Yankton

Chapter 48

Chapter 48 We Keep Starting For the Dreary Black Hills

Despite being dead tired, we kept going the rest of the night stopping in Chugwater to grab some sleep. Since we were just too tired to unload the wagon, I dropped a couple extra coins to the stable man for letting us crash out on a pile of straw, next to our wagon. He took care of the horses while we slept. Mark and I tried to maintain some semblance of guard duty, but sleep sounded better. Thankfully no one bothered us. We woke around three in the afternoon, then found a place where we could take baths, and get something to eat. All the while we were in town, both of us fully expected to hear something about our early morning shoot-out, but surprisingly, there was nothing.

"Could be that people traveling south came across the bodies and took them farther south to Cheyenne," said Mark matter-o-factly, whatever it was, I was kind of glad, it allowed us to make a quicker "escape" from town.

Once again we drove well past dark stopping around midnight in a sort of canyon that hid us from the road. That night it began to rain, so we donned our raingear, and moved on. Because it was raining so much, I worried about swollen streams, but luckily we only crossed two, and although they were up, we were able to ford them with no problem. We arrived at Fort Laramie around eight in the morning, Mark was especially interested in what sort of medical care was being practiced here. As we approached the post, each of us snapped pictures with our phone cameras, and commenting on how spread out the place seemed to be. As we entered the post proper, there was a marching drill taking place on the parade ground, again more pictures as Mark and I watched for a few minutes. Even though we couldn't use the phones, their flatness and compact size allowed us to hide them in our inside vest pockets.

We parked the wagon near the post trader's complex on the northeast side of the post, then proceeded to brush the team. While doing so, we observed the story playing out all around us. Mark noticed that while most of the soldiers wore full uniforms, we spotted many only wearing partial ones. Most all had the proper coat, but shirt colors and pants varied greatly, along with headgear, Kepi's and Calvary Stetson's." At the time, I was wearing my "new" outfit consisting of a Montana peaked hat with a brass Marine Corps emblem, and a yellow hat cord. I was also wearing a WW2 long sleeved kaki military shirt, with brown canvas pants. Mark still wore the brown cammo "boonie" hat he wore all through Afghanistan, along with a light grey cowboy type shirt, leather vest and jeans. His hat attracted a lot of interest, as well as what I was wearing, but nobody actually stopped us for questioning. We looked around the post trader's store but didn't buy anything, as I had spent too much already, and didn't really see anything we really needed.

Then we hiked up to the hospital where we were met by the post surgeon, first Lieutenant Girard. We introduced ourselves then Mark explained our visit.

"My name is Mark Sedgwick, and I'm a doctor. I operate a small clinic north of Deadwood at a little place called Purgatory. We were passing through, and I thought I'd like to see how you do things around here." This seemed to flatter the Lieutenant, so he gave us the nickel tour. There were around ten patients in the hospital, and as he explained it, there were two men recovering from gunshot wounds received in an Indian attack while out on patrol.

The rest were suffering from cuts and bruises received from training horses, a couple cases of rheumatism, and one a case of pneumonia. Mark walked over to the man and asked the surgeon if he could examine him. Lieutenant Girard voiced no objections so Mark took out a pocket thermometer he carried, and stuck it in the patient's mouth, telling the man to hold it under his tongue. Mark then examined it and frowned,

"This man has a temperature of over a hundred and five doctor, you need to get his body temperature down." He then looked at the man's hand, then exclaiming,

"Look at his fingernails, they're blue, comes from lack of oxygen in the blood." Ii could see that the Lieutenant was starting to look a little peeved, but he just said,

"Private Walters is being treated in accordance to army procedures sir, it might take a little time but he'll make a full recovery."

Mark then looked at the two men with gunshot wounds, then asking,

"Tell me doctor, are you taking all precautions to keep the wounds clean and covered, along with thoroughly washing your hands before examining the wounds" This really got the Lieutenant going,

"Now see here sir, who are you to come in here and start telling me how to treat my patients?" Mark just stood there and looked at him.

"I'm a doctor who saves lives. Start washing your hands with a strong soap every time you treat someone, keep the wounds as cleaned out as possible with alcohol Christ, use whisky if you've got nothing else. Do that and you'll start to see your patients making faster recoveries, and even living, it's just common sense. Thing is doctor, what you can't see, CAN kill you."

"Baah!" Exclaimed the Lieutenant, unproven theories, and humbug." Through all this, Mark was keeping his cool, until he said,

"Maybe so, maybe so, tell you what though, if you ever find yourself up around the Deadwood area, stop by Purgatory, we're just a little north of Deadwood, and I'll show you my clinic, I'll even let you talk to a couple people who owe their lives to me…Lives saved by these unproven theories you go on about."

The Lieutenant made no commitment either way, but told Mark he'd give the offer serious thought. As walked our wagon, I said,

"I thought you were really going to go off on that doctor, good thing you didn't, we don't need to get into trouble around here."

"Yeah I know it, couldn't help it though," replied Mark, "I'm not going to change any minds, but there's always one." A s were getting ready to resume our trip, I heard horses coming up behind me, and a voice calling out.

"Aren't you the fellow that assisted my men and I in that skirmish with the Indians awhile back?" I turned around to see Lieutenant Carpenter, along with a sergeant sitting on their mounts.

"Going somewhere Lieutenant?" I replied,

"Unfortunately, I'm leading a patrol to the west, seems the savages have made off with some cattle, and reports indicate a man was murdered as well."

"Well good luck Lieutenant," I replied, "Don't forget, my offer still stands, next time your up Deadwood way, stop and see me in Purgatory, all drinks, food and…the ladies are on the house to active duty military, your men can enjoy themselves while we talk." Carpenter sat on his horse for a moment contemplating my offer, then he and his sergeant turned, and headed for another part of the post. I was around three, when Mark and I resumed our travel, planning on stopping around six or seven in the evening.

There was a lot of traffic on the road, most of it moving north to the gold fields. We ran into all types of people traveling most of which we avoided like the plague, however, we did let two men join up with us, older gentlemen who had come out from Ohio as far as Cheyenne on the train, then had bought a wagon and two mules. By now, Mark and I were getting pretty good at judging people from a distance, and these guys seemed honest. We ended up stopping earlier than planned near Rawhide Butte. The two men introduced themselves as Marcus Wilt, and Davis Taylor from near the Detroit area, but it wasn't until I asked them if they had fought in the Civil War, that a historian's dream came true.

Both were very fascinated by the food we were eating. Mark and I were careful to hide the envelopes our MRE's came in, but in this case, it was Mountain House. They didn't have a whole lot, so we shared, which put them in a generous mood. According to them, they grew up together, living on adjoining farms along the Huron River.

"We was as gooda friends as ever a boy could want," said Marcus, "So when war came we done the only thing we could do…Joined up. Found ourselves in the 24th Infantry." When he told us that they were then attached to the "Iron Brigade" he had my undivided attention. Together Mark and I listened to two men talk of campaigns only read about in history books. Chancellorsville, The Wilderness, Spotsylvania, Cold Harbor, and finally the Siege of Petersburg. But it was their recollection of action at Gettysburg that brought tears to my eyes. As Mark and I listened in rapt attention, they told us of friends lost, battlefield conditions that made Mark and I's wartime experiences seem mild. The most amazing thing however was that the both of them came through the war without a scratch, someone was looking out for them, that's for sure.

When they finished, I told them,

"If I don't do anything else in my life, I have to get your story down on paper. Before you guys head out into the gold fields, I want you to stop off in Purgatory." (This brought on laughter and remarks about having already visited Hell)

"I'm very serious," I told them, "I'm working on a book detailing the personal stories of men who were actually in the thick of things. This will not be a tome recounting the glory of generals, but of the guys who did all of the fighting and dying."

"Why would folks wish to read a book about us plain old regulars?" asked Davis.

"This isn't entirely for contemporary readers," I explained, but something historians will be able to turn to for all the little details, and facts that veterans of today know about, but things that will answer the historians questions long after it last Civil War veteran is dead and gone, I want to preserve these things for the ages."

"If you gentlemen would do this for me, I will not only pay for your time, but help you to locate a prosperous claim." This offer seemed to appeal to them quite nicely, with them agreeing to stop in Purgatory. During our conversation, Mark inadvertently mentioned our service in Afghanistan, whereby Marcus questioned us about it.

"We were over there, it's true," I explained. "I served in the Marines, and Mark the navy."

Both men had no idea of where "Kafrastan," (as I explained it) even was.

"It borders the Khyber Pass, so we had a great deal of contact with the British Army."

"What was you fellars doin there?" Asked Davis. Both Mark and I looked at each other and laughed,

"Fighting the "Muzzies, or as the British liked to say…The Bloody Wogs!"

The fact that we served overseas was a bit confusing to them, (of course, I was really stretching the truth here) but we couldn't tell them the truth, at least not right away.

The next day, we stayed together, again passing more wagons, and riders, as well as being passed by the south-bound stage. Towards late afternoon, the right left wheel on our wagon simply came apart, finishing our travel for the day. Davis looked it over, and thought it was repairable, although only temporary, so we managed to find a spot near Mule Creek Junction, where we made camp. Two spokes were destroyed, and needed replacing; a third had just fallen out. Marcus pointed out the wheels were too dry, and the wood had shrunk, but he thought repairs could be made. We got a fire going to heat the steel rim while Marcus and Davis went looking for a tree of suitable wood, finally selecting a beech tree, whereby they chopped off two limbs of the right dimension. While they were shaping the wood, Marcus showed me how to trim down the felloe's so the new spokes would again fit properly. I watched as these two guys cut and fashioned two brand new spokes, and set them in place. Both Mark and I watched closely as they showed us how you repair wagon wheels, then when everything was lined up and ready, they placed the rim that had been heating over the felloe's and tapped it in place.

Since we were camped, Davis suggested the rim be allowed to cool overnight, and put back on in the morning. The other rear wheel was also showing signs of loosening, so Marcus merely shimmed it.

"They should get you home." cautioned Davis, "But not much more than that." As we were finishing up the repairs, four men came riding very slowly up the trail. When they saw us off in a small open area, one of the men asked,

"You fella's got anything to sell?" naming off food, and ammunition, and whisky.

"Sorry friend," I exclaimed, "Everything we've got is spoke for, nothing to sell here."

They continued to pester us, until Davis loudly announced,

"You fella's best move on, we ain't got nuthin here!"

"I don't like the way those guys were looking over the wagons," Said Mark

"I didn't either," I replied, "I have a hunch they're going to wait until we're asleep then sneak into camp." Mark agreed as well, I then started looking at trees that were thick, and offered a good line of sight into our camp.

"Whatcha fixin to do?" asked Marcus, pointing to where they had laid out their bedrolls, I said,

"Make it look like you're sleeping in those bedrolls, but sack out in your wagon and if you hear shooting just stay where you are, it's going to be hard for me to tell friend from foe, and I don't want to accidentally shoot you guys."

"Well we'd certainly like to help if them rounders come callin'" said Davis.

"Believe me," I replied, Mark and I will make short work of those "gentlemen" should they come around, believe me; I know what I'm doing."

After much convincing, Marcus and Davis did as I ordered, although they insisted on maintaining a vigil,

"Just in case those rascals get by ya." Mark and I were careful not to let our friends get a look at our gear, waiting until they bedded down in their wagon. We selected trees facing the camp, with me roughly in the middle, and Mark down to my left with a side view. Lashing our weapons and gear in to bundles, we threw ropes up into our trees pulled ourselves up into strong limbs, then pulled our bundles up.

Lashing myself in, I got comfortable, and attached the suppressor and night vision scope, and settled in.

Mark and I had comsets in our ears with a tiny mic which allowed us to stay in contact, about an hour and a half later, Mark's voice whispered in my ear,

"Something's moving at your four." Turing my head, I could make out four figures carefully moving towards the center of the camp. We had deliberately kept the campfire small so as not to disrupt our night vision goggles. We had also rigged up a combination of bedrolls, saddles, and blankets to resemble people sleeping, hopefully drawing the men out where Mark and I could get a good shot at them. The men were well within the range of my night vision goggles, so I could watch their every move.

Flipping of the safety on my rifle, I whispered to Mark,

"Got a good field of fire on all of them, I'm going to work right to left, follow my hits, and if one doesn't go down right away, finish him." They were slightly over one hundred yards away, so there was a good chance they would hear my rifle cycle a new round from the magazine, but I was hoping I could knock them down fast enough so that they wouldn't realize where the sound was coming from. Just as they started to spread apart, with two men moving towards my wagon, I went to work. No fancy shots, just center of mass, I wanted them all down quickly. Flipping up the goggles, I now used my night scope which gave me the same picture, "Chug, chug, chug, chug!" I just slowly swung right to left dropping them all before the bastards even knew what hit them.

"I don't see any more movement," whispered Mark, I think you got them all."

I asked Mark to cover me as I rappelled down my rope, and cautiously approached the bodies, my .45 drawn. They were all dead, all my rounds entering the upper chest area.

Dumb f***s had no idea of what had even happened, but that's the way it goes sometimes. I called Mark down, and went over to the wagon where Marcus and his buddy were supposed to be on guard. Instead, I heard snoring. Chuckling to myself, I said to myself,

"Those idiots are sleeping," banging on the side of their wagon, I called out,

"Wake up guys, shows over!" This brought them to life, where upon I announced,

"Falling asleep at your post, guess you know what that gets you?"

"Well you wanted us in here," sputtered Davis, "Guess we got so comfortable just kinda drifted off."

"I'm just kidding you two," I chuckled, but our uninvited guests just didn't understand that anyone found here after dark would be found here in the morning." Mark came over to inspect the bodies which now caught Marcus and Davis's attention.

"But how? We didn't hear no shooting," stated Marcus,

"Of course you didn't," I replied, "You weren't supposed to, neither did our friends here." Both men then began to inspect the bodies, when I said,

"Watch carefully guys, I'm going to show you this only once, and then we'll never speak of it again." Raising my rifle, I fired three shots in rapid succession into the trees, to the astonishment of the two veterans, then placed my night vision goggles over Marcus's head, and flipped down the goggles.

"What do you see there Marcus?" It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at, letting out a low whistle when he did,

"What strange contraption is this?" he asked.