“Well, look what the cat drug in,” Alton Broom exclaimed. “Jordan, how the hell are you?” The affable clerk in the post trader’s store came out from behind the counter to shake Jordan’s hand.
“Alton,” Jordan acknowledged, matching the clerk’s grin.
“You look plum wooly,” Alton went on. “I swear, I almost didn’t recognize you behind all them whiskers and lookin’ most like an Injun in them buckskins.” He shook his head, amazed by the transformation of the young man he had last seen in early fall the year before. “When you left here, I swear, I didn’t think we’d likely see you again. Figured you’d head for Oregon country or Montana, or maybe join the gold rush in the Black Hills.”
“Reckon not,” was Jordan’s simple reply. He was not a talkative man by nature, and the past six months alone in the mountains had reduced his conversation to simple commands to his horses.
Always impatient for news from outside the confines of Fort Laramie, Alton pressed. “Well, where have you been? Sergeant Grant said he had an idea you turned wild, took to livin’ like an Injun. From the looks of you, maybe he was right.”
Jordan smiled at the mention of the name. Hamilton Grant had befriended him when Jordan had been under suspicion of murdering two people in a bank robbery, even before Jordan was proven innocent of the charge. There were still some at Fort Laramie who were not ready to accept the verdict, not that Jordan gave them much thought. There were others on the post whom Jordan had thought about during the long, hard winter in the mountains: the post surgeon, Captain Stephen Beard, and his daughter, Kathleen. That thought prompted him to unconsciously reach up and stroke his whiskers. He supposed Alton was probably right—he must look pretty much like a grizzly. Then, aware of the pause in Alton’s questioning as the clerk waited for an answer, Jordan replied, “The Big Horns, the Yellowstone, the Powder Valley, but mostly the Big Horns.”
“Damn,” Alton responded. “That’s pretty dangerous country for a white man alone, ain’t it?”
“Not if the Sioux and the Cheyenne don’t know you’re there, I reckon.” The image of Kathleen Beard still in his mind, he changed the subject. “I guess I’ll go over to the washhouse and clean up a little. That is, if the army don’t mind.”
Alton shrugged. “I don’t think they care if you use it or not. It’s too damn cold to take a bath, anyway. You’re liable to take a chill and come down with somethin’.”
Jordan smiled. “I reckon I’ll risk it. I need to see if my razor’s rusted up,” he joked. “First, though, I need to take care of my horses, see if they’ll let me turn ’em in with the cavalry mounts at the stables.”
“Maybe. You still ridin’ that ornery nag—what’s her name?”
“Sweet Pea?”
“Yeah, Sweet Pea. That horse musta took a nip outta every horse in the corral when you had her in there before.”
Jordan couldn’t help but grin when he pictured the belligerent mare in his mind. “Sweet Pea ain’t real sociable—that’s a fact.”
“See much Injun sign on your way in from the Big Horns?” The question came from a corner of the dimly lit room, surprising Jordan. He had not even glanced that way when Alton had claimed his attention. Turning now to see who had asked the question, he was almost startled when he saw the man seated at the corner table, quietly working on a bottle of whiskey. At first Jordan thought he was seeing a ghost, for the man bore a striking resemblance to Perley Gates, the old man who had schooled Jordan in the art of staying alive in the wilderness.
“Some,” Jordan answered, “mostly small huntin’ parties, but I came across one burned-out cabin with two folks dead.” He paused a moment before adding, “I ain’t sure it was Injuns that done it. There were three white men there when I got there. They claimed it was the work of Sioux warriors. Fellow claimed he was a preacher. He was praying over their grave when I showed up.”
“That feller was in here last week,” Alton said, “him and his two sons. Quotin’ a lot of stuff from the Bible. I reckon it was from the Bible, though I ain’t one to know. They were drinkin’ hard liquor with the rest of the sinners.” Remembering his manners then, Alton laughed and said, “Speakin’ of sinners, this here’s Ned Booth.” He turned toward the man seated at the table. “Ned’s plannin’ on headin’ out pretty much the same way you just come from.”
Ned Booth got up to extend his hand to Jordan. “Well, nearbout the same country,” he said. “I’m headin’ out to the Black Hills in a day or two, soon as I catch up on my drinkin’.”
“Jordan Gray,” Jordan said, taking the hand extended. It was easy to see how he had first thought he was looking at Perley Gates. The man could have been Perley’s brother, or maybe his son, for as he stepped into the light of the doorway, Jordan could see that he was a good bit younger than Perley had been. He even wore the same type of floppy hat with a flat crown, like Perley’s, and buckskin shirt and pants. But the unruly hair sticking out from under the hat was more brown than gray. “You might run into a little snow yet,” Jordan offered.
“I expect I might,” Booth allowed. “Buy you a drink?”
“Thanks just the same,” Jordan replied, “but I think I’ll go on over and get cleaned up.” He nodded to Alton and turned to leave. “Maybe I’ll take you up on it if I see you later on.”
“I ain’t ever seen him around here before,” Booth commented as he and Alton stood watching Jordan head across the parade ground.
“He’s a good man,” Alton said. “Been through some hard times for a man that young. I expect he’d be a good man to have at your back if you was in trouble.”
* * *
Leaving the wash house, Jordan met a young private hurrying across the parade ground to find him.
“Are you Jordan Gray?” the private asked.
“I am,” Jordan replied, somewhat surprised, since he had been on the post no more than a couple of hours.
“Captain McGarity sent me to find you. He said if you wouldn’t mind, he’d like to talk to you.”
“Is that a fact?” Jordan responded, wondering why the post adjutant wanted to see him. He knew Paul McGarity. He seemed to be a fair man, even considering the fact that it was McGarity who had ordered Jordan’s arrest for the bank incident at Fort Smith. The captain had been truly apologetic when it was proven that Jordan had had nothing to do with the robbery or the murder of the two bank employees. He was simply doing his duty, and Jordan understood that.
“Yes, sir,” the private replied. “He’s at the adjutant’s office. I can show you the way.”
“I know where it is. Tell your captain I’ll be along directly.”
The young soldier hesitated. He had expected immediate reaction to the captain’s request, which to him was a direct order. Reading the confusion in the private’s face, Jordan smiled. “Tell McGarity I’ll be there in a few minutes. I don’t wanna come with soap and a razor in my hands.”
“Yes, sir,” the private said, relieved when he realized that Jordan was not refusing to accompany him. “I’ll tell him you’re on your way.”
* * *
“Come in, Gray.” Paul McGarity got up from his chair to greet Jordan. “Thanks for coming by.” He offered Jordan a chair across from his desk. “Looks like you’ve taken to the wilds since I last saw you,” he commented, looking Jordan over. “Alton Broom said you were on the post.”
“Yep, I rode in this mornin’,” Jordan replied, then went on to report the massacre he had stumbled upon on his way to Laramie and the three white men who were already at the scene. “The old man called himself Preacher Rix. He claimed it was Sioux that done it—hard to say.”
McGarity shook his head sadly. “Weldon,” he uttered softly. “From where you say the cabin was, that would be the Weldons’ place.” He thought for a moment before continuing. “That fellow Rix passed through here a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t talk to him, but I saw him and his sons at the post trader’s. If I recollect, I believe Alton Broom said the man was a missionary or something. Sorry to hear about the Weldons. We’ll need to send out a patrol to check it out.”
Jordan didn’t respond, but he wondered what good it would do to send out a patrol. It was too late to help the poor folks lying in the grave near the smoking ruins of their cabin. He also wondered why McGarity had wanted to talk to him. He and the captain were hardly close friends.
“I understand from Alton that you’ve spent the winter in the Powder River and Big Horn country.” Jordan nodded, but made no comment. McGarity went on. “Some of our scouts have seen some signs of hostile activity heating up now that the winter is starting to let up, and now there’s this incident you just told me about. But we don’t know where the main concentration of hostiles is. Since you’ve spent the winter in that country, maybe you could give us an idea as to what’s going on.” He paused to study Jordan’s face, wondering if the soft-spoken young man held any grudges for his part in Jordan’s mistaken arrest. “Colonel Bradley would be most appreciative of your help,” he added, referring to the post commander.
As for Jordan’s disposition, he had no time for grudges. He had never personally met the post commander, Lieutenant Colonel Luther Prentice Bradley, and he would be very surprised if the colonel really knew him.
“We could put you on the payroll as a scout,” McGarity added when Jordan failed to answer right away. “We’d provide food for you and forage for your horses. Whaddaya say, Gray? A man like you, what else are you gonna do?”
A man like me. The comment caused Jordan to wonder what the captain meant by that. He had never given thought to the issue. He supposed that someone like McGarity could easily lump him in with the trappers and scouts who wandered aimlessly over the mountains and prairie, with no thought beyond next week. What was he going to do with the rest of his life? In truth, he had avoided thinking about it. One thing he was certain about, however—he was damn sure not going to try farming again. He had hired out to work on a farm when he was a boy because there had been nothing else to do. He had tried to farm his own land after he had married because it was the only way to provide for his wife and young son. Now, with his wife and son in the grave, victims of lawless raiders, he loathed the thought of settling down in one spot to scratch out an existence raising corn and beans—which prompted another question he was at a loss to answer. Why had he returned to Fort Laramie? Was it because Kathleen Beard was here? He immediately dismissed the thought from his mind.
“All right,” he abruptly replied. “I reckon you’re right. I don’t have anything else to do. Might as well give it a try.”
“Splendid!” McGarity replied. “Colonel Bradley will be grateful. I’ll walk you over to meet Lieutenant Wallace. You’ll be working for him.”
* * *
Lieutenant Thomas Jefferson Wallace turned when he heard Jordan and Captain McGarity approaching. Seeing that it was the captain, he immediately stiffened to attention. Wallace was West Point, and perhaps the only officer on the post who revered military discipline fervently. He was a handsome man, as tall as Jordan, with wavy blond hair. He was so perfectly cast in his uniform that Jordan could not imagine him wearing casual attire. Wallace was the executive officer of M Company, Second Cavalry. He had already established himself as a confident young officer, eager for combat with the hostiles. “Morning, sir,” he greeted McGarity smartly and snapped a stiff salute, while eyeing the man in buckskins warily.
“Good morning, Thomas,” McGarity returned with a salute somewhat more casual. “I’ve got a new scout that’ll be working with you. Lieutenant Thomas Wallace, Jordan Gray. Jordan here knows the Big Horn and Powder River country pretty well.”
“Jordan,” Wallace acknowledged. “Glad to have you aboard. We can always use a man familiar with that area.” He extended his hand. The lieutenant’s greeting was delivered in a polite but stiff manner. He, like almost everyone else on the post, was familiar with the name Jordan Gray, and he was somewhat surprised to hear Jordan was assigned to him as a scout.
Jordan shook his hand and replied, “Tom.”
“Thomas,” Wallace at once corrected. “We may as well start off on the right foot. I prefer my scouts address me as Lieutenant Wallace. It’s important to keep proper discipline, especially in combat.”
Jordan took a moment to consider the young officer before replying. “Right, Lieutenant,” he finally replied, “and you can call me Mr. Gray.” He briefly considered suggesting that the lieutenant could kiss the part of his anatomy that contacted his saddle. But when he caught a sideways glance from McGarity, he decided the brash young officer’s remark was more amusing than provoking.
Taken aback by Jordan’s obvious exception to his remark, Wallace said, “Right. Well, Mr. Gray, let’s hope you know the country as well as you claim.”
There was a definite spark of conflict between the two young men, hardly a good beginning, and McGarity wondered if he had made a mistake in assigning Jordan to M Company. Oh, well, he decided, they’ll either work it out between them, or I’ll transfer Gray to another company. He knew Wallace would be leading a patrol out to investigate the Weldon murders, probably the next day. Maybe they would end up shooting each other. Truth be known, McGarity didn’t care much for Wallace either. It might be a good thing for the brash young officer to work with a scout like Jordan Gray. McGarity had an idea that Jordan wouldn’t hesitate to tell Wallace to go to hell if he took a notion to.
“Very well, then, Gray,” the lieutenant said, after McGarity informed him that he would be taking a patrol out to the Weldon place. “We’ll ride out day after tomorrow. That’ll give you time to get yourself settled. You can report to Sergeant Grant at the cavalry barracks when you’re ready. Do you know where the barracks are?”
Jordan nodded, pleased to hear that he would be working with Hamilton Grant. “The long building I passed on the way in, next to the stables.” Wallace nodded. Jordan then turned to McGarity. “Anything else you need from me, Captain?”
“That’s all, Jordan. I’ll fill Lieutenant Wallace in on the raid on Weldon’s place. I expect that will be your first job as a scout, to lead his patrol back there.”
* * *
“I heard you were back,” a grinning Hamilton Grant said as he turned to see Jordan approaching the stables. “I was just lookin’ at that ragged piece of gristle you call a horse, and I told Macy here there wasn’t but one man in the whole territory that would ride a horse like that.” He stepped forward to meet Jordan, his hand extended. “You’re sure a sight for sore eyes, Jordan. How are you?”
“Sergeant Grant,” Jordan responded warmly and shook the burly sergeant’s hand. “I reckon I’ve been better, but I just found out I’ll be workin’ with you,” he joked, “so things might get worse.”
Grant laughed. “Yeah, the lieutenant told me you were gonna be assigned to our company as a scout. Say hello to Macy here. Macy and I served together under Stonewall Jackson in that little disagreement between the North and the South.” Macy stepped forward and shook Jordan’s hand.
Jordan had learned something about Hamilton Grant’s background when he had been incarcerated in the Fort Laramie guardhouse, awaiting trial. He had developed a genuine friendship with the gregarious sergeant, sparked probably by the fact that Grant believed him when he proclaimed his innocence. He learned that Hamilton had held the rank of captain in the Confederate Army and, like many others, decided to serve in the Union Army at a reduced rank after the surrender. Jordan had found it rather ironic that Hamilton’s last name was Grant, not a popular name in the Rebel Army. Ten years had passed since Lee’s surrender at Appomattox, years that saw Grant move up in rank to that of First Sergeant of Company M. In private, Macy still addressed him as Captain, although Grant never encouraged him to do so. Less concerned with military ranking, Jordan simply judged the husky sergeant to be a good man, and he had been on the verge of reconsidering the offer to sign on as a scout until he learned he would be working with him.
Part of the afternoon was spent with Hamilton Grant, during which Jordan was filled in on the normal routine of the civilian scouts. At the present time, he learned, he was the only white scout attached to M Company, the other six being Crow Indians. Afterward, when Grant had other duties to attend to, Jordan moved his gear into a small storeroom behind the stables. This eight-by-twelve room would serve as his quarters on the post. Grant had arranged it for him. It suited Jordan just fine. If he had been given the choice, he would have probably moved his horses and his gear some distance downriver to set up camp. But Grant pointed out the fact that he needed to be close in case he was needed in a hurry.
At Hamilton’s invitation, Jordan joined the first sergeant for supper, where he met several other members of M Company. They offered polite greetings of welcome, but Jordan guessed by the open stares of curiosity that his reputation had preceded him. The fact that he had at one time been a guest in the guardhouse awaiting trial for murder was not exactly a secret either. Fort Laramie, like all army posts, kept very few secrets. So it was well known among the military population that the new scout was the same man who had brutally slain a man less than a year before. The troopers who had witnessed the scene had talked about the grisly execution. So Jordan was not surprised that there would be a tendency on the part of the soldiers to keep a respectful distance from him. In fact, Grant and Macy were the only troopers who felt comfortable around him.
Supper finished, Grant walked with Jordan back to the stables. Crossing the parade ground, they approached the bachelor officers’ quarters, affectionately known among the officers as Old Bedlam. The clear sounds of a string quartet could be heard emanating from the room at the rear of the building. Hamilton explained that the building was the social hub of the post, where the officers held parties and dances. He said he had heard that some of the young officers were hosting a spring social that evening.
As they neared the building, they came up behind a couple walking toward the front steps. In the fading half-light of evening, the couple was unaware of Jordan and Hamilton until Hamilton spoke. “Good evening, ma’am . . . sir.” He saluted when the couple turned to acknowledge the greeting.
Jordan was stunned when the young lady turned to face them. “Kathleen,” he blurted.
Kathleen Beard seemed equally startled for a moment before recognizing the broad-shouldered figure in buckskins. “Jordan?” She then gasped, hardly believing her eyes. Recovering quickly from the surprise, she said, “My goodness, I wasn’t sure that was you. You look like an Indian in this light,” she teased.
Not sure how to reply, Jordan simply shrugged and said, “I reckon.”
“You know each other?” This question came from Kathleen’s escort, whom Jordan had scarcely noticed, his gaze having been captured by the image of the woman who had filled his thoughts on many a cold winter night. Jordan glanced at the young man. Wallace. Kathleen’s escort is Lieutenant Wallace. Now Jordan had another reason to dislike the arrogant young officer, this one stronger than the others. From the look on the lieutenant’s face, it was obvious that Wallace was not pleased to learn that Kathleen knew his newest scout.
“Are you on your way to the party?” she asked, knowing full well that he wasn’t, but unable to resist the opportunity to tease him.
“I hardly think so,” Thomas Jefferson Wallace answered for him. “The bachelor officers’ quarters are off-limits to enlisted men and scouts”—he paused for emphasis—“Indian or white.”
Jordan ignored the rude remark, his gaze captured by the warm smile on Kathleen’s face. “Sergeant Grant is giving me a hand gettin’ settled,” he said. Then shifting his gaze momentarily to the impatient officer, he added, “After I get my gear settled, I might come back to see if they need any servants for your party.”
Kathleen laughed, but finding no humor in Jordan’s joke, Wallace scowled and insisted, “Come, Kathleen, we’re missing the dancing.” He then directed an order in Grant’s direction. “Carry on, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” Grant replied, making no attempt to hide the grin on his face. But Jordan remained motionless, his eyes locked on Kathleen’s.
“Come to see me tomorrow,” she said, placing her hand on Jordan’s forearm. “I’m anxious to hear how you’ve been.”
“We’ll be leaving in the morning on patrol,” Wallace immediately inserted, obviously irritated by the lady’s hand on Jordan’s arm. “I don’t think Mr. Jordan will have time for visiting.”
“That’s a fact,” Jordan said, his eyes still captive of her gaze, “but I’d be pleased to visit when we get back.”
“That’s a promise,” Kathleen replied, her smile lighting the gloom of evening. “It’s nice to see you again,” she called over her shoulder as Lieutenant Wallace took her arm and led her toward the steps.
Jordan stood transfixed until he felt a tug on his arm. “Looks like you and the lieutenant have somethin’ in common after all,” Hamilton Grant remarked, thoroughly amused by anything that served to get Wallace’s goat. “Give you somethin’ to talk about on patrol.”
Jordan turned his gaze away from the steps. “We’re just friends. She nursed me back to health after I took a couple of bullets in the shoulder.” He didn’t care to comment further, especially to express his disappointment to see that she was keeping company with a man as arrogant as Wallace. In spite of reminding himself that he had no stake in Kathleen Beard’s life, it still angered him that she was being escorted by the lieutenant.