Nathan Stark, Army Scout

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Though Nathan often told himself the tribes were all alike, he knew better. Even the factions within the tribes themselves were different. He’d fought plenty of Indians in his lifetime. Had a reputation for being one of the best trackers and deadliest killers west of the Mississippi. And it was well-earned.

  Along the way, he’d picked up some knowledge that had stood him in good stead. Things that could help. He had the advantage as long as he knew his enemy and understood a few bits and pieces about the likenesses and the differences.

  “I don’t intend to die, Hotah,” the first boy said haughtily. “I only want to ride that beauty.” His voice turned hard. “I want to say I rode the horse of the Indian Killer. He’ll never know. Every time I look at him, I’ll have a secret laugh.”

  Nathan’s temper boiled over. He started forward then checked himself. The more he heard, the better he’d learn his enemies’ weaknesses. He waited, barely breathing.

  “Help me put the saddle on—”

  “Oh, you need a saddle? Why don’t you ride like our people, Matoskah?” The taunting tone was sure to do the trick.

  Nathan found himself feeling the challenge as surely as would the young man who was so determined to ride Buck.

  There was a silence, then, “I can do it. I will show you.”

  Nathan moved to the middle of the wide walkway and stood, not making a sound.

  The two boys rounded the corner, leading Buck from his stall. The first one almost smacked into Nathan’s silent, immovable form. He looked up in surprise, then fear crossed his features.

  Nathan grabbed him by the ill-fitting army-issue shirt he wore and ripped the reins from his fingers. He pushed the boy up against the wall of a nearby stall while the other boy let out a small cry and hunkered down against a couple bales of hay stacked beside a stall.

  “What in the cornbread hell do you think you’re doing, boy?” Nathan growled as he held the boy tightly.

  “Let me go!” The youngster had turned defiant, having let go of all his fear—or at least, having wiped his features clean of any sign of it.

  The room had lightened to the predawn gray that allowed Nathan to look into the boy’s eyes. Something in his own face must have urged the boy to speak to avoid any further rough handling.

  “I wanted to ride him once. I would never hurt him.”

  Nathan grunted, releasing the boy’s clothing. “Or ride away from here, either, I’m sure.”

  True confusion showed in the boy’s eyes. “Why would I do that? Here, at least I have food, shelter, and”—he put his hands out to his sides in self-mockery—“clothing, such as it is.”

  Nathan gave him a long look. The boy appeared to be telling the truth, but Nathan had learned enough about the redskins to know they were masters of deceit.

  “How are you called?” Nathan asked, more of a demand than a question.

  There was a moment of sullen silence before the boy responded. “My name is Matoskah. The whites call me Billy.” He fell silent once more and his taunting friend sniveled from behind Buck’s back legs at the hay bales. “Stop bawling, Hotah. You shame yourself.” Billy didn’t look away from Nathan as he spoke to his friend.

  If Nathan wasn’t mistaken, Billy would have liked to cower in a heap alongside Hotah only moments earlier. But the boy had recovered nicely and had channeled his fear to angry defiance.

  “Well, Billy, my name is Nathan Stark. But the redskins call me the Indian Killer.”

  The boy stared at him unflinchingly. “I’ve heard.”

  “I just rode in to Fort Randall late last night. Buck isn’t done resting yet. We’ve had a long, hard journey. So you turn your little butt around and put him right back where you found him, understand? And don’t touch him again. I’ll see to him myself.”

  The boy reached for the reins, his fingers touching Nathan’s for an instant. They both recoiled at the contact.

  “Boy.”

  Billy stopped, but didn’t turn back to face Nathan.

  “Not resting a horse properly is a kind of mistreatment. Might be hard for you to understand, but horses—especially one as faithful and loyal as Buck here—deserve the best care we can give them. Being allowed to rest, eat, and drink is part of that.”

  Finally, Billy made a slow about-face. “I was raised with these animals. I know how to see to their care—Indian Killer.” He spat the words hotly, then walked away, leading the horse to his stall.

  Hotah rose and followed, casting an apprehensive glance over his shoulder as he hurried away.

  Nathan waited a few seconds, looking around the stables in the lightening day, then walked down to Buck’s stall to be sure he had grain and water. He found a brush and began to rub the big buckskin down. He’d only given him a quick rubdown last night.

  After his meeting with Colonel Ledbetter, Nathan resolved to come back and do the job right. Buck deserved no less.

  Casting a quick glance around, he saw no sign of the Sioux boys. They’d probably decided to steer well clear of him, after he’d put the fear of God in them.

  He sighed heavily. The “Indian problem” had only gotten worse over the years, with no end in sight. Looked like fighting them had become his life’s work.

  It seemed his existence since the day of the raid had become nothing but hunting Indians, killing Indians, hating Indians—along with the determination he felt to find his sister. He owed that much to his dead mother and father, to find the cherished baby girl those renegade Pawnee had ridden off with.

  Reid had left to join the army several years earlier. If he hadn’t done that . . . if he had been home on that terrible day to help fight off the raiders . . . would it have made any difference? Nathan couldn’t say for sure that it would have, but there was always that chance.

  Jory, the youngest of the brothers, had been taken in by neighbors. Nathan had mixed feelings about that. He’d hated to leave Jory behind, but he couldn’t tote a seven-year-old boy all over hell’s half-acre while he searched for little Rena. And later, when he’d signed on with the Confederate Army to fight the damn Yankees . . . then after the war threw in with the bluebellies to fight the Indians . . . there was no way he could take care of a kid.

  He supposed the better thing might have been to send Jory to New York City, where Reid had established a law practice after leaving the army. Jory could have lived there with Reid and his wife, but the Thompsons, their neighbors, had nursed Jory back to health and then cared for him for years. Nathan knew none of them wanted to be parted.

  Circumstances had rolled over all the surviving members of the Stark family, molding them into what they were today . . . for better or worse.

  Nathan set the brush aside just as Cullen entered the stables.

  “Nate,” Cullen greeted as he entered, heading toward the stall next to where Nathan brushed Buck. “I was wonderin’ where you’d got off to.”

  “Just taking care of business before we head up to eat and go visit with Ledbetter,” Nathan said, turning back to his task.

  “Yeah . . . I’m gettin’ a real bad feelin’ about Ledbetter,” Cullen said grimly, giving the buckskin a pat as he passed by to the next stall. He picked up a nearby brush and began stroking his big bay.

  “Sorry you threw in with me this time?” Nathan gave him a quick grin.

  “No. You’re gonna need me to watch your back.”

  Nathan laughed. “Cullen, I’m willing to give him a chance. But we’ve both been in this man’s army from both sides—inside and out—long enough to know that where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” Cullen agreed with a dour look.

  Nathan nodded toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s go see if there’s any food left.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Colonel Wesley Stuart Ledbetter sat in his well-appointed office, tending to business at hand as he awaited his eight o’clock meeting with the new scout who’d been detailed to his command. Nathan Stark. Renowned killer o
f the red man . . . any and all red men, so the story went. Along with another scout he hadn’t expected—Cullen Jefferson.

  He didn’t intend to see them together. For Jefferson to have the gumption to presume he would be welcomed, as well, was a bit brassy. No. He would interview them separately.

  Ledbetter’s aide, Corporal Winston Cahill, stood nearby, should the colonel need anything.

  Ledbetter’s mind wasn’t on army business. He was already thinking about how to best handle Nathan Stark when he arrived in ten minutes.

  And he better by damn be on time ...

  Once more, he glanced over Stark’s dossier. Impressive, he had to admit, but why a man with Stark’s talents wasn’t in the ranks of the regular army was a mystery. Could it be he was too independent? Too much of an unreconstructed rebel? Didn’t follow instructions well?

  It was obvious to the colonel Nathan’s traveling companion certainly didn’t understand following commands. He wasn’t even supposed to be there!

  Ledbetter frowned. There were several ways to handle “problem” men, both in the ranks and outside those boundaries, and he wasn’t above using whatever means necessary to bring about compliance in any recalcitrant soldier—or civilian.

  Stark’s hatred of and subsequent one-man war against Indians of any stripe was understandable—parents murdered, pregnant wife executed, and baby sister stolen. Younger brother wounded and unconscious for several weeks. Stark, himself, wounded and hovering near death for days on end . . .

  That kind of loss could stir up a powerful hatred and need for vengeance in a man, for sure.

  Ledbetter had not asked for Stark, but his superior, General Howard Sterling, had told him he needed Stark and was going to get him. That rankled. He didn’t like having the scout shoved down his throat.

  Especially one who seemed to be used to doing exactly as he pleased—obeying his own dictates and no one else’s. And bringing along another defiant problem with him, in the person of the other scout, Cullen Jefferson.

  Still, Stark had some admirable badges of merit. He had not yet given up the search for his little sister who’d been taken in the raid that had killed so many. He had earned praise from several of the officers under whom he had served. He had fought alongside General George Armstrong Custer at the Battle of the Washita down in Indian Territory.

  Word was that Stark knew every nook and cranny of Indian Territory—and why shouldn’t he, having been born and raised near there? But even so, he was a formidable master of the land east of the Mississippi, including not only Indian Territory, but everything south and west of there into Texas and New Mexico and Arizona Territories, and north, into Kansas, Nebraska, and the Dakota Territory.

  Ledbetter had to admit, he was somewhat in awe. He’d never excelled at geography, and though he had a high opinion of his own intellectual prowess, in his heart he knew he would never be able to learn the nuances and features of such a wide expanse of land. Committing it to memory as Stark had done would prove a virtual impossibility for Ledbetter.

  No matter. There was plenty else he was good at.

  A sudden rapping at the door brought Ledbetter out of his reverie. He nodded to Corporal Cahill, who walked to the door and pulled it open.

  Cahill stepped aside, allowed the new scouts to enter, then asked, “Who shall I say is calling?” His eyes conveyed the ridiculousness of such a request that he could not allow into his tone.

  Nathan looked at him, surprised. “Uh ... Nathan Stark. Civilian scout.” He played along, glancing at the man seated at the desk. The stripes on his sleeves told Nathan this was, indeed, a colonel—and most likely Ledbetter—but he waited for a formal introduction as indicated by the aide’s demeanor. He glanced at Cullen, who was already looking disgusted by the whole display.

  “Captain Stark, may I present to you Colonel Wesley Stuart Ledbetter.” With a flourish, the aide gestured with open palm to where Ledbetter was seated.

  “I don’t believe I caught your name,” Nathan said pointedly to the aide. It irked him that Ledbetter treated the man as his servant rather than with the respect due a soldier of any rank.

  “Uh—” The aide looked toward Ledbetter.

  Nathan put a hand out to the aide, and the man automatically took it and shook. Nathan gave him a questioning look.

  “Corporal Cahill, sir. Corporal Winston Cahill. Aide to Colonel Ledbetter.”

  “Good to meet you, Corporal Cahill.” Nathan stepped farther into the office toward Ledbetter’s desk. “And this is my partner, Cullen Jefferson. Civilian scout, as well.”

  The rotund colonel rose from his seat, a look of surprise and anger mingling in his florid features.

  Nathan ignored the expression, giving him a tight smile as he extended his hand.

  After a brief hesitation, Ledbetter took Nathan’s hand in a brief, limp shake that left Nathan feeling like he wanted to wipe his palm clean.

  Ledbetter’s look had hardened to one of severity. Nathan could hold his own. His father had been the headmaster at an all girls’ school in Tennessee. Then, when they’d come west to Kansas, he’d opened a school of his own—and he had not spared the rod with any of his students; certainly not with his own children. If anything, he’d chosen to make examples of them.

  Ledbetter shook Cullen’s hand dismissively. “I will interview you later, Mr. Jefferson. You’re free to go for now.”

  “Oh, by all means,” Cullen answered mockingly. “I can see we’re gonna get along right well. Just open the door and beller when ya need me, sir.” The door slammed behind him as he went out.

  Nathan managed not to grin, but his attitude changed as he turned his attention back to Ledbetter and said coolly, “Colonel, good to meet you.”

  “Likewise, I’m sure.”

  The game was on. Neither of them meant a word of their greeting. Nathan was there because it was his job to be there. Colonel Ledbetter obviously felt the same. A cloud of animosity already hung over them.

  “Please, sit down,” the colonel invited.

  Trying to keep his reluctance hidden, Nathan sat in the plush cowhide chair the colonel indicated.

  “Welcome to Fort Randall, Mr. Stark.”

  Nathan noticed the colonel’s intentional use of his civilian title rather than the military one he’d earned. Though Ledbetter was correct in his usage, among military personnel and out of respect for having served, civilian scouts who were former military officers were usually addressed by their previous rank.

  Nathan didn’t miss the vengeful gleam of satisfaction in Ledbetter’s eyes. He wouldn’t take the bait . . . yet. “Thank you, Colonel.”

  “You have quite the reputation,” Ledbetter said.

  Nathan shrugged. “I’m glad to be of service wherever the Army sends me.”

  Ledbetter smirked at the insinuation. “Could be worse, Stark. You might be in Texas . . . or back in Indian Territory—godforsaken hole that it is.”

  Nathan gave an easy chuckle. “As compared to where, Colonel? This heavenly stretch of land the Sioux are hell-bent to hang on to?”

  “At least we have a river here!”

  Nathan only smiled at the colonel’s pricked pride. “So you do.” His superior look let Ledbetter know he could give him a geography lesson if he chose . . . but he wouldn’t waste his time.

  Ledbetter sighed. “It seems we’ve somehow gotten off on the wrong foot, Captain.”

  Nathan nodded. “I’m just here to do my job, Colonel. Don’t know how long I’ll be here, but while I am, we’d better both make the best of it, I reckon.”

  “We both want the same thing.” Ledbetter pushed his spectacles up on his nose. “We have to hold this fort. We have to quell the Sioux. They’re always ready to fight, and trouble is on the way with the western factions as well as the central bands.”

  “Why do you let those orphans stay here, Colonel?” Nathan asked, abruptly changing the subject.

  Ledbetter shot him a look over the top of his glasses.
“That’s four less of the red bastards I have to worry about.”

  Nathan shook his head. “No. You’re wrong. Once an Indian, always an Indian.”

  “They can be assimilated, as President Jackson decreed so many years past.”

  “That will never happen, Colonel.”

  Ledbetter regarded Nathan in silence then said, “At least that’s one thing we agree on. I don’t believe it, either . . . but we have to try. You may think what you will of me, Stark, but those boys were left behind as youngsters. They would’ve died out there if we’d not taken them in.”

  “They serve a usefulness, I suppose,” Nathan said in a neutral tone. “Frees up your men from taking care of their own horses.”

  “It gives those boys purpose.” Ledbetter glared at Nathan. “I suppose you, being the great Indian hunter that you are, would’ve let them starve or die of exposure. Are you that heartless, Stark? They were very young children.”

  After a moment, Nathan shook his head. He’d let Black Sun live, and he was much older than the orphans had been when Ledbetter had taken them in.

  “I don’t know what I’d ’ve done, Colonel. Just seems a shame to give them a home—however humble it may be—only to see them turn on you and possibly kill you in your sleep”—he broke off and shrugged—“but I don’t know what I’d have done in your place.”

  “At least you’re honest.”

  “Yes. I am. I don’t want those boys around my horse while I’m here, Colonel. I’ll see to him myself.”

  Ledbetter nodded. “Duly noted.”

  “You didn’t want to see me to discuss this. Do you have specific orders for me?”

  Ledbetter shook his head. “Not yet, Stark. It’s been a while since you were up this way, has it not? Why don’t you take a day or two to get settled in, reacquaint yourself with the lay of the land.”

  Nathan gave a short laugh. “I remember it well, Colonel. Rivers and all. But you’re right. It has been a couple years since I was up this way. And I appreciate the reprieve. Cullen and I could both use a day off.” Nathan rose, as did Ledbetter.