Trail Hand

by R. W. Stone

  “Excuse me,” Sonora said, interrupting the two. “You the horse doctor here?”

  “Veterinary surgeon,” he responded, sharply correcting Mason.

  “What’s the difference?” chided Sonora.

  “Well, let’s see…captain’s bars, a six month sabbatical in Lyons, France, eleven-hour shifts tending the unit’s mounts, public health duties, plus I get to keep the colonel’s dog free of ticks. All that for the generous sum of sixty-five dollars per month.”

  “My horse’s favoring his front leg some,” I said more respectfully. “I’d appreciate it, if you’d glance at it. Couldn’t find anything obvious myself.”

  “You’re new around here,” the corporal said, more a statement than a question.

  “Just rode in,” I replied.

  “You boys on the Army payroll? Scouts?” he asked.

  “Not presently.”

  “Jus’ passin’ through,” added Mason rather curtly.

  “Private consult will cost you extra. Ten dollars ought to do, I expect,” Dr. Chapman said rather seriously.

  “What?” I exclaimed, somewhat shocked at the price.

  “What did I tell you, Corporal. Folks’ll think nothing of paying a barkeep extra for a drink, or for a carpenter to fix a drawer, but they’ll begrudge a professional his consultation fee every time. Even after four years of advanced schoolin’.” Turning to face me, he smiled and added: “Just funnin’ with you, son. You see, for some strange reason, the corporal here wants to apprentice with me. Actually, the Army pays my keep. I’ll be glad to have a look-see.” Then, turning to Sonora, he added: “After all, we’ve only a couple hundred horses to treat on the post. Don’t reckon one more will kill me.”

  Sonora didn’t see it, but I caught the wink he threw to the corporal, who rolled his eyes and mumbled something I didn’t quite catch.

  “I’ll get the hoof testers, sir,” he said to the veterinarian. Turning back to me, the corporal indicated a spot in the barn’s center aisle.

  I led the roan over and replaced his bridle with the halter the corporal offered me. Then crossed-tied the roan.

  “He’s a little feisty today,” I warned.

  “Corporal, if you’d be so kind,” Dr. Chapman said, nodding.

  “Yes, sir,” the corporal answered, taking out a twitch made of a loop of short chain attached to the top end of an axe handle.

  The corporal placed his hand through the chain and calmly walked up to the roan sideways, keeping the twitch hidden behind his leg and out of the horse’s sight. He slowly reached up and then quickly grabbed the horse’s upper lip, withdrawing his hand and firmly pulling the lip through the chain loop. Before the roan had a chance to react, the corporal turned the axe handle several times, screwing the chain down onto the lip.

  When a cayuse has its lip all twisted like that, it effectively immobilizes it. A twitch works better than trying to hang on to a lip by hand, although some of the stronger vaqueros achieve the same effect by twisting an ear, or with a Mexican twitch, which they perform by simply grabbing a large fold on the side of a horse’s neck with their bare hands and rolling the skin up tightly. If a man’s strong enough, sometimes he can hold on this way long enough for the horse to be shod, or for minor surgeries to be performed.

  Someone who really wants to gain control, however, will use a rope or chain twitch because it applies more squeeze and allows for better leverage over the horse. Sure enough, that roan stood as still for the veterinary as a stopped clock.

  The corporal then wrapped the halter’s lead rope around the twitch’s handle and held it tightly with both hands.

  “Prevents the handle from flying up and clouting you in the face when the horse shakes his head,” Dr. Chapman explained.

  The fact that the corporal was missing several teeth indicated to me that he probably learned that trick from personal experience.

  “Not likely to move much with that thing cut-tin’ into his lip so hard,” muttered Sonora.

  “The corporal knows his job, all right. This won’t hurt him in the least,” commented Dr. Chapman after overhearing Mason’s remark. He bent over and began to run his hands down the horse’s legs, one at a time.

  “Seems to favor the front leg,” I offered.

  “Uhn-huh. Right front. Saw the way he throws his head up slightly as he walked in. Takes the weight off the bad leg. Best to check them all, though.”

  “Couldn’t find any cracks or stones when we looked. Suppose he’s foundering?” Sonora asked the veterinarian as he started his exam.

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” Dr. Chapman answered, looking over his shoulder, still bent over with the horse’s leg cupped in his hands. “I’m pretty good at these things, but, you know, I’ve never yet figured out a way to make a correct diagnosis before I’ve had a chance to examine the patient.”

  He was smiling at Sonora when he said it, but his message came across clear enough.

  “Right you are, Doc,” Sonora replied. “I’ll just let you get on with it.”

  Captain Chapman proceeded to pull the shoe and, with a curved knife he snatched from his rear pocket, trim away some of the tissue from around the frog and sole.

  “Hoof testers, Corporal.”

  The testers were actually large round pincers used to apply pressure around the edges and bottom of the hoof. The roan flinched a time or two before the veterinarian finished his exam.

  “You’re lucky,” Dr. Chapman said, washing his hands off in a nearby water bucket. “Seems to be just a stone bruise. No sign of problems with the navicular bone and no sign of rot.”

  “Any recommendations?” I asked, somewhat relieved.

  “Take him next door to Sergeant Emerson. I’ll write you up some instructions to give him,” he said, taking the notebook from the corporal. “Not that he’ll follow them,” I overheard his mumble. “I want him to build up the shoe a little and cut a sole pad to go under the shoe. It ought to protect the sole long enough to heal while still allowing you to ride him.” The captain shook his head. “That is if the good sergeant doesn’t lame him in the process.”

  “A little heavy-handed, is he?” I asked, wishing Chango were around to do the job.

  “I’ve seen apes in a zoo with a softer touch. ’Course, you understand that if this were to get back to the sergeant, I’d deny ever having said the like.”

  Considering the size of most farriers I’d met, I could fully appreciate his position.

  “Don’t leave that pad on longer than a month,” he added. “Tends to soften things up, and, if you aren’t careful, the sole will get a little mucky.”

  I thanked the captain and, remembering his earlier comments, offered to pay something for his extra effort. He just waved it away.

  The corporal untied the roan, and then Sonora and I headed next door to look for the troop’s farrier.

  “Orders from the captain, eh? As if I didn’t have enough to do already.” Sergeant Emerson apparently wasn’t in the best of moods.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered.

  “Don’t sir me. I ain’t no officer, I work for a living,” he snapped.

  “Right.”

  “And I suppose you’re in a hurry.”

  This time it was Sonora who answered. “That’s right. The colonel needs us to do some scoutin’ for him. And he said the sooner the better.”

  I shot him a quick look, but Sonora’s expression was dead pan.

  “Christ, that’s all I need.” The sergeant had been working on a large gray jenny. He dropped the hoof and tossed the shoe he had pulled into a wooden box in the corner.

  Sergeant Emerson was a dark-haired, husky sort, about thirty years of age, which I roughly estimated to be the amount of time passed since he last changed his uniform. It was hard to believe, but he actually smelled worse than the barn he worked in. The remnants of a fat cigar whose flame had long gone out clung to his lips, even when he spoke.

  We tied up the roan and the sergeant bent over to exa
mine his feet. “The shoes in back look all right. I’ll just replace the ones up front the good doctor saw fit to pull.”

  “You know, the vet suggested we fill in the front hoofs and have a pad put on,” I added.

  “I can read,” he growled. “Christ, it turns out everythin’ that quack looks at either needs corrective shoes or some special damn’ pad.” He selected a rasp out of another box, and spit on it. As he began to trim the hoof, the sergeant shook his head at us.

  “File and shape the hoof. Build the shoe up. Huh! Probably just a damned nail abscess. You drive one in too deep or screw up the angle and you lame the horse sure as I’m standing here. Probably the last smith’s fault.”

  Knowing the type of work Chango Lopez did, I doubted that was the case, but I wasn’t about to argue the point. Like Pa always said, when you wrestle with pigs, you both get dirty, but only the pig enjoys it.

  “Well, just the same, I wouldn’t want to piss off the captain, not to mention the colonel,” I added, remembering the sergeant’s reaction when Mason first mentioned him.

  “By the way, you know a master sergeant by the name of Freeman?” I asked. “Nathaniel.”

  Emerson began pounding out a shoe on his anvil. He paused to look up at me before answering.

  “Nigger sergeant from that unit what came in with the inspector? What about him?” he asked, returning to his work.

  It was as if he was totally ignoring Sonora’s presence. I saw Mason’s face begin to tense as he started past me angrily; I shot my arm out sideways, palm against his chest.

  “He ain’t worth it, hombre,” I whispered. “No sense causing problems before you’ve found your friend. We’re almost done. Just let him finish and we’re outta here.”

  Sonora just stared at me. His eyes were empty and his jaw locked, but reluctantly he nodded back.

  I turned to the sergeant. “Yeah, that’s the one. Know where we can find him?”

  “Probably with the rest o’ his kind. They got a few tents staked out back of the fort.” He pointed his hammer to indicate the direction. “No sense letting them stay inside with the decent folk,” he added snidely.

  Mason, I’d noticed, had quietly walked to the far side of the barn and was now leaning against a wooden stall post while we waited.

  Sergeant Emerson hammered the last of the horseshoe nails, prying back the exposed ends till they broke off. He then smoothed the whole affair with another rasp, repeating his spitting routine.

  “That oughter do ’er,” he said. “Leastwise the shoes are on and the damn’ hoof ’s padded. Oh, and don’t forget to mention that to the colonel. Don’t want him on my case for not finishing B Troop on time.”

  “Oh, I’m sure the colonel will hear of it, all right,” I said. “Come on, Sonora, we’re through here.”

  The sergeant was standing just behind the roan when I began to untie the harness. Mason had come up on the horse’s left side while I was replacing the bridle.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said unexpectedly. “We do ’preciate it. This’n here’s mah pahtnahs best friend. Ain’t that right?” Sonora’s accent had suddenly grown unusually thick. Surprised, I looked back at him dumbly. “Yes-siree, he’s a great hoss. A mite feisty, though.” With that he gave the roan a firm slap on the rump. The gelding let out a loud whinny and jumped off its rear legs, mule-kicking straight back. Those big rear legs caught the blacksmith just above the belt, knocking him at least four feet backward. Emerson was out for the count.

  “Christ!” I exclaimed, trying to calm the horse down.

  “Hmmm. Hoss must not like white-assed sergeants very much,” Sonora said, shrugging his shoulders. As he turned around, I noticed something fall from his hand. “Nigger sergeant, my ass,” Sonora remarked, cussing back at the now unconscious blacksmith. “Nate Freeman craps better than the likes of him,” he added, walking out the door.

  The roan’s sudden reaction had come as quite a surprise until I stopped near the object Sonora had dropped, bent over, and picked it up. What I found turned out to be a sharpened two inch long wooden splinter!

  Chapter Seventeen

  Although the entrance to Yuma had a manned wall around its gate, the rest of the fort was actually more like a series of several connecting buildings than a closed-in four-walled structure.

  In order to get to the tented area where Sergeant Freeman’s unit was bivouacked we had to cross part of the drill field and then pass between the enlisted men’s barracks and the quartermaster’s office.

  After leaving the stable, I tethered the roan to the nearest hitching post and accompanied Sonora Mason as he started out across the field in search of his friend. Off to the right a firearms instructor was drilling a platoon of new recruits.

  “The standard U.S. Army cavalry issue shoulder arm is the Springfield Armory modified breechloading Trapdoor model carbine,” we overheard him lecture the men. I was already familiar with the rifle version. Although the .50–70 caliber was a strong cartridge, and even though the rifle had fairly good long-range accuracy, I was disappointed when the Army adopted it as their standard for infantry issue. The rifle was heavy, and its long bayonet worthless for Western fighting. The carbine version was an even worse choice for the cavalry.

  We paused to watch the drill.

  “What’s your opinion of the standard Army issue shoulder arm, Sonora?” I asked, watching the men struggle with the manual of arms.

  “Some politician sure padded his nest with that one. You know damn’ well that group up north with Forsythe would never have survived the Beecher’s Island attack if they’d had these single-shot Springfields. Their Spencers was what saved their asses, and then the Army goes and trades ’em away.”

  I agreed. Everyone knew the details of the battle for Beecher’s Island. Major George A. Forsythe had been detailed by General Sheridan to lead a small force of fifty men in order to draw out the Sioux and Cheyennes, who had been raiding stage and telegraph stations.

  On September 16, 1868 Forsythe made camp in the valley of the Arikaree River, mistakenly believing that he had arrived undetected. At dawn the next day 600 Sioux, Cheyennes, and Arapahos led by Roman Nose moved in to attack. Fortunately for the cavalrymen some overeager young braves tried to stampede the Army’s horses first. Their war cries alerted Forsythe who managed to drive off the raiders and withdraw his force across the river and onto a small island before the main body of Indians attacked.

  Forsythe’s men brought their mounts around into a circle and tied them to bushes, forming a tight barrier. The island was an ideal defensive position, but what really saved Forsythe, who was outnumbered more than twelve to one, was the fact that every man carried a Spencer repeating rifle with 140 rounds and Colt Army revolver with another 100 or so rounds. Four Army pack mules carried another 4,000 extra shells for the rifles.

  Time and time again the Indian charges were broken by volleys from the trooper’s Spencer rifles, fully loaded with six in the magazine, and one in the chamber.

  Under siege for over a week the men huddled in rifle pits dug with tin plates and hunting knives. Major Forsythe was wounded on the first day, but his courage continued to inspire his men. By the fourth day he had been hit twice more and his second-in-command, Lieutenant Frederick Beecher, for whom the island was eventually named, had been killed.

  Roman Nose was a fearless leader and relentlessly continued the onslaught, leading one of the largest charges himself. Since they had little time to reload, Forsythe held his fire, ordering his men to shoot in volleys. The troopers were ordered to hold fire until the redskins were a mere fifty yards away. But those Spencers held seven rounds apiece, and, when they finally cut loose, wave after wave of Indians fell to its devastating firepower.

  When the fifth wave collapsed, Roman Nose managed once again to rally his braves, and charged a sixth time. With only two more rounds left, the troopers fired and Roman Nose was hit point-blank, knocking him off his horse and into the shallow waters. The charge
faltered, the Indians demoralized.

  By the time the Army’s relief column finally arrived, what was left of Forsythe’s men had been reduced to eating the horses that had died during the fighting.

  Cavalrymen everywhere were grateful for the extra firepower offered by the Spencer rifle, but the Army, with its usual logic, decided to replace it with the single-shot Springfield.

  “Ever seen what happens to a Trapdoor that’s been fired a lot?” I asked Sonora. “The barrel heats up and the cartridges swell and stick in the breech. Got to pry ’em out with a pocket knife,” I said.

  Sonora nodded his head. “Single-shot’s a great idea for cavalry. Reloading one’s real easy, especially when you’re galloping at the enemy,” he added sarcastically.

  “Heard they were considering the Remington Rolling Block for a while,” I commented.

  “Never had a chance,” he replied. “Sure, it’s a better rifle, so’s the Sharps for that matter. But it’s a lot easier for the government to retool old rifles and pocket the difference. Never mind the men what’s got to use ’em.”

  The drill continued as we walked past.

  “You’ll get a full sixty rounds a month for target practice, so make ’em count.” The instructor sounded less than convincing that it would be enough.

  We passed through the buildings and onto an open field in back of the fort, where we found a dozen or more two-man pup tents staked out in equal columns. Standing out in front of them, talking to a couple of his men was a sergeant who, judging from Sonora’s description, had to be the man we were looking for.

  Sonora Mason could hardly be described as soft, yet here he was hugging his friend and thumping his back, happy as a kid at Christmas. The fact that Sergeant Freeman was a good man was immediately obvious to me, but at the present time he was also an embarrassed one.

  “Let me go, ya big idiot, afore you crack a rib,” he gasped.

  “Damn it’s good to see you, Nate.”

  “Sure it is, kid, but Ah’m on duty. Army cain’t have its noncoms going ’round huggin’ other men.’ Specially not someone ugly as y’all.” He laughed.