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  Scout

  The Tale of Billy the Kid and the Deadwood Dwarves

  Edward J. Knight

  Mythic Western Press LLC

  Copyright © 2021 by Edward J. Knight

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Introduction

  History

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Author’s Notes

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Edward J. Knight

  Preview of Gunslinger: The Dragon of Yellowstone

  Introduction

  Eight years after the Jotunheim giants destroyed the Confederacy and most of the Union, the Army of the West stopped their last advance into what was left of the United States. Now the Army polices the borders while rebuilding its strength.

  Billy McCarty hates army life. He loathes the daily regiments and rules. Strange sightings in the Black Hills offer him the chance to leave it all behind and lead his own small scout team to investigate.

  But Billy’s never led a team before. As they head into the wilderness, where only the rules of survival matter, his every decision could mean serious injury or death.

  For him or his friends.

  Or both.

  In the Mythic West, where gunslingers battle monsters of myth, Scout continues the epic adventures of the hero, Billy the Kid.

  One

  We spotted the Indians about an hour before dusk. They were a ways off, down one of the dirt roads that led northwest from Fort Chicago to places I’d never been. At the distance, they were little more than sticks on horses, but I could see raised spears, so I knew who it had to be. As for why they were here, I hadn’t a clue.

  I raised my hand and brought my scout patrol to a halt. The six of us had been riding the western loop on what had been a beautiful spring day. A gentle breeze balanced the warmth of the slowly sinking sun. Even the horses had enjoyed being out of the fort. Mine shuffled and shifted beneath me, eager for another run down the road.

  I almost gave in. I didn’t want to go back to the fort and stables any more than he did. As much as I hated the army, I loved being out on the trail. I could do things that needed to be done, without worrying about all the rules I was supposed to follow.

  Fortunately, my superiors had figured that out. They’d promoted me to lieutenant in the autumn because of my bravery in battle. Then over the winter, we’d all realized how bad a leader I was.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t take care of the men in my platoon. I did. I was good at taking care of them. It was that I didn’t see the need for all the army’s rigamarole. Salute, don’t salute. Say “sir,” don’t say “sir.” And all the rest of the rules that didn’t involve fighting. Who cared?

  Well, the army did. But they didn’t want to court-martial “the Hero of Louisville.” It would’ve been too embarrassing to give me the Army of the West’s Medal of Valor and then kick me out.

  But, I was warned, that wouldn’t stop them from putting me in the stockade for a night or two. That would’ve been just a clear reminder to the troops “about the value of good discipline.”

  And I didn’t really want to spend any time behind bars. The food was horrible. Far worse than the mess hall, I’d heard.

  So… my friend McNab suggested a scout unit. It was close to what my hero Cassidy had done, and what I’d dreamed of when I was younger. I wanted to ride where there was trouble, just like in the dime novels I’d read repeatedly until they’d fallen apart. An army scout patrol wasn’t quite the same thing, but it was at least halfway there. I was sure it was the right thing for me.

  And, fortunately, the army agreed. At least until they were ready to march again. Then it was almost certainly back into the thick of things. But until then… I scouted the side of Fort Chicago away from any likely attacks from the giants or trolls. Where there was nothing but farms and fields as far as one could see.

  It was beautiful.

  But now there were Indians. Who shouldn’t have been anywhere near the fort.

  As they grew closer, I realized it wasn’t just Indians. Four of the eight riders wore army blue. When they saw us, they spurred their horses to a canter. The two soldiers in front pulled ahead by a couple of lengths before settling in to a steady pace.

  I looked over my own unit. Only Zeke sat straight at attention on his horse. The big Negro trained his eyes forward as he lightly held the reins. Of the lot of us, his uniform was the only one close to crisply neat and clean. The hilt of his saber glinted in the sun, and I briefly wondered if he’d been polishing it again before dismissing the thought. We’d been riding the entire day, so I knew he hadn’t had the time. At our mid-day break, he’d broken out his Bible instead of his polishing rag and sat quietly, his lips moving as he read.

  The other four men in my unit were unkempt but not quite on their way to slovenly. An undone button here and there or a stubble-covered chin. Slouching in the saddle. Things I didn’t care about when we were on the trail.

  But, I realized, the incoming soldiers might.

  “Attention!” I ordered.

  My startled men shifted into position except for Zeke, who already sat upright. He let a thin smile appear as he watched the others adjust themselves, but didn’t say anything.

  The two lead riders slowed as they approached. The one on the right, with a full brown beard and wavy hair, raised one arm and hailed us. The one on the left, a somewhat plump dark-haired soldier with glasses, seemed to be hanging onto his reins too tightly to raise his hand. I returned the hail and waited until they’d stopped in front of us.

  Both soldiers saluted, even though Brown Beard was a lieutenant like me. He had a large pointed nose and bushy eyebrows under his broad-brimmed hat. Sweat stained the armpits of his uniform, but his buttons still gleamed in the sun. He nodded at me, and then turned to take in my soldiers. His eyes widened when he realized they were all Negroes.

  Fortunately, he recovered quickly. “Lieutenant Caldwell, from Fort Randall, with an emissary from the Sioux to General Sanborn.” He gestured to the soldier next to him. “Private Brody.” Then he reached inside the breast of his jacket. “Our orders,” he said as he withdrew a folded sheet of paper.

  He brought his horse close enough to pass it to me. I unfolded the paper and started to skim it.

  Zeke gently cleared his throat.

  “Um, sorry,” I said without looking up. “Lieutenant McCarty, Fort Chicago, western patrol.”

  The tight cursive was easy to read. The orders f
rom Captain Logan, the Fort Randall commander, were to escort the four Sioux warriors to Fort Chicago and General Sanborn. Then they were to await the General’s orders.

  “Umm… uhh…” Private Brody stammered.

  I looked up from the orders. “Yes?”

  “Umm.. sir, are you… uhh… Billy McCarty? The Hero of Louisville?”

  His eyes were wide with eagerness. I hadn’t seen that look in months, mostly because the starry-eyed in Fort Chicago had long run out of excuses to talk to me.

  “Yes…,” I said.

  “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh! You’re Billy the Kid!” He turned to Lieutenant Caldwell. “From the book!”

  “What book?” I asked warily.

  “Lemme get it!” Private Brody hopped off his horse so he could rummage in his saddlebags more easily. Then he passed me the book I’d both expected and dreaded.

  Jeremiah had told me he’d written a book about our adventures in Colorado, but I’d tried to put it out of my head. I’d read all the dime novels he’d written about Cassidy the Giant Killer before I’d met either him or Cassidy so I knew he could do it, but I just didn’t think much of it. Besides, books take a long time to write, don’t they?

  Except here it was. A book with my name on the cover. Billy the Kid and the Giants of Colorado.

  I held it in both hands and stared at it. I’d told Jeremiah to call it Cassidy’s Last Ride, but he’d chosen to write about me instead.

  My heart raced, but not from excitement. More like anxiety. Yeah, I’d wanted to be a hero back then. But I’d learned too well since then how often heroics were just luck. I’d been lucky. I wasn’t sure that made me a hero.

  But I’d also learned that people sometimes needed the idea of a hero more than the actual person.

  I forced a casual grin and handed the book back.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I said as calmly and as casually as I could, “but don’t believe everything in it. The writer took a lot of liberties.”

  “But…,” Private Brody stammered. “But… it’s you!”

  I shrugged because I didn’t know what to say.

  About then, the rest of their party caught up to us. The Indians drew my attention. They looked regal in their buckskin shirts with their long black hair pulled back. The first was small and wiry—not much bigger than me. The second was more muscled and larger with a hooked nose and high cheekbones. I glanced at the other two, but my eyes kept drifting back to the second.

  He had a dangerous presence about him as his eyes flicked over my patrol. He sat tall, but looked ready to spring. His gaze settled on me and then met my eyes. His were cold and steady. We both broke away when Lieutenant Caldwell spoke.

  “This is Otaktay,” Lieutenant Caldwell said with a gesture toward the Indian. “He leads the Sioux.” Then, “Otaktay, this is Lieutenant McCarty, also known as Billy the Kid.”

  Otaktay nodded without recognition of the name.

  Caldwell then introduced the rest of the Indians and his other two soldiers, but most of the names went in one ear and out the other. I remembered Private O’Fallon’s, though, because he reminded me of my old friend Tom O’Folliard back in Golden City.

  With a pang, I realized I hadn’t received a letter from Tom in several months. Which was probably because I hadn’t written myself. I needed to change that.

  After the introductions, Lieutenant Caldwell cleared his throat and held out his hand. With his eyes, he indicated the orders that I was still holding. After I handed them back, he tucked them into his jacket.

  This time I knew what to say. “Let me take you to the general. I know the fastest route.”

  Since our horses were rested and the road flat, I decided we’d canter. I told Zeke to take charge of the patrol and bring up the rear while Lieutenant Caldwell rode up front with me. The Sioux didn’t balk at being surrounded by more soldiers, but I guessed they were used to it after their journey. My memory of Fort Randall’s location was a bit fuzzy, but I knew it wasn’t close by. I thought about asking, but we were riding just a bit too hard to talk.

  Instead, I enjoyed the wind on my face and the way my heart beat as we rode. I was still only a fair horseman, but I’d come to appreciate riding. There was an exhilaration I just couldn’t get from walking.

  But all too soon we were back at the Fort’s western gate. The sprawling complex was almost as large as the city of Chicago itself. It actually had several western gates, but only one was close to General Sanborn’s headquarters. That was part of my problem with the army—the fort was just too dang large. It wasn’t open like the road.

  The gate guards eyed the Indians warily and kept their hands on their guns, but waved us through after Lieutenant Caldwell showed them his orders. We drew a few more stares as we rode at a more relaxed pace to the headquarters building, but I still felt happy to just ride without speaking. When we finally arrived, I turned to Lieutenant Caldwell.

  “We can take your horses,” I said. “There’s some stables not far from here.” Then I glanced at the Sioux. “If they’re okay with it, of course.”

  Otaktay was close enough to overhear my offer. He shook his head vehemently. Private Brody had a pained look on his face.

  Lieutenant Caldwell looked at the two of them and then at me. “Can you, at least, stay?”

  “Sure,” I said. I looked at Zeke. “You, too.” Then I turned to the rest of my patrol. “Take the evening off. Be at the barracks at reveille.”

  Some of them immediately perked up, but none immediately left. After a moment, I realized why.

  “Dismissed,” I ordered, and they quickly dispersed.

  I sucked my breath in frustration. This was the army. They knew what I’d wanted, but the rules meant they had to wait for the order. It was stupid. Another advantage of being on the road. Less stupidity.

  After we’d all dismounted, Lieutenant Caldwell, Private Brody, and most of the Sioux headed into the headquarters building. Lieutenant Caldwell’s other two privates and the remaining Indian tied their horses to nearby hitching posts and began rubbing their horses down. Zeke dug into one of his saddlebags and pulled out a small sack of grain for his own mount.

  He gave me a big amused grin. “Never thought I’d see Indians.”

  I shrugged. “The Arapaho used to visit Golden City from time to time. They’re not much different than us.”

  “Dunno about that.” He pointed at their horses. “No saddles.”

  I chuckled. Trust Zeke to notice the details.

  I watched the remaining Sioux warrior care for the Indians’ horses. He didn’t do much different than we did, which made sense when I thought about it. Horses were horses.

  The headquarters door opened. To my surprise, my old friend Sergeant-Major McNab, one of the army’s top quartermasters, stood there. His uniform was clean and pressed and the ring of grey hair around his bald top had been recently trimmed. It’d been several weeks since I’d seen him, and he looked more worn and tired, but he didn’t slouch. He had an amused smirk as he registered my surprise.

  “Billy,” he said, “the general wants you inside.”

  Two

  I stared at McNab for a few seconds. For some reason, I realized his face looked more lined and ragged than I’d ever seen, though now was a strange time to notice.

  “What’re you doing here?” I asked.

  “Reports,” he said. He nodded toward the building. “At least until the general stepped out of his meeting to tell me to get you.”

  “Do you know what he wants?” I asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  My face flushed. Of course it didn’t. If General Sanborn, the commander of the entire Army of the West, wanted me inside, I was gonna be there. I was still a soldier under his command.

  I glanced over at Zeke, who nodded. He’d keep an eye on the horses and the Indian. So I followed McNab into the Headquarters foyer.

  The general’s aide immediately ushered us into the briefing room. General Sanborn hi
mself stood in front of the map of the West. His thick, grey hair set off the wrinkles in his face and made him look old and serious. His uniform hung loosely and I guessed that, like many of us, he’d lost weight over the winter. He was talking quietly with my direct commander, Captain Mercer, as well as Lieutenant Caldwell. The Sioux had stood in a cluster at the far end of the long table that filled the rest of the room.

  Captain Mercer also looked more worn than I’d seen him recently. We hadn’t crossed paths much once I’d been assigned to scout patrol. Still, his uniform, wavy hair, and mustache were all impeccably groomed. But his eyes seemed sadder than usual. He gave me a small smile.

  McNab and I took three steps into the room, came to attention, and saluted.

  “At ease, Lieutenant, Sergeant-Major,” General Sanborn said. After we’d dropped our salutes, he continued, “I understand you speak Arapaho.”

  “Sir, yes sir,” I said.

  “You speak it well?” he asked.

  “Not too well, sir,” I said. “Just enough to get by.”

  “That’ll be enough,” he said.

  “Sir?” I said. I glanced over at the Sioux. Arapaho territory was beyond theirs and the two tribes didn’t get along.

  “We have an urgent mission for you,” General Sanborn said. “To the Black Hills.”