Gatley wisely shook his head. “No, Lame Elk. I can see no point in doing such a thing even if you did say bad things.”

  Lame Elk’s voice grew in intensity. “I am a warrior! If I want to go to Texas with my Hawks-of-the-Wind and kill white people, I will do so. I am not afraid of you or your soldiers.”

  “You must control your anger,” Gatley said. “Let us not talk of killing each other. Let us talk of peace and living together like brothers.”

  This began a half hour of declarations, accusations, and boasting that bounced among the three main speakers. Colonel Gatley spoke strongly in behalf of the United States Government’s position. Talks-To-Them accused both the government and the army of making it impossible for him to maintain control over his tribe. Lame Elk damned them all, and let everyone know that he would do as he pleased. Palmer Druce blamed everyone for the problems and complained bitterly of how they were all making his life as complicated and miserable as Talks-To-Them’s.

  “How can my wife and I teach their children if you allow Lame Elk to poison their minds against us?” Druce asked Gatley. “I want you to keep soldiers here on the agency at all times.”

  “I could only spare a few,” Colonel Gatley told him. “We have other duties besides the agency.”

  “I will appreciate any help at all,” Druce said.

  Nothing was settled, but Colonel Gatley ended the session with a stern warning to Lame Elk.

  “If you leave the agency and commit crimes of murder and pillage, the soldiers will come after you. They will capture you and bring you back here for punishment. That is all I have to say.”

  The meeting broke up, and the Indians drifted back toward their lodges. Druce, however, did feel better now that Lame Elk had gotten at least a minor dressing down. “I wish to thank you for your efforts, Colonel. Perhaps that evil man will heed your warning and behave himself.”

  Gatley, who would be up to his neck in a bloody conflict if Lame Elk didn’t obey his words, spoke sincerely. “My fervent hope is also for peace, Mr. Druce. There is nothing to be gained by anyone if a full-blown Indian war breaks out.”

  “Of course,” Druce said. “My wife has prepared some fresh coffee and cake, Colonel. Would you honor us with a visit before you return to Fort Alexander?”

  “Yes, thank you, Palmer,” Gatley said. “But first I must speak with one of my soldiers. I shall join you and your wife presently.”

  He strode over to the section where Guy DuBose stood. “Good day to you, Sergeant,” he said taking the other’s salute.

  “How do you do, sir,” Guy responded.

  “Let’s take a stroll, Sergeant,” Gatley said. “I would very much like a word with you.” The two walked slowly away from the pecan tree. “Your new company commander will be here next week.”

  “That will be good news for Captain Wayne,” Guy said. “He’s been waiting for the first opportunity to retire.”

  Gatley nodded. Suddenly he stopped and looked at the sergeant. An expression of exasperation clouded his face. “By damn, DuBose, why did you have to fight for the Confederacy?”

  “I am a South Carolinian, sir,” Guy responded surprised.

  Gatley continued to look at the other man. “I could use you as an officer, Sergeant. But you know that’s impossible since you served the southern cause.”

  “I would be surprised otherwise, sir,” Guy stated.

  “This new officer is straight out of the War Department, did you know that?” Gatley asked.

  “Yes, sir,” DuBose replied. “I’d heard he must have lost in some political maneuvering.”

  Gatley laughed. “He certainly did! He chose the wrong brigadier general in a struggle for a departmental command. The fellow’s rivals in the adjutant general’s branch went after his backers with a vengeance. His bad judgment cost him a soft job and banishment out here to us.”

  Guy displayed a cynical smile. “It makes one wonder about our own true situation, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ve never wondered about it,” Gatley said. “But we can expect a bitter, inexperienced man to deal with. I’ll be relying heavily on you to help him along.”

  “Our first sergeant will certainly—”

  “Oh, damn McClary’s eyes!” Gatley snapped. “He’s a good enough administrative man, but in the field he’s a useless sot. Your friend Sergeant Tate is a good soldier, but he’s a bit dull-witted. So it’ll be up to you to see that our banished aristocrat is helped along.”

  “I appreciate your confidence in me, sir,” Guy said.

  “You heard what Lame Elk said, of course,” Gatley added. “And you know what that means.”

  “I expect a repeat of last summer, sir,” Guy replied.

  “We’ll have plenty of unpleasant activity to occupy us.”

  “Indeed,” Gatley said. “Well, I’m off to visit the Druces. I will continue to take you into my confidence until we see what sort of officer the new captain is. Be perfectly candid with me, DuBose. I’ll need that from you in the trying days ahead.”

  “Yes, sir,” Guy said. He saluted the departing colonel, then turned his attention to getting his men back to Fort Alexander.

  Chapter Six

  An atmosphere of tension settled over Fort Alexander. Everywhere on post, from Soap Suds Row up to the officers’ quarters, they spoke in worried tones of the coming summer. No one expected Lame Elk and his followers to remain docile reservation Indians for much longer.

  Attention from the threat of Indian war was diverted momentarily with the arrival of Captain Gordon Blackburn. Curiosity about the new officer had fueled several rumors about him. The story that he was a disgraced dandy who’d done a powerful politician’s daughter wrong was circulating in the noncommissioned community. Officers Row was more dignified and logical. The tale there was that he’d made a horrible blunder in the quartermaster department that had cost the government hundreds of thousands of dollars.

  The subject of all this talk finally made his appearance three days after the meeting with Talks-To-Them and Lame Elk.

  An ambulance wagon had been dispatched to the railhead at Dahlquart to pick him up at the depot. These vehicles were the most comfortable to ride in when crossing the rough open country of the prairie. Built with strong springs to absorb the jolts and shocks, they also offered a more pleasant interior for the passengers.

  When the Fort Alexander ambulance arrived in Dahlquart, the driver and guard found a dusty, ill-tempered passenger waiting for them. After enduring a petulant tongue-lashing for tardiness and their unkempt appearance, the two soldiers loaded the passenger’s several trunks into the back of the vehicle.

  Captain Blackburn’s mood had not improved a bit when he finally arrived at post headquarters and presented a copy of his orders to Lieutenant Harris, the regimental adjutant.

  Harris, a hardworking officer in his early thirties, gave the documents a quick going over before passing them to the sergeant major for filing. “We’ve been expecting you—that is, an officer for assignment—for more than a year, sir.”

  Blackburn, unsmiling, slapped at the dust on his uniform. “I am not surprised that there are unfilled posts in this regiment.” He was a short, stout man with thick black mutton chop whiskers. His hair was thinning perceptibly on top, but his eyebrows were thick and full, growing together across his forehead and giving him the appearance of a permanent frown.

  “I’m sure the colonel will want to have a word with you, Captain,” Lieutenant Harris said.

  “I am a brevet lieutenant colonel,” Blackburn informed him in a gruff voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Harris said. “It’s in your records. Just a moment, please.” The adjutant went to a door marked Commanding Officer, and knocked. He stepped inside without waiting for a reply from the interior. Seconds later he emerged. “The colonel will see you now.”

  Blackburn stuck his kepi under his arm and marched through the door. He drew himself up short before the desk and saluted. “Sir, Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Gordon Blackburn is pleased to report for duty.”

  “How do you do, Captain,” Colonel Gatley said. “Welcome to Fort Alexander. How was your trip?”

  “Dirty and maddening after leaving the East,” Blackburn said. He was again annoyed by this oversight of his brevet rank.

  “I fear there is a great lack of luxuries on this side of the Mississippi, Captain,” Colonel Gatley said.

  “I am a brevet lieutenant colonel,” Blackburn said to set the record straight once and for all.

  “I suppose the adjutant should have told you, but my policy within this regiment is to ignore brevet ranks. They are very confusing and even disruptive. It would be ridiculous to have a captain who was a brevet lieutenant colonel under the command of a major who was a brevet nothing, wouldn’t it?”

  Blackburn’s eyes widened. He was used to Washington City military politics where one used every advantage to the hilt, whether it be medals or brevet ranks. “Yes, sir.”

  Gatley took a hard look at the new officer. He could see the bitterness, disappointment, and dismay behind the facade of soldierly correctness. He felt sorry for the man. “You’ll be taking command of C Company, Captain. The commander is a veteran by the name of Wayne. Frankly, he hasn’t been of much use to me during the past two years.”

  “I presume the company will have to be brought up to high standards of discipline and efficiency,” Blackburn remarked.

  “That, at least, will not be a problem for you,” Gatley said in a soothing tone. “The first sergeant is a hard-drinker, but he keeps the records up to date and correct. The two sergeants, DuBose and Tate, are damned good soldiers and leaders. I think you should know that both are ex-Confederates. Tate was an N.C.O. in a regiment of Georgia volunteers, while DuBose was a captain in one of the better South Carolina regiments.”

  “There are no qualified N.C.O.s who were loyal to their country during the last war, sir?” Blackburn asked.

  “You’ll find them both reliable and faithful, Captain,” Colonel Gatley said. “Sergeant DuBose, in particular, is an excellent leader.”

  Blackburn’s scowl increased. “Then I am being saddled with rebels. What about the lieutenants?”

  “There are none, Captain Blackburn,” Colonel Gatley said. “The regiment is severely undermanned.”

  “I find that distressing,” Blackburn said.

  “Not as much as I,” Gatley said. “We’re stretched pretty thin. Our principal duties are law enforcement and maintaining control over the Chogola Comanches. There is a lot of patrolling involved in both instances. So you should plan on long periods away from home. I understand you are married.”

  “Yes, sir,” Blackburn replied. “My wife will join me at the earliest convenience. There was much to do in closing out our home and packing away our furniture and other effects.”

  Gatley wondered if Blackburn was one of those few lucky officers who fit into the category of having money on the “outside.” He decided to probe. “It will be terribly costly to ship many things out here, Captain.”

  “We do not plan to bring everything, Colonel,” Blackburn said with a near haughty tone in his voice. “The great majority of our belongings is being placed in storage until my return to the War Department.”

  Gatley felt a flash of anger. “Evidently, Captain, you do not think you’ll be long in the regiment.”

  “I do not, sir.”

  “In that case, we shouldn’t waste time in getting you to active duty,” Gatley said. He spoke loudly toward the door. “Lieutenant Harris!”

  The adjutant quickly appeared. “Yes, sir?”

  “Be so kind as to conduct Captain Blackburn to C Company, will you, please?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You will be very busy, Captain Blackburn,” the colonel said. “I strongly suggest you take advantage of your company’s most excellent non-commissioned officers.”

  “I shall take that into serious consideration, sir,” Blackburn said.

  Gatley looked at the captain and now saw something else in the man he’d failed to notice before: arrogance. “You are dismissed, Captain Blackburn.”

  Harris led Blackburn out of the building and across the parade ground. They walked in silence for several moments before the captain finally spoke. “I say, Harris. I would have appreciated it if you would have informed me that brevet ranks were not honored in this regiment.”

  “I’m sure you would have,” Harris said with a slight smile.

  “I felt rather stupid having the colonel tell me so,” Blackburn fumed.

  “Really? I apologize, Captain,” Lieutenant Harris said. “But one tends to forget certain protocol when such situations as Indian raids, massacres of civilians, and other unpleasant happenings clutter up the duty day.”

  They continued down to the orderly room, stopping at one that had the C Company guidon planted in front of the door. Harris knocked and stepped inside.

  First Sergeant Edward McClary leaped to his feet and stood at attention. Across from him, a gray-haired, paunchy captain of fifty-six years of age, slumped at his desk. His plump face was haggard, and he appeared to be physically ill. The smell of stale liquor hung like an invisible cloud around him. He got unsteadily to his feet and looked past Harris at the stranger. “Is this my replacement?”

  “It is, Captain Wayne. Allow me to present Captain Blackburn.”

  Wayne offered his hand. “Dan Wayne at your service.”

  “Gordon Blackburn,” said the new arrival.

  “I presume you are anxious to jump into the fray, Captain Blackburn,” Wayne said.

  “I am.”

  “Good,” he said. He gestured to McClary. “Get the company records out, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.” McClary crossed the room and grabbed an armful of file boxes and memo books. He set them down on his desk. “Here they are, sir. The comp’ny order book, letters received and index, letters sent and index, sick report book, morning report book, duty roster—”

  “I am well aware of company records,” Blackburn said coldly.

  “Yes, sir!” McClary snapped.

  Wayne stood up and walked around his desk, sitting down on it “Help yourself, Blackburn.”

  Blackburn gave the documents a quick but thoroughly professional perusal. He found them all neat and up-to-date. “They seem to be in order,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” McClary said proudly.

  “I smell liquor on your breath,” Blackburn said. “Have you been drinking, Sergeant?”

  Captain Wayne interrupted. “We both have.”

  Blackburn smiled slightly and continued to look at McClary. “During my tenure as company commander, you will not drink on duty, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Wayne smirked. “After a few years you’ll find a nip or two will help you get through the tedium, Captain Blackburn. That is something we have plenty of— tedium. It fits in nicely with the winter snow, the summer heat and flies, the endless routine of doing the same damned thing over and over and over. Tedium. Tedium. Tedium.”

  Blackburn snapped his disapproving gaze to Wayne. “How long have you been in the army, Captain?”

  “Thirty-six years,” Wayne answered. He tapped his shoulder straps bearing the double bars of captain.

  “With twenty-four of them spent in this exalted rank.” He laughed. “I would be willing to wager I’ve worn out dozens of these insignia.”

  Blackburn gave the records on McClary’s desk another glance, then turned away. “I shall be back tomorrow for the transfer of property, Captain Wayne.” He looked at McClary. “I will also speak with the two other N.C.O.s, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now,” he said to Lieutenant Harris. “I would like to go to my quarters.”

  “Yes, sir,” Harris answered. “The quartermaster sergeant has seen that your trunks were taken care of. You’ve ranked the Robertsons out of quarters, but since Captain Wayne is leaving shortly and you’ll be having his billets, I thought you would not mind taking one of the empty subalterns’ houses. That way Lieutenant Robertson and his wife won’t have to go through an unnecessary move.”

  “That won’t do at all,” Blackburn said. “Have whatever quarters I am entitled to prepared immediately.”

  Harris’ jaw locked in rage, but he kept a lid on his feelings, “Yes, sir, Captain Blackburn!”

  Chapter Seven

  Sergeants Guy DuBose and Harry Tate stood at the barracks door looking down the twin rows of troopers standing by their respective bunks. The men of Company C had gone through an early, critical inspection by the two N.C.O.s. All discrepancies found by the meticulous sergeants had been quickly corrected. Now the soldiers stood tall and sharp, ready to begin the new day under the command of Captain Gordon Blackburn.

  The rising sun’s pinkish glow cast through the barracks windows, was drowned out by the lights of the lanterns hanging from the squad room ceiling.

  “Remember!” Guy announced loudly. “This is the first reveille with the new company commander. We don’t want him to think that he’s been handed a gang of tramps. You are soldiers in the regular army, so show him how smart we can turn out for formation.”

  Tate growled, “And I’ll kick anybody’s ass that moves slow and sloppy.”

  Even the brawler Private Tim Donovan would pay heed to that statement. Sergeant Harry Tate was known to back up his orders with fists and boots when his temper snapped. The men, a bit nervous but standing stock still, gave the sergeants their strictest attention.

  The urgent notes of Reveille suddenly sounded. “Outside! Outside!” Guy ordered.

  “Perk up, damn you!” Tate added.

  The young cavalrymen rushed through the door into the semi-darkness and immediately fell into the proper company formation outside. Guy, as senior sergeant, took over and marched them all up the street between the barracks until giving them a column movement in front of the row of orderly rooms. After moving the soldiers into formation with the regiment’s other companies, he brought both sections to a halt and faced them toward their waiting first sergeant.

 

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