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  When Collier and Roberts entered the doorway, McClausky drew the boxed rifle from a cluttered corner and placed it on the counter.

  "Need a couple of beers," Chunk Roberts said without taking his eyes off the rifle. "So this is what you were saving for." He leaned over and read the engraving along the top of the barrel of the rifle. "Remington No. 1 Sporting Rifle, caliber .50-70."

  "Yep, this is my buffalo gun." Collier carefully placed his Plains rifle on the counter just below the Remington. He compared the lines of the cap lock to the center-fire. Both rifles at first glance looked new, but, on closer inspection, one could spot the tiny nicks in the wood of the Plains rifle.

  McClausky placed a new Winchester on the counter above the Remington. "For about the same money I can put you in this fine '66' Winchester .44 rimfire. If you throw in the Plains rifle, I'll call it even."

  Collier picked up the Remington and held it before him. "I want to stay alive out there and kill buffalo. You sell that Winchester to one of those teamsters who don't know any better."

  "I've got the other stuff that you ordered but the cartridge belt cost me ten cents more than I figured. You'll have to make up the difference."

  "No. You made the deal. I paid in advance. I waited six months while you used my money. I'll have the belt and cartridges just as agreed on."

  "Lord, McClausky! You never quit trying, do ya?" Roberts said as he shook his head in disgust.

  McClausky placed the beers on the counter next to the Plains rifle.

  "It's all a man can do to keep this place open, carrying you soldier boys on credit for months at a time, never knowing from one day to the next if I can make ends meet."

  "Oh, Lord spare me this speech again!" Roberts said while taking the beers and placing them on the one table in the center of the building before taking a seat in one of the chairs.

  Collier handed the Remington to Roberts then returned to the counter to pick up his Plains rifle, two boxes of .50-70 cartridges, and a leather cartridge belt. "Where's my free beer?"

  "You got em, Collier. Two on the house. Now, what will you take for the Gemmer?" McClausky said motioning toward the Plains rifle.

  "It isn't for sale. If I never fire it again, I won't part with it. Besides you'd just sell it to some Injun so he could use it on me." Collier smiled at the remark. It told McClausky that he was joking. Under the right circumstances a remark like that could cause serious trouble. Collier would never make it in front of strangers.

  McClausky smiled and looked at the floor. "I'll give you twelve dollars for it."

  "No. I won't part with it." Collier touched the Plains rifle and thought of the fight the day before. "Too many memories."

  Roberts was feeling the heft of the Remington and discussing the Venire sights with Collier when Nathan Baker and two other men entered the store. A tall, thin, graying man named John Neill stepped to the counter past Baker and requested that his list of supplies be filled. McClausky took the list and started gathering products from the shelves and placing them on the counter. Baker leaned against the counter staring at Roberts and Collier. Collier was so involved with the rifle that he did not notice.

  "Can I help you, mister?" Roberts asked.

  Baker leaned back against the bar. "I was just wondering if this is what soldiers do."

  "I'm afraid I don't follow."

  Baker smirked. "Oh, you know. Sit on your ass drinking beer, talking big. Making a lot of noise and doing little else."

  Roberts' eyes drifted to Baker's gun. A large, heavy framed LeMat revolver hung in a cross draw holster. There was no hammer loop to restrain the weapon. It didn't look like a gun fighter outfit but it did look handy.

  Baker waited against the bar for a response. The third man, a grizzled teamster named Charley Pitts, spoke. "Nate, this really isn't a good idea. Why don't we wait outside?"

  Baker's dark eyes never left Roberts and Collier. "Oh, I don't think that we have much to worry about."

  "Look, mister, I don't want any trouble."

  "Come on," Pitts said. "We don't need this."

  Baker smiled coldly. "Why not? I don't see anything in here worth much."

  John Neill spoke like a man familiar with giving orders. "That's enough."

  Baker smiled. "Enough of what? I was just making an observation about soldier boys."

  Roberts looked at Baker wondering what was happening. Getting dogged for no apparent reason seemed insane. Collier placed the Remington rifle on the table and shifted his weight forward. "I don't think that this business is meant for you, Chunk. Is it, mister?" He unsnapped the flap on his cross draw holster with his left hand.

  "What's that for?" Baker said. "I was just passing the time of day. What's your problem?"

  Collier's eyes grew narrow and mean. "You're my problem, asshole."

  Baker turned to Neill and Pitts. "Look at this! I can't believe this!"

  Baker's tactics disgusted Collier. "Can't believe what? There ain't no woman in here to run."

  Baker whined. "Man, I don't know what you are talking about."

  Chunk Roberts watched nervously.

  "Baker, I told you to wait outside," Neill said. "We don't need any trouble with the army."

  Baker turned his hands palms up as he whined, "You mean a man just walks into a place and gets bulldogged by the army and we have to take it?"

  Roberts spoke softly. "Lane, you're already in deep over Holling. I don't know what is going on but this fellow ain't worth it."

  Collier's eyes never left Baker and Pitts as they left the store. He turned his chair to face the doorway and sat back down.

  "Your order's ready," McClausky said.

  "How much?" Neill asked.

  "Twenty-eight, fifty," McClausky said. Neill paid and left the building with his parcels without comment.

  Roberts waited for a few uncomfortable seconds before he spoke. "What the hell?"

  Collier looked at the floor. "There are assholes in general and assholes by choice." He took his mug to the bar for a refill. "He's one by choice."

  Roberts leaned back in his chair and threw his arms wide. "Well, that explains it all! Thanks, Collier! Your eloquence is overwhelming."

  Collier allowed himself a small smile. "You want another beer?"

  "Sure. Especially if you're buying."

  The two men drank their beers slowly and with only casual remarks about the rifle for another twenty minutes before a green trooper burst through the doorway.

  "Sgt. Roberts! You and Mr. Collier are ordered to Captain Davis' quarters immediately."

  "What now?" Roberts asked.

  "Something about a complaint."

  Roberts cut his eyes toward Collier. "You don't think?"

  Collier stood, picked up his rifles and goods and went for the door. "I told you, Chunk. An asshole by choice."

  CHAPTER IV

  Both of the barracks at the north end of the square were full of activity starting around 4:30 when the kitchen opened. Each barrack had a kitchen attached to the middle running north from the main building. Sunrise was a time of quiet conversation before the routine of the day began. Twenty-two infantrymen of Company C, 3rd US Infantry, were assembling on the porch of the west barrack under "light marching orders." The order meant that the men were not to be burdened with their usual fifty pound backpacks. Each man would carry the minimal gear, that is, blanket, haversack, canteen, tin cup and rifle. The ten pound .58 caliber Model 1863 Springfield muskets were of Civil War vintage and although muzzle loaders, they had an effective killing range of nearly five hundred yards. In open country, Indians rarely took on the infantry unless numbers were greatly in their favor because of the range and killing power of the rifled muskets. The men were wearing new issue felt campaign hats rather than the Kepi caps of Civil War vintage. The hats were much more highly thought of than the caps as being cooler and more comfortable in hot weather. Infantrymen such as these were the backbone of Santa Fe Trail escort duty. The escort run to Fo
rt Dodge, seventy miles to the southwest, was not considered too bad, especially since most of the trip would be made riding in the back of escort wagons that were being assembled in the square.

  Corporal Niles Holling, Raymond Bates and Lucifer Crandall were among these men. Holling was a man of average build and light brown hair. A Civil War veteran with little education, he was in many ways, a typical infantryman of the 1860's. He was in the army because he liked it. When he wasn't drinking, he was considered a competent soldier. A man of little imagination, the drudgery of infantry life still beat the Pennsylvania coal mines that he had escaped when he left home to go to war. Although personally a courageous man, he was also a man capable of great cruelty and was generally considered a bully. It had been his bullying tactics while off duty at McClausky's that had caused his run-in with Collier several days before. Holling resented Collier. Collier, a civilian scout, enjoyed many privileges that the common soldier did not. It had come to a head with Holling trying to bulldog Collier out of a drink. Before it was over, Holling found himself flat on his back on the ground in front of McClausky's with still another reason to resent Collier. Bates and Crandall were men of similar backgrounds and talents. They were friends because the rigid social order of military life forced them to be. Looked down upon by officers and resented by many troopers of lower rank, they held their troop together. Although a problem for the sergeants in some ways, they were essential in carrying out the orders and duties of a frontier post.

  Collier's saddled horse, tied to a barracks post, did not escape their attention as they formed ranks in front of the building. Neither did the new Remington rifle hanging from the saddle. The expensive rifle was out of reach for these men who earned sixteen dollars a month and who were constantly in debt to McClausky since paydays were few and far between.

  "Look at that, Crandall. What do you think that thing cost Collier?" Holling asked, barely able to hide his envy.

  "I don't know. It's more than we can afford."

  Crandall's dull witted reply only made Holling more envious.

  "Check out the trail to Sand Point and come on back. I'd like to make it there by sundown tomorrow," Roberts told Collier as they left the barracks.

  ***

  Collier walked past Holling without comment or recognition. Roberts stopped. "Holling, check out those recruits and make sure that they have everything."

  "Right, Sergeant." Holling said as he turned toward the men but continued to eye Collier.

  Collier swung into the saddle and reined up the dark bay. "You should make the Arkansas by this evening. I'll meet you there." His eyes cut to Holling and met the corporal's look of resentment. "We gonna have trouble, or what?"

  Holling answered bitterly, "We're gonna have trouble. I ain't forgetting that sucker punch."

  Collier held up the bay and leaned forward in the saddle. "Holling, that weren't no sucker punch. Any time you need another lesson, you just let me know."

  Holling smiled. "Oh, I will, mister. Real soon."

  As Collier rode by the officers' housing on the west side of the square, he saw Captain Davis standing at the board walk in front of his house. Collier gave Davis a leisurely salute which was returned in a similar fashion. The sun was just beginning to break the horizon as he rode past the commissary and saw the freight wagons waiting on the trail for their escort. Nell Baker sitting in the third wagon from the front. John Neill was sitting in the front wagon keeping the six mules easy as he waited for the army escort wagons. A double barreled shotgun poked down butt first into the wagon box.

  "Are they about ready?" Neill asked.

  "Yes, sir. They are loading up in the wagons now." Collier answered.

  "You going on ahead?" Neill asked in a friendly manner.

  "I'm going to check things out. I'll see you this evening at camp." He put the bay into a gallop. It pitched a couple of times then settled down and moved off toward the southwest.

  Nell Baker did not miss Collier's exit from the post. She had been watching for the soldiers and was surprised to see Collier ride out from behind the commissary. She noticed how easily he sat in the saddle and moved with his horse. She smiled as she thought of this contrast to his awkwardness at the blockhouse when they first met.

  Nathan Baker, working with his team on the ground, noticed her smile. "What you smiling about?"

  She didn't answer but rather turned her eyes downward into the wagon box and her feet.

  Baker looked over his shoulder from the team that he was lining out and saw Collier riding away. He glared at the woman and said harshly, "I should have guessed. You'll stay away from him if you know what's good for you."

  "I was just enjoying the morning, Nathan," she said.

  He stepped up into the wagon seat beside her and squeezed her arm until she squirmed from the pain. "And, I said you had best stay away from him. Do you understand?"

  She replied in an emotionless tone that he had come to expect from her. A tone that went far beyond the way she spoke to him. "I understand." She had been married to Nathan for only two years but the coldness she felt toward him, soured their every moment together. She had been pregnant once, but his abuse had caused her to lose the child. There would be no more. In her mind and body, she had closed the man out.

  The Company C escort wagons rolled out of the square and started southwest toward the Arkansas River, twenty-five miles away. John Neill started his team in behind the troop wagons. As Nathan Baker started his team, Nell noticed that she could barely make out Collier as he dropped below the horizon.

  The Kansas dawn broke golden and still as the teamsters and infantrymen started on the journey to Fort Dodge.

  A lone Cheyenne brave hid along the banks of the Pawnee River. He counted the wagons and the men. He made mental notes of the condition of each of the wagons and the firepower of the entire group. Once they had passed, he quietly made his way back along the river to the west away from the fort. Once he was clear, he put his pony into a gallop.

  CHAPTER V

  His scout to the Arkansas was uneventful. A few antelope, early in the morning, and mule deer moving along the river, had been the only living things he had seen. He had reached Sand Point in the early afternoon and stopped to rest the bay before starting back. It was a perfect place to try out the new rifle. He had tied the rifle to his saddle horn with a leather thong. He drew the rifle from the grazing bay and looked south across the Arkansas for a likely target. The Remington was not so muzzle heavy as the Plains rifle and it was a much more streamlined weapon. He thumbed back the hammer and the breech block then inserted a long .50-70 cartridge into the chamber. He drew down on a clump of sand love grass and yucca growing on the edge of one of the bluffs on the far shore of the river. He guessed the distance to be about one hundred and fifty yards. He adjusted the Vernier sight, sat down on the sandy bank and took careful aim. His first shot was short but dead on. He adjusted the sights to elevate a bit more and placed a second round in the rifle. With his second shot, he watched a section of yucca fall as the bullet cut through it. He was pleased with the rifle's accuracy but surprised at its recoil. The advantage of the new rifle was obvious, especially to a man who spent so much of his time on the trail alone. It definitely shot harder than the muzzle loader but he could reload it so much faster.

  He fired a third round and smiled as another section fell from the yucca. He returned to his mount admiring his new rifle. He tightened the cinch of his saddle and hung the rifle from the saddle horn. As he gathered up the reins and swung into the saddle, he noticed a flash of light reflected from the hill opposite the river. Collier suspected that he was being watched. He eased himself down from the bay carefully keeping the horse between himself and the hill. He worked his mount toward a struggling willow growing along the banks of the sand bar. As he moved, a second flash from the hilltop caught his attention. "They've got a rifle on us, pony," Collier said grimly. "Let's see how bold they are."

  He cut his eyes along bot
h sides of the river to see if he was being flanked.. He fished out his spyglass from his saddle bag and scanned the hill. Whatever had caused the flash was gone. "They know that I saw them," he said quietly. "Might as well check things out."

  According to the Medicine Lodge treaty, the area south of the Arkansas was Indian territory and the river was commonly called the "Dead Line" by whites. Indian movement south of the river could be expected but Collier needed to get the feel of what was going on. He remounted his horse and forded the river. The river was wide and the gelding had to swim for several yards through the deepest channel. As he started up the south bank, Collier pulled his Colt and worked up the sand hill warily. He found sign where two Indians had watched him from the hill top. At the base of the hill were pony tracks leading south. He scanned the thousands of hills before him. The rolling sand and grass was a maze for most men and few rode into them alone. He had very little to gain and everything to lose by following any further. He decided to report to Roberts and let him make the decisions. He turned the horse north to the river and recrossed.