Horses given to the Tenth were blown-out wrecks from the war, some of them twelve years old. When Grierson protested, Hoffman shrugged. "The Army's on a tight budget, Colonel. We are required to use the arms, ammunition, and mounts already on hand. I'd say those plugs are good enough for niggers."
"General, I respectfully request that my men not be called —"
"As you were, sir. Your men wouldn't even be here if the damned Congress wasn't coddling the coons. I don't have to coddle anyone. Dismissed."
To his officers at mess Grierson said, "We have to pull this regiment together and get off this post. If we don't, something dire will happen. I am not a violent man. I am not a profane man. But if we stay much longer, Hoffman's dead. I will kill that bigoted prick personally."
Charles laughed and joined the applause.
Grierson added, "If Alice knew about Hoffman's effect on my character and vocabulary, she'd divorce me."
Barnes — or the old man as he was commonly called — often lectured C Company on practical matters not taught in official Army texts.
"Men," he said one day, striding down the ranks, preceded by his stomach, "you joined up to be proud of your uniform. That's fine as long as we hang around the fort." His eyes flicked across the earnest, attentive faces, tan and amber, mahogany and ebony. "However, I want each of you to get a new outfit for the field. I don't care what it looks like so long as it's warm, fairly loose, and can be peeled off a piece at a time if the sun's broiling you. For the kind of fighting we may do, you don't want to be weighed down with extra gear or heavy duds. So put together a new uniform — shirt, pants, coat, hat. Buy it. Trade for it. If you steal it, don't get caught."
He gave each side of his mustache a short, neat stroke with his index finger to put a period after the whole business, but added: "The less gov'ment blue I see in this outfit, the happier I'll be."
Sometimes when Charles had a spare hour, he rode to Leavenworth City. The Prairie Dog Saloon on Main Street served forty-rod that was much better than the watery stuff in the officers' bar at the sutler's.
Heading for town one sunny Saturday, he heard gunfire. He soon came upon an expensively dressed civilian who'd picketed his horse by the road and stepped away to a safe distance for some target practice. Charles reined in and watched as the stranger blew down a row of twelve bottles with continual fire from a pair of .44-caliber double-action Colts.
As echoes of the shots reverberated, Charles called, "That's fine shooting."
The marksman ambled over. He was about Charles's age and had long hair and a mustache resembling Custer's. A jutting upper lip somewhat marred his appearance. He wore a fawn claw-hammer coat, green silk waistcoat, and costly tooled boots.
"Thanks," he said. "Do I note a trace of the South in your speech, sir?"
The question had an edge. Charles said, "The border."
"Ah, a Union loyalist. Good. I'm from Troy Grove, Illinois. La Salle County. Abolitionist territory." He offered his hand and Charles leaned down to shake it. "Right now I'm earning the handsome sum of sixty a month riding dispatch for the Army. I'm hoping to sign on to scout for General Hancock this spring."
"You practice a lot, do you?"
"Three, four hours a day. There's no magic to killing somebody who's out to kill you first. It's mostly accuracy, plus a few tricks. Always go for the head, never the chest. A man with a fatal wound in the chest can keep firing long enough to finish you."
"I'll remember. Well, keep it up, Mr. —"
"Jim," the stranger said. "Just Jim."
At the Prairie Dog, Charles mentioned the dandified stranger. The barkeep paled. "Oh, God. You didn't insult him, did you? No, I guess not. You wouldn't be here." "What do you mean? He seemed a polite sort —" "Call him Duck Bill and see how polite he is. One man called him that and he blew him down. That shootist is J. B. Hickok."
Charles knew the name. Everybody knew the name of the feared killer. "He said he's riding dispatch for the Army." "Yeh, him and some braggy kid named Will Cody." Charles let out a low whistle. He had exchanged pleasantries with one of the most dangerous men on the frontier. He was almost as surprised by the mention of Cody. Just as Dutch Henry Griffenstein had predicted, the young Kansan's Golden Rule House hadn't lasted.
In the wet, misty dark, Charles ran toward clustered lanterns, the tail of his nightshirt flapping out of his trousers. Hair in his face, sleep in his eyes, fear drying his mouth, he loped east from the arsenal storehouse to the group of provost's men.
One had pounded on his door to wake him. No one could locate Grierson. The new adjutant, a recommissioned officer named Woodward, wasn't scheduled to arrive till next week. Ike Barnes and Lovetta were taking a short holiday in St. Louis arid Floyd Hook was down with winter influenza.
Sweating, his breath clouding, Charles reached the half-dozen men with lanterns standing some distance from the timber piers of the rail bridge over the Missouri. The metal of their revolvers and carbines gleamed.
"Sir, the darky's one of yours," a corporal said after a slovenly salute. "He won't surrender. We'll have to shoot him."
At the dim edge of the light, squatting behind a pier so that only a white eye and a shyer of his black face showed, was one of the new recruits, Shem Wallis.
"Let me talk to him, Corporal."
"Sir, white or nigger, if a sojer takes the Grand Bounce and resists when he's caught, we got orders to —"
"I said I'll talk to him." Charles shoved the corporal's carbine down and walked away from the muttering men.
The closer he got to Wallis, the more he saw of him. That included black fingers tightened around an Allin Conversion, one of the pieces retooled in 1865 by the Springfield Armory and foisted on the Army. An old-fashioned single-shot gun, but its fifty-five-grain charge could still put a man away.
Wallis acted determined, too. "Lieutenant, you stay there. Like I told those white boys, first one who tries to jump me goes to hell."
Charles's gut hurt. So did his head. "Shem, listen. You shouldn't have clubbed that sentry and tried to desert. But it'll be worse if —"
"I joined up to be proud of what I did!" Wallis yelled. "I didn't join up to kneel down again like a nigger slave with a brush in my hand. I spent my whole damn Sat'day whitewashing some officer's picket fence, and then he come out and inspected and said a jackass could do better."
Charles took a step, another. His breath ghosted around him. "That kind of duty's one of the bad things about the Army, Shem. I thought I explained that."
"You did. I just won't do it no more.".
Six feet from the pier, still walking, Charles held out his hand. "Give me the piece. I know what's ragging you. Too much winter. Everybody feels it."
The old Springfield steadied, pointed at his chest. "I kill you, Lieutenant."
Charles stopped a yard from the pier. "All right, that will take care of one round. You haven't any more. Those boys behind me will finish you. Give up, Shem. You'll spend a while in the guardhouse, but it's better than going to the cemetery. Then you'll come back where you belong. You've got the makings of a good soldier. I mean it. You're a good man."
Hand held out, he resumed his slow walk forward. Wallis jammed the Springfield against his shoulder. Sighted.
Charles watched the muzzle opening grow larger as he walked.
Larger.
And —
Tension in Wallis's upper body indicated a move. Charles shifted his weight and crouched, knowing he was too late to dodge the bullet.
The Springfield dropped. With a forlorn moan, Wallis covered both eyes. Then he straightened up, stepped from behind the pier, and raised his hands. Charles saw some whitewash left between his fingers.