by R. W. Stone
“When I got back up, another samurai stepped in and gave me the come-on sign. Not ganging up on me, mind ya, just practicing. Well, I dusted off my pride and went to tackle this fellow.”
“I can see this one coming. You already taught me this one,” I guessed
“Yep. Quicker than you know, he flips me over his hip, and there I am right on my back again. Now I’m pissed, so I stood up, brought my dukes up again, and gave the next one the same come-and-get-it gesture.”
I chuckled because I could imagine what was coming.
The sergeant continued: “So I made sure my stance was right and flexed my arms, and then the man kicked me in the head. So help me, he was facing me less than a foot or so away when he kicked me on the right side of my face with his right foot. Think about it, the right side of my face with his right foot. The kick was some sort of outside-inward dipsy-doodle. Hell, I don’t think he even raised his hand.”
“Did you get in any good ones?” Alec asked.
“Good ones?” Sarge replied. “I never laid a hand on any of them. That kick put me down like a rock. After that I spent as much time as I could getting my ass kicked until I learned to do it as good as they could.”
“Maybe even a little better,” I observed.
The sergeant grinned. “Maybe.”
Chapter Sixteen
The following morning I was again astride my Appaloosa with the mule tied behind. His pack had been restocked with supplies, but I left the chestnut mare behind in the corral. She would serve nicely later as breeding stock for our small but growing herd.
“I should be going with you on this one, Badger,” Sarge commented.
“I need you here to run the place,” I remarked truthfully. “Besides, I like what you’ve done with the broken door latch. And it only took you two months.”
“Very funny. Seriously, this one could get messy.”
“All I intend to do is ride to the fort and give them some advice, just like you suggested, Sarge.”
“Sure,” he replied. It sounded to me like he didn’t believe that for one minute.
“All right, Alec,” I said to the soldier to my left. “Let’s move it out.”
Lobo had returned to the house sometime during the night and at the moment was occupied with a rather large bone. What was left of it looked to me like it might have been from a large ram or elk. I whistled, pointed out the gate, and we took off at a lope.
“Big dog,” the corporal commented after a while. “Or is he a wolf?”
“A little of both,” I said as we rode on.
“You sure he won’t bite me?” he asked nervously.
“Nah, he won’t bite ya,” I said. Alec looked relieved. “He’ll just swallow you whole.”
The soldier shook his head. “Very funny, but I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
“He’s a pretty good judge of character,” I advised. “Just don’t make any fast moves toward me, and he’ll leave you alone. Oh, and remember that whatever you do, don’t say the word G-U-N, out loud,” I added.
“And that would be because?” the corporal asked.
“When he was a puppy, or cub if you prefer, I taught him to attack on command. G-U-N is the attack command. Unless you want to end up as his lunch, I’d avoid the word when he’s around.”
Corporal Daniels gulped. “Really? And just how’d you teach him that?”
“Well, over the years I’ve learned that dogs prefer consistency and repetition. Hell, if you don’t train them, they’ll end up training you.”
“Guess so. Makes sense, now that you mention it.”
“So you do your training regularly and always the same way. Make it fun, and they catch on quick,” I said.
“That’s all?”
“’Course not. You also got to take advantage of their natural behavior.”
“In what way?” he asked.
“Well, for instance, if a puppy sits down on his own, you say … ‘Sit.’ Similarly, if he runs to you all by his lonesome, you say … ‘Come.’ He begins to associate the word with the action. Then you begin putting him on a rope and pull while saying … ‘Come.’ Then you reward him for performing the action with a piece of chicken or something. Dog doesn’t come, he doesn’t get a reward. He’ll get the idea right quick.”
“Purty clever, I’d say.”
I shook my head. “Just common sense.”
“So what about the attack word? How’d you do that?”
I thought my answer over for a moment. “Well, there’s some folks what believe in hitting and hollering at pups all the time, but I don’t cotton to that way of training.”
“No?”
I shook my head. “Nope, I don’t beat on my animals. No need if ya know what you’re doing. I started out with Lobo by playing tug of war with ropes or whatever sticks he fancied. Then I moved up to things like ham hocks. Or I’d get a big branch and wrap it in burlap so it looked like an arm and tie the end to a you-know-what.” I made a pistol gesture with my hand.
“Oh, I get it. So he thinks it’s play when he’s biting on things. That’s how he learns to hang on when you pull back, right?”
“Right. I even had Sarge running around with his arm wrapped in layers of cotton and burlap sacks. Lobo bit so hard, Sarge couldn’t lift a coffee mug for a week with his right arm. Even after wearing all that padding.”
I looked down at Lobo and pointed. “Go hunt.” The big animal took off at a lope and was quickly out of sight.
“Don’t you worry he’ll lose us or vice-versa?”
I shook my head. “Was at first, but he’s never failed to return yet. Has a really powerful sense of smell, I guess. Or maybe it’s some sort of wolf instinct. He may be gone for days on end, but he always returns. Every time.”
“Remarkable,” the corporal said.
“I don’t know.” I smiled. “Maybe he just gets lonely for the horse.”
We rode on for a while before Corporal Daniels piped up again. “So, you and the Sarge go back a ways?”
I looked over at him. “You ask too many questions, Alec.” Maybe it was a little harsh since it was obvious the corporal meant no harm. It’s just that I was used to riding alone and liked to keep my eyes and ears open while on the trail, especially in the territory. You stay alive that way. Surest way to get bushwhacked is to jabber away all the time instead of paying attention to detail.
The soldier looked dejected, and after a short time, I felt a mite guilty. “Look, Corporal, it’s just that for most of my life, I’ve ridden solo. I’ve kept my scalp by listening more than palavering. Hell, even when I was in the army, I usually rode point instead of hanging back with the troop.”
“Makes sense. But Injuns don’t hardly give us any problems anymore. Not since the Custer slaughter. Ain’t many of them around these parts that act up much.”
I sighed. “So who robbed the train? Who kidnapped them folks?”
Corporal Daniels looked over at me. “Oh, I see what you mean.”
I didn’t see myself as this boy’s teacher, but the corporal needed some schooling. I remembered that I hadn’t been born trail wise, either. Oh, sure, I’d learned some in my early years, but during the war the Sarge had helped further educate me to the way of things.
“Give ya an example,” I offered. “What sort of possible … let’s say, worrisome things … have you noticed in the last three hours?”
“Not much,” he replied. “We missed a couple of prairie dog holes the horses might have stepped in, I guess.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “So soon after the war, and it’s a wonder the army can still march a mile without shooting itself in the foot.” I reined the Appaloosa and came to a stop.
“All right, look around. Concentrate. What do you see?” I asked.
The corporal took his time. “Noth
ing to worry me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry.”
My eyes rolled up. “See that tree over there? See the grizzly fur on it from where it rubbed. Might come back on us if it’s hungry enough. Or how about over there … down to your right.” I pointed. “See the hole? Might be a rattlesnake somewhere near. Hell, at a distance I’m blind as a bat, but even I can see sun reflections. There’s something shiny over on the hill there, off to the left.”
“Damn. I never noticed that,” Corporal Daniels said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Wait, there’s that reflection again. I see what you’re talking about now.”
I took out my scope and looked up at the bluff.
“Trouble?” the corporal asked anxiously.
I took my time before answering. “Doesn’t appear to be. Looks like a couple of prospectors or maybe trappers trailing a couple of pack mules.”
The corporal relaxed. “So we’re all right.”
I looked at him. “That’s precisely my point. We’re never all right. Leastwise, I ain’t. Not until I’m home, that is.”
The soldier nodded. “I get ya now. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize so much. Sarge says it’s a sign of weakness.”
I nudged the Appaloosa, and we rode on. It couldn’t have been five minutes before Alec opened up again.
“Mind if I ask you something?”
I dropped my head in exasperation. He would never learn. “What now?” I growled.
“Well, I was wondering. I heard tell you was a bounty kill—um … a bounty hunter.”
“And?”
“Well, I was just wondering if it’s true and, if so, why you do it. I mean, after seeing your ranch, it seems to me if I had a nice spread like that, I’d want to stay on it. No offense meant.”
“That so?” I asked, annoyed.
“Well?”
I considered my reply. “Look, Alec, I really don’t have a full answer for you. Something keeps drawing me back. Something seems …” I searched for the right word. “Unsettled. I go back to working the ranch with Sarge, but in spite of how great it feels to build something with my own hands, sooner or later something or someone comes along and off I go.”
“Don’t it bother ya to kill a man like that?” he asked.
Frustrated, I looked over at him. “With the exception I’m about to make with a snot-nosed corporal, I never did in a man who wasn’t guilty of a major crime and never without giving him a chance to surrender.”
“’Nuff said,” the corporal replied timidly. “Still, all and all, it’s a tough way to live.”
“Oh, and riding in the cavalry is a walk in the park with a bouquet of roses. Remember, I’ve been there and done it.”
“Right. Got it.”
It took us five days of hard riding to get to Fort David A. Russell. My ears were ringing from all the noise I had to endure the whole way there.
Chapter Seventeen
The fort was located just outside of Cheyenne. It was named after the General David Allen Russell who was killed at the Battle of Opequon during the Civil War. Units of the Thirtieth Infantry under Colonel John D. Stevenson started work on the fort around 1867 in order to protect workers of the Union Pacific Railroad. In September of that year, Company H of the Second Cavalry rode in formally to establish the fort and to take charge.
Fort D. A. Russell didn’t have the large stockade gates you usually found on army forts in the West, because there had been no hostile activities from the local tribes at the time it had been built. With its usual effectiveness, the government decided to build the most impressive fort they could with the cheapest materials and the most economic labor. That meant using its own soldiers as craftsmen for the tidy sum of thirty-five cents a day.
Some of the buildings for the fort were even prefabricated in Chicago and then shipped in. The majority of the structures were made of planed boards and battens, which is a mud mixture used to fill in the cracks. I had it on good authority the barracks were still drafty in the fall and more often than not in winter were colder than a general’s heart.
The officers’ quarters were usually about a story and a half and were built as doubles. They averaged about five rooms to a unit. Inside, there would be a parlor, dining room, and kitchen on the first floor and two bedrooms on the second.
Corporal Daniels and I rode across the rather large drill field and over to the post’s livery stable. Once we’d put up our horses, the corporal accompanied me over to the major’s office.
“I appreciate your help, Alec, but I can handle it from here,” I said gratefully.
“If you decide to go after those robbers and need help, I’d like to ride with you,” he offered eagerly.
I shook my head. “You’ve been in the army long enough to know never to volunteer for anything. Besides, I work alone. No offense. You know how it is.”
“None taken.”
“And, Alec,” I added, “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on Lobo while we’re still here. He tends to attract trouble like honey does a fly.”
“No problem,” Corporal Daniels replied. “We’ve become surprisingly good friends.”
“So I noticed. But be careful, anyway. Anything happens … remember, I told ya so.”
“You watch your back … Badger,” he said somewhat apprehensively, as if using my nickname was taking too much for granted.
“You, too, Corporal. I’ll look for you later this evening.” I threw him a sloppy salute, turned, and entered the major’s office.
Inside, there was an orderly sitting at a rather small desk facing the major’s door. Or perhaps the orderly was too big for the desk. I began to wonder if the physical standards for the whole army had been altered.
“May I help you?” the orderly asked.
“I’m here to see the major,” I replied. I handed him my letter. “I’m here at his request.
The orderly, a staff sergeant, glanced at the letter. “Please wait a moment while I let him know you’re here.”
“No problem.”
The orderly disappeared for a few moments, giving me time to look around the anteroom. There was not much in it to attract attention, except for a framed newspaper article hanging on the far wall. I stepped closer and started to read.
St. Charles Daily Gazette
August 29th, 1864
St. Charles, Illinois – One of our local citizens has been cited for bravery for his actions during the Peninsular Campaign with the Eighth Illinois Cavalry. As our readers are aware, the Eighth Illinois was mustered into the Army of the Potomac in September 1861 under the command of Colonel John F. Farnsworth. After their first major battle at Williamsburg, the Eighth cavalry was constantly in the advance vanguard of the Union army.
On June 26th, 1861, six companies of the Eighth Illinois Cavalry met the advance of the Rebel army under the now famous Confederate General Thomas Jonathan “Stonewall” Jackson at Mechanicsville, Virginia. The gallant Illinois troopers held the line from the early morning until three o’clock in the afternoon, at which time they were ordered to retire.
During this action a young Captain Fred Parks was leading his men on horseback when he noticed a group of Union soldiers retreating from a Rebel charge. Captain Parks realized that their line of retreat led across a narrow stone bridge that was in immediate danger of being overrun by enemy troops. In spite of orders to the contrary, Captain Parks ordered his men to dismount, to advance, and to protect the bridge.
At this point during this engagement, Captain Parks’ men ran toward a shallow ravine at the base of the bridge. A Union ambulance was next seen galloping toward the bridge under enemy fire. The volleys from Rebel sharpshooters on the other side were intense, and several of the captain’s brave troopers fell dead.
Apparently a few Union soldiers next started to retreat when Captain Parks, in complete di
sregard for his own personal safety, suddenly stood up and drew his saber. Sticking his sword through the crown of his hat and waving it aloft as a signal to his men, he was heard to shout: “We can’t abandon our own men. Follow me, boys! Onward! Let’s protect that ambulance!”
Encouraged by their leader and inspired by his gallantry, the Union men charged, retook the bridge, and saved the ambulance from destruction. Colonel Farnsworth later rode up with his entourage and, after listening to a brief explanation of the circumstances, noticed that Captain Parks had been wounded in the shoulder.
The colonel quickly ordered that the captain be removed to the rear of the Federal lines where prompt medical attention was rendered.
On the 5th of August of 1864, Captain Fred Parks was awarded the army’s highest commendation, the Medal of Honor. This commendation is now the nation’s highest medal for valor in combat that can be awarded to members of the armed forces. The medal was first authorized in 1861 for navy personnel and marines and the following year for army soldiers as well.
Present at the ceremony were the captain’s family and the presiding officer, General Alfred Pleasonton. In addition, the mayor of St. Charles, Illinois, and the editor of this Gazette were in attendance. The town of St. Charles is most proud to be Captain Parks’ hometown.
There was no doubt in my mind that the major would be a most impressive man. By now everyone knows that particular medal is not given out lightly.
“Enter,” a voice ordered.
The sergeant opened the door for me, and I walked into the major’s office.
“I’m Kershaw, Major. You sent for me?”
There was a small carved wooden nameplate on the desk that read simply: Major Fred Parks.
The major rose and extended a hand in greeting. He was tall, firmly built, and stood erect, as if he had a board strapped to his backside. The major had a fair amount of hair for a man of his age, but it was graying around the edges. His handshake was firm and I suspect was a little stronger than usual, probably offered in an attempt to size men up in a hurry.
