Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter One
It was hot and dry at Fort Bowie, where elements of the Eighth Cavalry were conducting their daily exercises. New recruits, under the watchful eye of sergeants, were at drill, both mounted and dismounted. Older hands were conducting work details, from mucking out stables to rubbing down horses, to making needed repairs on the various buildings of the post.
One hapless soldier, wearing a sign that said I WAS INSUBORDINATE, was walking around the perimeter of the post in uniform, carrying a fully loaded pack and rifle. He would be performing this punishment detail from sunup to sundown, the entire day, taking only a short, five-minute break every two hours.
The U.S. Cavalry, operating under a set of tactics known as
The mounted trooper carried a light cavalry saber suspended from the waist belt. A pistol was carried on the right side, handle facing forward, in a large, flapped holster. He also carried a single-shot, breech-loading .45-caliber carbine, which hung from a carbine sling that was tucked into a leather socket affixed to the McClellan saddle just behind the trooper’s thigh.
Newly minted officers and new recruits alike were made to learn, and recite, the paragraph in the manual that dealt with horses.
Commanding officers must bear in mind that the efficiency of cavalry depends almost entirely upon the condition of the horse, which alone makes them able to get over long distances in short spaces of time. The horses must, therefore, be nursed with great care, in order that they may endure the utmost fatigue when emergencies demand it.
Elements of the Eighth Cavalry, under the overall command of General Crook, were stationed at Fort Bowie, and were engaged, and had been engaged for some time now, in pursuit of a militant band of Apache Indians led by Geronimo.
The bugle call for Officers’ Call was sounded, and the officers of A Company, First Battalion of the Eighth, assembled in the headquarters building in response.
Matt Jensen was one of those who responded to the bugle call. Although Matt was not an army officer, nor even in the army, he was currently employed as a scout for the army, and as such held the equivalent rank of a first lieutenant. He stood now at the window of the headquarters building, looking out over the quadrangle as he waited for the meeting to begin. Being a cavalry scout in pursuit of Apache Indians was not his permanent occupation. It was just an occupation that had temporarily caught his interest.
Matt was a wanderer, always looking for what was beyond the next line of hills or just over the horizon. When he was on the trail, he traveled light, with a bowie knife, a .44 double-action Colt, a Winchester .44-40 rifle, a rain slicker, an overcoat, two blankets, and a spare shirt, socks, trousers, and underwear.
Escaping from an orphanage when he was twelve, he was found more dead than alive by a man named Smoke Jensen. He learned everything he knew from Smoke, who took him in and raised him until Matt was old enough to go out on his own. It was then that Matt dropped the name Cavanaugh, which was the last name of his biological father, and took the name Jensen.
“Gentlemen, Colonel McKenzie,” someone announced, and all the officers stood respectfully as the post commander came into the headquarters.
