A Bit of History Although the Cherokees discovered gold in Colorado Territory a year before it was discovered in California, the Cherokees did nothing with it. The William Green Russell group worked the gold fields in California in 1849 and had returned to Georgia. When Russell learned about the discovery through his wife, a Cherokee, he returned to Colorado to search for gold. News of his discovery in 1858 brought thousands of "gold-hungry immigrants" infringing on land that was promised to Arapahoe and Cheyenne Indians in 1851. * * * * * * * Chapter 1 Yancy Sodders stabled his horse and muttered "God, am I tired!" as he half-walked, mostly stumbled to the barracks. Shrugging he pulled open the barracks door and stepped inside. He stalked to the table in the corner, glanced at the cards Sergeant Travis had spread out for a game of solitaire, and tried not to groan as he sat down. Sergeant Travis scooped up his cards, and said, "What's it like working every day with that new colonel, Connors?" Connors said, "Lt. Colonel Albert Hornsby is tall, lean, and mean. Sodders, what do you think chances of survival would be if the detachment is ordered out, under Hornsby?"" "Under Lt. Colonel Hornsby? Chances of coming back alive 'bout like the old snowball-in-hell." "We ain't going out on patrol are we?" Corporal Jasper asked. Connors shook his head. "Haven't heard anything, but, if the Colonel doesn't figure out that this is Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, not a post in Washington DC or Atlanta, Georgia like he had before, nobody's got a chance of living long unless Major Douglas is with the detachment." "How come they sent Hornsby out here anyway?" Jasper asked. The major was doing just fine." Travis spoke up quickly. "Better than fine. They don't come any better than Major Douglas." Sodders nodded. "Ethan Douglas is all right for an officer. He takes care of his men, his mounts, and he isn't afraid to listen to his noncoms. He's not too damned proud to admit he doesn't know it all." "It's going to take a hell of a lot of cussing and scratching before you'll say that about Colonel Hornsby." Connors put out his cigarette, stood, and stretched. "I'm going to hit the sack. I sure as hell don't intend to be late getting to my desk in the morning." He sat on the edge of the bunk and pulled off his boots. "Tell you something else. I'm damned glad I'm desk sergeant and don't have to ride out with him. I feel real sorry for you fellers." "Sure you do." Travis doused the lamp and hoped he went to sleep before Corporal Jasper started to snore. * * * * * * * Sunlight slipped under Conner's half-opened eyelids. Groaning, he rolled over and hit his knuckles on the wooden rail on the bunk above his. "Dammit." He pressed his knuckles against his lips, then opened his eyes and looked at them. "Oh, dammit!" he said when he saw the room was filled with sunlight. He rolled out of the bunk and jammed his legs into his trousers. "I'm going to be late. Sonovabitch, I'm going to be late." He grabbed his razor and shaving mug. "Go ahead. Get dressed and get to hell over there. I'll make up your bunk. Jasper can straighten things around here. Get out of here." Yancy sat up and reaching inside his long-johns scratched his belly. "You'd better run." "Thanks, Yancy. I won't forget it." Connors pulled his suspenders over his shoulders as he ran across the parade ground to the office. Colonel Hornsby was yelling when Connors entered the door. "Sergeant!" Colonel Albert Hornsby pushed back from his desk. He stared at the paper in his left hand. A dispatch case was open; papers were spread across the desktop "Yes, sir?" "Get Major Douglas. I want him in here, on-the-double." "Yes, sir." Within two days of Col. Hornsby's arrival at Fort Leavenworth, Connors learned that on-the-double for the major meant triple time for the sergeant or any other
About the Author: Growing up as an only child on a ranch, my imagination was in over-drive 24/7. The story-writing-bug bit me and has continued ad-infinitum. As a mother of four and working a swing-shift job, writing with a hyperactive two-year old ensconced on my lap between me and the keyboard did not enhance my prose, but I'd like to think disposal of the first three or four novels in the shredder did. After selling my business and working as a volunteer for five years at an Oregon elementary School tutoring individual K-5 students in reading, one little girl complained that I had not helped her. I said we would work next week, and she objected, "Next week hasn't been invented yet!" My new motto: Write it now! Next week hasn't been invented yet.