The sun touched the tops of the Potrillo Mountains as Matt Stryker knocked on the door to General Hunter’s offices.
“Enter.”
Stryker opened the door, removed his battered campaign hat, and stepped inside. A sergeant major sat at a desk positioned to keep anyone who entered from being able to walk straight to the general’s offices. “What is it?” the sergeant major said.
“Matthew Stryker here on orders to see Major Adams.”
Adams’ voice came from the open door of the small office on the left. “Come on in, Stryker.”
“Sir.” Stryker strode into Major Adams’ office. The sergeant major watched him like he was looking for a mistake that would let him pounce on Stryker. He saw none.
“Matthew Stryker, sir, reporting as ordered.”
Major Adams looked up from his paperwork. “You’re a lieutenant, Stryker. Get rid of those stripes.” He pushed a pair of looey straps across the desk. “Put these on your tunic.”
“Sir.”
Adams gave Stryker a hard look. “Don’t know why, Stryker, but you’re on special duty, attached to this office. The general expects you to report back here in one month with a full troop of volunteers.
“Yes, sir. I’ll need authority to make requisitions and attach personnel.”
“Yes. Yes. That’s all here.” He handed Stryker a thin envelope.
Stryker opened the flap and removed a single sheet of paper.
To whom it may concern
Lieutenant Matthew L. Stryker is attached to the office of the commanding general, Army of the Southwest, and is to be extended every courtesy and assistance. His requisitions for men and materiel shall be considered as coming from this office, with paperwork forwarded to Major Andrew A. Adams at Fort Bliss.
George Washington Hunter
General, commanding
Army of the Southwest
The general’s signature flowed across the page, hardly readable, but carrying ample authority.
“Thank you, Major,” Stryker said. “I’ll put the bars on my tunic. Thank you, sir, and by your leave, sir.”
“Report in no less than thirty days, Stryker.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do that, sir.”
From the General’s offices, Stryker went straight to the guardhouse. A different corporal sat at the desk.
“What’ll it be, sergeant.”
“I need you to let Ben Stroud out.”
“Can’t do that. He’s got ten days coming, and he’s only been here one, going on two.”
“Need ’im now.”
“And I said, no can do.”
Stryker pulled the envelope he’d gotten from Major Abrams to the corporal. “The General says I can requisition anyone I want or need. I need Ben Stroud.”
The corporal pushed his chair back and stepped past Stryker to the door. “Sergeant of the guard,” he hollered.
No answer.
“Sergeant of the guard!”
A door slammed and boots crunched against gravel. “What’s going on?”
The corporal took a step back. “This here man wearing sergeant’s stripes come askin’ for Ben Stroud, saying he’s Lieutenant Matthew Somethin’ Stryker. I told him Stroud still has time to serve, but he wants that drunk now.”
“Sergeant Stryker?”
“Until about an hour ago I was,” Stryker said. “General Hunter made me into a second looey and gave me a job of hunting Apaches. Says I can have any man I want for the job, and I want Ben Stroud.”
“Show me that paper, Tygart.”
The corporal handed the General’s letter to the sergeant, who squinted at it, held his breath as he mouthed the words, then let it out almost like a sigh. “Looks like Stroud goes free,” he said.
“No, sarge, he don’t go free, he goes tied to me. If he tried running away, he’s dead.”
The sergeant showed a hint of a smile. “All right, lieutenant. I suggest you get rid of the stripes and get some bars.”
“Just ain’t got around to that yet, sarge, but you’re dead right. Maybe I’d better do that right here, while Stroud’s getting ready to leave. Got a knife?”
Stryker unsheathed the Bowie that hung from his army-issue gunbelt behind his right hip, unbuckled the gunbelt, and caught it by the flapped pistol holster. “Mind if I just lay this on the desk?”
“You can hang it from a peg.”
“Sure. Didn’t think of that.” Stryker hung the belt, shucked his blue shirt, and sliced the stitches of sergeant stripes with the tip of the Bowie.
“Knife cuts,” the sergeant said.
“Shaves, too. Holds and edge like nobody’s business. Man I got it from said it’s a genuine James Black knife, made with a piece of a star.”
“Nah.”
“Needle and thread anywhere around?”
“Nope. We don’t do mending here.”
“Never mind.” Stryker put his shirt back on. “Now, if you’d bring Ben Stroud out here, we’ll get out of your way.”
“Your funeral.” The sergeant waved at the cellblock. “Get Stroud out here, Tygart.”
The corporal grabbed the keys and unlocked the cellblock door. Stryker followed him in.
“Ben Stroud,” Tygart said. “Lieutenant Stryker’s taking you out of this here guardhouse.”
“Ain’t going.” Stroud turned over to face the wall.
“Unlock the cell,” Stryker said.
Tygart unlocked it.
“Now, Stroud. Either you come along on your own two legs or I’ll break them for you and you can spend a couple of months learning how to walk again.”
“Shee-it. Ain’t no buck sergeant gonna beat on me. I’s a buffler sojer.”
Stryker glared at Ben Stroud’s hunched back. “Alright, Big Ben. Just lay there while there’s work to be done. Just lay there ’til Samson Kearns comes to getcha. Just you lay there.”
Stroud’s shoulders scrunched up, but he said nothing.
“Lock it back up, corporal. I’ll send Sergeant Kearns for him later.”
Tygart slammed the cell door and clicked the big padlock closed. He headed toward the cellblock door with Stryker right behind.
“I say, guv. Might ah have a minute?”
Stryker threw a glance at the skinny little man in the second cell.
“Just half a sec, guv. Thass all I want.” The man’s eyes were owlish behind thick wire-rimmed glasses.
“What is it?”
“Sounded to me like ya’s clampin’ t’gether some kinda special outfit. I volunteer, I do.”
“A man don’t just up and volunteer,” Stryker said.
“You ask for a black Injun, I heardja. And you’s white and they’s a tinge of south in ya talk. But cher in here askin’ a Injun rummy fer hep.”
“Shut up, Limey,” Tygart said.
“Hold up. I’ll be out directly,” Stryker said. Something told him the little Brit was worth a word. He stood just outside the cell and stared at the man.
“Think a bad eye’ll put a scare inta Willem Black, do ya?”
“Have your say, man.”
“I volunteer.”
“You got no idea what we’re gonna do.”
“You tol’ Ben over there ya’s gonna hunt Apach’s. An’ nobuddy builds a bettah blast than Willum Black. Not bloody one ... Sir.”
“You artillery?”
“Nah. They’s got me cookin’.”
“Why in the good Lord’s name are you in the guardhouse?”
“Nabbed some grub.”
“Wha-a-a-at?”
“Some of the Suma and Jumano Injuns what hang around the fort get awful hungry. I stole a peck a maize ’n’ a haunch a beef for Cueloce’s people. I got caught comin’ back.”
“You stole for Injuns?”
“They was awful near ta starvin’. Mexes and Yanks’re ’posed ta feed ’em. Injun agent keeps all of what’s meant for Injuns an’ sells it ta the army. I reckon by rights, I’s just givin’ them Injuns what’s already theirs.”
“Willem Black, then?”
“Of da Quahter Master’s corps, I am.”
“Come on, then. Corporal Tygart, unlock Trooper Black’s cell, if you would, please.”
“If you say so. That little rat don’t look hefty enough to carry his own weight. Not to me, he don’t.”
“His looks to you, corporal, mean somewhat less than nothing. No offense intended.”
“Come on outta there, Black.”
Willem Black stood impatiently at the cell door, and slipped out the moment it opened wide enough. “Where we going, luftenant?”
“Just follow. Where are your duds?”
“Dunno. Time I wakes up, I was in the clink all decked out in stripes, I was.”
“Where’s Black’s uniform, Corporal Tygart?”
“At Chung Ho’s laundry, I reckon. Black’s stuff was all covered in puke and blood and gunk. Dunno if Chung Ho could get it clean, but he runs the best laundry in town.”
“How far away?”
“Half a mile. Three-quarters, maybe.”
“How do we get Black’s duds back?”
“Gimme an hour or so. Better yet, give me ’til morning.”
“Black. You stay here ’til morning,” Stryker said. “Your duds’ll be ready then.”
Black didn’t like it, but he did as Stryker ordered. “Just when I was ‘bout to get shut o’ this joint.”
“Tomorrow, Black. Don’t you worry none.”
Tygart shut Willem Black in his cell again. Ben Stroud seemed to pay no notice, but Stryker had a feeling the black Apache catalogued his every word and movement.
On the way to temporary quarters, Stryker stopped by the sutler store. He waited while Miss Elsinore served two customers.
“What may I do for you, Mr. Stryker?”
Surprised she knew his name, Stryker was unable to answer for an embarrassing moment. “Actually, I’m looking for a needle and some strong thread.”
“May I ask for what?”
Stryker showed her the lieutenant straps, “Sew these on my tunic.”
“I can do that in a jiffy. Give me your shirt.”
“No ma’am. That would not be proper.”
“That you, Stryker?” The sutler’s booming voice came from the back room.
“It is.”
“Might I suggest a new blouse? The places where your stripes were are quite obvious.”
“That’s right, and I want to keep it that way. Don’t want the troop thinking I’m better than them.”
“Speaking of thinking. I thought you might like one of those loose muslin shirts the Apaches seem to favor. You know, the natural colored ones.” McCabe came from the back room with a shirt in his hands. “Here, you might like to try this on. Elsinore can sew on your bars while you’re trying this. Come on back here to the gun room.”
Stryker did as the sutler suggested. The muslin shirt fit just right.
“I’ll slip out and give this to Elsinore,” McCabe stuck his hand out. “The shoulder straps, please.”
Stryker handed them over.
“Good. I’ll be right back, and we can talk.”
When McCabe returned, Stryker showed him the letter from General Hunter. “Remember those Winchesters we talked about? I’d appreciate it if you’d put a dozen by, and give me one today. That, and a Remington Army converted to the same cartridge. You can have the Colt M1860 that I’m carrying.”
“And send the invoice to General Hunter?”
“Yes. I’ll sign whatever’s necessary.”
“Lieutenant Stryker’s uniform blouse has lieutenant straps on it now,” Elsinore called.
“I’ll stay in this shirt, if you don’t mind,” Stryker said. “I’ll just carry the tunic. By the way, McCabe, do you know who commands the Twenty-Fifth Infantry? You know, Buffalo Soldiers. “
“You’ll be looking for Colonel Joseph Mower, that’s who.”
“Thank you. I’ll go see him now. Hang onto my goods until I return, if you would, please.” Stryker shucked his Colt Army M1860 from its holster. “I’d appreciate one of the Remington Conversions.
“Certainly.” McCabe removed a well-blued Remington Army M1858 from a peg and handed it butt first to Stryker. “Just a moment, now, and I’ll get cartridges for it.”
Stryker spun the cylinder. “It’s loaded. That’ll be enough.”
“Never be sorry, Stryker. Take along some extra.” He held out a box of .44s.”
“You’d better put a bandolier in that order of munitions, one for each rifle.” Stryker extracted six cartridges from the box and put them in a pocket. He handed the box back to McCabe. “I’ll be back,” he said.
“If the store’s closed when you return, come ’round to the back door and knock. That’s where we live, and I’ll be there.”
“Thank you.” Stryker left the sutler’s store and walked to the long, low building that housed regimental commander offices. The Twenty-Fifth Infantry was the right-hand office, or so the sign said. Stryker tapped on the door and opened it.
“What is it?”
“Lieutenant Matthew Stryker to see Colonel Mower,” Stryker said.
“Lieutenant?”
“That’s right.”
The desk sergeant eyed Stryker with disbelief. “You’re not even in uniform.”
“Special assignment, sergeant.”
The sergeant’s eyes still registered disbelief.
“Colonel Mower, if you please.” Stryker’s voice carried a hint of steel.
The sergeant went to the office door. “Man who says he’s Lieutenant Stryker wants to see the colonel, sir.”
“Stryker?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send him in.”
The sergeant beckoned to Stryker, who entered the office and came to attention. “I’m fully aware of being out of uniform, Colonel, but would you be so kind as to read this letter from General Hunter before getting upset?”
Colonel Mower’s piercing dark eyes first skewered Stryker, then focused on the letter he held out. “Letter from George Hunter, is it, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mower took the letter and scanned its contents. “So? What’s this got to do with the Twenty-Fifth?”
“I’d like to release two men to my special troop, sir, if you please.”
“Who?”
“Sergeant Reginald Kearns and Private Benjamin Stroud, sir.”
“Stroud’s in the guardhouse. The man’s never seen a moment in his entire army career that he’s not been inebriated. Sergeant Kearns, eh. Hmmm. The general says give you every courtesy. All right. I assume your troop is temporary, so see that Kearns is returned to the Twenty-Fifth when your troop breaks up.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
“Sergeant Rierson!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stroud and Kearns will be on detached duty, assigned to Lieutenant Stryker.”
“As you say, sir.”
“If you need anyone else, talk to Sergeant Rierson. He’ll see to it that you get what you need.”
“Thank you, sir.”
On the way out, Rierson said, “What are you up to, Stryker?”
“General told me to carry the war to the Apaches, Sergeant Rierson, and that’s just what I’m going to do.”