Cry of the Hawk

31

July 7, 1867

THE MORNING OF the seventh dawned as had so many before it.

By the time the gray was gone from the sky and the bloody corona of the sun made its appearance at the far eastern rim of the earth, the command was called to horse.

Apparently on cue, thirteen soldiers from two troops rose from their fires and, without a word, turned west, never looking back. Six strode off on foot. Seven quickly, self-consciously mounted army horses and rode away. All thirteen aimed for the nearby stream—clearly away from Custer’s line of march for the day.

“You boys better get back here—you get skinned alive!” yelled a sergeant, trying his best to cajole the deserters.

Lieutenant Edward Godfrey stood watching the seven mounted soldiers reach the far streambank, then the six stragglers slogged across the shallow creek on foot and clambered up the far side without so much as a glance back in the direction of the camp. Practically every soldier in camp was on his feet now, most whispering among themselves, watching the lack of action among their officers. An electrifying tension had come over the entire bivouac readying itself for the march.

Down near the streambank where the scouts had pitched their bedrolls, Shad Sweete stood watching the unfolding drama with the rest as the last straggler on foot among the thirteen slogged out of the creek, up the bank, and onto the rolling prairie.

“They taking off for the gold mines, ain’t they?” asked Jonah Hook as he came to a stop beside the old trapper.

Sweete kept looking back and forth between the deserters and the bustling soldier camp, knowing something was soon come to budge. “S’pose so, Jonah Some men can take only so much of this. Some just ain’t cut out to take such a hammering that Custer hisself can take.”

“Officer of the Day!”

“That was Custer hollering, weren’t it?” Comstock asked.

“Sounded to be,” Hickock replied.

“Major Elliott, get Tom—Lieutenant Custer—and Billy Cooke. Bring Jackson with you too. They’re our best marksmen.” Custer was sputtering as he reached the streambank, arms flaying the chill morning air. “I want those men!”

“Yessir,” Elliott replied, turning away into the disordered bivouac halfway to being put on the march.

Shad shook his head and spit a stream of tobacco juice into the sand at his feet. The coffee in his tin cup had quickly gone cold and tasteless.

“Why don’t he just let ’em go?” Hook asked. “He didn’t get so worked up over the rest took off before.”

Hickok glanced at Sweete a moment before he said, “This is something different, I imagine. The rest sneaked off under cover of darkness. This bunch—they just bolted off right in the bright of day.”

Sweete nodded. “Right under Custer’s nose. He can’t let ’em do that—he won’t have no soldiers left if he don’t get control and get it quick.”

A clatter of bit and saddle and hooves snagged their attention as four soldiers reined up beside an agitated, stammering George Armstrong Custer at the grassy bank.

“You’re in charge of this detail, Major Elliott,” Custer explained, his arm outstretched, pointing across the stream. “You are to perform as if these men were deserting in time of war, men! And how the army deals with deserters in time of war is to bring them back …” He pointed at his feet. “Bring them to me, here. Dead or alive.”

Elliott and the rest nodded gravely. Only Tom Custer, a dull-red Civil War bullet wound still glowing in his cheek, made a comment as the four hurriedly nudged their animals down the slope toward the water.

“By God, Autie—we’ll bring ’em all back—one way or other!”

Shad looked over at the rest, then stared at the quartet of officers splashing noisily out of the stream, up the far bank. He said quietly, “The general’s sent off a lynch mob.”

Across the next hour, it was hard for any man with good ears not to hear the distant rattle of sporadic gunfire roll back to camp on the pristine prairie air. The camp bustled with nervous energy, waiting. Waiting …

“Here they come!” a voice called out.

Every eye strained into the distance of those rolling, grassy hills on the far side of the South Fork of the Republican.

“They’re back!”

Elliott rode at the lead. Behind his saddle slumped a body.

“By God—they killed ’em all!” someone whispered loudly as the soldiers and civilians alike jostled for a place among the plum brush and willow along the stream.

As Elliott made it down to the far edge of the stream and his horse began splashing across, the water flung up by the prancing hooves appeared to revive his prisoner. The soldier, hands and feet bound together beneath the horse’s belly, raised his dripping head, cursing and thrashing wildly. The captain turned in his McClellan saddle and grabbed his prisoner by the back of the belt, readjusting the soldier and cursing back every bit as loudly.

Three of the deserters suddenly appeared on foot at the top of the bank behind Elliott. They paused there for a moment, then were nudged down the bank by Tom Custer, pistol in hand. The last two mounted officers carried restrained prisoners behind them, lashed behind their McClellan saddles. The whole sad procession plodded through the shallow creek, up the grassy bank, and halted before Custer.

“Cut ’em loose,” he ordered his sergeant of the guard.

The camp guards hurried forward and cut the three men loose. Two of them crumpled to the ground, loudly complaining. A third sank to the damp sand like a sack of wet oats, without a word and not moving.

“These three wounded, General,” explained Major Elliott.

“Get us a surgeon, goddammit, General!”

Custer stood above the soldier in that next heartbeat, sand flying, his pistol drawn. “By the saints—you’ll not have a surgeon’s care. And any man who takes a step to help these three will answer to me!” He waved the pistol, causing most to step back.

“You’re refusing the men my care?” inquired an officer who broke through the curious throng, carrying a small leather-bound satchel at the end of one arm.

“Yes, surgeon. That’s precisely what I’m doing. These men wanted to desert the army,” Custer spat. “By God—they won’t get the attention of an army surgeon for their wounds.”

“You’ve had them shot, General! In the name of humanity!”

“That’s the last I’ll hear from you, Captain!” Custer snapped at the surgeon. “I’ll put you on report myself if you continue.” He whirled on the rest of the group. “And let this be a lesson to the rest of you! I’ll shoot any man who deserts from here on!”

Custer turned on his heel. “Take these men to a wagon. Chain them up inside,” he ordered his camp guards.

“Tom—where are the others? I thought there was more.”

Tom stepped up, scratching his chin self-consciously. “Seven more. They were horseback. Got too much a head start on us. Spotted us when we crossed the stream—and took off at a hard gallop.”

“They left these six to fend for themselves,” added Lieutenant William W. Cooke, a Canadian who had come to the States to fight for the Union during the Civil War.

Below his bushy mustache, Custer pressed his wind-burned lips into a line of utter frustration. The man looked as if he wanted to cuss in the worst way, but swallowed down the temptation. He whirled on the noisy, protesting deserters who were being led off by the guard. Stomping over to one, he jammed his pistol against the man’s head.

“You shut up that caterwauling right now! Or I’ll be the one to blow your head off!”

“Yessir general,” the man replied meekly, his eyes wide and fearful.

“Get them out of my sight!” Custer ordered his guard. “These men aren’t soldiers. They’re criminals!” He wheeled on the breathless assembly. “And any criminal in this regiment will be dealt with just as harshly!”

“You want the march ordered for the day?” Elliott asked.

“No,” Custer answered, squinting into the new sunlight. “Not just yet. Tom—I want you to see that the three who are wounded are placed in the wagon. The other three—have them shaved completely, and then stripped to their birthday suits.”

Tom was smiling, a devilish light in his own blue eyes. “We’ll march ’em to the ‘Rogue,’ Autie?”

“Exactly,” Custer answered. “Now, go do it.”

“With pleasure!”

“What’s going on over there?” Custer inquired moments later, overhearing the growing noise from the teamsters’ bivouac.

Jonah Hook and the rest craned their necks at the increasing clamor from the wagon camp. He and Shad Sweete followed Custer’s officers toward the men’s voices.

“You can’t control your employees, Watkins?” Custer asked of his wagon boss.

“They seen how the rest took off on you, General,” Lyle Watkins, the contract civilian, explained. “How you treated your own men. They figure they’ve had enough. I think—”

“You’re not getting paid to think, Watkins.” Custer whirled to find Elliott nearby. “Major—these civilians who are guilty of mutiny are under arrest. I want them punished!”

Some of the civilians lunged forward. A rattle of pistols greeted them as iron cleared leather, officers and camp guards protectively ringing their lieutenant colonel.

“We quit! Ain’t working for you no more, Custer!” a voice called out.

“I want that man staked out!” Custer ordered. “Some of the rest as well. See how they like the ants and the sun after a while. Who started this, Watkins?”

The wagon boss stared at his boots.

“Who, Watkins?”

Reluctantly, the wagon boss pointed out a big, burly teamster.

“Major Elliott, I want that man tied to a wagon wheel and horsewhipped. Twenty lashes.”

“Twenty?” roared the big teamster as the guards approached, guns drawn.

“Make that thirty, Major. And don’t be shy to lay them on!”

In a matter of minutes, the soldiers had more than fifteen teamsters striped and staked out on the sandy prairie, their sweating bodies attracting ants and all manner of crawling, flying, buzzing insects. Thirty lashes had been delivered to the ringleader who hung semiconscious against the wagon wheel, his back a mass of red welts and crimson streamers.

“We got one over there, General—a fella tried to help some of the others by pulling up their stakes after we spread ’em,” announced Elliott. “You want him get the same medicine, sir?”

Custer thought but a moment. “No. Lash him up and drag the man through the stream. Have the rest watch the show. It will show both soldier and teamster alike that I won’t tolerate mutiny—nor will I tolerate those who aid the mutineers.”

Hook found his stomach filled with about all the gall he could take. He turned away, stalked back to the scouts’ camp with Sweete, leaving the angry hollering behind.

“That how a Yankee soldier keeps order among his men?” he asked nobody in particular. “Never did a Confederate have to run off—we always had something to fight for.”

Sweete grumbled. “Out here on the plains—most of these men don’t know what the hell they’re being asked to fight for … maybe die for.”

They both whirled at the approach of two horses and the sound of splashing water drawing near. Hook bolted down the streambank as the soldiers drew near, dragging a civilian behind them, lashed hand and foot in ropes, arms strung overhead full length, his body bouncing through the gritty, shallow flow of the South Fork of the Republican. The man popped up, eyes clenched tightly, sputtering and gasping for air as he cleared the water. Then he hit another riffle that submerged him, spitting sand and river water, his bound legs flaying helplessly.

Hook was in the water, pistol drawn before the two mounted soldiers knew it. He snagged the reins of one rider, nearly upsetting the trooper. The far soldier tried to pull his pistol, but stopped, finding the Confederate’s muzzle pointed at him.

“You gonna live, Artus?” Hook asked in a loud voice, never taking his eyes off the two soldiers who had been dragging the civilian down the streambed.

Moser sputtered, struggling to come out of the shallow stream, raising himself on elbows. His long hair sopped into his eyes as he hacked up the murky, gritty water, and he drew his legs under him. Moser slowly got to his knees, heaving, puking up river-bottom grit.

“I don’t know—”

“You’re in a heap of trouble, mister!” growled one of the soldiers.

“Looks to me like you’re the one staring down the bore of my pistol, soldier.”

“What’s he to you?”

“My cousin,” Hook snapped. “Now—you there, get down real easy and cut ’im loose.” He glanced at the growing crowd of soldiers and civilians on the streambank.

The trooper shook his head. “I ain’t a-gonna—”

“You’ll do, or I’ll wing you so you can’t sit a saddle for a month of Sundays!”

The soldier clambered down and pulled out a folding knife. He was cutting Artus loose when some new, loud voices drew Hook’s attention to the riverbank. A squad of armed soldiers bolted down the slope, piercing the gathered throng of curious spectators.

“Drop your gun, mister!” bawled a soldier.

Hook flicked him with his eyes. He wore three stripes. Red from the neck up and nervous looking, the way he chewed his lip.

“You best keep your finger away from that trigger, soldier,” said Shad Sweete.

Hook quickly glanced at the bank, finding the old trapper wading into the water.

“I ain’t taking my gun off these two until they cut my cousin loose,” Jonah growled.

“We’ll shoot—we have to,” said the nervous sergeant.

“They probably will at that,” Sweete said, measuring the half dozen soldiers.

“Then tell ’em to start shooting.” Hook turned his back on them, again facing the pair who had dragged Moser downstream. “They want to shoot a man in the back—they can start with me. But you remind them, Shad—that this big ugly Yankee here is gonna get a lead ball in the face before I go down.”

The eyes of that burly soldier who still sat his horse widened even more, flickering over the half dozen come to his rescue, then back to the bore of the Confederate’s gun. “Now …” His deep voice cracked, a slight squeak around its edges. “Now, let’s no one go getting fretful here, fellas. Sarge, suppose we just cut this man loose”—and he motioned to the kneeling Moser at the middle of the stream—“and we all call it a day. I figure he’s had enough. What say, Sarge?”

“Can’t do that, Henline,” grumbled the itchy sergeant. “Custer ordered punishment. So punishment it will be.”

“Cut ’im loose—like I told you!” Hook snarled, for a moment wagging his pistol’s muzzle down at the soldier with the folding knife who stood over his cousin.

“Don’t you move, soldier!”

Hook looked up to find Tom Custer loping down the grassy bank.

“There’s hell to pay now, Jonah,” Shad said with a sigh. “We got the general’s brother in the pot now.”

“This man is being punished for mutiny!” the younger Custer declared as he came to a halt in front of the half dozen soldiers, less than ten yards from Jonah and Artus.

“He’s being dragged through the river until he drowns, you stupid sonofabitch!”

Young Custer flared. “Drop your weapon, mister—or there’ll be a dead man in this river.”

“There’ll be two.” Hook slowly brought his pistol off the mounted soldier and pointed it at Tom Custer. His gut told him enough—that at least it was the smart thing to point your gun at the man doing the talking. “You and me, Custer.”

“What’s going on here, Tom?”

The lieutenant colonel appeared in the parting crowd at the top of the bank.

“Got us someone ready to die to cut loose one of the teamsters.”

“The man with the pistol—”

“I know damned well who he is,” Custer snapped at the sergeant. “Hook, isn’t it? One of Hickok’s guides.”

“That’s right, General,” Jonah replied.

“Tell him what’s going on, Jonah,” Shad pleaded.

“Don’t want your goddamned soldiers dragging my cousin through your goddamned river, General. He was trying to help the others you staked out—when he was caught and your men here tried drowning him.”

“I ordered the punishment for your cousin myself.”

Hook smiled. “Then it’s your brother going to die when your soldiers start shooting, General.”

“None of this warrants any shooting,” Custer said, his voice laced with strain.

“You had your own soldiers shot, General,” Hook said. “I think the shooting’s already started. Let’s just get it finished.”

“Don’t threaten me, Mr. Hook.”

“No threat. I just don’t figure I got much left to live for but family. That goddamned war you Yankees whipped on us caused me to lose my wife and children. Far as I know—all I got now is my cousin … this man you about drownded in this shithole river. So—you go and kill him, I figure you might as well kill me same time.”

“I don’t plan on killing anyone, Mr. Hook.”

“I do—and it’s gonna be your brother, General.”

For a long moment the sun beat down on that stretch of prairie river, while the water continued to riffle around the horses’ legs and Artus Moser’s bound and bloody body.

Finally. “Cut the prisoner loose,” Custer said.

“Don’t back down, Autie!” Tom said. “He ain’t got the nerve to shoot me.”

Hook leveled the pistol at the younger brother’s heart, his arm straightening.

“I don’t have time to find out, Lieutenant Custer,” said the elder brother. “We have Indians to track and Indians to fight. Not our own teamsters and scouts. It’s time this outfit was on the march. Now, Sergeant—cut the prisoner loose. Cut all them loose. We’re pointing this bunch south, to Fort Wallace!”

Hook waited as Custer wheeled from the bank and disappeared among the gathered crowd in dusty blue. Some of the half dozen soldiers grumbled, most of all their sergeant as he turned his detail around and trudged away up the slope.

“You heard the general—cut my cousin loose, soldier,” Hook repeated.

As the pair of soldiers led their horses out of the river, Jonah went to his knees in the water beside Artus, dragging his cousin against him, cradling his head, stroking his wet, gritty hair, wiping sand from Moser’s mouth and eyes and nostrils.

“Ain’t no one gonna treat my family this way,” Hook said quietly. “Don’t care if I gotta take on the whole goddamned Yankee army. Ain’t no one gonna dare treat my family this way.”