Far from the sere desert around Fort Dawson and the difficulties assaulting Sergeant Terrance O’Callan, far-reaching decisions were being made along the banks of the Potomac. In the hallowed halls of the War Department, a large meeting room had been set up for a gathering as unique as it was important. Enough stars clustered around the conference table to form a respectable constellation.
Generals rubbed elbows with admirals, cabinet members, and an occasional scientist in sober, civilian dress. The proposal they had come to consider would affect the lives of many people in the United States and around the world.
“Gentlemen, let’s get down to business,” Admiral Standis, the chairman, announced when the guard at the door indicated all were present.
Throats cleared and chairs scraped as the assembled experts, politicians, and military men took places at the large, oval table. Seated to the right of the admiral, Secretary of the Interior Samuel J. Kirkwood nodded to the rumple-suited men of science he had brought along.
The scientists produce reams of paper and one opened a small brassbound wooden chest. From it he took a small instrument of unfamiliar nature and set it up on a tripod. When the last shifting of bodies, stroking of beards, and shuffling of notes ended, the chairman went on.
“When the proposal was brought to the navy to assist in establishing stations to observe and report on the weather, it was met with great enthusiasm. I’m sure you all know that sailing ships, and even steam-powered vessels, are highly vulnerable to conditions of the wind and water, storms and the like. To be able, through some scientific means, to predict the weather would be a godsend to the United States Navy. Such an advantage could make us the most powerful fleet afloat. Our, ah, British cousins notwithstanding.” Admiral Standis paused and cleared his throat.
“Therefore, we entered the program with considerable energy. Thanks to the efforts of Secretary Kirkwood, Secretary of War Lincoln, and the attorney general, I am now prepared to announce that such a project, that of reliably predicting the weather, is ready to be instituted. It is the President’s wish, and that of the secretaries of war and interior, that this enterprise be expanded. Naturally, a chain of stations along our east coast, or any other singular coast, would not accomplish the desired results. We propose to establish weather observation and reporting stations all across the nation and, ultimately, around the world. Of course, the navy has no bases on dry land. That’s where you gentlemen of the army come in.” A suppressed rumble of muttering voices filled the room.
~*~
Early the morning after his visit to Lester Wells, O’Callan rode back into the small village. His twinkling blue eyes noted a considerable increase in activity over the previous day.
Leroy Hays and his posse had returned with their prisoner and a hanging was soon to be held. Men, women, and children filled the wide, leveled stretch of hard-packed desert soil that served as a main street—though it hardly deserved the name. The town’s businesses faced each other across this straight strip, which sported at its central—and only—intersection not a bandstand, but a gallows.
Behind the tall facades of the main drag and its ominous decoration, two narrow, twisting, and uneven tracks served the low, flat-topped adobe buildings wherein the inhabitants of Lester Wells resided. It was from these and outlying ranches that the people swarmed to the gallows plaza to observe what they assumed would be a speedy and public trial and equally quick execution of the captured killer.
Terry O’Callan threaded his way through the growing crowd of overalled and homespun-clad thrill seekers and rode his horse up to Hays’s saloon. He dismounted, beating the trail dust from his uniform. Shouldering his way through a throng of men, he went directly inside the cantina, but had to stop a moment to let his eyes get used to the windowless, dark interior. No matter how often, or how recently, he had entered this emporium of spirits, O’Callan always examined it closely, a soldier’s instinct too deeply ingrained to ever take his surroundings casually.
The walls and floors were made of rough-hewn lumber, the latter being hopelessly and perpetually stained with the results of some of the least accurate tobacco chewers of Arizona Territory. The bar itself was a simple device, made up of four barrels that supported three heavy four-by-twelve railroad trestle planks laid across them. The top surfaces had been carefully planed, sanded, and given a thick coat of varnish so that glasses and bottles could be slid down the length to thirsty customers. Today, Leroy Hays himself tended the bar while Charlie Gonzoles arranged the crudely made, gaudily painted chairs in neat rows. Hays looked up and spotted O’Callan. He gazed at the short little sergeant with mild surprise as O’Callan walked to the bar.
“Sneak off fer a snort, O’Callan?” he greeted the cavalry sergeant.
Terry O’Callan’s voice tightened with mild anxiety. His plan could work, would in fact work, if he got Leroy’s cooperation. “Naw, it tain’t that. I got important business with ye, Hays ... Official army business, that is.”
Leroy Hays noted the serious tone and demeanor of his visitor and jerked his head toward the partition that separated the barroom from his office and storage area. “I got a trial and hangin’ coming up shortly. Charlie’s fixin’ the place for court now, but he can cover for me for a few minutes.” He led O’Callan back to his office and motioned him in, closing the door behind them. “Now, what’s the trouble out at Fort Perdido, O’Callan?”
“Lord love us all! Sure an’ ye’re startin’ to use that heathen name fer our beloved Fort Dawson, are ye? Has everyone gone daft? Colonel Dawson was a fine an’ brave man. Sure it is he deserves a fort named after him. An’ equal so that it be treated with the proper respect.” His tirade done, O’Callan calmed and addressed the purpose of his visit. “No trouble, Hays, it’s just that I’ve got a small favor to beg o’ ye.” Hays took a bottle out of his desk drawer and poured them each a shot. “Hell, I’ll be glad to do what I can. What is it you need?”
Terry O’Callan took a deep breath so he could get it all out without being interrupted. Then he blurted out his request.
Hays stopped short, the glass halfway to his lips. “You just wait a minute, O’Callan. What kind of deviltry are you up to?”
O’Callan raised his hand in a calming gesture. “No deviltry, Hays. I assure ye that it’s all decent and above board. Ye do have the names, don’t ye?”
“Shore I do,” Hays admitted.
“I figgered ye would,” O’Callan answered with a relieved sigh. “I truly need those names, an’ to tell ye the truth, I’m never very sober when I’m over there, Hays.”
Hays sputtered through his drink, then belted out a full, deep laugh, slapping his thigh. He shook his head as his mirth subsided. “I gotta hand it to you, O’Callan, you’re frank and honest enough about that ... but, I don’t think it’s the kind of information I should give out. What do you want to know fer?”
“What I’m gonna do is a secret. If I break the law, ye kin come and arrest me.”
“You know I ain’t nothin’ but a town marshal, O’Callan. I ain’t got any authority outside o’ Lester Wells and in particular, not at the fort. You soljer boys are the real law in these parts.”
“Hays,” O’Callan pleaded desperately, “I know ye run an honest game here and I trust ye. I’ve just got to have those names and I have a proposition I think ye’ll agree to. I’ve got a hundred dollars that I’ll give to ye, an’ if I misuse the names, ye kin keep it. And once ye find out what I’m usin’ ’em fer an’ ye agree that it was a good cause, ye kin return me money.”
Hays thought a moment. “Well, that sounds fair enough to me. Sort of a bond, like. I’ll write it all out and we’ll both sign. You give me the money and I’ll give you their names.”
“That’s fine, Leroy. I appreciate this. Just ye be careful with the money. ’Tis part o’ me savin’s fer me retirement. To become a gentleman saloonkeeper like yerself, ye know.”
Hays laughed sympathetically. “I’m flattered. But I don’t know if there’s all that much glory and satisfaction in this trade. You stayin’ for the hangin’?” he asked casually as he scribbled away on the list of names.
“Naw. I’ll stay for some drinkin’, but executions were never me idea of a spectator sport.”
Leroy drew up the agreement next. O’Callan’s money changed hands and he pocketed the list. Then the two men sat in comfort while they consumed several shots of Leroy Hays’s excellent rye whiskey. Their contemplation and small talk were interrupted when Charlie Gonzoles knocked lightly on the door before opening it to stick his head into the room. “Time to start the trial, Leroy ... ah, Yer Honor.”
“Okay, Charlie, be right there. You might as well stay for the trial,” he suggested to O’Callan. “No whiskey can be sold until after.”
“Right ye are, Leroy. What this fellow do?”
“Murdered his partner for full claim in a mine. But instead of doing it nice and quiet-like, he chose to take care of it right here in Lester Wells, in front of about a dozen witnesses. So now it’s my job to hang him.”
The trial went quickly enough. The biggest problem developed over selecting a jury of twelve men who were not also witnesses to the killing. Once the first two citizens had told their story, there was no doubt that the accused would hang. By early afternoon it was over and the bar open again. O’Callan had three more shots of Leroy’s good rye and headed back to Fort Dawson while the condemned man was being led to the gallows.
“Oh, God!” the scruffy gallows-bait wailed. “Oh, please don’t let ’em do it, God. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want it to happen like that. Oh ... God!”
“Sure an’ he’s addressin’ the right feller,” O’Callan speculated aloud. “’Cause he’s gonna be meetin’ up with Him right soon now.”
They had already sounded retreat by the time he arrived, so O’Callan knew that Brannigan wouldn’t be in the orderly room. He talked briefly with the corporal of the guard and learned that the day’s scouting patrol had returned without cutting any sign of renewed activity by Halcon and his band. Stabling his horse, then, he crossed the parade ground to the NCO quarters where he found Brannigan seated on his bunk, relaxing over a deep swallow or two from his private bottle.
“I think I’m gettin’ on top o’ me little problem. But I’ll need some help from you, Jimmy boy.”
“Not me, bucko!” Brannigan protested.
“’Tis a simple thing I want o’ ye. I need the services of yer artistic clerk, Dillingham. I’ve some writin’ I need him to do.”
“Oh.” Jimmy Brannigan paused a moment, considering this. “If that’s all ye need o’ me sure. Take him and I wish ye the joy of it.”
Dillingham wasn’t too happy about being rousted out of the barracks and ordered back to work. “I’m getting tired of being a clerk,” he protested. “I volunteered for the cavalry so I could fight Indians, remember?”
“I’ll tell ye what, Dillingham,” O’Callan offered. “Ye do a real good job fer me an’ I’ll see if Brannigan’ll let ye go out on patrol with me. I’ll let ye keep comin’ till an Apache shoots at ye. Agreed?”
Dillingham smiled broadly, then nodded his head in excited affirmation. “Agreed, Sergeant. Now, what is it you want me to do?”
“Three things. I want ye to take the names of the hundred and fifty troopers who are goin’ to attend the party an’ divide them into fifteen groups of ten each. Then ye copy these names onto fifteen little dance programs.”
“Oh, I understand,” Dillingham chirped, looking at the fifteen names on the list O’Callan handed him. “Each of these ladies will dance with ten troopers. To avoid any embarrassment or favoritism, you’re going to direct who’s to dance when and with whom.”
“Uh ... ” O’Callan blinked at the clerk’s intricate grammar. “Ye’re an intelligent lad, Dillingham. I couldn’t had said that better mesself. It’ll be a pleasure to get an Injun to shoot at ye. The next thing is that I want ye to compose a nice invitation fer the fifteen ladies.”
“Let’s see,” Dillingham began thinking aloud. He scribbled away for several minutes then handed the result to O’Callan.
The Troopers of Fort Dawson
Respectfully Request
the Honor of Your Company
at the
Annual Regimental Troopers Christmas Ball
on Saturday, December Eighteenth Eighteen Hundred and Eighty
R.S.V.P.
“Perfect!” O’Callan enthused. “Only, what that’s R.S.V.P. on the bottom?”
“That’s French. It means “please reply.” All the really ritzy invitations have that on them.”
“Then have it we shall. Now start yer writin’ whilst I run over to the drum major and arrange for the music.”
~*~
Drum Major Schmidt sat in the corner of the sutler’s store drinking lukewarm beer in greedy gulps. He had undone the top button of his trousers, so his belly protruded unrestrained to contain all the brew he planned to pour into it. The fat of his jowls caused his lips to protrude in a perpetual pout that stuck out beyond the grandiose arch of his magnificent Imperial Austrian mustache. This was a night for sad reflections for Drum Major Schmidt—usually a nightly occurrence. His small blue eyes misted with tears as he thought of his dear, departed, mother, now long dead and buried in their far-off home in Tierhoff, Austria.
It always saddened him to think of the loss the world had suffered at the death of this musical virtuoso. Her grace and elegance, her impassioned delivery of any selection. Ach! So sad. He smacked his lips loudly and took another long pull of the foam-topped lager.
O’Callan sat down beside him and nodded politely. Then, without waiting for the formalities and without preamble, he spoke rapidly. “We’ll be needin’ some music fer the annual troopers’ ball, Schmidt.”
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Schmidt almost choked on his beer. “Zertainly not!” he barked. “I vill not be taking my band to der trooper party. Alvays dere is fight! Two years ago dey tear up der drum und bend two trompetes. Liebe Gott! Bist du ganzlich verrückt?”
O’Callan seemed unaffected by the pear-shaped Austrian’s explosion. “I said ‘ball,’ not party,” he replied soothingly. “There’ll be lady guests ... fer dancin’. A very nice affair.”
The big immigrant bandmaster looked at him disbelievingly. “Vot ladies? Dere ain’t no single, young ladies vitin a hundert mils of dis fort. Don’t lie to me, O’Callan.”
“Sure an’ I’m not lyin’, we have lady guests comin’ ... there’ll be a likker punch, instead o’ whiskey bottles ... ” he went on, his idea taking shape and soaring in his mind. “We’ll decorate the big room at the end o’ headquarters fer it, too. Full-dress uniform, Schmidt ... what do ye think o’ that?”
“You mean you really vant der music for to dance?” Schmidt asked, delighted.
“Exactly that! An’—an’ we’ll need ten numbers, plus a grand march an’ ‘Seein’ Nelly Home’—that’s traditional, ye know. Kin ye do it, Schmidt?”
W.A.M. Schmidt thought it over a second, a new light coming to his eyes. “Ja ... ja, chust might be. All right, O’Callan,” he replied at last, “—You leafe der music to me. Der regimental band vill profide a delightvul efening of entertainment for der troopers und, ah, ladies. But ... vere do you get dese ladies?”
Terry patted Schmidt on the shoulder. “You just leave that to me, bucko. I got it all figgered out.”
O’Callan returned to his troop orderly room to spend the rest of the evening sorting out the paperwork as Dillingham laboriously applied himself to his task. It was well after midnight before they stopped for the night. It would take, Dillingham estimated, another evening of hand-aching effort to complete all that the sergeant wanted done. But at least the invitations were ready, and Terry O’Callan didn’t go to bed until he had prepared his full-dress uniform for the next day.