Next day, Stryker sat in the Skillet, a no-nonsense eating place that catered to off-duty soldiers, teamsters, and people passing through on their way farther west.
Ma Raskin, wife of the owner and the only one any customer ever saw, brought plates heaped with scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, and crisp and crunchy bacon. “Don’t have darkies in here usually, Stryker, but y’all vouched for ’em ... ” Her voice drifted off, but the disapproval remained in her eyes.
“We’ll eat’n git, Ma,” Stryker said.
Well. Breakfast is over and dinner’s more’n a hour away. So hurry up’n eat while they ain’t nobody else here.”
Ben Stroud, Samson Kearns, and Willem Black shoveled the food into their mouths like they had not eaten for at least a month.
“Sure and this beats army grub,” Willem said, “‘specially when I was making it.”
The two black men, dressed like Stryker in muslin shirts and canvas pants, kept their heads down and their forks traveling between plate and mouth at a brisk pace.
Ma brought a large plate of biscuits and a pot of coffee. Hands reached, biscuits disappeared, and each face took on a beatified smile. “Prime,” Samson said. “Purely prime.”
When the food was gone and the men were taking their last few swallows of coffee, Stryker posed a question. “Be honest. If you were out in the country between here and the Cooke’s, and there were Mimbrenos and Warm Springs Apaches around, who’d you want along with you? Who’d be the best in a scrap, and who’d be the best at keeping you out of a scrape?”
“Mick Finney,” Stroud said.
“Why?”
“He’s got Apache blood. Ain’t nothing like being born Apache.”
Stryker made a mental note. “Where’s he at?”
“Tenth Cavalry. He likes riding horses.”
“We’ll be walking.”
“He can do that. Any Apache can.”
“Paddy O’Malley,” Will Black said.
“Why.”
“He’s never been beat, in the ring or in the alley. The man knows how to scrap.”
Stryker made another mental note. He turned his attention to Sergeant Reginald Kearns. “Samson? Who’d you bring along, if you could.”
“Well, sir, Sharpy Bailor, for one. He’s white, but I ain’t never seen no one outshoot him. And I hear he was pure-dee-hell against the Rebs.”
Stryker nodded. “Where’s he at?”
“Thirteenth Infantry, last I heard.”
“Anyone else?”
“Well, if we’re gonna be around animals, they ain’t no better wrangler than Boogie Hill.”
“Twenty-Fifth?”
Kearns nodded. “Twenty-Fifth.”
“Right.”
~*~
In the heat of mid-afternoon, Stryker called upon Major Adams. Despite the heat, the Major had his uniform tunic buttoned and cinched at the waist with a broad black leather belt. His red face reflected the heat, and the tip of a white handkerchief protruded from his left sleeve. He plucked the handkerchief out to mop his face. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir. Hot day outside, sir.”
Major Adams eyed Stryker’s muslin shirt and canvas trousers. “You seem to be dressed for it.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve come with a requisition, sir.”
The Major sighed.
“A list of men, sir, to round out my hit squad, sir.”
Adams held his hand out. “Show me.”
Stryker gave him the list of names and positions.
“Hmmm. Says you’ve already pulled Reginald Kearns, Benjamin Stroud, Willem Black, and Boogie Hill from ranks.”
“Yes, sir, but I figured a word from the General would be faster than me going around to each regiment, sir.”
The Major scanned the names again. “Lion Watie. Winston Ponies. Albert Ferguson. Paddrick O’Malley. Charles and Jonathan Greer. Mickey Finney. Richard Grady. Orson Bailor. Edward McKinnister. Ten men. Are these those whom you wish for your ... what did you say? Your ... hit squad?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“Just one, sir.”
What is it?”
“I’d like every man to receive a sergeant’s pay, sir, and a signing bonus, as it were, of fifteen dollars, sir.”
Major Adams’ mouth hung open for a moment.
“They’ll be doing very dangerous work, sir.”
“Hmm. Well. I’ll speak to the General about it. Is that all, Lieutenant?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Carry on, then.”
“Sir.” Stryker turned on his heel and left. He had a job to do.
General Hunter named Stryker’s hit squad A Squad, Headquarters Company. That enabled him to requisition tents and stake out a place for his squad. He worked alongside Samson, Stroud, Will Black, and Boogie Hill.
“We work together. We fight together. Tomorrow, you’re in charge. You teach us how to be Apaches. How to think like ’em. How to move like ’em. How to live like ’em. Savvy?”
Stroud shrugged. “Sure would do for a drink.”
Stryker uncapped his canteen. “Here.”
Stroud’s eyes lit up. He grabbed the canteen and took a big mouthful, then spit it out. “Water! What kinda drink is water?”
“Keeps a man alive. By the way, Ben, I’ve never seen an Apache carry a canteen. Why?”
“Why carry one a those? ‘Specially when yer going fur’n fast.”
“I’d say a man’s gotta have water to last.”
“Plenty a ways to get water, er somethin’ that passes fer it.”
“OK, sun comes up in the morning, we’ll be well on our way.”
“Where to?”
“Don’t matter. No canteens. No guns. Nothing but one knife. Kearns, Boogie. Will Black. You all hear me?”
“Yo,” came their answering chorus.
“No breakfast. No canteens.”
But when Stryker’s misfits gathered in the predawn, only Boogie Hill and Willem Black showed. Stryker’s temper came within a hair’s breadth of exploding. Then Samson’s voice came from somewhere beyond the tents. “Mistah Stryker. Lieutenant, we be coming.”
And he did, dragging Ben Stroud by a stick-thin arm. “Little Ben din’t get the message good enough last night, Lieutenant. I reckon he thought to run off from the army, but I talked some reason into him.”
“Stroud!”
The black Apache swayed and seemed about ready to pass out.
“Where’d he get the booze?”
“Looks like he spent most of the night drinking tiswin at the tame Apache camp over by the Rio,” Samson said.
“Ben Stroud, look at me!”
Stroud squinted. “Too dark to see ya right, mister bright white pecker what thinks he can do one better than the Indeh.”
Samson cuffed Stroud on the ear. “You watch your words, black boy, or I’ll take you apart better’n any Apache you ever seen.”
“Ain’t likely.”
“We’ll see.” Another cuff.
“Follow me,” Stryker said, and he struck out at a brisk walk, headed away from the line of light that formed in the sky behind the mountains to the east.
Will Black and Boogie Hill followed, not a difficult task because Stryker did not walk fast. Samson came along behind, hauling Ben Stroud by the arm. None of them noticed the lone figure that walked at much the same pace, but about half a mile to the north of the misfits’ track.
As the eastern sky lightened with the dawn, Stryker stopped. “Now we leap frog,” he said. “Do you know what I mean?”
Heads shook “no.”
“I will stop here. The rest of you walk on ahead. I’ll watch the back trail and the surrounding lay of the land while you troopers move ahead. At about a hundred paces, Boogie, you stop. I’ll start walking to catch up. You watch the back trail and off to the sides for anything out of place.”
“Yo,” Boogie said, but he looked a little scared.
“Another hundred paces and Willem, you stop and be lookout. By then I’ll be up to Boogie and we’ll keep on walking toward you. Ben and Samson’ll move on for a hundred more paces. Then stop and become the lookout. Got it?”
“Yo.”
“Move out.”
It didn’t go as Stryker imagined. Boogie made more noise than half a dozen ponies. Willem Black obviously didn’t know the desert and had already picked up spines from one of the cactuses that lay in wait for people who walked carelessly.
Two hours into the desert, Stryker called a halt, letting the men rest in the shadow of an upcropping volcanic rock.
“Any of you men notice the feller following after us?”
“Nope.” Negatives came from Samson, Boogie, and Willem.
“He been there from the start,” said Ben Stroud. “I drunk tiswin with him last night. Told him what Stryker was gonna do. Reckon he’s come along to see how good a Indun Stryker is.”
“Got a name?”
“He’s a White Mountain Apach’, name a Bly, on account he’s taller’n most everyone.”
Stryker walked away from the troopers gathered in the shade. He moved almost due north toward the last place he’d seen the Apache. A bit over a hundred yards from the upcropping, he squatted in the shadow of a mesquite bush. “Bly,” he said in a low but natural tone. “I would speak with you.”
The answer came from no more than three yards away. “I hear you, Gopan the protector, the one called Stryker. Speak.”
“Ben Stroud told you what I want, but I will say it again. I would become as an Apache in the desert and in the mountains and in the Ponderosa forests.”
“Not every Indeh is a good warrior, Gopan.”
“This I know. Not every bluebelly is a good soldier. It is true.”
“Do you know our name for the one called Ben Stroud?”
Stryker shook his head.
“Nartana. Tiswin dancer. He is no longer a man. For that matter, he is no longer counted among the Indeh. He cannot teach you what you want to learn.”
Stryker chewed on his upper lip. “Bly. Can you teach me?”
Silence. Then, “Maybe.”
“You can be my scout. The army will pay you.”
“Army promises ... never good.”
“Try me.”
“Um. I will test you. One moon.”
“Bly. I cannot use one month. Only fourteen sunrises. Then you and I must teach the soldiers.”
Bly came from near a clump of bitter bush not large enough to hide a man. He squatted by Stryker, facing the same direction. “Gopan. Do not trust Tiswin Dancer Nartana. He has no honor.”
“The Indeh raised him.”
“I tell you, Gopan. Do not trust Nartana. He must earn any trust you give to him.”
“I hear you, Bly. We will return to Fort Bliss. Tomorrow, as the sun rises, I will walk. You come, teach.”
“Deyaa.” And Bly was gone.
Stryker made his way back to the upcropping volcanic rock.
“Damnable dry,” Ben Stroud said. “A man could sure use a drink.”
“Don’t do no good wishing,” Stryker said. “Now. Back to the fort just like we come out. Leapfrogging all the way. Samson, you and Ben move out. Willem, you follow. Then Boogie. I’ll come last. Understood?”
“Yo!” they chorused. Except for Ben Stroud.
“You hear me, Stroud?”
“Oughta, loud as you’re talking. Sound carries a helluva long ways out here.”
“Then move out, Samson.”
The big sergeant grabbed hold of Ben Stroud’s arm and frog marched him back the way they’d come.
A hundred paces and Samson stopped, pulling Stroud to a halt beside him. Willem started toward them, passed, and continued for another one hundred steps. Then Boogie. And finally, Stryker.
“Everybody at my tent by four.”
“Ain’t nobody got a watch,” Stroud groused.
“Shouldn’t need one. Good soldier can tell time by the sun. Learn. Samson, you come with me.”
“Sir.”
“The rest of you, here at four.”
“Yo.” The men went to their tents, probably to sleep. Only Ben Stroud headed for a water olla. The tiswin was talking back to him now.
Stryker retrieved his gunbelt and converted Remington Army from his tent. “Come along,” he said, buckling the gunbelt in place.
Samson followed behind. “Walk alongside, Samson. We need to talk.”
“Sir. But mens around might figure me uppity were I to walk right up beside a white man.”
“Whatever you figure’s safe. But in my troop, there ain’t no black or white or red or yellow.”
Samson still walked a step back, but close enough that he could hear what Stryker said.
“I’ll be gone for a while, maybe ten days, maybe two weeks. You’ll be in charge.”
“Why me?”
“You got what it takes.”
Samson said nothing.
They walked on.
“Whatcha want me to do, then?” Samson asked.
“Come along,” said Stryker. But when he started up the steps to the door of the sutler’s store, Samson hung back again.
“What now?”
“No black man can go into the sutler’s. Them’s the rules.”
“I tell you, there’s no difference in my troop.”
“Other white folk ain’t in your troop, sir, begging pardon, sir.”
Stryker opened the door and stuck his head in. “McCabe,” he called.
McCabe’s answer came from deep inside the store. “Hello? That you, Matt Stryker?”
“It is. Could ya come to the door for a minute?”
“Surely. Be right there.”
“Is there anything I can do to help, Mr. Stryker?” Elsinore McCabe’s warm voice carried more than a little welcome.
“No, ma’am. I just need to speak with your father.”
“Sometimes speaking with me can clear up more than speaking with him,” she said. She’d stepped to the end of a free-standing row of shelves so Stryker could see half her face. A large woman with her waist tightly cinched, as was the fashion in eastern states, Elsinore offered him a tempting view of femininity.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with a deadpan face.
McCabe came bustling from the rear of the store. “Yes. Yes. What is it you need, Matthew?”
“Step outside, if you would.”
“Certainly.”
Stryker stepped back and McCabe came face to face with Samson Kearns.
“Wha-a-a-a?”
“Reginald Kearns, lately of the Fifteenth Infantry, is the first sergeant of A Squad, Headquarters Division. I’d like him to come with us to the gunroom. If you please.”
McCabe stammered and cleared his throat. “W-w-well, didn’t realize your troop was colored.”
“Just think of us as a rainbow, McCabe. All the colors—white, black, red, yellow—in one bunch. Can we come in?”
McCabe whipped his gaze up and down the street. No one seemed to be watching. “Um ... yes. Well. It really would be apropos if he were to go round to the back door ... ”
“You don’t want my first sergeant’s boots dirtying your floor, is it?”
“Not me, Matthew. Not me at all. Any man’s money ... woman’s for that matter ... yes, money’s all the same color, I say.”
“Then we’ll go in the front door, won’t we?”
Again McCabe swept the surrounds with quick glances, left, center, right. “Well. All right. Step smartly now.”
Stryker ambled into the store, Samson a step behind.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Elsinore said. “May I help you?”
“Gunroom,” Stryker said. “Come on, Samson.” He strolled down the wide aisle, readymade clothing on one side, airtights on the other.
Samson did his best to be invisible.
McCabe came behind, as if he could block anyone’s view of the huge black man walking within the bounds of his store. The few hairs on his head stood straight up, showing his agitation.
“Door’s locked,” Stryker said, nodding at a hasp and padlock.
“Of course. Guns are almost as precious as silver and gold.” McCabe unlocked the door. “Gentlemen ... ” He motioned them inside.
Stryker inhaled. The air in the room carried the scent of gun oil and gunpowder. He smiled. His face looked much like that of a mountain cat, crouched and ready to spring on a hapless baby lamb. “Those Yellow Boys ready?”
“Yes, they’re cleaned and in perfect condition.”
“Show me.”
McCabe laid the rifles out.
“Fifteen shot repeaters,” Stryker said to Samson Kearns. “No single-shot Springfields for my troop.”
Kearns’ eyes glittered. “Prime, sir.”
“You gotta stop calling me ‘sir’.”
Kearns shook his head. “Maybe out in the desert, sir. But not here on the ground.”
“Pistols?” Stryker said to McCabe.
The sutler laid out converted Remington Army M1860 six shooters.
“Today we’ll take four of each, and eight hundred rounds of ammunition.”
“Going to war, are you?”
“May be, McCabe. May be.”
“Now. Samson Kearns. You’re to take the troop out every morning and evening and made sure every man can hit what he aims at from a hundred yards with the rifles and twenty-five with the pistols. Go to McCabe if you need more guns and ammo. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.” Samson’s eyes took on that glitter again.