Colonel Drewbott refused to go out after the renegades until he had “trustworthy” scouts. By this he meant “white scouts.” The great John Horse and his men, veritable bloodhounds every one, would not do. “Too unfamiliar with the area,” Drewbott had harrumphed to Wager when he explained the delay. “Too colored” was more like it.
Drewbott’s chickenshit dithering gave Wager and me three more nights together. By then, we were both past caring whether or not the entire regiment took us, as Lem did, for a pair of sodomites. One night, hell, one minute with Wager was worth all the gossip and snickering the company could slander us with. Many, maybe most, couples can spend a lifetime together and not know each other the way Wager and I came to know each other in those few, stolen nights together.
We made plans. Come hell or high water, we’d each finish out our hitches so we’d have those pensions to build us a new life together in California. We’d light out for that far land which had not been poisoned by slavery. Maybe I’d cook for one of the fine hotels in San Francisco. Or even open a place of my own. Nothing fancy. Simple food for simple folks.
Wager thought he might take to the sea like his father and come home to me and our fine, unbroken children with stories of adventure in the South Seas, his pockets fat with wages. These were the conversations we had for three nights as we lolled in each other’s arms and built our future together, one kiss at a time.
At general assembly on the morning after our third night alone together, a very flustered Drewbott issued orders for a detachment of sixty men to make ready to ride out at first light the next day. Wager, Lem, and I were on the list along with Vikers, Greene, and Caldwell. Like any decent cavalryman, I spent most of the day in the stable, tending to Bunny.
There are those who don’t believe that a horse can understand human feelings, but Bunny knew I was happy for those floppy ears of hers nearly stood up when I gave her the news that we’d been ordered into the field. I tested, repaired, oiled, and polished every bit of her tack and curried her until she gleamed. Though most everyone else still adhered to the “3 Bs,” bleeding, blistering, and burning, to treat their mounts, I would have laid out the first quack veterinary ever dared to come at my Bunny with a bleeding cup. No, I bought calendula cream at the sutler’s out of my pay to dab on every scratch and sweet feed to make her coat glossy.
Late that night, I went to Wager. We were sitting on his bed when the door burst open and there stood John Horse and two of his men. They stepped in without waiting for so much as a how-dee-do. Instead of beads and deerskin leggings and vests decorated with Mexican pesos, they were all wearing army uniforms. John Horse held the rank of corporal, but still wore his plaid wool tunic.
“They said you would be here,” John Horse said.
“I thought Drewbott wanted white scouts,” Wager said.
“He did,” John Horse answered. “Sheridan didn’t agree.” The chief nodded at me then at Wager and asked, “You two?” He jabbed his pointer finger in and out of a circle he made with the pointer and thumb of his other hand in a gesture as crude as it was universal.
“He knows?” Wager asked me.
“He knew from the first,” I answered.
“But how?”
John Horse translated for his men and they laughed. “How not?” John Horse asked. “I knew by seeing she is a woman.”
“But how?” Wager asked again.
“How did you not?” John Horse asked, laughing with his men. John Horse clapped Wager on the back and concluded, “You have been with white men too long. You only see what you think should be there. Not what is right in front of you.”
He looked around at Wager’s quarters, nodded and said, “We’ll sleep in here with you. In the barracks there is too much farting and…” He mimed masturbation and concluded, “What do you have to eat?”