Second Lieutenant Darcy Hays’s first assignment was to the isolated frontier post of Fort Gibson, Indian Territory, located up the little Arkansas River some eighty miles from Fort Smith, Arkansas. It was a horribly primitive and isolated garrison, cut off from civilization. But that was what a cadet who graduated at the bottom of his class had to expect as a first assignment.
With thirty days of furlough before he had to report to his first posting, Hays got back to Cumberland County as quickly as possible. Once there, he rushed over to the Davenport plantation to see Chandra and to make his proposal official by getting her father’s permission to marry her. He made an evening appointment to speak to Mister Davenport in the mansion’s library.
Julius Davenport absolutely, utterly, and unconditionally forbade his daughter Chandra to marry Second Lieutenant Darcy Lafayette Hays.
“You’re a nice enough boy, Darcy,” Mister Davenport said, using diplomacy. “But certainly not the type of husband I would wish for my daughter.”
“Sir? I don’t understand!” Hays blurted out.
“Your family is beyond reproach, of course,” Davenport explained. “Why your father is one of my dearest and closest friends. However, Darcy, you are a wild, irrepressible, and irresponsible boy who is not going to amount to much. I’m afraid that eventually your brothers will be running the Hays plantation even after you forget this silly army adventure of yours and return. I would prefer one of them for Chandra. Good evening, Darcy.”
“But, sir!”
“Good evening, Darcy!” Mister Davenport said. “I will say for the last time ever that I will not bless a union between yourself and my daughter!” To further show the finality of his pronouncement, the older man abruptly turned and walked from the room, leaving Darcy by himself.
Julius Davenport was right about one thing: Darcy Lafayette Hays was indeed wild, irrepressible, and irresponsible. The first chance he got, he snuck over to the Davenport mansion, and using the time-proven manner of putting a ladder against the house, helped his ladylove out of her window. They eloped to Raleigh and returned three days later to announce their marriage to two infuriated families. After a bitter farewell, the newlyweds headed west to Fort Gibson to begin their wedded life.
Although the life of an army wife was much different from her pampered existence on the plantation, Chandra loved Darcy with all her heart. In spite of the primitive living conditions, the heat, cold, and utter isolation, she was devoted to her husband. His youthful blunderings and faux pas in military protocol that kept them both in social hot water among the other officers did not dull the deep affections she felt for the dashing boy who had come off the neighboring plantation to make her his own.
They had their first child after a year and a half of marriage, a boy they named Andrew Jackson Hays. When young Andrew was a bit more than a year old, Chandra gave birth to a girl who was christened Belle. Meanwhile, Hays settled down somewhat, lost much of his boyish emotion, and became a bit more serious. He had only one fistfight with a fellow subaltern during the twelve months following Belle’s birth.
It even looked like he might become an acceptable army officer. But things turned sour when he received his first staff appointment in the regiment and began serving as the quartermaster.
Hays’s stint as a staff officer was a disaster. He forgot to file reports, lost and mis-shipped equipment, miscounted items of issue, and caused severe shortages in the regiment’s property books. Countless and severe tellings-off did little good. Even when the colonel himself shouted at him, the young lieutenant could not have cared less. He had already planned to leave the Army and return to North Carolina.
Then an epidemic of typhoid swept through Fort Gibson. It hit the barracks first, sweeping away the lives of many enlisted men. Then the sickness spilled over to soapsuds row where the married noncommissioned officers lived with their families. It wasn’t long until typhoid crossed the garrison to hit the officers’ quarters with a terrible vengeance.
Chandra and the children were among the first to die. Their deaths left Hays stunned and grief-stricken. He finally decided to make the move and resign his commission. Getting back to North Carolina was all he wanted to do. At the first chance, he wrote a letter home telling his father and brothers he was going to return to the plantation and become a gentleman tobacco planter, as he was really destined to be.
When their answer came back several months later, it hurt him almost as much as the loss of his wife and children. Hays’s father let him know he would not be welcome. Chandra’s family was terribly bitter about how his rashness had caused their daughter to run off with him to die out in the wilderness of the frontier. The loss of the two grandchildren added to the tragedy, and not one of his family, in-laws, or friends ever wanted to lay eyes on him again.
Hays changed his plans about leaving the Army. Instead, suicidal and despondent, he constantly volunteered to go on various patrols and campaigns against hostile Indians. His rashness and incredible luck led to wild encounters in battles. He gained a quick reputation as a fierce, wild, and brave battle leader who was always at the forefront during the fierce fights with Comanche and Kiowa.
Thinking he had matured, the regiment gave him another staff appointment. This time he served as adjutant. Once again disaster struck. He drove the sergeant major wild with his inconsistencies and incompetence. He also wrote official letters that, when not insubordinate or insulting, were totally incomprehensible.
Finally, because of his excellent record in the field, his superior officers decided to forget his horrendous record as a staff officer, and saw to it that he was permanently assigned to lead a dragoon company. That meant he would never have much rank. But, as one officer in the regiment said, “Darcy Hays won’t live long enough to earn promotions anyhow.”
However, through attrition and the valorous manner in which he conducted himself during battles in the Mexican War, Hays finally made first lieutenant. Five years later, with twenty years of solid frontier soldiering under his belt, he was made the highest rank he would ever attain— captain.
Other officers, like his friend Isaac Cowler, passed him up as they earned their shoulder straps as majors and colonels, and even a couple ended up with the stars of a general on their uniforms. That was fine with Captain Darcy Hays. He was right where he wanted to be in the Army.
Now, in the Black Hills, Hays reached the bivouac of his dragoon patrol. He turned his horse over to the corporal of the guard and went to his blankets, spread out a few yards from young Lieutenant Tim Stephans. The captain took off his boots and climbed into the crude bedroll.
His mind turned to the image of Chandra he had seen in the sweat lodge. He had never experienced such a thing before. He had to admit to himself that he really didn’t know if it was a simple dream, or a vision, as Owl-That-Cries insisted. Whatever it had been, it seemed a real visit from his dead darling. No matter which, it had brought back the deep love he had kept hidden in his heart since her death. Although he never consciously thought of it, his feelings for Chandra had not changed in those twenty-five years since losing her. And he had never sought nor loved another woman.
Hays rolled over on his stomach and pulled his blankets up around him. Suddenly the horrible grief of losing her swept over him with the same passion and agony as it had on that terrible day when she and the children died.
Hays buried his face in his hands and mourned the family he had lost so long ago.
Six
The whiskey peddler Rollo Kenshaw lounged on his bedroll in the clearing where he and his men had pitched a crude camp. It was a pleasant place on the banks of the North Platte River. In fact,, it was Kenshaw’s favorite locale in the vicinity during the summer. He spent many pleasant and restful hours at that spot during those warmer months. The overhead foliage was thick enough to keep the hot sun off the area, and the sound of the nearby waterway had a lulling effect. He yawned and stretched, taking a lazy look at his surroundings through half-clos
ed eyes.
Suddenly Kenshaw sat straight up.
The lazy glance he’d just given the area caught the sight of Bruno Glotz walking out of the campsite and into the surrounding trees. Glotz carried some wadded-up newspaper with him.
“Where the hell you going, Bruno?” Kenshaw called out to him.
“What do I be going to do?” Glotz said.
“That’s what I’m asking, damn you!” Kenshaw growled. “Now, answer quick! Where the hell are you going?”
“I be going to take a shit,” Glotz answered. “Why for do you think I gots this here paper with me?”
“I see the paper, but I don’t see no shovel,” Kenshaw growled.
“Aw!” Glotz complained. He walked back to the wagon and pulled a spade out of the back. “Now I gots to hurry.”
“I hope you go in your damn pants, you dumb son of a bitch!” Kenshaw said. “Only a damn animal would foul one of the best places within miles.”
“Aw!” Glotz complained again. “The Injuns don’t bury they dumps.”
“O’course not!” Kenshaw snapped. “They ain’t gonna use a place but once or twice a year. We’ll be coming back here a lot during the spring and summer and fall.”
“I gone do what you tell me,” Glotz promised. “You ain’t be gotting to preach at me.”
Kenshaw stood up and yelled for the other men’s attention. “You listen to me, you peckerheads!”
The men stopped what they were doing, whether it was napping, whittling, or talking, to see what their leader wanted.
“What do you want with us, Rollo?” Bobby Slowfoot asked.
“If’n I tole y’all once I tole y’all ten hunnerd times that when y’all shits in the woods around here, y’all dig a hole fer it,” Kenshaw said. “We’re gonna be coming back here a lot o’ times to meet the steamer. We don’t want this place to turn into a smelly pile o’ dung. That means you piss over in the trees too, ’stead o’ on the ground close by.”
The men looked at him with dull-eyed stares.
Kenshaw yelled, “You think I’m just jawing for nothing at you?”
“We believe you, Rollo,” Bobby Slowfoot said.
Kenshaw kept hollering. “You’ll believe me ’cause I’m gonna rub yore damn noses in it like pups, if’n you don’t heed what I tell you.”
Somebody laughed. “You really like this spot, don’t you?”
“Damn right I do,” Kenshaw shot back.
“Why don’t we put some o’ that there fancy perfumey stuff on it, then?” another called out.
“Who said that?” Kenshaw angrily demanded to know.
No one took the responsibility. All the men stayed quiet, looking without emotion at their leader.
“Don’t get riled, Rollo,” Bobby Slowfoot said. “We’ll do what you say. You got no cause to worry none on that account.”
“Yeah? Well, Bruno was heading out there to dump a pile, and he didn’t have nothing with him but a wad o’ paper,” Kenshaw said.
“Bruno’s a real dumb bastard, Rollo,” Bobby Slowfoot pointed out.
“All of y’all are dumb bastards,” Kenshaw growled. He settled back on his bedroll. Still irritated, he called out, “Ain’t Otto back yet?”
“No, he ain’t, Rollo,” Bobby Slowfoot said.
“Are you the only one that can answer my questions?” Kenshaw asked.
“No,” Bobby Slowfoot answered.
“Hey, ever’ damn one o’ you!” Kenshaw bellowed. “Is Otto back yet?”
“No!” came a disorganized but unanimous reply.
“He better hurry,” Kenshaw said. “I’m starting to get in a real bad mood for a whole bunch o’ reasons.”
Otto Bolkey had taken some men to scout out the location of some camps that had been established by either Crow or Cheyenne. They’d heard of the villages from some white hunters passing through the area. Those experienced frontiersmen were doing the right thing— they were heading in the opposite direction of the Indians. That was something that Kenshaw didn’t have to do as long as he had whiskey. But at that moment, he didn’t have a drop. He had already sold and traded it all to the Sioux Wolf Society. The reason he was at the clearing by the river was to meet the riverboat for another load. At the same time, he would pass on the furs he’d received in his last transaction.
After a glance at the pelts, he settled back and closed his eyes. He had just drifted off when he was awakened by a call from one of his men standing guard at the edge of the clearing.
“Riders coming!”
Kenshaw came awake, leaping to his feet and drawing his revolver. “C’mon, you jackasses! Didn’t you hear that?”
“It’s just riders coming,” Bobby Slowfoot said. “Prob’ly Otto and the boys.”
Kenshaw fired a shot that kicked up a geyser of dirt between Bobby Slowfoot and another man. “You don’t know who it is! On yore feet and get ready!”
Faced with their angry armed boss, the men scrambled around to grab weapons and prepare themselves in case of trouble. They rushed to cover in the nearby trees to set up an ambush as Kenshaw had instructed them to do.
A few minutes passed, then they relaxed when Otto Bolkey rode in with eight men following him. The group quickly reined in and dismounted. Bolkey went straight to Kenshaw.
Kenshaw looked at the disheveled, obviously disturbed men. “Where’s Dixon, Smitty, and Pete?”
“We had trouble, Rollo,” he said. “Got jumped by soldiers.”
Kenshaw’s face reddened with anger. “Now, just what the hell do you mean, you got jumped by soldiers?”
“We was riding back from the Cheyenne camp,” Bolkey said. “By the way, that’s who they was up there, not Crows. They want whiskey too, Rollo.”
“Damn them Cheyennes!” Kenshaw growled. “Now, you tell me how come some soldiers jumped you.”
“We was riding back from the Cheyenne camp, across that valley, y’know?” Bolkey said. “It’s the wide long ’un that’s to the northwest there. You know it, don’t you, Rollo?”
Kenshaw grabbed him by the collar with both hands and shook Bolkey until his hat fell off. “Tell me about them goddamn soldiers, you son of a bitch! And you better tell me the truth, or I’ll cut your ears off!”
“They bushwhacked us,” Otto said. He turned to get support from the others who had ridden in with him, but they had already quickly melted in with the rest of the gang.
Kenshaw seemed to calm down. “Now, let me get this straight,” he said. “You and them other butt-heads was a-riding along, minding your own business, when all of a sudden a bunch o’ damn soldiers ambushed you for no reason a’tall. Izzat right?”
“Yup,” Bolkey said.
“Why, that’s plumb awful!” Kenshaw said. He drove his fist into Bolkey’s face, smashing his nose into a blood-spraying pulp.
The unfortunate man staggered backward and sat down. He reached up and wiped at the blood streaming into his moustache and beard. He caught sight of Kenshaw coming at him, and rolled over just in time to dodge a kick aimed at his head. He staggered to his feet, reaching for his knife.
But Bruno Glotz had come up behind him and wrapped the injured man in a strong bear hug. Bruno snarled, saying, “Don’t you be gone stick Rollo or I gone be breaking all of you ribs.”
Kenshaw walked up to Bolkey. “Now, you just tell me in real simple words what happened to y’all out there, heah?”
“Sure, Rollo,” Bolkey said. “We was riding back through that valley, like I tole you. All of a sudden a soldier comes at us—”
“A soldier?” Kenshaw interrupted. “A single, solitary one-at-a-time soldier?”
“Now, damn it, Rollo!” Bolkey protested. “You know where there’s one o’ them dragoons, there’s bound to be others.”
“I’ll allow that,” Kenshaw said magnanimously. “Well, one o’ the boys up and fired at him,” Bolkey admitted. “Then, I’m afraid, the rest of us did.” He tried to wipe his nose, but couldn’t raise his hands. “Tell Brun
o to turn me aloose.”
“Turn him aloose, Bruno,” Kenshaw said.
“Sure, Rollo,” Glotz said releasing the man. “But I be gone keep a look on him so he don’t pull that frog sticker.”
“I wouldn’t stab you, Rollo,” Bolkey said. “You know that. I just didn’t want to get kicked or hit again.”
“I’ll give you that,” Kenshaw said. “Now let’s get on with this story o’ your’n.”
“Anyhow,” Bolkey continued, after smearing some of the blood around in his facial hair, “more of ’em come out of the woods and we had us a merry ol’ chase. They got Pete, Smitty, and Dixon eventually. Finally, we turned into the woods and they didn’t foller us.” He snuffed and spat. “I reckon they was skittish ’bout getting bushwhacked in the trees.” Then he quickly added, “Which was what I was fixing to do, Rollo.”
Kenshaw sighed. “Did you get any of ’em, Otto?”
“FU tell you the truth,” Bolkey said. “We got one and that’s for sure.”
“Aw, shit!” Kenshaw exclaimed, stomping his boot in anger. “Now we’re gonna have the dragoons from Fort Laramie looking for us.”
“They’re always looking for us, Rollo,” Bolkey pointed out.
“But they wasn’t mad before, you dumb son of a bitch,” Kenshaw countered.
“They don’t even know who shot at ’em,” Bolkey said. “So how’re they gonna know it’s us?”
“They’ll be curious ’bout ever’body they see in the Black Hills,” Kenshaw said.
“Maybe the feller we hit wasn’t kilt,” Bolkey suggested. “He mighta just got hurt.” His face brightened. “Or maybe the dumb bastard just fell offa his horse.”
The Dragoons 4 Page 6
