Nathan Stark, Army Scout

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Jefferson has no orders.”

  Nathan’s smile faded. “He will, Colonel. Or we’ll both be moving on.”

  Starting for the door, Nathan almost tripped over Corporal Cahill who rushed to get to it first. Nathan’s hand collided with Cahill’s arm as they reached for the knob at the same time.

  “Sorry,” mumbled the aide.

  Nathan couldn’t keep the pity from his expression. “I’ll get it, Corporal,” he murmured. He couldn’t wait to take that first deep breath of fresh air.

  CHAPTER 8

  Nathan closed the door behind him, stepped down off the porch, and collided with a bundle of fury headed straight for Colonel Ledbetter’s office. He managed to grab the petite woman who had run headlong into him and keep her from falling.

  She looked up at him, her green eyes spitting fire.

  Her expression changed as recognition dawned, warming her beautiful eyes and bringing a smile of unabashed delight to her lips. “Nate! Oh, my goodness.”

  “Delia? What in blue blazes are you doing here?” He realized his hands were still on her waist where he had steadied her, and that really wasn’t proper . . . but he didn’t get in a hurry to remove them.

  “Is that any way to greet a lady?” she teased, hugging him close to her.

  After a moment, he moved his hands to her shoulders and held her away from him, looking her up and down. In a cool mint-colored day dress that set off the emerald green of her eyes, she was a pure vision. Her auburn hair was done up on top of her head, and Nathan swore she didn’t look a day past eighteen.

  But he knew better.

  Cordelia Blaine was closer to thirty, but she’d taken care of herself. Her face showed no sign of lines, though Nathan knew she’d had her share of worries and sorrow. She’d buried two children—a girl, dead of summer complaint at six months of age, and a boy at three years, of measles.

  Delia was married to Stephen Blaine, a young officer who had been assigned to Fort Sill at the same time as Nathan. From there, Stephen had been sent to Fort Morgan in Colorado. And a few months later, Nathan had been reassigned to Fort Riley in Kansas, to help quell the Ponca and Pawnee unrest. Several years had passed since then, and Nathan hadn’t seen Stephen Blaine or his lovely redheaded wife in that time.

  As Delia stood looking at him, he shook his head to clear the cobwebs. “No, it’s not. No way to greet a lady, for sure.” He grinned at her. “You’re looking as beautiful as ever, Mrs. Blaine.” He wouldn’t have been so informal with her a moment earlier if he hadn’t been so surprised to see her.

  “And you’re ever the gentleman,” Delia responded graciously, according to her upbringing.

  Though she’d been born to Irish immigrant parents who had settled in Kentucky, her father had made a fortune with his eye for premium horseflesh and the spectacular horses he raised. And, Delia had mentioned once, from his equally fine Irish whiskey business that was every bit as lucrative as his horse farm.

  “So Stephen is living the high life here under Colonel Ledbetter’s reign, I take it?”

  Delia shook her head and looked away “You couldn’t have known. Stephen was killed by the Sioux, Nate. He’s been gone two years now, come August.”

  Nathan took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, Delia. My deepest condolences. I had no idea. We’d lost track of each other.”

  She gave him a bittersweet smile. “He considered you a friend, always. We often spoke of you with fond memories.”

  “Delia, I feel badly I didn’t know—”

  “I should’ve written. Or sent a telegram . . .” Her voice trailed away.

  Nathan shook his head and told her, “You probably couldn’t have located me. Scouts are sent all over the place.”

  She smiled up at him. “Well, I’m certainly glad you’re here now. Come for supper tonight. I’ve learned to cook a mean shepherd’s pie over the years. And I actually have some fresh bison.”

  Nathan had taken quite a few meals with the Blaines while they were all at Fort Sill. It was true that Delia hadn’t been much of a cook in those days . . . but a woman who looked like her didn’t have to be. A part of him—a small part, since there wasn’t much room for anything else besides the hatred and the desire for revenge he felt—had envied Stephen Blaine.

  “I’d love to, but I don’t want to put you out,” he said. “Looks like you are a woman with a purpose right now.”

  “Before Stephen was killed, I’d begun to teach school. There are many of the families with children who benefit from going to school. I have a bit of education.” She winked, and he was reminded that she had gone to one of the finest girls’ academies for the best education her father’s money could buy.

  “I know you’re good at what you do, Delia. No one loves children more than you—” He broke off, realization at his own unintentionally hurtful words hitting him like a blow.

  She laid a hand on his arm in quick forgiveness. “It’s all right. Nate. I do love children, even though my own were taken from me. You spoke the truth, nothing more.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the door he’d just come out of. “Need help in there?”

  She grinned. “Not one bit. The colonel knows to hide under his desk when I come through the door.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “He’s ordered my schoolhouse to be designated to store the extra rations and munitions! Why, there’s no way on this earth I’d allow those children to literally sit on top of a powder keg. We’d all be nervous wrecks.” She shook her head. “No, sir. We will not stand for this!”

  “Well, let me get out of the way. I don’t want to stop progress.” He quickly stepped aside.

  “Shall we eat at, say, six-thirty? Seven?” She was back in good humor once more, saving her anger for the colonel.

  “Six-thirty all right? I haven’t had a good shepherd’s pie in I don’t know how long. I’m sure looking forward to it.”

  “Oh, Nate, it’s so good to see you again. My little house is at the end, next to the church.” She pointed toward the opposite end of the street. “It’s the one on the right side. Where the flowers are growing in the window box. I made that myself so I could keep my flowers out of the direct sunlight.”

  “They’re mighty pretty, Delia.” He tipped his hat. “I’ll see you at six-thirty.”

  “Come hungry!” She breezed up the steps and knocked on the door.

  “I will,” Nathan answered, starting down the street again. He felt the slightest twinge of pity for Ledbetter. Delia had her Irish up.

  * * *

  “Well, ain’t that sweet,” Sergeant Seamus McCall muttered as he watched Nathan walk away from the woman half the men at the fort had in mind to woo, with Seamus leading the pack.

  Delia Blaine was a beauty . . . well-born and a fine lady. Would she have him? Of course she would! Seamus was a prize in his own right. At least, in his own mind. He’d not yet declared his intentions to her, but by God, he wasn’t going to stand by and let her be snapped up right out from under him, like a trout snapped up a choice minnow for his dinner.

  Miss Delia was the only woman he had set his sights on. After her husband had been killed nearly two years past, Seamus had thought to give her time to grieve—and to miss having a man about the house—before he spoke up for her.

  And here was this rough-and-tumble scout trying to step in and claim her! Dinner at the Widow Blaine’s house? That should be Seamus McCall having dinner with the red-haired beauty—not the newly-arrived ex-Reb-officer-turned-scout!

  Seamus stepped in front of Nathan. “I saw you speaking with the Widow Blaine just now.”

  The scout stopped and gave McCall an appraising stare. “That’s right. We’re old friends.”

  “Seamus McCall. Sergeant McCall.” He extended a hand, and after a moment, Nathan took it firmly.

  “Nathan Stark. I just rode in last night.”

  “I heard. Glad to have you—long as you understand the Widow Blaine is off limi
ts.”

  Nathan slowly reached to push his hat back, his gaze hard as he studied this Sergeant Seamus McCall. “What makes you think that, McCall?”

  “I don’t think it, laddie; I know it. At least half the men in this company are moonin’ after Miss Delia. The other half are married. None of us would take too kindly to you waltzin’ in and tryin’ to court her. You understand?”

  Nathan stared at him a moment, then burst out laughing.

  “I don’t see nothin’ funny about it, Stark,” Seamus snarled, his temper boiling and making his face turn even redder than it usually was from the fierce Dakota Territory sun. “You best stop yer laughin’ and heed my words.”

  “Or what?” Nathan challenged, still chuckling.

  “I’ll ... I’ll beat ya to a bloody pulp, that’s what!” Seamus stepped back, putting his fists up.

  “Now wait a minute, McCall. I told you Miss Delia is just an old friend of mine—”

  “Oh, not good enough for you to court and marry, eh?”

  “If I was looking for a wife—”

  “Oh, and now you’re too good for any woman. Well, ye sidewindin’ yellow belly, take that!”

  Nathan was ready for the punch when Seamus delivered it. He blocked the burly Irishman’s clumsy haymaker and delivered a blow of his own, only to realize that the man’s gut must be made of steel, rather than flesh and bone.

  He followed the punch with a second. His first thought hadn’t been incorrect. Instead of sinking in, his fist practically bounced off McCall’s midsection.

  And then, there was no more time for thought—only pure survival instinct, as McCall came at him with a vengeance and every ounce of strength he possessed.

  CHAPTER 9

  Nathan matched the man in height and muscle strength, but fighting McCall was like engaging in hand-to-hand combat with a full-grown grizzly bear. The sergeant had surprising speed for such a burly individual. He got the first punch in, a slamming left to the jaw that staggered Nathan. While he was off balance, McCall hit him with a right that caught him on the forehead and opened a cut.

  Nathan felt warm blood running from the wound. The sensation sent rage coursing through him. A red haze seemed to drop over his vision. It came not from the blood but rather from the anger that filled him.

  Nathan went after McCall, no holds barred. If he planned to survive, it was going to be necessary to use every trick in the book. And Nathan hadn’t lived that long to be defeated by a human mountain of brawn.

  He feinted with his right, and when McCall bit on it, Nathan stepped in and landed a couple swift left jabs to the sergeant’s face. The punches rocked McCall’s head back and Nathan realized the man’s face was a better target than his belly. He sent in a right that scraped McCall’s left cheekbone, but in return he took a punishing blow to the sternum that left him unable to catch his breath for a second. He hunched his shoulders, covered up, and absorbed a couple punches that didn’t do much damage to his lean, rawhide-tough form.

  When McCall launched a roundhouse right, though, Nathan ducked under it. That blow would have taken his head off if it had landed. While he had the chance, he tried another punch to McCall’s belly, but with the same lack of success. He backed off as McCall recovered his balance from the missed haymaker.

  Through the blood running from the cut above his eye, Nathan’s glance caught the audience of soldiers of every rank who’d stopped what they were doing to watch the battle raging between the two men. Some of them shouted encouragement to McCall, since Nathan was an outsider as far as they were concerned.

  McCall lumbered at him again like a runaway locomotive. Nathan sidestepped quickly, giving McCall a shove to launch him forward into the dirt. Just then, a pistol shot sounded nearby, followed by the shouting of an officer as McCall clambered up.

  “Sergeant McCall!” someone bellowed. “Cease and desist! ”

  Nathan stood ready to continue the fight, but he saw no reason for them to keep pummeling each other until both fell to the ground in bloody exhaustion. McCall evidently didn’t feel the same way. Like a maddened bull, he charged at Nathan yet again, running full bore, his face a mask of fury.

  The gun sounded again.

  “Sergeant, the next one will be right through your thick Irish skull!”

  McCall wasn’t even trying to cover up anymore, just attacking blindly.

  Nathan couldn’t turn his attention away from the crazed Irishman for a second. To do so would be suicidal. Bracing himself, he threw a straight right into the man’s nose, smashing it with an audible crack. The impact slowed McCall down long enough for three soldiers to tackle him to the ground and hold him while a fourth man cuffed his wrists behind his back. Then they hauled him to his feet.

  “I’ll kill the lot o’ ye! I’ll kill ye in yer sleep! Sorry bastards, the lot o’ ye!” McCall shouted as they wrestled him toward the brig. His ranting faded as the soldiers forced him away.

  “Stark!” Ledbetter barked from his front stoop. He was the one who had fired the shots and he held a revolver in his hand, pointed at the ground. “Are you all right?”

  Before Nathan could respond, Delia moved past the colonel and hurried toward him, her eyes flooded with concern.

  “I’m fine—” Nathan began quietly to Delia, not looking at Ledbetter.

  “No, you are not,” she interjected firmly. “You’re bleeding, Nate, and—”

  “Nothing the doc can’t fix quick enough.”

  Just then, a soldier carrying a medical bag strode up to join them. “Get on over to my place and let’s get you seen to,” the man said briskly to Nathan.

  “Where?” Nathan was breathing hard, trying to catch his breath. If nothing else, he wanted to get the bleeding stopped. It seemed to be pouring buckets down his face.

  “Here, I’ll—” Delia began.

  But the doctor cut her off. “Don’t get your hands all bloody, Mrs. Blaine. I’ll walk him over to the infirmary myself. I haven’t met our new scout . . . yet.”

  * * *

  “I’m Doctor Isaac Lightner.” He was a slender man with graying brown hair and brown eyes that seemed to have seen everything, good and bad, the world had to offer. Experience had made him appear somewhat older than he actually was. “I will shake your hand once we get you cleaned up,” he added, putting his hand out in an indication for Nathan to lie on his examination table.

  Nathan grimaced. “I’m all right, Doc.”

  Lightner frowned at him. “Oh? That’s your diagnosis? When did you go to medical school? And where?”

  Nathan grinned faintly, wincing at the twinge of a swollen lip. He didn’t remember McCall hitting him in the mouth, but obviously the sergeant had caught him there with at least a glancing blow.

  Nathan climbed up on the table and lay down gingerly. The doctor unbuttoned Nate’s shirt and efficiently gathered the supplies he’d need, laying them out on the instrument table. He first began to wash the blood from Nathan’s face, neck, and hands.

  “McCall is a troublemaker,” Lightner stated. “You’re not the first man he’s gone after for some slight, real or imagined. Just so you know, this wasn’t your fault.”

  Nathan didn’t respond. He sucked in a deep breath as the doctor probed for broken ribs. When Lightner nodded in satisfaction, relief washed through Nathan. He couldn’t afford to be laid up with broken ribs from a ridiculous, unnecessary fight.

  He was there to scout for Ledbetter. In his orders, he’d been told that he was to help find a way to deal with the various Sioux groups and clans. He understood the way their society was set up, but for years, unrest had simmered among them, always on the verge of boiling over.

  He reviewed what he knew. The eastern Sioux—Santee, were most commonly called the Dakota, with four main bands. Collectively, they were known as the Isanti—or Knife Makers. They were at Fort Randall’s back door, and would be the faction Nathan, Cullen, and the soldiers would have the most dealings with.

  The central Si
oux were the smallest, known as the Yankton, or Nakota, and consisted of only two bands. The Nakota were known as the Keepers of the Sacred Pipestone.

  The western Sioux, or Teton, were by far the largest division with seven bands. They were called commonly the Lakota, also known as the Dwellers on the Plains.

  Together, the Oceti Sakowin, or Seven Council Fires, comprised the entire Great Plains tribal system. But the bands in each of the three main divisions all spoke their own distinct dialects and were dealt with differently.

  The western division had occupied the lands west of the nearby Missouri River, but they’d later migrated to settle the lands of what they called the Pahá Sápa—the Black Hills.

  The Yankton, the middle division, occupied the northwestern portion of Minnesota and eastern Dakota Territory.

  Nathan was brought back to his current situation as the doctor cast a skeptical eye at the cut on Nathan’s forehead and said, “That shouldn’t need stitches, but I’ll bandage it now that the bleeding’s stopped. Try not to get hit in the head again for a while.”

  “I’ll give it my best effort, Doc,” Nathan said dryly.

  Lightner bound up the cut, then the rough-healing gash on Nathan’s right arm caught his eye. “What happened here?” He turned to prepare a swab to clean the wound properly.

  “I ran into a couple Muscogee along the way.”

  Lightner raised an eyebrow. “Looks like you more than ’ran into’ them, Mr. Stark—or do you prefer to be called by your previous rank?”

  Nathan smiled. “I prefer Nathan, Doc. With friends, that is.”

  The doctor returned his smile. “Good enough, then, Nathan. Now, what happened here? And let me remind you, anything you tell me is strictly confidential. This may be nothing but a frontier wilderness post, but there are a few of us who adhere to the conventions of society and the professionalism that we hope to show as an example to others.”

  Nathan shot him a look as the doctor began to salve the cut and wrap it with clean bandaging. “Who are we talking about, Doc? Ledbetter?”

  Lightner shook his head. “That would be unprofessional of me, wouldn’t it, Nathan? Speaking out of turn about the esteemed supreme leader of our band of brave soldiers?”