62
The Guardhouse
There was no furniture in the small cell: no chair; no bed, mattress or pillow; only a bucket, which stank of excrement, and a rough woolen blanket for bedding. As upset as he was about being discovered and jailed—and desperate to know what had happened to Hasbaá—Will felt that the secret papers made the whole effort worthwhile. And, indeed, he did have the papers. He was amazed that he’d actually managed to get hold of them.
He tried to sleep. He hadn’t slept in several days and needed to rest. But he had had such a perplexing adventure leading up to his incarceration, his mind was racing. He wondered and worried about Hasbaá. Why hadn’t Hasbaá alerted me? Was I mistaken that she’d accompanied me? Where is Hasbaá now?
He kept falling into fitful dreams in which a guard would come upon him suddenly in the dark and demand to search the cell. If they found the incriminating documents on him, Carleton would kill him for sure and the evidence would be lost. He knew he had to get it to the Diné before the general discovered the papers missing.
During the night, he began to hope that his capture and incarceration were all just another part of the strange dream that had started several hours ago in the sweat lodge. But, in the morning, he awoke to find himself still in the cell. The first thing he did was to feel for the documents hidden in his shirt. Finding them there, he knew that everything he remembered had actually happened. But how?
Soon after sun-up, the temperature began to rise, and with it the stench in the cell. It was hard to breathe. To cope with the heat Will stripped off his shirt and trousers. He’d been wearing the same clothes for six days; at least, he thought so, though he also remembered being dressed as a Navajo warrior.
Now, in only his muslin underdrawers, he hunched over the small iron-barred window of the cell. He had tucked the pilfered documents into the folds of the blanket. He kept vigil at the window because he couldn’t bear the stink of excrement in the cell, but also because he hoped to spy one of the Navajos come by. If he could pass the papers to one of them, he or she could deliver them to Hasbaá. Will was sure the Diné could use these documents to prove their grievances, but it all depended on getting them to Dr. Steck in Santa Fe.
Will knew it was not likely for an Indian to be in this area of Fort Sumner. But he hoped maybe luck—and Hasbaá’s powers—would be with him. He understood that in some way Hasbaá was able to exercise influence over things like luck and coincidence. This is how Hasbaá was a healer and guide for the Diné—and for him.
He was proud of himself for having accomplished his task last night in getting the evidence on Gen. Carleton. But he knew it had been as much Hasbaá’s accomplishment as his own. And, at least until that last moment, it had seemed luck had been with him. Maybe his arrest was going to turn out also to be part of that good luck, though for the time being he was scared. From his cell window he could see the gallows erected in the parade grounds.
Will’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden clank of the cell door. Sgt. Peak came into the room, bringing a cup of cold coffee and a dry biscuit. The sergeant took one look at him and spat on the dirt floor. “Look at you, not a stitch on you but them drawers. Ain’t you got no decency? You look like one o’ them goddamn savages you been runnin’ with.”
“It’s hot in here,” Will retorted.
It occurred to him as he ate the meager breakfast that if Sgt. Peak saw him practically naked, he wasn’t too likely to worry about his carrying concealed documents.
The morning passed uneasily. Will kept expecting to be hauled off to be harangued again by Gen. Carleton or even to be put in front of a firing squad. He remembered that Carleton had used the word “treason.” Treason is a capital offense.
As the time dragged by, his mind swirled with images of suffering and death. He thought about the previous Agent’s gruesome demise. His heart reeled at the horrifying ways a person might be gotten rid of out here in the desert. How ironic that I might die at the hands of a Yankee general two years after the War for Southern Independence had ended and clear on the other side of the continent! But if Dr. Steck succeeds in convincing the government to remove Carleton, Will thought, at least my death will not be in vain.
Just then an old Diné woman cautiously came up to the window of the cell. “Dezba!” Will’s mood changed abruptly.
She came close enough to whisper, “The general sent for me. The Hairy Face soldier said mud had been tracked into his office. So they ordered this old woman to clean it up for them.” She sounded sarcastic.
“Is Hasbaá safe?”
Dezba nodded calmly. He felt a great sense of relief to know his Indian spouse was not chained up to a wall somewhere or lying dead outside the fort.
“Hasbaá spoke with Changing Woman. She said I should come to you.”
“I have the papers that prove what Carleton’s doing,” Will whispered. “You and Hasbaá and Barboncito must get these to Dr. Steck.” He looked around to make sure no one was watching, then retrieved the packet and passed it through the window.
“I will protect these papers, Nephew. You need not fear. We are grateful to you. Hasbaá speaks to Changing Woman on your behalf.”
“Tell Hasbaá I’ll be all right.”
As Dezba left, with the documents tucked into her wool skirt, Will wondered if there were any basis for his assurance to Hasbaá. He’d seen enough of Hasbaá’s mystical powers to believe that if he were really going to be all right, it would have to be because of Hasbaá’s doing, not his own.