“To the victor go the spoils,” I joked.
“They treatin’ you OK, Sarge?” Sonora was genuinely concerned.
“Sure, son. Ben Grierson’s a good man. In fact, Ah once heard him take on another colonel from the Third Infantry who claimed we was nothin’ more than a nigger unit. Said that he didn’t want us forming up next to his men on parade drill. A real uppity sort. Well, Ah’ll tell ya, Colonel Grierson laid into that son-of-a-bitch like Ah never seen done. Told him the Tenth was takin enemy positions while his men were still wipin’ their asses in the latrines.”
“Your unit has been getting some good press lately,” I commented.
“Shit, a black man does his job well and all o’ a sudden the press is surprised. Hell, there’s been a whole bunch of black Army units, the Twenty-Fourth and Twenty-Fifth Infantry, for example, and the Ninth Cavalry. There’ve been black men fightin’ all the way back to Bunker Hill. But you wanna know how it really is? The Tenth Cav’ whups a few tired and hungry Injuns and all of a sudden we’re heroes.”
“I doubt they were that simple to beat,” I said.
“Nate here’s a real hero,” offered Sonora, whacking his friend on the back again. “Medal and all. Bunch of ’Paches had a whole column pinned down. Ol’ Nate here strolled up by his lonesome, calm as Sunday goin’ to meetin’, and took out five of ’em. They promoted him all the way up to sergeant-major.”
“Ya always did talk too much,” replied the sergeant. “And what do ya mean ‘ol’ Nate’? Ah kin still whup yo’ ass any day.”
“I’ll give you that, Sarge,” Sonora conceded in good humor.
“Right about one thing, though. Ya cain’t git any better than this ’cause there ain’t no black officers in this man’s Army.”
There was obviously a lot of depth, courage, and humility to this grizzled old man, and I could sympathize with his disappointment.
“Give it time, Sarge,” I said encouragingly, but there was no reply.
After an uncomfortable silence Sergeant Freeman turned to Sonora. “You boys had anything to eat?” When we shook our heads, he led us back to the mess tent and saw to it that we were fed.
Chapter Eighteen
Sergeant-Major Freeman, we soon learned, shared a two-man tent with Corporal Carl Mathews who we found arranging his haversack as we entered the tent. The contents of the pack scattered on the floor were fairly standard: a metal plate and eating utensils, a dozen or so slightly moldy hardtack crackers, a change of socks, matches, a twist of tobacco, a bag of coffee beans, his razor, and a small sewing kit. The daily rations also included about six ounces of pork (occasionally maggot-ridden), a few dried apples, beans, and a potato.
“Corporal,” the sergeant asked after introducing us, “you suppose we could find quarters for these two stragglers?” Nate Freeman took three cups from off a tack box near his cot and reached for the coffee pot.
“If we move Johnson over in with Williams, they can use the extra tent. I’ll go see to it, Sarge.”
“Thanks, Carl.”
Corporal Mathews finished folding his pack and left, dropping the tent flap down after him.
“Hope you boys take it black. Ain’t got no cream or sugar, Isiquiel,” Nate said with a shrug.
Sonora shot him a dirty look. “That’s just fine.”
“Fine with me, too,” I said, chuckling.
“Sarge, you know anything about a herd of Spanish horses passing through here lately. They’d have a brand that looks something like this.” I drew an EH in the dirt floor, closing it off as Pete Evans had described to make four boxes. I briefly explained my situation.
“Sorry, son. We only pulled in here two weeks ago and the colonel’s had us camped back here the whole time. Only thing we’ve seen is the drill field, the back of the stable, and this tent city.” He paused a moment in thought. “You boys might check with Major Gilbert, though. He’s the fort’s commanding officer. Ain’t nothing goes on around here he don’t know about. Tell ya what, Ah’ll take ya over to see him soon as we get y’all settled.”
“Don’t know about Isiquiel, here,” I said, tipping my coffee cup to an annoyed Sonora Mason, “but I won’t be staying long. Say, any chance we can clean up before seeing the major?” I asked hopefully.
Sergeant Freeman shook his head. “You kid-din’? Around here? Hell, Ah’ve been ten years in the Southwest division, and been stationed in over a half dozen forts. Ain’t seen a bathhouse yet. After a while ya just sort of forget your sense o’ smell. Unless o’ course you’re an officer, that is.”
“The bunks are ready, Sarge,” Carl Mathews said, sticking his head through the tent flap.
I looked over at Sonora. “If I have to bunk with him, I sure hope it doesn’t take too long to lose.” I winked over at the sergeant.
“Lose? Lose what?” asked Nate.
“My sense of smell.” Nate laughed and Sonora threw his empty coffee cup at my head as I quickly ducked out of the way.
Sergeant Freeman later accompanied us to the office of the fort’s commander where we found Major Jeffery Gilbert seated behind an old, chipped flat-top desk. The rest of the office was equally Spartan, with only one other chair, which was currently occupied by Colonel Grierson. There was a flagpole in each corner, one for the flag, and the other for the unit’s colors. A picture of President Lincoln hung on the wall behind the colonel, still draped, I noticed, with black ribbon.
Sergeant Freeman was the first to speak. “Beggin’ the colonel’s permission, sir. These men would like to ask the major a few questions. Ah can vouch for them if necessary, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant-Major, that won’t be necessary. What can we do for you gentlemen?”
There was a subtle but noticeable hesitation before the word “gentlemen”, due I’m sure to our raggedy appearance.
“Colonel, I’m trailing after a herd of stolen horses that I believe passed through here, and thought the major or his men might have some information that could help me. The horses might have been wearing a Four box or an EH brand.”
Major Gilbert nodded his head. “Yes, I remember the outfit. The herd didn’t actually pass through the fort, mind you, one of my patrols came across it a few miles north of here.” The major turned to the colonel. “Lieutenant Peters was leading at the time and brought their ramrod back here to the fort. Peters said the horses looked remarkably prime.”
“I know the lad,” commented the colonel. “He’s a good judge of horseflesh.”
“That sounds like them,” I said, encouraged.
“I’m empowered to do the purchasing for the Army in this whole area, but, try as I might, I couldn’t convince them to sell,” the major added. “That ramrod was a real hardcase. Said we couldn’t come close to the price he’d get elsewhere.” Major Gilbert turned back to the colonel. “We could have really used those horses. I even tried to, shall we say, convince him to sell. Let on he was risking confiscation of the herd for Army use, but he knew the law and basically called my bluff.”
“Sounds like whatever he knew of the law came from being on the wrong side of it, I’d say,” Colonel Grierson commented. He had an annoying habit of continually drumming his fingers on the table top.
“What did this cowboy look like, Major?” I asked.
“Oh, about your height and build. Moustache, cleft chin. Wore a brace of Remingtons cross-draw style.”
“Pierce,” I said, nodding to Sonora. “Did he happen to mention where he was headed?’
“Not precisely, but, from the reports my patrols gave me, I’d say they were being driven north into California.”
“That fits with what you figured,” Mason commented, pushing his hat up. “Maybe the Army can help, eh?”