Oushata Massacre Read online

  “Excuse me, sir. Might I have a word with you?”

  Marcus looked up to see Private Shield standing at attention in the aisle of the car. With a night’s sleep sitting up in one of the hard-wooden seats, the effect of the alcohol had worn off.

  “At ease, Shield,” Marcus said. He sighed. “I suppose now that you have sobered up, you have come to regret your haste of yesterday, and you want me to do something about it? I’m not sure anything can be done to get you out of the Army, but I’ll see what I can find out for you when we reach Fort Reynolds.”

  “No, sir, that’s not what I want to talk about,” Shield said.

  “Yes, Private?”

  “I wasn’t so drunk that I don’t remember you trying to help me yesterday,” Shield said. “And for that, I thank you. But I want to tell you that even now, in my sobered state, this is what I want.”

  “Are you sure, Shield? Being a horse soldier on the western frontier isn’t like being a student at Yale University. It isn’t even like being a cadet at West Point. It’s nothing like the life you are leaving behind.”

  “That is my earnest desire, sir,” Shield said. “You see, I want nothing of the life I’ve left behind, nor anything to remind me of it.” “And so you are using the Army to escape?” “Is that so new, sir?” Shield asked. “I’ve read that the Army is a haven for society’s outcasts and runaways. Thieves, extortioners, bigamists, even murderers I’m told, have fled their past by donning army blue.”

  “Too true, I regret to say.”

  “And some, I’ve read, have made very good soldiers.”

  “Yes,” Marcus said. Though he had not been in the Army long enough to speak of that from personal experience, he had heard of such things. “Which are you, Shield?”

  “I am neither thief, bigamist, nor murderer,” Shield said. “But I do have compelling reasons for wishing to start a new life. I was faced with the dilemma of forfeiting either my honor or my soul.”

  Marcus held up his hand. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to,” he said. “In the Army, we take a man at face value.”

  “Thank you,” Shield replied. “But I do want to tell you this ... I feel you are a man I can trust.”

  “All right,” Marcus said.

  “I was engaged to be married,” Shield said. He smiled sadly. “In fact, we were to have been married . . . this very afternoon. But yesterday morning I found the woman I was to marry—and her lover—in a most compromising position. I’m sure that pride and manly honor dictated that I call out her lover and kill him. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t do that, you see, because her lover is my own brother.” Marcus looked at the young man and saw the pain in his eyes. The young lieutenant had never known a woman’s love and had, in fact, taken a private oath while still at West Point to let the Army be his only mistress. Marcus’s mother had died when he was a small boy. His father, a judge from Michigan, had used his influence to secure an appointment to the academy, but had died during his son’s first year. Marcus was alone now, but he had no sense of being lonely. He had a family . . . the largest family a man could possibly want. His family was the United States Army. Perhaps it could do the same thing for William R. Shield.

  “Shield, I need an acting corporal for the duration of this trip,” Marcus said. “Would you assume that responsibility?”

  Shield smiled, then came to attention. “I would be most honored,” he said.

  “Lieutenant Cavanaugh?”

  Marcus opened his eyes. It had been a long and tiring trip, and for ten days he had tried to find some way to make the seat more comfortable. That he was asleep was more a testimony to his exhaustion than to any degree of success. “Yes?”

  “We’re coming into Cheyenne Wells,” Shield said. I believe you said that was where we would detrain.”

  Marcus sat up and rubbed his eyes, then looked out through the window at the now- familiar plains of eastern Colorado.

  “Yes,” he said. “This is where we get off. Are the men ready?”

  “Yes, sir.” Shield smiled. “If you ask me, they’re more than anxious to get off. What happens next?”

  Marcus shaped his hat, then put it on his head. He looked up at Shield and smiled. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But don’t tell the men that. I wouldn’t want them to ever think their lieutenant isn’t sure about everything.”

  Shield laughed, as much in appreciation of being let in on the secret as the joke.

  “I sent a telegram from Junction City,” Marcus went on. “My hope is that they have made some arrangement for transporting us from Cheyenne Wells to the fort.”

  As they detrained, Marcus saw three Army wagons, with drivers and escorts, waiting at the depot platform. A young, black-haired, blue-eyed second lieutenant, his face dusted with freckles, came up to Marcus and saluted. As Marcus was also only a second lieutenant, the action took him by surprise. The young officer was a complete stranger to him.

  “I am Second Lieutenant John Culpepper, sir, here with the transport and escort for your platoon,” the young man said.

  “At ease, Lieutenant,” Marcus said, returning his salute. “We’re the same rank.”

  “No, sir. You rank me by six weeks, sir,” Culpepper said. “Whereas you graduated from West Point in June, I received a direct appointment from the secretary of war in August. After a short wait for my orders, I was posted to Fort Reynolds in your absence.” Marcus smiled broadly and shook the young man’s hand. “Well, I must say I’m glad to see you,” he said. “Not only because you’ve brought our transportation, but also, because I will no longer be the junior officer on post.” “Yes, sir, I thought that would make you happy.”

  “Come on, Culpepper. Let’s save the formal address for the fort.”

  “Captain Forsyth said you were a decent fellow,” Culpepper said. “But you never can tell how it’s going to be when you meet someone with the kind of reputation you have.” “Reputation?” Marcus asked, puzzled by the remark. “What do you mean, ‘reputation’?”

  “Well, you know, hero and all that.”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea of what you are talking about.”

  “You don’t? Why, it’s all over Fort Reynolds . . . no, it’s all over Colorado, how you organized the men on the stagecoach to fight off Two Eagles and thirty warriors.”

  Marcus shook his head. “There were never more than ten or twelve,” he said. “And, though I wouldn’t know Two Eagles if I saw him, I would be willing to bet he wasn’t one of them.”

  “That’s not what it says in the newspapers.” “The newspapers!”

  “You bet. You’ve been written about in every newspaper out here. You’re a hero, Cavanaugh. A real hero.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers,” Marcus said. “Now, what are your orders?”

  “My orders are to bring the transport and escort detail to Cheyenne Wells and present myself to you for further instructions.”

  “Very well,” Marcus said. “Let’s get the men loaded and out of here before they discover that every other building in this entire town is a saloon.”

  The fort band was turned out to welcome Cavanaugh and the new recruits. Marcus, who was riding one of the horses, hurried back to the wagons to make certain each man was sitting at attention as they entered the post. Captain Forsyth was standing under the flagpole, and Marcus led the group over to him, halted them, then reported.

  “Lieutenant Cavanaugh returning with recruits as ordered, sir,” he barked, snapping a salute. Forsyth, in addition to being the third-ranking man on the post, was also Cavanaugh’s company commander.

  “Well done, Lieutenant, well done,” Forsyth said. “You can turn the men over to the sergeants here. I’m sure they’ll take good care of them. Then, if you would, the colonel asks that we join him for a drink at the sutler’s.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said. A couple of sergeants arrived then and took charge of the men to show them to the barrac
ks and the stables. Their official training would start tomorrow, with Marcus in charge.

  Marcus followed Captain Forsyth over to the sutler’s store. The sutler’s store, in addition to acting as a general store, was also, in rooms segregated for officers and enlisted, a place for the men to go for relaxation.

  The sutler extended credit, protected by the fact that it would be deducted from the pay of the enlisted men. Officers, on the other hand, were allowed to run up personal tabs as a privilege of rank independent of their monthly pay.

  “Hail, the conquering hero returns,” Pettibone said. There was just a trace of sarcasm in his voice, enough to make Marcus somewhat uneasy.

  “I would hardly consider myself a hero, Colonel Pettibone, let alone a conquering hero.”

  “Oh? Well, that isn’t the way I read it,” Pettibone said. “You’ve been in every paper between here and the Mississippi River. Some of the papers, I hear, are calling on the governor of Colorado to appoint you a colonel in the Colorado Militia. I wouldn’t be surprised if the good citizens didn’t petition to have you take command of all military forces within the Colorado borders.”

  “Colonel, I don’t understand all of this,” Marcus said. “We were attacked by a small war party. ...”

  “Small?” Pettibone asked. “You mean it wasn’t the entire Cheyenne nation?”

  “No, sir. It was no more than ten or twelve.” “To your six. Still a heroic action.”

  “We were well armed, sir. The Cheyenne were not.”

  “Yes, well, nevertheless, you did perform admirably, and for that, you have my congratulations.” Pettibone held up his glass. “I drink a toast to you, Lieutenant, and to your successful trip. You did get thirty new men?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Tomorrow you will begin their training. Oh, and I will expect that training to include Lieutenant Culpepper as well. Unlike you, Mr. Culpepper has not had the privilege of West Point. His commission came by political appointment. With the disgrace his father brought upon himself, I can hardly see how young Culpepper was able to find anyone to sponsor his cause.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Surely you have heard of his father, Lieutenant? General Henry Lee Culpepper? And his grandfather, General Ambrose Culpepper?”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said. “I studied the tactics of the elder at the academy. I did not realize Lieutenant Culpepper was related.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised. Henry Lee Culpepper gave up his commission to become a general for Robert E. Lee. I do not understand why West Point would bother to teach the tactics of the father of a traitor.”

  “Surely you remember tactics classes, Colonel. We study all brilliant military leaders, without regard to politics, from Caesar and Atilla the Hun to Napoleon and General Lafayette.”

  “Yes, well, now is your chance to turn the tables,” Pettibone said. “You studied Culpepper, now a Culpepper will study you.” Pettibone stood quickly, and Marcus and Forsyth stood with him. “Please, gentlemen, please,” he said. “Stay and enjoy your drink. I have work to do.”

  Both officers stood until Pettibone was gone, then, at Forsyth’s invitation, Marcus sat down again. Forsyth chuckled.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “My boy, you made a primary mistake,” Forsyth said. “You allowed yourself to become better known than your commander.”

  “Believe me, Captain, it wasn’t my doing,” Marcus said.

  “Oh, I believe you. But the truth is, your action did bring credit upon the Army and Pettibone knows it. And as much as he is jealous that it is Marcus Cavanaugh and not Andrew Pettibone who is getting all the credit, he is also aware that the publicity is good for the Army. And for all his faults, he is Army enough to accept that. For the present, at least.”

  “I’d give anything if it hadn’t happened,” Marcus said.

  “I’m glad it did happen,” Forsyth said, and this time there was a more serious expression on his face. He took a swallow of his beer. “Marcus, we’re sitting on a powder keg out here. Two Eagles is going to come busting out of his reservation sometime soon, and when he does he’s going to have every buck between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains with him. It’s good to know that I have someone I can count on.”

  “Captain, that was the first time in my life I had ever been under fire,” Marcus said. “If you are looking to me for experience, I’m afraid I’ve none to offer.”

  “Lieutenant, the fact that it was your first time and you handled it as well as you did speaks very well for you. Experience be damned. It doesn’t mean a thing unless there is courage and common sense to go with it. No, sir, Pettibone might be peeved at your little heroic episode, but not I. I’ve no doubt but that you will do very well when it comes down to it. And the young lad, Culpepper, as well. Of course, I’ve nothing to base that on except his breeding, but I’ve always been a believer that bloodlines will tell.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said.

  Forsyth finished his beer, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Now, if we could only count on Major Conklin,” he said.

  Marcus looked over toward the executive officer who, sitting at the last table in the room, was already into his cups. It had been whispered, even at the academy, that one of the most severe problems facing the Army today was the alcoholism of its officers. Conklin, overage in grade and probably destined to remain there forever, was one such officer. He seldom drew a sober breath as he waited patiently for his years of service to go by so he could be pensioned out.

  “He was a good man once,” Forsyth said. He sighed. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “I wish I had known him then,” Marcus said. This was awkward for him. Conklin was still his superior officer, even if he was a drunk, and he felt uncomfortable talking about him in such a way.

  “Oh, did I tell you? Missouri Joe will be coming to the fort next month,” Forsyth said.

  Marcus smiled. “So, at long last I get to meet the illustrious Mr. Missouri Joe, the best scout in the Army.”

  “Well, according to Missouri Joe he’s the best,” Forsyth said, then he laughed. “The thing is, he’s probably right.”

  3

  “Boy, what you a standin’ there for? Move outta my way, else I’ll set my squaw onto you.” “I’m sorry, sir, this is U.S. goverment oats.” “That’s all right, boy, I’m a U.S. government scout.”

  Marcus had been working with the new recruits for one month now and was at the rear of the stable watching them going through equipment drill when he heard the conversation between the guard and someone at the front of the barn. When he looked around to see what was going on, he saw one of the new men holding a rifle at port arms, trying to protect the platoon’s store of oats from two civilians. One was a tall, scarecrow- thin man with long white hair and a full, white beard, and the other was the biggest and the ugliest Indian woman Marcus had ever seen. The woman was scowling at the young soldier, who was staring nervously back at her. When the man, who was dressed in buckskin, saw Marcus, he spit a wad of tobacco out before he talked.

  “Lieutenant, best you tell this here boy who I am.” He squinted at Marcus. “That is, if you know who I am. Don’t believe you was around when I left last spring.”

  “No, sir, I had not yet arrived. It’s all right, Barnes,” Marcus said to the young soldier. “Unless I miss my guess, this is Missouri Joe.” “Well, now, you’d be pretty smart for a shavetail,” the scout said.

  “I’ll accept that as a compliment.”

  “Yes, well, you should. That there is how I meant it. Now, do you mind if I take the pack offen the mule an’ turn it into the stable?” “No, go ahead,” Marcus invited.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Barnes offered, and the young recruit walked over to the mule, then began straining with the pack.

  Missouri Joe chuckled. “Somethin’ wrong, boy?” he asked.
r />   “No, sir. It’s just a little too heavy for one man, is all.”

  “Moon Cow Woman,” Missouri Joe said. She grunted what might have been an acknowledgment, then walked over and lifted the cargo pack from the back of the mule, handling it as easily as if she were removing a buffalo robe. Barnes looked on with his eyes wide in wonder.

  “What would be your name, boy?” Missouri Joe asked, turning his attention back to Marcus.

  “I am Lieutenant Cavanaugh.”

  The Indian woman looked around, her face suddenly becoming animated. She spoke in a quick, harsh language, and somewhere in her short speech, Marcus clearly heard the word “Cavanaugh.”

  “Did she say my name?” Marcus asked. “That’s right, boy, she surely did. She said you sure was a pretty man an’ she hoped Two Eagles wouldn’t be able to keep his vow to kill you.”

  Marcus blinked in surprise. “Two Eagles has made a vow to kill me. . . personally?” “That’s right, boy. That’s quite a honor, you know. You prob’ly don’t know this, but a man who is a great enemy to the Indian is just as much a hero to them as someone who is a great friend. Yes, sir, the Cheyenne say your name in all their tepees just about ever’ night. Whoever kills you will have big medicine.” “I’d just as soon not be a hero to them,” Marcus said.

  Missouri Joe chuckled. “It’s too late for that, boy. It’s too late.”

  Several of the recruits who had been learning to saddle their horses now drifted toward the front of the barn. They hung back in the shadows, looking at Missouri Joe and at the Indian woman who was with him. She was at least six feet tall and weighed well over two hundred pounds. Missouri Joe saw them, then he laughed and walked over and put his arm around Moon Cow Woman. Her large, flat face broke into a wide smile, and she put her arms around him and picked him up, holding him about six inches off the ground as she embraced him. Some of the soldiers laughed and elbowed each other.

  “Boys,” Missouri Joe said to them. “I know what you be a’ thinkin’. You be a’ thinkin’ this here is the ugliest one woman any of you have ever seed. Right?”