by R. W. Stone
Sergeant Nathaniel Freeman was a man of average height, but solidly built. His short-cropped, curly gray hair was thinning, and his face wrinkled, but he walked tall and his uniform was sharp, unusually so for a Southwestern post.
“Glad ya got mah letter, but Ah didn’t expect ya’d come all this way. Whose the galoot with y’all?” he asked, glancing my way.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, Nate. He’s white, oversized, and he’ll talk your ear off given half a chance, but he’s a friend of sorts,” Sonora said, looking over at me.
“Thanks a lot, Sonora” I said. “Don’t bust a cinch loadin’ on all that praise.”
“Sonora?” The sergeant looked puzzled. “That’s what you callin’ yourself now, Isiquiel?”
“Isiquiel?” I laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Never you mind,” he growled. “And you just better keep it to yourself,” he added.
“Sure thing. I can keep a secret as well as the next man…Isiquiel.”
Before he had a chance to reply, I turned and extended a hand to his friend, introducing myself. “Sonora said you’re with the Tenth Cavalry. A mite far from home, aren’t you?” I asked.
“The Army’s cut down a lot in the last couple of years. Only about fifty-seven thousand in the whole shebang now, so they’s usin’ colonels for inspection duty. We’re here as aides, and as an honor guard unit for Colonel Benjamin Grierson.”
“How’d you get so lucky?” asked Sonora, looking over at the tents unhappily.
“Supposed to be a special detail,” grunted the sergeant. “Ain’t very excitin’ but Ah wanted this postin’ ’cause it pays extra. Ah even had to compete with some other sergeants for the job.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Army had a contest, and as part o’ the competition they held a surprise inspection. Checked everything from soup to nuts. Boiled it down to just two o’ us. When they had us turn out for the full dress uniform inspection, it was so close they couldn’t choose between us, so the colonel finally had us strip down. Sergeant James was always crisp as a new bill, but, as it turned out, he was wearin’ store-bought civilian long johns. Most o’ the men do ’cause they’s more comfortable, but that was enough to disqualify him. Ah might’ve been wearin’ them, too, but Ah’d heard about that little ol’ trick from a captain Ah’d once served with. When the colonel saw Ah was the only one wearin’ Army issue undergarments, Ah got the job.”
“To the victor go the spoils,” I joked.
“They treatin’ you OK, Sarge?” Sonora was genuinely concerned.
“Sure, son. Ben Grierson’s a good man. In fact, Ah once heard him take on another colonel from the Third Infantry who claimed we was nothin’ more than a nigger unit. Said that he didn’t want us forming up next to his men on parade drill. A real uppity sort. Well, Ah’ll tell ya, Colonel Grierson laid into that son-of-a-bitch like Ah never seen done. Told him the Tenth was takin enemy positions while his men were still wipin’ their asses in the latrines.”
“Your unit has been getting some good press lately,” I commented.
“Shit, a black man does his job well and all o’ a sudden the press is surprised. Hell, there’s been a whole bunch of black Army units, the Twenty-Fourth and Twenty-Fifth Infantry, for example, and the Ninth Cavalry. There’ve been black men fightin’ all the way back to Bunker Hill. But you wanna know how it really is? The Tenth Cav’ whups a few tired and hungry Injuns and all of a sudden we’re heroes.”
“I doubt they were that simple to beat,” I said.
“Nate here’s a real hero,” offered Sonora, whacking his friend on the back again. “Medal and all. Bunch of ’Paches had a whole column pinned down. Ol’ Nate here strolled up by his lonesome, calm as Sunday goin’ to meetin’, and took out five of ’em. They promoted him all the way up to sergeant-major.”
“Ya always did talk too much,” replied the sergeant. “And what do ya mean ‘ol’ Nate’? Ah kin still whup yo’ ass any day.”
“I’ll give you that, Sarge,” Sonora conceded in good humor.
“Right about one thing, though. Ya cain’t git any better than this ’cause there ain’t no black officers in this man’s Army.”
There was obviously a lot of depth, courage, and humility to this grizzled old man, and I could sympathize with his disappointment.
“Give it time, Sarge,” I said encouragingly, but there was no reply.
After an uncomfortable silence Sergeant Freeman turned to Sonora. “You boys had anything to eat?” When we shook our heads, he led us back to the mess tent and saw to it that we were fed.
Chapter Eighteen
Sergeant-Major Freeman, we soon learned, shared a two-man tent with Corporal Carl Mathews who we found arranging his haversack as we entered the tent. The contents of the pack scattered on the floor were fairly standard: a metal plate and eating utensils, a dozen or so slightly moldy hardtack crackers, a change of socks, matches, a twist of tobacco, a bag of coffee beans, his razor, and a small sewing kit. The daily rations also included about six ounces of pork (occasionally maggot-ridden), a few dried apples, beans, and a potato.
“Corporal,” the sergeant asked after introducing us, “you suppose we could find quarters for these two stragglers?” Nate Freeman took three cups from off a tack box near his cot and reached for the coffee pot.
“If we move Johnson over in with Williams, they can use the extra tent. I’ll go see to it, Sarge.”
“Thanks, Carl.”
Corporal Mathews finished folding his pack and left, dropping the tent flap down after him.
“Hope you boys take it black. Ain’t got no cream or sugar, Isiquiel,” Nate said with a shrug.
Sonora shot him a dirty look. “That’s just fine.”
“Fine with me, too,” I said, chuckling.
“Sarge, you know anything about a herd of Spanish horses passing through here lately. They’d have a brand that looks something like this.” I drew an EH in the dirt floor, closing it off as Pete Evans had described to make four boxes. I briefly explained my situation.
“Sorry, son. We only pulled in here two weeks ago and the colonel’s had us camped back here the whole time. Only thing we’ve seen is the drill field, the back of the stable, and this tent city.” He paused a moment in thought. “You boys might check with Major Gilbert, though. He’s the fort’s commanding officer. Ain’t nothing goes on around here he don’t know about. Tell ya what, Ah’ll take ya over to see him soon as we get y’all settled.”
“Don’t know about Isiquiel, here,” I said, tipping my coffee cup to an annoyed Sonora Mason, “but I won’t be staying long. Say, any chance we can clean up before seeing the major?” I asked hopefully.
Sergeant Freeman shook his head. “You kid-din’? Around here? Hell, Ah’ve been ten years in the Southwest division, and been stationed in over a half dozen forts. Ain’t seen a bathhouse yet. After a while ya just sort of forget your sense o’ smell. Unless o’ course you’re an officer, that is.”
“The bunks are ready, Sarge,” Carl Mathews said, sticking his head through the tent flap.
I looked over at Sonora. “If I have to bunk with him, I sure hope it doesn’t take too long to lose.” I winked over at the sergeant.
“Lose? Lose what?” asked Nate.
“My sense of smell.” Nate laughed and Sonora threw his empty coffee cup at my head as I quickly ducked out of the way.
Sergeant Freeman later accompanied us to the office of the fort’s commander where we found Major Jeffery Gilbert seated behind an old, chipped flat-top desk. The rest of the office was equally Spartan, with only one other chair, which was currently occupied by Colonel Grierson. There was a flagpole in each corner, one for the flag, and the other for the unit’s colors. A picture of President Lincoln hung on the wall behind the colonel, still draped, I noticed, with black ribbon.
Sergeant Freeman was the first to speak. “Beggin’ the colonel’s permission, sir. These men would like to ask the major
a few questions. Ah can vouch for them if necessary, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant-Major, that won’t be necessary. What can we do for you gentlemen?”
There was a subtle but noticeable hesitation before the word “gentlemen”, due I’m sure to our raggedy appearance.
“Colonel, I’m trailing after a herd of stolen horses that I believe passed through here, and thought the major or his men might have some information that could help me. The horses might have been wearing a Four box or an EH brand.”
Major Gilbert nodded his head. “Yes, I remember the outfit. The herd didn’t actually pass through the fort, mind you, one of my patrols came across it a few miles north of here.” The major turned to the colonel. “Lieutenant Peters was leading at the time and brought their ramrod back here to the fort. Peters said the horses looked remarkably prime.”
“I know the lad,” commented the colonel. “He’s a good judge of horseflesh.”
“That sounds like them,” I said, encouraged.
“I’m empowered to do the purchasing for the Army in this whole area, but, try as I might, I couldn’t convince them to sell,” the major added. “That ramrod was a real hardcase. Said we couldn’t come close to the price he’d get elsewhere.” Major Gilbert turned back to the colonel. “We could have really used those horses. I even tried to, shall we say, convince him to sell. Let on he was risking confiscation of the herd for Army use, but he knew the law and basically called my bluff.”
“Sounds like whatever he knew of the law came from being on the wrong side of it, I’d say,” Colonel Grierson commented. He had an annoying habit of continually drumming his fingers on the table top.
“What did this cowboy look like, Major?” I asked.
“Oh, about your height and build. Moustache, cleft chin. Wore a brace of Remingtons cross-draw style.”
“Pierce,” I said, nodding to Sonora. “Did he happen to mention where he was headed?’
“Not precisely, but, from the reports my patrols gave me, I’d say they were being driven north into California.”
“That fits with what you figured,” Mason commented, pushing his hat up. “Maybe the Army can help, eh?”
I looked back at the officers. “That herd was stolen from a Señor Hernandez. I was scouting for him at the time, and have been trailing the herd ever since. Good men were killed and the future of two ranches depends on my catching those rustlers. And I might mention that one of the ranch owners is ex-regular Army. What do you say, could you spare some men to go after them with me?”
“That Pierce really rubbed me the wrong way,” the major said, looking to the colonel for support.
“Then you’ll help him?” asked Sonora.
“Wish we could,” answered the colonel.
“Unfortunately there are several overlapping jurisdictions in this territory, such as the Department of the Interior and the militia. Hell, when Indians are involved, even the Society of Friends gets involved. In this case the robbery’s a civil matter, and our federal troops have been prohibited from interfering in such things. You might try the territorial marshal,” he suggested.
“Right now he’s out in the field and, from what I hear, isn’t expected back for a month,” Major Gilbert informed us. “Maybe the Arizona Rangers could help?” he offered.
“No, they won’t cross over into California, and I don’t have time to wait for the marshal,” I answered unhappily.
“Sorry, wish we could be of more help,” the major said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Time to go, boys. These men got business, too.” It was the sergeant speaking this time. “With your permission, sir,” he added.
“You’re dismissed, Sergeant,” Colonel Grierson replied.
Nate Freeman held the door open for us, but, as Sonora started for it, I paused and turned back toward the major.
“You have been a help, Major, and I appreciate it, but I got just one last question. Have any of your patrols reported a large group of Mexican vaqueros in the area?”
“Vaqueros? No, they haven’t. Why? They part of the outfit that was hit?”
“That’s right.” I nodded.
“Friends of yours?” asked the colonel.
“I sure hope so,” I answered as the sergeant closed the door behind me.
Chapter Nineteen
Sonora and I parted company the next morning. I didn’t really expect him to get involved in my fight, but I did ask if he was going to stick around the fort.
“Any chance of you having a friendly chat with Chavez and his boys when they show up? You know, to help explain things.”
He shook his head. “Wouldn’t mind doing it for you, you know that, but I probably won’t be here long enough to get the chance. Gonna be leavin’ in a day or so. After all, I don’t want to wear out my welcome. Besides, I’m supposed to hook up with some friends o’ mine just south o’ here. Sorry, but it’s not likely we’ll cross trails with them vaqueros.”
That ended that. While it was possible the vaqueros might enter the fort and ask the right people about me, it was equally possible they’d just stock up quickly at the sutler’s store and ride out so as not to waste any time. Furthermore, even if they did talk to Nate, or one of the other officers, they probably wouldn’t trust the word of another gringo. I knew if that were the case and nothing else happened to change their mind, I’d still be in for it.
Sonora wished me luck as I rode out. I had been convinced ever since arriving at the fort that I knew where the herd was headed. Don Enrique had intended to drive his horses to California because the price was especially high there. Rosa, also, had described in detail her uncle’s ranch in California, and how someone was trying to force him off his land.
Ordinary outlaws would have sold the horses the first chance they got. This bunch, however, had passed several towns and had turned down a generous and seemingly opportune offer by Major Gilbert. When combined with what Pete Evans had told me, things all began to make sense.
The whole scheme had been too elaborate for common bandits. It had been too well planned and funded from the start. The rustlers had followed us from the start without being detected. The raid had been carried out with military precision, and the thieves could apparently afford to risk holding out for a higher sale price. If Davies was powerful enough to try large-scale land grabbing, he could also fund a scheme such as this one. That’s why I now rode as fast as I could straight toward our original destination, San Gabriel, right for Rosa’s uncle’s ranch in California.
Fortunately the vet had been right about those shoes, and the roan was acting as spry as ever. I was fairly certain the herd wouldn’t be driven directly to Davies’s own ranch; he would be too careful to allow that. But they wouldn’t be very far away. I felt my best chance to find the herd would be to head directly to town and stake out Davies’s outfit from there. Sooner or later someone would lead me to the horses, and, in the event the herd had already been broken up or sold intact, I’d at least be close to the culprits and their money.
Once into California the temperature cooled off some, as the hot dry sands began gradually changing to black soil, green grass, and rolling wooded hills. Game was more plentiful, too, and I was able to supplement the meager supplies I’d carried from the fort with an occasional rabbit, squirrel, or deer.
The roan responded well to the colder weather, and we started to make better time. That horse had served me well and I’d regret having to return him, but among other things I was still as determined as ever to recover my Morgan bay stallion.
I rode into San Gabriel around midday. Before leaving the roan at the livery, I asked the blacksmith, a big bearded Mormon named Jacob Browne, if he recognized the EH brand. He couldn’t recall ever having seen it before, meaning the herd hadn’t passed through town. I knew there hadn’t been enough time to change the brands on that many horses, not at the pace they’d been moving.
Since Davies couldn’t risk having stolen horses found on his property
, he would have to corral the herd somewhere nearby. But where? The location would have to be close enough to his ranch to allow him to keep track of the herd, and to supply his men. There had to be an abandoned ranch, blind cañon, or enclosed pasture nearby, large enough to hide over 1,000 horses. To find it I would need a little more information. For a while I considered heading straight for the local saloon.
If anyone knows a town’s goings-on, it’s usually the barkeep and his local band of barflies, but by the same token it was likely some of the same men I was trailing would be there and they might get suspicious if too many questions were asked.
At this point I knew I was getting close and didn’t want accidentally to tip my hand to any of the gang. Not only that, but I couldn’t be sure whether or not Pierce would recognize me if we were to meet. I didn’t know how close a look at me he’d taken while I was lying in that ravine. That’s when the town’s bank caught my eye. Reconsidering my options, and thinking it was as good a place as any to start, I opened the door and went in.
When you look like an old side of beef even the flies won’t touch, it’s hard to convince anyone to take you seriously. Whoever said— “It’s difficult to believe what you say when your appearance speaks so loudly.”—knew what he was talking about. Here I was in the San Gabriel Mortgage & Trust Bank, a total stranger, looking like something the cat dragged in and expecting the bank manager to answer delicate questions.
I’d learned enough about bluffing at poker to know that sometimes the more ludicrous something appears, or the more outrageous it seems, the quicker some folks are to believe it. Con artists often take advantage of the same principle.
Like the time Loco Larry Peters used a fake money-making machine as a bribe to get out of jail. It had lots of knobs and cranks on it, and turned out shiny new greenbacks every hour. The kicker was the chump who fell for it was the very same town sheriff who’d already arrested Loco for running still another scam.
