Ned Wheatfall took the jug of whiskey and tipped it up. He treated himself to three deep swallows before lowering it and wiping his mouth.
“I’ll tell you something, boys,” he said to the numerous men sitting around the scattered campfires within the circle of wagons. “There ain’t nothing that tastes better’n free whiskey.”
A burly fellow called Red-Eye Morgan growled, “Liquor’s fine, but how’s come we couldn’t get no women to come along on this here job, Ned?”
“We cain’t have ever’thing, can we?” Wheatfall remarked.
“There’s plenty o’ damn women who’d work a crew like this,” Red-Eye said. “It’d make it easier for a long summer’s stay.”
“You’ll get some chances at squaws,” Wheatfall said. “Anyhow, y’all’d end up fighting over some ugly ol’ whore after you been out here a while.”
“Only us romantic ones, Ned,” Red-Eye said. “Some of us got tender feelings toward women. We kinda work up an affection of one in particular now and then. Why, hell! We don’t even beat ’em up more’n once a week or so.”
Wheatfall gave the jug to a man named Pockets Dugan. “Pass this around, Pockets.”
Pockets was generous with himself as he drank his turn at the jug before passing it to another man. “We shoulda skinned them carcasses. The more we take, the more extry cash money we can end up with. That’s what I say. All we took was enough meat to eat.”
“We ain’t out here for hides,” Wheatfall said angrily. “I ain’t a-gonna keep reminding you o’ that! If we get a chance to skin a few, we’ll do it. If I figger it ain’t convenient, then we won’t.” His gray eyes flashed under the heavy brows making his gaunt features almost demonic. “The pay you fellers is getting is to rile Injuns. I told you that when you signed on. So just fergit about lugging a lotta buffalo outta here whether it be the insides or the outsides of ’em.”
“There ain’t nobody complaining ’cept Pockets,” Red-Eye Morgan assured him.
“I ain’t bellyaching!” Pockets Dugan retorted. “I was just wondering, that’s all. A feller can wonder about something now and again, can’t he?”
“Sure!” Wheatfall said. “As long as he keeps it to himself. Now, I don’t want to hear nothing else about it.”
Pockets got to his feet. “You been showing a big mouth lately, Wheatfall. And I’m growing weary of it. A feller’s got a right to speak his mind.”
“Not in my crew, he ain’t!” Wheatfall said. The gang leader, skinny as a rail, sized up the other man. Although the potential challenger was much larger, Wheatfall felt no fear. “You got some muscles on your ass, Pockets, but I’m the fastest knife man on either side o’ the Mississippi River. You want to bring this to a head?”
Pockets Dugan glared at him. He knew he could pick up Wheatfall and break him like a dried tree branch. But he would have to kill him, because Ned Wheatfall would get the knife into him someday for it.
Wheatfall sneered. “Well?”
Pockets calmed down and showed a lopsided grin. “Hell, I’m making good money anyhow. I ain’t got no complaints.” He sat down and went back to stirring the pot on his fire to show the situation was over as far as he was concerned.
Wheatfall surveyed the crowd for any more potential trouble before squatting down to tend to his pot of boiling stew. It had taken him several long months to round up that crew of frontier rabble-rousers. Most had been living rustic, but comfortable lives in hunting camps and outlying settlements, getting along by living off the land. Others, who had wandered into civilization, had been worse off. Because of their lack of marketable skills or trades, they could not earn decent livings. This situation forced them to settle into the roughest parts of towns and cities, outcasts from normal society where they never could fit in. Wheatfall had located half of these in local jails and lockups awaiting trial for various offenses involving disturbing the peace.
But his persistence, and Senator Osmond Torrance’s money, had resulted in the organization of a crowd of some of the roughest men who ever sallied out from civilization and society’s demands of decorum to seek their fortunes in the wild, unsettled lands of the West.
Red-Eye Morgan joined Wheatfall at his fire. He sat down and pulled a flaming splinter of wood out to light his pipe. “How long you reckon we’ll be out here, Ned?”
“All summer,” Wheatfall answered. “That’s something else y’all been told.”
“I know,” Red-Eye said. He gestured at the others. “There’s more’n fifty of us in this outfit, Ned. Somebody’s paying out a lot o’ money to keep us all here all that time.”
“What’re you leading up to?” Wheatfall asked.
“I ain’t stupid,” Red-Eye said. “There’s got to be one hell of a good reason fer taking on all that expense.”
Wheatfall stared into the fire. “Now, don’t you start getting nosey, Red-Eye. It ain’t healthy.”
“Hell, Ned, I ain’t nosey,” Red-Eye said. “I just figger that if there’s a chance for more work, I’d like to stay on. Get my drift?”
“Sure,” Wheatfall said. “I’ll keep that in mind, but let me tell you something. I don’t know the full story myself, and I don’t figger to until the right time—if ever.”
Their conversation was interrupted when a scuffle broke out between a couple of the hunters. It was one of those quick, violent episodes that frequently occurred between that sort of men. After exchanging some punches and kicks, they had gone to their knives and now moved warily around in a circle, making feints at each other.
Ned Wheatfall knew that both would end up badly hurt if not dead. One way or the other it meant the loss of two men. He strode over and spoke loudly, “I’ll have no damn knife fighting! Both o’ you pull back.”
The combatants still went on with their testing, their eyes glaring at each other in anticipation of an attack.
Wheatfall pulled his own knife. “I’m telling you to stop and step back and put them blades away. I mean it!”
One of them, a short, bandy-legged little man named Dan Lilly, did as he was told. He slipped his knife into its scabbard. The other fighter suddenly lunged at him, slashing out with a downward movement of his arm.
Wheatfall reacted quickly, flipping his own knife which turned only once before sinking up to the hilt in the man’s neck.
The victim gurgled in frightened surprise, grabbing at the thing that was now lodged so deep in his neck that it stuck through his throat, blocking off the air he tried to breathe into his heaving lungs. He whirled and stumbled, falling to his knees in weakness as his strength drained away with the pumping of his life-blood that soaked his shirtfront down to the waist. Finally, in desperation, he gestured to the watching crowd for some kind of help.
He never got any.
Ned walked over to what was now a corpse and withdrew his knife. “Y’all know there ain’t gonna be nothing but fist fighting tolerated in this outfit. Anybody that pulls a gun or a knife on anybody else is dead. Understand?”
“He started it, Ned!” Dan Lilly exclaimed, defending himself.
“I ain’t faulting you, Dan,” Wheatfall assured him. “What the hell was the ruckus about anyhow?”
“He took one o’ my blankets,” Lilly said. “He was the only one who coulda done it.”
Pockets Dugan said, “Are you talking about the red one with the black stripe?’
“That’s the one,” Lilly said, kicking the corpse. “This son of a bitch stole it from me.”
“No, he didn’t, you dumb bastard,” Pockets said. “You traded it to me for that Sioux medicine pouch, remember?”
Lilly thought a moment, then slowly grinned. “Oh, yeah! That’s right. I forgot.”
The crowd broke out into loud laughter at what they considered the humor in the situation. Lilly took some ribbing, and his face reddened in embarrassment.
“Hey!” The shout came from the edge of the camp from a man named Early Denmore, who had gone out to relieve himself. “Looky yonder! Soldiers!”
All the hunters gave their full attention to the prairie outside their camp. Quick glances around showed they were completely surrounded by a large number of blue-clad horse dragoons still about a hundred yards away. The troops, with carbines at the ready, slowly approached.
“Y’all keep your mouths shut!” Wheatfall cautioned them. “Pockets, you and Dan drag that dead son of a bitch outta sight afore they ride in here. Hide him under one o’ the wagons and pile some stuff on him. I don’t want to have to explain nothing to no damn army officer.”
When the soldiers arrived, most stayed on the other side of the wagons. But two officers, with ten men following, came in through the opening between two wagons.
“Who is in charge here?” Major Matt Devlin, in the lead, asked.
Ned Wheatfall walked up. “That’d be me, Major. Howdy do to you.”
“What’s your name, mister?” Devlin asked.
“Ned Wheatfall,” he answered. “What’s yours?”
The hunters all laughed.
Devlin’s expression was one of cold anger. “You and these friends of yours are on Indian Land. Are you aware of that?”
“By God!” Wheatfall said, feigning surprise. “I didn’t see no signs when we come in here to do some buffalo hunting.”
“I’m ordering you out of here immediately,” Devlin said.
“That don’t make no sense,” Wheatfall protested.
“I’m not interested in explaining things to you,” Devlin said. “I’m ordering you out of here.”
“Well, Major, I was in the army myself,” Wheatfall said. “Five years and didn’t get no bobtail discharge neither. I ended up a sergeant. But I ain’t a soldier no more, so I got no inclination to take shit off some officer.”
“If you served in the army, you know how much authority I have in a situation like this,” Devlin said. “I am going to tell you again, get the hell off this reservation. That means you have to get on the east side of the Des Lacs River.”
“What if we want to go north?” Wheatfall asked. “Or south or west?”
“You will go east,” Devlin said in a cold, angry voice. “That’s the shortest distance to the reservation boundary.”
“We’d like to finish our grub,” Wheatfall said. He pointed to some uncooked buffalo meat on the tailgate of one of the wagons. “We should have her et up in three or four days.”
Devlin motioned to Captain Paul Teasedale. “Put your men to work, Paul.”
“Yes, sir,” Teasedale said. He gestured to his senior noncommissioned officer. “You know what to do, Sergeant Kennedy.”
“Yes, sir!” the dragoon answered. “Get to it, lads! Don’t waste no time!”
The soldiers immediately dismounted and began kicking over pots of food. A couple took the meat and threw it on the nearest fire. Pockets Dugan made a move toward the soldiers, but Devlin pulled his revolver and aimed it at the man.
“Stand fast, mister!”
Pockets stopped and instinctively raised his hands. “I ain’t gonna do nothing.”
Devlin rode closer to Wheatfall. “I’ll not bother the food in your wagons unless I have more trouble from you or your men. Now, as I said before, you are to vacate this area immediately. That means now, goddamn you!”
“Yes, sir,” Wheatfall said. He walked over to his own gear and began loading it onto a wagon. Senator Torrance had told him what to do in case of confrontation with the army. “Let’s go, boys!” he hollered. “The major’s right. We got to get out of here.”
“And you’ll not return!” Devlin snapped.
Wheatfall said nothing. His men, also remaining silent, quickly went about the chore of packing up.
“Hold it!” Devlin said. The corpse under the wagon had become exposed. “Who is that?”
“One of the fellers took sick and died,” Wheatfall said. “We’ll leave him here.”
Devlin rode over and saw the gaping wound in the dead man’s neck. “He’s been murdered.”
Wheatfall looked at the body and feigned surprise at the injury. Then, knowing he couldn’t get away with a lie, the gang leader grinned. “Well, it was a fair fight. We got lots o’ witnesses.”
“Bury him,” Devlin ordered.
“We ain’t got any shovels,” Wheatfall protested.
“Then, you’ll dig a grave with your bare hands,” Devlin said.
Wheatfall snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah! I just remembered. We got some shovels in that wagon over there.”
“Get to work,” Devlin said.
“Are you gonna say some words over our poor departed brother?” Wheatfall asked.
“Just put that piece of shit into the ground,” Devlin said. “Now!”
“You’re a cold man, Major,” Wheatfall said.
He quickly picked out a couple of men, and the grave digging began. Within a short time, the corpse was buried and the hunters went back to packing up. The experienced frontiersmen had their camp completely broken down and ready to move within a quarter of an hour. Drivers got up into the wagon seats while the remainder of the men mounted up.
“Move out!” Wheatfall yelled.
Major Matt Devlin and Captain Paul Teasedale watched the group slowly move away toward the east.
“Send a section to escort them, Paul,” Devlin said. “Have the men follow them until they’re on the other side of the Des Lacs River.”
“Yes, sir,” Teasedale said.
He set the order into motion, and a couple dozen dragoons headed out under the command of Sergeant Kennedy.
The rest of the troops fell back into column formation to begin the return to Fort Buffalo. The orange and white guidon of Company B whipped in the breeze as the dragoons cantered across the prairie. Equipment slapped in time to the pounding of the horses’ hooves in the formation of blue and yellow. The martial scene seemed out of place in the stark beauty of the untamed prairie country.
They arrived at the garrison in time to dismount and properly restore their horses to the post stables before falling in for retreat formation that would mark the end of the duty day. Since Devlin and Teasedale were not properly attired for the ceremony, Captain Bernie Blanchard of A Company took charge. After the final bugle call and firing of the post’s small cannon, Devlin went directly back to his quarters.
His wife, Beth, was waiting for him, and she didn’t have good news. “Freddie got into trouble yesterday,” she announced in a terse voice.
“I don’t know who’s worse,” Devlin said. “Illegal buffalo hunters or my oldest son.” He sighed. “What did he do?”
“Private Kubelsky brought him home yesterday,” Beth said. “I’ve kept him in the house ever since.”
“Just tell me what he did this time,” Devlin said testily.
“The commissary sergeant caught him stealing hardtack crackers and jam from the storeroom,” Beth said.
“Now, why would he do that?” Devlin asked.
“I did not discuss the matter with him,” Beth said.
“How many children were with him in this mischief?” Devlin inquired.
“Apparently he didn’t see fit to bring any of the other kids in on this particular prank,” Beth said.
“Where are our darling offspring?” Devlin asked.
“Mattie and Tommy are out playing,” Beth answered. “Freddie is back in the children’s room.”
“How much hardtack and jam did he take?” Devlin asked.
“Not very much,” Beth said. “Private Kubelsky said the sergeant only reported it because you had issued orders stating you wanted to know about any misbehavior that involved the boy.”
Devlin hung his cap and pistol-and-saber belt on the rack in the corner of the living room. He strode through the house and stepped into the children’s bedroom.
Twelve-year-old Freddie Devlin, who had heard his father’s entrance, stood waiting for the worst. “Hello, Papa.”
Devlin was not the type of army officer or father to waste time. “Whatever made you want to steal hardtack crackers and jam from the commissary?”
“I got ’em for my friend, sir,” Freddie answered.
“What friend?” Devlin asked. “Who would want hardtack crackers to begin with?”
“His name is Swift Rabbit, and he gimme something to eat; so I had to go and get him something,” Freddie said.
“An Indian boy?” Devlin asked.
“Yes, sir,” Freddie said. “I asked Mama for something, but she tole me to leave her alone. It’s her fault!”
“It is not your mother’s fault!” Devlin shouted. He calmed down. “I’m not so sure I want you hanging around with those Indian children. They have lice.”
“I don’t think so, Papa,” Freddie said. “They don’t scratch their heads much.”
“That’s not important now,” Devlin said.
“Sergeant Dawson’s kids have got lice,” Freddie said.
“I don’t know a thing about the sergeant’s family, but I am certain those Indians have lice,” Devlin said. “What did what’s-his-name give you to eat?”
“His name is Swift Rabbit,” Freddie said. “He calls me Fox.”
“Never mind,” Devlin said. “What did he give you to eat?”
“Dog meat,” Freddie said.
Devlin swallowed. “You ate a dog?”
“Not a whole one,” Freddie answered. “Just part of a hind leg. I never ate a dog before. I’ve petted ’em and played with ’em, but I don’t think I ever ate one. So after Swift Rabbit gimme some, I had to get him something to eat. Mama wouldn’t give me nothing, so I had to get something, so I knew where there was that hardtack in the commissary and I found some jam and I only took a jar and that seemed a pretty fair swap for dog. Nobody even seen me take the stuff.”
“Oh, you’re very mistaken about that, young man,” Devlin said. “The commissary sergeant saw you run off with the stuff and told Private Kubelsky.”
“There was lots o’ jam in the commissary, and hardtack, too,” Freddie said.
“That doesn’t matter,” Devlin said. “The food in there is for the soldiers. It didn’t belong to you. You stole it, Freddie.”
“No, I didn’t! I swapped it for dog!” Freddie insisted.
“If you take something that doesn’t belong to you, it is stealing,” Devlin said. “I don’t care if you swap it for dog meat or keep it. We whip soldiers for stealing.”
“I get whipped for just about ever’thing I do,” Freddie said, unimpressed.
“I think that the next time there is a flogging, I am going to let you watch,” Devlin said. “Then you’ll know what a real whipping is.” He undid his belt and pulled it from the loops in his trousers.
Freddie, knowing the routine from plenty of experience, turned around to receive his just due. Devlin laid on three good ones, pleased to note that the boy did not utter a sound.
“Now what do you say?” Devlin asked as he replaced the belt.
“I’m sorry, Papa,” Freddie said, rubbing his behind.
Before either could speak again, a hard knocking at the front door could be heard.
“You stay in your room, boy,” Devlin said. “And no supper for you tonight.”
The major walked through the house and reached the living room in time to see his wife standing at the open front door with the commissary sergeant.
“What can I do for you, Sergeant Harrigan?” Devlin asked. “If it’s about that hardtack and jam, I’ve already been informed and have punished my son.”
“It ain’t about that, sir,” Harrigan said. “It’s about the issue o’ beef that come in while you was out on patrol.”
“It arrived, did it not?” Devlin asked.
“Yes, sir, and right on time,” Harrigan said. “The problem is that it is short.”
“Short?” Devlin asked with a groan. “How short, Sergeant?”
“By half, sir,” the sergeant said. “There ain’t but a hundred head. Between that and them slaughtered buffalo, them Kiwotas is gonna be real upset.”
Devlin fetched his cap and pistol-and-sword belt. “This is going to be one hell of a summer,” he said under his breath.
Beth asked, “Shall I wait supper, Matt?”
“No,” he answered. “Go find Mattie and Tommy and get them in the house. I’m going to pass the word that everyone at Fort Buffalo is confined to the post.”
“Is it that bad?” Beth asked with a worried expression.
“Yes, and bound to get worse,” Devlin said, walking out of the house to join Sergeant Harrigan for a quick walk over to the agency.