J
ohn woke in the morning with a burning sense of guilt. There was a smell of coffee and of bacon frying. He did not know whether he could face her. In her moment of bereavement and weakness, he had betrayed his friend, had taken advantage of the situation. How could he look at her this morning?
He turned to the pillow beside him, still bearing the indentation of her head. The memory of her body next to his, the warm softness as she cuddled against him ⦠At times she had cried softly ⦠. He had held her close and tried to comfort her in her grief. He had given her only what she seemed to want and need.
But these thoughts did not in any way justify what had happened. He looked around the bedroom, attractive, with just the right degree of feminine ruffles and frills. On a dresser, the instruments of a lady's preparation for the day: comb, hairbrush, powder puff ⦠The faint scent of sweet perfume wafted from that direction ⦠Her party dress lay across a chair. He had been here, in a place he had no right to be. Another man's home, his bed, with his
wife.
A dead man. He had done some things in his life of which he was not particularly proud, but never like this. The guilt descended on him like a cold, wet blanket. He did not know how he could face Ruth. The whole thing was wrong, like the taste of ashes in his mouth. He considered for a moment whether he could dress and slip quietly out the front door, but rejected the idea. He must be a man, acknowledge his mistake, and ask for her forgiveness.
He saw a hint of motion from the corner of his eye, and turned to look to the doorway of the bedroom.
“Oh, you're awake!” she said brightly. “Good. I'll bring you some coffee.”
She turned away toward the kitchen. There was no time to answer, but he did not fail to notice that she made only momentary eye contact.
“I'll come out there,” he called.
He could not wait to escape the bedroom and its associated guilt. He dressed quickly and stepped down the narrow hallway to the kitchen, where she was busy at the stove, sending wonderful breakfast smells through the warm room.
“On the table.” She pointed with a big spoon, but did not look up from the eggs she was scrambling.
John sat at the table and cupped the hot coffee mug in his hands.
“Thanks,” he muttered briefly.
There was much more that he had to say, but he knew that to broach any subject while a woman is cooking would be a mistake. That was one of the things he had learned as a small child at his mother's lodge fire.
Silence was wise. Ruth was doing everything at once, dishing up fried potatoes, eggs and bacon, and peeking into the oven to check the progress of what must be biscuits. It all came together with the miraculous timing that allows a really good cook to have everything ready at the same moment. She set two plates on the table and a plate of biscuits between. She added a covered cut-glass dish with a lid, though which he could see a comb of honey.
“Sorry I've no butter,” she apologized. “I'm not here very often.”
Their eyes had still not met for more than an instant.
“Ruth, Iâ,” he began clumsily.
“Let's eat while it's hot,” she suggested. “We'll talk later.”
John didn't think he could find the appetite, but once he was started, the primitive instinct to eat when there is food took command. Ruth Jackson was a very capable woman in many ways. With a great deal of regret, he felt that his behavior had now destroyed any chance of a lasting relationship. He cursed himself for being an idiot.
They ate in silence, and she rose once to refill their coffee cups.
“Good coffee,” he said clumsily. “Good breakfast.”
“Thank you.”
Finally he could stand it no longer.
“Ruth,” he began.
“John, Iâ,” she stammered at the same instant.
Both laughed nervously.
“Let me,” he said. “Ruth, I owe you an apology. I have violated our friendship. I'm sorry ⦔
Her eyes were wide with surprise.
“No, no!” she insisted. “I owe
you
the apology.”
He was astonished.
“How could you think that?” he blurted. “Iâ”
She placed a finger gently on his lips.
“Hush,” she said softly.
“I
asked
you
to stay. I was lonely ⦠Maybe, the loneliest night of my life. You were here for me when I needed someone. I took advantage of you. I
used
you.”
“No, no, Ruth. It was not like that ⦠. I wanted to do
anything
to help you. I know how it feels. I have
been
there. Besides, I probably owe you my life.”
She blushed self-consciously.
“That was my job.”
“Not hardly. Not many would have gone that far.”
“But that ⦠John, I don't want you to misunderstand. I'm not ready ⦔
“I know,” he said gently. “Ruth, I wasn't trying to ⦠I mean ⦠IâI violated your trust.”
She laughed a bit nervously.
“We could argue all day,” she observed. “I was able to help you in your need. A different need, of course. You were here for me. Some things are meant to be. It does not require anything else.”
“Still friends?”
“Of course. Better than ever, John. Maybe even more, later. But not now. I hope you understand. But no hurt involved?”
“Of course not.”
They got up from the table and embraced warmly. A kiss ⦠Not like the deeply, urgent amorous kisses of the previous evening. Merely a warm, affectionate exchange of genuine esteem.
And it was good.
“You have to get out of here,” Ruth observed. “Aren't you due back to duty?”
“Oh, my God!” he blurted. “Of course. I'll be listed AWOL on the morning report!”
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“Buffalo! Where the hell have you been?” yelled the sergeant. “I've got you listed ⦠Never mind! Get your duffel. The train leaves at noon.”
John dashed for the barracks, yanked open his footlocker, and started stuffing the contents into his duffel bag. Fortunately, there wasn't much to pack. The troop had not yet been issued winter clothing, which would have been much bulkier.
He had just finished and buckled the canvas web straps when the sergeant entered the barracks.
“Okay, fall out! Assemble in the street, carrying your gear. Let's go!”
As John passed him, the sergeant spoke quietly.
“John, we're tryin' to get the morning report changed. You were listed as
AWOL, but the company clerk will try to fix it. If anybody asks, you know nothin'. Somebody made a mistake, but you're here. Mebbe they had you confused with somebody else, I expect.”
“Sergeant, Iâ”
The sergeant held up a hand to stop him.
“The less I know, the better. I don't even want to hear about it. Whatever it is, I reckon you had a reason. Now, get down there and fall in. We got a train to catch.”
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The train huffed and puffed its way south across rolling hills covered with lush prairie grasses, now starting to push up tall seed-heads. It would be October before they were fully ripe. They crossed into a region where more farms and crop land formed a green, brown, and black checkerboard across the landscape. The train stopped frequently to take on water for the boilers, but even so, they were making good time.
South of Wichita, the country changed again. The familiar red soil began to make John feel at home. This was much like the country around the 101. He wasn't certain exactly when they crossed into Oklahoma, but he began to see familiar landmarks. How many times he had traveled these same tracks on the Hundred and One Wild West Show trains.
The train stopped briefly at Ponca City, and no one was allowed to get off. John craned his neck to see if he could spot anyone he knew, but it was growing dark, and saw no one.
On southward to Lawton, and nearby Fort Sill, the command school for the Army's Field Artillery training. It was completely dark now, and had been for some time. They detrained and marched in formation, carrying their duffel bags to a distant area of the post. There, they waited in a company street for something to happen. John had often wondered at such situations. What was happening inside the office of the administration building? What could there possibly be to talk about? The commanders had known for days, probably, that new troops would be arriving.They would be assigned to a barracks. An empty barracks. What could there possibly be to discuss, while the troops waited in the street in loose formation in the middle of the night? This was one of the things about the military that he would never understand.
In due time, the noncommissioned officers came out and called the formation to attention. They shouldered duffel bags and marched, this time at rout-step, to an area a half mile away, where they moved into an empty barracks building like all the others.
John fell into his bunk, exhausted from long hours of travel, thinking bittersweet thoughts of where he had been only twenty-four hours ago. He wondered whether Ruth might be awake ⦠. Sleeping, probably ⦠His heart went
out to her in her bereavement. He knew how she must feel. He had overcome most of the guilt feelings, and hoped that he had, indeed, helped her in her loss and her loneliness. Ruth had certainly seemed to think so.
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It seemed that he had barely closed his eyes when the strains of reveille floated across the bright Oklahoma morning. Tired troopers were jumping into clothes and hurrying outside. It had been a short night.
This was John's first look at Fort Sill by daylight. It was much like other posts he had seen, but with one notable exception. The signs, designating building numbers and letters, were red, sometimes with white lettering. The little picket fence along the corner of the lawn where the barracks stood was bright red. He had never seen a
red
picket fence before. It took a moment to realize ⦠. Red ⦠The color designation for Artillery, along with the symbol of crossed cannons. He wondered whether an Infantry school would have sky blue fences.
They could see a mountain in the distance. It was symmetrical in shape, an almost perfect cone. Not a mountain that would be impressive in the Rockies, but still certainly worthy of note.
He learned this was Mount Scott, tallest of the range that could be seen in the distance, the Wichitas.
There seemed to be a winding trail, spiraling around and around the cone of Mount Scott.
“Looka there!” One of the newcomers pointed as they dispersed after roll call. “There's
people
on that hill over there!”
“Sure,” said a sergeant who was passing the newly settled troop. “Them are the mule packers.”
“Mule packers?”
“Yep ⦠Mountain howitzers. Seventy-fives.”
“They've got
cannon
up there?”
There were human figures walking and leading mules along the mountain trail.
“Yep. Special troops. The gun comes apart, packs on six mules. You'll see 'em, later. I expect that's C-battery up there. Say, you're the new fellas ⦠. Maybe you'll be
assigned
to mule-pack.”
He moved on, chuckling to himself. John and his fellow cavalrymen did not understand the humor in the situation. Not yet.
B
efore the day was over, they learned a great deal more. Every newcomer received a brief physical examination, part of which included detailed measurements of length and girth of their legs.
“What's goin' on here?” someone asked.
“We're forming a new battery,” an artillery sergeant told them. “Special troops.”
Still, no one answered any questions.
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At one point, John was called aside to be interviewed by a young captain.
“Corporal,” said the officer, “you are John Buffalo?”
“Yes, sir. Corporal John Buffalo, reporting as ordered.”
“Hmm ⦠Your unit's morning report yesterday lists you as absent without leave.”
“Yes, sir. Our platoon sergeant mentioned something about that. I don't understand. I'm certainly here ⦠.”
The captain looked up sharply, as if questioning whether this was an insolent remark.
“How's that, Corporal?”
“Sorry, sir. I meant no offense. Only to call attention to my presence.”
“Well ⦠Don't get smart!”
“Oh, no, sir. Nothing of the sort intended. Anything I can do to help straighten it out.”
The officer still appeared to have some doubts.
“Hmm ⦠No one seems to know
anything
about it.”
“So I was told, sir. Someone said, probably a clerical error at Fort Riley before we entrained.”
“That would be a convenient explanation, Corporal,” said the captain, perhaps a bit sarcastically. “But ⦠Your record's good. Maybe it is just an error in recording the report.”
John decided that it was a good time to refrain from comment.
“Now, while you're here,” the officer went on, “there's this other matter. As you know, your troop is being reassigned to artillery. That's why you're here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your troop will be assigned to the 75s. Several batteries using French guns are in training. Some are already in process of moving to France. But we have another type of gun here. Several, actually, but I mean another 75-millimeter. The mountain pack howitzer. You've heard of it?”
“Something of it, sir.”
“Yes ⦠Well, we can take it where we couldn't take wheeled cannon, drawn by horse teams. In essence, the pack howitzers can go anywhere a man can walk. We don't need roads. You can see an advantage in combat.”
“Yes, sir.”
But what does this have to do with me?
John wondered.
“You noticed that the examiners spent extra time measuring legs?”
“Yes, sir. We wondered ⦠.”
“Of course. Here's the situation: The mules are handled by a two-man team. Packer and driver, jobs interchangeable, trade off, front or back of the mule.”
John was puzzled. He could not imagine where this conversation was going.
“Now, you're cavalry ⦠horses. Know anything about mules?”
“Not much, sir. Driven a few wagon mules.”
“Yes. Pack mules are shorter and stocky in build. But they walk fast. Basically, faster than a man. Infantry, as you may know, marches at about three and a half miles an hour.”
But where does all of this lead?
John wondered again. He was very uneasy at the mention of “infantry.”
“Now, a mule travels at nearly
four
and a quarter.”
John still did not see the point, but kept silent. Surely the captain was going somewhere with this.
“If we hold the mule down to our pace, he has to take short little steps,” he went on. “This makes his ankles sore, he goes lame, and we'll have to carry his load. So, the driver and packer have to step on out, match the mule's speed. And that takes long legs. Hence, the extra measurements.”
John began to understand. It was a matter of capabilities. A draft horse has
a different job than a racehorse. Among human athletes, a tennis player has different capabilities than a bone-crushing football tackle or fullback. A distance runner is entirely different from an expert with the 16-pound shot.
“So,” the captain continued, “some of your troopers are being assigned to the pack howitzers. Those with long legs. Shorter men will be placed on the French 75s. We hate to break up a unit, but it's not as if you're a unit of local militia. You volunteered as individuals, right?”
“Yes, sir. Pretty much so.”
The officer nodded.
“Thought so. Well, they'll be reassigning, probably this afternoon, some will move to other barracks. Best of luck to you here, Corporal.”
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The change was a real shock to cowboys, who had seldom traveled anywhere on foot. Now, not only must they walk, but in addition, either lead or follow a mule. There was a lot of indignant complaint.
“Damn' jackasses! I didn't sign on for this!” someone grumbled.
“Not much better for those on the French guns,” came an answer.
“At least,
they
get to ride,” the other retorted.
“Sure ⦠Bouncin' on a caisson with no springs!”
John, who had the traditional height of his people, had realized from the first that he must be in the segment chosen for the pack howitzers.
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The new artillerymen were already well versed in care and handling of animals in the military. It now became a matter of learning to use the equipment. There were four guns to the battery, short ugly cannon capable of direct or high-angle fire. Each of these howitzers was served by six mules with their drivers and packers. Set up for firing, these twelve men would become the gun crew for each of the guns.
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A mule is a hybrid. His mother is a female horse, a mare. His sire is a donkey. This ignoble breeding, dating back thousands of years, produces a useful, though sterile, animal. He has been the steed of kings, and valued above all else for some purposes. He has the build of his mother, and the long ears, stamina, and voice of his sire. Instead of the usual eleven months' gestation for a colt, a mare bred to a jack donkey will take twelve to produce a mule.
“Takes that extra month to grow the ears an' the beller,” explained one of their instructors.
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There was a lot of training to be done. Practice drill, taking down and setting up the gun, packing the component parts on the mules. The howitzer could be quickly disassembled into nine component parts, which clamped and buckled onto specially fitted Phillips packsaddles. Everything was designed to fit something else, and each mule and its crew had its specialty. A squat, powerful jack mule carried the barrel, or “tube,” the business end of the cannon. It was the heaviest and most cumbersome of the loads. Another mule carried the wheels and the breech mechanism, another the recoil cylinders, and so on. All of these parts must be available in sequence, first things first.
To accomplish this, the mules must stand in formation, facing outward around the gun's location. Fanwise, three facing north, three south. It was quickly apparent that these mules were old soldiers. At the appropriate command, they would run to position. If a new recruit happened to be in the wrong place, he'd probably be stepped on. Some of the more experienced gun crews at Fort Sill could convert from a pack train to a firing artillery position in less than two minutes.
More difficult than this learning process, however, was the conversion to marching at mule speed. Four and one-quarter miles an hour. The morning after the first five-mile hike leading mulesâor, more properly, trying to keep up with mulesâthe trainees awoke with
pain
. From the groin, a band of cramplike fire stretched spirally inside the thigh and to the back of the knee. Troopers dragged painfully out of the bunks, to hit the floor spraddle-legged, limping painfully. The thought of another five-mile march after packing heavy gun loads on the mules was met with authentic groans. It was nearly a week before the new packers could walk normally again.
By this time, they had developed a certain amount of pride in accomplishment. Like other special troops whose work is physically more demanding, they were issued extra rations. The mess hall of the pack units was reputed to be the best on the post.
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There was a change in attitude toward mules in the next few weeks. Most cowboys had little use for such a creature, and scorned their appearance and demeanor. It was a double insult, then, to be forced to become “mule men.”
“Don't underrate âem, boys,” insisted a grizzled old sergeant. “They're smarter'n a horse. You've heard a mule is stubborn? Nope, just smart. If he wants to balk, he's got a reason. Mebbe his load's slippin'. Mebbe his hide's gettin' sore where his saddle rubs. Mebbe a loose shoe. But whatever it is,
he
knows, an' you'd better find out. If'n you don't, he may go lame, an' then
you'll
be carryin' his load. An' some of them gun loads is purty heavy.
“Now, a mule will never founder, like a horse. A horse that gets into a grain bin will eat until he can't stand, and may never be the same again. A mule jest eats what he
needs
. Tell you what ⦠You can leave a penned mule with enough feed for a week. If you'd come back on the sixth day, ol' mule will
have one day's feed left. A horse, now, would have et all he could, an' be hungry by day three.”
Few of the men actually believed Sarge's testimonials. They laughed about it behind his back.
But one day, most became believers. One of the gun crews was making their way around a narrow mountain trail, with a sheer wall above and a dropoff, a steep slope down to the creek below. The tube mule, carrying the gun's heavy barrel high on his back, misstepped and fell, bouncing and sliding, through the heavy fringe of willows on the creek bank. They heard the massive splash as the struggling animal struck the water and the willows closed behind him. The driver and packer had avoided the fall. No one could see the unfortunate mule, and the sounds of struggle soon ceased.
“This is bad, boys,” said the old cadre instructor. “More'n likely his legs is broke from the fall. Even so, he's drownded now, sounds like. But we got to get down there an' salvage the gun. Won't fire without that tube.”
It took about twenty minutes to find a way down the bluff, a riffle in which to cross the creek, and back to the scene of the accident.
To the amazement of the rescue party, there lay old Rabbit, the tube mule, on his back in the icy stream, with all four legs in the air. He had stretched his neck to reach the stream's edge, and was calmly cropping grass from the bank, while waiting for rescue. He had hardly a scratch.
“My gawd,” said one of the new mule men, “a hoss would have kicked hisself to pieces!”
From that day on, there were fewer complaints about mules.
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In addition to the four gun crews in the battery, there was a fifth crew with a remuda of ten mules, forming the “cargador” section, assigned the responsibility of supply in the field. This included transport of not only ammunition, but the field kitchen and blankets, tents, and other necessities.
John related well to all of this. The logistics of moving and setting up a mountain battery of artillery were not markedly different from those of the Wild West Show and its assorted personnel. The necessities were the same: food, shelter, preparation. Only the performance itself took on a somber, deadly tone. When the show was over, many would not be going home.
A couple of the junior officers quickly noticed the apparent experience of Corporal John Buffalo.
“You've done this before, Buffalo?” asked a first lieutenant.
“Not exactly, sir ⦔
John was somewhat unsure of what his previous experience would mean to these professionals.
“I've only been in the army a few months,” he said vaguely. “Part of that was hospital.”
“But you seem to know tents ⦠. Packing. What was your civilian job?”
“I ⦠I worked for the Hundred and One, sir.”
“The ranch, or the show?”
“Both, sir. Several years.”
The lieutenant burst out laughing.
“Little wonder, then! We've often discussed how in the hell they can move a couple of hundred people and animals around the country like that. Well, we'll talk later. We can use your experience.”
When all was said and done, John Buffalo was assigned to cargador, rather than a gun crew, and wore a third stripe on his sleeve. As a noncommissioned officer, he was also assigned a horse, and found himself back in the saddle.