Friday.
As the company fell in and marched to the training field, I felt the Sergeant’s eyes on me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in the army anymore, but I for God sure knew I’d die before I left with him thinking ill of me.
When we reached the field, I saw my salvation: the corporals had set up eight hay bales and were pinning bull’s-eye targets on them. We were going to shoot. My heart bumped with joy thinking of how I’d prove myself today.
But the best of it was when wooden crates were pried open and brand-new Spencer repeating carbines were thrust into our hands. I’d already seen the Spencer in action and knew it beat my old yagger and any other single-action rifle all to blazes. I had itched to get my hands on one back when Sheridan’s soldiers were being drilled on them. I knew more about this weapon than the instructors walking us through loading, sighting, and such.
After we were split up into eight lines, Allbright explained how we had to be winnowed since ammo was limited and he needed to find the good shots before it ran out. “Our lives will depend upon identifying our finest marksmen,” he said. “They will be named ‘troop riflemen.’ They will ride point and be our first line of defense as we pass through territory held by hostiles.”
The winnowing went fast for there weren’t but a dozen or so who’d ever held a gun and fewer still who’d fired one. I was last in my line, watching, itching for my chance to show out.
Greene and Caldwell both shot wild and were pulled out of line. Vikers turned out to be a fair shot for a four-eyes. Good enough not to be cut, but not anywhere close to me. The man in front of me was Fernie Teague. He hit an old robin’s nest and joked, “Thought I’d shoot y’all down some breakfast.” Everyone laughed. Even Sergeant Allbright. Still grinning, Fernie added his magazine to the pile of those handed over by the bad shots and stepped away.
Corporal Masters barked out, “Cathay!” I stepped up to the head of the line. A cloud of smoke from the shooters who’d gone before hung heavy as a black fog and smelled like a battlefield. Blinking, I put that fine Spencer carbine to my shoulder, flipped up the sight, breathed out, fired, and put one close to the bull’s-eye. I sighted in, got my range, and inched closer with the next shot. The third was a dead bull’s-eye. I did that five more times then Allbright told me to step back before my carbine locked up from overheating.
I was barely able to suppress my grin for there was no doubt, I was the best shot in the company.
The Sergeant dismissed us and he left without a word.
When the black powder fog cleared I saw that most of the country boys were clumped around Teague, laughing at his joke about breakfast. Vikers had his growing flock all shining up to him like he’d been the one shot best. Other groups here and there complained about how their rifle was out of true or the wind had carried off what should of been a dead shot. Lem would have been making over me, but, as farrier, he’d been excused, so I stood by myself, alone on that big field.
To blazes with them all, I thought. Not a damn one of them had to like me now. Not even Allbright. I’d be riding point. I’d be what was between them and the hostiles. They needed me. And needing was a hell of a lot stronger than liking. I’d proved myself. I was going out West and none of them could stop me.
I was heading for the mess hall when Masters approached and told me to report to the Sergeant’s office. I hurried over, eager to hear direct from him that I’d be a troop rifleman.
He was waiting outside his office, standing in the shadows, where he had been watching everything. He gave me an at ease and said, “Congratulations, Cathay, you’re a fine shot. Best in the company. You’d be a rifleman, if you were coming out West with us.”
If?
“But you’re not. Though I warned you, it is clear that you have remained a divisive element. I can’t have that. Come to my office after reveille tomorrow. I will have your orders issued. You will proceed to HQ for reassignment to an infantry unit.”