Monday-Monday Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Shortly after my enlistment, the battalion was ordered to a place in the Colorado Territory called Bent's Fort. This was a large trading post built by William Bent who married a Cheyenne woman. The trading post was surrounded by a strong wall to protect it from roving bands of Comanche who were allegedly the traditional enemies of the Cheyenne and Arapaho.

Three weeks after that we were in the middle of nowhere, twenty miles from the Bents Fort on a barren wind swept hill, looking at knee high grass as far as the eye could see. We had left the Fort before daybreak and rode on horseback until ten in the morning. Dark clouds were building to the west and the wind was already starting to pick up. It was late March and there were still patches of snow lying in the low areas where the sun barely reached and the temperature was a warm forty degrees. Five men from the first squad were detailed to round up our mounts.

"You are mounted infantry, dragoons, not cavalry!" Lieutenant Johnson yelled to us from the height of his saddle. "You are not trained nor are you expected to fight from horseback. You must therefore learn to harden yourselves to long infantry marches for you may not have the luxury of riding everywhere you go."

We all knew what was coming so we just looked at each other with an, I told you so look, and shrugged.

"Bents Fort is approximately nineteen miles due west of here," Johnson continued. "These privates will take your mounts back to the Post and you will march back on foot and in proper military order. Sergeant Lofton, you will have the squadron back at the Fort by evening retreat. Are there any questions?" Everyone noticed that the five men selected to return our mounts to the Post were Johnson's lackeys and all kiss-asses.

"Privates Gates and Meadows have bad blisters from the five mile run we did two days ago sir," Sergeant Lofton stated. "Perhaps they could be exchanged with two of the men from first squad so they can ride back?"

"If there are no questions, I'll see you back at the Fort," Lieutenant Johnson grinned, completely ignoring Sergeant Lofton's request. He turned his mount and signaled for the squad to move out.

"Platoon formation!" Sergeant Lofton commanded.

Six hours later the storm hit us. Although it was three-thirty in the afternoon, we could barely see twenty feet in any direction. The wind was gusting straight into our faces and a freezing rain was pushing us two steps back for every one step forward we took. The temperature had dropped to near freezing and we still had a good twelve miles to go. Sergeant Lofton led us into a small cul-de-sac for a short but much needed break.

"Gates and Meadows ain't gonna make it," Corporal Singer mumbled to Sergeant Lofton, pointing at the two privates hunkered down close to me. They had removed their boots and both their feet were a mass of blood and mangled flesh. "Iffen they go on, they's going to be crippled for life," Singer added.

"The whole platoon ain't much better off," Sergeant Lofton spat, his own feet in severe pain from broken blisters. "None of the men are well enough to carry them."

"They can't walk no more and we can't carry them," Singer said. "So, do we leave them here to die Sergeant?"

"Damn that Lieutenant!" Sergeant Lofton spat again. "Damn his prissy hide to hell!" He knew that any other officer would have left a small detachment of horses with the men for just such an emergency, any other officer but Johnson that is. If nothing else, he should have sent riders back with their mounts when the weather turned bad.

I recognized the area we were marching through from the many days I had spent hunting out on the plain. I knew there was a homestead cabin about two miles north of us along a small stream and I also knew the owner was a decent God faring man.

"There's a rancher not far north of here Sergeant," I stated. "Reckon I could see if he has a horse we could borrow to carry Gates and Meadows on to the Fort."

It was a long spell before Sergeant Lofton answered me. I could tell he was having conflicting thoughts about the idea. He knew he'd be in trouble with Lieutenant Johnson if he followed my advice but he also knew that the two troopers might not make it otherwise. He finally ordered the platoon to get up.

"OK Steel, head on up yonder and see if you can scare that rancher up. Meadows, you and Gates stay here and wait for Steel to return. I want all of you back at the Fort pronto. Is that clear?"

Meadows and Gates sat back down with a welcomed sigh of relief and I looked to the north. Sergeant Lofton and the rest of the squadron moved out in the direction of Bent's Fort.

"Ought to take an hour or so to find the ranch and get help," I stated. "Not much to burn here and what there is, is all wet. You guys need to stay close and hunker down until I get back. Looks like this rain may turn to sleet or even snow before nightfall."

"Just find us a damn horse," Gates said, pulling his parka hood up around his face to block the fierce wind.

"Don't worry about us Monday," Meadows added. "We'll be fine until you get back."

My own feet were sore but I ignored the pain. They were not as bad as the other men's feet for I had long ago learned the necessity for clean socks and dry feet and carried extra socks in my pack for that reason. I removed two pair of the precious socks and passed them to the huddling troopers. I then removed my boots and put on a soft pair of moccasins I usually wore hunting. Boots were made for riding horses, moccasins were the best for ground pounding. With Lieutenant Johnson gone, no one would complain about me wearing them.

After half an hour of steady pushing against the strengthening wind, I spotted the homesteader's cabin sitting down near the small frozen stream. There was no smoke coming from the mud chimney and half a dozen buzzards were circling in a lazy pattern high over the cabin fighting the wind. Not a good sign.

I stopped fifty yards from the cabin and surveyed the situation. I could see no living animal. No horses, no chickens, not even a dog hugging the cabin wall for warmth. I slowly inched my way step by step until I was behind the west wall of the cabin. The lack of common livestock told me that either the settler and his family had moved on, or something else was wrong. I had my rifle at the ready and quietly stepped around the corner.

The homesteader was half in and half out of the front door and I could tell from a glance that he was dead. Flies buzzed around his face and crawled across his open eyes and up his nose. A large patch of hair was missing from his front forehead and a brutal gash on his neck had nearly decapitated him.

I eased my way into the dark interior of the house and leaned against the inside wall until my eyes adjusted to the dim light. Nothing. There were no bodies in the cabin and no sign of the man's family. I knew he had a wife and a two year old boy from the last time I had been there and rumor had it they had since had another baby.

The split log table had been turned over and flour spilled on the floor. The woman must have been making biscuits when she had been interrupted. The hearth was cold, indicating that whatever had happened was at least six or more hours ago. There were no weapons in the cabin. not even a kitchen knife, but several musket balls lay on the floor where they had fallen from the man's ammunition pouch. All of the food that had been hanging from the rafters was missing but most of the prized canned food was still on the split pine shelves.

I searched around the outside of the cabin and found horse tracks and footprints leading down towards the small stream. As I neared the stream, I found a woman's bonnet hanging on the low branches of a willow tree, and noticed horse tracks leading up the other side of the bank. Only one set of the tracks I saw were from a shod horse, indicating that Indians had been responsible for the raid. There had been recent reports of renegade Kiowa and Comanche war parties in the area.

I found myself in a minor dilemma. I had two troopers freezing in a gully fighting against a brutal storm and no horses to rescue them. I suppose I could force them to walk the two miles from their position to the cabin, but what then? Sit still and wait for rescue? As I saw it, I had no other choice.

"Where's the damn horses!" Trooper Gates yelled as soon as they spotted me.

"Renegades hit the homesteader's place. The man is dead and his family's missing. No horses, no dog, no nothing."

"Sweet Jesus, what are gonna do now! I swear I'll kill that damn Lieutenant next time I see him. I swear to God I will!"

"It's only a couple miles to the cabin," I said. "We haven't got any choice. At least there, we'll be out of this wind and rain and there's canned food. We can stay there until they send someone out to find us."

For the next hour, I half carried the blistered troopers towards the homesteader's cabin. When we topped a rise and started down towards the cabin, I suddenly noticed there were three horses standing off to one side in a patch of high sage and Joshua bushes. Three horses without saddles.

"Renegades!" I blurted, dropping down to the wet freezing ground. I pointed at the three horses no more than ten yards from the cabin. There was no sign of the natives but a ruckus was coming from inside the cabin and a lazy curl of smoke came from the mud chimney. Evidently, the raiders had decided to return to the shelter to get out of the bitter wind and rain that had just turned into a stinging sleet. It was obvious from the high pitched screaming that the homesteader's wife was with them.

"Can't go any further," Gates whispered, shaking like a leaf. "You gotta help us Monday."

I checked to see if my rifle was loaded, fastened the bayonet down firmly, and loosened the flap on my ammunition pouch. I also checked to insure that my hunting knife was still in its scabbard tied down low on my right calf. I wish I had the saber, which would have come in handy in this situation, but the Lieutenant had forbidden me to bring it noting that only real dragoons or officers were allowed to carry swords or sabers. I looked into the eyes of Trooper Meadows who looked away. He was almost as bad off as Gates and I knew there was no help to be had from either one of them.

"Stay low, I'll be back shortly," I said, hefting the heavy rifle up to the carrying position and moving off in the direction of the cabin.

Scared is not the word to describe how I felt. I was terrified. But, there was nothing else I could do. I was the one who had volunteered to help Gates and Meadows so there was no one to blame but myself. If I didn't get them to shelter soon, they would die from exposure.

I took no precautions to maintain silence as I ran to the cabin because the wind and screaming from inside the shelter covered any noise that I could possibly make. I plopped against the outer wall and peeked around the corner. The body of the homesteader had been moved a few feet into the front yard and the door to the cabin was closed. The horses were huddled together against the wind but there was no sign of any other warrior. I slowly walked to the door and halted. I could clearly hear whimpering coming from inside and could feel the heat escaping from the cracks in the door.

Despite the incessant down pour of sleet and rain, my mouth was as dry as if I had a mouth full of cotton. Three horses, three renegades, I said to myself. All I had to worry about was three men and the element of surprise would be on my side. Three men, unless the horses were being ridden double
. "Don't think about it, just do it!" I shouted, and pushed against the door with all my weight.

As the door burst open, I immediately spotted the occupants highlighted by the light from the fire in the hearth. One man was on the dirt floor on top of what I assumed to be the homesteader's wife. Another stood by the fire laughing and urging the first one on, while the third one was scooping up steaming food from a bowl with his fingers.

They were all big strong men dressed in what I identified as the garb of Kiowa warriors. Why a Kiowa war party was deep into Cheyenne territory was odd but not unheard of. Then again, the Arapaho and Cheyenne had been fighting the Comanche and Kiowa for years. I noticed a two or three year old boy lying in a corner of the room with a bloody gash on his head and what appeared to be a bundle on the floor. I was thinking that the stew the warrior was wolfing down must have been burning his fingers. You notice odd things at the strangest of times, but none of this could have lasted more than a split second.

The warrior standing near the fire pulled a long wicked butcher knife from his waist and charged towards me with a blood curdling war cry. At the same time, the warrior eating the stew dropped his bowl, pulled his own sharp knife, and approached me with a wide grin. I assume he thought I was just a boy barely old enough to be any serious threat.

I quickly moved into the charge position and fired point blank into the face of the oncoming warrior. I could see blood and bone splinters fly as the musket ball shattered his forehead and pushing out the back of his head and sending the warrior reeling backwards to fall heavily on top of the crude log table.

The second warrior hesitated in his mad rush and that was all I needed. With a desperate lunge, I drove the bayonet to the hilt in his chest, hearing ribs crack and saw blood fountain out in a wild torrent. I twisted the bayonet and it slid from the man's chest and I immediately shoved it deep into his throat and ripped to the right to tear his jugular wide open. I was drenched with another spurt of blood that came gushing from his neck.

By then the last warrior had gained his feet and pushed the dying warrior aside to get to me. He was buck-naked from the waist down and looked comical despite the hatred in his mad glowing eyes. I was breathing hard from the exertion and some of the blood from the other warrior had splashed into my eyes, but I was also a desperate man. The warrior attempted to close with me but I pricked him in the arm, slashing it to the bone, and he backed up. It was a sudden standoff and we both knew it.

"I go now," the man said in his own language, a dialect I understood. He was giving me a sign that the fight was a draw and he wanted to leave.

I did not reply but looked straight into the man's eyes. He knew then that I was not about to let him go after what they had done to the homesteader and his family.

With a quick and decisive lunge, he came at me and knocked the bayonet to the side with his right hand bringing his left hand up with his knife in an attempt to gut me. I quickly countered with a horizontal butt stroke of the heavy rifle and heard teeth shatter and saw the man go down. I did not give him time to recover but slashed down with the sharp bayonet cutting deep into his neck, watching at the crimson tide of blood flooded onto the dirt floor. I straightened back up and sucked in great gulps of air. I was suddenly sweating and the room felt stifling.

It was over and I had killed three men. They would be the first of many men who would die by my hands, but I did not know it at that time. The woman was standing and looking at me in a strange way. She then limped over to the boy lying on the floor and picked up the bundle of rags next to him. As she rearranged the bundle, I could see that it was a young baby. The boy was not dead but woke with a start and a quick yell. He looked at me, covered in fresh blood, and then his wide eyes glanced at the bodies of the three dead renegades slowly stiffening in death. He grabbed his mother and buried his head into her dirty gray dress.

I leaned my rifle against the wall and opened the front door to let fresh air flood into the small cabin and to allow my adrenaline rush to fade. I then got to the task of dragging the dead men out into the bitter cold. I signaled to the two troopers waiting on the hillside but did not go up to help them. I figured I'd done enough and if they wanted the warmth and comfort of the cabin, they could damn well make their own way down the hill.

The woman still had not said a word. I figured she was in shock from all that had happened to her. She was not a pretty woman, but the kind of woman a man needed if he wanted to live on the frontier. She had long scraggly hair with traces of gray highlighting it and her hands were blistered and red from the constant hard work required to maintain a livelihood under harsh conditions. Her eyes were her best feature, pale blue and full of intelligence.

She was startled when Gates and Meadows suddenly burst into the room, but quickly recovered and walked over to the hearth and started stirring the contents of a blackened pot hanging over the fire. A delicious smell came from the pot and I suddenly realized that I was starving.

"They's three dead Injuns layin' out there," Gates blurted, casually looking around the warm room. He then noticed the drying blood on my uniform and the blood still smeared on my rifle bayonet. He looked at me with awe. "You done kilt three Injuns all by yourself, Monday," he said, stating the obvious.

"They didn't give me much choice," I replied, walking over to the hearth where the woman was still stirring the stew, the baby held in the crook of her left arm. "We could use a bite to eat Mam, providing you have enough to go around."

"Thank you soldier," she finally said, her voice soft and melodious and not in character with her rough looks. "I know what they did to John and what they were gonna do to me. Thank you!" She reached down and picked up a metal bowl, wiped it off with her dirty apron, and handed it to me.

The storm got worse instead of better. It was three full days before a mounted patrol found us at the cabin. We found several haunches of venison, two large hams, and half a dozen dead chickens tied to the renegade's horses, so we had plenty to eat during our three-day wait. Both the boy and baby quickly recovered from their ordeal, but the boy would not talk and constantly looked at me as if I was going to kill him. I figured he was still in a state of mild shock.

Lieutenant Johnson was not a happy man. The rest of the platoon had made it back to the Fort before the worst of the storm closed everything down tight, but he had been reprimanded by the Major for leaving three men stranded out on the prairie. I got no commendation for the three renegades I killed and for saving the woman and her children, but I wasn't expecting any. I did get chosen as part of the detail to bury the Comanches and the woman's husband. Despite Sergeant Lofton's protest, I insisted on giving the Kiowa warriors a burial ceremony in keeping with their native beliefs. The last thing we needed were more native ghosts roaming the area. I also spotted several warriors on the hill behind the cabin watching us.

However, when word got around the Post about how I had taken on and killed three armed and dangerous natives in hand-to-hand fighting, everyone started treating me with a strange but welcomed respect. Everyone that is except Lieutenant Johnson. He still held bitter resentment against me because I had not been his ticket out of his hellhole, and despite what the Major told him, I often found myself on every rotten detail he could find or make up. I did notice that he had stopped badgering me into fighting him. With the three dead natives under my belt, he finally realized that in a fight without rules he wouldn't stand a chance against me. Not only that, he had no desire to get his pretty face bashed in. He firmly believed that his looks and charm were his tickets to fame and glory. Of course, his father's wealth would also come in very handy.

Two days later the entire battalion was assembled on a part of the grounds at Bents designated as a parade field. No one knew what it was about, battalion musters were a rare occasion, but the grapevine had it that we had new marching orders from headquarters.

"You have been assembled together for a purpose that I find both disgraceful and regretful," Major Wintworth yelled loud so the entire battalion could hear. "Mr. Ivory has informed the officer of the day that his cash box has been broken into and every penny he owns has been stolen. I will not tolerate theft in this battalion. I demand that the guilty man own up to his crime or I will have the entire Fort searched immediately."

We all looked to right and left but none of us even knew of the theft much less who may have had the opportunity to steal it. Ivory guarded the cash box twenty-four hours a day and it would have taken a master thief. Ivory ran one of the suttler stores under the protection of William Bent.

"First Sergeants and Company Commanders will search their respective billets," Major Wintworth commanded. "All personnel will stand at parade rest until the search is completed."

We stood on the cold parade field for hours. Each man hoping that the guilty party would turn himself in so that we could get back to our warm barracks. Finally Sergeant Major McGinnis walked up to the Major carrying a haversack and whispered into his ear. He opened the sack and showed the contents to the Major who looked up in disgust. He was looking directly at me and I had an awful feeling suddenly come over me.

"Private Steel!" he bellowed. "Front and center!"

I marched smartly to where the Major stood and gave him a crisp salute. Sergeant Major McGinnis was looking at me with curiosity.

"Is this your haversack Private?" the Major asked, handing the sack to me. I took it and looked inside the pack. I was shocked. It was half-full of coins, many of them gold. I recognized the pack as my own because of the repairs I had made on it.

"Yes sir," I replied.

"Did you steal Mr. Ivory's cash Private?"

"No sir!"

"Why then was it found in your haversack Private Steel?"

"I don't know sir."

"You are under arrest for theft," Major Wintworth stated. "Sergeant Major, escort the prisoner to the guard house."

As the Sergeant Major and I walked off the parade field, I noticed a very smug look on Lieutenant Johnson's face. I knew then that he had something to do with the charge. No doubt he and the sutler had conspired to get back at me. The sutler was a very greedy man and a little money in his palm could work wonders.

"Do you know the punishment for theft Monday?" Sergeant Major McGinnis asked, as he turned me over to the officer of the day. "Thirty lashes lad, thirty hard and bloody lashes, that's the punishment for theft."

"You know I didn't steal the sutler's cash," I replied. "And if I did I sure as hell wouldn't leave it lying around in my own haversack for anyone to find."

"I know you didn't steal the cash lad, the Major knows you didn't steal the cash. Hell Monday, the entire Fort knows you didn't steal the damn cash. But, how do we prove you did not steal the damn bloody cash?"

Six days later the battalion was again formed up on the muddy parade field. The April weather was blustery but not too cold and the ground was still damp from an early morning shower. The battalion had been ordered to form companies into a horseshoe type formation with a post and cross bar set into the ground at the open end.

I was marched under guard to the center of the formation where Major Wintworth and the officer of the day stood. Without saying a word, the Major pointed towards the post and crossbar indicating that the guards were to tie me to it. My shirt and longjohns top was stripped and my wrists tied over my head with leather straps one to each side of the crossbar.

"The penalty for theft is thirty lashes," the Major yelled out to the assembled battalion. "This is not a courts-martial but nonjudicial punishment and will not be entered into the private's service record," he continued, noticing Lieutenant Johnson’s sudden scowl. "The provost guard will administer the punishment."

One of the guards asked me if I wanted a piece of leather to chew on but I nodded my head no. He then stepped back and swung the cat of nine tails, a leather whip consisting of nine separate pieces of leather joined together at the hilt. The pain was incredible. The leather straps dug into my flesh like dull knives leaving not one but nine bleeding lines across my back and shoulders. I wanted to cry out in pain but my stubborn pride prevented me from doing so. The fact that Lieutenant Johnson was watching with an evil smile on his face also gave me the determination not to add to the pleasure his face portrayed. I also noticed that most of my friends were looking away in anger while Lieutenant Johnson's lackeys joined him with wide smiling grins.

"Take Private Steel to the infirmary Sergeant Major," the Major ordered, after the thirty lashes had been administered.

"You did good lad," Sergeant Major McGinnis stated, walking next to me as I headed towards the infirmary. "Took it like a man you did. Those lashes will be just a memory in a few weeks."

"The lashes may be a memory but who gave them to me never will be," I looked back towards Lieutenant Johnson. "I'll get that son of a bitch, you can bet on it."

"He's not worth it lad," the Sergeant Major said. "Men like him is why I left the old country. I'm thinkin' his time will come sooner or later, it always does."

"Better sooner than later!"

"What you need is something to take your mind off the sly bastard," Sergeant Major McGinnis stated. "Got word today that two companies are to be sent south into Mexican territory to meet with some Texian politicians or such. Company A and Company E have been chosen for the duty so a bit of unofficial action is in the making."

"When?" I asked, curious about why an American military unit was to be sent into Mexican territory.

"You'll be well enough to go," the Sergeant Major replied. "In fact, I've talked the Major into letting me go with the patrol. Been a spell since I had a wee bit of excitement."

Two weeks later in mid April 1835, we crossed the Red River into sovereign Mexican territory or at least the border our governments presently recognized.