The Dragoons 4

by Patrick E. Andrews

  When Darcy Hays was born, he entered the full-blown life of the southern aristocracy. While such an environment consisted of many genteel and luxurious surroundings and conditions, the young gentlemen of that class were expected to be expert horsemen, hunters, marksmen, and swordsmen, and to possess other skills required for a rugged outdoor life. This included the demands to possess a great capacity to endure physical hardship and outright danger. It was not surprising that most of those scions of wealth entered young adulthood fully qualified to be damned good soldiers. Many, like Hays, were attracted to military life.

  Hays’s father had no objections when the boy expressed a desire to enter the Army. With three other sons to run the family enterprise, Darcy could easily be spared to pursue another way of life, if he so desired. The newly established military academy at West Point, New York, offered a good way into the service as a commissioned officer. That was where Darcy went for his premier military training and schooling as a naive sixteen-year-old boy in 1821. Although the school had been authorized in 1802, it wasn’t until 1812 that it became a folly operative military academy. Thus, only nine years of classes had been going on when the young North Carolinian presented himself to become a cadet

  Hays was no intellectual. He detested classroom work and was barely able to qualify for graduation or an army commission. He was a popular prank-playing, rule-breaking, demerit-receiving military student. The Corps of Engineers, the elite of the army officer cadre, had no place for such an individual. Thus, when Cadet Darcy Hays came off the West Point plain in 1825, he did so as a twenty-year-old second lieutenant of dragoons. One of his harried instructors, watching the young officer finally depart, said to a colleague: “Well, that’s that. As a dragoon, Hays will either break his neck through reckless horseback riding, or some damned Indian will scalp him!”

  Hays proved himself to be a good officer in the field. A natural leader, he had a certain élan his men admired. During periods of fighting Indians or the soldiers of Mexico during the war in that country, he received numerous mentions in official military dispatches for his courage and tenacity in battle. However, brief periods of staff duties in which he served as adjutant or quartermaster were disasters. The tedium of paperwork bored him, he didn’t give a damn about pleasing anybody, and his attention span was extremely short when it came to detailed reports and documents. He was nearly cashiered for neglect of duty and incompetence on two occasions, but his battle service record saved him. Finally, it was decided to leave him with the line troops of the dragoons.

  Now, on his last assignment of protecting immigrants on the Oregon Trail while operating out of Fort Laramie, Captain Darcy Hays had reached the end of his thirty-year haul. Aching from old wounds and increasing rheumatism, he felt tired and knew his effectiveness as a field commander was drawing to a close. Any incompetence on his part in a fighting campaign could mean the loss of good soldiers. That was something Darcy Hays would not allow to happen. He knew it was time to hang up his saber and spurs.

  A loud knocking on the door interrupted Hays’s thoughts. He glanced irritably toward the flimsy portal.

  “Come in,” he invited without enthusiasm.

  Second Lieutenant Tim Stephans stepped into the room. He was a young man in his mid-twenties, relatively new to the Army. He had black hair, dark brown eyes, a slim build, and a boyish face that displayed a grin most of the time.

  “Well!” the subaltern exclaimed. “It’s all over the post”

  “The fact that I took reveille this morning for the first time in ten years?” Hays asked.

  “No, sir,” Tim said. “About your application for retirement.”

  Tim was the only other officer in Hays’s company of Indian-fighting dragoons. His intellect and attention to detail matched Hays’s, but there were marked differences between them. Tim’s age and his physical well-being were both in stark contrast to those of his superior officer. The lieutenant was healthy and robust, with a fresh outlook on life.

  “Just think,” Hays said. “When I leave, you’ll command ‘L’ Company until a replacement is found.”

  “That won’t be long,” Tim said. “I hear there’s a first lieutenant in the First Squadron at Fort Kearny with more than ten years in grade.”

  “Well,” Darcy mused. “It’ll take a while for the paperwork mill to grind out that promotion and transfer. So you’ll be the leader of the ‘L’s for a year, maybe. But that doesn’t mean you’ll rule those dragoons like they’re innocent, ignorant children.”

  “Of course not,” Tim said. “I plan to rely a lot on the sergeants.”

  “I’m glad you realize that,” Hays said. “Don’t be bashful about asking First Sergeant Aldridge questions. He can be a big help.”

  “I suppose,” Tim said. He laughed. “Here we are, talking like you’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  “I’ve a few months to go,” Hays said.

  “Lucky you,” Tim said. “This isn’t an easy job, but I guess there isn’t much that can be done in an army with a chronic shortage of officers.” He looked at Hays. “I suppose I’ll be in your shoes someday, huh?”

  “Do you mean after thirty years you won’t have very damned much to show for your military career?” Hays asked.

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Tim said.

  “Well, I suppose you’re right,” Hays said. “You’re about as dumb as I am, so I suppose your service days won’t be any brighter than mine.”

  “I’m an engineer,” Tim said. “If I find my days in the Army not showing any promise, I’ll resign my commission.” He looked at his commander. “Did you ever consider that?”

  A feeling of sadness quickly swept over the older officer at the unexpected question. He quickly recovered, saying, “Hell, no!”

  Tim said, “Well, I have.” Like Hays, he was a West Point graduate. “I can get a good career in civil life in that profession.”

  “You’d better hurry up and do it, then,” Hays said. “If you wait until after you have thirty years in the Army, you’re sure as hell going to be too far behind the times to qualify for any legitimate position.”

  Another knock on the door sounded, and Darcy growled. “I might as well just open the place up and let the whole damned regiment tramp through here.”

  Tim opened the door and found First Sergeant George Aldridge peering inside the small quarters. The sergeant looked past the younger officer at the captain. “The colonel sends his compliments and asks that you report to him.”

  Hays chuckled. “Old Cowler probably wants a confirmation on my retirement.”

  “No, sir,” Aldridge said. “You’ll be going to the field, sir. Trouble with hostiles.”

  Hays leaped from his chair with such violence that stabs of rheumatic pain shot through both legs. “Ow! God damn it! Ow! Doesn’t he know I’m applying to go on the retired list?”

  Aldridge grinned. “I reckon he does, sir, but he doesn’t give a damn.”

  Hays limped over to the table and grabbed his cap and went to the door. “You two sons of bitches get out of my house!”

  “What for?” Aldridge asked. “There ain’t nothing worth stealing.”

  Hays winked at him. “What do you expect from a fellow living on a captain’s pay?” He exited with a wave at the two.

  Tim and Aldridge stepped outside and watched the old captain walk over toward headquarters. Now that he was outside where people could see him, Hays hid the pain he felt in his legs. Forcing himself not to limp, he walked steadily and soldierly across the regimental parade ground.

  Aldridge spoke in a low, respectful tone. “He’s hurting.”

  Tim nodded. “Captain Darcy Lafayette Hays is one hell of a soldier.”

  “Yes, sir,” Aldridge agreed. “Some folks may look on him as a failure, but those of us who’ve stood elbow-to-elbow with him trading shots with hostiles or Mexican soldiers know he’s one of the best damn field commanders in the United States Dragoons.”

  Tim smiled to
himself, thinking how proud he would be if the day were to come when some sergeant spoke of him in those terms.

  Two

  Bobby Slowfoot tapped his foot in time to the music he made as he ran the bow back and forth across his fiddle. The young man played a happy old Irish song while the men around him clapped their hands in time to the music.

  One of the fellows in the crowd tied a kerchief on his head and danced out into the center of the throng. Another, following the custom of all-male get-togethers in the woods and mountains, jumped out to be his dance partner. The pair whirled around and hollered as they banged their booted feet on the hard-packed dirt in the forest clearing. The other liquor smugglers whooped and laughed at the ludicrous sight.

  Rollo Kenshaw, sitting on the seat of the Conestoga wagon, watched the celebration with a wry grin. The liquor in the back of the vehicle would add plenty to his profits since, it had required only the investment of a little powder and ball to kill the interlopers who had dared to compete with him. He figured they were a couple of the dumbest bastards that ever came down the pike if they hired themselves out to sneak liquor into his own self-proclaimed territory.

  The whiskey taken from the dead men would be added to his own stock he had brought into the wilderness in the manner he’d taken great pains to work out. The firewater was in stacked barrels, under the watchful eyes of his most trusted men. The pack mules that had carried the heavy loads now grazed contentedly in a mountain meadow not far away.

  Kenshaw was a dedicated, professional whiskey peddler who sold his goods in the Sioux Indian country of the Black Hills and the vicinity of the Platte River. During his ten-year career of coming into the wilderness, there wasn’t a thing he hadn’t traded, bartered, sold, or cheated the Indians for when it came to conducting illegal business. His personal history of dealings in the civilized world wasn’t any better. He’d dealt in guns, liquor, women, stolen goods, and untaxed tobacco. He’d even taken a half dozen lives all in the name of profit by accepting blood money from other men who didn’t have the guts to rid the world of those they hated, feared, or despised. Finally, when the long arm of the law was about to swoop down on him, Rollo Kenshaw headed for the wide-open spaces of the unsettled West.

  Now, in an isolated glen nestled in some of the wildest and most beautiful country in America, the music and noise his gang made could be heard for miles. That was exactly what Kenshaw wanted. It was their way of announcing their presence in the Black Hills. While other white intruders had plenty to fear from the fierce Indians in the area, Kenshaw and his men were always welcome in that land the Sioux, Cheyenne, and others considered their own. It wasn’t Kenshaw’s charming company that attracted the Indians—it was that whiskey he brought with him. Plenty of warriors had developed a deep liking for Kenshaw’s firewater. Kenshaw found that dealing in addicting the people of tribes to liquor was even more profitable than running guns to them.

  There was always a danger of drunken warriors suddenly turning on him. This forced the whiskey peddler to keep a large gang of gunmen on his payroll for protection. It ate into his profits, but at least guaranteed a successful operation.

  The Indians generally paid for the liquor in pelts from animals trapped along the high country’s creeks and in the lush valleys. Kenshaw had an outlet for these furs that turned them into hard cash for him. But sometimes, due to raiding and war making, the warriors could pay to get drunk in gold or U.S. coins. Kenshaw was doubly appreciative of that method of remittance for the rotgut liquor he sold.

  The sudden appearance of Otto Bolkey and a couple of other men in the clearing brought the music to a halt. “Injuns coming in,” Bolkey hollered over at Kenshaw. “Who be they, Otto?” Kenshaw inquired.

  “Sioux,” Bolkey answered. “Buffalo Horn and his bunch, to be exact. And from the looks of the extry hosses, they got plenty o’ pelts with ’em.”

  One of Bolkey’s companions, a large, robust, heavily bearded fellow named Bruno Glotz, added, “They brung they families and lodges. I think they gone be stay fer a while, Rollo.”

  “By God!” Kenshaw said jumping to his feet. “This here’s gonna be better’n a dang ol’ rendezvous, ain’t it?”

  “You bet!” Bolkey answered. “We’re gone be having women tonight, boys!”

  Laughing, Kenshaw pointed to Bobby Slowfoot. “Crank up ’at fiddle again, Bobby-boy.”

  “Sure thing, Rollo!” Bobby Slowfoot called back. He launched into another tune, this time faster and louder.

  Less than five minutes had passed when the first Indian appeared in the glen. He was on horseback and rode straight to where Rollo Kenshaw sat on the wagon seat. “How to you, Rollo!” the Sioux greeted him.

  “And a how to you, too, Buffalo Horn,” Kenshaw said. “I’ll bet you come to see ol’ Rollo about getting some whiskey, didn’t you, huh?”

  “I come for whiskey,” Buffalo Horn said.

  Rollo rubbed his bearded chin and carefully eyed the warrior. “Well, now, just what’ve you got to give for that there whiskey that you want, huh, Buffalo Horn?”

  “Pelt,” the Sioux replied. “Got beaver. Got fox. Got otter. Got one bear. Big sumbitch bear. Gimme whiskey, Rollo.”

  “Just a damn minute, now, Buffalo Horn,” Rollo said. “I’d like to see that fur afore I start handing out good liquor like it was water.” He reached behind him and pulled out a bottle. “See? Want a drink, Buffalo Horn?” Buffalo Horn licked his lips, then turned his horse around. He galloped out of the clearing, not having to go far before meeting the approaching crowd from his tribe. He grabbed one of the laden packhorses and led it back to Kenshaw.

  “Here is pelt. Gimme whiskey, Rollo,” the warrior urged the peddler.

  Kenshaw held out the bottle and pulled it back just as the Indian grabbed for it. “You really like this stuff, don’t you, Buffalo Horn?”

  “Gimme whiskey, Rollo,” Buffalo Horn repeated. “Take them pelts off’n that damn horse and throw ’em over there,” Kenshaw instructed, pointing to a spot beside the wagon.

  Buffalo Horn turned and yelled out in his language. One of his wives scurried forward from the crowd of Indians that now filed into the open space. She cut the rawhide thongs holding the load and allowed it to fall to the ground. Following more instructions, she took three trips to lug the furs over to the indicated place.

  Kenshaw watched her work. She was a strong young woman with a firm body that even a deerskin dress couldn’t hide. He handed three bottles over to the warrior.

  Buffalo Horn pulled the cork from one and drank deeply. By the time he had finished swallowing a half dozen times, he was already drunk.

  “Is ’at good whiskey, Buffalo Horn?” Kenshaw asked. “Good whiskey,” Buffalo Horn answered. “I got more pelt. I get more whiskey.”

  “Sure, Buffalo Horn, just as soon as you deliver the goods,” Kenshaw said. He swung his eyes to the woman who stood beside her husband.

  Buffalo Horn noticed the lust in the white man’s eyes. He smiled. “You want woman, Rollo?”

  Kenshaw grinned. “Damn right I do. I been up here in these hills fer a long, long spell.”

  “You want white woman?” Buffalo Horn inquired further.

  Kenshaw stopped smiling and looked at the Indian. “You got a white woman, do you, Buffalo Horn?”

  “Young, pretty white woman,” Buffalo Horn said. “Where’d you get her?” Kenshaw asked.

  “We make raid on wagon,” the Sioux said. “Kill ever’body, but no kill the woman. You want her?”

  “Hell, no, I don’t, you crazy redskin!” Rollo Kenshaw exclaimed in a whisper. “Don’t you let none o’ my boys know you got her, neither. I got enough trouble keeping them bastards in line without they start fighting over some damn white woman out here.”

  “You give me whiskey, Rollo,” Buffalo Horn insisted.

  “I’ll give you a bunch o’ these bottles if’n you promise to keep still about that gal, understand?” Kenshaw said, almost desperately. Not only would
there be a bloody fight, but the woman would eventually end up dead. That could mean real serious probing into the situation by the dragoons from Fort Laramie.

  “You give me whiskey, Rollo,” Buffalo Horn intoned. Kenshaw went into the back of the wagon and appeared with a box of a dozen bottles. “Here. Don’t say nothing about the white woman.”

  “I say nothing,” Buffalo Horn promised. He took the whiskey and handed it to his wife. Then he fished around in the small leather pouch at his waist. He withdrew several coins. “How much whiskey for this wampum?” Rollo Kenshaw licked his lips at the sight of a half dozen twenty-dollar gold pieces. “Did you get them the same place you got the woman?”

  “Yes,” Buffalo Horn answered. “This was in wagons. I know you trade whiskey for these round things. Gimme lots of whiskey, Rollo.”

  “Same amount o’ whiskey as I already give you,” Kenshaw said. When Buffalo Horn nodded his acceptance, the peddler produced another box.

  Buffalo Horn took the liquor and balanced it across his horse’s neck, then turned the animal to ride away with his wife following after him.

  Rollo Kenshaw wasn’t worried about any betrayal by the warrior in regards to the captive woman. It wasn’t in the Indian culture to lie or break faith with another person. He jiggled the coins in his hand, then stuck them in his pocket.

  More trading between Kenshaw’s men and the Indians took place as pelts were exchanged. Kenshaw kept a close eye on the proceedings as his top men Bobby Slowfoot and Otto Bolkey made the transactions. Others, like the slow-witted but powerfully strong Bruno Glotz, stood around ready for any trouble that might arise if intoxicated or excited Indians desperate for whiskey became angry and impatient.