Free A Tale Out of Luck by Willie Nelson, Mike Blakely

was—the column of fours riding toward him, sunlight glinting on saber hilts and polished buckles. Only the cowboys from the Double Horn Ranch seemed out of place riding in a disorganized cluster to the major’s right.
    Polk thrived on army life, especially here on the frontier. He believed in the army way. He saw in the federal cavalry service a rare opportunity for himself and his fellow black men. Some of those soldiers had been born into slavery, and look at them now! They wielded weapons and rode half-wild horses across an open landscape, serving the union that had almost torn itself apart to set them free. This nation had a long way to go before it could live up to its claim of all men being created equal. But this was a start—this regiment of black soldiers. First Sergeant July Polk was a proud part of it.
    As he slowed to a trot, he saw the major call a halt so that they could confer.
    “Report, First Sergeant!” Quitman was plainly throwing his weight around a little more than usual for the benefit of the cowboys.
    “The camp’s still there, sir. Right where it was before.”
    “And their number?”
    “Same as before, sir. Not more than two dozen men, women, and children. I’d figure on eight warriors, ten at the most.”
    “And their attitude?”
    “Everything looked casual, sir.”
    “If I’d have scalped a white man, I might be a little nervous right now.”
    Jack Brennan let out an impatient sigh—almost a growl.
    “Maybe it wasn’t them, sir. Maybe it was some renegade band passing through. Or, on the other hand, maybe they just didn’t expect anybody to find the body so soon.”
    The major used the arrow he had carried along with him to point at the first sergeant. “I’ll find out, won’t I? Did you go undetected?”
    “They never seen a hair on my head, sir. Their hosses didn’t even smell me. I scouted downwind.”
    “Sentinels?”
    “Just some boys watching their horse herd.”
    “Well done. Give the order to march.”
    “Yes, sir. But, if I may, sir . . .”
    “What is it?”
    “The best trail is from the southwest, sir, because—”
    “First Sergeant, remember your place!” the officer snapped. “Give the order to march!”
    “Column of fours!” bellowed Polk. “Forward,
march
!”
    Polk hoped he had made his point about moving in from the southwest. Comanches always set their tepees up with the lodge doors facing east. If the company rode in from the southwest, they would remain out of view of anyone who might be lurking inside one of those tepees.
    If Quitman had had any Indian fighting experience, he would know this, but Polk happened to know that the major had no combat experience at all, having served throughout the Civil War as a commissary officer behind the lines. As a quartermaster he was quite efficient, but Polk feared he might be leading the men into dangers he didn’t understand.
    Another hour brought the column of fours over a rise that afforded a view of the Comanche camp. And, as Polk had feared, Major Quitman rode in from the southeast, where he could be seen by potential shooters inside the tepees. Polk dropped back to ride next to Corporal Cornelius.
    “Good thing you’re in a fightin’ mood today, Corporal. You may need that mean streak any minute now.”
    “I ain’t scared,” the corporal growled.
    The Comanche horse herd was some distance from the camp, being tended by some mounted boys. The animals had grazed their way into a position that put them between the soldiers and the Indian camp as the cavalry unit rode in. One of the boys rode at a gallop to the camp to spread the alarm, while the other boys bunched the pony herd and moved it away from the approaching cavalry.
    “Look there!” said Jack Brennan, riding up to the major. “That sorrel and that bay. Those are the mounts I’m missing. You’ll see my brand on their left hip. And that claybank! Do you see it?”
    “What of it?” asked the major, examining the horse herd when he