Cry of the Hawk

“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.