Read Online Rifles for Watie by Harold Keith - Free Book Online Page A

“Sixteen, sir.”
    â€œThat’s a lie,” the sergeant snorted. “Likely you’re nearer thirteen.” He looked shrewdly at Jimmy. “Why are you shavin’ atall? They ain’t no whiskers on either side of yer face. They ain’t even any goose down.” With a dirty forefinger he reached up suddenly and wiped the soap off one side of the boy’s face, exposing a cheek as smooth as a girl’s.
    Jimmy stood silent, still holding the open razor.
    The sergeant growled, “Come with me. I wish I knew what recruitin’ officer signed ye. He’d get a court-martial and a dismissal, forfeitin’ all pay and allowances.”
    Jimmy’s face was tragic. Jeff saw him swallow helplessly and wished there was something he could do.
    Jimmy found his voice. “Sir, they won’t kick me out of the army for this, will they? I’m fourteen but I’m big for my age.” His big blue eyes stared beseechingly at the sergeant.
    The sergeant said, “They otta make ye walk clear back to wherever ye came from.” Still scowling, he marched Jimmy off to see the captain. Jeff was flabbergasted. No wonder Jimmy had trouble standing the long, hard march.
    Next evening they camped twenty-five miles north of Springfield and Lyon ordered vedettes and guards posted and sent out scouts.
    â€œWe’re gettin’ close,” Millholland told them. “Captain says the rebels are comin’ up fast from the South. Looks like we’re gonna have a battle, all right.”
    Elated, Jeff got up and took his rifle into the woods to clean it and replace the old load with a new one. If there was going to be a fight, he aimed to be ready. Pointing his gun at the sky, he fired it off so he could clean the breech.
    A sentry came running up, frowning with excitement. “Did you fire that gun?”
    Jeff nodded.
    â€œDid your captain give you permission?”
    Jeff stared at him innocently. “No, sir. I didn’t know I needed permission. I just shot it off so I could clean it. When I go hunting in the woods at home and want to clean my gun, I always shoot it off like that. Why? Is it against the rules?”
    The sentry raised his own rifle across his chest. “You’re under arrest,” he said sternly. “Come with me.”
    Jeff was taken before Captain Clardy. Clardy stared coldly at him. When he recognized Jeff, the long scar on his left cheek turned livid. For a full moment his wild green eyes darted over Jeff. His look was like a whip. Feeling it, Jeff writhed uncomfortably.
    â€œPut him on all-night sentry duty,” Clardy snarled and turned his back on them.
    Although he had marched all day in the torrid heat, Jeff walked sentry all night. At nine o’clock his eyes began to feel heavy, at eleven he was nodding, at midnight he was dozing on his feet and went to the cook’s mess to get a cup of hot coffee so he could stay awake, helping himself to the pot on the fire. As he stood drinking, he heard the cooks snoring loudly as they slept on quilts under the stars. Then he heard a voice, calling his name.
    Jeff went closer and saw Sparrow, the cook, sitting up in his bunk. He reeked of alcohol.
    â€œBussey . . . you’re a fool,” Sparrow mumbled thickly. “Nex’ time he gits rough with you . . . ask him how the widow Spaulding died . . . back at Os’watomie . . . an’ where her eight hundert dollars went.”
    Jeff’s jaw dropped. “Who you talking about?”
    Sparrow winked at him owlishly. “Ask him . . . who bashed her skull in th’ night o’ th’ storm . . . I saw him slip up to her house . . . I wash fishin’ fer flatheads an’ went inter her barn to get outa th’ rain . . . He better not . . . git rough . . . with me.” Falling back on his bunk, Sparrow began to snore.
    There was something familiar about