Sioux Sunrise

by Ron Schwab

  "I guess the army hasn't changed much." Tom smiled.

  "No," the captain sighed, "things go slow with the army, especially promotions. Anyway, I'll inquire of our scouts and see what I can find out. Personally, I haven't heard of this Bear Jenkins and the renegades you're after. You're welcome to stay here for a few days and I'm certain you can purchase ample supplies at the sutler's store. I'll have the sergeant present the young lady to my wife, and Mrs. Jordan will see she's properly settled for the night. I have a vacancy in officers' quarters you and your other friends can occupy. Sergeant Riley," he called, "please escort the young lady to Mrs. Jordan and see that Captain Carnes and his friends are located in the vacant officers' quarters."

  "Captain Carnes, sir? Uh . . . that is . . . yes, sir," the red-faced Riley answered, hustling out the door.

  The captain chuckled and winked at Tom. "That's another thing about the army that never changes, Tom, you've still got to keep the non-coms guessing."

  "So I've noticed," replied Tom.

  Tom followed the sergeant out to the parade ground. Sarah was ushered to the captain's wife in the living area of the commanding officer's quarters. Mrs. Jordan, a plumpish, matronly woman, greeted Sarah with genuine affection and hustled her away like a mother hen that had found a lost chick.

  Sarah, Tom observed, had seemed to welcome the company of the older woman. He could understand why—she had been on the trail for nearly a month with this disparate bunch.

  After ordering a young private to tend to the horses, the sergeant led the men to the vacant quarters at the opposite end of a row of residences extending eastward from the Jordan quarters. He opened the door to the front room and said, "You can stay here, Mr. Carnes . . . and the nigger and Indian can bunk in the stables."

  Tom flared, "The tall gentlemen's name is also Mr. Carnes." Carefully choosing his words, he added, "The other man is our good friend, Stone Dog. We'll stay together. . . . And I might remind you that your commanding officer made no such distinction in accommodations when he gave his orders. When I wore blue, sergeants got broke for disobedience."

  The big sergeant's face turned beet-red, and he opened his mouth to reply, but meeting the eyes of the towering black man, thought better, did an about face, and stomped angrily away.

  "Let's get cleaned up, boys," Tom said moving to the door. He paused when the Pawnee declined to follow. "Come on, Stone Dog, you'll have a soft bed tonight."

  The Indian shook his head negatively. "White man's bed for women," he said disdainfully. "Stone Dog stays with Pawnee brothers." The Indian turned and traipsed across the parade grounds to join the Pawnee scouts at the stables. Tom watched the old man totter off, smiling to himself at the Pawnee's subtle insult. Shrugging, he motioned to Joe to follow him into the quarters.

  The new-smelling, plastered residence afforded a welcome change. "Must be four or five rooms," Tom said as he collapsed on one of the two straw-matted bunks in the front room. "We never had it this good at Laramie."

  Joe was stripping his dirty, sweat-soaked shirt when he heard a meek rapping at the door. Opening the door cautiously, he was met by a thin-boned, young private on the verge of dropping two unwieldy wooden buckets of water. The boy, dwarfed by the giant confronting him, gaped, his eyes roaming in awe over the bulging muscular arms and chest of the mulatto.

  He stuttered, "C-c-compliments of Mrs. Jordan. She thought you might want to wash up and said to tell you she expects you for dinner in an hour." The towheaded private pivoted and sprinted for his barracks.

  The water was more than welcome and, coming upon a bar of lye soap near the steel wash basin provided for the quarters, the men, in turn, washed and changed. Joe trimmed his mustache and shaved the remainder of his face clean.

  Tom debated shaving the curly, full beard that was forming on his face, noting, as he looked in the mirror, that somehow it aged him considerably. Deciding he wasn't up to the painful removal, he finally declined to perform the rites. Besides, there was something distinguished and mature-looking about a man with a beard.

  As they left to join Captain and Mrs. Jordan for dinner, Tom was nervous and uncomfortable. Wearing only a change of creek-washed and sun-dried denims, he did not feel properly attired for the occasion, especially for a young man who, as a rising young officer, had appeared in full dress uniform at many such command performances in the past. Tonight, he would have been more at home at the enlisted men's mess.

  Joe, on the other hand, seemed perfectly comfortable and needled Tom to hurry up. "Let's move," he said, "I'm so hungry, I don't care if we eat dog tonight."

  They were greeted at the door by Mrs. Jordan and the cheerful, silver-haired woman promptly put Tom at ease. They were guided into the small sitting room and met by Captain Jordan, who affably offered his guests a brandy. They accepted eagerly.

  Tom could hear Sarah and Mrs. Jordan chattering happily in the kitchen, and the sound of Sarah's voice made him eager to see her. Shortly, Sarah stepped lightly into the room.

  "Dinner is served, gentlemen," she said breezily. "The dining room is this way."

  Tom was so stunned that he shook the brandy glass at his lips, dribbling a few drops of the brown fluid down his bearded chin. He had needed no convincing before that Sarah was a handsome woman, but tonight she was radiant—captivating. Mrs. Jordan had fitted her with a pale blue gown trimmed with white, a perfect match for those twinkling, limpid eyes. The bodice of the long dress scooped downward from the shoulders to reveal just enough of the enticing crevice of her bosom. Her hair, now somewhat longer than when she had sheared it off, was clean and shiny, like spun gold. She moved gracefully and confidently in the formal setting. Here was a woman fit to preside over a grand mansion. Damn, was this the same she-cat of a girl they found at a burning ranch not more than a month ago?

  The meal was a delightful respite from the fare of recent days—roast beef, baked potatoes, fresh ear corn, topped with apple pie. It took Tom back to the days before the war. He enjoyed an update from the captain about mutual friends in the service, and as the evening wore on, he was able to glean bits of information that might serve his party in good stead in days ahead. The gracious, proper table manners of her guests belied their shabby attire, and Mrs. Jordan was enthralled with her cultured visitors and drew from Tom more information than he realized he remembered about his home in Virginia.

  Sarah was effusive, and as she entered enthusiastically into the free-flowing discourse, Tom was not surprised to find that she was exceptionally well educated and informed. He learned that her mother had been a teacher in Illinois before her family came to Nebraska and was a strict taskmaster about seeing to her children's education. Tom knew his own remarks were shallow and reflected his inability to concentrate as his eyes were drawn again and again to the beautiful young woman across the table.

  As the two men got up to leave, they thanked Mrs. Jordan for the fine evening and she bade them good night reluctantly. The captain produced cigars for his guests as they departed, and assured Tom again he would help them in any way he could in their quest.

  Sarah joined her friends briefly on the porch. "I'd forgotten there could be times like these," she remarked to no one in particular.

  "So had I," Tom answered. "So had I. It's been a long, long time."

  Joe looked at his companions and smiled. "I think you two need to talk." He sauntered out on the parade ground, lighting his big cigar.

  "Tom," Sarah whispered, "I hope we'll spend more evenings like this . . . together." She took his hand and squeezed it gently; he felt light-headed and his legs seemed numb and weak.

  "We will, Sarah," he said softly. "I promise. We will someday."

  She tilted her chin upward, and he took her tenderly, like a fragile piece of china, in his arms. Their lips touched lightly, almost timidly, rather than passionately, and when he released her, he was again overwhelmed by her quiet poise and warm, natural smile. Without a word, she pressed his hand again and whisked away quick
ly into the Jordans' quarters.

  Tom stepped from the porch and strolled leisurely toward Joe, who was savoring his cigar and leaning drowsily against a covered Gatling gun on the parade ground. As he neared his partner, his mind was cluttered with thoughts of Sarah. My God, what torment . . . and then again, what ecstasy.

  "Damn it! I've got to get hold of myself," he muttered to himself.

  "What did you say, Tom?" Joe broke off his bewildered musings.

  "Just talking to myself, I guess," Tom said.

  "What are you so damn antsy about?" Joe asked. Then, jokingly, he added, "You act like a virgin on the verge."

  Tom glared at Joe disgustedly.

  With mock concern, Joe sympathized, "I'm afraid you've got a bad case, partner. That lady's got her talons stuck in you like an eagle with a rabbit. You haven't got a chance."

  "What do you mean 'bad case'?" Tom responded defensively. Then, spotting a light in the sutler's store, he said, "I don't know about you, but I could stand a shot of whiskey. Come on."

  Hesitating momentarily, Joe followed. "I'm not sure this is too smart, so let's make it quick."

  Tom and Joe Carnes stepped casually into the dusty, smoke-filled store-saloon. An area at the far end, obviously the general store, was roped off and apparently closed for the night. At the near end was a long, ornate wooden bar that looked incongruous in the simple, rudimentary setting. The log slab wall behind the bar was adorned with stuffed deer and antelope heads. A bald, diminutive man who seemed out of place in the coarse atmosphere stood meekly behind the bar. A dozen or so small round tables were scattered haphazardly about the room and twenty to twenty-five soldiers, mostly enlisted men, played cards and swapped stories as they emptied the sutler's liquor bottles. Tom and Joe slipped as unobtrusively as possible to the bar, and the bartender, becoming fidgety, looked fearfully from side to side, and squeaked nervously, "Wh . . . what'll it be, gentlemen?"

  "Two whiskeys," Joe responded.

  The unrelenting din began to fade away as the bartender poured the drinks, and all of a sudden, the room was silent. The hair bristled on the back of his neck as Tom sensed the hostile tension building in the room. He could feel the eyes of the other occupants boring into his back. He caught Joe's eyes out of the corners of his own, and nodded his head imperceptibly. In unison, they downed their drinks and moved as one toward the door.

  Their exodus was cut short when the burly Sergeant Riley stepped defiantly in their path. "Just one damn minute, boys," the sergeant growled drunkenly and, turning to the bartender, "Hey, Herbie. Since when did you start serving fuckin' niggers in this place?"

  His face blanched white, the bartender ducked below the counter.

  Wheeling back to Joe, the sergeant belched and then slurred. "And you, nigger. Who said you could drag your black ass in here?"

  Tom reddened in anger and lunged toward Riley, but Joe grasped his arm firmly and pulled him back. Seemingly unflappable, Joe said, "We didn't come here looking for trouble, Sergeant. If we offended anybody, we apologize. Now, if you'll just move aside, we'll be on our way and won't trouble you any longer."

  "Why you uppity, good-for-nothing son-of-a-bitch!" Riley hissed and, snatching a half-empty whisky bottle from a table, moved to strike the mulatto.

  Quick as a cat, Joe's fist smashed the sergeant's wrist and the bottle slipped from his hand, shattering on the floor. Simultaneously, he drove his knee into Riley's groin and, when the latter doubled over in agony, he brought his powerful forearm crashing down on the sergeant's neck, and the soldier crumpled like a sack of flour to the floor.

  Pandemonium broke loose. Before they could reach the door, the other troopers swarmed like angered bees on Tom and Joe. Joe hoisted a puny corporal above his head and hurled him, screaming, into the mob, sending three or four others helter-skelter to the floor. Tom grabbed the chair and smashed it into the face of another charging trooper who stumbled backward out of the door, coughing uncontrollably and spitting broken teeth and blood from his mouth. Still another soldier rushed Joe, brandishing a rusty skinning knife. Joe dodged, rammed his head into the man's belly, struggling intensely with him for the weapon. When the man crawled away screaming hysterically, Joe had the knife in one hand and three of the trooper's bloody fingers in the other.

  The troopers worked Joe into a corner behind the bar. Catching sight of his dilemma, Tom finished off one trooper driving his fist deep into the man's fat belly and moved to help Joe when someone hammered a table leg across the back of his skull. He reeled and pitched forward, instinctively clutching his injured head. Struggling to rise, he was conscious of warm, sticky blood oozing between his fingers before someone drove a booted foot like a sledgehammer into his groin. He was devoured by excruciating pain, fighting for breath as he heaved and retched, and then blackness overtook him, and he collapsed, unconscious, in his own vomit.

  Finally, the soldiers overran Joe and pinned him to the floor, forming a human net as they sprawled over his powerful body. A drunken private slammed the heel of his boot down on the black man's head opening a vicious, jagged gash just above his eyebrow. Another pulled off his belt, looping it around Joe's neck and pulling tight.

  "Let's string up the black bastard!" he yelled, and his comrades roared in agreement.

  Suddenly, someone picked up the cries from outside the saloon. "Corporal of the guard. Corporal of the guard," someone called, and the warning spread like wildfire through the room.

  The able-bodied, even the walking wounded, surged through the doors or bolted out the windows in their frantic efforts to escape military retribution. When a brash young lieutenant marched into the room with half a dozen uniformed troopers, only Joe and Tom and six or seven incapacitated soldiers remained. Tom and several others were carried to the guardhouse, while the others limped along behind, securely under bayonet point. There, they were deposited to spend the night on the rocky floor.

  Tom regained consciousness just before daylight. Rubbing the back of his head, he ran his finger through a deep, scabby groove that split the middle of a massive lump. His right eye was swollen shut, but the former injuries were insignificant when compared to the throbbing pain radiating from between his legs. His testicles felt like they were swollen to twice their normal size, and whenever they brushed his legs, he cringed in agony.

  As the feeble rays of the rising sun sifted through the barred guardhouse windows, Tom observed that Joe, too, had not come through the brawl unscathed. Ugly, raw abrasions encircled his neck and the flesh above one eye gaped open, still oozing blood that crept down the side of his swollen, bruised face.

  "Well, Captain Carnes," Joe grinned weakly through puffy, disfigured lips, "and how are you this fine morning? I notice you had a good night's sleep."

  Tom did not appreciate the humor, but looking around at the cell's other occupants, his spirits lifted, for he could see they hadn't fared much better.

  Soon, Tom heard keys rattling outside, and, in a moment, the heavy guardhouse door inched open. "Thomas Carnes and Joseph Carnes," a stern military voice called out.

  They rose, Joe helping Tom as he hobbled ever so slowly and stiffly through the door. They were escorted to the post commander's office by a seasoned, tough-looking sergeant and a youthful, smooth-faced private, and as he limped into Captain Jordan's office, Tom was surprised to find Sarah waiting in the room, dressed again in her denim riding clothes. He read no sympathy in her eyes as she glowered at him disgustedly, hands set firmly on her hips. A glance at Captain Jordan told Tom that the latter's hospitality had worn thin; abruptly, the captain confirmed his suspicions.

  "Gentlemen," Captain Jordan said, "we didn't need that kind of trouble here. We extended our hospitality. In exchange, you've made a shambles of my troops. I have at least a dozen men who won't be serviceable for a week. Tom, you were an officer. You know what this kind of thing can do for the post's morale. I don't care whose fault it was, I can't tolerate these kinds of incidents. . . . And as long as the tw
o of you are here at the fort, you'll be like a festering boil."

  "Pardon me, Captain," Sarah interrupted. "What he's trying to tell us, Mr. Carnes, is that we have two hours to get our supplies, saddle up, and be out of this fort. And now, with the captain's permission, let's retire to the quarters you didn't see fit to use last night and see what I can do about patching you up." Then, turning to Captain Jordan, she said sincerely, "Thank you for your kindness and hospitality, Captain. I regret that my friends caused you this difficulty. I hope you will accept our apologies."

  Tom opened his mouth in protest, but a wilting glance from Sarah cut him off.

  Captain Jordan responded coolly, "I don't blame you, Miss Kesterson. It was a pleasure having you in our home. But please, get these men out of my sight as soon as possible."

  Sarah turned and marched out the door. "Come on, you two," she said scornfully. Tom and Joe followed obediently like two scolded puppies.

  Entering the unoccupied officers' quarters, Tom discovered that Sarah had already rounded up the salves and bandages for their medical needs. The two men sat in silence while she applied, not too gently, a foul-smelling, greasy, horse liniment to the bruises and lesions covering their faces and necks. Sarah stitched the gash above Joe's eye with surgeon like expertise, while Joe sat mutely and unflinchingly.

  "Damn, your hide must be like leather," Tom said to Joe with grudging admiration. "You don't even look like you feel that needle."

  Sarah whirled on him, feigning disgust, but Tom swore he caught a glint of laughter in her eyes. "I doubt if you'll be as good a patient," Sarah said, as she roughly pulled his head forward and commenced cleansing the raw wound at the base of his skull. Tom winced and pulled away.