Was easier to find the telegraph office than I’d thought it would be. As was the case of the time, the telegraph often shared a room with the Post. Finding one was just a matter of finding the other. Turned out that both of them were located in the city’s federal building. A place itself not too dissimilar to that of Union Station. Being all white stone and roman architecture. Made my way inside, found the office housing the two and paid a small commission to have a message passed back east. Told them to expect pay, then sent the last of what I had saved back through the post. Excluding a half dollar or so. Pony express was good about making sure things got where they were going. Even if they didn’t use Ponies, as such, any more.

  After sending my message and the money on their way, the only thing left to do was collect the necessities. The sort of things that would keep me sane until whatever leave would be given. Something I knew I was unlikely to get until we’d set the foundations for Sheridan. Which would only be slowed further once the chill finally set itself into the ground for the winter. Could only hope that everything we needed to get set into place could be done before that. I’d spent enough time in the mountains to know they got cold in the summer, but bitter come winter.

  Mercifully, Denver was civilized enough that they’d become part of the newest American institution. One that saved me a great dealing of running: The Five and Dime. The manner store that could sell a man everything from bread and dried apples to horse feed and roof tack. Could recall as a child when old man Creed built his back in Mt. Hyde. Talk of the town for months, and a good bit of fear he’d be putting people out to pasture. He never did, but I can recall he found himself more than busy. Any time I went into town with my Gran’pap I’d spent what pennies I’d squirreled away on the nonesuch he sold there. Molasses treats and lozenges, the small sugary confections you can use to bribe children into silence.

  The one I found in Denver wasn’t itself much more different than old Creed’s shop. Maybe it was in a nicer building, but not much else. Not hard to look nice when you’re building’s made of new brick rather than tarred pine. But the selection was the same, vittles and tack, the staples for keeping things ‘business as usual’. Give or take a few luxuries, for those with the extra scratch.

  My business there amounted to maybe a ten piece in basic supplies. Some dried fruits and salted meats. Things I could gnaw on when it wasn’t quite meal time, or my stomach wasn’t up to fighting with Walsh’s cooking. Spent a bit more on some tobacco leaf and rolling papers, keep me in quirlies a touch longer. Made for good bartering in a pinch as well. Lot of folks were willing to trade for smoke if the price was right. Easier to keep on hand than liquor too, which carried trouble of its own, if you were caught. No one much cared if you smoked, or traded in it.

  Sometimes it was just a matter of trading one vice for another.

  Last thing I traded for was a stack of dime novels. Made for an extra bit of entertainment, when I wasn’t up for cards, checkers, or ‘morris. They hadn’t cracked down on any of the rowdier faire, like boxing or hunting. But there were times just kicking back with a potboiler had a charm to it. Aside from the fact that having the loose paper on hand carried its own uses. A copy of Seth Jones would do the trick, as I saw. Had read some of his earlier adventures in my younger years, and found them enjoyable enough. Having a collection of them on hand would be good for reminiscing.

  After that, it was time to find my way back to the station. Something I found easier after having had time to get a feel of the city. Turns out the lay of the land was a great deal more straight forward than I’d initially believed. I returned to Union Station with a quarter hour to spare and made my way back to the railyard once more. Found the wagons waiting and the rest of the company slowly gathering around it. With the little time we had left, I tucked my supplies into my pack before lifting the kit onto my back. Tightening it there for the march I knew was coming.

  I hopped out of the wagon and began to make my way towards the rest of the Artillery crew. Took my place next to Humboldt and Hicks while Moreau rattled off a list he had. A final check, to make sure nothing had ‘disappeared’ in our offloading.

  “Either of you manage to get anything fun done?” I asked

  “Wish I did.” Humboldt answered “Most’ve what’s here is casinos and bars. Could’ve done with a show or two.”

  “The casinos ain’t worth a damn neither.” Hicks muttered “Found a place not too far from here that looked fair. Caught the dealer stacking the deck on the second hand and tried to cash out.” He spat “Would’ve called him on it if I hadn’t noticed there was people watching the tables.”

  “The city’s crooked.” I agreed “But I think we’ll do well enough here while setting up the foundation. Just gotta avoid the card houses.”

  “Cat houses too.” Humboldt said, smirking “Should be easy for you, Hicks.”

  “Step on a nail.” Hicks retorted

  Moreau rounded on the three of us. “That’s enough out of the three of you.” He spat “If I’m off count because of you, I’ll make sure it’s docked from your pay.”

  “Good luck with that.” I told him, fixing him with a glare. Almost daring him to make good on such a stupid threat. Either he didn’t notice the challenge or chose to ignore it. Swear, there were times I wondered how someone with such a disposition had made it so far. Without getting shot in the back on ‘accident’. It happened to better men.

  Moreau finished his count and we were given the order to bring the wagons and cargo around front of the station. With the majority of what was being moved belonging to the Engineers, they got choice for who was riding. Us in the Artillery weren’t lacking for opportunity, but there was less space on a limber or horseback when you were moving cannons. Had to draw straws on who would be getting the honor. I volunteered to walk in this case. Being that we were only going a few miles anyhow, I figured it wouldn’t be any more than I could handle. Aside from the fact that the alternative would’ve been driving a limber while mounted. I hardly had trust for a horse when I was the only thing it was pulling. Wasn’t gonna push it by being there, on top of pulling a gun and ammo.

  Hicks would wind up being tacked with driving a limber, while Humboldt got stuck in a munitions wagon. Which meant I was otherwise walking with the rest of the crew who weren’t mounted. Unsurprisingly, Moreau wasn’t one of them. Not that I minded, if I had to spend the next few hours walking next to him, I was liable to trip him the first chance I got.

  After adjusting my pack and rifle to settle a bit more easily on my back, we began the trip around front of the station. Each part of the company moved in simple order, synchronized. We all knew we’d have to be back on time so we could keep matters moving. The little break we earned ultimately hadn’t changed that much. There were still a few miles separating us from where we were supposed to break ground. Just about ten miles to the south of Denver. A little less than that. A stretch to travel on foot before the sun went down. We’d still have to make camp too. Had to imagine we were going to have to double time it if we didn’t want to have to pitch tents in the dark.

  As we came around front of the station, a bit of a crowd began to gather. Taking notice of our movement as we rallied. Wasn’t the kind you get when on parade, with cheers and such. More just the idle curiosity that comes with something outside the pale of normalcy. Could imagine this was to become a regular sight. More troops would be making their way towards Sheridan in time. We positioned ourselves in a column, each division grouped together as we pointed southward. Took a few minutes, getting the wagons and limbers in place, laden down as they were with building materials and supplies. The ones we weren’t going to have to acquire for ourselves.

  About the point we got set in place, Captain Murtagh appeared. He came riding around the station last, seated atop a grullo mustang. Rob followed only a short distance behind him, mounted on a dun of his own. Both looked nothing but business as they paced along the column of us. A final, quick check to make sure we were all accounted for and ready. They reached the back of the column and started forward again. From the ground I saw Murtagh give Rob a quick nod.

  “Company- Ready!” Rob bellowed, as he and Murtagh continued back to the front of the column. “South-face!... Double time, March!”

  A small cry and yip rose up from the cavalry as they took the lead, and slowly began to trot forward. Following with them came the snap of reins and whistle of drivers as the wagons were pulled into motion. With the sluggish motions of cold molasses we began to file forward, following after Murtagh and Rob. The sound of our boots and the iron bands of the wagon wheel scraping against the pavers as we went. Echoing louder, the clop of the horses’ shoes as they hauled and carried their load.

  With the mid-afternoon sunlight shining down on the streets of Denver we began our march. The way itself being a fairly straight path, one most of us had now walked in some fashion. Though I noticed the route we followed the Captain along did lead through more reputable scenes. The portions of the city that were populated by reputable businesses and enterprises. None of the chicanery that most of the company would have indulged in during our brief sojourn. An effort on his part, perhaps, to make sure we remembered our goal in being there. Not in whatever distractions surrounded us.

  We kept along those paths and streets for a time, drawing the eyes of everyone as we went. Didn’t much matter what their walk of life was. Tramp, huckster, banker, preacher, or any measure lying between them and beyond. People took note as we passed them. If they’d been calling for the army to make its presence, we’d finally shown ourselves. Only question would be what they expected of us now that we had. We weren’t the ones who could fix the pickle their city was in. That was a matter for themselves to resolve.

  We were just there to keep the peace, if it came to that.

  After some minutes of marching, we reached a drag that ran straight out of the city, due south. Put the sun to our right as we went. Stinging my eyes as it was, I could help but turn briefly towards it. Just as I couldn’t help but notice what lay on the western horizon, right beneath the sun.

  Dark clouds, tinging the blue sky to an ugly purple.

  It was early yet, and the weather could be an unpredictable mistress. Especially in the fall. But I was a field mouse. Had grown that way my whole life. I knew what rain smelled like.

  Could tell when there was a storm brewing on the horizon.

  The only question was which moved faster. Us, or the wind?

  …

  The answer was the wind. By a fair margin at that.

  We left Denver at double march and did our best to keep that pace the whole way. All the while the wind blew strong and cold against us. Compounded by the ground turning steadily upward to an incline. Remained that way for almost the entirety of the march, going higher and higher. The smells of smoke and detritus fell from the cold air as we pushed onward. Replaced by the tickle of pine and the biting damp of a coming rain. Which found us soon enough.

  Little more than halfway to where we were to break ground, the rain caught up to us. It announced its presence sporadically at first. Slapping randomly against my cap and jacket as readily as it did the ground and trail. Hitting in big, fat drops more inclined to that of a summer storm than a mid-autumn spray. Drops that only became more regular and heavier with every step we took towards our destination. We were soaked to the bone within minutes, made worse by the chill in the air. Were it much colder, I’d have sworn icicles and frost would’ve been dangling from my mustache.

  Despite that we kept on the trail, such as it was, leading up into the hills. Fighting the cold, the wind, the rain, and the slowly growing dark the whole way. The rain only seemed to grow worse as we went, killing the view of the path ahead of us. Not enough to stop any of us, but it slowed our pace from a double march to a quick march. We tried hard from there not to let it fall any further. But I could tell there was some temptation for it. Though I’d have dreaded going any slower and staying out in worsening weather such as that.

  But through that morass of cold, damp, and rain we pushed on. If we were the type of company that let a little bad weather be the thing to stop us, we wouldn’t have gone far. Rob and I both knew what it was like to push on through a lot worse than a little drizzle and a light breeze. One miserable slog through the wind and rain led us to our destination. Weeks of travelling culminating to reach this place. A spit of land in the middle of the colorado hills, just outside denver.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  It was a muddy, slippery, goddamned mess.

  Every step we took, we either were sinking ankle deep into mud, or having the rain rush around our feet. Threatening to wash the ground out from under us. The horses had more than had their fill of it as well, and were kicking up a fuss as they were corralled. With all of our equipment drenched from the rain, everything was heavier and slower to set up. Wasn’t counting for the things that were left slicked by the rain as well. Lugging around cannonballs is a lot harder when you’ve got a grip on them like cold butter.

  With the grey light of the afternoon fading fast, we had to work quick to make sure the camp was set. We pitched our tents just fast as we were able, and made sure the wagons were ready for offloading. However, before we could get into the real meat of the matter, we had to focus on making sure the ground we stood on was solid enough to deal with the work ahead of us. As such, the engineers began to pass out shovels and picks, then directed us in a perimeter around the camp. Only way to keep thing from washing out was to make sure it drained right.

  Meant digging ditches. In the rain.

  The lord has a weird sense of humor at times. Pretty much all of the jokes are on us. It’s because they are, that in the middle of torrential, frigid rain, I had to swing a pick and hoe. Breaking the already loose muck of the earth so a shovel could pass quicker into it, clear it out. All the while fighting the chill I could feel building its way up my arms. My breath puffing into the misty air like the steam from a piston. The only warmth building in my body coming from forcing myself to keep working. All the while, the sounds of the scraping and sucking earth rang out as we worked. Voices and calls rising up as we did. Orders as others finished, hurried along to their next job.

  Focused on the job at hand, there was only one sound I was focused on.

  “Oh, I’ll be so glad-” Frost crooned, voice low “When the sun goes down.”

  “When the sun goes down” I and those near him hummed out, keeping time with him as we worked.

  “Oh, I’ll be so glad-” He crooned again, swinging his pick out ahead of the rest “When the sun goes down.”

  “When the sun goes down” We answered again, sweeping after him.

  “Ain’t all that sleepy-” He crooned and swang “But I wanna lie down.”

  “But we wanna lie down.” We called and swung

  Each verse we kept in time with our picks and shovels. Clearing swathes of mud and dirt just as fast as we could. Dirty water rushed to take its place as the ditches drained the soil, doing their job. Though it added to the weight of every shovel that scooped and pick that clawed. Were it not for Frost, and his songs, digging ditches would be a lot less fun. Which wasn’t saying much.

  “Jus’ chop your corner lad.” Frost grunted, his croon broken as he wrenched a rock free from the earth with the head of his pick “You ain’t got your own mind.”

  “Oh, yeah.” We all called, working to keep the water and mud from filling the hole he’d opened “Ain’t got your own mind.”

  A weary laugh escaped Frost as he pressed on, leading the dig. Repeating the phrase and getting us to call after him again. Having had to dig more than my share of latrines, ditches, and myriad other holes, the set rhythm made it easier. Similar in the way that marching was easier when set to a beat. Gave you something to focus on other than the effort you put in. made things smooth. Gave the added effect of us all looking like a chain-gang rather than a bunch of soldiers too. Frost knew the best ones, on account of his upbringing I imagine. He’d have been steeped in those old-time spirituals from back before the Rebellion. Kept the work moving, and there weren’t many who had a problem with it. Afterall, if it meant the job got done faster, only an idiot would tell us not to do it.

  “Hey!” Moreau snapped as we cleared ground “Quiet that racket!”

  As stated, only an idiot.

  Sadly, Cooper Moreau was the king of them.

  All at once our tools quit their scraping and the hum left our lips. There weren’t more than maybe ten of us working this stretch of ditch. But you still had to be an idiot to tell ten working men, with tools, not to do something that kept the work moving. Moreau was more the idiot, because he came stomping to us through the rain, bundled up in a wool raincoat.

  “You got a job to be doin’!” Moreau ordered, voice like metal scraping metal “‘Least you can do is do it quiet, ‘cause you ain’t doing it right.”

  I would have kindly told him to blow it out his ass, but that kind of backsass lands you in trouble. Moreau was a sergeant, and though it didn’t garner him much, it still made him my boss, like it or not. Still, that didn’t stop me much.

  “Could be down here helping us too, sarge.” I spoke up “We got yards of ditch to dig yet, go a bit faster with another pair of hands.”

  “I got a more important job.” Moreau sneered “Making sure all of you are on time. You lot seem to be the furthest behind.”

  “I’d say we’re doing well all the same.” I countered, looking back at the several yards of ditch we’d already left behind us. All of it, despite the rain was holding well and doing the job it was meant to be doing. They’d need reinforcing and re-digging as we went, but for the night ahead of us, they’d work well enough. The engineers would still need to make sure everything was laid out well enough for when the actual structures started being made.

  “Well, ‘all the same’, I’d rather not hear you caterwauling.” Moreau shot back “It’s like listening to a bunch of ‘coons fighting over a piece of cheese.”

  Before I could retort to that, Frost broke into the conversation.

  “I’m so so’rry Massa’!” Frost said, affecting a southerly tone and speech “I’s tryin’ not t’ make so much-a racket! I’s jus’- is nigga work ain’t it? Ain’t nigga work supposed to have nigga songs?”

  That set the lot of us, except for Moreau, laughing like a bunch of mules. Moreau just stared Frost down like he wanted to skin him alive. Something I’d no doubt Frost had a lot of experience handling.

  Beau Frost was the only one who’d get away with a joke like that too. Man was black as a cup of coffee poured out of a cast-iron kettle. If it weren’t for him being in our company, we’d never have working songs either. Nothing but respect for a man who can put a smile on while working like a dog. Of course, Moreau wasn’t of the mind to tolerate it, mean bastard as he was.

  “Keep it up boy, and I’mma count that as being insubordination!” Moreau snapped, glaring at the lot of us, the rain and wind only further beating down on us. “Get the job done, or I’ll see it taken out of all you.”

  “We’re doing the job.” Tommy shot back “We’ll be done faster without you standing there over us too. Why don’t you do us all a favor, sir, and go back to your tent. I’m sure the captain’s got more paperwork sitting there for you.”

  Moreau turned on Tommy like a rattlesnake snapping its jaws. “Mockin’ my authority now, eh?... Alright.” His lips parted in a flash of yellow teeth “Private Sullivan, report your worthless hide to the Brig. Now. You’ll be helping them finish setting it up and will be spending the night there, ‘till Captain Murtagh can have words with you.”

  “Over what, a joke?” Tommy snapped back “You really think captain Murtagh-”

  “The Captain might not.” Moreau said “But it’ll be small trouble compared to your boys being a man down. Slow as you all are, you think you can get all that work done in time?”

  Any laughter we might have had, died out at that point. Now we were just starting to get ornery. All this trouble over a little singing.

  “Not so smart now, eh?” Moreau sneered, like a schoolmaster to a bunch of rowdy children. “There’ll be no more noise out of you, now. Get back to work and see it done before dinner.” His eyes fixed on Tommy again “Best get after it, Sullivan, You’re through for tonight.” Then he looked back at the rest of us, Myself and Frost in particular. “Any more of you feel like joining, I’m sure the engineers would love to focus on setting up the brig already.”

  “They’ve already broken ground.” Captain Murtagh interrupted “I’m sure they’d love an extra hand.”

  With a look like he’d just crapped himself, Moreau whipped around. It was at the same time that Captain Murtagh came walking towards our ditch, out of the dark and worsening rain. Water rolling off his hat and coat in steady beads and streams. His dark eyes swept over us, settling on Moreau. “Is there a problem here, Sergeant?”

  “Cap’n.” Moreau said, snapping a salute that we all quickly mirrored. A motion from Murtagh meant we could keep going. That he wanted his answer. “I’m just trying to motivate these boys into getting the work done.”

  Murtagh quirked a brow at him, and looked briefly at us. “Seems they’re working quite well. As well as any other crew I’ve seen on this round. What’s the issue?”

  “Looks are deceiving, sir.” Moreau answered “These boys are lollygagging, singing songs when they should be working.”

  “... That so?” Murtagh asked

  “Was a work song, Captain.” I interrupted

  Murtagh turned his gaze towards me and, I’ll admit, I knew there was a real chance for trouble then. You didn’t try to get a superior’s attention, one you might actually respect, when there was a chance there’d be trouble. But I was willing to risk it.

  “Work song?” Murtagh asked

  “We’re using it to keep speed, Captain.” I said, feeling a slight tremble start to set in from the cold air “Something to help fight off the weather we find ourselves in.”

  “And I told them it wasn’t making them work any faster.” Moreau defended “Then they got insubordinate with me, so I was taking a measured response.”

  “Measured.” Murtagh said, slowly. As though rolling the word around in his mouth. “... Tell me.” he said, looking the length of the ditch we’d already cut “Had any of your men stopped working up until now?

  “W-well, no.” Moreau spoke

  “Then I don’t see how it could slow work any worse than you have at this moment.” Murtagh told him, fixing him with a stern gaze. “You’re aware of how bad the blizzard of the past year was, correct? What could be more important than ensuring we’re ready for the one that might be coming?”

  “Ah, well-” Moreau stammered

  “I dare say, the only thing slowing work at this point, is you.” Murtagh said pointedly

  I bit my lip slightly to keep from chuckling. Moreau looked as though he was a bull that just saw the gelding knife.

  “B-but, Captain, they’re singing a damn ni**er song!” Moreau pressed, gesturing to us “It’s a disrespect to the uniform to be singing like a chain gang of slaves!”

  Murtagh paused a moment, his brow furrowing. He looked towards us, curious and confused. “Slave songs?”

  “Spirituals, Captain.” I conceded “We hum them to help keep pace.”

  One of Murtagh’s dark brows quirked up. “... Which one?”

  “‘I be so glad when the sun goes down’, Captain.” Frost spoke up from further down the line.

  Murtagh looked past me, to Frost. Then to the work we’d done, to Moreau, then to the gloom and rain that continued to pour down around us. Then he belted out laughing like thunder. Seeing the humor that had long flown over Moreau’s head on its way southward.

  “It’s no joke Captain!” Moreau protested

  “Yes.” Murtagh said, quelling his laughter, but not losing the smile it had put on him “I’m sure you’d have much rather they sing Dixie instead, aye?”

  The already chill air grew icey. We all knew the penalty that came with carrying on the memory of the southern rebellion. Grant had put it in place that showing support for the old confederates was outlawed. Furthering Lincoln's original intentions. Couldn’t heal wounds if people were just trying to rip them back open. The meaning behind Murtagh’s jab wasn’t lost on any of us either.

  Moreau didn’t show any outward sign of offense. But knowing him as I did by that time, I knew he’d be livid.

  Captain Murtagh schooled his features as he regarded Moreau. “We’ve a great deal of work ahead of us, Sergeant.” He spoke sternly “Both to prepare this place for the coming winter, and to be ready to house and keep troops when the rest of our Reserve arrives. Not counting for the one who will be incharge of this fortification, Sheridan or not.” Murtagh began to scowl intently at Moreau. “If these boys had been standing around, then there would be ground for them to be punished. As it stands, however, they were doing as instructed, and doing it quite well. They could’ve been dancing the Can-can and I wouldn’t mind, as long as the work was finished. You should be focused more on that than the trivial things. It might get you further in your career.”

  Moreau did not respond as Murtagh tore into him. He merely stood there quietly and accepted the scolding.

  “There’s work to be done elsewhere, I believe.” Murtagh finished “I’m going to resume my walk of the perimeter. I suggest you go seek this work in my absence. I’m I understood?”

  “... Yes, Captain.” Moreau ground out, swallowing the order like a crow chowing on a wad of dried grist.

  “Excellent.” Murtagh said, motioning for Moreau to take leave. “Carry on, then.”

  A moment passed, as Murtagh turned his back to Moreau. There was a look in Moreau’s eye as the Captain waved him off. The kind I knew to be from the sort who would be nothing but trouble, if only given the opportunity. But even being the king of idiots, as he was, Moreau was smart enough to not attack a commanding officer. That was just a point of surviving, for idiots. Knowing who you could cause trouble for, and who you couldn’t.

  Without another word, Moreau slunk off into the rain, leaving us alone with the captain. It was faint, but I could almost swear he was smirking. He reached into the breast of his coat and pulled out a cigar that was a bit charred at one end. “Suppose I should be carrying on then.” He said, following the cigar with a match. “... Of course, having now gone to the trouble of defending your efforts, maybe I aught to stick around for a time. See if there isn’t something you neglected to tell me?”

  “... Well you won’t be worried, when-” Frost crooned, picking a spot to start and setting the rhythm just as quick “-When the sun goes down.”

  “Oh yeah-” We all followed “When the Sun goes down.”

  All at once we began chopping and scraping at the earth again. Fighting against the rain and wind. Not much had changed for the effort, save perhaps, we had a new set of eyes on us. The Captain watched us the whole way we went. Even when one song ended, Frost just picked a new one and kept the rhythm going. Murtagh stood with us the whole way, puffing at his cigar as the rain grew worse and the ditch filled. Like it or not, this would be our lot for the foreseeable future. A lot of ditch digging and labor, as we made the camp. Having come off the end of what I, and many of the camp, had while working with Rob, it was more peaceful. I would take that for the little it was worth.

  The only shame was it wouldn’t last.