The Mountain: An Event Group Thriller by David L. Golemon Page A

man with the graying beard kicked at the sandy dune from which they spied the small barren valley.
    “You wanna know what I think, boyo,” the smaller of the two said as he too managed to wipe sweat away that immediately reappeared as if the filthy shirtsleeve had never been used. “I think if the buffalo have bypassed this place, we need to look somewhere else.”
    The big man replaced his dirty white hat, glanced at his companion, and slowly mounted his horse. As he adjusted his sore hindquarters into the saddle he finally spared the man the only few words he had uttered that morning.
    “No, this is not the place. No covering trees, no fresh water within three miles, and the winds here would drive your average trooper mad within a month. We’ll go farther north and hopefully find what others may have missed.” He slowly turned his large roan and lightly encouraged the big mount with the taste of his spurs. “And, Sergeant Major, at least add a ‘Colonel’ when you call me ‘boyo.’”
    The smaller man smiled as he too mounted his horse. He laid spurs to the animal and shot forward to catch up.
    “Aye, Colonel Darlin’, that I can do, at least from time to time.”
    United States Army Colonel John Henry Thomas didn’t respond as he kept riding at a slow gait. He was about to pull the old territorial map from his shirt when the third member of their party rode up, pack mule in tow. Thomas nodded to the Indian, who had been waiting for them on the side of the small rise.
    Gray Dog was a Comanche who had been with Thomas for many years when he had found himself in either Texas or New Mexico territories, and long before the start of the madness in the east. They had been separated since 1861 and had no contact until his reassignment to Fort Dodge to assist the war department in locating desirable areas for future army accommodations. Thomas knew the brass in Washington were possibly gearing up for a major push into Indian Territory after brother stopped slaughtering brother in the civilized east.
    Gray Dog was all of twenty summers and Colonel John Henry Thomas had known him since the boy was fifteen years old. The Comanche had been orphaned after hostile Kiowa killed his entire family near the Brazos River in Texas on the very same day that Colonel Thomas had lost his wife Mary to the same band of Kiowa. Now Gray Dog once more joined him on his reassignment to Kansas. After all those years Gray Dog had refused to wear the white man’s clothes and had remained full Comanche, to many a Texan’s discomfort.
    “Is it too soon to say I told you so?” Gray Dog asked in almost perfect, unbroken English as he joined the two men. The coyote-skin cap he wore bobbed up and down as he maneuvered his mount and pack mule in beside Thomas as the sergeant major gave the Comanche a dirty look.
    “Would it stop you if I said it would be?” Thomas said as he pulled the map from his shirt.
    “Yes it would, especially since I already said what was meant to be said,” Gray Dog said with a smirk.
    “Goddamn Indian speaks better English than me,” the sergeant major muttered under his breath. “And in words I never understand.”
    Thomas opened the map to survey rugged terrain ahead. “You’ll have to excuse Sergeant Major Dugan. He’s just thrilled at the prospect of riding farther north.”
    “And why don’t you take that damn dog off your head? It’s starting to get to me.”
    Thomas looked up from the map to eye the filthy bowler hat that Dugan wore. The small Irishman was always mad at the world, and Gray Dog was a frequent target for his frustrations. He had also known the boy from his days with Thomas while riding with the fifth cavalry in Texas.
    “And he’s a jealous sort of Irishman because you wear better headgear than he. You get a coyote, he gets a dirty and very much dead skunk.”
    Sergeant Major Giles Dugan quickly removed the stinky bowler and looked it over. He was happy to be wearing a hat of his