A Century of Great Western Stories

by A Century of Great Western Stories (retail) (epub)

  Johnny halted and turned around and Gus, looking sheepish, said, “About that there newspaper piece. That was meant to be a rawhide, but damned if it didn’t backfire on me.”

  Johnny just waited, and Gus went on. “You remember the man that was standing this side of Barr? He works for me, runs some cows for me. Did, I mean, because he stood there all afternoon sickin’ Barr on Melaven. You want his job? Forty a month, top hand.”

  “Sure,” Johnny said promptly.

  Gus smiled expansively and said, “Let’s have a drink on it.”

  “Tomorrow,” Johnny said. “I don’t aim to get a reputation for drinkin’ all day long.”

  Gus looked puzzled, and then laughed. “Reputation? Who with? Who knows—” His talk faded off, and then he said quietly, “Oh.”

  Johnny waited long enough to see if Gus would smile, and when Gus didn’t, he went out. Gus didn’t smile after he’d gone either.

  With the publication of his classic short novel, Shane, in 1949, Jack Schaefer (1907–1991) established himself as one of the premier Western writers of all time. The books which followed—First Blood, The Canyon, Company of Cowards, Monte Walsh, and such collections as The Big Range, The Kean Land and Other Stories, and The Collected Stories of Jack Schaefer—firmly cemented that reputation. Nowhere was his talent better displayed than in his short stories, and no short story of his is better than “Sergeant Houck”—a realistic and moving tale of what happens when a young woman, captured by Indians and forced to mate with and bear the child of one of the tribe, is rescued by a cavalry troop.

  Sergeant Houck

  Jack Schaefer

  Sergeant Houck stopped his horse just below the top of the ridge ahead. The upper part of his body was silhouetted against the sky line as he rose in his stirrups to peer over the crest. He urged the horse on up and the two of them, the man and the horse, were sharp and distinct against the copper sky. After a moment he turned and rode down to the small troop waiting. He reined beside Lieutenant Imler.

  “It’s there, sir. Alongside a creek in the next hollow. Maybe a third of a mile.”

  Lieutenant Imler looked at him coldly. “You took your time, Sergeant. Smack on the top, too.”

  “Couldn’t see plain, sir. Sun was in my eyes.”

  “Wanted them to spot you, eh, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir. Sun was bothering me. I don’t think—”

  “Forget it, Sergeant. I don’t like this either.”

  Lieutenant Imler was in no hurry. He led the troop slowly up the hill. The real fuss was fifty-some miles away. Captain McKay was hogging the honors there. Here he was, tied to this sideline detail. Twenty men. Ten would have been enough. Ten and an old hand like Sergeant Houck.

  With his drawn saber pointing forward, Lieutenant Imler led the charge up and over the crest and down the long slope to the Indian village. There were some scattered shots from bushes by the creek, ragged pops indicating poor powder and poorer weapons, probably fired by the last of the old men left behind when the young braves departed in war paint ten days before. The village was silent and deserted.

  Lieutenant Imler surveyed the ground they’d taken. “Spectacular achievement,” he muttered to himself. He beckoned Sergeant Houck to him.

  “Your redskin friend was right, Sergeant. This is it.”

  “Knew he could be trusted, sir.”

  “Our orders are to destroy the village. Send a squad out to round up any stock. There might be some horses around. We’re to take them in.” Lieutenant Imler waved an arm at the thirty-odd skin-and-pole huts. “Set the others to pulling those down. Burn what you can and smash everything else.

  “Right, sir.”

  Lieutenant Imler rode into the slight shade of the cottonwoods along the creek. He wiped the dust from his face and set his campaign hat at a fresh angle to ease the crease the band had made on his forehead. Here he was, hot and tired and way out at the end of nowhere with another long ride ahead, while Captain McKay was having it out at last with Grey Otter and his renegade warriors somewhere between the Turkey Foot and the Washakie. He relaxed to wait in the saddle, beginning to frame his report in his mind.

  “Pardon, sir.”

  Lieutenant Imler looked around. Sergeant Houck was standing nearby with something in his arms, something that squirmed and seemed to have dozens of legs and arms.

  “What the devil is that, Sergeant?”

  “A baby, sir. Or rather, a boy. Two years old, sir.”

  “How the devil do you know? By his teeth?”

  “His mother told me, sir.”

  “His mother?”

  “Certainly, sir. She’s right here.”

  Lieutenant Imler saw her then, standing beside a neighboring tree, shrinking into the shadow and staring at Sergeant Houck and the squirming child. He leaned to look closer. She wore a shapeless, sacklike covering with slits for her arms and head. She was sun- and windburned dark yet not as dark as he expected. And there was no mistaking the color of her hair. It was light brown and long and coiled in a bun on her neck.

  “Sergeant! It’s a white woman!”

  “Right, sir. Her name’s Cora Sutliff. The wagon train she was with was wiped out by a raiding party. She and another woman were taken along. The other woman died. She didn’t. The village bought her. She’s been in Grey Otter’s lodge.” Sergeant Houck smacked the squirming boy briskly and tucked him under one arm. He looked straight at Lieutenant Imler. “That was three years ago, sir.”

  “Three years? Then that boy—”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  CAPTAIN MCKAY LOOKED up from his desk to see Sergeant Houck stiff at attention before him. It always gave him a feeling of satisfaction to see this great, granite man. The replacements they were sending these days, raw and unseasoned, were enough to shake his faith in the service. But as long as there remained a sprinkling of these case-hardened old-time regulars, the army would still be the army.

  “At ease, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Captain McKay drummed his fingers on the desk. This was a ridiculous situation and the solid, impassive bulk of Sergeant Houck made it seem even more so.

  “That woman, Sergeant. She’s married. The husband’s alive—wasn’t with the train when it was attacked. He’s been located. Has a place about twenty miles out of Laramie. The name’s right and everything checks. You’re to take her there and turn her over with the troop’s compliments.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “She asked for you. The big man who found her. Lieutenant Imler says that’s you.”

  Sergeant Houck considered this expressionlessly. “And about the boy, sir?”

  “He goes with her.” Captain McKay drummed on the desk again. “Speaking frankly, Sergeant, I think she’s making a mistake. I suggested she let us see that the boy got back to the tribe. Grey Otter’s dead and after that affair two weeks ago there’s not many of the men left. But they’ll be on the reservation now and he’d be taken care of. She wouldn’t hear of it; said if he had to go she would, too.” Captain McKay felt his former indignation rising again. “I say she’s playing the fool. You agree with me, of course.”

  “No, sir. I don’t.”

  “And why the devil not?”

  “He’s her son, sir.”

  “But he’s—Well, that’s neither here nor there, Sergeant. It’s not our affair. We deliver her and there’s an end to it. You’ll draw expense money and start within the hour.”

  “Right, sir.” Sergeant Houck straightened up and started for the door.

  “Houck.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take good care of her—and that damn kid.”

  “Right, sir.”

  CAPTAIN MCKAY STOOD by the window and watched the small cavalcade go past toward the post gateway. Lucky that his wife had come with him to this godforsaken station lost in the prairie wasteland. Without her they would have been in a fix with the woman. As it was, the woman looked like a woman
now. And why shouldn’t she, wearing his wife’s third-best crinoline dress? It was a bit large, but it gave her a proper feminine appearance. His wife had enjoyed fitting her, from the skin out, everything except shoes. Those were too small. The woman seemed to prefer her worn moccasins anyway. And she was uncomfortable in the clothes. But she was decently grateful for them, insisting she would have them returned or would pay for them somehow. She was riding past the window, sidesaddle on his wife’s horse, still with that strange shrinking air about her, not so much frightened as remote, as if she could not quite connect with what was happening to her, what was going on around her.

  Behind her was Private Lakin, neat and spruce in his uniform, with the boy in front of him on the horse. The boy’s legs stuck out on each side of the small, improvised pillow tied to the forward arch of the saddle to give him a better seat. He looked like a weird, dark-haired doll bobbing with the movements of the horse.

  And there beside the woman, shadowing her in the midmorning, was that extra incongruous touch, the great hulk of Sergeant Houck, straight in his saddle, taking this as he took everything, with no excitement and no show of any emotion, a job to be done.

  They went past and Captain McKay watched them ride out through the gateway. It was not quite so incongruous after all. As he had discovered on many a tight occasion, there was something comforting in the presence of that big man. Nothing ever shook him. You might never know exactly what went on inside his close-cropped skull, but you could be certain that what needed to be done he would do.

  They were scarcely out of sight of the post when the boy began squirming. Private Lakin clamped him to the pillow with a capable right hand. The squirming persisted. The boy seemed determined to escape from what he regarded as an alien captor. Silent, intent, he writhed on the pillow. Private Lakin’s hand and arm grew weary. He tickled his horse forward with his heels until he was close behind the others.

  “Beg pardon, sir.”

  Sergeant Houck shifted in his saddle and looked around. “Yes?”

  “He’s trying to get away, sir. It’d be easier if I tied him down. Could I use my belt, sir?”

  Sergeant Houck held in his horse to drop back alongside Private Lakin. “Kids don’t need tying,” he said. He reached out and plucked the boy from in front of Private Lakin and laid him, face down, across the withers of his own horse and smacked him sharply. Then he set him back on the pillow. The boy sat still, very still. Sergeant Houck pushed his left hand into his left side pocket and pulled out a fistful of small, hard biscuits. He passed these to Private Lakin. “Stick one of these in his mouth when he gets restless.”

  Sergeant Houck urged his horse forward until he was beside the woman once more. She had turned her head to watch and she stared sidewise at him for a long moment, then looked straight forward again.

  They came to the settlement in the same order: the woman and Sergeant Houck side by side in the lead, Private Lakin and the boy tagging behind at a respectful distance. Sergeant Houck dismounted and helped the woman down and handed the boy to her. He saw Private Lakin looking wistfully at the painted front of the settlement’s one saloon and tapped him on one knee. “Scat,” he said and watched Private Lakin turn his horse and ride off, leading the other two horses.

  Then he led the woman into the squat frame building that served as general store and post office and stage stop. He settled the woman and her child on a preserved-goods box and went to the counter to arrange for their fares. When he came back to sit on another box near her, the entire permanent male population of the settlement was assembled just inside the door, all eleven of them staring at the woman.

  “… that’s the one …”

  “… an Indian had her …”

  “… shows in the kid …”

  Sergeant Houck looked at the woman. She was staring at the floor and the blood was leaving her face. He started to rise and felt her hand on his arm. She had leaned over quickly and clutched his sleeve.

  “Please,” she said. “Don’t make trouble account of me.”

  “Trouble?” said Sergeant Houck. “No trouble.” He stood up and confronted the fidgeting men by the door. “I’ve seen kids around this place. Some of them small. This one needs decent clothes and the store here doesn’t stock them.”

  The men stared at him, startled, and then at the wide-eyed boy in his clean but patched, skimpy cloth covering. Five or six of them went out through the door and disappeared in various directions. The others scattered through the store. Sergeant Houck stood sentinel, relaxed and quiet, by his box, and those who had gone out straggled back, several embarrassed and empty-handed, the rest proud with their offerings. Sergeant Houck took the boy from the woman’s lap and stood him on his box. He measured the offerings against the small boy and chose a small red-checked shirt and a small pair of overalls. He set the one pair of small scuffed shoes aside. “Kids don’t need shoes,” he said. “Only in winter.”

  WHEN THE COACH rolled in, it was empty, and they had it to themselves for the first hours. Dust drifted steadily through the windows and the silence inside was a persistent thing. The woman did not want to talk. She had lost all liking for it and would speak only when necessary. And Sergeant Houck used words with a natural economy, for the sole simple purpose of conveying or obtaining information that he regarded as pertinent to the business immediately in hand. Only once did he speak during these hours and then only to set a fact straight in his mind. He kept his eyes fixed on the scenery outside as he spoke.

  “Did he treat you all right?”

  The woman made no pretense of misunderstanding him. “Yes,” she said.

  The coach rolled on and the dust drifted. “He beat me once,” she said and four full minutes passed before she finished the thought. “Maybe it was right. I wouldn’t work.”

  They stopped for a quick meal at a lonely ranch house and ate in silence while the man there helped the driver change horses. It was two mail stops later, at the next change, that another passenger climbed in and plopped his battered suitcase and himself on the front seat opposite them. He was of medium height and plump. He wore city clothes and had quick eyes and features that seemed small in the plumpness of his face. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face and took off his hat to wipe all the way up his forehead. He laid the hat on top of the suitcase and moved restlessly on the seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

  “You three together?”

  “Yes,” said Sergeant Houck.

  “Your wife then?”

  “No,” said Sergeant. He looked out the window on his side and studied the far horizon.

  THE COACH ROLLED on and the man’s quick eyes examined the three of them and came to rest on the woman’s feet.

  “Begging your pardon, lady, but why do you wear those things? Moccasins, aren’t they? They more comfortable?”

  She shrank back farther in the seat and the blood began to leave her face.

  “No offense, lady,” said the man. “I just wondered—” He stopped. Sergeant Houck was looking at him.

  “Dust’s bad,” said Sergeant Houck. “And the flies this time of year. Best to keep your mouth closed.” He looked out the window again, and the only sounds were the running beat of the hooves and the creakings of the old coach.

  A front wheel struck a stone and the coach jolted up at an angle and lurched sideways and the boy gave a small whimper. The woman pulled him onto her lap.

  “Say,” said the man. “Where’d you ever pick up that kid? Looks like—” He stopped. Sergeant Houck was reaching up and rapping against the top of the coach. The driver’s voice could be heard shouting at the horses, and the coach stopped. One of the doors opened and the driver peered in. Instinctively he picked Sergeant Houck.

  “What’s the trouble, soldier?”

  “No trouble,” said Sergeant Houck. “Our friend here wants to ride up with you.” He looked at the plump man. “Less dust up there. It’s healthy and gives a good view.”

  �
�Now, wait a minute,” said the man. “Where’d you get the idea—”

  “Healthy,” said Sergeant Houck.

  The driver looked at the bleak, impassive hardness of Sergeant Houck and at the twitching softness of the plump man. “Reckon it would be,” he said. “Come along, I’ll boost you up.”

  The coach rolled along the false-fronted street of a mushroom town and stopped before a frame building tagged “Hotel.” One of the coach doors opened, and the plump man retrieved his hat and suitcase and scuttled into the building. The driver appeared at the coach door. “Last meal here before the night run,” he said.

  When they came out, the shadows were long, and fresh horses had been harnessed. As they settled themselves again, a new driver, whip in hand, climbed up to the high seat and gathered the reins into his left hand. The whip cracked and the coach lurched forward and a young man ran out of the low building across the street carrying a saddle. He ran alongside and heaved the saddle up on the roof inside the guardrail. He pulled at the door and managed to scramble in as the coach picked up speed. He dropped onto the front seat, puffing deeply. “Evening, ma’am,” he said between puffs. “And you, General.” He leaned forward to slap the boy gently along the jaw. “And you too, bub.”

  Sergeant Houck looked at the lean young man, at the faded Levi’s tucked into high-heeled boots, the plaid shirt, the amiable competent young face. He grunted a greeting, unintelligible but a pleasant sound.

  “A man’s legs ain’t made for running,” said the young man. “Just to fork a horse. That last drink was near too long.”

  “The army’d put some starch in those legs,” said Sergeant Houck.

  “Maybe. Maybe that’s why I ain’t in the army.” The young man sat quietly, relaxed to the jolting of the coach. “Is there some other topic of genteel conversation you folks’d want to worry some?”

  “No,” said Sergeant Houck.

  “Then maybe you’ll pardon me,” said the young man. “I hoofed it a lot of miles today.” He worked hard at his boots and at last got them off and tucked them out of the way on the floor. He hitched himself up and over on the seat until he was resting on one hip. He put an arm on the windowsill and cradled his head on it. His head dropped down and he was asleep.