Free Rifles for Watie by Harold Keith Page A

road and grimly resumed his marching. In the dim light, the white faces of the cards settled slowly over one bush, decorating it gaily.
    Puzzled, Jeff nudged Noah Babbitt, marching next to him. “Noah, why did he do that?”
    â€œHe probably doesn’t want to be killed in battle with playing cards on him,” Noah said, gravely. “It’s a superstition lots of soldiers have. They’ve been told in church that it’s wrong to play cards. They’re afraid if they get killed with playing cards on them, they won’t go to heaven.”
    Then Jeff saw Neeley North, a breezy recruit from Shawnee Mission, stoop and carefully pick up the cards Veatch had thrown away, pocketing them.
    â€œNeeley’s not so superstitious,” Noah explained. “He’ll probably sell Veatch’s cards back to him if they both live through the battle.”
    If they both lived through the battle! Jeff stepped around a limestone outcropping in the dusty road, scoffing inwardly. They had been told back at the fort that very few soldiers were killed in proportion to those who fought. What made everybody so gloomy? War was a lark, an adventure made for men.
    Swinging blithely along, he felt Noah’s steady gray eyes on him.
    â€œHow do you feel, youngster?” Noah asked. “Haven’t you got scared yet?”
    Jeff shook his head. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this night.”
    The Kansas Volunteers were the worst-dressed troops Jeff had ever seen. The war had just begun, and much of the new equipment hadn’t yet arrived from the Northern factories. Jeff was wearing the civilian pants and shoes that had been furnished him at the fort, and army drawers, blouse, and socks. On his head was the same hat his mother had plaited from Linn County wheat straw.
    With a clatter of hoofs, the Sixth Kansas Cavalry galloped past on its way to the head of the column. A big, swarthy cavalryman clad in a black suit rode with them. He was bareheaded and his curly chestnut hair was fluttering in the breeze.
    â€œThat’s Rufe Forney of Atchison,” Jeff overheard somebody say in the next squad. “He’s a corporal in the cavalry. He jest got spliced at Leavenworth before we left. Got himself a purty gal, too—the blacksmith’s daughter. He’s still wearin’ his wedding suit.”
    Suddenly a muffled gunshot, followed by a scream of agony, rang out ahead. The column was thrown temporarily into confusion and slowed to a halt. Captain Clardy came running past from the rear, his sword swinging and bouncing noisily at his side, his stern face dark with displeasure. A medical orderly sprinted close behind him.
    â€œKeep marching, you fools! Nobody ordered you to stop,” Clardy roared. Then he disappeared up ahead, plunging through the brush as he skirted the column.
    â€œRoute step! Keep marchin’!” Millholland barked. “Hup! Hup! Hup!”
    Swallowing hard, Jeff tried to march on tiptoe so he could see better. For the first time he felt a slight panic. He looked at Noah, then at Millholland, but they were staring stonily ahead as they marched. Soon he heard voices and somebody weeping loudly with pain.
    Captain Clardy and the medical orderly appeared. Between them limped Walter Van Orstrand, a Douglas County boy from their own company. His weak face twisted with suffering, he was blubbering and sniffing. His left hand was wrapped in a bloody white bandage which he held tightly clutched in his right hand.
    â€œCaptain, I tell you it was an accident,” the boy kept pleading and sobbing.
    â€œYou’re a liar,” Clardy stormed, his face black with rage. “You deliberately shot it off so you’d get a discharge. Well, it won’t work. I’ll have you court-martialed for cowardice. You’re yellow as a dandelion.” His rough voice rang with scorn.
    â€œNo, Captain, no,” the boy whimpered piteously. “Honest