Oushata Massacre Read online

  The men looked at each other nervously, but no one answered.

  “Hell, don’t be shy. I admit it. She’s one ugly woman.”

  Now a few of the men agreed, and they shook their heads.

  “Well, boys, let me tell you somethin’. Iffen I want beauty, I’ll look at the sunset. Ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth any prettier than a sunset out in the wild. But this here woman sleeps warm and breeds good. And she can do the work of any three of you. So if you don’t mind, I’ll leave all the pretty women to the drawin’ room dandies, and I’ll take me a woman like Moon Cow Woman anytime.”

  Colonel Pettibone’s wife, Martha, and Amy Lapes, wife of the post surgeon, co-hosted a dinner that night at the commandant’s quarters. Though they were the hostesses, the other officers’ wives who were on the post, Drusilla Conklin, Janet Forsyth, and a few others, had pitched in by supplying silver, crystal, and china. And as the goods available for purchase at the sutler’s store were strictly rationed, they shared that as well, bringing together their smoked oysters, canned peaches, and other delicacies to create quite a good meal.

  “I asked Missouri Joe if he would dine with us tonight,” Captain Forsyth said over the dinner table. “But he said he would rather eat his squaw’s cooking.”

  “Oh, heavens, that terrible man?” Martha said. “And has anyone taken a good look at that creature he calls his wife?” The other women laughed.

  “Martha’s right. It’s just as well he didn’t accept,” Pettibone said. “The man has no manners, no culture, and who knows how long it has been since he has taken a bath?” “Wouldn’t you like to be closed up with him in a stuffy room?” Mrs. Lapes quipped, and again, the ladies laughed.

  “Nevertheless, sir, you must admit that he is an invaluable source of information,” Forsyth said. “Living with the Indians as he does, he has almost become one of them.”

  “Yes, and I don’t mind saying that that is one of the things that bothers me,” Pettibone said. “I have a hard time believing that a man who lives like he does can know who his friends are. Who is to say that any information he gives us is accurate?”

  “Colonel, if you’ll forgive me for saying so,” Forsyth said, “Missouri Joe knows where his duty lies.”

  “Nevertheless, I intend to take all of his information with a grain of salt,” Pettibone said.

  “Surely we can find something more pleasant to talk about at the dinner table than that dirty old man,” Martha said. She turned to Marcus and smiled brightly. “Lieutenant Cavanaugh, were you able to enjoy any plays while you were in New York?”

  “No, ma’am,” Marcus answered. “I was only there for one day, I’m afraid.”

  “Heavens! How can anyone go to New York without taking advantage of all the wonderful things there are to do in the city?”

  “Now, Martha,” Pettibone said, “Lieutenant Cavanaugh isn’t like you. He has an appreciation for duty. He was in New York on orders, and they didn’t include seeing the latest theatrical.”

  “Nevertheless, it would have been good had he gone,” Martha said. “Then he could have shared the play with us.”

  “I do miss the theater so,” Drusilla said. She was a small, birdlike woman who may have been very pretty at one time. The rigors of continuous service in the Far West, plus the burden of living with a husband who, because of his alcoholic indulgence, was only “half- there” most of the time, had told on her so that, though only forty, she looked much closer to sixty.

  “Perhaps I can arrange to have one of those traveling theatrical groups visit Fort Reynolds sometime,” Pettibone suggested.

  “Oh, Andrew, that would be wonderful,” Martha said.

  “In the meantime, we have important business to attend to out here,” Pettibone said. He looked across the table at Marcus, then smiled. “Well, Lieutenant, tomorrow is the big day for you and your platoon, isn’t it? You’re taking them out on a three-day scout.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marcus said.

  “I want you to ride up to the North Fork of Smokey Hill Creek. Take a look around up there, then come on back.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir, but Missouri Joe said Two Eagles had a hunting camp up that way,” Forsyth said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Then, don’t you think it is unwise to send Marcus and his men up there? Especially as Marcus is now big medicine to whatever Indian might kill him.”

  “That’s what happens when you become a hero,” Pettibone said. Then he laughed, as if dismissing it. “But really, thirty men, well-armed, and two officers? Captain, if it has come down to the point that we are unable to operate in the countryside with an entire platoon, then something is drastically wrong.” “Maybe so, sir. But these men are all raw recruits.”

  “Ah, but Marcus has already had his baptism of fire,” Pettibone said.

  “Sir, request permission to accompany the platoon,” Captain Forsyth said.

  “Permission denied, Captain. I have need of you on the post. Anyway, if we can’t count on the leadership ability of our lieutenants now, when can we count on them? Don’t worry, I’m absolutely certain that there is nothing up there at all. And if there is, why, by Missouri Joe’s own words, it is nothing more than a minor hunting camp . . . probably abandoned by now.”

  “Captain Forsyth, I want to go,” Marcus said.

  “Me, too,” Culpepper added.

  “You see there, Captain?” Pettibone said, smiling and preening his mustache. “Your young officers are full of self-confidence.” Forsyth let out a long sigh, realizing that he was licked. He ran his hand through his hair. “Very well, then at least let me send a few seasoned men along with them,” he said. “A corporal for each squad and Sergeant Flynn. He’s been working with the lieutenants and the recruits.”

  “Very well, Captain, I see no problem with that. And now, gentlemen,” he went on, “if you would, please, charge your glasses. I propose a toast to the successful mission of our two young lieutenants. Major Conklin? You’ll drink with us, sir?”

  Drusilla, embarrassed by the fact that her husband had been sitting beside her in an alcoholic haze for the entire meal, paying no attention whatever to what was going on, punched him in the side with her elbow. At her nudge, Conklin looked up from a plate that was virtually untouched. For a moment his eyes swam in their sockets as he tried to focus, then, when he saw everyone raising their glasses, he smiled, refilled his own, and raised it with the others.

  “Hear, hear,” he gurgled. Drusilla looked down in shame while the other wives avoided looking at her.

  Back in his own quarters after dinner, Marcus went over the map for the third time. He had discussed every point with Captain Forsyth: the location of all the fords, the gullies and ravines that could be crossed with no difficulty, and those that couldn’t. He had also marked out the exact location of the hunting camp, according to Missouri Joe.

  He laid the map aside and began seeing to his gear, when there was a knock on his door. When he opened it, he saw the smiling, eager face of John Culpepper.

  “Culpepper come in. Have you got your gear together?”

  “Yes, I’m all ready to go,” John said. “Cavanaugh, I don’t mind telling you, I’m very excited about this. It will be great to get out of the post for a while, and away from the constant drills.”

  “You aren’t worried about the hunting camp Missouri Joe told us about?”

  “Not at all,” John said. “I figure if it’s there, we’ll handle it.” He reached inside his jacket pocket. “I have something for you.”

  “For me? What?”

  “You remember I told you I had a sister? She’s eighteen and she doesn’t look at all like me. She’s pretty.”

  Marcus chuckled. “Fortunately it usually works out that way. . . the sisters get all the looks in a family,” he said.

  “Well, anyway, I told her all about you, and she sent this letter for me to give to you.” Self-consciously, he handed Marcus the envelope. “As you can see,
it’s sealed. . . I didn’t read it.”

  “John, I don’t know . . .”

  “Look, I’m not trying to play Cupid or anything like that,” John said. “It’s just that”— he stopped and looked down at the floor for a minute, embarrassed by what he was about to say—“It’s just that I know you don’t have anyone to write to. . . no mother or father, no sisters or brothers. And, by your own admission, no girl, either. I don’t know how you can take the loneliness without having someone. Anyhow, I thought, well, maybe if you could just sort of write to Sally every now and then, why, I’m sure she would answer your letters. And it might help sometime for you to have someone away from the post to talk to.”

  Marcus smiled and took the letter.

  “All right, John, you win,” he said. “But I certainly hope you haven’t built me up too high in your sister’s eyes.”

  “I. . . uh, I’ll get back over to my own quarters now and let you read it.”

  “Thanks’” Marcus said. “See you at reveille.” Marcus went back to his desk and sat down under the kerosene lamp. He looked at the envelope and at the neat and obviously feminine penmanship of the address. When he took out his knife to open it, he thought he caught a whiff of perfume and, for a moment, he thought back to West Point. He recalled the girls who came to the dances in their colorful, swirling dresses. Wherever they went they left a flowery scent behind them, floating over the dance floor, or hanging in the air as they strolled down flirtation walk with the cadets.

  Putting that thought behind him, Marcus began to read:

  “Dear Lieutenant Cavanaugh,

  You must think it terribly bold of me to write to you in this fashion. In fact, it is quite bold, and if I thought I ever would actually meet you sometime, I’m quite sure I wouldn’t have the nerve to do this. However, my brother has spoken so highly of you that I feel certain that you will take these letters in the light they are meant, and not think me forward for initiating a correspondence.

  John seems to think that, as you have no one at home, a few letters might bring you comfort. If he is correct in his assumption I shall be glad to provide that service. If, however, you do not wish to hear from me again, just disregard this letter and, if it receives no answer, I will understand.

  I am eighteen years old. I have blond hair and blue eyes. I love to dance and play the piano. I also enjoy riding horses, though mother tells me that my appreciation of horses is unladylike.

  May I confess something to you? I would like to use these letters as a diary. I have never kept a diary, but I have friends who do. I’ve always thought a diary was rather foolish, for what is the sense of writing if no one is going to read what is written? On the other hand, there are times when certain things ought to be said, thoughts should be expressed. Therefore, if you are agreeable, I shall let you be my diary.

  Good luck to you, Lieutenant Cavanaugh.

  Your friend,

  Sally Culpeper”

  Marcus looked at the letter for a few moments, then he smiled, folded it back into the

  envelope, and put it in his inside jacket pocket. Why not answer her? He would tell her clearly, in his first letter, of his vow of bachelorhood for the duration of his Army career. If she wanted him to be her diary, then she, too, could be a means of expressing his own thoughts. Perhaps John was right. Perhaps having someone to exchange letters with would be good.

  Getting out a paper and pen, Marcus answered Sally’s letter, telling her he would very much like to exchange letters with her. “And as for being your diary, Miss Culpepper, I would deem it an honor to serve in such a capacity. You may rest assured that I will never divulge the slightest thing told me in confidence.”

  After the letter was finished, Marcus took an evening walk outside. Under the full moon, the Arkansas River was a stream of molten silver winding its way through the low hills of eastern Colorado.

  Fort Reynolds was like a painting in soft shades of silver and black. Only the commandant’s house escaped the unifying brush of evening to glisten a brilliant white in the moonlight, its cupolas, turrets, and bay windows sprouting from it like blooms on a desert cactus.

  Out on the quadrangle, a twelve-pounder signal cannon and a flagpole with its banner struck for the night, gleamed softly. On the opposite side of the parade ground lay a long, low row of unpainted houses. These were the quarters for enlisted men who were married. Most of them were dark, though here and there a flickering light managed to escape. The enlisted men couldn’t afford kerosene lanterns so such lights, Marcus knew, were likely to come from homemade lamps of rag and grease or tallow dip. They were dim and smoky and gave off a thick odor.

  It wasn’t just the light that made the air heavy here. These dark, mean little houses were called “Soapsuds Row,” and that was an appropriate name for the area north of the quadrangle, for many of the enlisted men’s wives were also laundresses. The laundresses received five dollars a month to do an officer’s laundry and two dollars for an enlisted man. Laundresses at Fort Reynolds numbered one to every nineteen and a half soldiers, and the evidence of their day’s work was the permanent smell of lye, bleach, and wood ash that scented the air.#

  This evening Marcus thought the scent was particularly pungent. The night air held it, as it held the long, high-pitched trills and low viola like thrums of the frogs. For countermelody, there were the crickets in the distance; the long, mournful howl of the coyotes; and from the stable, a mule braying and a horse whickering.

  From the sutler’s store a wedge of lantern light spilled through the open door and splashed over the boardwalk. The sutlers could afford coal oil for their lanterns and they could sell beer. Tonight the sutler’s store was doing a brisk business.

  Marcus walked out into the middle of the quadrangle. Above him, stars shimmered like crystals in the dark vault of sky. From a distant barracks he could hear a soldier’s ballad; high, clear and sweet: “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen.” Then he saw a soldier coming toward him, holding a trumpet.

  “Good evenin’, Lieutenant,” the soldier said, saluting.

  “Good evening,” Marcus replied, returning the salute. He leaned against the signal cannon then and watched as the trumpeter raised the instrument to his lips. The trumpeter blew air through it a couple of times to clear it, then he began to play taps. Marcus listened to the mournful notes as they filled the night air, calling the soldiers to bed. They rolled out across the flat open parade ground, hitting the low hills beyond the walls of the fort, then bouncing back a second later in a haunting echo. Of all the military rituals, taps was the most stirring. From his first night at West Point, he had never heard it without feeling a chill. He remembered the often-unsung words:

  Day is done.

  Gone the sun

  From the lake

  From the hill From the sky.

  Rest in peace Soldier brave God is nigh. . . .

  The next morning the entire post was turned out for Marcus’s departure. The officers and men who were not going had been given temporary leave of their duties to form into a regimental parade front around the quadrangle. Marcus was on horseback, standing in his stirrups. For the moment there was absolute silence. The only sound that could be heard was the snapping and flapping of the garrison flag, flying high overhead.

  Marcus surveyed the assembled platoon of thirty mounted cavalrymen, sitting tall and proud in their saddles, stretched out in a long single line facing him. Lieutenant Culpepper and Sergeant Flynn were mounted outside the line, between Marcus and the troopers.

  “Lieutenant Culpepper, prepare to move out!” Marcus shouted to John, who, for this training patrol, was his second-in-command. John turned to face the men.

  “Company, form column of twos!” he yelled, his voice echoing across the fort.

  The men, having learned the procedure during their month of training, executed the command.

  “Guidon post!” Culpepper yelled, and a soldier carrying a red-and-white pennant galloped to the head o
f the column.

  Colonel Pettibone rode up to the flagpole and halted.

  “Sir,” Culpepper said, saluting and reporting to Marcus. “The company is formed.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Marcus said, returning John’s salute. Marcus turned to face Pettibone and saluted sharply.

  “Colonel, I have the honor, sir, of reporting that the company is ready for your command.”

  “Excercise your marching order, Lieutenant,” Pettibone replied, returning Marcus’s salute.

  Marcus turned back toward Lieutenant Culpepper. Never in his life, not even on the day he graduated from West Point, had he felt a greater swell of pride than at this moment. This was his first command, and he fixed it in his mind so he could recall it any time he wished. It was suspended in time and space for all eternity.

  “Move them out, Lieutenant,” Marcus said quietly.

  Lieutenant Culpepper stood high in his stirrups. “Forward, ho!” he yelled.

  The company started through the gates while, beneath the flagpole, the regimental band began playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”

  Pettibone retired from the field then and joined the ladies who had gathered at the sally port to watch as Marcus’s men passed by.

  As the company passed, Marcus drew his saber and gave the command, “Eyes right!” He held the hilt of the sword at his chin, with the blade pointing up and out at a forty-five-degree angle, then turned his head to the right to pay his respects to the officers and their ladies. Pettibone returned his salute. Marcus held it until they were passed, then he returned his saber to the scabbard as they rode through the gates.

  4

  They had been on the trail for an hour the next morning, moving slowly but steadily across the east Colorado plains. The ground stretched out before them in folds of hills, one after another. As each ridge was crested another was exposed, and beyond that, another still. The dusty grass gave off a pungent, earthy smell when crushed by the hooves of the horses.