Seated in a rocking chair out front was a powerfully built man with reddish hair and beard. He was mending a section of harness. “Well, Jack,” he asked, “did you join up?”
“Not yet, Mr. Bass. I’ll need a horse first. If you’ll let me have that claybank mustang, the Army will pay me twenty-five dollars extra a month.”
“How much can you pay me?”
“I’ll give you the twenty-five dollars a month.”
The stableman laughed. “That mustang is my best horse, Jack. The fastest, surest-footed, long-windedest piece of horseflesh in Kansas.”
“That’s why I want him, Mr. Bass.”
After completing a tie in a strip of rawhide, Bass peered over his steel-rimmed spectacles at the boy. “I’ll think about it.”
“But I’ll need him in the morning.”
Bass grumbled to himself for a minute or so. “You won’t leave off pestering me till you get that claybank, will you? All right, you sign a paper to pay me twenty-five dollars a month for three months, he’s yours.”
“You’re a square-shooter, Mr. Bass.”
“Soft in the head is more like it.”
“Will you do something else for me?”
Bass growled a fierce “No!” but Jack had bent down and picked up a pair of shears lying at the side of the chair. “Please sir, cut off some of my hair.”
“Thunderation, boy, I’m not a barber!” He resisted the offered shears for a moment, then took them, shaking his head in disgust. “Hunker down here so I can get at you.” He began snipping away at the long hair. “You’re going to look like a sheared sheep.” He held one of the curls between his fingers. “Mighty pretty. Bet I could pass this one off as a keepsake from a lady friend.”
Jack ran his fingers gingerly over his head. “Pete Trudeau won’t like this. He believes short hair on a man scares away the buffalo. Is he up in the room?”
“Yeah, he’s been up there since noontime. Trying to make up his mind to join Forsyth’s Scouts.”
“I’ll go up and convince him.” He glanced at the pile of hair clippings on the dusty ground. “Could I take the mustang out for a ride later on?”
Bass sighed. “We’ll talk about it at supper time, boy.”
Late that night after Jack Stilwell had stretched out on the bunk in the room he shared with Pete Trudeau above the stables, he thought about what he must do the next morning. On that claybank mustang, he knew he could outride any man Major Forsyth chose to put against him. The shooting, however, worried him a little. If the major set up those Army bull’s-eye targets he might not do so well. All his life he had been shooting at moving objects, had never seen much use in shooting at still targets, and he knew some of the soldiers were mighty good at bull’s-eye shooting.
As he drifted off to sleep, he tried to count back so he would know for certain how old he was. He counted the summers, the first one when he left that little settlement on the Missouri River to work his way to Santa Fe on a wagon train, then the summer he was with the Mexicans down there rounding up wild horses, and had to learn Spanish so they could understand what he was saying. Then the summer he came back, and the two buffalo hunts. What a time he had then with Pete Trudeau and the Cheyenne friendlies! Had to learn some of their words, too. He figured up to five summers, counting this one, but the trouble was he could not remember whether he was thirteen or fourteen when he left the settlement, or maybe he was only twelve.
Across the room, he heard Pete stirring in his sleep, muttering something in French, and then he remembered nothing more until first daylight wakened him. Pete’s bunk was empty.
While he was pulling on his boots, he heard footsteps on the stairway, and a moment later from the doorway Pete Trudeau’s bright eyes were glaring at him above a flickering candle. Trudeau’s mustache, side whiskers and bushy eyebrows were white in contrast to his shoulder-length black hair. “You sleep all day, you’ll never be one of that major’s scouts,” he said gruffly.
“Are you going to join up, Pete?” Trudeau blew out the candle. “If Jack go, old Pierre go. Without hair, you no good for hunting buffalo no more for a while.”
Jack fastened his gun belt and reached for his hat. “I don’t think Major Forsyth likes long hair.”
“Then perhaps I will not go. It is bad medicine to go with a naked head looking for Indians.”
“Ah, you’re wrong, Pete. No Indian would waste his time trying to scalp me now, but they’d chase you clear to Leavenworth to get that mane you’re wearing. Come on, let’s go.”
Long before seven o’clock they rode up to the quartermaster warehouse, Trudeau on a dust-colored mount, Jack on the mustang he had obtained from the Bass stables. The old plainsman dismounted at the tie rail, but the boy put the mustang into a fast trot up the parade ground, circling the flagpole at the end, and then came back down at a fast gallop. Recognizing Major Forsyth on the warehouse platform, he reined up. “Good morning, sir.”
The major nodded. “That’s a fine horse you’ve got there, young man.”
“Would you like to see me put him through his paces?”
“I’ve seen enough. Go on inside and sign Sergeant McCall’s book.”
“You mean that, sir? You don’t want to see me shoot?” Jack dropped off the mustang and looped a tie over the rail.
“Save your ammunition for the hostiles, son. If you’d told us yesterday you could understand Cheyenne talk—”
“You didn’t ask me.”
“And we wouldn’t have known it yet if Lieutenant Beecher had not inquired around.” He slapped the boy on the seat of his dusty jeans, propelling him through the doorway.
Inside, Jack found the warehouse crowded with scouts, many of them men he knew and who called his name as he entered. He pushed through to Sergeant McCall’s table where two recruits were waiting. The younger one turned, grabbing him by the hand. “Jack Stilwell, you old coyote. You going with us?”
“Wouldn’t miss it, Hutch.”
“You know my pa, don’t you?”
“How’re you, Mr. Farley?” The older man shook hands warmly, but his eyes had a bleak look in them. Jack had heard the story of the Farleys. Not long back Cheyennes had raided their ranch, killing Mrs. Farley and two children. Only Lewis Farley and his son survived, and both had sworn to avenge the killings.
Sergeant McCall interrupted. “Sign your name there, Mr. Farley.” He glanced at Jack. “Are you still sure you want to scout with us, young man?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, your full name?”
Jack gave the sergeant his name, address, color of eyes, hair and complexion, and then declared firmly that he was nineteen years old. “Sign here,” McCall said then, “and I’ll swear all three of you into service at the same time.”
After he had scribbled his name, Jack stood back beside the Farleys, and at Sergeant McCall’s direction raised his right hand. “Do you Lewis Farley, Hudson Farley, and Simpson Jack Stilwell solemnly swear to obey all orders given you by the officers of Forsyth’s Scouts?”
Their voices mingled in a variety of affirmations.
“Say ‘I do,’ ” the sergeant cried impatiently.
“I do,” they replied in a chorus.
Lieutenant Beecher appeared suddenly out of the restless crowd. “How many do you have now, Sergeant?”
McCall glanced at his muster book. “Forty exactly, sir.”
“Then we’ll stop enlistments. We’ve got the best of the lot here. The major just received a telegram from Fort Hays that at least a dozen good men are waiting to join us over there.”
Jack spoke up quickly: “Lieutenant Beecher, will you take just one more—one of the best scouts in Kansas?”
“Who is he?”
“Pete Trudeau.”
“Trudeau?” Sergeant McCall interrupted. “I mustered him in five minutes ago.”
“That one’s a real runagate,” Beecher said, but he winked at Jack. “Stilwell, I’m going to give you your first
order. Come with me and the sergeant down to the supply room. If we’re going to march out of Fort Harker before noon, we’ve got to start outfitting this mangy bunch of prairie dogs.”
Major Forsyth was waiting for them in the supply room at the opposite end of the warehouse. Stacks of blankets, carbines, pistols, saddles, and other gear filled most of the floor. In a few minutes Sergeant McCall had organized a line, and while he checked off the items Jack handed them out to the scouts.
Each man received a pair of army blankets, a Spencer repeating carbine, a Colt’s revolver, 140 rounds of rifle and 30 rounds of revolver ammunition, a lariat and picket pin, a canteen, haversack, butcher knife, tin plate, tin cup, and cold rations for a two day march. To those few who would use army mounts, a saddle and bridle also were issued.
“Pack your supplies, ready your horses, and form up on the parade,” Major Forsyth repeated as each man left the line. When the last scout was outfitted, Sergeant McCall closed his book. “As soon as you’ve collected a set of equipments for yourself,” he told Jack, “bring that pile of supplies over there out the back way.” He disappeared through the rear door.
When Jack brought the first load of supplies out on the back platform, he found McCall, Beecher, and two scouts there with four pack mules. Working rapidly, they soon had the mules loaded with camp kettles, bags of salt and coffee, medicine kits, picks and shovels, and a reserve supply of ammunition. The lieutenant made a careful inspection, shifting the loads slightly on the mules’ backs, checking the ties, and then pronounced them ready to march. “How about you, Stilwell? Where’s your mount?”
“Other side of the building, sir.”
“Pack up, saddle up, and join the others. We’re aiming to make sixty miles to Hays by tomorrow sundown.”
Less than an hour later Forsyth’s Scouts rode out of Fort Harker. Along the dusty street to the unpainted board-framed entranceway, the horsemen moved at a slow pace. Here and there a garrison soldier stared curiously at them; two children stopped their play to wave; an officer’s wife walking on a graveled pathway tipped her parasol in a farewell salute. No band played; no guidons rippled in the warm breeze. At a command from Major Forsyth, they turned into the trail and headed west alongside the track of the new railroad with the glittering August sun burning into their shoulders.
It was long after dark before they halted along a tiny creek where so many others had camped before them that not a Cottonwood or willow was left standing, and the scouts searched for an hour before they could find enough twigs to heat water for coffee. Jack Stilwell was thankful that Sergeant McCall spared him guard detail. He ate his cold bacon and hard bread, washed the food down with warm coffee, and curled up in his army blanket, content to be out on the prairie again.
Next morning they were in their saddles at four o’clock, moving steadily in the cool dawn. All day, Forsyth held rest stops to a minimum, and as the sun was setting they rode into Hays City. Some of the scouts trotted their horses up to the head of the column, requesting permission to drop out for an evening of jollity, but Major Forsyth denied all requests. “When we reach the fort, Sergeant McCall will issue such leaves and passes as he sees fit.”
Jack noticed that the irregular column was attracting considerable attention as it passed through the little town. On the board sidewalk in front of a shabby hotel he saw a familiar face, a boy about his own age, small and dark, watching intently. Where had he known him—Junction City, Salina? What was his name? Just as the face vanished in the dusty twilight, he remembered him—Slinger the little Jew—Sigmund Schlesinger.
5
Sigmund Schlesinger
August 27–28
BEFORE SUNUP, SIGMUND SCHLESINGER was at the Hays City railroad depot where he went through his daily ritual of sorting newspapers dropped from the baggage car of the early morning train. Using a notebook as guide, he carefully wrote the name of each subscriber on the top margin of the front page of the appropriate paper from St. Louis, Chicago, or New York, and then tucked them neatly into a saddlebag.
Most of his customers were officers at Fort Hays, and after a hurried round of the Hays City business establishments, he started on the long walk out to the army post. Young Schlesinger did not mind the walk in the cool of the day, with birds singing on the prairie and the fresh smell of earth before the sun burned away the dew. Frequently along the way he shifted the heavy saddlebag from one shoulder to the other, and by the time he delivered his last papers at General Sheridan’s headquarters, he was more than ready for breakfast.
He had an arrangement with the contract cook who supplied meals to civilian workers at the fort. In exchange for washing dishes and cleaning the stoves, he received a free breakfast.
On this particular morning he was surprised to find the mess tent filled to capacity, and then he remembered that Forsyth’s Scouts had marched in the night before. As he reached for a tin plate, somebody called his nickname: “Slinger!” He turned and there was Jack Stilwell grinning at him. “Jack!” They shook hands, each one asking the other if he had joined the scouts. “Do you think they would take me?” Schlesinger asked hopefully.
“Sure they will. I’ll put in a word for you,” Jack promised. They filled their plates from pans on the table, and because all benches were filled inside the tent they went outside and sat on the edge of a watering trough to eat their breakfasts. They talked about the time they had chopped and hauled wood together on Big Creek for an army contractor, and then brought each other up to date on what they had been doing since. “Nothing much,” Schlesinger said. “Clerking in a store at Hays City, waiting tables at the hotel, night-herding mules for the railroad workers, peddling newspapers—nothing much. I left New York three years ago to find adventure out here in the West. I might as well have stayed back east.”
“You come with me,” Jack said. “Lieutenant Beecher and Sergeant McCall are recruiting more men right now.”
Jack’s optimism was contagious, and Schlesinger agreed to come as soon as he told the cook he would be back to clean up. He took the empty plates and hurried into the tent, returning a moment later with his saddlebag slung over one shoulder. “I wish I had a buckskin shirt like yours, Jack. In these store clothes, I don’t look like a scout.”
“That’s no matter. This old buckskin is beginning to unravel anyway.” He indicated a broken seam at the collar.
Schlesinger smiled. “You let me have that when I come back to the tent, and I’ll fix it for you. I worked as a tailor before I came West.”
“You know how to do everything, Slinger. Soon as we talk to Lieutenant Beecher, he’ll swear you right in.”
Beecher and McCall had established a recruiting office in a partially completed barracks. It was windowless and unfurnished, but by propping a few boards across packing boxes, they had made it adequate for their purposes.
When Schlesinger arrived under the confident sponsorship of Jack Stilwell, he was surprised to see Dr. Mooers, one of his Hays City newspaper customers. The doctor nodded a greeting, but continued his conversation with Lieutenant Beecher: “When I heard what you and the major were doing I made up my mind to offer my services.”
“I’m sure Major Forsyth will be delighted to have a surgeon,” Beecher said. “Here he comes now. Major, this is Dr. John Mooers. He just walked in here and volunteered to be our surgeon.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard today,” Forsyth declared. “We were expecting to find a dozen good men here at Hays to fill out our company, but the rascals have all departed.”
“They went out after those Indian raiders north of here.” Mooers said.
“Yes, the cavalry company that went in pursuit was so under strength they asked for civilian volunteers.” Forsyth gave the doctor a quizzical look. “What makes you want to give up the comforts of civilian life, Dr. Mooers, to join this company of hardbitten scouts?”
“I suppose I started thinking about it the night I patched up Sharp Grover’s shoulder. Something about the
man’s determination made me realize that none of us is safe out here until this senseless raiding is stopped. When I heard about Forsyth’s Scouts, I knew I had to volunteer.”
“So you were Grover’s doctor? You did a good job on him. Have you had any military experience, Dr. Mooers?”
“I was in a New York regiment during the Civil War.”
“That’s good enough for me. When can you join us?”
“I need a few days to transfer my patients to a colleague in Hays City. He’ll be a busy man until I return.”
“We’ll be marching out of here tomorrow to scout the Solomon River valley,” Forsyth said. “But we should be at Fort Wallace about a week from now. Sharp Grover will join us there. Can you?”
“I’ll be there,” Mooers replied.
Sigmund Schlesinger, who had been listening with interest to the conversation, suddenly realized that Jack was tugging at his arm. “Lieutenant Beecher,” Jack was saying, “I’d like you to know my friend, Slinger.”
Beecher turned, his eyes friendly. “Oh, Sig Schlesinger. Delivered the Herald to me when I was here last spring. How’s business?”
“Not good, sir. Most of my subscribers are out in the field these days.”
“Slinger wants to join us,” Jack said quickly.
The lieutenant looked surprised. “Not seriously?”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Schlesinger insisted. “As Dr. Mooers said, I want to do my part, too.”
Beecher shook his head. “You’re too young and inexperienced, Schlesinger. You wouldn’t know how to take care of yourself.”
“I’ve been taking care of myself for three years.”
“Not scouting against the deadliest Indians in North America. I’m sorry, but the answer is not.” He cut off Jack’s protest with a sharp command: “Clear out of here, Stilwell.”
As he left the barracks with Jack, young Schlesinger felt miserable. “I guess I’m just not meant for your kind of life,” he said.