Wrath of the Savage (7 page)

“I was what?” Bret gasped in protest. “On the word of a cowardly soldier who fell asleep on guard duty? I came back, didn't I?”

“Yes, you did,” Grice replied unemotionally, “and that's the other mistake you made.”

“So you've tried and sentenced me without ever hearing my side of the story? I don't even get my day in court to defend myself?”

Grice hesitated, then said, “I'm not an unreasonable man. I'll give you your trial. Ordinarily, since you were an officer, I'd leave you free on your own cognizance until your trial. But you've got a history of running, so you'll await your trial in the guardhouse.” He nodded to Lieutenant Oakes. “March him to the guardhouse.”

“This is all a mistake!” Bret protested as he was taken into custody by the two soldiers who had come with Grice.

“You'll get your day in court,” Grice said, done with him for the time being.

•   •   •

Grice let him sit in the guardhouse for two days before informing him that his trial would be held this morning. It had been two days of anguish and disbelief that the army he had sworn to honor and serve could so drastically turn its back on him. Racking his brain, he could not recall when he had been so harsh on McCoy or Weaver to warrant such a hateful vengeance. Their only motive had to be to cover up their own cowardice. There was no doubt in Bret's mind that Weaver had fallen asleep at his post. Then when he could have joined in the fight to repel the warriors, he chose to run instead. Had he been awake and alert, he could have saved the lives of his fellow soldiers. That was certainly motive enough for lying.

His thoughts were interrupted then when he heard the guards coming to open the cell door. “Time to go, Lieutenant,” one of them announced. They stood outside the cell and waited while he walked out to be marched over to the post headquarters.

“Good luck, Lieutenant,” one of the other prisoners called after him, sarcastically, causing a titter of chuckles from the other three prisoners. Bret ignored them, much as he had ignored them during the two days he shared the common lockup with the enlisted men, all privates. He had not been allowed the courtesy normally shown an officer, even under arrest, and he had to assume that was because he had already been stripped of his rank in the absentia trial. He only hoped that in this reenactment common sense and the word of an officer would prevail, and this nightmare would be over.

He would never forget the walk across the parade ground when every soldier on work details he passed stopped to gawk at him as if he were a traitor. When he was escorted into the post commander's office, he was confronted with a panel of three officers, headed by Colonel Grice. Lieutenant Oakes was on one side of him, while Bret's company commander, Captain Greer, was on the other. They sat at a table that had been placed beside the colonel's desk, and he was directed to a chair facing them. On the other side of the desk were two empty chairs. Before sitting down, he snapped to attention and saluted. None of the three returned his salute.

“All right,” Grice began. “Let's get this thing under way. Just so there is no misunderstanding, this hearing has been called merely as a courtesy to the defendant. A proper verdict on Lieutenant Hollister's conduct on the night of July nineteenth has already been decided. But since we now have the opportunity to hear the defendant's testimony, we will grant him that privilege.” Looking at the guards then, he said, “Bring in the witnesses.”

Bret almost came out of his chair when Privates Brice McCoy and Thomas Weaver entered the room and sat down in the two chairs. The sight of the two malcontents made his blood boil, especially when Weaver favored him with a sneer.

Addressing Bret again, Colonel Grice laid down the rules. “Be advised that, since this is an inquiry, your testimony will be confined to the answering of questions from any of the three of us. Is that understood?”

“Well, sir,” Bret replied, not sure he was going to be allowed to give his complete side of the story. “I had hoped I'd get a chance to tell exactly what happened on the night we were attacked.”

“You'll get that chance as long as you answer the questions,” Grice said. “We'll start with the eyewitness report—Private Weaver.”

“I object,” Bret immediately exclaimed. “Private Weaver wasn't even among the survivors when the fighting was over.” He was immediately reprimanded by the colonel.

Weaver made a convincing attempt to appear sincere as he related a fallacious account of the events on the night in question, during which he and McCoy performed heroically in their effort to repel the hostile attack. “And where was Lieutenant Hollister while this was going on?” Captain Greer asked.

“I don't know, sir. He wasn't nowhere around. Him and that scout, Coldiron, kinda got off by theirselves when it was time to go to sleep.” He glanced at McCoy for confirmation. “We all wondered why they didn't bed down with the rest of us. Anyway, come daylight, they was both gone.”

“That's a damn lie, and you know it!” Bret exclaimed.

“This is the last time I'm going to warn you,” Grice said, and pointed a stern finger at Bret.

There was little doubt in Bret's mind that the verdict was already decided and the inquiry was merely a formality to soothe Grice's conscience as the hearing continued. He was questioned by all of the three judges, but the questions were specific, and he was not allowed to expound on his answers. In the end, it came down to taking the two witnesses' word over that of the officer. It was a farce, and he found it hard to believe that it was allowed to happen. It would not have made any difference, he decided, had Coldiron been there as a witness for the defendant. The panel came to the inquiry with the verdict already established. And when it came time for the verdict, Grice asked the prisoner to stand up while he read it.

“Bret Cameron Hollister, it is the verdict of this hearing that you shall be reduced to the rank of private. If you do not wish to serve in that capacity, you may resign your commission and be discharged dishonorably from the United States Army. Do you have anything to say to this panel?”

Surely I will wake up from this nightmare,
he thought, but he knew it was real, as real as the stoic look on Grice's face—as real as the smirks on the faces of McCoy and Weaver. Fuming inside, he finally replied to the question. “Yes, I've got something to say. I made a big mistake by coming back here to report. In doing so, I'm afraid I might have jeopardized the lives of two innocent white women. I wish that I had continued the search for them. As for the choice you distinguished officers have offered, I'll not serve at the rank of private. In fact, I prefer not to serve at all in an organization with officers of such limited intelligence as yourselves. I willingly surrender my sword, if you haven't taken it already from my quarters.”

Grice and Captain Greer recoiled haughtily from his comments, while Lieutenant Oakes shook his head sadly, thinking about the years the prisoner had spent preparing for a career in the military. Grice got up from the table and walked around to stand before Bret. With a knife he had brought with him in anticipation of the act, he reached up and meticulously cut the insignia of rank from Bret's shoulders.

“This hearing is concluded,” he announced officially. Then to Bret, he remarked, “We're letting you off easy. I could have sent you to prison for a few years. Your quarters have already been stripped of everything of army issue. You may keep the uniform you're wearing and any personal items, but that is all. I suggest you remove anything you have left from the BOQ before mess call.”

He felt completely drained, and the desire to cry out at the magnitude of the injustice he had been dealt was almost overwhelming, but he knew it would do him no good at all. He chose not to give them the satisfaction of witnessing his anguish, so he contained his anger and struggled to maintain his calm. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, at the very least a free man—at the most, a man with no possessions beyond the disgraced uniform he wore and the few personal items left in his quarters. He was not without means, however, for he had a tidy sum in savings in the First Bank of Bozeman—inheritance from his late father's estate. He had thought to use it for something worthwhile at some point, possibly a land investment of some description, but nothing so far had caught his interest. He was struck with the irony that a portion of it would be used now to completely outfit himself.

•   •   •

After leaving the post headquarters, he walked directly to the Bachelor Officers' Quarters. The door to his room was open and his scant belongings were in a bag on his bed, which had been stripped and the mattress rolled up.
They couldn't get rid of me soon enough,
he thought as he unrolled the mattress and dumped the contents of the bag on it. His personal items were all there, plus two pairs of socks, two changes of underwear, his bankbook, writing papers, and a pen. That was his estate, in addition to a roll of money hidden in one of the pairs of socks.
Enough to get a room and some supper in the hotel at Bozeman,
he thought. He went to the tiny closet in the corner of the room and discovered that all of his uniforms had been removed.

“I'm lucky they didn't turn me out on the road in my underwear,” he muttered. He was as eager to leave the post as Grice was to get rid of him, so he put his personal items back in the sack and headed for the door. It was about a three-and-a-half-mile walk to Bozeman, so he figured he'd better get started.

Fort Ellis was not a traditional frontier post in that it was not surrounded by a stockade. Instead it consisted of a collection of buildings to house the cavalry and infantry companies assigned there to protect the settlers moving into the Gallatin Valley. As he walked across the parade ground toward the outermost buildings, he thought about his short stay at this Montana post. He had not developed any close friendships with his fellow officers, but he had always been on a congenial basis with most of them. He could not understand why any of them would believe the charges brought against him. Striking the road to Bozeman, he picked up his pace, telling himself to put it all behind him, and knowing that it would not be an easy thing to do. For he could not at this moment see any future for himself. Since he was a boy, he had been groomed for a career in the military, destined to follow his father's illustrious career. What would his late father think of him now? He immediately told himself that his father knew the truth of the matter. These troublesome thoughts were suddenly forgotten when he rounded a bend in the road to discover a couple of soldiers sitting in the shade of a large tree beside the wagon track. As he approached them, they got to their feet and he was startled to recognize McCoy and Weaver. He continued toward them, not really surprised to see them, knowing them for the kind of men they were.

“Well, now, lookee here, Brice,” Weaver drawled sarcastically, “if it ain't our old friend, Private Fancy Pants.”

“Well, damned if it ain't,” McCoy remarked. “How you doin', Fancy Pants? Whaddaya doin' walkin' out here all by yourself? Ain't you got no horse?” His remarks brought a round of chuckles from them both.

“By God, the shoe's on the other foot now, ain't it, Fancy Pants?” Weaver prodded. “What was it he called us—mal-somethin's? Whatever it was, it didn't sound good. I expect he'd wanna beg our pardon right now.”

“Malcontents,” Bret stated calmly. “Malcontents was what I said you were, and I think now it's too good a word for scum like you two.” He stopped to face them when they strolled casually off the side of the road to stand in his way. “Especially you, Weaver, you no-good piece of shit. The lives of those men are on your conscience. They died because you went to sleep, and then you ran like the coward you are.”

“Why, you snotty son of a bitch,” Weaver blurted, his tall wiry body tensing as he took a step closer. “You're fixin' to get your ass whupped good. Me and McCoy are gonna give you somethin' to remember us by.”

With no weapon, and facing two-to-one odds, Bret had no choice other than to defend himself as best he could. The only thing he saw in his favor was the absence of firearms on either man. Their intent, evidently, was to administer a physical beating and leave him lying in the dust of the road. He did not plan to go easily. In fact, he welcomed the opportunity to strike out at the two smug privates who had made a mess of his life.

McCoy started to crowd in for the fun as Weaver took another step closer. Bret took a step back, waiting for the first one to strike. Thinking he was retreating, Weaver lunged for him, swinging wildly with his right hand, the intended haymaker landing harmlessly against Bret's sack of personal items. Having blocked Weaver's punch, Bret had time to tattoo McCoy's face with a rapid series of rights and lefts that left the surprised soldier stunned. He wobbled backward until tripping over Bret's foot and going down hard on his back. Although much quicker than his two assailants had anticipated, he could not avoid Weaver after McCoy went down. The wiry private leaped piggyback on him and clamped a forearm around his neck in an attempt to crush his windpipe. Staggering off the road with Weaver stuck to his back, Bret backed up to the big cottonwood that had provided shade for his antagonists. He then repeatedly banged Weaver against the trunk until he was forced to let go when one blow knocked the wind out of him. Bret turned in a flash and landed a punch on the point of Weaver's chin that snapped his head around and dropped him. Bret then returned his attention to McCoy, who was rousing himself up from the ground, less enthusiastic about the confrontation at this point. With blood running out of his nose and one eye already beginning to swell, he took a defensive stance, his hands held high like a boxer's. Bret moved straight toward him, but instead of striking out with his fists, he suddenly landed his boot squarely between McCoy's legs. With a loud grunt, McCoy dropped to his knees with no chance of getting up again anytime soon.