No Good Like It Is Read online

  No Good Like It Is / Long

  NO GOOD LIKE IT IS

  Prologue

  There was a large adobe building, a lean-to shed on each end, a barn, outhouse, and corrals. A small garden and cornfield, all brown and withered from the heat. No cook smoke. No dogs or chickens. No horses or milk cows. No people.

  Well, not exactly. There were five people on the ground around the adobe and the barn. Even from this distance it was apparent that they were dead. They wore little or no clothing. Several had long black hair and the bodies were sun-darkened, as though they’d lain there for some time. It wouldn’t need to be long in this heat. Not yet noon, it was already scalding hot.

  Dobey couldn’t hear the flies yet nor pick up the smell of death, but he knew it was there, waiting for him to come a little closer. He was in no hurry now.

  Dobey’s throat constricted. He hadn’t seen his family in years. Years of fighting, and years of school before that, and finally this long trip ‘home’. For most of that time, he hadn’t even known where his family was. And now this. He couldn’t breathe.

  There’d been some movement down by the river, which was half a mile further downhill to the right, past the barn. As he rode slowly down past the outhouse, Dobey could see the barn doors were standing open. Sergeant Melton and Bear rode with him, pistols drawn,twenty yards out to either side, on full alert. The others waited atop the low ridge with the Cherokee scouts.

  Melton and Bear spread out some, walking their horses slowly to check out the bodies. Bear halted and said, “Dead goat here. Three arrows. They ain’t Cheyenne.” “Prob’ly Comanche, or Kiowa.” Melton stood in the stirrups for a better look around. “Might be better me and Bear look these folks over, Dobey. You go on to the store. You might not want to see this.”

  Now Dobey fought the rising bile.

  BOOK ONE

  June 1858

  Chapter One

  “You want a chew, Lieutenant Walls?”

  “Ah—no. But thank you, Sergeant. I’m still sucking on this pebble.”

  “Pebble. Yessir.” Sergeant Kibler cut himself another slice from his tobacco plug and added it to his already full left cheek.

  Second Lieutenant Thomas “Dobey” Walls took off his hat, rubbed sweat from his face with his sleeve, then used the hat to shield his eyes as he strained to see the approaching riders. “A pebble helps when you’re thirsty and trying to save water.”

  Kibler spat. “Yessir. I’spect you learned that at West Point.”

  Walls put his hat on again and looked sideways at the old sergeant. He knew it was important to maintain ‘face’ with these old non-coms, especially as a shave-tail, Class of 1858, straight out of the Academy. “Well, no. I learned that out in Colorado Territory, long before I went to school.”

  “Yessir. We ain’t exactly dying of thirst here. There was water in that creek we just crossed. You ain’t got a scope to look at them riders?”

  “No, not yet. Do you have any idea who they are?”

  “Yessir. They’s either Jayhawkers, Border Ruffians, or our escort from Fort Smith. You might want to get a scope. It helps to know something afore they’s on top of you, though it ain’t as interesting as waiting. Least ways, they ain’t Indians. Did you really want some water?” He offered his canteen.

  The two mounted men were under a tree and behind low scrub on a small hill. They’d seen the dust two miles away, long before they could see or hear the riders. They could now tell that fifteen or twenty men were riding hard toward them from the west, right out of the late sun.

  “No, Sergeant. Just forget the water, alright? How do you know they ain’t Indians?”

  “Well, sir, they’d come on the sneak, at night. Be after our horses, ‘stead of looking for a fight. Course, if they had us bad outnumbered, they’d probably want our hair too. But some of these folks is wearing white shirts and black top hats. I can see that much. Want to look?” Grinning, the old sergeant handed Lieutenant Walls his brass telescope.

  “Oh. Thanks.” Walls focused on the group. “They ain’t soldiers, either. How do you know whether they’re Jayhawkers or, what did you say, bushwhackers?”

  “Border Ruffians, I said. Though they is usually bushwhackers too. Well, Jayhawkers is from Kansas. Free Staters. Loves them darkies. Border Ruffians, now, they’s from Missoura. They holds with slavery. Don’t care for Jayhawkers nor darkies. Hates ‘em.”

  “But how do you tell ‘em apart?”

  “Don’t know as you can. Doctors, lawyers, merchants, lawmen, farmers, schoolboys.” Kibler spat again and reached for his scope. “Vicious, murdering, back-stabbing, barn-burning buggers, all of ‘em. I have heard that some of the Jayhawkers has taken to sporting red-dyed sheep wool atop their boots. Calls themselves Redlegs. You catch a flash of red there?” He handed the scope back to Walls, who trained it on the men and nodded. The riders were now less than a mile away.

  Sergeant Kibler took his scope back, stuffed it in his saddlebag, and wheeled his horse around. “Let’s get back and report, Lieutenant. I think these boys spotted the wagons from that big ridge over there and is heading to cut ‘em off.”

  The two cavalrymen rode directly to the lead wagon, a buckboard, and saluted the captain sitting in the driver’s seat. The two trailing wagons were covered Conestogas pulled by oxen. As they ground to a halt, the ten troopers of the escort closed in to hear the report.

  Their captain took off his hat and wiped his head with a yellow scarf. Lean, maybe thirty-five and balding, he had impatient eyes. “Let’s have it, Sergeant.”

  “Maybe twenty Jayhawkers, Cap’n Ellison. Less than a mile behind us, coming this way fast. Probably seen us from that hill back there. We made out some red on their boot tops.”

  Captain Ellison re-tied his scarf. “Free Staters. What are they doing in Arkansas? Anybody chasing them?”

  “Nossir.” Kibler spat once more, then wiped his chin. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  A young black-haired woman was seated beside the captain. She smiled. “No need for an apology, Sergeant Kibler.”

  Turning back to Ellison, Kibler finished his report. “That was it, Captain. Didn’t seem to have no prisoners, neither.”

  “Anything to add, Lieutenant Walls? I hope I didn’t slight you by taking the report from the sergeant.”

  “No, sir. On both counts. Thanks for letting me go with him, and thanks for the use of your horse.” He dismounted. He knew he was just baggage here, enroute to his first post, not even issued a horse or weapon yet. “I was getting tired of that wagon seat.”

  Captain Ellison looked past him. “There they come. You keep the horse for now, Walls. You may need that pistol.” He nodded toward the Dragoon Colt in the pommel holster. Addressing the woman, he said, “Beth, go to the other wagon and try to keep Sissy out of sight. Don’t want these scoundrels to think we’re keeping a slave.”

  Hearing her name, a young black girl peered over the shoulder of the trooper driving the first covered wagon.

  Beth Ellison gathered her skirts and jumped down from the buckboard. “Yes, master.” She gave her husband a worried smile, then shouted, “Hide yourself in there, Sissy. And don’t talk.”

  As the Redlegs lumbered to a halt, Captain Ellison nodded to his sergeant, who shouted, “Draw carbines, boys. Dismount. High Port. Check your primers.” Like a drill, two troopers led the horses back toward the big wagons, while the other eight troopers stepped into line holding their weapons across their chests.

  A harsh ripple of murmurs ran through the eighteen Redlegs as they noticed the weapons. Colt revolving carbines. Forty-fours. Six-shooters. Goddamit, anyways.

  Walls, Kibler, and the trumpeter, an immigrant named Migliore, remained mounted besi
de the captain’s buckboard. Captain Ellison set the butt of his shotgun on the seat between his legs, smiled, and said, “What can we do for you?”

  A squat man in full beard and top hat replied, “I’m Doctor Jennison. We’re from Kansas, and we’re looking for scum transporting slaves into the territories.” His horse danced a little. He wore a short sword and, like most of the others, had a muzzle-loading rifle across his lap.

  Ellison’s smile widened. “We can’t help you. Haven’t seen anything like that.”

  An unkempt fat man with wild eyes rode up beside the Redleg leader. “I’m telling you, Doctor, I seen a nigra woman in that first big wagon as we come up. That bluecoat is lying. Let’s search them wagons. We got ‘em outnumbered.”

  Ellison’s smile disappeared. “That’s not going to happen.” He cocked both barrels of the shotgun.

  Hearing that, Kibler just said, “Ready, boys.” There was the chatter of oiled clicks as the carbines went on full cock.

  Lieutenant Walls watched the fat man. The others were nervous, but that one was unafraid. “That fat one’s crazy,” he whispered to Sergeant Kibler.

  “Yessir, I think you’re right. Millie, give that fat bastard a toot on your horn.”

  “Si, Sergeant.” The trumpeter dismounted, tucked his bugle under his arm, and quick-stepped towards the big Redleg.

  Kibler choked on his tobacco wad. “No, Millie, I didn’t mean . . .” It was too late. Migliore marched up to the man’s mare, put the bugle to his lips and blew “Recall” right in the mare’s nose. The hose reared and tossed the fat man. Unused to bugle calls, the other Redleg horses danced jigs too.

  Migliore stood over the stunned fat man and shook his bugle at him. “You no talk my Capitan a liar, you hear me?” He turned, nodded to the captain as he put the bugle under his arm and marched back to his mount. In the saddle again, he turned to Kibler. “Tha’s alright, si?”

  Kibler was still choking, but on laughter. He nodded a yes. Even some of the Redlegs were laughing as the fat man ran after his horse.

  Ellison was still serious. He raised his voice to the doctor. “This is an army re-supply mission to Fort Smith. You don’t get to touch us, long as we live. You have us outnumbered, we have you out-gunned. The law is on our side, and this is not Kansas. Just ride on. An escort from Fort Smith is due to meet us at any time. We thought you was them.”

  Doctor Jennison looked back to the west, then stared at the captain with hate-filled eyes. “Maybe another day, then. Let’s go, boys.”

  As the intruders rode north, Kibler cut another chew. “Let them hammers down easy, boys. Cap’n, why din’t you just tell ‘em that Sissy girl was already free?”

  “None of their business, Bud. Besides, they pissed me off.”

  ***

  Lieutentant Walls jerked awake. It was early morning, still dark,and slight rain made the campfire pop and sizzle. The sentry knelt between Walls and Sergeant Kibler, and was nearly frantic.

  “They’re right there,” he whispered, pointing to bushes not twenty yards away. “I ain’t seen ‘em, but I heard ‘em. They’s a bunch of ‘em, I tell you. Just listen.”

  Walls picked up the big revolver and rolled onto his stomach, pointing it over the saddle. No longer a pillow, the saddle gave him some protection. He’d had a restless night already, thinking of night-raiding Indians and vengeful Jayhawkers. The Fort Smith escort still hadn’t showed, and now he couldn’t swallow.

  Kibler yanked the sentry down. “Easy, boy. Crawl around and make sure ever’ one’s awake and ready.” The trooper scuttled away.

  Walls heard them now, too. He cocked the Dragoon and peered down the barrel. The firelight reflected on the damp leaves, dancing, playing tricks on his eyes, but something was right there where he heard the rustling. The bushes moved, just slightly, and there they were: two mean, golden eyes, staring back at him from the bushes. He fired.

  The flash blinded him for a second, but the bushes were obscured by the gunsmoke anyhow. The bang left his ears ringing, but he still heard the squeal, then grunts of pain. The little army camp exploded around him. Walls fired again.

  Kibler yelled, “You got one, sir.” He went up on his knees and fired three quick rounds from his Colt carbine into the same bushes, drawing more screams. “Hold up, now. Don’t shoot ‘less you got a real target, boys. I think they’s running.”

  Captain Ellison yelled from across the camp. “Nothing on this side, Kibler. Anybody hurt?”

  “I don’t know yet, Cap’n. Hang on. Hey, Lieutenant, listen. You hear that?”

  Walls nodded. The attackers could clearly be heard racing away through the underbrush.

  Kibler shouted, “They’s gone, this side. Hey, Millie, grab a firebrand and come with me. Lieutenant, cover us.” Trumpeter Migliore brought the torch and Kibler eased up to the bushes carefully, pushing the branches aside with his carbine barrel.

  Even from twenty yards away, Walls could see the dark body still twitching, bright blood pulsing in the torchlight.

  Kibler looked back at him. “Damn, Lieutenant, that’s good shooting for a shave-tail.” Migliore touched him and pointed farther back in the bushes. “Hell, there’s two more in here.”

  Chapter Two

  Like Fort Smith, Fort Gibson was just off the Arkansas River. The fact that it was forty miles north and upriver didn’t make it any cooler. June of 1858 had been a scorcher so far, but the temperature was not the sole reason for the sweat pouring down Lieutenant Dobey Walls’ forehead and nose as he waited outside the office of his commanding officer, an officer he had yet to meet, an officer reputed to eat second lieutenants for breakfast. Especially new West Point graduates, as the commander was a crusty old major named Caskey, a “mustang,” up from the ranks, with little formal education.

  Sergeant Reid, who picked up the new arrival at the dock, filled in Lieutenant Walls on their short wagon ride from the river to Fort Gibson. The more grim possibilities the sergeant outlined, the happier he seemed to become.

  As he deposited Dobey here ten minutes earlier, his parting shot was, “No sirree Bob. I wouldn’t want to be no shavetail reporting to Major Caskey today, no way. He was madder’n a hornet already this morning.”

  As he drove away, narrowly missing Dobey with the rear wheels, another sergeant hailed him. “What’s doing, Harry?”

  “Delivering a baby, so to speak,” Reid cackled, in a voice just loud enough for Dobey to hear also.

  Dobey decided that Reid was one of that breed of sergeants put on earth to make life miserable for junior officers. They used their age and experience to push to the very edge of insolence, and generally only treated senior officers respectfully out of fear. Dobey now thought of several things he might have said to put the sergeant firmly in his place.

  Now I think of them, he thought, then, his place, hell I don’t even know my own place. Though I’m probably about to find out.

  The door opened. The sergeant major came out and smiled. “The major will see you now, sir. I’ll bet you know how to report.”

  Dobey nodded grimly, marched in, stopped three feet from the major’s desk, saluted and announced, “Lieutenant Walls reports to the commanding officer as ordered, sir.”

  The hard leathery face fixed him in a stare. “Walls, Thomas MacDougal?” He didn’t return the salute.

  “Yessir.” Dobey held his salute, and his anxiety level went off the scale. Is he going to return it? How long do I hold it? This is not a good start.

  “Army brat, son of an enlisted man, right?”

  “Yes sir.” Sweat was now pouring off the tip of his nose.

  The major returned his salute and stood. Lanky. Nice smile. Jesus, thought Dobey, he’s laughing at me. He dropped his salute.

  “I’m told you rode to Fort Smith with Captain Ellison and was in that standoff, and in the gunfight the next morning.”

  Dobey fought to keep his eyes on a nail in the wall behind the major. Sweat ran into his eyes. He tried to blink
it away.

  “Heard you was a hell of a shot, too. Stayed calm, killed three of ‘em, that right?”

  Dobey struggled to find his voice. “Nosir. I only got off two shots . . .”

  Sergeant-Major McCabe cut in. “Three of ‘em, with two shots. Amazing. Sergeant Kibler sent word that it was an entire family, too. Mean old leader of the clan, a fat sow of a mother, and their filthy runt. How you ever gonna top that? You ever hear of starting out slow?”

  Dobey tried again. “Sergeant-Major, it was probably Kibler that killed two of ‘em. I just . . .”

  Major Caskey cut him off. “Not what he said. The big question is, though, did you let the men cook and eat them?”

  Dobey hung his head. “Yessir.”

  Caskey smiled. “Wish you’d saved some. I love razorback hogs. Little vinegar and mustard? Man.”

  The major walked around the desk and extended his hand. “John Caskey. Welcome. I’m glad to have you. K. E. Hamburger was through here, maybe a year ago, told me about you. Was on his way to Washington. I asked for you. Looks like he was able to swing it.”

  Dobey shook his hand, numb, thick-tongued, non-believing. “Major Hamburger, sir? From Fort Motte?”

  “The one and only. Sit down, son. Sergeant Major, a couple of mugs of coffee—no, make it three. I’ll bet you remember this lieutenant’s old man. Come on in.”

  Sergeant Major McCabe brought in the coffee, but wouldn’t sit. “So you’re ‘Big Mac’ Walls’ boy. I will be damned. I’da thought you’d be six foot tall, at least, Lieutenant.”

  “So, you knew him?” Dobey held himself erect, but as a slender five and a half footer, he was dwarfed by the older soldiers.