I am cursed to wander the world alongside so many of them.
“You’d do well to mind your own business, Private,” Kohn says.
“And you’d do well to mind yours . . .”
There is one empty chair at the table and Kohn pulls it out as if he will sit and join the men. Instead, he raises the chair over his head and swings it crashing down onto the table top, shattering beer mugs, gouging the table, sending the men scrambling away, falling from their own chairs. He brings the chair down onto the table four times, smashing it until it is kindling. The men at the other table rise.
“Go on,” Kohn says to the raw-boned private, holding one of the chair legs by his side. “Unsheath that knife. I want you to do it.”
The private leaves his hand on the knife’s butt at his belt for a moment and then takes it away, raising the hand up in supplication. “There’s no need for that, now, Sergeant, is there? No need at all. I was only jesting. Just easy talk is all, no need for the Black Flag.”
“Stow your ‘easy talk,’ you fucker. Is this how you speak to ranking men in this fort?”
The men are staring at him but none answer. Kohn turns back to the sutler. “How much for the chair?”
The sutler is too stunned to speak. Finally, “Four . . .” He cannot hold Kohn’s eyes. “Three dollars. Three.” He looks over to his customers. “It was a good chair.”
Kohn takes out the money and lays it on the sutler’s counter. Loud enough for all in the store to hear, he says, “There is a reward for those books. Ten dollars, for whoever turns them up.”
“It’ll be a dead man claiming them ten sheets,” one of the standing men mutters.
“Maybe you’ll claim it then, pay off whatever it is you owe in Mr. Kinney’s books,” Kohn says.
“Them books is ash I’d say.”
Kohn turns to the sutler. “Make it fifteen dollars. More than a month’s wage for most of the men on post, Mr. Hapworth. Easy leaves for some Bill.”
“Only thing easy round here is getting kilt, Sergeant,” the private says, stuffing his kepi onto his head and wiping the spilled beer from his tunic. “You’d do best to remember that.”
Kohn takes a step closer to him. “Pull that knife and I’ll show you how easy.” When the man just smiles, Kohn says, “I thought so.” He turns and passes by the men, close enough to smell the beer soaking their tunics. The transition from the heated store to the icy December wind is breathtaking in the dying daylight.
Later Kohn will curse his lapse, his temper. Now it feels good. He still has the chair leg in his hand as he crosses back to his quarters. He will burn it in the barracks stove. He has paid for it.
20
December 13, 1866—Fort Phil Kearny, Dakota Territory
“IT’S MORE LIKE A WILD SESSIONER YOU’RE LOOKING each time I see you, Daniel. Your locks are truly rebellious. And I can bathe myself, for the love of God.”
“Thank you, sir. I should have them barbered but I am in no mind to trust any man in this fort with a razor to my throat,” Kohn says, sponging Molloy’s back. He lifts the officer’s arm and washes his ribs, his underarms, his shoulders. “You smell something less than sweet, sir, but you are looking better. You’ll be back in the saddle before long.”
“Please God you’re right, Daniel. I am feeling like a right and proper blue mass bummer, you out there unable to have a haircut for your troubles.”
“You’ve been through it, sir, and need to rest. The sawbones says the leg is healing.” He dips the sponge into the warm and soapy water and continues to bathe the captain. “Time is the best doctor as my father always said, never wanting to pay for a doctor when time could be had at half the price.”
“Yes, yes . . . enough of your Dutch wisdom, Kohn.” Molloy swallows and looks away. “A bloody buggering bum of a mollygrubbing malingerer I am, with you whipping yourself with the work on your lonesome. You should stand down from your inquiries, Daniel. Nothing good will come of them. And you are dripping water on my bloody mattress, you damned fool.”
Kohn ignores this and roughly washes under the captain’s left arm. “A transfer from the 7th, sir, for both of us, is the good that will come of them.” Kohn