Stryker's Woman

by Chuck Tyrell

  “Nien,” Vallester said. He pointed at Ulrich.

  The lieutenant then saluted Ulrich, who was already in hunter’s clothing ... or what he thought was hunter’s clothing. “Sir?”

  “Ah, yes. Ulrich von Waldberg ist meine name.”

  Relief showed plainly on the lieutenant’s face. “If you would follow me, sir, please. I’ll take you to Cap’n Baldwin.”

  “Danke ... er, sank you, luftenant. Um, we need mounts to ride, ten of us. Wagons for our, um, requisiten, what do you say, our gear.”

  “I have an ambulance ready, sir, to transport you and yours to Fort Laramie.”

  “Ambulance? We have no wounded.”

  “Biggest conveyance we have at the fort, sir.”

  “Hmph. Sehr gut. Lead us. You will, er, ermitteln, er, ascertain that our things come to the fort, will you?”

  “Yes, sir. This way, sir.”

  It took three days to get the Von Waldberg party and its “things” to Fort Laramie. And Cat breathed in every minute. She took walks every morning and the sentry scolded her for leaving the boundaries of the fort to walk along the Laramie River unaccompanied. She smiled pleasantly at the soldier and said in her best English, “Sank you, fine watchman. I am best able to care for myself, I think.”

  The soldier on guard always gave her the same reply. “No, ma’am, you are not.”

  “Sank you.” Cat returned to the room the Americans had provided and did a complete regimen of exercises—a combination of ballet and Savate items—to maintain her suppleness and her strength. Still, she had no sparring partner. She complained of this shortcoming to Ulrich, but he did nothing.

  On the fourth morning, a tall man stood near the parade ground along the route Cat took when she returned to her room. “Miss de Merode?” he said.

  Cat stopped, wary. She wore a dress cut loose and full so as not to hamper her Savate kicks, and carried a walking stick. “I am Catherine de Merode,” she said.

  “Miss. There’s been word that Iron Heart’s band of Cheyenne are looking for white man’s blood.”

  “Why should they bother a woman? It’s barbaric to molest women, is it not?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We might consider an Indian barbaric. True. But they have their reasons. I find their reasons good. Most of the time, that is.”

  “And do they care what you think?”

  “No, ma’am, they don’t.”

  “Then I care nothing for what they might be thinking of me.”

  “That kind of thinking might get you killed,” the man said. “Or worse.”

  “I am quite prepared to defend myself.”

  The man shook his head. “Bravado won’t stop a Cheyenne arrow or bullet, Miss de Merode. Surely won’t.”

  “Perhaps you would like to attempt an attack on me, Monsieur, to see if I am so easily assassinated.”

  The tall man gave Cat a long searching look. Then he said, “I don’t think you want me to do that, ma’am.”

  It was Cat’s turn to penetrate the man’s guard with an iron-hard stare. He stood there, relaxed yet so obviously ready for what may come. Cat’s voice came low on the register and loud enough only for the man to hear. “Who. Are. You?”

  “You’re going to have to get used to me, Miss. Cap’n Baldwin’s hired me to scout for Baron Ulrich’s hunting party. I’ll do my best to keep you all from riling any of the Indian tribes around.”

  “I asked your name. What is it?”

  “’Scuse me, ma’am, but you asked me who I am. The answer to your question is, I am guide for the Baron’s hunting party.”

  Cat stepped behind her stick and took a balanced stance with her feet spread shoulder width apart. “Your name, Monsieur.” Her request sounded more like a command.

  The man’s face was all flat planes and sharp corners, but his blue eyes sparkled. “Matthew,” he said. “My name, ma’am, is Matthew Stryker.”

  “And you think I should not walk along the Laramie River in the morning?”

  “Ordinarily, ma’am, I would have no reason to stop you. But I hear from those who know that Iron Heart, the Cheyenne war chief, is upset because the blue coats killed two of his warriors a couple of days ago.”

  “Why should that bother me? I am not a warrior. I am not a blue-coated soldier. What would your barbarian chief want with me?”

  “It’s not a matter of who did what, ma’am. It’s a matter of balance.”

  “Balance? Between barbarians and the civilized?”

  Stryker shifted his Winchester ’76 to his left hand, holding it Apache style, with the barrel pointing skyward and his hand on the action. “Balance, ma’am, means that Iron Heart’s gang will kill at least two whites, man or woman, because whites killed two reds ... that’s what the Indians call themselves—red skins.”

  “He would kill me so close to the fort?”

  “Miss Merode. Look around you. Do you see a stockade? Once, when Fort Laramie was first built, it had a stockade. Now there is none. Yes, a sentry watches, but there are only two on watch at once. With you walking out on the riverbank, those Cheyenne dog soldiers could come a riding in and kill you or take you captive in a wink. The Army would saddle up and chase them, but, for you, that would likely be too late.”

  “Your concern is most gratifying. Now, if you please, I will be on my way.”

  Stryker stepped aside and Cat went by like a gust in a gale. Accursed American. Trying to tell a Savate specialist to be careful of a group of grimy savages.

  Cat marched past him with her nose in the air. She definitely did not look forward to having this lout play nursemaid ... what did he say? Yes. To be scout for the entire Waldsberg hunting expedition. Such nerve.

  Cat said nothing to Ulrich or to his army subordinate Karl Vallester, and the morning after, she took her usual walk along the banks of the Laramie River. She half hoped Matthew Stryker would try to stop her, but he was nowhere in sight, nor did she see him as he lay behind a cover of boulders lying against the steep bank at the curve of the river. His clothing of faded canvas and buckskin blended with the land, and in moccasins, he made no noise.

  Cat studied the terrain. There seemed to be no one watching. Quickly she went through a short regimen of offensive and defensive moves with the cane, which she preferred to a sword or a pistol, although she could use both.

  When she turned to retrace her steps, Matthew Stryker stood in her way. Further, he had a staff of box elder cut, she supposed, from a stand by the river. “The baron said you need a sparring partner,” he said. “Will I do?”

  He held the staff casually, but in perfect defensive position.

  Without a word, Cat whirled, adding inertia to the swing of her cane.

  Stryker parried her slash easily and sent his staff sliding up hers to tap her wrist.

  “You know Savate,” she said.

  “Somewhat. Got caught by an early snow at Yellowstone one year. Had only an old Frenchy mountain man for company. He taught me a little.”

  Cat struck swiftly, but Stryker parried again. No matter what she tried, he had a defensive move to thwart it. “Monsieur,” she said, breathing hard. “You are more than a little accomplished. Perhaps you could even teach me, who has been practicing Savate for nearly ten years, perhaps I could learn, from you, that is.”

  “You’re good, ma’am. Not likely I could teach you anything new or dramatic. Come. We’d better get back to the fort, just to be on the safe side.”

  Cat did not argue. She found herself respecting this tall, slow-talking Westerner. He never told her what to do, merely suggested. And his suggestions made good sense almost every time.

  ~*~

  A week passed and still Ulrich von Waldsberg’s hunting retinue had yet to leave Fort Laramie. Every night there was some kind of cultural event—a dance, a play, readings, regimental band recitals—the Americans did their best to show the European nobility how cultured and urbane they were.

  Cat attended the affairs, usually with Ulrich as her
escort. Not once did she see Matthew Stryker there. One morning, she asked him why.

  “Ma’am, first of all, I ain’t no officer. Have you taken notice at all?” Suddenly Stryker sounded uneducated and boorish. “See how reading and drama recital and learning new dance steps takes up all the officers’ time? Noticed how they order enlisted men around like they was serfs or peons or something?”

  Cat could say nothing. It was if Stryker was saying a person born above others had no right to their culture. At first she was shocked, then angry. “Matthew Stryker, it is not my fault that I was born to the family Merode. My family is nobility in Belgium for centuries. Its heritage is mine by birth. I cannot be made responsible for the unfortunates who were born below my station.”

  “Supposedly, when we Americans declared our independence from England, the document said, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men were created equal . . .’ In my book that means it don’t make no difference where you was born. Just because you’re rich from your daddy’s pockets don’t make you any better or worse than any other human being.”

  Cat’s mouth hung agape. Birthright meant nothing to these ... these ... these barbarians.

  “Maybe you’d like to take it out on me with your cane,” Stryker said, deadpan.

  “I don’t want to touch you. Or come in contact with your stick. Imagine. You say I’m no better than a wharf rat in Marseilles.”

  “Yes, ma’am. At the moment of birth, you and a baby girl born in a crib harbor side are in precisely the same positions as far as being alive, seeking after liberty, and both of you will spend a bit of time trying to find happiness. Now what makes you happy may not be the same as what makes her happy. That said, you both have the right to pursue your version of happiness. That’s what I do.”

  “Guiding a hunting party makes you happy?”

  Stryker nodded. “It may. You never can tell about what’ll make you happy until the time comes.”

  “But you don’t like to be a soldier.”

  “Dear Cat. You don’t have the slightest idea what it’s like to be a soldier. You don’t know what it’s like to form a skirmish line and walk into the mouths of Yankee cannons and minie balls. But I’ll tell you what. Our bloody war taught me one hell-of-a-lot about staying alive. Now to me, that’s the most important part of happiness. Staying alive. When that high-falutin’ officer who likes to dance so much gets knocked off his horse by a .50 caliber bullet or a fire-hardened three-foot arrow, all that so-called civilization don’t mean a thing.”

  “Oh my. How pedantic.”

  “I tried the officer thing. It didn’t work. For me, at least.”

  “When?”

  “After the war. After I graduated from VMI. After they lifted the ban against southerners in the frontier army, I gave it a try.”

  “Did you fight Indians?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you win?”

  “Not very often.”

  “Why could you not win?”

  “We were too civilized. Too bound by the lessons the general officers felt they learned in the big war. The opponents were guerillas. Too smart for a pitched battle. Until Little Bighorn, that is.”

  “Little Bighorn? It seems I’ve heard that name. A battle, was it not?”

  “In a way.”

  “Why in a way?”

  The army calls it Custer’s Last Stand. The Lakota, Northern Cheyenne, and Arapaho bands call it the Battle of Greasy Grass Creek. The army says two hundred or so soldiers fought to the death on Custer’s ridge. Thing is, Indians have told me that Custer’s men ran like scared rabbits. Don’t blame them. There were just too many Sioux and Arapaho and Cheyenne dog soldiers. Custer stood against maybe two thousand braves with the 7th Cavalry Regiment of about seven hundred men. Custer died. His two brothers died. His nephew and brother-in-law and two hundred sixty-eight men of the 7th Cavalry died. The Indians only lost about fifty men.”

  “So what are you trying to say?”

  “It’s not what I say, it’s just what happened. George Custer came out of West Point at the bottom of his class. Got to admit he’s no scaredy cat. He rode under Phil Sheridan on that raid around back of Southern lines. They hit J.E.B. Stuart at Yellow Tavern—ten thousand men with repeating Henry rifles. They beat us. Rode on to the James River. Beat us, but got little for the effort. Custer was good with cavalry. Good enough to make Brevet Major General. He got awful full of himself, figured his cavalrymen could outfight Indians ten-to-one—ten Indians to one trooper, that is.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “OK. Here it is. The officers of today’s army, dead Custer included, figured they could out fight any bunch of Indians alive. Take Custer. The only fight he had—if you can call it a fight—was the massacre at Washita Creek. He marched into Black Kettle’s village with the band playing Garry Owen and his five hundred soldiers cut down a few of the hundred and fifty or so warriors and nearly a hundred women and kids. The 7th called it the Battle of Washita Creek. Custer lost more men than Black Kettle did warriors, but no one in the army noticed that. Custer was hailed for a big victory that he never won at all.”

  “I see that you don’t like the late General Custer. Still, he is very dead, so what does it matter?”

  “It don’t matter. Except his outlook’s spread through most of the army. Officers’d rather play at Hamlet or read Milton than drill their troops and get them ready to fight Indians. You asked me. I told you. ’Nough said.”

  “Fine. I have heard you. Will we practice Savate again tomorrow?”

  “Didn’t Ulrich tell you? We’ll be leaving Fort Laramie in the morning. Practices are over. Time has come for the real thing.”

  Chapter Three

  A wagon train breaks camp at dawn, hitches up, and makes a dozen miles in a day. A company of cavalry, well mounted and trained, easily covers forty miles if nothing interferes. Ulrich von Waldsberg’s hunting party finally left Fort Laramie in mid-morning and stopped on the Laramie River less than five miles from the fort to set up camp.

  Cat looked for Matthew Stryker when the party gathered on the fort’s parade ground, but he was not here. Nor did he show when the party finally set out with five wagons pulled by teams of Missouri mules, Ulrich’s entourage of noblemen and servants ... and Cat, of course. Captain Baldwin and A Troop escorted the hunters.

  Cat rode a lineback buckskin she had picked from the U.S. Army’s herd of extra horses. Stryker had approved of her choice. “Take care of that gelding, Cat,” he said, “and he’ll take care of you. Make a pet of him. Make him think you’ve got a treat for him every time he does something good, and he’ll be a one-woman horse before you know it.”

  Cat named him Cheval d’or, meaning golden horse, and patted his neck as she rode. “I’m trusting you,” she said. Cat rode astride, wearing a split riding skirt of lightweight canvas, a pair of burnished cavalry boots on her feet, and a spanking new cavalry hat rather than any kind of feminine bonnet.

  On the third day out of Fort Laramie, she urged Cheval to the head of the column where Ulrich and Captain Baldwin rode together in front of the procession. The captain had sent two troopers ahead to ride “point,” as he called it. Six more followed by twos, and Ulrich’s men followed them. Servants and wagons lumbered in the wake of the riders.

  “Are you doing well, Cat?” Ulrich spoke in French, the language they both knew.

  “Oui,” she said. “May I ride ahead?”

  Ulrich turned to Captain Baldwin. “Mademoiselle Catherine would like to ride ahead of the party. Is it safe for her to do so?”

  “Sergeant O’Malley,” Baldwin called.

  “Yo-o.” A lithe dark-haired trooper answered Baldwin’s summons, spurring his bay cavalry horse to the captain’s side. “Sir?”

  “Miss Merode wants to see some of the country, Sarge. Take her out and get her back safe.”

  “Sir!” He inspected Cat. His eyes stopped for an instant on the Winchester ’76 in a sc
abbard under her right leg, its stock at hand if she needed to dismount and defend herself. The trooper’s eyes also took in the .38 caliber Colt Lightning at her waist. His face said, Can she use those weapons? “Follow me, ma’am,” he said.

  Cat nodded and put Cheval d’or’s nose at the flank of the sergeant’s horse as they left the party behind. She urged the buckskin a little farther forward. “Are you quite familiar with this country, sergeant?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is that barbarian called Iron Heart going to come riding down upon us and slay us all?”

  The sergeant looked surprised. “What do you know of that gut-eatin’ Injun?”

  “That he is dangerous.”

  “He’s not been seen around these parts,” O’Malley said.

  “Could you save my life if he were to appear?”

  “We’d hightail it back to the column.”

  “Run from fright?”

  “Run to be safe, ma’am. A man don’t want to be captured by Injuns. Neither does a woman.”

  Cat took a deep breath. “The air in Wyoming is delicious, sergeant. And the vista delights the eye.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you soldiers ready to defeat the barbarian red men, as it seems they call themselves?”

  Sergeant O’Malley hesitated just a moment before answering sharply. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ve been here in Wyoming for nearly a week,” Cat said. She squinted at O’Malley. “I’ve not heard any gunfire that sounded like practice, other than my own and that of a scout named Stryker. He and I practice every day.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Conversation lagged. Cat and O’Malley rode abreast. The Wyoming sky spread cloudless above them. Dots of dark green punctuated the lighter green of the ubiquitous wheatgrass, marking waterways or sheltered places where scrub oak and piñon pine could grow. Cat pulled Cheval to a halt atop a slight rise. O’Malley went on a good ten yards before noticing she’d stopped. He reined the bay around and came back.

  “Wish you’d say something when you stop of a sudden, ma’am.”

  “Excuse moi. Forgive me, sergeant. I wish to survey the view from here.”