In the hot sun, the four diggers surveyed the territory marked off for excavation. Each carried his spoon in his hand. Glumly they looked at the small heaps of dirt that had already been dug out. Their heads ached, their bodies were sore, not only from digging, but from the encounter at the Silver Tip. Yet, though bloody, they were unbowed; all resented the injustice meted out by their first sergeant.
“Shit, we was defending the honor of the company,” said Stretch Dobbs as they resumed their kneeling positions and began to dig.
“Defending the whole fucking army, by God,” allowed Malone; and even though they were trying to speak low in order not to draw attention to themselves, Malone’s voice resonated like the roll of a drum. Dobbs and McBride threw their eyes uneasily in the direction of the orderly room.
“Better hold it down, Malone.”
“What the hell d’you mean, hold it down! I’m talking real quiet. And all I’m saying is it ain’t fair. Shit, last month Wojensky got in a fight with some asshole feather merchant, and Cohen didn’t do a fucking thing to him!”
“Shut up.”
“Fuck off!”
“Shut up, for Chrissake, here comes Cohen now.”
Swiftly the four bent closer to their work, each one working at a side of the square that had been marked off by four pieces of prairie sod. Their eyes glued to the
ground, they dug. Nobody looked up, there wasn’t even a glance in the direction of the approaching personification of anger, injustice, muscular power, and cunning. But all felt the trembling of the earth as the menacing boots of Sergeant Cohen came into view.
“Pretty slow digging, I’d say.”
No comment greeted this deadly observation.
“I said, pretty slow digging.”
Stretch Dobbs raised his head. “Oh, hello there, Sarge. Yup, we’ll speed her up.” And he began to dig furiously with the spoon. The others followed suit.
Sergeant Cohen watched for a few moments, his hands clasped together behind his back, his head bent in concentration as his eyes bore into the sweating laborers. When he cleared his throat, it sounded like gravel being run out of a wagon box.
“I regret to inform you men that I have very bad news for you.”
This remark did cause a cessation of the digging, and the four raised their heads to regard the colossus standing directly above them.
“A pity it is,” he went on, “especially for young Go- lightly there, who will miss the taste of true army discipline—for the moment,” he added swiftly and with emphasis. “For the moment. For now, you are excused from your present detail. But if I hear of one more infraction, one more instance of your indulging in behavior not becoming a soldier, I will not only throw the book at you, but the whole fucking post!” Fie stood glaring at their dumbfounded surprise.
“Now move! Get off your asses and move! You’re going out on patrol with Lieutenant Kincaid! It is regrettable, let me add, that we’re shorthanded here, and the lieutenant has to draw upon this particular source.” Without another word, without even a pause or a further
glare, the sergeant turned and started back to the orderly room.
Then suddenly he barked out, without turning his head, “Clean them spoons perfect—and bring ’em to my office!”
The news brought in by the scouts that the soldiers were nearby sent a shudder through the Brule camp. But as a sign of friendship. Little Hawk had ridden out with some of his headmen to receive the visitors. He had worn the officer hat that the Great Father had sent him long ago, and which was now laced with cricket holes, and had its top cut out both for air and for connection with the Above. Through it, a single eagle feather stood up.
Now, while the soldiers waited at a distance from the camp. Matt Kincaid and Windy Mandalian sat in the chief’s lodge with Little Hawk and a half-dozen headmen, along with Quick Thunder and Wound.
The visitors had been offered the pipe of welcome, the chief filling the pipe with the tobacco for the occasion, and setting it on the buffalo chip in front of him. Then he lighted it and offered the stem to the sky and to the earth and to the four directions. When this was done, they smoked. And because they had smoked, they must only speak the truth.
“We have come to speak about the steer that was slain and butchered,” Windy began. “The cattleman who owned the steer came to see Lieutenant Kincaid and Captain Conway. He was not happy.”
“The steer was on reservation land,” Little Hawk said. “And we have talked of it. The white man must not have his animals here.”
“Ho!” The voices rose around the circle at the chief’s words.
“Why did you not drive the steer back?” Kincaid
asked. “That would have been the best thing.”
“There were other cows there. Not just the one,” Little Hawk said. “And besides, the young men—and all of our people—are still angry, still very sad over the killing of Young Man Catching Up.”
“Ho!” The voices spoke again.
“But when the killer is caught, he will stand trial and be hanged,” Windy said.
“He will not be hanged,” Little Hawk said. “We all know that. For he is a white man.”
There was again the loud murmur of agreement from the circle.
“But the cow,” Matt said. “The cattlemen must be paid for the cow.”
Little Hawk looked impassively at him, and a long moment fell. At length the chief spoke. He spoke without any change in the impassivity of his face. “And who will pay for Young Man Catching Up?”
“A cow is not a man,” Quick Thunder said, speaking for the first time, and with anger.
Matt could feel rather than actually see Windy’s reaction to the conversation. The scout was seated beside him, and it was instantly clear to both of them that it was no moment to push the matter. Indeed, neither they nor Conway had wanted to bring it up in the first place— but there was Cohoes.
“We want peace with your people, Little Hawk,” Matt said. “And you must know how sorry we are about Young Man Catching Up. And you know, too, that we soldiers must do as the law is written.”
“As it is written by white men in Wah-shah-tung ,” Quick Thunder said harshly.
Little Hawk held up his hand in restraint, his eyes on the young warrior.
“That is correct,” Matt said calmly. “We are soldiers.”
“And the law from Above?” said Little Hawk.
“All must obey that one,” Windy said. “But underneath that law, you have your laws and we whites have ours.”
The Indian chief said nothing. Watching him in the long silence that fell then, Matt felt it was as though the Brule had simply drawn right inside himself.
After another long moment, Windy said, “There will be cattle coming into the country, cattle belonging to the man who owned the steer that was killed. But they will be kept on federal land, not on the reservation. The soldiers will see to it.”
“It is all the land; all the land is one,” Little Hawk said. “And what happens even on a small part of the land affects all the rest, affects our people.
“And what of the woolly animals?” the chief went on. “We have had word of them. Now the white man brings them too.”
“They are worse than the cows,” Wound said, speaking for the first time. “They eat the grass and our horses cannot feed there. We have heard of this. It happened to the Cheyenne.”
“The sheep will not come here,” Matt said. “The men who guard the sheep will be told.”
“But the animals do not know boundaries,” said one of the older headmen. “The white man puts up a sign, but the animals cannot understand it.”
“Ho!” Again the voices sounded around the circle.
“The herders,” said Matt, “the men who guard the sheep, and also those who guard the cattle will be told. We will show them on the map, our paper drawing, where they must not let the animals go.” He turned his head to look at Windy.
“Little Hawk,” said the scout. “There can always be misunderstanding. We must work together. It is hard,
but we must.” He could feel Quick Thunder watching him as he spoke, could feel the anger coming from him. But he did not turn his head. He went on, “The lieutenant and me know how you feel about Young Man, and we know you don’t want any cows or sheep here. That’s what the army is for.”
“And when the animals do come here, and the white man with them?” Quick Thunder said suddenly. “What must we do? Submit? Never!”
“Never!” Wound echoed.
“Let’s cross that one when we get to it,” said Windy. He turned to look directly at Little Hawk. “We are your friends. Little Hawk, whether you know it or not.”
“That 1 know, Windy. But it is not you or the lieutenant we do not trust, not you the people fear. It is those others...” And he made a motion with his arm in front of him as if to indicate a wave of the ocean, and then another, and another. “The ones who want to kill us, who never stop coming here. The ones who want to kill our brothers the animals, as they have already killed the buffalo, the brother of the Indian, who once gave us food and clothing and shelter. The ones who do not love the land, and only want to kill it...”
It was late afternoon when Matt and Windy rode back to the patrol.
“Well, old scout, what do you think?”
Windy scratched deep into his neck. “I think we’re up to our asses in this.”
“Meaning Little Hawk won’t keep the peace.”
“Meaning Little Hawk cant. Matt, the B rules have already got the army on top of them, now they got cattle, and quicker than soon they’ll have the sheep. Little Hawk probably can’t hold them young bucks like Quick Thunder. You know those chiefs have to go with what their
people want. It ain’t like this man’s army.”
Matt nodded wearily. “I wish to God we’d find something on whoever killed Young Man. But there’s nothing. Nothing!”
“Likely a owlhooter or a buff hunter, maybe somebody on the dodge, long gone from the country by now. About as much chance of finding him as a fart in a windstorm.”
Windy drew rein as they came in sight of the patrol. For a moment the scout and the army officer sat their mounts, looking at the distant horizon edging the great prairie. Windy slipped one foot out of its stirrup and hooked his leg up over the pommel of his stock saddle.
Reaching up, he began nonchalantly picking his nose. “You know, it only takes one match to start a fire, my friend. Just one.”
It was the next morning that the match was struck for the fire. The patrol had camped the night before at Sugar Butte, and they were saddling up after breakfast when Henry Walks Quickly, the Delaware, came pounding into camp.
“Find dead Brule,” he said to Windy Mandalian.
“Where?” The scout was already cinching his roan horse.
Gesturing with his fingers to indicate distance, Walks Quickly said, “Feather Creek.”
“Shit.” Windy stepped into his saddle.
Within a half-hour the scout and Matt and the Delaware were at Feather Creek, looking down from their horses at the body lying facedown near the gurgling stream of water.
Dismounting, Windy approached the body carefully, looking for sign.
“Shot in the back,” he said, bending to the corpse.
“Just like Young Man. Maybe our boy ain’t left the country after all.”
Matt looked at the scattered playing cards lying nearby. “Looks like he died in action,” he said wryly.
Windy was squatting, examining some prints in the soft ground. “I’d say somebody caught him cheating, or was a poor loser.” He straightened up.
“Two horses,” Matt said. “One iron-shod, the other Indian.”
“And those are range boots, clear enough.”
“An Injun and a white man—and a dead Injun.” Windy took off his hat and scratched his head.
“How do you read it, Windy?”
“They were playing cards. Gambling for sure, like the Injuns love to do. I’d say they was playing cooncan, though the game don’t matter.” He paused. “And he gets shot in the back.” He nodded toward the body, which Matt had turned over.
“He’s a Brule for sure.”
“And I’d say, seein’ the circumstances, that he won, more than likely stripped the man he was playing with and started to ride off. See these prints, and see how his body hit the ground? Made quite an impression.”
“You mean he was shot off his horse.”
“By the loser, who must of had a hideout gun, for usually the braves play for everything—horses, guns, women if you got any.”
“Damn it,” said Matt. “How much time do we have before the Brules learn of it? I mean we’re in trouble ”
Windy had squatted down near a chokecherry bush and was looking at the ground.
“We don’t have any time,” he said, his eyes still on the ground. “They already know.” He pointed at the patch of earth that had been under his scrutiny. “This feller was alone. He was here this morning, coming
from”—he looked up and pointed across the creek— “over there, on his way back to camp. They’ll be sending a party to bring him in.” He nodded toward the dead Brule. “Better get outta here fast.” With his foot in the stirrup, he said, “’Least we know somethin’ about this feller now.”
“What’s that?”
Windy swung up onto the roan. “He’s hot for gambling and he packs a hideout. And for some reason he’s still hanging around this part of the country.”
When they were in their saddles, Matt said, “Windy, you know where the sheepmen are. They’d better move in toward the post. I’ll get over to Cohoes. The getaway man can get the news to the Number Nine.”
“Good enough.”
“Better take a couple of men,” Matt said, turning his horse.
“It’ll be faster alone.”
“I come, Windy,” Walks Quickly said.
The scout’s lined face spread wide in a mirthless grin. “Better get your red ass movin’, then.”
/
SIX
The ambulance rocked along the rutted trail, following the telegraph line over the rolling prairie. Overhead the sky was an azure blue, clean of everything save the hot white sun; and yet it appeared crisp, fresh, as though newly minted. The ambulance seemed to be the only movement, a speck in the middle of the great tawny sea of grass. Bouncing along on steel springs, the battered-looking conveyance did not carry any wounded, but only two civilian passengers, along with the army driver and a single armed escort.
The driver, a spindly individual in faded blue uniform, kept the horses at a sharp pace and apparently was not making the slightest effort to avoid the bumps in the trail for the benefit of his passengers.
The corporal seated beside him, more neat in appearance, was not a permanent part of the equipage. He had been assigned as escort to the two passengers.
Behind the two soldiers sat a man of about fifty and a young woman, along with their luggage, as well as various supplies for Easy Company, including the mail. The couple had come from regimental headquarters and were on the final leg of their journey to Outpost Number Nine.
“We should be there shortly,” the man said, after an especially wild lurch of the ambulance almost threw both of them out of their seats. And then, looking toward the back of the two men on the front seat, “How much longer do you reckon, Corporal?”
The escort soldier turned his head slightly in acknowledgement. “I’d say another twenty minutes to half an hour, sir.” And he glanced at the driver, who, without taking his eyes off the trail ahead, nodded in agreement, muttering, “Give or take.”
The girl, Julie, was just twenty, a slender blonde with flaxen hair, very light blue eyes, small hands, and—as both the soldiers had instantly noted—an excellent figure. Both had also noticed the absence of either a wedding or engagement ring, and so supposed that she and her father, Hawes Thatcher, the U.S. Delegate for the Territory of Wyoming, were visiting Outpost Number Nine on government business.
Hawes Thatcher was a handsome, somewhat stocky man with a tight body, the sort of body that looked as though it had been built carefully out of quality material, and then compressed. It gave the delegate a definite rigidity, which, while helpful in the arena of political life, and possibly even socially, was of little use out on the prairie, where it was essential for survival to remain loose, open to the unexpected, and above all to maintain a sound sense of humor. Hawes Thatcher, it was immediately evident, was a man who took himself seriously. Yet it was just this view of himself that had brought him to decide on a visit to Outpost Number Nine.
“I somehow wish they were expecting us. Father,” the girl said, trying to speak softly so that the men up front would not hear.
“What’s that, my dear?” Her father had a deep, plangent voice, which was fine for making speeches and ordering people about, but often his daughter cringed as she felt its harsh impact on the social amenities.
“I didn’t hear what you said, Julie.”
Leaning closer to him, she said it right in his ear.
“But they don’t know we’re coming only because the
64
line is down,” Thatcher explained. “I suppose some Indians or something.”
“They’re not sure, sir,” the corporal said, half turning toward the back of the ambulance. “But they think it could be the Sioux.”
“I thought we were at peace, Corporal.”
“Yessir. But you never know with the hostiles. Peace today and they’re after your—excuse me, sir—it’s war tomorrow.”
“I see. Hmm. I see.”
They lapsed into silence, concentrating on maintaining their balance in the swaying ambulance. Thatcher turned his head now to look at his daughter, his eyes inadvertently dropping to her waist; and as she caught him looking, she flushed, while he colored slightly high in his cheeks.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“Father, nothing is showing.”
“Of course not.” He was furious at himself for having been caught looking, and furious with her for speaking on the subject. For though Julie appeared shy in regard to her father’s aggressive manners, she had no shyness whatsoever in matters of personal relations, as he had unhappily noticed. She spoke of her condition as though it were something quite usual. Indeed, her attitude embarrassed him; and his embarrassment made him angry.
“They didn’t hear anything,” she said.
And Hawes Thatcher remained furiously silent, his big jaw jutting out like a rock overhang.
“Father, I do wish you would change your mind. I really don’t think this is the way to go about it. I think I should first write—”
Seeing his eyes close, even though he was looking straight ahead, she lapsed into sad, confused silence.
• • •