Trail Hand (14 page)

“He ain’t worth it,
hombre
,” I whispered. “No sense causing problems before you’ve found your friend. We’re almost done. Just let him finish and we’re outta here.”

Sonora just stared at me. His eyes were empty and his jaw locked, but reluctantly he nodded back.

I turned to the sergeant. “Yeah, that’s the one. Know where we can find him?”

“Probably with the rest o’ his kind. They got a few tents staked out back of the fort.” He pointed
his hammer to indicate the direction. “No sense letting them stay inside with the decent folk,” he added snidely.

Mason, I’d noticed, had quietly walked to the far side of the barn and was now leaning against a wooden stall post while we waited.

Sergeant Emerson hammered the last of the horseshoe nails, prying back the exposed ends till they broke off. He then smoothed the whole affair with another rasp, repeating his spitting routine.

“That oughter do ’er,” he said. “Leastwise the shoes are on and the damn’ hoof ’s padded. Oh, and don’t forget to mention that to the colonel. Don’t want him on my case for not finishing B Troop on time.”

“Oh, I’m sure the colonel will hear of it, all right,” I said. “Come on, Sonora, we’re through here.”

The sergeant was standing just behind the roan when I began to untie the harness. Mason had come up on the horse’s left side while I was replacing the bridle.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” he said unexpectedly. “We do ’preciate it. This’n here’s mah pahtnahs best friend. Ain’t that right?” Sonora’s accent had suddenly grown unusually thick. Surprised, I looked back at him dumbly. “Yes-siree, he’s a great hoss. A mite feisty, though.” With that he gave the roan a firm slap on the rump. The gelding let out a loud whinny and jumped off its rear legs, mule-kicking straight back. Those big rear legs caught the blacksmith just above the belt, knocking him at least four feet backward. Emerson was out for the count.

“Christ!” I exclaimed, trying to calm the horse down.

“
Hmmm
. Hoss must not like white-assed sergeants very much,” Sonora said, shrugging his shoulders. As he turned around, I noticed something fall from his hand. “Nigger sergeant, my ass,” Sonora remarked, cussing back at the now unconscious blacksmith. “Nate Freeman craps better than the likes of him,” he added, walking out the door.

The roan’s sudden reaction had come as quite a surprise until I stopped near the object Sonora had dropped, bent over, and picked it up. What I found turned out to be a sharpened two inch long wooden splinter!

Although the entrance to Yuma had a manned wall around its gate, the rest of the fort was actually more like a series of several connecting buildings than a closed-in four-walled structure.

In order to get to the tented area where Sergeant Freeman’s unit was bivouacked we had to cross part of the drill field and then pass between the enlisted men’s barracks and the quartermaster’s office.

After leaving the stable, I tethered the roan to the nearest hitching post and accompanied Sonora Mason as he started out across the field in search of his friend. Off to the right a firearms instructor was drilling a platoon of new recruits.

“The standard U.S. Army cavalry issue shoulder arm is the Springfield Armory modified breechloading Trapdoor model carbine,” we overheard him lecture the men. I was already familiar with the rifle version. Although the .50–70 caliber was a strong cartridge, and even though the rifle had fairly good long-range accuracy, I was disappointed when the Army adopted it as their standard for infantry issue. The rifle was heavy, and its long bayonet worthless for Western fighting. The carbine version was an even worse choice for the cavalry.

We paused to watch the drill.

“What’s your opinion of the standard Army issue shoulder arm, Sonora?” I asked, watching the men struggle with the manual of arms.

“Some politician sure padded his nest with that one. You know damn’ well that group up north with Forsythe would never have survived the Beecher’s Island attack if they’d had these single-shot Springfields. Their Spencers was what saved their asses, and then the Army goes and trades ’em away.”

I agreed. Everyone knew the details of the battle for Beecher’s Island. Major George A. Forsythe had been detailed by General Sheridan to lead a small force of fifty men in order to draw out the Sioux and Cheyennes, who had been raiding stage and telegraph stations.

On September 16, 1868 Forsythe made camp in the valley of the Arikaree River, mistakenly believing that he had arrived undetected. At dawn the next day 600 Sioux, Cheyennes, and Arapahos led by Roman Nose moved in to attack. Fortunately for the cavalrymen some overeager young braves tried to stampede the Army’s horses first. Their war cries alerted Forsythe who managed to drive off the raiders and withdraw his force across the river and onto a small island before the main body of Indians attacked.

Forsythe’s men brought their mounts around into a circle and tied them to bushes, forming a tight barrier. The island was an ideal defensive position, but what really saved Forsythe, who was outnumbered more than twelve to one, was the fact that every man carried a Spencer repeating rifle with 140 rounds and Colt Army revolver with
another 100 or so rounds. Four Army pack mules carried another 4,000 extra shells for the rifles.

Time and time again the Indian charges were broken by volleys from the trooper’s Spencer rifles, fully loaded with six in the magazine, and one in the chamber.

Under siege for over a week the men huddled in rifle pits dug with tin plates and hunting knives. Major Forsythe was wounded on the first day, but his courage continued to inspire his men. By the fourth day he had been hit twice more and his second-in-command, Lieutenant Frederick Beecher, for whom the island was eventually named, had been killed.

Roman Nose was a fearless leader and relentlessly continued the onslaught, leading one of the largest charges himself. Since they had little time to reload, Forsythe held his fire, ordering his men to shoot in volleys. The troopers were ordered to hold fire until the redskins were a mere fifty yards away. But those Spencers held seven rounds apiece, and, when they finally cut loose, wave after wave of Indians fell to its devastating firepower.

When the fifth wave collapsed, Roman Nose managed once again to rally his braves, and charged a sixth time. With only two more rounds left, the troopers fired and Roman Nose was hit point-blank, knocking him off his horse and into the shallow waters. The charge faltered, the Indians demoralized.

By the time the Army’s relief column finally arrived, what was left of Forsythe’s men had been reduced to eating the horses that had died during the fighting.

Cavalrymen everywhere were grateful for the extra firepower offered by the Spencer rifle, but the Army, with its usual logic, decided to replace it with the single-shot Springfield.

“Ever seen what happens to a Trapdoor that’s been fired a lot?” I asked Sonora. “The barrel heats up and the cartridges swell and stick in the breech. Got to pry ’em out with a pocket knife,” I said.

Sonora nodded his head. “Single-shot’s a great idea for cavalry. Reloading one’s real easy, especially when you’re galloping at the enemy,” he added sarcastically.

“Heard they were considering the Remington Rolling Block for a while,” I commented.

“Never had a chance,” he replied. “Sure, it’s a better rifle, so’s the Sharps for that matter. But it’s a lot easier for the government to retool old rifles and pocket the difference. Never mind the men what’s got to use ’em.”

The drill continued as we walked past.

“You’ll get a full sixty rounds a month for target practice, so make ’em count.” The instructor sounded less than convincing that it would be enough.

We passed through the buildings and onto an open field in back of the fort, where we found a dozen or more two-man pup tents staked out in equal columns. Standing out in front of them, talking to a couple of his men was a sergeant who, judging from Sonora’s description, had to be the man we were looking for.

Sonora Mason could hardly be described as soft, yet here he was hugging his friend and thumping his back, happy as a kid at Christmas. The fact that Sergeant Freeman was a good man
was immediately obvious to me, but at the present time he was also an embarrassed one.

“Let me go, ya big idiot, afore you crack a rib,” he gasped.

“Damn it’s good to see you, Nate.”

“Sure it is, kid, but Ah’m on duty. Army cain’t have its noncoms going ’round huggin’ other men.’ Specially not someone ugly as y’all.” He laughed.

Sergeant Nathaniel Freeman was a man of average height, but solidly built. His short-cropped, curly gray hair was thinning, and his face wrinkled, but he walked tall and his uniform was sharp, unusually so for a Southwestern post.

“Glad ya got mah letter, but Ah didn’t expect ya’d come all this way. Whose the galoot with y’all?” he asked, glancing my way.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, Nate. He’s white, oversized, and he’ll talk your ear off given half a chance, but he’s a friend of sorts,” Sonora said, looking over at me.

“Thanks a lot, Sonora” I said. “Don’t bust a cinch loadin’ on all that praise.”

“Sonora?” The sergeant looked puzzled. “That’s what you callin’ yourself now, Isiquiel?”

“Isiquiel?” I laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Never you mind,” he growled. “And you just better keep it to yourself,” he added.

“Sure thing. I can keep a secret as well as the next man…Isiquiel.”

Before he had a chance to reply, I turned and extended a hand to his friend, introducing myself. “Sonora said you’re with the Tenth Cavalry. A mite far from home, aren’t you?” I asked.

“The Army’s cut down a lot in the last couple of years. Only about fifty-seven thousand in the whole shebang now, so they’s usin’ colonels for inspection duty. We’re here as aides, and as an honor guard unit for Colonel Benjamin Grierson.”

“How’d you get so lucky?” asked Sonora, looking over at the tents unhappily.

“Supposed to be a special detail,” grunted the sergeant. “Ain’t very excitin’ but Ah wanted this postin’ ’cause it pays extra. Ah even had to compete with some other sergeants for the job.”

“How so?” I asked.

“Army had a contest, and as part o’ the competition they held a surprise inspection. Checked everything from soup to nuts. Boiled it down to just two o’ us. When they had us turn out for the full dress uniform inspection, it was so close they couldn’t choose between us, so the colonel finally had us strip down. Sergeant James was always crisp as a new bill, but, as it turned out, he was wearin’ store-bought civilian long johns. Most o’ the men do ’cause they’s more comfortable, but that was enough to disqualify him. Ah might’ve been wearin’ them, too, but Ah’d heard about that little ol’ trick from a captain Ah’d once served with. When the colonel saw Ah was the only one wearin’ Army issue undergarments, Ah got the job.”

“To the victor go the spoils,” I joked.

“They treatin’ you OK, Sarge?” Sonora was genuinely concerned.

“Sure, son. Ben Grierson’s a good man. In fact, Ah once heard him take on another colonel from the Third Infantry who claimed we was nothin’ more than a nigger unit. Said that he didn’t want
us forming up next to his men on parade drill. A real uppity sort. Well, Ah’ll tell ya, Colonel Grierson laid into that son-of-a-bitch like Ah never seen done. Told him the Tenth was takin enemy positions while his men were still wipin’ their asses in the latrines.”

“Your unit has been getting some good press lately,” I commented.

“Shit, a black man does his job well and all o’ a sudden the press is surprised. Hell, there’s been a whole bunch of black Army units, the Twenty-Fourth and Twenty-Fifth Infantry, for example, and the Ninth Cavalry. There’ve been black men fightin’ all the way back to Bunker Hill. But you wanna know how it really is? The Tenth Cav’ whups a few tired and hungry Injuns and all of a sudden we’re heroes.”

“I doubt they were that simple to beat,” I said.

“Nate here’s a real hero,” offered Sonora, whacking his friend on the back again. “Medal and all. Bunch of ’Paches had a whole column pinned down. Ol’ Nate here strolled up by his lonesome, calm as Sunday goin’ to meetin’, and took out five of ’em. They promoted him all the way up to sergeant-major.”

“Ya always did talk too much,” replied the sergeant. “And what do ya mean ‘ol’ Nate’? Ah kin still whup yo’ ass any day.”

“I’ll give you that, Sarge,” Sonora conceded in good humor.

“Right about one thing, though. Ya cain’t git any better than this ’cause there ain’t no black officers in this man’s Army.”

There was obviously a lot of depth, courage,
and humility to this grizzled old man, and I could sympathize with his disappointment.

“Give it time, Sarge,” I said encouragingly, but there was no reply.

After an uncomfortable silence Sergeant Freeman turned to Sonora. “You boys had anything to eat?” When we shook our heads, he led us back to the mess tent and saw to it that we were fed.

Sergeant-Major Freeman, we soon learned, shared a two-man tent with Corporal Carl Mathews who we found arranging his haversack as we entered the tent. The contents of the pack scattered on the floor were fairly standard: a metal plate and eating utensils, a dozen or so slightly moldy hardtack crackers, a change of socks, matches, a twist of tobacco, a bag of coffee beans, his razor, and a small sewing kit. The daily rations also included about six ounces of pork (occasionally maggot-ridden), a few dried apples, beans, and a potato.

“Corporal,” the sergeant asked after introducing us, “you suppose we could find quarters for these two stragglers?” Nate Freeman took three cups from off a tack box near his cot and reached for the coffee pot.

“If we move Johnson over in with Williams, they can use the extra tent. I’ll go see to it, Sarge.”

“Thanks, Carl.”

Corporal Mathews finished folding his pack and left, dropping the tent flap down after him.

“Hope you boys take it black. Ain’t got no cream or sugar, Isiquiel,” Nate said with a shrug.

Sonora shot him a dirty look. “That’s just fine.”

“Fine with me, too,” I said, chuckling.

“Sarge, you know anything about a herd of Spanish horses passing through here lately. They’d have a brand that looks something like this.” I drew an EH in the dirt floor, closing it off as Pete Evans had described to make four boxes. I briefly explained my situation.

“Sorry, son. We only pulled in here two weeks ago and the colonel’s had us camped back here the whole time. Only thing we’ve seen is the drill field, the back of the stable, and this tent city.” He paused a moment in thought. “You boys might check with Major Gilbert, though. He’s the fort’s commanding officer. Ain’t nothing goes on around here he don’t know about. Tell ya what, Ah’ll take ya over to see him soon as we get y’all settled.”

“Don’t know about Isiquiel, here,” I said, tipping my coffee cup to an annoyed Sonora Mason, “but I won’t be staying long. Say, any chance we can clean up before seeing the major?” I asked hopefully.

Sergeant Freeman shook his head. “You kid-din’? Around here? Hell, Ah’ve been ten years in the Southwest division, and been stationed in over a half dozen forts. Ain’t seen a bathhouse yet. After a while ya just sort of forget your sense o’ smell. Unless o’ course you’re an officer, that is.”

“The bunks are ready, Sarge,” Carl Mathews said, sticking his head through the tent flap.

I looked over at Sonora. “If I have to bunk with him, I sure hope it doesn’t take too long to lose.” I winked over at the sergeant.

“Lose? Lose what?” asked Nate.

“My sense of smell.” Nate laughed and Sonora threw his empty coffee cup at my head as I quickly ducked out of the way.

Sergeant Freeman later accompanied us to the office of the fort’s commander where we found Major Jeffery Gilbert seated behind an old, chipped flat-top desk. The rest of the office was equally Spartan, with only one other chair, which was currently occupied by Colonel Grierson. There was a flagpole in each corner, one for the flag, and the other for the unit’s colors. A picture of President Lincoln hung on the wall behind the colonel, still draped, I noticed, with black ribbon.

Sergeant Freeman was the first to speak. “Beggin’ the colonel’s permission, sir. These men would like to ask the major a few questions. Ah can vouch for them if necessary, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant-Major, that won’t be necessary. What can we do for you gentlemen?”

There was a subtle but noticeable hesitation before the word “gentlemen”, due I’m sure to our raggedy appearance.

“Colonel, I’m trailing after a herd of stolen horses that I believe passed through here, and thought the major or his men might have some information that could help me. The horses might have been wearing a Four box or an EH brand.”

Major Gilbert nodded his head. “Yes, I remember the outfit. The herd didn’t actually pass through the fort, mind you, one of my patrols came across it a few miles north of here.” The major turned to the colonel. “Lieutenant Peters was leading at the time and brought their ramrod
back here to the fort. Peters said the horses looked remarkably prime.”

“I know the lad,” commented the colonel. “He’s a good judge of horseflesh.”

“That sounds like them,” I said, encouraged.

“I’m empowered to do the purchasing for the Army in this whole area, but, try as I might, I couldn’t convince them to sell,” the major added. “That ramrod was a real hardcase. Said we couldn’t come close to the price he’d get elsewhere.” Major Gilbert turned back to the colonel. “We could have really used those horses. I even tried to, shall we say, convince him to sell. Let on he was risking confiscation of the herd for Army use, but he knew the law and basically called my bluff.”

“Sounds like whatever he knew of the law came from being on the wrong side of it, I’d say,” Colonel Grierson commented. He had an annoying habit of continually drumming his fingers on the table top.

“What did this cowboy look like, Major?” I asked.

“Oh, about your height and build. Moustache, cleft chin. Wore a brace of Remingtons cross-draw style.”

“Pierce,” I said, nodding to Sonora. “Did he happen to mention where he was headed?’

“Not precisely, but, from the reports my patrols gave me, I’d say they were being driven north into California.”

“That fits with what you figured,” Mason commented, pushing his hat up. “Maybe the Army can help, eh?”

I looked back at the officers. “That herd was
stolen from a
Señor
Hernandez. I was scouting for him at the time, and have been trailing the herd ever since. Good men were killed and the future of two ranches depends on my catching those rustlers. And I might mention that one of the ranch owners is ex-regular Army. What do you say, could you spare some men to go after them with me?”

“That Pierce really rubbed me the wrong way,” the major said, looking to the colonel for support.

“Then you’ll help him?” asked Sonora.

“Wish we could,” answered the colonel.

“Unfortunately there are several overlapping jurisdictions in this territory, such as the Department of the Interior and the militia. Hell, when Indians are involved, even the Society of Friends gets involved. In this case the robbery’s a civil matter, and our federal troops have been prohibited from interfering in such things. You might try the territorial marshal,” he suggested.

“Right now he’s out in the field and, from what I hear, isn’t expected back for a month,” Major Gilbert informed us. “Maybe the Arizona Rangers could help?” he offered.

“No, they won’t cross over into California, and I don’t have time to wait for the marshal,” I answered unhappily.

“Sorry, wish we could be of more help,” the major said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Time to go, boys. These men got business, too.” It was the sergeant speaking this time. “With your permission, sir,” he added.

“You’re dismissed, Sergeant,” Colonel Grierson replied.

Nate Freeman held the door open for us, but, as
Sonora started for it, I paused and turned back toward the major.

“You have been a help, Major, and I appreciate it, but I got just one last question. Have any of your patrols reported a large group of Mexican
vaqueros
in the area?”

“
Vaqueros?
No, they haven’t. Why? They part of the outfit that was hit?”

“That’s right.” I nodded.

“Friends of yours?” asked the colonel.

“I sure hope so,” I answered as the sergeant closed the door behind me.