Cry of the Hawk

Lybe cleared his throat, pursing his lips in agitation as the sun sank behind the far Medicine Bow Range. “Army doesn’t have enough soldiers out here for General Connor to get done what he needs doing with this expedition of his heading north in a few days. If he musters the lot of you out, you must remember he doesn’t have any replacements for you fellas guarding up and down the road west of here, all the way to Camp Douglas.”

“We signed on with that promise of a year’s duty!” Jonah growled. “I’m fixing to head home when my time’s up.”

“Private Hook—we’re pulling out tomorrow. For Sweetwater Station.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You’ll be considered a deserter.”

Shad could tell Jonah was thinking on that hard, the way a child would roll and roll a mud ball in his palms.

“How long we have to be back at Sweetwater?”

“Till Connor comes marching back here to Laramie.”

The Georgian stepped forward. “And how long that gonna be?”

“Could be November—maybe December.”

“Shee-it!”

Shad inched forward to attempt calming things as the galvanized soldiers milled and muttered, clenching fists and kicking dust up with their boot toes.

“Captain Lybe?” Sweete called. “With Bridger leading Connor north, I’m sure the general will be getting back here before November. Sure as hell he won’t be out to December.”

“Weather, Mr. Sweete?”

“Damn right, Captain. Where Connor’s going—the weather can for certain turn around on him by the end of August.”

“It’s a rainy month, I’ll grant you that—”

“Captain, rain on the northern plains this time of year can spell trouble. What starts out as a little pitty-pat of a rainstorm can overnight turn into a blazing blue norther of a blizzard.”

Lybe straightened as if chastised, then smiled. “Mr. Sweete should know, men. See, we don’t have to worry about Connor being out too long before we can be rotated out and you can be heading home.”

“So what’s the good news you was meaning to tell us, Cap’n?” asked the Georgian.

“Yes—General Connor has ordered that the whiskey be opened for his troops to celebrate one last time before they march out for the Powder and the Tongue. And since we’re here picking up rations and forage, the general agreed Company I could join in the celebrating.”

There was a cacophony of cheering and backslapping as Company I, Third U.S. Volunteers, threw hats into the air and danced around the fires with one another.

Shad was surprised to find Hook not joining in.

“Where’s the whiskey being served, Cap’n Lybe?” Hook asked.

“Why, over there at some tables they’ve set up between the barracks and Old Bedlam. Bring your own tin, boys. It may be the last hurraw we have for some time to come.”

It would prove to be the last celebration of that sort Shadrach Sweete wanted to have himself for the rest of his days. He had gone and had his fill, then wandered back to his bedroll, pleasantly warmed within. The next thing he knew, Bridger was nudging him with his toe, calling softly to Sweete. And everything was black when he opened his eyes.

Shad pulled the robe back from his face. It was still black. No more than a few stars blinked their muted light overhead.

“C’mon, Shad,” urged Bridger. The old trapper had asked Sweete to sign on with General Connor for the impending expedition then assembling at Fort Laramie. “General wants to palaver with you.”

“Can’t it wait till morning, Gabe?”

He dug a bony toe beneath the blankets and jabbed at Sweete’s ribs. “Connor told me to tell you it has to do with that young rebel what’s a friend of yours.”

Shad bolted upright. “Jonah?”

“The one called Hook. Connor wants to see you now.”

“Middle of the goddamned night,” he muttered, clambering out of the robe and blankets he kicked himself free of. “What’d Hook do now, Gabe?”

“A heap of trouble from the way Connor’s acting—like a nose-stung honey bear. But I don’t know no particulars.”

By the time Shad Sweete stood red-eyed before an angry General Connor, the story had emerged full-blown and fleshed out.

“I figured some of the boys would become rowdy if I opened up a whiskey barrel for them,” Connor explained, tapping the top of his desk with the point of a knife, “but never figured it to boil over like this.”

It seems Jonah had poured down a lot of whiskey, and quickly, intent right from the start in tying on a big load.

“He got a bellyful of puggle—then what happened?”

“Sergeant, tell Mr. Sweete,” Connor said, gesturing to the sergeant of the guard at the door.

“The Rebel picked him some fights, busted some heads—then announced he was taking off tonight for home. Hollering out that if any others was of a mind, they could come along home with him. He was done with the army and … and—”

“Say it, Sergeant,” Connor ordered, staring at Sweete.

“The army and its lying, whore-banging ways.”

“That’s what got you riled, Sergeant?”

The old noncom glared back at Sweete. “This army been good to me, mister. And long as I’m serving this army—ain’t no man going to desert if I got anything to say about it.”