Fort Fetterman was located on a plateau above the Platte River. Tactically, it was a good location, allowing for plunging fire from the fort’s artillery. Logistically speaking, the location was less than ideal. There was a cistern inside the fort, but relying on the rain to fill it didn’t meet the demand. So, on a daily basis, troopers from the fort drove a buckboard filled with barrels, buckets and canteens to the Platte. The water party was led by a corporal who guarded the team, and four or five men to gather water. They’d stripped their blouses off, and rolled their sleeves. Maybe if they worked hard and fast, the corporal would allow them a brief swim.
“Rider coming up,” the corporal said, picking up his carbine. The others turned to look. A single man, riding one mount and leading another, came to the ford. He wore dirty shirt blue as they did, but there was something different about him. His gear wasn’t right. The man wore an old four-button sack, with Civil War chevrons. His McClellan was a rough out type, not dyed black as the regulations required. Attached to the back of his saddle was a sky-blue greatcoat! Nobody wore those anymore. The corporal thought, “old…but well maintained.” The words applied to the rider as well.
As the rider crossed the river, the men saw his weapons. The buckskin had two rifle scabbards. One carried a repeater, the other long-barreled Sharps. He carried the regulation Colt on his right hip. He nodded to the corporal and tipped his hat. One of the men saw a short-barreled Colt on his left hip, in a configuration he’d never seen before. It was obvious that this man was serious about his profession. He was a veteran…a fighter. Nothing was said, no challenge made. The veteran trooper crossed in good order, and rode slowly towards the fort.
The fort was a simple affair, as all frontier forts were. There were wood frame buildings for the officers, the infirmary, the armory and the stables. But the men resided in large fly tents. Those that were fortunate enough to be stationed at the fort were close to the parade deck, and more importantly, the sutlers’ tents. Their tents had slat wood floors. The units recently arriving were strung out in columns of twos behind. The result was a long dusty street in the center, which would churn up to a muddy mess in the rainy season. Sanitary conditions were horrible. The smell would be enough to drive most decent people away. But these weren’t “decent” people…they were soldiers. The officers would have their creature comforts of course, but the men had none. That would change if Fritz had his way.
The dusty street was a flurry of activity. Men tended horses, cleaned weapons, and practiced drill. The sergeants barked orders, and troopers obeyed. As Fritz rode slowly passed, men grew quiet. The older sergeants nodded to a kindred spirit. The younger men gawked unabashedly. Even the guidons seemed to flap less in the breeze. This didn’t help matters much, as the guidons were the only way to recognize each unit. There were well over two thousand soldiers gathered here. Up ahead, the wind picked up slightly, and he saw it. The well-worn swallowtail, red over white, moved in the morning breeze. The two rode proudly over the letter I. The guidon marked the location of the C.O.’s tent. An orderly stood outside. He was a young man, who Fritz didn’t recognize. Fritz dismounted and slapped the trail dust from his uniform. He handed the reins to the young man.
“Please advise Captain Schurmann that First Sergeant King is here to see him.”
The man swallowed hard. He turned and lifted the tent flap. “Sir…First Sergeant King is here…”
“FRITZ!!!” The voice bellowed from within. “Get your ass in here!”
He couldn’t help but grin. Fritz took off his slouch and entered the tent. He snapped to in front of a field desk. “First Sergeant King reporting as ordered, sir.”
The captain stood and returned his salute. The bear of a man was around his desk in an instant, and grabbed him up in a rough hug. “How the hell are you?”
“Fritz laughed. “Fine, sir. And you?”
Captain Schurman clapped him on the shoulders, hard. “Well, you know me. I’m just a…”
“…Long service Captain!” Fritz finished. He was glad some things never changed. He saw a pot of coffee on top of the stove. “May I?”
“Of course! I don’t drink it as much anymore,” Schurmann replied, “but I thought you might be coming today. My instincts are still good.”
Fritz poured a cup. The coffee was strong, but felt good going down. There was a bundle of cigars on the desktop.
“Like I said…I figured you were coming.”
Fritz pulled one from the bundle, and used his knife to clip the end. He struck a Lucifer on the desk edge, and lit the cigar. He suddenly felt twenty years younger.
“So,” Schurmann asked, “what’s going on in your life?”
“Well, I’m sure you read my report on Mexico. I gathered enough intelligence on their army and their borders to satisfy the Top Brass, but got captured in the process. It was pretty bad.” Fritz ran a hand through his stubble.
“I see you still cut your hair before a fight.” Schurmann saw that Fritz hadn’t changed much either.
“I was doing time in a Mexican jail, when a posse of Marshals came in and got me freed. I rode with them back to the border, and covered their crossing with the new Springfield rifle.”
“I read your evaluation. It appears you had a successful field test.”
“Yep. But they took it away from me when I returned. I’m sure it’s in somebody’s office right now, collecting dust. Or maybe it’s in a museum. Springfield has one I hear.”
Schurmann nodded and sipped his coffee. He knew the story wasn’t over.
“Anyway, there was this one woman in the posse, like no one I’ve ever known. She…”
“Wait a minute. There were WOMEN in this posse?”
“Yep. And they were good too. There was this one woman named Scarlet. She captured my heart. She’s my equal in every respect. I love her Bill…I married her.”
“And you swore after the last one that you’d never marry again. I told you the first one would never last. She was a gold digger. Scarlet is different?”
“As night and day,” Fritz replied. We’ve got a place in Texas, and we’re happy. I thought the Army would let me end my days in obscurity, serving with the Marshals. But then I received your telegraph.”
“Do I know her Fritz?”
“No, probably not. But you might just know her dad. Her last name was ‘Longknife.’ Scarlet Angelina Longknife.”
“Johnny Longknife? I remember that wily bastard! Is he still alive?”
“Alive and kicking. He wasn’t too keen on his daughter marrying a Yankee bluecoat, but we’ve grown on each other.”
“Well, after this is over, you’ll have to introduce me to her,” Schurmann said.
“So, how is Anna...or should I call her “Trooper George?”
Bill Married Anna after the war. After he’d discovered one of his toughest troopers was actually a woman.
“She’s fine. Doesn’t campaign as much anymore. But she can still shoot the eye out of a crow flying. And these days,” Bill added, “she wears buckskins.”
“I’ve been reading the papers,” Fritz said, blowing smoke. General Crook’s winter campaign didn’t succeed. What is the plan?”
Schurmann took his cup and cigar and sat behind the desk. “From what I’ve been told, this summer campaign will make up for the setbacks during the winter and spring. The idea is to put so many forces into the field that the Indians will either have to fight or give. If they fight, overwhelming forces should be able to subdue them.” Fritz noted the sarcasm in his voice. They had fought together on the plains before the war. The Indians would never stand toe-to-toe with a conventional force. They would attack, run, and melt away into the landscape. If any units tried to pursue, they would be cut off and ambushed.
“If they give,” Schurmann continued, “the hope is to canalize and surround the enemy on three sides. Once so trapped, they must either surrender, or be annihilated.” The Captain took a map from a case, and unrolled it on his desk. “Terry will be coming from the East, Gibbon from the West, and our column will come in from the South. We should join forces somewhere in the area of the Bighorn River.”
“Hmmm. How many of the men are veterans? Anybody left from the old days?”
“There are a few, but not many. Most are just green kids fresh out of Jefferson Barracks. This leads me to another subject. I already have a First Sergeant, Fritz.”
“Who is it?” He already knew the answer.
“Scott.” Fritz knew Scott Crisp from the old days.
“I can’t have two of you butting heads.” The captain stood, and picked up a bundle from his desk. Fritz stood.
“I need a good exec. You’re the man. You were breveted once. You are now again. You are hereby promoted to the rank of First Lieutenant. Congratulations.” Schurmann extended his hand.
“I’m not sure I want this Bill,” Fritz replied, shaking the offered hand.
“It’s not a matter of want, old friend. It’s a matter of need. You’re out of uniform. Get it fixed. And by the way, your tent is right next to mine. Make yourself at home. I’ll give you a couple of hours to get cleaned up and rest. We’ll go meet the General this afternoon.”
Fritz snapped to and saluted again.
Schurmann smiled. “Welcome home.”
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