Black Sun, The Battle of Summit Springs, 1869 (14 page)

Carr plainly wanted Cody back.

Problem was, Cody's return to the plains would not be without its knotty problems.

His curly blond hair had grown so long by the time he arrived in St. Louis that his young wife, Lulu, did not recognize him at first. Eager for the homecoming, he had bolted through the door of her parents' home. Upstairs, she had recognized the commanding stomp of his gait on the entry floor. But when she swept into the parlor where he awaited her, she found a tall, deeply tanned young plainsman she could not at first claim to know. The hair falling past his shoulders, the blond Vandyke beard, those leather britches and fringed coat—it all took some getting used to for Lulu.

But now, weeks later, as Bill Cody stepped off the Kansas-Pacific Railroad at its terminus in Sheridan, the young scout remembered how little daughter Arta had instantly recognized her papa. During his brief return from the plains, she bounced each day on his knee as he sang bawdy cavalry songs. Or, she giggled gaily as he lumbered about the house on all fours, carrying her on his back pony-fashion, bucking and snorting. Dear little Arta, the pride of Bill Cody's heart.

“Ho, Mason!” he called out, shoving through the door to Walt Mason's saloon in Sheridan. Much as he missed his wife and child, it was good to be back in the places he knew best.

“Cody? That really you?”

He threw down the carpet valise and held out his hand. “First a shake—then fill my hand with some whiskey. I've been dry a month!”

“You don't drink in front of your wife?”

He shook his head as he took the glass from Mason. “Never have. Doubt I ever will.” Cody tossed it back, then brought the glass down. “Another—I'm dry as a prairie wind.”

“That first one is on me, Cody.” Mason sighed, his face screwing up. “You'll need it—with what I've got to tell you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Dust it off, Mason.”

“You know the quartermaster at Fort Wallace keeps a civilian agent on employ here in town—to watch over shipments coming in at the railhead, supplies and larder and such.”

“I know, I know,” he said impatiently, pushing his glass forward for a third tall shot. “What's this got to do with me, Walt?”

“Not long after you left town for St. Louis, the quartermaster's agent came snooping around my yard and found that army horse and mule you left with me—to care for while you were gone.”

“What of it?”

“The son of a bitch claimed you was supposed to leave them animals with him at the quartermaster's corral down at the end of town.”

Cody scratched at his beard. “Was I supposed to do that?”

Mason straightened, growing red from the neck up. “You messed this up something good, Cody—and got that agent stirred up enough to go running off to Wallace, telling the army that you sold me them animals!”

“Sold 'em to you?”

“That's right. I told the agent he was all wrong, but he didn't want to listen, so he run off down there and told the quartermaster—fella named Lauffer—and Colonel Bankhead too—that you gone off to St. Louis after stealing army property and selling it for a profit.”

“Goddamn, that bastard!” Cody roared, wiping droplets from his mustache with a sleeve. “So what happened—the animals still here?”

“No, dammit! Bankhead sent some of his boys up here to seize the horse and mule from me—they come in here all full of bluster.”

“This all on account of that weasel-eyed agent squatting down the street in his army office, right?”

Mason nodded. “You got the picture.”

“Pour me 'nother, Walt. And don't be shy on keeping the bottle handy.” He picked up his valise and slung it to the top of the bar. He reached inside his vest and slapped down a single-eagle. “Here, while you're at it—go store my things in one of your best rooms. I'll be back shortly, and I'll want a bed with clean sheets on it for the night. Maybe longer.”

By the time he had stepped out into the cold, bitter wind scuttling between the blank-faced buildings, and had crossed the muddy, rutted street, Bill Cody was feeling mighty warm inside. A generous but potent mix of whiskey and anger, and not a little singed pride as well.

He nearly threw the door off its hinges as he stormed into the small office warmed by a glowing sheet-iron stove in the corner. Near it, behind a small table littered with paper and ledgers, a wiry man sat hunched over his books. The bald spot at the back of the civilian's head was the most remarkable thing about the man, since that spot was the first thing Cody saw, until the clerk tore his eyes from his accounts and focused on the tall, blond plainsman.

“You the goddamned quartermaster agent for Wallace?”

“Who would be asking?”

“William F. Cody—that's who, by damned!”

“C-Cody?” stammered the agent, pushing slowly back from his table, his eyes glancing here and there as the tall youth advanced on him.

“I'll show you what I think of sonsabitches lie about me!”

“I did no such thing!” he shrieked as Cody picked him up by the lapels of his wool vest, knocking over the chair.

Cody threw the agent backward into the coal scuttle, scattering kindling and wood. Like an enraged animal, he was on top of the agent before the man realized what happened. Cody never used his fists, choosing instead to cuff the agent with an open hand, swinging it back and forth over both sides of the clerk's face, swearing, shoving, throwing the man backward against the walls, picking him up and tossing him again, then holding him with one hand while the other continued thrashing the agent, who vainly tried to keep both arms clutched over his face through it all.

Finally the man crumpled into a sobbing heap. The anger seemed to drain from Cody, right into that muddy floor where the agent lay curled in a ball, whimpering, begging not to be hit again, in the next breath swearing that Cody would pay for assaulting an army employee.

“Army employee? Shit! I'm an army employee, mister. Ain't nothing special about kicking hell out of you—you go lying about me. Spreading word that I'm a thief.”

“You stole army property,” he said in muffled tones beneath his folded arms. “Sold it to innkeeper Mason.”

“I can see my beating didn't teach you a thing!”

“Stay away from me, Cody!” he cried like a wounded calf.

For a moment Cody stood over the agent, fists flexing and relaxing. As much as he wanted to lash out until he got an apology from the man, he couldn't. The anger had seeped from him like milk from a cracked bowl.

“Get out of here!”

The agent peeked out beneath an arm, one puffy, red eye glaring in challenge.

“You're a damned joke, mister,” Cody muttered, swinging a boot at the agent just to watch the man flinch. “I'm going, all right. But you can count on me coming back.”

“I'm pressing army charges—”

“No you won't.”

Cody was out the door, without closing it, across the street and back to Mason's place to borrow a horse.

“What'd you do to him?” Walt Mason asked in the wagon-yard out back as Cody swung into the saddle and adjusted the reins.

“Gave him the thrashing his contemptible lies deserved.”

His heels hammered the horse's ribs as he shot out of the yard, into the street, past track's end, galloping southwest, down the Wallace Road.

By the time he had dashed the thirteen miles to Fort Wallace, Cody had himself worked into another blue lather. Enough of a fume that Quartermaster Samuel B. Lauffer ordered one of his men to bring Colonel Bankhead and the sergeant of the guard immediately the moment Cody darkened his door.

“You're fortunate we don't string you up, Cody,” Captain Lauffer warned. “Horse thieves aren't taken to very kindly—especially in the army.”

He lunged two steps toward Lauffer and watched the captain back away and unsnap the mule-ear on his holster. “I'm not a thief. Those are army horses—but I didn't sell 'em to nobody.”

“My agent tells me otherwise. Comes down to it, your word against his. And frankly—you're not the sort of man whose word I'll take over my agent's.”

“I just gave that lying son of a bitch a thrashing that he'll not soon forget … and I'm fixing to do the same to you—you don't change your tune!”

Lauffer's face blanched. “You assaulted my employee?”

“Hammered him like a nail through white pine, I did!” Cody yowled, shaking a fist at the quartermaster.

“That's enough out of you!” roared a voice from behind them both.

Cody wheeled, shoulders hunched, finding Colonel Henry C. Bankhead, commander of Fort Wallace.

“General,” Cody said with some relief, addressing the officer by his brevet rank awarded during the Civil War.

“What's this all about, Captain?” Bankhead demanded.

Cody watched the half dozen soldiers pour through the door behind Bankhead. Every one of them had their pistols drawn, although they were quickly ordered to point the muzzles at the floor.

“Colonel, I didn't steal no—”

Bankhead waved him off. “I asked my quartermaster a question. You'll keep your mouth shut until I ask you to speak.”

Lauffer explained the situation with the agent finding the animals at Mason's, how the agent had seized the animals and returned them to Fort Wallace since they were army property—and then proceeded to tell Bankhead how Cody had just admitted beating up his civilian agent in Sheridan only moments before the colonel had come through the door.

“What have you got to say for yourself, Cody?”

“I did thrash that lying dog who works for Lauffer—but I'm no thief. I demand those animals back, General. They were loaned to me by Assistant Quartermaster Hayes of the Fifth Cavalry, stationed down at Fort Lyon.”

“Appears you're in a jam now, Cody,” Bankhead replied.

“I'm responsible for them,” said the scout.

“Should have thought of that before you left the property with Mason,” Lauffer said. “Regulations and your orders both state that you were to leave the animals with Lauffer's agent in Sheridan. From all appearances—looks like the agent might have a case against you for assault.”

Cody trembled, his fists clenching again, fuming for a chance at Lauffer.

“I'll be back, Captain. Promise you. And when I do—it won't just be a thrashing I'll give you.”

“That's it, goddammit! I order you off this military reservation, Cody!” growled Colonel Bankhead. “I ever catch you near Wallace again without permission—I'll see to it myself you're a guest in my guardhouse.”

“Don't you worry, Lauffer,” Cody hissed, edged toward the door by the soldiers. “I'll be back. And as for you, Colonel—I'll tell you what you can do with all your army regulations—”

“Gentlemen, see that Mr. Cody is put aboard his horse and escorted off the Wallace reservation,” Bankhead ordered of his guards.

“That won't be necessary, General,” Cody said, shrugging the guards off. Bankhead nodded and the soldiers backed off. “I know my way back to Sheridan just fine.”

*   *   *

“What the divil is this all about, Cody?” asked Seamus Donegan as Cody burst into Mason's saloon.

The young plainsman told them both the story, including the second thrashing he had just given the agent after working up another blue funk on the ride back to Sheridan.

“You beat hell out of the man a second time in one day?”

“I did,” he answered, rubbing his knuckles, then washing down his tonsils with more whiskey. Cody was no longer drinking by the glass, he held his second bottle in his hand, swilling the amber liquid like it was creek water.

“You better take it easy on that saddle varnish, Bill,” Seamus coaxed, seeing Cody begin to sag moments later.

“I'm going to sleep now, Irishman,” he murmured, gently shoving the bottles out of his way as he slumped over the table.

“No you don't,” Seamus said, attempting to keep Cody from passing out. “Too late, dammit.”

Donegan struggled to drag the half-conscious man to his feet, beneath his big arm. He shuffled Cody in front of him, then hoisted him over his shoulder. The Irishman stood like an oak.

“Ho, Mason! You got a spare room for this drunk?”

“He's already paid for it, Donegan. Number six.” He snagged a key from under the rough counter, tossed it to Seamus. “Put 'im to bed before he gets himself in any more trouble.”

Hours later the hammering of many boot-heels on the wobbly, creaking stairs leading up from the saloon below, along with the muffled voices in the hallway overlooking the gaming room, awakened Donegan from a fitful sleep.

He turned in his blanket on the floor, watching the spill of yellow seeping in under the door. Shadows of several legs polluted that whisper of light. He rolled over, grabbing for the two army pistols he kept rolled beneath his coat, which he used for a pillow.

A voice pierced the thin door. “Cody? Bill Cody?” The speaker hammered with a fist.

“Bill!” Donegan whispered at the younger man sprawled across the bed. “Wake up, goddammit!”

“You in there, Cody!” The fist hammered again.

“Who the hell is it?” Donegan hollered as Cody rolled his foggy head off the blanket and mumbled incoherently.

“Captain Ezekiel, Bill. Israel Ezekiel—you know me.”

“What's he want at this hour?” Cody whispered, holding his head in both hands as he rose to the side of the bed.

“What you want, Captain?” Donegan called out.

“I want to talk to Bill Cody.”

“Can it wait, Israel?” Cody said.

“Afraid not.”

“Let 'im in.” Cody took one arm from his aching head, waving it at the door.

Donegan stuffed one pistol in his belt, then slid back the bolt. He opened the door and stepped back as the light and noise from the gaming room downstairs spilled into the tiny room. Shadows from three of the soldiers muddied the yellow light.