61

Fort Sumner

Will knew he was dreaming and that his physical body still sat in the little sweat lodge, the shadow of which he could just make out as they passed. In the dream, he noticed, he and Hasbaá were still garbed as Diné warriors. They went up through the screen of trees, on beyond his quarters, and right up to the gate of Fort Sumner.

They crept stealthily and avoided the sentries who, in any case, did not seem to take any notice of them even when they slipped right behind one of them and into the officer’s compound. By now, Will had realized where they were headed. Of course, where else but to Gen. Carleton’s office? Dr. Steck had said to get written evidence. That is where that evidence would be found.

But what’s the good of getting it in a dream vision?

They walked right up to the door of the office. It was locked. Hasbaá stepped away and went quickly into an unlocked office nearby. In a moment, she returned with a key.

“From Lt. Bauer’s desk,” she whispered.

Will unlocked the door and went inside. At first, the room was pitch dark. But he soon began to see well enough to make out the desk and the filing cabinets behind it. The same ethereal light that had filled the sweat lodge now began to illuminate the military office. Soon it was bright enough to read.

Heavy curtains were drawn across the window. Will hoped that the mysterious light could not be seen from the parade ground outside. It was the middle of the night, and he and Hasbaá had no business in the general’s office.

Hasbaá suggested he look first in the filing cabinet. Opening the top drawer, Will read the titles printed on the folders. They were not in alphabetical order. He riffled through them. He hoped one or another of the titles would mean something. The first such folder he came to caused him to sputter angrily. He pulled the folder out of the drawer, turned around, and set it on the desk. It was titled “Reports of William Lee, Indian Agent—unacceptable.”

He looked quickly through the pages. He saw all the reports he’d carefully penned and posted to the Office of Indian Affairs. In the back of the folder were the letters he’d written appealing for aid. They had never been sent. Dezba had been right.

He saw the next folder in the drawer was titled “Reports of Indian Agent—to be sent.” Inside was a single page with a few short paragraphs. He did not bother to read it. He knew what it must say: “Everything’s fine here. Gen. Carleton is great.” Folded over it was a half sheet of paper with the note: “Awaiting signature.”

In another drawer, toward the back where the files were probably never looked at anymore, he found a report titled: “Soil Conditions at Fort Sumner.” He looked through it. It indicated that as early as 1863, before the Indians were moved to this area, a government assayer had determined that the soil was too alkaline for food crops. Even before the whole Bosque Redondo experiment started, Carleton must have known it would fail. The Indians could never have become self-sufficient here.

Another folder in the back of the drawer held a report titled: “Comanche Activity along Texas-New Mexico Border.” It was also dated 1863. It argued that settlers in the most habitable areas in the central and northern portions of the New Mexico Territory could be protected from attack by the belligerent and already inflamed Comanche tribes in west Texas by placing docile or vanquished Indian settlements on reservations along the border to create a buffer zone. This was the real reason for putting the Diné at Bosque Redondo!

In a more recent set of files, Will found a folder labeled: “Cost Reports on Indian Housing.” In it were receipts showing large government disbursements for building materials. Some of the receipts actually had attached to them breakdowns of how the monies were supposedly used: lumber, tools, carpenter supplies, even roof tiles. But there were no buildings on the reservation made of lumber and roofed with tiles. There was practically no housing provided for the Indians at all. And one of the receipts was for that damn brass bell from St. Louis. Carleton had charged the cost against the Indians’ housing allowance.

He showed Hasbaá what he found. “Is that what you need for your Dr. Steck?” the specter asked. Will could see right through Hasbaá; she seemed to glow from an inner light. She was obviously an apparition, just as she’d appeared in Jesse McDonald’s waiting room.

“Well, by itself this doesn’t prove the buildings weren’t built. We need something that shows where the money actually went. I wonder if Carleton keeps his personal records here.”

“In the desk,” Hasbaá suggested. “See, this drawer is locked.” She pulled on one of the brass knobs.

“How are we going to get in?”

“The key is behind the nib drawer in the inkwell.”

“How do you know that?”

“My aunt is the general’s maid.”

Will was just thinking that if Dezba had access to this office, then perhaps tomorrow they could get her to get these files in reality. The dream quality of his experience had faded a little. He no longer flew through the sky on a magical steed. But he was sure this was all still a dream. What would I be doing in the general’s office in the middle of the night?

Will found the key secreted in the inkwell. As he opened the drawer in hopes of finding Carleton’s personal records, it occurred to him that even if Dezba could get into the files unnoticed, in spite of her ability to speak English, she probably couldn’t read the Hairy Face language. Who else but he could possibly retrieve these documents? He had a sinking feeling. In a way, he hoped the dream investigation would prove nothing. I’d hate to have to do this kind of espionage in reality.

In the drawer was a small canvas-covered ledger. Will checked back to find the date for one of the receipts for housing expenditures. Then he scanned through the ledger to find that date.

And here’s the evidence I need!

In what looked like the general’s own handwriting were notations that showed how the expenses were to be reported alongside a record of deposits to various bank accounts. In the back of the ledger was a loose sheet of note paper that listed a series of bank account names, all under the officially penned rubric: “Accounts of James C. Carleton, General.” Some of the accounts were styled Carleton, but others had apparently unrelated names: St. Vrain, Romero, Cantrill, Maxwell, Baca, Winthrop—fictitious names the general used to hide his embezzlement.

In the bottom of the drawer, Will found several hand-drawn copies of a map of the New Mexico Territory. If he understood what he saw, it looked as if vast tracts of land in the Diné Bikéyah were labeled with the names from that list of accounts. The general must have put in claims using those same fictitious names.

He showed Hasbaá what he’d found. “Pull these out and bring them with you.”

Will didn’t believe they’d be able to bring the documents back from the dream, but this was Hasbaá’s medicine at work. He did as instructed.

“I will watch for the sentry while you collect the evidence you need.” The spectral warrior slipped out the office door and closed it behind her.

Will replaced the folders in their respective drawers. He took the page about soil conditions and one of the materiel receipts that matched a breakdown of deposits to Carleton’s own pocket. Everything else went back into the file cabinet where it had come from, except the folder of Will’s “unacceptable” reports. He did not notice that he’d left that on the corner of the desk.

He put away the ledger, minus a couple of pages, and determined that everything in the desk drawer was back in place. He folded the pages Hasbaá told him to take, along with one of the copies of the map and the list of accounts, and tucked them under his warrior’s vest. He was beginning to get nervous about this whole thing. This is a dream, of course, but it seems so real.

He locked the drawer and slipped the brass key into its hiding place in the inkwell. Just then he noticed the folder of his reports that had to go back in the file cabinet. As he grabbed it up, his eye was caught by the ornate desk set. The silver gleamed softly in the pale light that filled the room. Will found he couldn’t take his eyes off the gleam. He stood there transfixed.

The pale light faded out. The gleam from the polished silver waned. The room became pitch dark. Will was still paralyzed. He tried to call out to Hasbaá. But he couldn’t get his mouth or throat to work. I must be waking up.

Just then a light flashed under the door to the office. Then the door swung open and the room filled with brilliant illumination from a lantern. Will could just make out Gen. Carleton’s enraged countenance in the glare. Carleton was holding the lantern at arm’s length just above his face. In his other hand was his shiny silver pistol.

Suddenly there was an explosion that rocked Will’s consciousness. Then another. Gen. Carleton had fired his pistol into the air to summon help.

Will realized he was awake. And he could move. But how did I get here? He’d expected to awaken in the sweat lodge. What am I supposed to do now? Hasbaá had been my guide. And now she’s gone. What’s happened?

“You little bastard, how dare you enter my office!” The general shouted as he strode into the room. “How dare you defile my desk with your Injun-loving hands!” His eyes blazed in the light from the lantern. “I will not tolerate anyone in my office without permission. Much less you, Mr. Lee.”

Will’s sight was dazzled, but now he could move. He cringed under Carleton’s threatening glare. To defend himself, he held up the sheath of papers. “These were supposed to have been sent to Washington. What are they doing here?”

“I am the Commanding Officer,” the general thundered. “I decide what gets sent where. What you wrote demonstrates total disregard for my policies. That is tantamount to insubordination. Who do you think you are to question me? I’ve been in New Mexico since ’63, when you Southerners were waging war against the Union. You rebels should have all been executed as traitors.”

Gen. Carleton came around the back of the desk. He pushed Will out of the way and knocked the sheath of reports out of his hand. As Carleton noticed the pages scatter onto the floor, he lowered the lantern and exclaimed, “Look at the mud you’ve tracked in here. God damn your soul.”

There was dried and caked yellow mud all over the floor.

Setting the still-smoking pistol down, the general tugged at the locked drawer of his desk. He found it secure and appeared satisfied that the young Agent had not gotten into his private papers.

Will stood still half paralyzed. He watched helplessly as a sardonic grin spread across the general’s face.

“You seem so concerned about your reports. As though anybody really cared what you have to say. Well, now you’ll get your reward for your diligence. You have just committed a crime against a general officer of the United States Army, Mr. Lee. Considering your background with the Confederacy, I believe this is an act of treason.

“Since coming to Fort Sumner, you have repeatedly ignored my advice. You have flouted my instructions about your duties. God damn you, man, you have even failed to appear for one scheduled appointment after another. You may be a civilian, but you are going to pay for this, you bastard, just like the Rebel infiltrator I believe you really are.”

Will felt threatened. But more than anything he felt abandoned and betrayed. By Hasbaá? Yes, but more by his inability to distinguish dream from reality. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t tell the difference.

Will felt relieved he’d got everything back in place and that drawer locked. He wanted to feel for the papers inside his shirt, but didn’t want to give away the hidden evidence. He hoped he really did have them.

He discovered he wore his own clothes again, not the beadwork vest of Segundo. He touched his cheek and felt that he was clean-shaven. Before any of the dream had started, he’d been sporting seven days’ growth of beard. He was still in a daze.

“Maybe I should just shoot you, but I guess we’ll do this by the book.” Carleton held the pistol on Will while several sentries, brought by the gunshots, the light and the commotion, showed up at the door, among them J.F. Peak.

“Sergeant Peak, take the traitor to the guardhouse and lock him up,” he heard Carleton say to his aide and felt himself hustled out of the room.

In his rage, Carleton did not instruct Sgt. Peak to search Will. And so, obedient to the letter of his command, without a word, the big sergeant grabbed the young civilian by the upper arm and dragged him out of the office, across the parade ground and over to the guardhouse at the far end. He laughed mockingly as he threw Will into the cell and pulled the heavy wooden door shut with a bang and locked it.

Though Will was mortified at being caught, he realized he had discovered the crucial documents with which to challenge Carleton’s control, and as he lay sprawled on the bare floor he felt for the precious papers inside his shirt.