And another was not asleep or deceived two days later, when Broken Wing Bird, under pretext of gathering the medicinal leaf and inner bark of the red-willow, left camp at dawn with her basket—again running west along the river. White Deer nearly broke her wind attempting to follow; and soon fell hopelessly behind. She plumped her weight down like a fresh hide packed with butchered meat. The flies swarmed, anxious to feed; she swatted bloody handfuls and waited through the day, hidden in the brush along the path, sorely bitten for her trouble. But her long agony was duly rewarded when the lovers finally appeared on Cloud Walker; she observed their parting embrace as Broken Wing Bird slipped to the ground. Returning to camp, White Deer followed at a distance, her heart throbbing in triumph.
That night she told Black Hand of what she had seen.
“Hobapa!” he growled, “Shut up!” Too proud to listen. “What do I care if a dog pisses on my tent. Look at my moccasins!” He held up a worn pair. “And the stew pot almost empty. I will starve and go barefoot, while you spy on my daughter and spread shameful lies. Hobapa! Better a dog pissed on you!”
XVI. “Captain Jack” Muldarrin
Over a thousand hills beneath the broad sky, Caspion rode through the end of summer, across the Canadian, Washita, south to the Red, and turning north, eventually followed Wolf Creek east towards Camp Supply, a military outpost located at the creek’s juncture with the North Canadian. In contrast to this vast epical parchment creased but seldom by a river or stream’s sparse tapestry, the lush growth surrounding Camp Supply, now viewed in the distance, resembled a lone oasis—a welcome repose in the land’s long journey. There, in proof to its name, he expected to procure supplies. Though meat could be had along the trail, his rations of coffee, salt, and sugar were nearly gone. Sugar particularly; and while his own and Two-Jacks’ craving had hardly slackened, the mule’s need of sweet inducement grew steadily as the supply diminished, as if it were building a surplus against future want. But there was another, greater urge that drew him. Since the night he’d danced the Man-Bull and broke the fever in his ragged soul, he longed again for human attachment; though in a manner and form as yet unnamed. Something wholly different from what he’d known, of that he was determined.
Word along the Arkansas had it that the garrison at Camp Supply was presently commanded by Lt. Col. J.T. Muldarrin, which could be none other than Jack Thomas Muldarrin—or “Captain Jack” as they fondly tagged the young officer who led their company through the final year of the war. Irish Catholic from Boston, he was seven years Caspion’s senior—which would put him in his mid-thirties—and slightly taller. As Caspion recalled, he had light brown curly hair with a pronounced widow’s peak, a full beard, and large hazel eyes that he directed intently on whomever he addressed, not to dominate as so many commanders attempt, rather his gaze put one at ease, always warmly aware and attentive to others. A quiet, well-mannered, highly intelligent man. An officer esteemed by all his men, and by Caspion foremost. He neither patronized nor held himself aloof. Though he was certainly conscious of rank and could firmly compel men as required, rank was never his sole authority. He commanded by virtue of his own example. Men treated with respect, return the same; and when commanded with honor and good-humor, they are inclined to follow even as the black guitar plucks its deadly notes all about them. An officer who never had a man shot or hanged at sunrise with drums rolling and breathless ranks looking on; who led his men into battle wagering his own life alongside theirs—that was “Captain Jack.”
No commander, by nature of his position, should form friendships with men of the ranks; but there are bridges in the human soul crossed despite custom, duty, or cherished conceits. For Jack Muldarrin, Jim Caspion was ever the grand exception; no doubt the Colonel would recall his former Sergeant. Caspion had been the company sharp-shooter, acrobat, and song-wizard, not to mention the center of every extravagant adventure that arose. His feats of daring to spend a night with a lovely lass while the others suffered bivouac were legendary. But the rake possessed an active mind as well, which the former student of theology enjoyed tutoring; and the two men shared another bond, one justly ignorant of rank and origin—music. While Muldarrin’s taste and training tended towards the refined, he could fiddle tolerably well. But when the tune turned Irish, all form and restraint fled before the resurgent Celtic soul, a savage blood never fully tamed by Holy Sacrament.
Camp Supply lay no more than three miles distant like a faint mirage, a portion of the stockade—the southwest lunette—barely discernible through the governing heat. Caspion followed a path worn by deer, antelope, and other game descending from the prairie to water from the stream. Nearer the fort, the cloven tracks were erased by iron-shod hooves of cavalry that routinely patrolled the region. Before crossing the stream, Caspion dismounted to let the horse and mule drink. He hefted a fallen limb and hurled it like a spear. Boon awaited the finger-snap then dashed to fetch; splashing through the shallows, he plunged into the pool with his nose pointed toward the crude javelin stuck in the opposite bank; he snatched it in his jaws and promptly returned. As Caspion grasped the limb, Boon shook off a brilliant spray.
“Why you ornery cuss,” he laughed, face drenched, “you did that on purpose.”
All but certain of wolf-dog’s motive, he threw the limb once more. That morning he’d called Boon off a skunk, fearing it was rabid like so many that season. Moreover, the scent that enraged wolf-dog was equally unwelcome to man, so Caspion had acted with unusual severity, grabbed his fur and yanked him back. But Boon reacted in kind and clamped the restraining hand in his jaws, breaking the skin as he held firm in growled warning. Caspion eyed the skunk poised at ten feet and calmly reassured wolf-dog while carefully looping the rawhide thong around his neck. Boon gradually eased his hold, the wild relenting to the steady hand, let Caspion cinch the knot and lead him away. And he had trailed several miles in consequence, firmly tethered before he was freed. Man meant to remind wolf-dog who was dominant in the pack.
Caspion knelt to retrieve the limb and again was drenched in spray.
“Alright, that does it,” he said, wiping his face. “I preserve you from a frightful death and for-certain horrid stink, and I’m waylaid twice for my trouble. Game’s over, fella.” He cast the limb aside and mounted up.
As they rode from the shaded stream towards the hill beyond, a mounted patrol appeared, numbering twenty-odd men. The sound of a hundred hooves beating the dust soon descended their way.
Caspion reined in Two-Jacks, signaled Boon to sit, and calmly awaited the envoy. The double column slowed to a canter at fifty feet and shortly halted on command. The officer in charge squared his shoulders, touched his hat brim in brief acknowledgement then folded his gloved hands on the pommel of his saddle. An earnest looking young lieutenant, thin-limbed with reddish-blonde hair and a faint mustache perhaps visible if he drank a thick beverage, who couldn’t have been more than five or six years younger than Caspion; but by experience, still a boy, who looked all of sixteen. A true innocent, and would likely remain so until hazard and chance had dealt him a proper measure of understanding. He seemed anxious for his first lesson.
“Second Lieutenant Nathan Hastings,” he announced with clipped precision, “of the Tenth Cavalry attached to the Third Infantry garrisoned at Camp Supply, located…,” he paused for breath, taking stock of the surrounding terrain, “located approximately two and a half miles northwest of our present position.”
Caspion merely nodded, casually rubbed his saber scar and waited.
The Lieutenant carefully scrutinized him: black hair swept down to his shoulders, mustache trimmed and face shaved that morning, hat pulled low to shaded blue eyes, a buckskin shirt worn to blend with the prairie, and moccasins laced to the knee; the only weapons visible were the knife sheathed at his belt and the Henry in its scabbard; a guitar bulged in a canvas bag tied back of the cantle; the mule was lightly loaded—no sign of contraband. The wolf-dog, well-trained, hadn’t stirred; and the horse
was obviously a runner, even to a novice’s eye.
The Lieutenant braced himself, took a deep breath and continued: “This is Indian Territory and therefore restricted. I request that you state your name and purpose here.”
The wind stirred the dust in the waiting silence.
“Caspion’s my name,” he slowly answered. “I’m traveling.”
“That’s it? Your full name?”
“Functions well enough. I answer to it.”
“Mr. Caspion,” the Lieutenant grew indignant, “this Territory of late has suffered from a plague of horse thieves, whiskey dealers, gun-runners, and other unsavory types operating illegally out of Kansas, Arkansas, and Missouri. Under whose authority are you traveling?”
“Well now, Lieutenant,” Caspion warmed to his answer with a broad smile, “as is often the case in a free country, I travel under my own authority.”
Several troopers snickered and one guffawed.
“Silence!” the Lieutenant barked, while yet another spat a wad of blackened disdain onto the shadow cast by the young martinet and his horse. The men grew impatient with the rigmarole; the horses chomped their bits and stomped at flies, their nostrils distended as they gazed towards the stream—hot and halted just shy of water, their disgruntlement matched the men’s and said: Damn this talk!
“You refuse to state the precise nature of your business?”
“Not at all, Lieutenant,” Caspion doffed his hat slightly then set it to the back of his head. “I might enlarge on the matter for your gratification. Possibly, I’m a minstrel, lost in his travels, in need of a night’s lodging and a meal. Or perhaps a jester in search of a sullen king. Or a crazed villain”—his eyes enlivened his meaning—“escaped from the mad house. Or a performer…retired from the circus. Boon!” So prompted, wolf-dog stood ready. And when Caspion slapped his right hand to his chest, Boon leapt, clearing Two-Jacks withers to the amazement of all watching, including the Lieutenant. Caspion neatly smoothed his mustache with his forefinger. “Or could be I’m the devil’s cousin, come to bedevil, eh? But whatever I am, Lieutenant Hastings, I can assure you I am not part of any plague…black, bubonic, or otherwise. Nor do I carry the pox, cholera, French or any disease known to me. And the only thing hidden about my person are the pests and vermin common to the lot of us. Quite simply, Lieutenant, I have been some months on the range, traveling. And my business is entirely my own.”
“If that’s your statement…”—the Lieutenant glanced back briefly to silence the men’s amusement—“I must ask you to accompany us to Camp Supply. And if you fail to explain the nature of your business to my commander’s satisfaction…I promise, you will be granted armed escort forthwith north to Kansas.”
“Sounds mighty fine, Lieutenant. I’d fancy a parley with Captain Jack…or more precisely”—and though he smiled, his words fell on his listener like chance and hazard mixed—“Lieutenant Colonel Jack Thomas Muldarrin.”
“You know the Colonel?” Lieutenant Hastings squirmed in question.
“You ask my business, Lieutenant. Frankly, I have none. I come to visit an old friend out of pleasure and courtesy. A man whom I had the honor of serving with in the late War Between the States. Now, Lieutenant Hastings, you may lead the way if you wish, and I will gladly follow. Seems only fitting that the cavalry should escort a weary veteran of the infantry.” But Caspion, ever the grand exception, tarried not; set Boon to point, set his heals and headed out. The chastened Lieutenant wisely let his troops water their mounts before drawing up the rear.
Over the grounds immediately south of the stockade, a score of “dog” tents were pitched in orderly fashion reminiscent of Caspion’s war years; the white canvas billowed in the breeze, echoing the strict harmony of rank, drill, discipline, tact, and decorum. Old Glory—the Stars and Stripes—whipped atop a pole of rough-hewn cedar. He passed a platoon that halted, marking time—”Left Face! Pray-sent Harms!”—the cadence called as drums and bugle sounded their sweet music to his ears; sweeter yet, for he was no longer subject to their command. A herd of oxen, mules, and horses grazed on the adjacent plain west, watched over by several mounted men. A quarter mile east along the river, a bull-whacker cracked his whip and whistled, turning his yoked team straining under a wagonload of wood.
The fort occupied a space roughly two hundred foot square. Palisades planted shoulder to shoulder deep in the ground and standing fifteen foot high comprised all four sides. Towering lunettes guarded the northeast and southwest approaches. Cabins lining the north wall of the enclosure housed administration and officer quarters, armory and supply; stables, granary, and smithy were all to the east; there was a good well near the center flagpole. And just visible beyond the northwestern perimeter stood the forked poles of several tepees where the scouts, mostly Kaw and mixed bloods, lived with their Indian wives. In case of attack the two hundred man contingent along with the greater portion of their stock could seek safety within the rugged cantonment.
Ostensibly, the army’s mission was benign: to administer the territories, facilitate supply and annuity to the various agencies and Indians; and to hold White settlement at bay and thus keep the peace. But in effect it acted to contain the Indian while the buffalo were decimated and the land occupied.
Caspion took in the stoic function of the surrounding scene, like night and day compared to what he’d witnessed in the riotous growth of Dodge City—the crazed throng tearing through its own afterbirth. Here, all seemed so orderly and purposeful; strange that exemplar means could serve such rude ends as war, desolation, and death. Only a quick-step from the parade ground to the battlefield. And his face wore this ironic fixation as he dismounted and walked alongside the Lieutenant towards the tall officer conferring with three others standing beneath the awning of the western-most cabin.
The Lieutenant stepped up and briskly saluted to make his report. But he’d hardly begun when his commander glanced to Caspion. The hazel eyes squinted momentarily then widened with an amazed smile.
“My God,” he announced as the Lieutenant fell silent, “it’s Caspion. Sergeant Jim Caspion. Why…,” then silent himself as if he’d named a ghost—the eyes so deeply blue, intent and spectral.
“Good to see you, sir,” Caspion said, presenting his hand which the other warmly clasped. Introductions were made all around.
“Tonight, gentlemen,” the Colonel declared to his fellow officers, “you will have the signal honor of dining with one of the bravest men to ever wear the blue.”
Caspion lowered his eyes, his panache failing him an instant before the praise which from any other he would have resented as a cheap play of words. But hearing this from “Captain Jack” caught him off guard and he could not answer. Colonel Muldarrin, noting his sudden discomfort, turned to the young officer.
“Lieutenant Hastings, uh…sorry to cut you short. But this is a special occasion. Cause for jubilee. I have several requests. We’ll need a bottle of wine…no, make that two of Port, one Madeira, and a Beaujolais put on ice for this evening. Have Caspion’s gear taken to my quarters. Prepare him a bath and have new clothes laid out. And see that his animals are well cared for. That will be all, Lieutenant.” Then addressing the other three officers: “Gentlemen, you will excuse us”—he put his arm over Caspion’s shoulder and led him away.
“Sorry if I embarrassed you,” he said once they were firmly distanced, “but I meant every word.”
“No sir, it’s…”
“And you needn’t call me sir…you know that.”
Caspion turned to face him, and Muldarrin felt the blue gaze harden.
“No, but it’s my privilege and it’s your due, dammit. You’re the one man I will call sir. And we both know who the brave ones were and where they lie.”
“I beg to differ, Caspion,” the other graciously countered, pleased to renew their old polemics. “Not all of them fell. But you’re the one man I least expected to find still among the living.”
“Same here, Captain,” he
smiled; “Always pleased to see the light of day.”
“But what unfathomable notion brought you here?”
“Something damned uncanny, sir…I swear.” Caspion reverted to the raconteur. “A whirlwind or dust devil, or a raging series of each, hurled me into the midst of the Llano. For months I’d wandered lost over the prairie, when all of a sudden, descending from a higher realm like an angel of light, Second Lieutenant Nathan Hastings of such and such cavalry attached to your fine infantry…”—both now laughing—“found me approximately two and a half miles southwest of our present location.”
“Young Hastings,” Muldarrin shook his head knowingly; “Wet behind the ears, but a good lad. I wager you had some fun with him…and trust you didn’t cuff him too harshly.”
“No, Captain. Just a quick slap to wake him up.”
“I’m afraid he’ll need more than a slap. They’re always anxious for their first fight. And it’s usually a rude awakening.” But shying from serious thought for now, Muldarrin glanced down at Boon. “What wild beast is this?” he asked.
“That’s my shadow, sir…turned wolf. His name is Boon. My boon companion.”
“A handsome fellow,” Muldarrin allowed, but doubted it wise to touch. “Did I see a guitar tied back of your saddle?”
“That you did.”
“And do you still pack that Henry?”
“That I do.”
“Has your aim held true?”
“Yessir. Fast’n fancy.” Caspion winked.
Muldarrin chuckled—knew this bluff confidence likely understated the fact.
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 18
