When Joseph Longtree rode into the quadrangle of Fort Phil Kearny, the first thing he saw were bodies. Eight bodies laid out on the hardpacked snow and covered with tarps that fluttered and snapped in the wind. They were all cavalry troopers. Either wasted by disease or bullets. Both were quite common in the Wyoming Territory. He brought his horse to a halt before the bodies and followed a trooper to the livery.
Longtree had been to the fort before. But like all forts on the frontier, its command roster was constantly changing. During the height of the Sioux War of '76, this was especially true. Troopers were dying left and right. And now, two years later, that hadn't changed.
His horse stabled, Longtree made his way to the larger of the blockhouses, knowing it contained the command element of the fort. It was warm inside. A great stone hearth was filled with blazing logs. A few desks were scattered about, manned by tired-looking officers, their uniforms haggard and worn from a brilliant blue to a drab indigo. They watched him with red-rimmed eyes.
"Can I help you, sir?" a stoop-shouldered lieutenant asked. He had a tic in the corner of his mouth, his amber eyes constantly squinting. A habit formed from long months chasing Sioux war parties through the blazing summer heat and frozen winter wind.
Longtree licked his chapped lips, pulling open his coat and flashing his badge. "Joe Longtree," he said in a flat voice. "Deputy U.S. Marshal. You have some orders here for me from the Marshals Office in Washington, I believe."
"One moment, sir," the lieutenant said, dragging himself away into the commanding officer's quarters. He came back out with a short, burly captain.
"We've been expecting you, Marshal," the captain said. He held out his hand. "Captain Wickham."
Longtree shook with a limp grip. "The orders?"
"Don't have 'em," the captain apologized. His cheeks were full and ruddy, his hairline receding. Great gray muttonchop whiskers rode his face like pelts. "There's a man here, though, to see you. A Marshal Tom Rivers. From Washington."
Longtree's eyes widened.
Rivers was the Chief U.S. Marshal. He was in charge of all the federal marshals in the Territories. Longtree hadn't seen him since Rivers had appointed him.
"Tom Rivers?" Longtree asked, his face animated now.
"Yes, sir. He's come to see you before riding on to Laramie. I'm afraid he's out right now with Colonel Smith." Wickham frowned. "One of our patrols was ambushed by a Sioux raiding party last night. We lost eight men. Eight damn men."
Longtree nodded. "I saw the bodies."
"Terrible, terrible thing," Wickham admitted.
"Sure it was Sioux?"
Wickham looked insulted. "Sure? Of course we're sure. I've fought them bastards for ten years, sir." He quickly regained his composure. "We still have trouble with isolated bands. Most of 'em don't even know Crazy Horse surrendered. And until they do…well you get the picture, Marshal."
"When do you expect them back?"
"Before nightfall, sir. I've heard you went after the fugitives who robbed that wagon in Nebraska. Murdering thieves. How did you fare, sir?"
Longtree shrugged. "Not as well as I'd hoped." He scratched his chin. "Had to bury all three of 'em. Would've liked 'em alive."
"It's what they deserve, sir." Wickham patted Longtree on the shoulder. "It seems you have some time before the colonel and his party return. You've had a long hard ride, sir, might I suggest you take advantage of our hospitality?"
"It would be welcome," Longtree said, the burden of the past few days laying heavy on him now.
"Lieutenant!" Wickham snapped. "Find a bed for the marshal. He'll be wanting a hot meal and a bath, I would think."
The stoop-shouldered lieutenant took off.
"If you're a mind to, sir, I'd be pleased to join you for a hot drink."
"Lead the way, Captain," Longtree said.