The column of weary soldiers slumped in their saddles, swaying with the slow gaits of the horses under the warm sun of late afternoon. A fatigued and irritated Lieutenant Grant Hollings led the formation toward the northern horizon. The troops let the reins hang listlessly as the horse plodded on in equine stoicism. The exhaustion that plagued the black cavalrymen showed plainly in the hard set of each mouth, and the heavy rivulets of perspiration that coursed down their grim faces.
Corporal Rawlings cast a glance at Sergeant Whitcomb in a silent plea for intervention. All Whitcomb could do was shrug helplessly with a nod toward Lieutenant Hollings at the head of the column. Grant had hoped to be back in Clarkville on the Wednesday following his wedding, but the unexpected influx of trespassers on the Indian lands created a chaotic situation. He and his troopers spent long hours chasing down the transgressors. Each instance meant admonishing the malfeasants with stern lectures and verbal mandates to get out of the territory or face Federal arrest and prosecution.
These latest would-be settlers were not the usual Boomers. They were individuals operating under the mistaken concept that because the ranchers had been ordered out of Cherokee lands, it was open for settlement to anyone who showed up and put down stakes. They came in hopeful droves from Kansas, Arkansas, and even Texas after long, difficult treks. They were numerous and resentful, making the soldiers’ duty that much more time-consuming and arduous. Grant’s temper snapped on the many instances when the would-be homesteaders dragged their feet in preparing to leave. It took angry threats of immediate arrest to get them up and moving.
By the time the Medicine Bundle Grasslands had been cleared of the illegal land seekers, it was Saturday. The next day would mark the first week of Grant’s marriage, yet he had spent only one night with his wife.
Sergeant Whitcomb took another look at Corporal Rawlings and the other troopers. Their exhausted physical state could no longer be ignored, and the noncommissioned officer knew he had to act before the situation worsened. He hurried his horse up to Lieutenant Hollings at the front of the column.
“Sir, it’s been a real long day.”
“What?”
Whitcomb nodded toward the sun cruising slowly down in the west. “We been in the saddle since that ball of fire was over that-a-way,” he said, pointing easterly. “The men and horses is bad tuckered, sir.”
“I feel it necessary that we press on until we’re back at our bivouac south of Clarkville.”
“I’m afeared it’s gonna be dark long before we can reach town, sir. Matter of fack, they’s a small creek yonder. It’d make a right nice place to stay overnight.”
Grant glanced back at the column of tired soldiers. He said nothing for a few moments then relented. “You’re right.”
“Nobody misses his wife like a newly married man,” Whitcomb said with a smile.
“I won’t argue about that,” Grant said. “I guess I haven’t given the men much consideration these last few days.”
“They understand, sir.”
“We’ll bivouac over at the creek as you suggested,” Grant said. “See to it, Sergeant.” Whitcomb turned and galloped back to the detachment to issue the necessary orders. The men’s collective mood brightened as they followed him to the waterway.
Within a quarter of an hour after their arrival, the horses were picketed and the night guard roster organized as numerous cook fires flickered. The first thing put over the flames, as was customary in the regiment, were the coffeepots. Even before the water began to boil, hardtack crackers and salt pork were pulled from haversacks to be made ready to eat.
Grant, as an officer, did not have to build his own fire. That was taken care of by one of the older privates, a balding fellow named Birdwell who acted as his orderly. The lieutenant never liked the practice of having a servant looking after him. He had been assigned those same duties during his days as an enlisted man, and had resented the demeaning aspects of the task. But army custom demanded that an officer didn’t wait on himself.
Birdwell, an ex-sergeant broken down in rank for beating up one of his subordinates, saw to it that the lieutenant was given a cup of hot coffee as soon as the first pot was brewed. Grant sipped the refreshing liquid and absent-mindedly watched the activity as the soldiers went about settling in. Whitcomb’s low voice was backed up by the higher-pitched tones of Corporal Rawlings as the two noncommissioned officers made sure everything was proper and secure for the night.
Birdwell handed Grant a freshly-opened can of salt pork. The old soldier smiled at the young officer. “Don’t fret yourself, sir. You’ll be back with your lady by tomorry night.”
“I sure hope so, Trooper Birdwell,” Grant said, taking the food. He suddenly remembered part of an old barrack room ballad that went:
It’s quite a life without a wife
In the Regular Army, O!
Grant pulled a fork from his shirt pocket and speared some of the salty, preserved meat. “You’re a married man, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Birdwell said. “I got a woman like most of these fellers.”
“How do you feel about being away from home?”
“Well, sir, that’s a big part of a soljer’s life.” He chuckled. “Some of the fellers say it’s the best part.”
“Well, I’ve been over seven years in the army and this is the first time I’ve been to the field as a married man.”
“They’s times I’m glad not to have to put up with that woman of mine. But eventually, I looks for’d to being back wit’ her.”
Sergeant Whitcomb appeared at the fire, delivering a crisp salute. “Sir! The bivouac is established and guards is posted.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Sit down and we’ll go over tomorrow’s doings.”
“Fetch me a cup of cawfee, Birdwell,” the sergeant ordered.
“Yes, Sahgent.”
Grant said, “When we get back to the Clarkville bivouac, I’m going to leave you in charge for a few days. I believe you know where to find me if I’m needed.”
“I just hope nobody gives me grief when I go into that white folks’ town,” Whitcomb said.
“Just tell them you’re looking for me.”
“Yes, sir,” Whitcomb said, taking a cup of coffee from Birdwell. “You got’ny idee when we’ll be getting on back to Fort Gibson?”
Grant shook his head. “Sorry. I haven’t heard a thing. I know you men are anxious to return.”
“Yes, sir. It’s been a while.”
“I know. I was just talking with Birdwell about what it’s like to be married and away from your wife.”
“It ain’t real convenient, but we have to do it for the reg’ment.”
“The regiment is everything to a professional soldier, is it not?”
“It damn sure is to a colored perfessional soljer, sir. And to their wives too. Our reg’ment is where we got a chance to make something of ourselves ’cause they ain’t nobody sitting on top of us.”
“I know it’s a hard world for colored people on the outside.”
“We plan on looking after ourselves after we retire at the end of our thirty years,” Whitcomb said. “Some of us is making plans. We’re gonna get some land together and have our own little town somewhere in this territory. We’ll farm too, and won’t need nobody else for nothing.” He pointed toward the orderly who was spreading Grant’s bedroll out for the night. “Birdwell is going with us.”
“He’s an excellent soldier,” Grant said. “Too bad he was reduced in rank.”
“Birdwell got busted for beating up a bad recruit,” Whitcomb said. “That boy shamed his race and reg’ment by being a dirty soljer who stole in the barracks and wouldn’t obey orders. It was more than Birdwell could stand.”
“I notice that you colored NCOs are tougher on your men than white sergeants are on theirs.”
“Tha’s right, sir. You got to remember that we have a special appreciation for the Army. Birdwell was a slave. He come north on that Underground Railroad. During the war he was in the Fifty-Fourth Massachusetts with Sergeant Major Watkins. They went into civvie life together and found out it din’t have all them freedoms and joys that was promised colored folks. They reenlisted in the army after the gov’ment called up the colored reg’ments. You can kind of understand why he don’t like any of these young colored boys acting disrespectful. That’s why he whupped on that bad soljer worser than any white sergeant would have.”
“Everybody says he’ll have his sergeant stripes back before a year is up,” Grant said.
Whitcomb nodded with a grin. “We all know that too, sir.”
Grant finished his coffee. “Well! One more night, hey?”
“For you, sir,” Whitcomb pointed out. He got up and said, “I’ll have Birdwell fetch you some more cawfee.”
Grant was thankful there wasn’t much left of the evening. He sat lost in his own thoughts as the murmur of soft conversation could be heard around the cook fires. After dark he rolled into his blankets and dropped off into intermittent, restless naps. At one point in the night he was so wide awake that he crawled from the covers to make a personal inspection of the guard posts.
The next morning found a better rested and more cheerful group of cavalrymen. They fixed breakfast and broke camp knowing that at least a few days of rest awaited them. Corporal Rawlings, in charge of the baseball equipment, had already had the men choose up teams for a game to be played the day following their return.
~*~
It was mid-morning, and Luther and Fionna were at their wagon in the Boomer camp when their new son-in-law rode up. They could tell he’d not been to the Widow Richardson’s because of the condition of his appearance. He dismounted and was offered a chair. Grant looked around. “Where is Rebecca?”
“She’s over to the Widow’s house,” Fionna answered. “She ain’t been here much.”
“She’s been expecting you any day,” Luther said. “I s’pect she’s figgering you’ll show up over there.”
“I should’ve have gone home first.”
“You ain’t used to being married yet,” Luther said.
“You’re right,” Grant agreed. “At any rate, I had to come over here anyway. I have some news. Not good, unfortunately. I didn’t find Silsby. I’m sorry.”
Fionna dropped her sewing in her lap. “Where could that boy have gone off to?”
“I talked with some of Harknell’s cowboys over in Kensaw,” Grant said. “They seem to think that he went to Montana with another of the crew.”
“Montana?” Luther said. “Where the hell is Montana?”
“It’s north of Wyoming.”
“I ain’t heard of that place neither.”
“Wyoming is north of Colorado,” Grant said. He took the stick Luther had been whittling and drew a crude map in the dirt. “Now here’s Kansas where we are right now. Here’s Colorado. Then we have Wyoming. Then here is Montana.”
“That’s a long ways off,” Luther observed somberly. “Is it farther from here than Missouri?”
“A lot farther.”
“Oh, dear!” Fionna said.
“I’m really sorry,” Grant said. “But I’ll keep looking for him in case he comes back.”
“Would you care for a cup of coffee?” Fionna asked.
“No thank you, Mother McCracken,” he said, standing up. “I think I’ll go on home.”
“You been gone quite a spell, ain’t you?” Luther said.
“There are a lot of people making illegal entries into the Cherokee Strip and the Grasslands.”
“You and Rebecca come over the first chance you get,” Fionna said.
Grant swung himself up into the saddle, and rode to the outskirts of the camp. After swinging around Clarkville and coming in on the east side, he turned down the alley that led to the carriage house behind Widow Richardson’s home. He quickly unsaddled his horse and led it into a stall.
Rebecca answered the knock at the back door, and threw her arms around her husband’s neck as he entered the house. They exchanged a long deep kiss before reluctantly parting. “Where you been so long?” she asked.
“There were hundreds of incursions out there,” Grant said. “Not Boomers this time. They were folks who thought the territory was open because the white ranchers had been ordered out. I didn’t think we’d ever get back.”
“Marshal Sinclair wants to see you,” Rebecca said. “That old man came over here three times yesterday. The last time was ten o’clock last night. He says it’s real important.”
“I’ll have to go see what he wants,” Grant said. He looked around. “Where’s the widow?”
“She’s at church, darling. She plays music for all the services starting early in the morning. It’s Sunday, remember? We’ve been married a week.”
“I’ll be back real quick.”
Grant hurried out of the house, going up to the main street to Sheriff Blevins’ office. When he walked in, he found Marshal Sinclair alone, dozing at the desk. “Hey!” Grant yelled angrily.
Sinclair, startled from his nap, literally jumped to his feet. “Where the hell have you been?”
“You know damn well where I’ve been. I could have used some help chasing trespassers off the Grasslands, by the way.”
“Hang on to your hat, young man,” Sinclair said. “Hell is about to really break aloose.” He reached in his vest and pulled out a telegram. “This came to me from Wichita yesterday.”
“What’s the ruckus about?” Grant asked impatiently. He wanted to get back to his bride before the Widow Richardson returned from church.
“President Benjamin Harrison has issued a proclamation,” Sinclair said. “At noon on Sunday, April the twenty-second, some big parts of the Cherokee Nation is gonna be throwed open for settlement to whoever wants to move in and grab land. And that includes the Medicine Bundle Grasslands.”
Grant stared at him open-mouthed.
“Let me tell you that it’s gonna be a stampede like has never been seen nor heard-tell of before,” Sinclair said. “I’m supposed to tell you that you and me is assigned to the Grasslands. It’ll be our job to keep folks out of there ‘til the appointed hour.”
“That’s going to be dangerous,” Grant said. “There could be bloody murder down there.”
“They’s gonna be thousands of folks heading here, son. They’re gonna flood into Caldwell, Arkansas City, Wichita, and right here in Clarkville to wait for the official word to go in there and stake out their claims.”
Grant’s shoulders sagged and he moaned. “Does God have no mercy?”
“I’d get back to the wife, if’n I was you,” Sinclair said. “You ain’t gonna see much of her for the next month or so.”
Grant slammed out of the office and rushed back down the street.