Trial at Fort Keogh Page 3

  It was around four o’clock in the afternoon when he rode up to the diamond-shaped parade ground. The bugler had just sounded Recall, which signaled the end of the evening mounted drill, and the troopers of a company of cavalry were headed toward the stables. Clint pulled up before the nearest trooper.

  “Afternoon,” he said. “Can you tell me where the commanding officer’s headquarters is?” The soldier pointed him toward a building directly across the parade ground. “Much obliged,” Clint said, and proceeded toward it. He dismounted and looped the bay’s reins around a corner post.

  Inside, he was met by a sergeant seated at a desk. Behind the sergeant, Clint saw two open offices, one of them empty, and an officer seated behind a desk in the other one. “Can I help you, sir?” the sergeant asked.

  “I’m from the Double-V-Bar. My boss, Mr. Randolph Valentine, sent me over to tell you soldiers that we ran up on those Sioux hostiles that raided Leonard Sample’s place. He figured you’d wanna know.”

  “I reckon we sure would,” the sergeant said. “I’ll let you tell the captain about it.” He got up from his desk and stepped to the office door. “Fellow out here with some information about that Injun raid on those settlers back up the river.”

  The officer got up from his desk and came out to talk to Clint. “I’m Captain Rodgers,” he said. “You say you know something about that raid?” Clint told him about the fight he and Ben had had with the Indians. “How do you know they were the same hostiles that murdered the Sample family?” Rodgers asked. Clint told him about the evidence they found that tied them to the massacre. The captain was more than interested. “A fifteen-man patrol was sent out to that farm as soon as word reached Fort Keogh, but they weren’t able to pick up the hostiles’ trail.”

  Clint didn’t comment, but he was thinking that it shouldn’t have taken much of a scout to pick up the trail of a war party, even one of that size. It couldn’t be blamed on snow covering the tracks, because there had been no snow beyond a few flurries since then.

  Rodgers paused to give Clint’s report some thought before he decided what he should do. General Miles was not on the post at the present time. Neither was his second-in-command, Major Kinsey, so Rodgers was the officer in charge. After a moment, he told himself what Miles would do, and made his decision. “If I send a patrol out with you, can you take them to the spot where you had that fight?” he asked Clint.

  “Yes, sir,” Clint replied, “I can take you there if you want me to.”

  “If my memory serves me,” Rodgers said, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “the Sample Farm was about a three-hour ride from here. How far would you say the place is where you had the fight with the hostiles?”

  “Maybe an hour’s ride short of that,” Clint said.

  “There’s not much sense in trying to assemble a patrol to send out this evening, so we might as well wait till morning. You say there are only two of the hostiles that got away?” Clint nodded his affirmation. Rodgers continued. “No need to send a full scouting party out for two hostiles.” That comment was meant more for himself, for he was wondering if it was wise to dispatch a large detail without his superior’s approval. His decision made, he told Clint that a detail would leave Fort Keogh in the morning.

  “Right,” Clint said, and turned to leave, thinking his job was done.

  Rodgers stopped him. “You are planning to lead the patrol to the place where the hostiles were killed, right?”

  “Right,” Clint confirmed.

  “Well, then, you’re probably gonna need a place to bunk tonight.” He looked at a large clock on the wall. “Mess call will be sounding in about an hour. I’ll send a man with you to get you something to eat. Then he can show you where you can find an empty bunk.”

  Clint hesitated and considered the suggestion. He hadn’t planned on staying overnight at the army post when the ranch was only a little more than five miles away. “If it’s all the same to you, Captain, I’ll go on back to the Double-V-Bar, and I’ll meet your men there in the mornin’.” When Rodgers looked uncertain, Clint said, “It’s on the way, so I might as well join up with your men there.”

  Rodgers frowned while he thought about that for a moment, but he couldn’t think of any reason to object. “Well, we sure know where the Double-V-Bar is, so I guess that would be all right.” Certain then, he said, “Good, they’ll meet you there in the morning.” He paused for a moment while he thought about it, then said, “The patrol will be under the command of Lieutenant Justin Landry.”

  Clint almost cringed. “Much obliged,” he said, and took his leave.

  Justin Landry, he thought. Well, he sure as hell ought to know the way. He’s been there often enough. He formed a picture in his mind of Hope, all girlish and coy when the lieutenant showed up. It was a picture that always bothered him.

  When Clint was gone, Rodgers told the sergeant to send a man over to the bachelor officers’ quarters to find Lieutenant Landry and tell him to report to the captain. “It’ll give him a chance to get a little more experience in the field. I don’t expect there’s much of a chance to catch up with two Sioux warriors after this amount of time, so there’s not much danger to worry about.”

  Lieutenant Landry had recently been assigned to the Second after a temporary assignment at Fort Lincoln, having graduated from West Point with the class of seventy-six. Rodgers felt it a good opportunity to add to Landry’s experience with little risk of danger to him or the men he sent with him.

  * * *

  Leaving the headquarters building, Clint paused to consider if he should take a few minutes to have a quick drink before starting back to the ranch. It didn’t take more than a second to decide that he was justified in doing so, since it had been some time since he had last imbibed—and Ernie’s place was just outside the post.

  Why, hell, he told himself, it would be downright unneighborly if I was this close and didn’t stop by to say hello.

  Ernie Thigpen had built his saloon soon after the army started construction of Fort Keogh. He built it as close to the fort as the army would allow—a distance of two miles, as ordered by General Miles, who was a colonel at the time. That wasn’t a great distance for a man needing a drink of whiskey, so most of his business came from the soldiers stationed at the fort.

  He was not the first to open a saloon close to the fort. A man named Mat Carroll had set up some barrels under a tarp and started selling whiskey as soon as the fort began construction. But Colonel Miles had grown tired of having his guardhouse filled with drunken soldiers, so he ordered Carroll and anybody else selling whiskey off the military reservation. Ernie built a substantial structure as close to the fort as the military allowed and, so far, had not run afoul of General Miles’ patience. Even so, he often complained that it might have been better in the long run if he had been located closer in to the rising town of Miles City. At the time, the new town was little more than a few tents and a hut or two. Now it was developing into a sizable settlement. He was busying himself behind the bar when Clint walked in. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed. “Clint Cooper, I ain’t seen you in a while. I thought you’d forgot about us, and was doin’ your drinkin’ in Miles City.”

  “Hello, Ernie,” Clint responded. “I’m a workin’ man—ain’t had time to do much drinkin’.” He turned then to give a smile to the grinning woman approaching him from the back of the room. “You know I stop in to see you and Darcy every chance I get. I just don’t get that many chances.”

  “Hello, stranger,” Darcy Suggs greeted him cordially, her greeting genuine, unlike the manufactured one she employed for the rutty soldiers from the fort. She moved up close beside him at the bar.

  “Howdy, Darcy,” Clint returned. “You’re just as pretty as I remembered you.”

  “You’re so full of horse shit,” Darcy said, laughing. She knew that she still looked pretty good considering the long road she had
traveled, but she did not deceive herself into thinking the bloom of youth was still there. She liked Clint Cooper. He always treated her like the lady she never was. “Are you gonna stay awhile and visit a little?” she asked hopefully as Ernie filled a shot glass and slid it over to Clint.

  “Not this time,” Clint said. “I have to get right back to the ranch. Mr. Valentine’s waitin’ to hear what I found out.” He told them briefly why he had come to the fort. “So I just took the time for one quick drink and a howdy, and then I’m on my way.”

  “That’s right sorry news about the Injuns,” Ernie said. “That feller that got killed, Sample, he was in here one time. Seemed like a right nice man—hate to hear I lost another customer.”

  “You still thinkin’ about movin’ your saloon to Miles City?” Clint asked him while Darcy stood beside him, her hand resting on his arm.

  “No, I reckon not,” Ernie said. “I don’t wanna move there anymore, what with the changes and everything.”

  “What changes?” Clint asked.

  “Ha,” Ernie snorted. “You must not a’ been in town for a while. The sheriff . . .”

  When mention of the sheriff did not register on Clint’s face as he expected, Ernie expounded. “They got a sheriff now, feller name of Simon Yeager. Sorta appointed hisself sheriff is what I hear. And he made his brother his deputy. His brother’s name is Mace, and they’re pretty much runnin’ the town. The town ain’t never had a sheriff before, so there weren’t nobody to stand in their way.”

  Clint shrugged. “Well, maybe they’ll do a good job and keep the town under control—keep the drifters from raisin’so much hell.”

  “Ha,” Ernie snorted again, and held the bottle over Clint’s empty glass, questioning.

  “One more,” Clint said.

  Ernie filled it and continued his discourse on the Yeager brothers. “They’ll keep it under control, all right. There was a feller stopped in here on his way to Bozeman. He’d heard of ’em before, said Simon Yeager wasn’t nothin’ but a gunman and a stagecoach bandit outta Wyomin’, and his brother wasn’t nothin’ better. I believe him, too. Those folks in Miles City are tryin’ to build a proper town, so they musta figured they needed a sheriff ’cause nobody stood up to ’em. I never seen the big stud, the one named Simon. But his brother, Mace, has been in here a couple of times, and I ain’t never seen a man with a meaner streak than that one—lean as a snake and every bit as mean lookin’. Darcy can tell you.”

  “That son of a bitch,” Darcy said in response. “He told me he needed to get his itch scratched. I wasn’t too thrilled about the idea, but business is business. I found out what his pleasure was, though, and it wasn’t just dippin’ his pickle. He likes to play rough—slapped me so hard across the face that he left a bruise on my cheek.” She paused, pleased to see the concern traced across Clint’s brow. “Nobody gets a second chance to whack me across the mouth. He left here with a bruise, too—on that skinny ass of his where I jammed my hat pin halfway up to the pearl.” She reached up and pulled the treacherous weapon from the bun on the back of her head to show him. “He bent it a little, too—musta hit a bone.” She made a halfhearted attempt to straighten it again before replacing it in her hair.

  “Homer Lewis,” Ernie continued, “you know him—feller that runs the barbershop—he said some of Yeager’s friends showed up in town, and they don’t seem to have nothin’ to do but play cards and drink likker.” He shook his head, concerned.

  “What about the army?” Clint asked. “Ain’t it part of their job to keep the peace? With outlaws like that runnin’ the town, looks like they’d send some soldiers over there.”

  “I reckon ain’t nobody really come to the fort to complain. The honest folks are too scared to say anything, afraid they’ll end up in one of those gunfights that the Yeagers always win.”

  “That don’t sound too good, does it?” Clint said. “I don’t get into Miles City too often myself, so I hope I don’t have the pleasure of makin’ their acquaintance.” He tossed his drink back and smacked the empty glass down forcefully. “Boy, that stuff’s got a powerful burn. You must still be mixin’ kerosene in it.” He gave Darcy a little squeeze and a big smile. “Well, I’d best get on my way home.” He started for the door.

  “Don’t stay away so long,” Ernie said while Darcy took his arm and walked him to the door.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” she said when she released his arm and stood watching the dark-haired young man as he deftly stepped up into the saddle. He turned to give her a smile before wheeling his horse away.

  Not a chance in hell, she thought, but it doesn’t hurt to think about it.

  * * *

  It was well past suppertime by the time Clint got back to the ranch. He had begun to wonder if he shouldn’t have passed on the invitation to eat in the mess hall with the soldiers—either that or he should have skipped the saloon. He could feel a little gnawing in his empty stomach and figured it was Ernie’s whiskey trying to eat a hole in it. It was probably not too late to grab a biscuit or two at the bunkhouse, and maybe something to go with them, if Milt hadn’t fed all the scraps to the dogs. He decided, however, that he’d best report to Mr. Valentine first, since he said that he would as soon as he returned.

  He went straight to the house, even before he unsaddled the bay and turned him out to graze. He went to the kitchen door as usual. Rena was still in the kitchen, washing the dishes. When she came to the door and saw it was Clint, she opened it for him and nodded impassively as he walked in. This was as close as the stoic woman usually came to a smile, as far as Clint could determine.

  “Evenin’, Rena,” he said. “Would you tell Mr. Valentine I’m back?” She nodded again and turned slowly on her heel to do his bidding. She returned moments later with Valentine right behind her.

  “Clint,” Valentine greeted him enthusiastically. “You got back in good time. I figured you might stop in one of those saloons in Miles City and forget your way home.” He liked to tease Clint primarily because he was well aware of the young man’s carefree nature.

  “No, sir,” Clint replied, and grinned, knowing his boss was japing. “I thought about it, but I didn’t have enough money to buy all the whiskey that would take. Maybe I oughta ask for a raise.”

  “Hell, you’re making more now than you’re worth,” Valentine came back. “You’d best settle for that.” His true feeling was that Clint was worth twice what he was paying him. Joking aside then, he asked, “What did the army say?” Before Clint could answer, Valentine asked, “Did you get back in time to eat?”

  “No matter, I wasn’t really hungry,” Clint lied.

  “Pour him a cup of coffee, Rena,” Valentine said.

  The emotionless woman drained the last cup of coffee from the pot on the corner of the stove and handed it to Clint. Detecting the hint of alcohol on his breath, she then took a biscuit, left over from supper, sliced it in two, and placed a piece of beef between the halves. This she handed to Clint with a knowing nod. He smiled and thanked her, aware that Valentine’s old hound dog had just lost a portion of his supper. Then he told Valentine what had taken place at the fort, talking between bites of his biscuit and sips of coffee that had grown as strong as horse liniment while sitting on the stove.

  “So there’ll be a detail of soldiers showing up here first thing in the morning?” Valentine asked. “How many did they say?”

  “Don’t know for sure,” Clint replied, “but he said there wasn’t no use to send more’n a few. I expect there won’t be but about five or six of ’em.”

  “You’d better tell Milt that he might be feeding half a dozen soldiers in the morning.” Always ready to demonstrate Western hospitality, he turned to Rena and said, “I suppose we should invite the officer to eat at the house, if they send one with ’em.”

  “That captain asked me if I would take ’em to the spot where we killed those S
ioux,” Clint said. “I told him I would. That all right with you?”

  “Sure,” Valentine said. “Help ’em any way you can. It’s in our best interest.”

  “I expect I can just show ’em where to pick up the trail, then leave them to follow it, and I’ll come on back.”

  * * *

  Second Lieutenant Justin Landry stepped outside the small room he occupied in the bachelor officers’ quarters and paused on the porch to check his watch when the notes of the bugle sounded Stable and Watering Call. As confirmed by the gold pocket watch presented to Landry by his father upon his graduation from West Point, the bugler was right on time at six o’clock. Without really thinking about it, he reached up with both hands to make sure his hat was sitting perfectly square with his eyebrows, a habit left over from his academy days.

  Deeming himself ready, he stepped off the porch and strode smartly toward the middle of the parade ground where Sergeant Barry Cox stood before a detail of six troopers, waiting more or less in a straight line. Each man held the bridle of his horse, with the exception of the man at the end, who held his horse as well as the lieutenant’s chestnut sorrel. The sergeant called the detail to attention when he saw Landry approaching from the B.O.Q.

  “Good morning, Sergeant,” Landry said. “You can stand at ease.”