A Man Called Sunday

by Charles G. West

  After he left the surgery, his first obligation was to take care of his horses, so he went to the stable to see if he could find some grain for them. Both were Indian ponies, used to living off grass, but grazing had been scarce, so he wanted to give them a good feeding. He was told by the sentry at the stables that grain was in short supply and there was none to be issued without the commanding officer’s or the officer of the day’s permission. “Fair enough,” Luke said without complaint, and turned his horses out with the cavalry herd to find what grass they could under the snow. Afterward, he climbed through the back window of the stable, filled a bucket with grain, and took it to his horses. His paint showed its appreciation, having been fed oats before. The stolen sorrel didn’t know what to make of the grain in the bucket at first, but consumed it gratefully after Luke poured it on the ground. Luke went back to the stable while the sentry was still out front, and returned the bucket. The paint’s welfare was as important to him as his own. A man on foot in the middle of a rolling, snow-covered prairie wasn’t much good for anything, he reasoned, and he felt the army owed him a bucket of oats. With his horses taken care of for the moment, he decided to go in search of coffee and maybe something to go with it.

  * * *

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Bill Bogart blurted. “Look what the cat drug in.” He grinned at Sonny Pickens and declared, “I reckon I owe you a dollar, Sonny. I swear, I never thought that jasper would show his face back here.” Everyone gathered around the fire turned to see who Bogart was talking about. Not inclined to permit the tall, lean scout to quietly rejoin the group sitting around the campfire, Bogart continued. “Where the hell have you been while we was making the march back here?”

  “Mindin’ my own business,” Luke replied flatly. His dislike for the boisterous blowhard was already growing in direct proportion to the number of times he found himself in the bully’s presence. He figured that he had told Bogart and his sidekick, Sonny Pickens, what he was going to do when they had parted back at Two Moons’s village. Turning his attention to one of the other scouts, he asked, “Any chance there might be some coffee left in that pot?”

  “Sure,” Jake Bradley responded. “If you’ve got a cup, help yourself.” Jake was typically as easygoing a man as you would likely find in any camp, but he was not above egging Bogart on. It was apparent that Bogart had a bone in his craw when it came to the new man in the fringed buckskins, and he thought it might be entertaining to see how far Bogart might take it. No one knew much about Luke Sunday, so it might also be interesting to see if he would be buffaloed by the bigger man. It didn’t take long to find out.

  “Much obliged,” Luke said, and dumped his saddle on the ground. He took a minute to get his cup out of his saddlebag, then filled it from the pot resting in the coals of the fire. Settling himself off to one side of the fire, next to Jake, he pulled out a strip of the venison he had fire-cured several days before and started working on it. He happened to glance in Bill Bogart’s direction and had to wonder why the big man glared at him so hard. Indifferent to the blowhard, and seeking to avoid any unpleasantness, he chose not to meet his gaze. It was not enough to discourage Bogart. In fact, it served to further get his goat.

  “I’d like to know just where the hell you’ve been,” Bogart started. “You bragged about how you was gonna go back to that Sioux village and find out what happened to them two missin’ soldiers. Now you show up settin’ around our fire and chewin’ on deer meat. Looks to me like you just went huntin’.”

  “Don’t matter how it looks to you,” Luke replied calmly, determined to enjoy the first cup of coffee he had had in a while, but he had to set Bogart straight on one thing. “Like I told you before, that was Two Moons’s village, Cheyenne. They weren’t Sioux.”

  “The hell they weren’t!” Bogart blurted. “The colonel said they was—the general said they was—and I say they was. You callin’ me a liar?”

  Luke refused to rise to the bait for a few minutes longer, intent upon finishing his coffee. His hesitation was interpreted as weakness and served to encourage Bogart’s bluster. The stocky bully threw his head back and forced a loud chuckle. “You wouldn’t know one Injun from another’n if they was wearin’ signs.” He turned to his attentive audience then. “Well, boys, we’re lucky to be ridin’ with a genuine hero who was gonna charge into that Sioux camp and save some poor soldier boys. Only he musta run up on a deer instead. I hope the deer didn’t put up much of a fight.”

  Luke took the last bite of his venison, licked his fingers, and drank the last swallow of coffee before reacting to the taunts. “You’ve been ridin’ me pretty hard for some reason I can’t understand,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Now I expect it’s about time you got off my back, you loudmouthed son of a bitch.” His frank remark brought smiles of anticipation to the faces of the other men witnessing the potential altercation. It had the effect they had all anticipated.

  “What?” Bogart spewed, his face flushed, nearly matching the color of his beard. “Why, you yellow-bellied half-breed! You’ll answer for that!” He lunged to his feet, and those closest to him backed quickly away to give him room. Some there had seen him riled before in barroom fights and knew what to expect. When angry, Bogart was transformed into a raging bull, literally pawing the snow-covered ground with his feet, in preparation to charge. “By God, it’s time you was saddle-broke, and I’m fixin’ to ride your ass into the ground.”

  Of the half-dozen spectators to the pending whipping, all moved back away from the fire, save one. Luke continued to sit where he was. Although his eyes measured the bull about to attack him, there was no sign of emotion on his face, one way or the other. This was not the first time he had been threatened by a formidable adversary. He had faced down a grizzly bear and a wounded buffalo bull before, as well as mountain lions in the past. All were dangerous when fighting on their terms. He had survived before in contests such as this by not fighting on their terms.

  “Get on your feet,” Bogart commanded, his huge fists doubled.

  “Go to hell,” Luke replied calmly, still sitting by the fire. “I ain’t got time to fool with you.”

  “Why, you . . . ,” Bogart sputtered, astonished by the casual response. “Get up and fight like a man, or I’ll stomp your ass right where you sit.” When Luke still made no move to act, Bogart lost all vestiges of patience. In full fury, he charged the seated man, aiming to deliver a kick in Luke’s ribs with his heavy boot.

  Quick as a cat, Luke sprang to life, still by the fire, but up on his haunches now, crouching while the lumbering bull barreled toward him like a mindless cannonball. Still he waited until Bogart drew his foot back to deliver the blow intended to crack Luke’s ribs. As the boot was launched, Luke quickly sprang to the side, like a matador evading a bull’s rush. He grabbed the boot with both hands and yanked as hard as he could. Caught off balance, and standing on one leg, Bogart went down hard on his back, struggling to free his captured foot while Luke dragged him toward the fire. Realizing what was about to happen, Bogart kicked awkwardly at Luke with his free foot, but it was to no avail. Luke’s grip was too strong. Bogart roared out his rage as he was dragged across the campfire and was stopped in the middle of it, and held there long enough for the flames to catch his coat on fire.

  When Luke finally released his captive, Bogart rolled out of the fire, yelling in pain as he crawled off in the snow. Not content with the lesson administered, Luke grabbed a flaming branch from the fire and followed on the heels of the scrambling bully. Placing his foot in the middle of Bogart’s broad rear end, Luke flattened him on his face. When Bogart rolled over on his back to extinguish the flames eating his coat, Luke went to work with the burning branch. It was not heavy enough to do serious harm to the brute, being more the size of a stout whip, but it was enough to administer a sound whipping to the head and neck, leaving stinging smut-blackened stripes with every blow. When Bogart tried t
o roll away from the humiliating beating, he was kicked off his hands and knees to go down again to receive more from the whip. Stunned and confused, he finally lay still, facedown, with his arms wrapped around his head seeking protection from the blows.

  Luke tossed his switch aside and pulled his skinning knife from his belt. He grabbed Bogart by his hair and pulled his head back, the knife pressed against the big man’s forehead. Then he bent close to Bogart’s ear. “I didn’t ask for this, so this better be the end of it. If you come after me again, I will take your scalp.”

  If Bogart still retained the bluster to reply, he didn’t get the chance, because at that moment Captain Egan walked up to the scouts’ fire. “What in hell’s going on here?” Egan demanded.

  “Nothin’ much,” Jake Bradley quickly replied, “just a little horseplay goin’ on, is all—lettin’ off a little steam.”

  That was explanation enough for the captain. Since they were civilian scouts, and not enlisted men, he really didn’t care if they killed each other. When he moved closer to the fire, which was scattered somewhat by then, he recognized Luke Sunday. “Sunday,” he said, “you’re the man I’m looking for.” Again, all eyes turned to stare at the rangy scout. Egan continued. “I just wanted to tell you that was a helluva thing you did, going into that hostile camp and bringing Private Rivers out alive. He’s gonna lose his leg, but you saved his life—damn good work. It’s a shame about Foster, but there wasn’t anything you could do about that.”

  “No, sir,” Luke replied. “If I’da been a couple hours earlier, I might have.”

  Egan studied the serious face for a few moments, wondering if it was ever expressive. He decided not. With a shrug of his shoulders, he spun around to return to his tent. “Well, I just wanted to let you know somebody appreciates what you did at great danger to yourself.” With that he disappeared into the darkness of the parade ground, leaving a small group of chagrined scouts staring after him.

  No one said anything right away, and not for a few minutes after that. Not surprisingly, Jake Bradley was the first to speak. “Well, I reckon that pretty much settles where Mr. Sunday was for the last few days.” He glanced at Sonny Pickens and received a shrug in response.

  There was not much anyone could say when it was apparent how wrong they had been in judging the somber scout. Bogart sat in the snow, still dazed by the violent reaction of the man he had thought to teach a lesson, his heavy woolen coat still smoking from his encounter with the fire. Almost as stunned as he, Sonny Pickens walked over to stand next to him. “Well, Bogart, I reckon you taught him a helluva lesson,” he remarked facetiously while he threw a handful of snow on a small lingering flame near the big man’s shoulder. Feeling he had worn out his welcome, Luke picked up his saddle and left to seek out the Crow scouts he had ridden into Fort Laramie with.

  Still sitting in the snow, a trickle of blood making its way down into his beard, Bogart stared after the departing scout, mortified, his anger smoldering. “This thing ain’t over,” he muttered so low that only Sonny overheard him. “You’d best be mindful of your back, Injun lover.”

  * * *

  General Crook’s ill-fated campaign against the friendly Cheyenne village was enough to convince him that he would be better off waiting for spring before taking the field again. In spite of reports from Indian scouts in the weeks that followed, confirming what Luke had claimed, Crook never admitted his attack had been upon a peaceful Cheyenne camp. He maintained that he had raided Sitting Bull’s camp. With his decision to wait until spring to mount another campaign, when the new grass would sustain his horses, and the ground would thaw, he released most of the scouts he had signed on. The Crows, with whom Luke was encamped, decided to return to their village. He might have gone with them, had he not received an offer from Ben Clarke to stay on at Fetterman.

  The campfire incident with Bill Bogart, even after Captain Egan’s compliments, served to distance Luke even further from the other white scouts. His preference to camp with the Crow scouts fed fuel to the aura of mystery that surrounded the man.

  Ben Clarke was intrigued by the rangy white scout, however, so he asked him to stay on. Still needing the money, Luke accepted, in spite of his disgust for the attack waged against the friendly Cheyenne camp. There wasn’t a great deal for him to do while the army was encamped there, so he spent much of his time hunting, which saved him from having to survive on the army’s cooking. Since his skills with his rifle, as well as with a bow, were unsurpassed, he always had deer and antelope to share with anyone who wanted it. His biggest challenge then was how to battle the boredom of the hard-luck post that was Fort Fetterman. Unlike many of the soldiers, he felt no attraction to the “hog ranch” located near the fort with its questionable assortment of soiled doves, but it was the only place a man could get a drink of whiskey. And every once in a while Luke enjoyed a couple of shots of rye whiskey. It was on one of those raw wintry nights when he decided he would spend a little of his money to indulge in something to warm his belly.

  It was his first visit to the so-named hog ranch, so he paused at the door to look the crowded room over. His glance shifted from the bar, across the room, to the tables in the back where a few rough-looking women were surrounded by soldiers desperate for female companionship. Something caught his eye as his gaze skimmed by the tables, and he shifted it back again to recognize Bill Bogart and Sonny Pickens seated at a table in the corner. As was his usual manner, Bogart held court over a handful of soldiers and civilian scouts in his typical boisterous way. Thinking it the wiser thing to do, Luke started to turn around and leave his drinking to another time. On second thought, however, he decided he had a hankering for a drink of whiskey now, and there was no point in letting the possibility of a confrontation stand in his way. Bogart’s attention seemed to be pretty well occupied by the questionable pair of women seated at his table, so Luke made his way quietly over to the bar.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

  “If you’ve got any decent rye, I’ll take a shot of that,” Luke replied.

  “Well, I’ve got some rye,” the bartender responded, “but if it was decent, it wouldn’t be in a place like this, would it?”

  “Reckon not,” Luke said, “but I’ll try a shot of it, anyway.” He watched while the bartender took a shot glass from a tray of once-rinsed glasses and poured his drink. About to indulge, he stopped when the glass was inches away from his lips, interrupted by the booming voice from the back table.

  “Hey! Can’t no Injun buy liquor in here!” Bogart roared.

  Luke hesitated for only a second before tossing his whiskey back, and returning the glass to the bar. “I’ll have another one,” he pronounced calmly.

  Startled by Bogart’s outburst, the bartender took a closer look at the buckskin-clad scout as the barroom became suddenly quiet. “Hell, you ain’t no Injun, are you?” When Luke made no response, the bartender spoke in Bogart’s direction, “He ain’t no Injun.”

  “The hell he ain’t,” Bogart insisted loudly, “and Cheyenne at that. He ain’t got no business in here with white men.”

  Confused at this point, the bartender stood poised with the whiskey bottle suspended over Luke’s glass. “Pour it,” Luke said, his voice still calm, but spoken with quiet authority. He had still not looked in Bogart’s direction, but he heard the scraping of the big man’s chair as it was pushed back from the table. In spite of the warning he had given Bogart when the two of them had tangled before, he knew it was going to come to this eventually as long as they were both working as scouts. Undecided, the bartender seemed frozen with the bottle hovering over the empty glass, his eyes locked on the bull-like monster storming toward the bar. Luke reached out slowly to place his finger on the neck of the suspended bottle and pressed it gently down until the whiskey flowed out to fill his glass.

  “You ain’t gonna drink that in here!” Bogart fumed.
All the anger and humiliation that had built up in his gut was bound now for release. He grabbed for Luke’s arm.

  Luke easily avoided the attempt to grab him. “You’re right, I ain’t,” he said, and tossed the whiskey in Bogart’s face.

  Sputtering and swearing, Bogart took a step back, frantically trying to wipe the stinging liquid from his eyes with his shirtsleeves. “Come on, you Injun-lovin’ son of a bitch,” Bogart challenged. “I’ve got somethin’ to settle with you, and we might as well get to it—man to man, fists or knives.”

  “It ain’t hardly a fair fight,” one of the soldiers in the crowd gathered around the bar exclaimed. “He ain’t but about half your size, Bogart.”

  “That’s his tough luck,” Bogart replied. “He shoulda thought about that before he crossed me the first time. Now he’s got to pay up.” Turning back to Luke, he demanded, “Fists or knives? Choose one or the other. If you don’t, I’m gonna hammer you into the floor anyway, so you might as well get ready to take a whuppin’.”

  Remaining deadly calm during the inflamed bully’s ranting, Luke said, “Knives.”

  The bartender, having regained his wits, spoke up then. “Take your trouble outside. I don’t need my bar all tore up.”

  “Outside! Take it outside,” one of the soldiers directed. A sergeant, he was accustomed to ordering the enlisted men around. Equally accustomed, the crowd of soldiers took up his cry and pressed in around the two combatants, pushing them toward the door, everyone eager to see the fight. The sergeant quickly took it upon himself to referee. “It’s gonna be a fair fight, no guns, and each man with one knife.”