Now...
Command, Starring Richard Anderson.
A tale well calculated to keep you in...
Suspense.
Captain Redhose.
Yes, Sergeant.
The colonel's returning, colonel. Back with the patrols.
Yes, I see him. Hold the column.
Yes, sir.
Column hold! Column hold! Column hold!
Hand me my field glasses, Sergeant.
Here you are, sir.
Thank you.
Captain Redhose?
Well, Mr. Col.
Here's the best body of grass, sir.
This slope, with a small run below for water.
This is the best dipwack for tonight.
Mr. Col. do you see that rise at the end of the left behind you across the valley?
Yes, sir.
What are those shapes lying on that slope?
Small herd of buffaloes, sir. Sleeping, it seems.
We didn't go that far. We turned back when we saw them.
The wind has shifted a bit. Take a deep breath, Mr. Cohill.
Yes, sir.
Not one anything?
No, sir.
Take another deep breath, Mr. Cohill. Get it in your nostrils, and you tell me if what you smell is sleeping buffalo.
No, sir. It smells like dead men.
And not freshly killed.
Lieutenant Grisham and his squad, sir?
I imagine so. The men we've come to find. We'll make sure after nightfall.
And Mr. Cohill?
Yes, sir.
They must have taught you at West Point that accurate observation is a military virtue.
I suggest that you cultivate it here.
Yes, sir, Captain Bills.
Yes, sir, Captain Bills. No, sir, Captain Bills.
Of all the officers in the United States Cavalry, why did they have to assign me to him?
A handbook soldier, a grave, bitter failure of a soldier marking time out here on the plains until he retires.
My father wouldn't be guessing. My father would be right over there now to see if those corks are really aggressive on his men.
Father would have made sure instead of losing time making this camp.
The broken rattle Sergeant Utterback had found at noon showed clearly.
Sir, that broken rattle the sergeants found when we crossed the trace of that Sioux war party at noon today.
That could have been the trail of a Cheyenne war party, Lieutenant, or Comanches or Apaches.
They all make rattles like that from the ends of Buffalo.
But if they were Sioux, they couldn't be more than 30 miles to the north in the deadline.
They're afraid of ambush, so they'd be camping away from timber and near water.
Two hours rest and we can be at the upper reaches of the river by dawn, sir, ahead of them.
Mr. Cohill, I have no orders to be anywhere by dawn or at any other time.
My orders are to find Mr. Gresham's patrol and having found it, return to Fort Stark and report it.
Well, I think I've found him. I'll know as soon as the moon rises and I go over and take a look.
Yes, sir.
Look at the other side of it, Mr. Cohill.
Suppose that war party was Cheyenne, which they might be instead of Sioux.
They wouldn't be in the dead land. Cheyennes would head for timber along the lower Mesa Roja.
So would our Apaches, Kiowas, or Comanches.
They all fill the whack and open timber.
And Mr. Cohill, they all make rattles out of Buffalo toes.
Yes, sir. I'll pass the word to Sergeant on the back that dinner will be at 6.30, but the bukera will not sound calls.
Yes, sir. And Mr. Cohill, sir, there is no shortcut to the top of the glory heap.
So we'll not run all over the west tonight looking for one.
If death in battle is a soldier's path to glory, Mr. Gresham and his patrol had found the shortcut.
Yet what we looked upon that night was not glorious. Ten bodies stripped naked, pin cushioned to the prairie with arrows, their feet and their right hands hacked off.
They sold their lives dearly. The empty cartridge cases said that.
At least they respected the misfinding, men.
How's that, Sergeant?
Every one of them skinned baldheaded so he can cross the shadow waters without trouble.
And whoever did it don't want to fight them again.
Why?
Hanson, he cut off, that's why. They crippled him in case they meet an heir after.
Sergeant.
Yes, Captain?
You still think the suit is a...
No, sir.
Not now, sir.
Why not?
I made the march from Ben's forge to Santa Fe with Steve Kearney and I know an Apache arrow and I see one, sir.
Even a thousand miles from where they meet.
Yes, but that suit trail we crossed this morning, that war party could have brushed through it on an Apache war party and come by Apache arrows after.
No, this job is two days old. It wasn't that two war party. This is Apache war.
How do you figure that?
Mostly because the captain knows it's Apache work too.
Lieutenant Kyle.
Sir?
Take the great detail.
Yes, sir.
Sergeant.
Yes, sir.
We'll move the company out at ten tonight.
Yes, sir.
We'll return to Fort Stratford to report this massacre as fast as we can.
Yes, sir.
So he's showing me.
Makes his lieutenant first gravedigger, confides his plans to his sergeant in exchange for flattery.
A grave doesn't take long to dig in the soft, black earth of the plains.
And the rocks were nearby to pile up on the still mounds against the hungry muzzles of coyotes.
And after, the air was sweeter and the cold moonlight.
And the job done in plenty of time for Captain Brittle's evacuation.
The commander's prepared the monster.
Very good, Sergeant.
Captain Brittle's?
Yes, sir.
Excuse me, sir, but can't we go after the Indians who did this? Can't we try to-
Mr. Coho, the United States Cavalry is not out here to fight Indians. We're here to watch them and report on them for the Indians, you know. We fight only if they attack us.
I refer you to the standing orders of the Department of the Platt. They are most explicit on this point.
Yes, sir, I know, sir, but Mr. Grisham was a coward.
How do you know that, Lieutenant?
Well, I don't know for sure, of course you don't. But he's dead. And his command, dead and mutilated.
We ought to-
Rather what, Lieutenant, a vengeance? You disabuse yourself of your classroom job on the Stickel Hill. Out here we will pay orders.
Sergeant.
Yes, sir.
Pass the word of mount.
Yes, sir.
Stop right.
Yes.
Pass the word of mount.
Thirty miles already that day. Who knows how many miles ahead of us tonight.
The men are tired. The horses are tired. Hour after hour. Walk thirty minutes, trot five minutes. Dismount and lead ten minutes. Un-ditch and graze fifteen minutes every hour. Hour after hour.
Got a char eating tobacco, Mittenbilt?
Ain't got much.
Give me a load of some. You can get some more at the fort tomorrow.
Here.
I don't care if I have any of you.
Don't approve a char on tobacco.
Well, Ma don't bet it.
Say.
God for mighty, Gettysburg wasn't like this.
Do tell.
Oh, sure. It was Rhodes leading to Gettysburg.
Hey, it's Mittenbilt. Starbuck's back on Cemetery Ridge again.
Bitty he didn't say that.
About the only mistake Robert E. Lee ever made. Not please Starbuck where he found him.
Just the same. Army was the Army in them days.
Weston tent. You got a furlough that was girls.
That was.
Well, if you like it so much why don't you go back where it is girls.
I was swindled.
Joined up again because they said they'd be fighting out here.
Only fighting I've seen west of Missouri is on Saturday nights in the barracks.
Ain't like the old Army.
I remember a girl in Richmond, the time I was with Grant when we took Richmond.
The prettiest little Virginia creek in the world.
Slash, not a bag.
Yes, sir.
I'd like to ask you a question.
Yes, sir.
How did you know the Captain thought they were Apaches that killed Mr. Gresham in detail?
I've been his first sergeant for a long time. You'll get to know.
I see. Sergeant, do I get to know?
Well, this is a different kind of service out here, sir.
My starbuck there was saying a minute ago,
this ain't pretty, but it ain't full-dressed for it.
But it's the only kind a Captain and me ever served in it, sir.
Then you get to know it just like you get to know siege operations
or saber charge by company fronts after you've had enough of them.
But during the war between the states didn't you know?
No, sir. Neither Captain Brittles nor me saw service in the states, sir.
While the north and the south were at each other, the west still had to be held.
Somebody had to do it. I see.
Yes, I see a lot now.
In a way I feel sorry for the Captain sitting a sweaty horse on these endless prairies
while the great words exploded across the country,
Vicksburgs, Chancellorsville, Antietam, Appomattox.
The policemen on the corner while history rolled across Georgia to the sea.
Five hours on the way now, less than three hours till dawn.
We're at the north fork of the Platte, a full 20 minutes for a watering call.
Some of the men lie sleeping where they have dismounted.
Others huddled together in the moon shadow of the high bank, quietly talking.
They're like a bound boy at a hospital.
What'd you do there?
Well nothing to do except join the army.
Any of you boys ever had a lobster?
Not me. I named me in the scene one.
When I was in the flesh works in front of Vicksburg I had a catfish. Didn't like it.
I could sure put away lobster right now.
Press down the lobster pot and into the cooking pot.
Alive?
Sure.
That's the only way to cook a lobster.
Sure wish I was back in with the catfish.
You get me back in the state of Maine, you'd be pining away for buffalo meat.
True word was never spoken. Some people ain't never satisfied.
I ain't never satisfied for a fact.
That's how you get someplace in this world, never be satisfied.
Sure got you a long way, didn't it?
All right then, fall in.
Looks like you can plan on getting me a purple flower.
The captain's getting fidgety again.
Oh well, another day, another dollar.
Prepare to mount past the water.
Mount, mount, mount.
Loud step boys.
Halt!
Yo!
He's heading north.
How's that sergeant?
North.
The captain is heading north.
You're right, Sergeant.
Sergeant Mesa should be to our left.
If you're going that way, it doesn't make any sense.
Yes, sir.
My father would have done things differently.
In the cold dying moonlight, I can imagine him, young Major Coyote,
riding out of St. Joe to convoy the wagon trains down west on the Oregon Trail.
What a figure he must have been on the old frontier.
The Missouri River itself was the jumping off place.
Killer Coheil, as many called him, the wide-roaming Arapahoes had another name for him.
Rude devil with eyes in the back of his head.
Why by this time, father would have cut those Apaches and the coyote meat
as they lay sleeping around their smoldering campfire.
Mr. Coheil.
Mr. Coheil, sir.
Oh, yes, Sergeant.
Captain Riddle's watching, sir, ahead of the column.
Thank you, Sergeant.
Sergeant Otterback said you wanted to see me, sir.
Oh, Mr. Coheil, I do.
Now listen carefully.
Have Sergeant Sutro ahead of me with a point.
You will relieve him with eight men and push forward fast.
Yes, sir.
You recall the port across the Red Mesa Wash?
Yes, sir, we crossed it yesterday.
Exactly.
Now there's a knoll on the east side of the wash,
a knoll that is crossed by the trail from the top of the mesa.
I remember, sir.
Be on that knoll before dawn.
Build a civil act fire as soon as you arrive.
You watch, sir.
Build a fire.
I want to know when you get there.
But I can send a messenger back to tell you when I arrive.
I want everyone else from miles around to know it, too.
Build a civil act fire, a squad fire, no larger.
Yes, sir.
Should you happen to be attacked, you're to hold that knoll fighting on foot.
Remember, the dawn light works for you, but it can fool you in this country.
So you don't shoot until the last possible moment.
But I don't understand.
You don't have to, don't you?
You have your orders.
Yes, sir.
Move out, Mr. Coyle.
You're going to have a fate on my hook.
Now wiggle.
You knew Red Mesa was there only because the stars stopped where it stood.
The moon was a honey-colored ladle spilling blackness over the edge of the plains.
Then the jagged teeth of the Rockies broke it into ragged pot shirts, and it was gone.
It was dark, black dark, cold dark.
The squad fire sputtered and took and pushed the night back away.
This was different.
This was command.
This was the final moment of a soldier's heritage, to stand ready to fire and be fired upon, to kill and be killed.
That wasn't at all like you expected.
It just once scared you.
Mettendorf, don't stand still.
Keep moving a little all the time, and flap those mouths, keep them moving, too.
Yes, sir.
Lieutenant Coyle.
Yes, sir.
How come the captain sent us up here to the statue around the top of this little hill?
He said that with a bait on his hook.
Huh?
The decoy.
There's an Indian war party.
We're to draw them out.
Better put some bacon to fry, Corvin.
Make it look natural.
Yes, sir.
You know, Williams may end up like Mr. Gresham and his patrol.
There's always that possibility.
It ain't a prospect that pleases, sir.
That's what a soldier lives for, Sabre, to die.
Yes, sir.
It was a good performance.
When he was watching Sue or Apache, there was a small white soldier war party.
Firelighted, bacon cooking, horses unsaddled, and warriors sleeping from a long night march.
They were waiting for the killing.
Only the warriors weren't sleeping.
Beyond the yellow carpet of firelight, they laid hand out behind their saddles, waiting,
sorting the night sounds with straining ears, pushing at the soft wall of darkness with widened eyes.
Wish them dead, burned cowardies didn't sound so much like human beings.
Well, there's at least one thing.
No engine is running around in the middle of the night yelling like a coyote.
But it sure makes me nervous.
Sound like who yells? That's only me.
What's that, Roger?
Oh, yes, Mr. Fresh Boy.
It's only me.
Oh, General Grant's chief of staff.
Lucky I didn't put a bullet through him.
No, you wouldn't do that.
The lieutenant said not to fire until commanded.
You fellas ever had Indian pudding?
No.
I had sweet potato pudding when I was with Sherman in Atlanta, but I didn't like it much.
Was you with Napoleon at Waterloo?
It's made of cornmeal and molasses.
Why?
Indian pudding.
Oh.
Seen any savages yet?
No, and don't expect to.
Yet?
Why?
They're in India west of the Missouri.
They'll come out and fight at night if he can help it.
So what are we worrying about?
Who's worrying?
Not me.
No.
Then you can start worrying.
Huh?
Listen to them birds.
Dawn's coming.
You can make out the mesa planner.
Sure would like me some Indian pudding for breakfast.
Slowly the light came.
First you could see the outline of the mesa.
And down below there's silver of the water in the wash and the shapes of the men.
And out across the plain the feathers of mist in the drawers.
If it was to come, it would come now.
Quack, quack, quack.
We're shooting out.
What did you expect, Indian?
Hold your fire, man.
What was that?
Hit one of the horses.
Here they come.
Ah!
My leg!
Hold your fire.
Now hold it.
Fire!
They are Apache.
I've got one of the heathens.
I've got two.
Look at them lying here on it.
Why, I'm still wiggling.
Oh, big fat.
Hold your fire.
Yeah, but I was just going to say.
They'll be back.
Yes.
It's only the beginning.
Yes.
Where were you hit, coffin?
My leg.
Bone shattered.
Hurt much?
A little, sir.
No arrows.
They're wicked.
Go right to them, man, if they don't hit bone.
Do tell.
No action in the new army, huh, Sarver?
Well, it ain't exactly like getting hurt.
Here they come again.
Now hold fire.
The light's better this time.
Make snow jump and hold your fire.
We have the ones who didn't misdegreg them in.
Look, that one's wearing a corporal's capon.
And there's one with a U.S. capon receiver.
Captain Biddle, this is the one I want to know.
Most likely having breakfast at the porch.
He's calling me.
Oh, my God.
My left will come home with a capon.
They'll be back.
No, they won't.
There's Captain Biddle now, attacking from the flank.
Hey, Sarver, Captain Biddle's got them on the loose.
Can you pull this tarnished arrow out of me?
Down below the knoll, the remains of the Apaches were streaking for the open plains
with Captain Biddle's men overtaking them, cutting them down with thirsty sabers
and pestling the ponies as they ran.
And then it was quiet.
And an Indian or his pony was left alive.
Corpon's satchel popped up against the saddle, lighting his pipe.
His shattered leg stretched naked and useless before him.
The sabre lay where he had fallen, eyes closed, face blue with hands around the shaft
from deep in the left side below the ridge.
The severed tips wading idly at each shallow breath.
Did it would do something for him, sir?
Huh, the try beat that arrow is right under the heart.
Can't cut it out, can't pull it through.
Poor Sarver, you finally saw action.
Yeah, I can hear him now telling St. Peter about the time he beat the Apaches under Coel.
That's not very funny.
I guess you're right, Corpon.
How's your leg? Paining you much?
Can't feel anything.
Lieutenant?
Yes, Corpon.
Do you think they'll send me back home to get this fixed?
You think maybe I'll get to see the state of Maine right soon?
Hope so, Corpon.
Land of Goshen, no.
But you won't get no further than the Army Hospital at Council Bluff.
Man, they'll wire you together, slap a plaster on you, and send you right back to fight Indians.
It was a strange feeling, a mixture of pride and guilt.
Watching a man die when I commanded an action, looking at a shattered leg of another.
And then the company looked back in triumph.
I was reporting to Captain Bills.
It seemed like months instead of hours since I had last looked at the entire Great Face.
Let's go. You did that well.
You made through in time.
Thank you, sir.
You knew they were Apaches yesterday at sundown, and you knew they were camped on top of the mesa, didn't you, sir?
Mr. Gorrow, accurate observation is a military's issue.
Had you pushed forward at that slope yesterday afternoon, you would have found Mr. Gresham not sleeping buffalo.
Had your eyes been sharp, you would have found this between the slope and last night's river wet.
An Apache headband.
And dried in blood stains.
Had you been a Plainsman and suspected Apaches, you'd have looked at once with smoke at sundown from the highest ground.
In this case, Red Mason.
You had me fooled, sir. I even—
The practical lieutenant for the record, Aziz.
My patrol temporarily biblical act at dawn today came under a sudden enemy attack.
Fortunately, it was able to hold until I arrived with the main body.
I understand perfectly well, sir.
I am familiar with departmental orders which allow defensive actions only and expressly forbid attack.
And yet they are in direct violation of cavalry tactics, for cavalry is extremely weak on the defenses and can only defend well by attacking.
I believe that also is taught at West Point.
Captain, I am terribly sorry for my—
Mr. Coyle, never apologize.
It is a mark of weakness.
There is a captain out here who tried that once to escape an inquiry board.
He escapes it, but he will die a captain in spite of his apology.
The officer who saw the rest could have worked with him, made a soldier out of him.
If his humanity had been large enough.
Oh, Mr. Coyle, I am going to make a soldier out of you.
You may present my respects to General Coyle when you next write your father.
Mr. Coyle, take morning sabbath.
Suspense.
In which Richard Anderson starred in William and Rogeson's production of Command, written by James Warner Bella and dramatized for Suspense by Mr. Rogeson.
Supporting Richard Anderson in Command will Widgem Conrad, go to Sanders, Alan Manson, Sam Edwards, Bill Quinn, and Chet Stratton.
Listen.
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