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October 13th, 1887 I

  The march to Denver had been a long one. Not as long as marches I’d been on in years past, by any stretch. Denver had the blessing of being connected to the railroad. Saved myself and the rest of the Company the trouble of having to ride or walk the whole distance. Funny to think of the kind of impact that sort of business has had in the decades since the war. I can still remember being a kid, bouncing alongside my grandpap as we rode the buckboard into town. The road we’d take was a dirt one that ran astride the rails. More than a few times we’d be on our way in and have the steam engines pass alongside us. Hissing steam, belching fire and smoke like a fat man choking on his cigar.

  But I wasn’t a kid anymore, and Denver didn’t look a thing like Mt. Hyde. The whole of the Colorado territory didn’t look a thing like rural New York, for that matter. Mayhap, once upon a time they did. Before either got settled, or the rails got laid on them. As I rode them into the city though, that resemblance was long gone. Eaten by the march of time, progress, and the fat men choking on their cigars. We had to pass through their place, the railyards of Denver, as we made our way to Union Station. We’d have to break off soon, get shunted back into the yard and get offloaded. Situate ourselves for the march ahead of us. Didn’t envy the crew that was gonna be responsible for it. Namely because it was work that’d fall to all of us. It’d been a trial when we’d had to load the cars the first time. Unloading them would be easy by comparison, though no less of a strain. At the least, I wasn’t going to be stuck taking stock and inventory. Leave that for the quartermaster.

  Though I suppose complaining about it was a senseless point. At least we’d been allowed to make the trip by rail rather than boot, wagon, or boat. The last leg of things would require at least two of them anyway.

  I could feel the car sway underneath me as we switched tracks, pulling into the station. Moved onto a clear line next to a normal passenger train. Felt strange being so far west, and seeing people dressed like they were. Business men in their suits and ladies in their dresses, sables and furs between them for the growing fall chill and mountain air. Beaver hats on their heads, peak of city-folk fashion, wearing a beaver’s ass on your head. Guess that part didn’t change, no matter how far west you went. Maybe some sort of unspoken rule, go to the city and you gotta dress all fancy and sharp. Don’t and you’ll be brushed aside for a bum. Couldn’t say that me or any of the boys I was traveling with were dressed up fancy. But looking sharp was a state of the uniform.

  The train car squealed to a stop at the platform, and a cry rose up in the car. Time for us to get out, double time.

  My backside felt a bit numb from sitting on the wooden bench, as I got up. Having to sit on it for more than a few hours would do that. Only stretch of time I’d been allowed off it was when we’d stop for water, coal. Never more than a few minutes at a time. Long enough to get out of the smoke airy of the car for a time, take in the chilled air. Feel the difference in it as we’d made each step of the trip.

  We stepped off in measured and quick fashion, moving out in our uniforms of the time. Not helped by the disparity of our appearances. Most of us were dressed in the blues of soldiery. From the blue and black caps at the crowns of our heads to the denim jeans furled at our boots. Over our chests and shoulders, the navy blues jackets, rank stitched into the sleeves. For those who made the cavalry though, and there were a few of them, they stood against us. The Browns and khaki canvas that made pants, coats, and wide brims of our campaign hats. But both uniforms were belted about us tightly, campaign hats and caps tight to our heads. Nothing so fine as beaver ass. Save looking fancy for the Officers and their Balls. Make them seem more like gentlemen, being the ones to dress up like dandies. Another sort focused on balls, in a way. We stepped out onto the platform and began our march across the platform. Headed back out towards the railyard. From the few we passed on the way, the impression we left was big. Surely to do with our dress, and not our number, fifty strong though we were. A small company of men sent to handle business someone had long requested for. A small piece of what may have already been waiting ahead of us. All went as planned, Most of what we’d brought wouldn’t see use until our work was done. If it ever saw it.

  The Railyard was a lively place, as we marched out to it. Workers stumbled over the lines as they ran between the junctions, or rode the engineless cars ghosting the tracks. Setting up the new lines for transfer, removing cargo to be offloaded. Company men so far as I could tell, maybe unioners mixed in. They were starting to build a head of steam, for the good it’d do them. A noble if likely doomed cause. I’d seen some of the good it’d done the factory men back east, when they thought of banding against their bossmen. The Pinkertons didn’t hit lightly.

  Our box and cattle cars weren’t far from the station. I had to imagine it hadn’t been there more than a day. By the hand of some help, or perhaps thieves, the cattle cars had been opened. The horses we were to use were grazing and feeding as they nickered, avoiding the scalding steam and squealing cars. We stopped at a clearing in the lines, then pulled ourselves in line with a motion from the officers.

  They stood out from us, all five of them, in their blacks and blues. Of them were the Staff Sergeants, the First lieutenant, and the Captain leading our expedition. Under him the Staffers handled their business. The Cavalry, the Engineers, us Artillery boys, plus the Riflemen and their scouts. As it were, we weren’t arrayed in any meaningful fashion. The trip had left us mixed together, helped with association. There was no telling how long any one of us would be stuck together, so many had taken to building their own connections. Though I could not say I had the ability to name many in my company at that time. Nor could the officers, as they needed to rely upon the papers handed to them by our Captain.

  Our Captain and his lieutenant, at least, I could name.

  Eli Murtagh was, if nothing else, one of the few members of the officers corps I had some respect for beyond the familiar one. He was a large man, broad shouldered and square jawed. In possession of a darker complexion than most, claiming a spanish descent courtesy of New Orleans. But I put his manner of speech closer to something more northern. A clear standout from one of the other officers, whose voice was the plain spoken drawl of a Johnny Reb. But Captain Murtagh was an even handed and honest sort. Many who got into this manner of work didn’t do it with the intention in mind of speaking about their upbringing. Aside from which, It was no business of mine anymore than mine was his.

  He stood ahead of us with the Staffers, reading off of his papers. This wouldn’t be something that dragged on for very long. When he spoke, his voice rose up in a bark. “Sound off! Mauss!”

  “Here!” His Lieutenant, Rob, answered. Suppressing the smirk I knew he’d wear otherwise.

  Captain Murtagh nodded, then barked again. “Walker!”

  “Present Sir!” Walker answered, a drawl in his. Clipping the t of present and mangling the word from sir to sah.

  Another nod, and he went on, moving down the list and along the line. Finishing with the Sergeants, Roio, Moreau, and Frankosky. Each heading a different division we’d been told to carry with us. Cavalry, Engineers, Artillery, and Scouts. Each necessary for what we were doing, but strange to see lashed together as we were.

  Murtagh moved on from the Sergeants and his Lieutenant and began to call on us. A process that took less time the more he went. No need to be calling ranks now, we were all lower enlisted. Most of us only cared about Rank when it required us to show deference. Other way around, you could get by without it. At a steady cadence, he moved his way through the list like a farmer counting his chickens. Far as we could tell no foxes had found their way into the henhouse, none of us get left in the cold either.

  “MacGuinness!” Murtagh called

  “‘Ere!” Mac answered

  “Rooman!” Murtagh continued, another answer rising up to meet him. “... Somers!”

  “Here sir!” I answered

  Murtagh continued down the list in similar fashion. Calling surnames and waiting for a response.

  That’s my surname as well, by way of my grandfather and mother: Somers. Given the name Griffin by word and nudge of my grandmother. An effort to try and connect me to an old country I’d never known and a history just as much a mystery. But it was my name, and as far they went, it was better than others. Better named for some hawkish beast than Marian or, god forbid, Hamlet. Walk around your whole life being called a little ham.

  After a fashion, Captain Murtagh finished with the list and lowered it. Far as he could tell, we’d all been wise enough to keep with the train. When the alternative was potentially desertion, it was preferable.

  He took a moment, nodding. “Alright men, listen up.” Murtagh said, looking over all of us. “I know it’s been a long trip to get this far, but we aren’t done yet. These cars need offloading, and we’re still a few miles away from the rallying point.”

  There was a subtle murmur of discontent from us, but not disagreement. We all knew we weren’t to be resting until we’d actually made camp. But it didn’t change the fact that it had been a long trip, Steam Engine or not.

  “As it is, I need to make my way to the Telegraph office, and let the Men back at Fort Hays know we’ve arrived.” Murtagh continued “Beyond that, will be whatever official paperwork the good people running this city will need to pass over to me. I would like to tell you it will not take long…” Captain Murtagh gave us all a knowing smirk “But I have the sense it’s going to take some hours for me to get everything in order.” He took out a pocket watch from the hip of his uniform jacket, giving it a cursory glance. “As it’s early yet, I don’t imagine we’ll be on the trail any time before Two in the afternoon.” He returned the watch to its home and looked back over us. “That should give you all a good few hours to make sure everything is secured. Especially under the guidance of your commanding officers. I expect to meet you all out front of the station, wagon loaded and ready. Am I understood?”

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  There was a chorus of agreement among the lot of us.

  Murtagh nodded and motioned to the Staffers, who began shouting commands as he broke off. Followed only by the First Lieutenant. His personal aid, by the name of Moreau.

  Without much need for further prodding, we all set into motion. While the Sergeants had been tasked with direction, the role was more supervisory in this case. We all knew what our stock was, and where it needed to be. We could’ve taken all the time required between Murtagh’s leaving and returning, and been meticulous in it. But he’d been smarter about it, and knew what it took to get us moving.

  We weren’t departing until Two in the Afternoon. Told us himself he wouldn’t be back any time before that. To most, that was merely a guess at how long he’d be. To a company of men who’d spent the past several months bouncing between assignments it meant more. We’d been given one assignment, and a rallying time.

  Any time left between the two was ours to use freely.

  We all knew how to work quickly.

  …

  It took us a short time to locate the wagons we’d be using to move the majority of our supplies. They had been kept toward one edge of the yard, near where the Railway police had themselves a post. Couldn’t tell if they’d been the ones to move them there, or they’d found their way there through some illicit means. Stealing from the Government wasn’t a smart idea, especially from the army. But I’m not the accusing type either. All that mattered was we’d found them, and got the Cavalry boys to hitch the needed horses. Managed to drive them back towards the train without any incident, and started unloading the lot of it. Started with everyone organizing whose haversacks and belongings were going where, then moved onto the larger cargo. The cavalry had it simple enough, their horses were already loose from the car and were just in need of some tending. Food, water, and a bit of brushing before being saddled. They’d have to worry about carrying the feed for them, among other things.

  For us in the artillery, we had the heavy stuff. Cannons, mortars, and Gatlings. Along with any material needed to feed them. Barring the Quartermaster’s ledger. Though for this case, I doubted we were the ones carrying the heaviest load. With what needed to be done, the Engineers would have us beat.

  But that didn’t change that our 12-pounder cannon weighed the better part of a ton, counting the limber. Or that our Three Inch guns were six feet long. Only saving grace was that the Napoleon guns were short, easier to wheel off the cars.

  With free-time on the line though, we worked like we had the devil to beat. We unloaded the heavy pieces first, knowing they’d require the most hands on any one thing. That they were all mostly wheeled made it a fair bit faster, and made the eight man crew moving them happier. A testament from one of the men who had to do the moving. Once the cannons were offloaded, near a half dozen, we could move to the smaller pieces. The ones that could be moved by one or two of us a piece, rather than the whole lot. Most of what needed moving was munitions for the guns. Powder, balls, strikers and primers. Then whatever tooling it took to feed them.

  I can recall kneeling down to collect one of the crates of cannon balls. Thinking to myself that it’d have been easier to lift a dead horse off my legs. The handles of the wood crate dug into my calloused hands as I ambled the crate over to the door of the train car. Where I passed it off to another of the artillery crew, Humboldt. You’d think with all the effort they were putting into modernizing the rest of our gun, the cannons would count too. Find a way to drill them out and put shells in them, instead of having a dozen different crates for powder and balls. Quartermaster’s stock would handle reloading the rounds for our small arms, not much sense to it. You wouldn’t want to be reloading a cannon with the powder you’d put in a pistol either, or the other way. But perhaps they were just keeping the better guns back east. Let us have the old stock while they ‘worked the kinks out’. I’d seen some of the kinks that had needed working before, and if they were there, I didn’t want to be.

  A bit longer, and we’d gotten most of the munitions unloaded. All that remained was the powder and the crates holding the Gatlings. We, Humboldt, Hicks, and myself, were just about to set in on them, when Moreau finally joined us.

  Sergeant Cooper Moreau was a twig of a man. Thin and whippy in the way that tall grass and grain stalks are when hit by the breeze. His face was pinched into a tight grimace that never went away. Like he’d stubbed a toe with every step he took. He was fair haired and hazel eyed, scanning us as we worked.

  I could tell I was the first to actually notice him. The others were busy with making sure we weren’t here longer than needed.

  “Look who finally decided to show up.” I said, inclining my head towards him. “Work’s almost done, ain’t that like an officer?”

  “Cap’n had me helping Howard with the papers, make sure everything was accounted for on our end.” Moreau said, tilting his chin up towards me as well, scowling. “Sounds like insubordination, saying I’m not doing my job.”

  “No, never, just that you left all the grunt work to us.” I said, smirking

  “I’m here now, ain’t I?” He asked

  “You mean ‘aren’t I’, right?” I asked back

  A moment passed, both of us staring the other down. Didn’t have much love for a man like Moreau. He was a layabout. When he wasn’t, he was cracking a whip.

  “You two done flirting?” Tommy, one of our crew men, asked “We got Guns to move. I don’t know about you but I ain’t been to town in weeks.”

  “Then get on with it.” Moreau nodded, smirking “Let’s get this done on the double then, eh?”

  I turned away from Moreau and back to the matter at hand. As said, most of the grunt work was already done. The only thing left for us to worry about had been the Gatlings. They weren’t anywhere near the weight of the previous cannons, but still a lot for one man’s shoulders. More so when you were a reed like Moreau. Despite him though we worked quick and smooth. Two of us lifting a gun and dragging ourselves over to the door, then lowering it for another pair waiting outside. With practice, even the slow things could go fast.

  Even with Moreau’s supervision, we made good time. With most of the big guns unloaded, we finished with the last of the powder tins and munitions. By the time we were done the car was cleared out well enough You’d think we’d sucked the dirt out between the floorboards. We didn’t, but we swept the place clean for any extra powder. Following that came the task of mounting the guns to their litters, or loading them into wagons. Most of our cannons were going onto their related litters for the time being. Given the weight of most of them, it’d be easier moving them that way than loading them into the wagons. We’d rather not be breaking the necks of the horses and oxen trying to move the damn things. Something that itself did not take altogether much longer than the unloading.

  In the long run, it would be a senseless effort anyway. We only carried as many guns as we did because they would become permanent emplacements. Once we reached our own final destination, some miles outside of Denver. That wouldn’t be until after the Engineers had time to set the plans in motion and start building structures. So it wouldn’t be for a time. But knowing that they were just going to be taken off the litters again seemed a waste of effort.

  But we got paid for senseless wastes of effort as well. Maybe that’s where the real sense of it lay.

  All told, unloading the train and packing the wagons took us maybe an hour and a half. Time that flew by with the lot of us working together. As the work wound down, we made sure the wagons and cargo were secure. Then went to collect our belongings and secure them on the wagons as well. We tucked them inside among the powder and balls, Kind of place you’d be a fool to go around checking.

  I fished my gunbelt from my haversack on the way out. The Quartermaster would be in charge of keeping any extra munitions we may need. As well as replacements should our equipment need repairs beyond what we could manage. For the march this far, at least, we’d been charged with keeping track of our own supplies. I wasn’t about to go walking into a speck of civilization carrying my long gun like some mountain man. But I also knew better than to believe that this speck of civilization didn’t have teeth yet. So I fastened my gunbelt around my waist and fastened it to a familiar notch. Took practice and time to find the spot where it sat most rightly at my hip A spot that was almost as natural to me as the length and reach of my arm. Once found, in quick fashion, I pulled my pistol from my sack.

  After the war, the government had moved in earnest to replace their percussion weapons with cartridge guns. Our Trapdoor rifles were their fix for a cheap solution. Pistols were a different matter. A lot of their old makes, the Colts, Remingtons, Starrs and others, were still in use. Time had it that Colt and the boys at Smith and Wesson would make replacements. Slowly shoo the old models out. I’d seen some of those new pieces, the ‘Single Action Army’, or the ‘Schofield No. 3’. They were fancy, clean looking.

  I didn’t get one.

  Didn’t need one, really. Brought my own.

  It was one of the Remingtons, their ‘New Model’ they put out back in the 1860s. Chambered for a .44 caliber ball, but had long since received some work. Courtesy of a gunsmith back in Kansas. Needed it, if I was going to continue to use it. Had the cylinder bored through and a groove cut to assist with loading. The gun itself showed every bit of the Near Thirty years it’d spent changing hands. Its blued finish was worn away, and the walnut that made its grips were darkened with the sweat of every palm they’d passed through. Not that there’d been many of them. It looked old, and a little beaten down.

  But she shot true and worked smooth as though she was still new.

  Trusted it more than I did my own rifle.

  I thumbed the hammer back to halfcock and checked the timing on the cylinder, along with each of the chambers. Happy with it, I slid a cartridge into each, then lowered the hammer and put the whole of it into my holster. Only spent a few seconds more fishing out a second cylinder from my sack and loading it as well, before slipping it into my jacket pocket.

  With my pistol collected, I climbed back out of the wagon, I pulled a quirlie from my pocket. Struck a match off the heel of my boot and took a drag from it as I saw the rest of the men working. Most of them were about where myself and the crew were, getting close to finished. The cavalry men were themselves wrapped up, their horses fed and saddled. They’d already been given the go ahead by their officer to head for the station. They weren’t wasting a second of it with small talk. The riflemen and scouts weren’t far behind, but they had tools and equipment that needed better securing than us. Especially with the way I could see the Quartermaster harrying them. Like watching a man trying to herd cats with a broken stick. But even they were moving faster than the Engineers. Out of the whole of us they were tasked with the bulk of the cargo. The tools and materials they would need for the work ahead of them. Many of the timbers and much of the stone would need to be cut, quarried, or purchased once we arrived. But wherever we could take with us in advance would make the job easier.

  As easy as building a Fort ever was.

  At least we wouldn’t have to worry about the Natives, in this case. There’d been no reported raids or attacks in sometime from the Region. Our arrival that day had merely been a case of a squeaking wheel finally getting greased.

  I took another drag off my quirlie and moved to join the rest of the crew. They stood or leaned against the car, puffing away at their smoke of choice. Moreau favored snuff, like some aristocrat, but I knew Tommy to puff from an ivory pipe he kept on his pack. Far less ideal for keeping on the move, but the only fool was the one who’d keep a fighting man from his smoke.

  Moreau sneezed as he took a pinch of his dust. I sidled back as he composed himself. “You all know how it is, you heard Captain Murtagh. Be back around front of the station by two. If I have to come find any of you, believe me, you’ll wish I hadn’t. Aye?”

  The crew nodded, and he motioned that we could leave. Without a pause, we left in much the speed and fashion the cavalry had, almost chasing their dust cloud.

  I wasn’t going to be caught lacking for it either. There was a promise that’d been made sometime before the trip here. Before we got dragged off to the Lord knows where, I intended to keep it.

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