take me, Autie.”
“Don’t leave me behind,” said Captain Moylan.
“Me either,” added Lieutenant Varnum.
“Three of them,” Custer replied, “and three of us. The rest of you stay put.”
Custer, Stone, and Slipchuck rode toward the hostiles as officers watched with worried expressions. In the distance, the detachment formed a skirmish line in front of the women.
“I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” General Custer said confidently. “I’m well known among them, and their chief evidently wants to pay his respects. We’ll exchange compliments, it’ll be all over. If they want to massacre us, would’ve done it by now.”
“They’re wearin’ war paint,” Slipchuck replied. “Either they’re goin’ out on a raid or just comin’ in from one.”
“They fight among each other all the time,” Custer told him. “They’re a warlike people, but there’s something magnificent in their culture.”
The three injuns came closer, hands empty except for reins. The chief sat erectly, bareback on his war pony, red and black war paint on his face and body.
“I’ll move ahead to meet them,” Custer said. “I want to show them I’m not afraid. If it’s anything an injun can’t tolerate, it’s a coward.”
Custer prodded his horse, raised his right hand in the air, showed an open palm. His horse plodded forward, Custer alone with three injuns. He smiled, revealing white teeth. “How.”
The chief and his two cohorts ignored him, riding toward John Stone. Custer’s eyebrows knitted together, he turned to see what the hell was going on. Stone gazed at the chief smeared with war paint.
“Today you have clothes that fit you, John Stone,” said the chief. “I almost did not recognize you.”
It was Black Wing. They stared into each other’s eyes. Custer rode toward them, mystification on his face. “You know each other?” he asked incredulously.
“We’ve met,” Stone said. He rode forward, extended his hand. Black Wing shook it.
“Wondered what happened to you,” Black Wing said. “Thought you died.”
“I don’t die easy.”
“Everyone dies easy, you shoot them in the right place.”
General Custer cleared his throat. Usually he was the center of attention at conferences with injuns. “How do you know each other?”
“John Stone is a very brave man,” Black Wing said. “He is also a very funny man.” He looked at Stone. “You ever find the thief who robbed you?”
“Not yet.”
“So now you work for the blue-bellies. That is too bad.” Black Wing looked at the dead buffalo. Stone detected a flash of anger on Black Wing’s face. “The buffalo you killed would feed a tribe for a winter,” Black Wing said.
“Take them,” General Custer said graciously. “They’re yours.”
“We have other business today.”
No one wanted to ask what it was. General Custer smiled. Black Wing turned to John Stone. “Why don’t you come with us?”
Stone felt strangely tempted. Break out of his world and put on war paint, live in a tipi far from the corruption of civilization.
“Maybe another time,” Stone said.
“Still the woman?”
Stone nodded.
“Bring her with you. A warrior needs his woman.”
“I haven’t found her yet.”
“You are a strange man, John Stone. Your medicine is very strong. I feel it here.” Black Wing slapped his stomach.
The horizon called out to Stone. He could live like an injun, dance around bonfires all night, to hell with jobs and newspapers. “I promise you, one day I’ll accept your invitation.”
“I will look forward to our next meeting, John Stone.”
Black Wing turned to Custer. “Yellow Hair, you should leave this place, otherwise you will surely die like the buffalo you have killed this day.”
“I …” Custer said, intending to make a major policy statement, one he could send his friends who worked for newspapers—Custer Stands Up to Indians—but Black Wing rode away. Custer felt shunted aside. The injun had been more interested in John Stone.
Custer twisted in his saddle and looked at his old friend. This wasn’t the fellow he’d known at West Point, or was it? “Where’d you meet him, Johnny?”
“ ’bout ten miles from here.”
“Did you fight with him?”
“He just laughed at me.”
Slipchuck stroked his beard. “Gents,” he said, “we almost just got killed, whether you realize it or not.”
“Nonsense,” General Custer replied. “They wouldn’t dare.”
“They had nothin’ to lose.”
General Custer furrowed his brow. A major war party. “Wonder what they’re up to?”
“You’ll find out a’fore long,” Slipchuck replied.
General Custer watched the injuns receding into the distance, and felt a strange premonition. “Load the wagon and let’s get out of here,” he ordered. “The hunt is over.”
Chapter Nine
The day of the big fight drew closer, as anticipation grew among units of the far-flung Seventh Cavalry. Betting was light at first, and nobody gave John Stone a chance.
Then forces of the free market came into play, odds climbed slowly. At seven to one, there were few takers, but when the scale tipped at ten to one, action heated up.
Soldiers discussed the fight in the barracks, on patrol, at the sutler’s store, in the saloons of Hays City. The big question was, how long would it take Bull Muldoon to knock out John Stone.
A new avenue of betting opened at payday stakes. The fight would end in the first round, many soldiers wagered. A few bet on the second and third rounds. No one thought it would go past five. According to the rules, the winner would be determined when one fighter was knocked out, with no designated last round.
A ring was erected on the prairie near the barracks, with hemp rope and long posts driven into the soil. Chairs would be brought from the mess hall for ladies and officers.
Every morning John Stone ran two hours around Fort Hays. He punched an old mattress nailed to the side of his shack another two hours. He ran in the afternoon, then spent the rest of the day fighting the mattress.
He was the object of great curiosity in the mess hall where he took his meals. He went to bed early, awoke before reveille, led a disciplined life although his inclination was to become a wild Indi
an.
Slipchuck was his manager, trainer, second, and cut man, providing Stone with the benefit of his many years of experience.
“I remember onc’t when I was a young feller, got in a fight in a stagecoach stop out New Mexico way. Son of a bitch had a knife in one hand, broken bottle in t’other. I kicked ’im in the balls—he caved in like a concertina.”
~*~
Stone punched the mattress as General Custer approached, followed by dogs. It was the first time they’d seen each other since the buffalo hunt.
“How’s our new champion coming along?” Custer asked. “I bet fifty dollars you’d win, so don’t let me down.”
Stone was shirtless, pounding the mattress, working toward maximum power at the point of impact. “Do my best.”
“Funny thing how it snowballs. We’ll have quite a crowd. Most people don’t think you’ll get past the first round.”
Stone didn’t have time for palaver. He had to be a fighting machine, no emotions, without mercy. Beat the shit out of him, take the money and run.
General Custer puffed his cheroot thoughtfully. Stone had put on weight since he was in West Point, but not around the waist. Muscles rippled every time he threw a punch, his torso decorated with old knife and saber cuts, plus a few bullet holes and a gash probably caused by a jagged edge of canister. The man had seen much fighting, but so had Custer. However, Custer hadn’t been wounded beyond a scratch or nick, and never spent a day in a field hospital. It made him feel invincible.
Custer thought he was intruding. People generally deferred to the Boy General, but not John Stone, who punched his mattress as though Custer didn’t exist. “C’mon,” he said softly to his dogs as he headed back to his office. “Let the man train in peace.”
~*~
Captain Benteen watched John Stone from the window of his orderly room. He could rest his rifle on the sill, and squeeze off a round, a powerful temptation.
Muldoon would do his work for him. Benteen had seen Muldoon fight several times in the past. The man was devastating. John Stone couldn’t stand up to him. No one else ever had. Muldoon’s knee never touched the ground in his boxing career. He was unbeatable.
Benteen wagered fifty dollars against fools who believed in miracles. The white-haired officer with marshmallow eyes couldn’t wait for the fight to begin. Bust him up, Muldoon. Split his head open.
~*~
Slipchuck entered the sutler’s store for his afternoon glass of whiskey. He stepped up to the bar, and the sutler placed the brew in front of him. Slipchuck tossed a few coins onto the bar.
“How’s yer fighter comin’?” the sutler asked.
“Real fine,” Slipchuck replied. He glanced behind him, the sutler’s store was empty, he sat on a chair and propped his boots on the table.
The sutler watched with shrewd eyes flashing dollar signs. “How long you think he’ll last?”
Slipchuck took a deep breath and said stentoriously, “My fighter will win by knockout in the sixth round.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“You don’t know John Stone. I seen him take on a whole saloon onc’t, and when it was over, he was the onliest man standin’.”
“I don’t doubt,” said the sutler, “the man knows how to brawl. But Muldoon eats saloon fighters for breakfast. I don’t think you understand. After Muldoon wins a fight, his opponent generally goes to the hospital.”
“Like I said, you don’t know John Stone.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Already placed my bets,” said Slipchuck, and it was true; he’d put five dollars on John Stone’s fists, no point going overboard.
“You had faith in yer fighter, seems though you’d bet more. How’s about fifteen to one? You talk a good game, but you don’t back it. If the fighter’s own manager don’t believe in him, how in hell’s he a-gonna win?”
Slipchuck reached into his pocket, took out his money. Only eighteen dollars left. He dropped it on the bar. “This is all I got in the world. You cover it at fifteen to one?”
“Goddamn right I do,” said the sutler as the snare snapped shut.
Muldoon arrived the afternoon before the fight, with a contingent of officers and men from Fort Dodge. He rode in an ambulance, they couldn’t let anything happen to their champion.
A crowd gathered around the vehicle, peering through windows at the best fighter in the regiment. On the fluffy cushions sat a gigantic man with a battered face and crooked nose, huge mangled ears.
The ambulance stopped near the ring, the door opened by a short, potbellied corporal. Bull Muldoon stepped to the ground, and soldiers cheered. He raised his arm in acknowledgment.
Stone heard the applause, but couldn’t let himself be distracted. He punched the mattress, his fists a steady tattoo. Sweat poured from his torso, stained the waistband of his britches. Every blow sent a shock wave across his arm and through his body. He gritted his teeth and banged away. I have to win.
~*~
That night at Fort Hays the regimental band provided music for a dance in the mess hall. Soldiers danced with each other due to the shortage of women, drank punch spiked with whiskey, and tried to forget their miserable barren lives.
The sound of their merriment could be heard on officers’ row, where General Custer and Libbie sat in their office, writing. The general’s topic was the Indian problem, an article he’d send to newspaper friends in the East.
On the other side of the desk, Libbie stared at the blank sheet of paper before her. Her journal contained ongoing impressions of life at Fort Hays, and there was an element she thought should be included.
She didn’t know how to word it. She had no difficulty with buffalo hunts, weddings, and birthday parties, and even made an oblique reference to Lieutenant Classen’s drumming out, but never commented on the strange sexual tensions at a remote army post.
It was frightening and titillating to be a woman among so many men. She felt their eyes on her wherever she went. No one dared say a word, fear of the guardhouse holding them back, but a man can be brazen with his eyes, undressing a woman shamelessly, ravishing her brutally. She shivered in her chair.
Some of the soldiers were extremely handsome. The repressed lust of men without women was a palpable force she could feel.
No record of army life would be complete without mention of it, but what could she say?
If Autie read it, no matter how carefully she couched the words, he’d go through the roof. Keep it light and breezy, dear. Don’t look for trouble.
~*~
It was a chilly night, and John Stone sat on the prairie a few hundred yards from the encampment. He wore his fringed buckskin jacket, hat low over his eyes. No insects could be heard, winter was coming, formations of geese and ducks flew south all day.
He looked at the sky radiant with stars. Tomorrow was the big fight, and a man’s body a fragile envelope. No telling what might happen. Muldoon had sent his last five opponents to the hospital.
The fight would be over this time tomorrow. He’d be on the way to San Francisco, or with Dr. Shaw. A big advantage if he could get a good night’s sleep. The man who weakened first would go down.
He approached his shack, saw movement in the shadows, hand dived to his gun. A familiar voice laughed softly, General Custer emerged into the moonlight.
“Thought I’d stop by to wish you well,” he said. “Didn’t want to do it in front of the men, because the commanding officer can’t show favoritism. I’ve now got a total of a hundred dollars riding on you, so you know who I’ll be rooting for.” He held out his hand. “You’re a helluva guy, Johnny. Good luck.”
~*~
Slipchuck lay on his bunk, reading a newspaper as Stone entered the shack. Slipchuck glanced at Stone out of the corners of his eyes as Stone prepared for bed.
“Feelin’ jumpy?” Slipchuck asked.
“A little.”
“Somethin’ wrong with you if you didn’t. I been in some fights myself, and I know. If
’n it goes against you tomorrow, and you’re takin’ a beatin’, just lay down, and let the referee count you out. Don’t kill yerself fer a hundred dollars, ain’t no point bein’ a dead hero, understand?”
Chapter Ten
Sergeant Major Gillespie stood in the middle of the ring, attired in a recently laundered and neatly pressed blue uniform, his boots shining brightly in the sun. “And now, ladies and gentlemen! The main attraction of the afternoon! For the heavyweight championship of the Seventh Cavalry!”
A cheer arose from the crowd, as far off on the prairie, animals and birds turned their heads. It was a cloudless day, cool but not cold. Stone stood in his corner, a towel over his shoulders, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Slipchuck’s hand was beneath the towel, massaging the muscles in Stone’s back.
“I’d like to introduce at this time,” said Sergeant Major Gillespie, “representin’ the garrison at Fort Hays, the challenger, our acting chief scout—John Stone!”
Scattered shouts of approval erupted from the small number of intrepid souls who’d bucked the odds and placed money on John Stone.
“And in this corner, representin’ the garrison at Fort Dodge, the Heavyweight Champeen of the Seventh Cavalry, the great Bull Muldoon!”
Hats flew into the air, men hollered wildly. Muldoon was a massive hulking creature covered with thick slabs of muscle, while Stone was almost puny compared with him. Here goes a hundred dollars, Custer thought.
Sergeant Major Gillespie motioned for the fighters to join him in the center of the ring. They advanced, Stone working his shoulders and dancing lightly on the balls of his feet, Muldoon solid and steady, a confident and friendly smile on his face. When they were only a few feet away, Muldoon winked. “Don’t worry, darlin’.’ I won’t hurt you too bad.”
