by James Marvin
* * *
The next morning was beautiful. A bright sun bursting up from a red horizon to the east, hanging in a sky of clearest blue, unspoiled by a single cloud.
Crow was up and dressed by a little after five-thirty, buckling on his saber. The way that Menges had been talking earlier in the previous disastrous evening it had seemed that he was going to try and revenge his defeat by the Sioux as soon as possible.
'Morning, Lieutenant,' said Sergeant McLaglen, a clean white bandage round his wounded arm, saluting as Crow emerged from his own tent, blinking in the bright morning light.
'Morning, Sergeant. We sent out a patrol round about dawn?'.
'Sir?' replied McLaglen, puzzled.
'I heard bridles and hooves. Sounded like a patrol.'
'Didn't hear it, Sir. Oh, the Captain's compliments and would you and Mister Kemp attend on him as soon as possible. Sorry. I mean as soon as convenient.'
Crow was amazed. 'Menges actually put it like that?'
'Surely did, Sir. And it's surprised I am by it, after the dreadful shenanigans last night. The Captain seems as mild as milk this morning.' He paused and dropped his voice. 'We all heard the... you know, Sir? I thought you should know that it was the sneaking little bastard, Simpson, that ratted on you and the lady.'
Crow nodded. 'Can't say that it surprises me over much, Sergeant. I guess that little soldier's goin' to get it from someone real soon. Maybe me.'
McLaglen grinned, his face crumpling into a mass of seamed lines like a relief map of a desert. 'Or maybe me, Sir,' he said, touching the butt of his pistol.
Menges was pacing up and down outside his tent when Crow marched up and saluted him. Lieutenant Kemp was huddled in his chair looking uncomfortable but it wasn't clear whether it was because of his stomach disorder or because of hearing, like everyone else in the unit, the amazing public row between the Captain and his wife.
'Morning, Crow,' said Menges, favoring him with a smile. A smile that seemed genuine. Something had happened that had put the officer in a good mood. And that worried Crow.
'We movin' against the Indians today, Sir?' he asked Menges, deciding that if the previous night wasn't going to be referred to then that was all right with him. But the smile on the face of the Captain would, if anything, make him guard his back even more carefully.
'I believe we are, Mister Crow. And I have created a plan that will enable you to use your skills to their best advantage.'
Again the smile. A glitteringly friendly smile that split the chubby face. For the first time Crow realized that the man's sanity might be questionable.
Kemp looked up at Menges. 'I'd be obliged if there could be a chance for me to engage in action against the hostiles, Sir,' he said.
'My, oh my,' said Menges softly. 'Regular fire-eater all of a sudden, Mister Kemp. Still, I believe we shall be able to help you out. We will all move, including wounded, at noon.'
Crow wondered about Angelina Menges. Would she be coming with them? He didn't care that much and he certainly wasn't going to risk a confrontation with the Captain by asking him.
As it happened he got the answer anyway.
A moment or two later Menges sat down in another of the folding canvas chairs and stretched out his legs, smiling like a man who has just completed a most satisfactory meal at the end of a perfect and enjoyable day.
'You have noticed that my wife is not here with us on this fine morning, Mister Crow?' It wasn't the sort of question that needed an answer and Crow kept silent. 'I felt that what the lady needed was to go away from here for a time. Perhaps for a long time.'
As they were surrounded by the Oglala and their allies, Crow was puzzled by this. And so was Lieutenant Kemp.
If she has gone with an escort, how can we have enough men to tackle Crazy Horse, Sir?'
'Good question, Mister Kemp.'
McLaglen stood there, face reflecting the struggle passing through his mind. 'Sir?'
Menges was having a good time of it. 'Yes, Sergeant McLaglen? What can we do for you?'
'I believe that the patrol that went out this morning was only two Troopers.'
'Yes.'
'But... then that was not the same patrol that accompanied Mrs. Menges?'
'Yes, it was.' The Captain was hugging himself with delight at his own cunning.
Then... ' the question that trembled on McLaglen's lips was so awful that the Sergeant couldn't bring himself to frame it to Captain Menges.
Kemp stood up, snapping to attention. 'With your permission, Sir?'
'Granted, Lieutenant.'
'Mrs. Menges has gone to Fort Buford?'
'Correct. Is that all?'
Then Crow knew. Knew with a sick certainty that the man was mad. Knew with the same bitter anger what Menges had done to punish his wife for shaming him.
'With two men?' Kemp's voice cracked in disbelief.
'Correct again, Mister Kemp. Now if that is all then .?..'
'By God, Captain, but that is not all!!'
'What does this mean, Mister Kemp? My wife expressed a most earnest wish to leave this unit. I am sure that you heard her. Did you not hear her?'
'Yes, but...'
'No damned "buts" from you. Or from any man here!! I am the officer commanding this unit and while I live I do what I want with my men. And with that whorin' slut of a fuckin' bitch that used to be my wife!!!!'
His voice rose to a scream and spittle bubbled from the thick lips, dribbling into the dust. Kemp took a step back from his anger, still not able to believe what Menges had done.
'You sent her to Fort Buford with only two troopers as escort? You know that the trail is lined with Oglala. They will all be killed. Your own wife!'
'I will not hear another word about it from you, Lieutenant Kemp,' said Menges, dropping his voice again, looking up to see that every soldier in the camp had stopped whatever he was doing and was listening, gape-mouthed, to the scene. 'Not another word or I shall have you wagon-wheeled with a bayonet between your jaws. Mister Kemp. Not a word. But, I would be interested to hear from you, Mister Crow.'
'I have nothing to say.'
'Nothing?'
'Nothing that I would wish to say to you, Captain.'
Menges smiled. That same lunatic grin that split his face across from side to side. 'I order you to tell me what you think of what I have done, Lieutenant. Trooper Simpson!'
The small, thin-faced soldier appeared from behind the tent, stopping in front of the Captain. 'Trooper Simpson. One of the few loyal spirits in this den of insubordination and treacherous conspiracy. I have just ordered this officer to give me his opinion of my actions. If he refuses I shall have him arrested and you will be the witness to that.'
'Indeed I will, Captain Menges. Indeed I will.'
Although he didn't know it, the Trooper had signed his own death-warrant as far as Crow was concerned.
After a long pause the lean man spoke, picking his words like a man taking fruit from among the spines of a saguaro cactus.
'You choose to use this way of removing your wife, then that is your affair and I care nothing about it.'
'Nothing, Crow?'
'Nothing at all, Sir. But I think it wrong that you should sacrifice two of your men to satisfy your hatred of your wife and to secure her death.'
The silence stretched to breaking-point and on past it.
McLaglen looked as if he was going to speak out and turned it into a cough, while Kemp's face paled beneath his tan and he looked away across the rolling grass of the Dakota prairie.
Crow tensed himself, ready to draw on Menges, watching the private soldier, Simpson, as well, suspecting that he would prove a back-shooter. But neither of them moved.
'I will recall that, Mister Crow. Perhaps we shall talk of this after the coming battle against the Indians. Or perhaps we will not. Perhaps we should meet again in, let us say one hour. Then our tempers can cool. But I am sure that you are wrong about my wife. I shall be going to Fort Buford
and I am sure that I shall meet her there. But you, Mister Crow... I don't think that you will ever see her again.'
As it turned out, Menges wasn't right.
Not completely...
Chapter Nine
Crow could easily have deserted.
Cut his losses and ridden off on the big black stallion, with his guns holstered and his dark clothes on his lean frame. Both McLaglen and Kemp spoke to him separately and urged him not to stay for what they both thought would be suicide.
Kemp put it shortly and simply to him, snatching the chance after they had heard what passed for a briefing from Menges.
'He has murdered Angelina, Crow. Now he plans to complete his revenge with you. You and ten men are to be the bait in his trap, but I don't believe that he will follow on as he has said to save you. And I will be helpless with McLaglen in the rear. When you are dead he will come sweatin' in at the gallop and weep that he was too late and your name will be mentioned in his dispatches for your bravery against desperate odds. Menges can afford to be generous over your scalped and mutilated corpse.'
It was the longest speech that the young Scots officer had ever made since Crow had met him, and he was touched by the man's concern.
'No, but I thank you for it. I am not truly like many men, Mister Kemp. I see my path laid out before me. Some would call it "destiny", but I call it only what I must do.' He paused. 'And I must do it.'
'You will be dead by the time the sun sets. Or tied to a Sioux lodge-pole while their squaws work on your helpless body.'
Crow shook his head. 'I do not believe that. I have been in places and seen what you describe but...' he hesitated as if he regretted lifting an edge of the curtain on his past.
'No, Mister Kemp. I think that this will be a good day for fighting. Perhaps what the Oglala call a good day to fight and a good day to die. Brave men to the front and faint hearts to the rear.' His voice slipped from its normal calm and his black eyes glittered in the bright sun. Kemp looked at him through new eyes, wondering if what Menges had said wasn't true. There did seem something of the Indian in Crow.
The briefing had been short, in the presence of Trooper Simpson.
First McLaglen, and then Kemp were called in and spoken to on their own.
Finally, it was Crow's turn.
Menges sat behind his travelling desk, papers and sketch maps scattered over its top. Simpson stood at the side of the tent, face impassive, listening and saying nothing.
'I give you ten men, Mister Crow. You will ride along this trail, here,' pointing at the biggest map. 'I believe that Crazy Horse will attempt to lead you on into another ambush. You will follow at your best speed. When you encounter superior forces I will be close enough to hear and I will come... to your rescue. Mister Kemp will hold a further five or six Troopers in reserve against a need to cover our return. That is all, Mister Crow, unless you have some questions for me?'
Crow looked at the watching Simpson, trying to see ahead to what was going to happen. Menges had effectively signed the death warrant for his own wife, and Crow could hardly expect anything better for himself. His thoughts were those echoed by Kemp a few minutes later as they waited to set out. There could be little doubt that the Captain intended to simply abandon him when the Indians attacked. But there was no way he could prove that. Not until it was too late. To refuse would be cowardice in the face of the enemy and refusing a lawful command.
Either of those could easily end up with his getting shot.
'No questions, Sir.'
Menges looked surprised, and even, maybe, disappointed. As though he'd hoped Crow would refuse. Or cause a great scene that would give him the rightful excuse to kill him. With Trooper Simpson there it wouldn't have been hard to get away with that. If their roles had been reversed Crow would have shot him down without the least hesitation.
'Very well, Mister Crow. Take your ten men. I suggest using Cantwell, Stotter and Baxter for a start.'
That was an interesting suggestion. With all of them dead it would be easier to edit history regarding the previous day's defeat.
'One thing, Sir.'
'What?'
'Small matter.'
Menges glanced at Simpson and Crow was amused to see both of them looking edgy and worried.
'What is it, Mister? Be quick. There's a deal of planning to arrange for this fight.'
'Unless I'm mistaken, Sir, I imagine most of the planning is already done.'
'What in hell do you mean by that, Crow?'
The tall man's voice remained quiet and gentle. 'Not a thing, Sir. Just a comment in passing, Captain.'
"Well, what was it you wanted to ask?'
'My orders, Sir.'
'Yes?'
'I'd like them in writing, Sir.'
'Why?'
'I have the right to ask for them, Sir, and I am not prepared to say more.'
Menges smiled. 'Very well. Your orders will confirm your part in this mission. That you lead your men in pursuit of any hostiles that appear. That is all they'll say.'
'And that you will immediately come to our support, Sir? Will they say that?'
'Dismissed, Mister Crow. I've told you what to do in the presence of this honest witness.'
There was no point in pursuing it any further. Crow knew that and saluted, swinging on his heel, nearly catching the trailing saber on the leg of the desk. As he reached the door of the tent, Menges called him back.
'Crow.'
'Sir?'
'I'll also say this to you, in front of this witness and not in your damned orders.'
'Go ahead.'
The Captain stood up, thrusting his face close to Crow so that the taller man could smell the stink of his sweat and the sweet scent of whisky on his breath. There was so much hatred in Menges that Crow almost expected it to burst through the flushed skin like wriggling white worms.
'You're goin' to die, Crow. Like that slut of a wife will die. She might get to live a little while the bucks have their way with her, but in the end they'll kill her.'
'If they get her back to the camp they'll probably let her live. It's only white women taken in a raid and killed on the spot that suffer. The Sioux and lots of tribes have kept white women for years without harming them.'
'Yeah. Indian-lover like you would say that. I guess that they'll kill her. Shame there's nobody here but Simpson to hear this, ain't it, Mister Crow? But don't worry on it. I figure you'll be buzzard-meat before this day's out and not a damned thing you can do about it. Refuse and I'll have you shot. Obey and they'll cut you apart while I watch. And there isn't a move you can make.'
'Is that all?'
'Yeah.' Menges laughed.
Without another word Crow left him.
* * *
An hour later they were all on the trail Crow had thought out a plan that might work but it depended on so many factors that he didn't bother passing it on to anyone else. The biggest factor of all that he would be depending on was luck.
The troop as they rode out kicked up a great towering cloud of dust from the dry grass of the Dakotas. Crow and his band of ten Troopers led the column, with Menges and the main body of men a couple of hundred paces behind.
And a quarter of a mile back from them came Lieutenant Kemp with the supply wagon and the wounded. Sergeant McLaglen refused to ride with the sick and maimed and insisted on straddling a huge bay mare, his injured arm bandaged to his side.
They twice saw Indian scouts on the horizon, appearing briefly like shimmering phantoms from the heat-haze and then vanishing. Whatever else happened, nobody could doubt that Crazy Horse was going to be able to pick the time and the place when he finally committed his warriors to the attack.
When they were ten miles from their camp-site, Menges sent a galloper spurring forwards to tell Crow to press on with his men while the remainder of the column rested up for an hour.
The dark, deep-set eyes never altered, and the mouth remained a thin slash across the pale face. Crow nodded t
o acknowledge the order and spurred on forwards, followed by his ten soldiers. Cantwell and Stotter were the first pair in the double columns with Trooper Baxter in the second file.
For the first quarter mile nobody spoke, the shadow of the brooding Captain Menges seeming to spread out across them, over the sun-baked grass and rolling hills.
Then Trooper Baxter called out to Crow.
'Permission to sing, Sir?'
Despite the rules of the commanding officer, Crow knew damned well that the Indians would have seen them leave their camp site and would have shadowed them all the way. Would know where they were going. If he knew anything about Crazy Horse, the wily leader would even have guessed from the splitting of the command what Menges was planning.
'Sure. Give us something sweet and low, Trooper.'
'Somethin' my Ma taught me back at White River Junction, Sir? Gospel Song?'
'Sure. Go ahead. But keep your eyes skinned for an ambush. That means all of you.'
His voice clear and high in the afternoon heat, Baxter sang out the popular old hymn, We Shall Gather At The River. The rest of the patrol joining in with him on the chorus. Far away from Menges and his menace, even Crow found his lips moving to the words.
'Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we all our burdens down,
Raise our spirits and deliver,
And provide a robe and crown.'
Then the chorus.
Ringing out over the prairie and sending the hunting birds circling higher.
'Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river,
Gather with the saints at the river,
That flows by the throne of God:
They were reaching the place where Crow most expected the attack. There were deep draws to right and left and a long valley that cut across their path about a hundred paces ahead. Scattered groups of trees struggled for their existence, giving enough cover for a dozen or more braves.
But it was the valleys that provided the maximum cover.
Enough shadow and dead ground to hide a thousand of Sitting Bull's Hunkpapa Sioux, or twice that number of Crazy Horse's mixed band of warriors.
With only ten men there was no way that Crow could provide adequate cover with scouts. It was better to stick together.