Henry started some beans cooking with a little bit of the salt pork. Owl Woman added a handful of plains herbs, then admonished him to stir the pot. He gave the women all of the flour and the better part of the salt pork and dried beans. In return, they gave him a pair of unadorned hide moccasins.
“You’re very kind,” Clara said, coming up behind him. “Is there anything more to be done for them?”
“No. I bring some things when I’m this way. Someone else does too. They didn’t kill the deer those skins came from. They could move closer to the fort, but they won’t. They’d be reduced to begging, or they’d be sent somewhere else; could be someplace worse. I reckon they’ll stay here as long as they can. I’ll set some snares for them after supper.”
Clara hunkered and leaned over the pot. “It smells wonderful. They gave me some sort of soup earlier. It was a little like onion, but it was watery and bitter. I ate it, as you suggested.”
“It’s a far cry from what you’re accustomed to, I guess.”
“Yes, it is. Randall used to cook onion soup for us on holidays. It was special to him; the recipe was his mother’s. My father absolutely adored Randall’s onion soup. I miss him—Randall, I mean. I always wished in secret that he was my father…now he’s gone because of me.”
13
Owl Woman brushed Clara’s hair with a porcupine quill hair brush, then re-braided it in the dwindling twilight. Henry was out setting up snares. The old woman’s touch was as gentle as her own mother’s, and Clara felt another pang of homesickness. It passed as quickly as it arrived when she thought of her father. She would be perfectly happy if she never saw him again.
It was well after dark when Henry returned, and Clara had already retired to Owl Woman’s lodge. The other women had gone to their lodges as well. He tended to the horses and then sat by the glowing embers of the night’s fire, deep in thought. He wished for a smoke and conversation with Standing Elk.
14
Henry was up before the sun, and checking the snares by the first glow of dawn. He returned to the camp with three decent-sized jackrabbits and a gopher, which he gave to the woman tending the morning fire. Clara was up and making herself familiar with her new horse. Henry saddled the even-tempered animal and removed its hobbles. After speaking some words to Owl Woman in Cheyenne, Henry and Clara were on their way.
Twelve
1
“Good morning, Mister Eastman,” Major Brighton said, entering the room after a polite knock on the door. Randall was sitting up in bed eating overly salty bacon and fried potatoes.
Randall looked up toward the voice—and the movement. His vision had returned enough for him to see shapes and vague, faded colors, but that was all.
“Good morning, Major.”
Major Brighton walked over and sat in the chair next to Randall’s bed.
“I’ve received word that I have fifteen hundred Indians on their way here from Fort Laramie. It seems General Moonlight fears an uprising due to his ill-considered hanging of two Sioux chiefs. His problem is now my problem. In light of this development, I will have to ask you to depart Fort Kearny. The doctor tells me you are out of danger, and I can no longer be responsible for your welfare.” He took the nearly empty plate from Randall and replaced it with a large envelope. “My father was fond of saying ‘The only true test of one’s worth comes when no one is watching.’ I never gave it very much thought until two weeks ago. There’s more money in that envelope than I will earn as an army officer in the next several years. It was hidden inside the letters Clara Hanfield wrote to Lieutenant Elliot—who, I’ve been informed, is no longer an officer in the United States Army. The letters were given to me along with several other items, the day you were brought here. Nothing that appeared to have any value, of course. The Indians left only what they had no use for, and the officer in charge of the soldiers who found you ordered them to pick up everything scattered about and put it in the wagon with you. When they arrived, it was all brought to me. I wonder, if they’d removed the ribbon binding the stack of letters and looked through them—they weren’t sealed, you see—would they have brought the money? Or would they have divided it amongst themselves?
It’s a question I’ll never have the answer to. I can only answer that question for myself. And you have it there in your lap. I won’t apologize for reading the letters. I only desired to better understand the events leading up to Miss Hanfield’s abduction. Your wagon has been repaired, and I have eight men waiting to escort you back to St. Joseph.”
“The wagon does not belong to me. Nor does this money.”
“You were the only survivor of your party, Mister Eastman. If there are claims to any of this property, the responsibility lies with you to see them fulfilled.”
“Miss Hanfield survived.”
“You don’t know that, and we’ve already been over this. My men lost the Indians’ trail after three days. If she’s alive—which I doubt—she could be anywhere. I’m truly sorry, Mister Eastman, but you must realize now that it was a fool’s errand.”
“Major Brighton?”
“Yes?”
“How old are you?”
“I’m thirty-four.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
After a long pause, Randall watched the shape of Major Brighton rise. There were footsteps, and the sound of the door snicking shut.
2
“Mister Eastman? I’m Corporal McElroy. I’m to see you to St. Joseph,” an unfamiliar voice said, entering the room. It had been less than an hour since Major Brighton’s visit.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mister McElroy,” Randall said to the shadowy figure. “However, I have no intention of going to St. Joseph. Would you please tell Major Brighton that I wish you to take me to Fort Laramie?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but Major Brigh—”
“Please just give him the message, young man.”
“I’ll tell him.”
Randall watched the shadow leave. He was sitting in the chair by the bed looking across the room at a bright spot on the wall; a window, he thought. Twenty minutes later there was a single knock and the door opened.
“Hello again, Major Brighton.” Randall said, knowing it was him by the lone rap on the door.
Major Brighton strode briskly across the room to where Randall was seated.
“Mister Eastman, it’s time I was more clear on your situation, as you seem to have missed something. Some very serious allegations have been levied against you by some very powerful men. The only reason you aren’t in shackles awaiting a noose or—if you were singularly lucky—in St. Joseph awaiting a train to take you back to New York to stand trial, is because your accusers believe you are dying of your wounds. In light of the overwhelming evidence that Miss Hanfield left home by her own volition and that your decision to accompany her was made strictly out your desire to protect her, both myself and Doctor Evans exaggerated the severity of your condition. Counterfeit justice can easily be purchased by men like Jonathon Hanfield, and if you are tried for any of his accusations, I assure you, you will be found guilty. I will not aid him. Fort Kearny’s new commander will be arriving tomorrow or the following day, and he may not feel as inclined to risk his commission on your behalf as I have. Clara Hanfield is almost certainly dead. And if she isn’t, she’s no longer the same young woman you travelled this far to protect.”
Major Brighton sighed.
“Go to St. Joseph, Mister Eastman. Corporal McElroy will help you find a nurse who you can hire to escort you to St. Louis, or Kansas City, or some other city where you can find the care you require. There is nothing for you here, and there is nothing for you at Fort Laramie. Good day.”
He turned and walked toward the door.
Randall’s nearly sightless eyes, now slick with tears, followed him. “Major?”
There was an audible sigh. “Yes?”
“You’re a good man. Thank you for all you’ve done for me.
Please
give Doctor Evans my thanks and warmest regards.”
“I’m afraid he left this morning. Goodbye, Mister Eastman.”
Thirteen
1
It was an hour after dawn. Standing Elk let the gutted carcass of the doe slide off his horse. He spoke some words to Owl Woman, who nodded solemnly and pointed southward. He followed her gaze feeling troubled. He wondered what could have made Henry kill Short Bull for the white woman. Standing Elk may have convinced Short Bull to trade for her if Henry desired her, although he couldn’t understand why Henry would. The woman would only bring trouble from the whites. Henry did not often speak in length. His words were few but his thoughts ran as deep as the rivers during the moon when the geese lay eggs. When he did speak in length, his words were worthy of ears. Henry was as Standing Elk in this way. He would find Henry. They would smoke a pipe and speak worthy words with each other.
Fourteen
1
Sergeant Campbell’s expression was one of resignation as he watched Theo Brandt stride toward him across the parade yard. He wondered where Brandt’s crony was; the southerner with the arrogant air of self-importance. Sergeant Campbell found Brandt distasteful in a way he couldn’t describe. The man’s eyes seemed to always be smiling, even when his mouth wasn’t. He looked like a dandy, but the sergeant thought it would be a mistake to think he really was one. Brandt had been loitering about ever since the Hanfield woman was taken during the Indian raid.
“Go ahead and dismiss the men, Corporal,” he said to the soldier standing next to him. He’d just finished issuing new Springfield rifles to a company that had arrived the previous day from Kansas. He took a few steps forward to meet Brandt. He knew what it was regarding, and didn’t want the men to hear the conversation.
“Sergeant Campbell, it’s my understanding that Clara Hanfield has been found alive, and that she is in the company of a negro scout who goes by the name Henry. May I ask why she wasn’t brought here immediately after her discovery and rescue?”
“I couldn’t say, Mister Brandt. You’ll have to ask Miss Hanfield or Henry that question.”
“I would love to do that but unfortunately they’re not here, are they? And since you seem to be the only one the negro—”
“Henry. His name is Henry.”
“You are the only one Henry saw fit to inform that Miss Hanfield was found alive. Did he explain to you how he managed to free her from her captors and why he didn’t bring her here with him? And my employer—Miss Hanfield’s father—will be interested in knowing why, when this…Henry came to you with the news, you did not dispatch men to see her safely back here?”
“Mister Brandt, I can appreciate that Mister Hanfield is worried about his daughter, and that you have to answer to him about the situation, but you might consider that you and Mister Hanfield owe Henry a debt of gratitude. He didn’t bring the Hanfield woman here because she didn’t want to come here. He’s escorting her to where she wants to go.”
Theo eyed him coolly. “Yes, to find John Elliot. I know. Captain Lange told me everything—here he comes now.”
Captain Lange, a short, barrel-chested man with a wild and unkempt beard, walked purposely toward them. Sergeant Campbell steeled himself for what was to come. Whatever it was, he knew it wasn’t good. When he reached them, Sergeant Campbell saluted. Captain Lange returned the salute, glanced uneasily at Theo Brandt, then returned his gaze to Sergeant Campbell.
“Sergeant Campbell, pick twenty men and go find that nigger and bring him and the Hanfield woman back here—Elliot too, if he’s with them. Mind you bring them directly to me, even if General Moonlight has returned. You understand that, Mister Brandt? I want to see Clara Hanfield with my own eyes before you take her back to New York.”
Theo Brandt nodded his assent. Captain Lange eyed Sergeant Campbell.
“You have something to say, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir, I do. According to Henry, Miss Hanfield chose not to come here of her own account.” He stole a look at Theo. “I’d say that makes it none of our affair. Besides, with so many men gone with General Moonlight, I don’t see that we can spare the troops.”
“Is that so, Sergeant? Mister Brandt, will you excuse us?”
“Certainly. I’ll prepare my men to depart.”
“Fine.” The captain waited until he was out of earshot. “Sergeant Campbell, I don’t care much for you, and I know you feel the same about me, so in most cases I would tell you I don’t give a damn what you think about anything. But in this case you’re right, so I’m going to give you an explanation: Jonathon Hanfield owns one of the largest shipping companies on the eastern seaboard. He entertains senators, congressmen and generals. His only daughter somehow managed to chase her childish infatuation all of the way out here only to get captured by Indians. I don’t even want to think about what they may have done to her. Now she’s roaming around the countryside with a nigger. Does that sound like a woman capable of making any decisions for herself? Now you go and find her and bring her back. I’ve given Brandt and his men permission to accompany you. Two of them are trackers, according to Brandt. I’d rather have someone I trust, like Jim Bridger, but he’s off elsewhere. I want to be able to send word to Jonathon Hanfield that his daughter is on her way back to New York inside of two weeks. Now move your ass, Sergeant.”
“Sir?”
“What?”
“Sir, they have almost a two day head start, and I’m not certain where exactly they went. I don’t see how we can have her back here inside two weeks, if we can find them at all.”
“I have faith in you. It’s your ass otherwise.”
2
Theo Brandt ducked his head inside the tent Emmet Dawson and his son James shared. The two were sitting on the canvas floor playing a card game.
“Prepare to leave. We’ll be riding with a detachment of soldiers to follow the negro. Inform the Beadermans and meet me at the store in an hour.”
Emmet handed his cards to James and stood. “Are you certain the young woman is even with him? Niggers are a dishonest lot, and you said yourself this sergeant never actually saw her. Perhaps he is after the generous reward you’ve been so proudly announcing.”
“He was leading a horse with a ladies’ saddle on it, and he’s a known friendly to the Indians. She’s with him.”
“He’s also an escaped slave who most certainly murdered his owner.”
“Haven’t you read the papers? The war’s over and so is slavery, Emmet. If you have a grudge with the negro—if he’s even the one you think he is—you can settle it once Clara Hanfield is safely under my protection.”
“It’s him,” James said.
“That’s wholly your business once you finish assisting me in mine. Which will happen sooner rather than later, I hope. I would like to quit this God-forsaken place at the earliest possible moment.” Theo turned from the tent and called out over his shoulder. “One hour, gentlemen.”
“In a hurry to get back to his tailor, huh, Pa?” James said.
“The Yankee is our employer. We should not speak ill of him, even in jest.”
“Pa, are we ever going to go home?”
“We’ve spoken of this enough, James. There is nothing for us to go home to but the blackened remains of the house my father’s father built, and a grave. You may choose to go back there someday; it’s yours by birthright. I’ll not step foot there again in life. For now, we have other matters. Go and tell Wayne and George it’s time for them to earn their keep.”
Two hours later the twenty-five men were heading southeast in search of Clara Hanfield.
Fifteen
1
John looked down at the remains of the four men who’d refused to follow Picton. He had no way of identifying them: they were stripped naked, their genitals and ears had been cut off, and there were no belongings. Their faces were bloated and streaked with dried blood. Huge, black flies crawled lazily over them. Nonetheless, John was sure he was looking at the four men w
ho’d struck off for home shortly after the massacre in the very spot he now stood.
The massacre in which he himself had been a willing participant.
In the days following his departure from Picton and his band of raiders, John had travelled slowly and incautiously, both fearing and welcoming a similar fate to the men he now stood over. Henry would have understood.
Staring at the four men and the blackened and greasy looking pile of burned Cheyenne women and children, he became aware that there could be no atonement for the atrocity before him. He also realized that bathing in guilt and self-loathing would serve no purpose at all. He had to somehow stop Picton, and he should be making all haste to do so.
He turned from the scene and saw two riders heading toward him. Fear gripped him, and he was momentarily unable to move; the solitary perpetrator discovered standing over the evidence of an unforgivable atrocity.
The riders were too far away for him to tell whether or not they were Indians. He mounted his horse and waited.
2
“There’s someone up ahead,” Henry said.
Clara squinted her eyes. “I see. Do you think it’s an Indian?”
“It isn’t an Indian.”
Henry reached back and slid out the Spencer rifle. He laid it
across his lap and continued on. “We’ll see who it is. Could be they need help.”
It had been five days since they’d left Owl Woman’s camp, and Henry was impressed with how well Clara adjusted to trail life after being accustomed to such wealth and privilege. She rarely complained—except for good-humouredly about the food—and could ride both well and for a long time. There were other things, however: The last three mornings when she’d walked off to do her necessary, Henry heard her retching. Finally, he asked her if she was well. She told him not to be concerned and that she was fine. He’d nodded but felt uncertain. Clara reassured him it was something that occasionally happened to a woman. He’d nodded again but felt no better about it. She also still awoke crying out every night.
In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Page 19