“This man Mosbey is a famous Gray Jacket. A big war chief. He did a lot of damage to the Blue Jackets.”
“Good for him,” I chuckled. No one else was amused.
“In the letter,” Billy tried again, “the woman said she did not believe her lover brought shame to this war chief’s name, meaning this unknown man and the war chief must be closely related.”
I completely understood that part. What continued to confuse me was the almighty rush to the conclusion that the love of Opal-Marie’s life was a spy. I couldn’t help but wonder if, while Stanley had been reading, Hawwy looking off into a middle distance, and Billy translating for my benefit, any of the three had actually concentrated on what was being said. There is a fine line between listening and hearing. In my heart, I couldn’t believe that any of them had ventured to cross it.
I picked up the second watch, gazed sorrowfully at the picture of the young woman. Now, I believed I knew who she was. The only puzzle now was the identity of the man she loved and longed for. The next thing I picked up was the ring. The stone in the center of the ring was something I’d never seen before. It was a pale blue and it seemed to have stars in it. When I turned the ring in the light, those tiny stars seemed to burst. I found that so fascinating that I stared at the stone for a long time. Billy became entranced too, the two of us playing with that ring while Hawwy and Stanley went on the hunt for other incriminating letters. Well, they found more pay-paas, but those were exactly like the ones Mrs. Adams had read to me. Kneeling with his back to me, Hawwy threw those pay-paas aside.
“Wait!” I yelled. Quickly placing the ring and the two watches inside my carry pouch, I rattled to Billy that I would like those pay-paas read to me, too. None of the three were pleased.
And do you know, those pay-paas weren’t anything like those Mrs. Adams had read to me. Stanley could not find one thing about a Mr. Babcock offering a reward for his missing mule. The only thing he found of interest was the Dallas search for parties unknown having accosted a Miss Mildred Tuttle, of “nefarious circumstance.”
“What does ‘knee-fah’ mean?” I asked.
Stanley laughed. Hawwy blushed. Billy explained.
“It means a woman who gives herself for money.”
“Someone did not pay her?”
Billy chuckled.
“Is this a serious crime?”
Billy stopped chuckling, lapsing into deep thought. “It would depend,” he finally said. “Some of those women, no one would give any attention to. But when I was a child living on the streets of Dallas, I knew some of those kind of women who had become very rich. Those women could be scary. If anyone made them mad, they made a lot of trouble.”
“Could they make trouble for men in the army?”
Billy sounded a croaking laugh. “They could make even bigger trouble for someone they didn’t like who was in the army.”
“How?”
Hawwy didn’t know that much conversational Kiowa but he knew enough to convince him that he didn’t much care for the current topic. Slapping his thighs, he left the tent. Not understanding our conversation at all, Stanley looked perplexed. Pausing to look from us to the exiting Hawwy, he made a quick decision and chose to follow Hawwy. With them gone, Billy felt more free to talk.
“Listen,” he said in a hissing whisper, “those powerful women do favors for the army.”
“What kind of favors?” I asked, keeping my voice just as low as his.
“They provide officers with just the kind of women they want. The officers wouldn’t like for one of those women to be upset. They would do whatever they had to do to make her happy again.”
He looked away, waiting while I grappled to understand what he’d said. After a moment, that light dawned bright and clear. We have women like that, too. Admittedly, those women are captives, but for a nice present they don’t seem to mind sharing a stolen moment or two with a needy unmarried man. Those women also have the power to say no. And when they do, those needy men have been known to offer them almost everything they own. Now I was hearing all about how army officers grovel before women.
Astonishing, really, how alike all men are.
Tucking this bit of information deep inside my brain, I went at Billy with another question. “Did you get that box open?”
“Not yet. It’s a hard lock.”
“Then, quick, while we’re alone, let’s get it open.”
TWELVE
It took awhile, that lock was stubborn and Billy cut his finger on the knife blade during the struggle, but finally the lock gave and he pried the lid open. Seeing the contents of that box, our eyes bulged. That box was stuffed with money, with handfuls of it, Billy grabbing it out as fast as he could. I went for the letter he’d left lying at the bottom of the tin box. While Billy played with the bills, spreading them out on the cot, sorting them into piles, I took the letter. Folding it out, I saw that near the bottom was a shiny seal. Neither Billy nor I could read the letter, which decided me then and there that after I learned to speak English, I would learn to read it. But for now, there was nothing for it but to call back Hawwy … and Stanley.
“There are hundreds here!” Hawwy cried, more intent on the money spread out over the cot than on the pay-paas in my hand.
“Is that a lot?”
“It’s a fortune.”
He began counting it, sifting through that money with such a greedy look in his eyes that he stubbornly refused to look away, pay any heed to the letter I repeatedly shoved under his nose. Then the letter was snatched away from me, my head following in a blurring motion. My vision cleared as Stanley, standing close to where I sat on the cot, began to read silently.
“Out loud,” I shouted to Billy. “Tell him to read out loud.”
Stanley did.
From the Office of Commissions
To Sergeant Graham Wakefield, Bugler,
Light Division
Sir:
As stated in reply to your initial query, upon receipt of three thousand Federal dollars, the rank of Second Lieutenant will, with haste, be conferred. Commissioning formalities unnecessarily plaguing your mind are once again as follows.
Once the booking of the commission fees is accomplished, orders will be forwarded to the newly commissioned superior officer, as will, of course, an issued statement from this office to the applicant extending our heartiest congratulations. In answer to your final question, all officers are indeed responsible for costs of rank insignia, uniform cloth, and tailoring.
Lieutenant Colonel Piedmont
“My God,” Hawwy muttered, sitting down heavily beside me. “He was doing it. He was actually buying himself a commission.” Then he looked at me with bare-faced amazement. “But how was he getting the money?”
“By keeping secrets,” I answered. I took one of the watches out of my carry pouch, opened the gold case and showed it to Hawwy. “Read this for me, please. Tell me what it means.”
He looked at it, his eyes bulging all over again. “Hicks!” he shouted, leaping to his feet as well as to the wrong conclusion. “Hicks is the spy!”
Sometimes Hawwy could be so dense I wanted to hurt him.
* * *
Hicks didn’t want to talk. Wholly understandable, hemmed in as that rawboned man was by four nosy turkeys. Stanley worsened the situation by firing questions as he stood there, little writing pay-paas in one hand, pen in the other, nib poised to strike. Hicks looked hopefully at the only other army man in this jumble. Hawwy’s jaws were locked tight, his eyes blazing. Unable to bare this unproductive tension a moment more, I grabbed hold of the sergeant’s arm, pulling at him as I spoke to Billy. Once Hicks understood, I shouted at Hawwy.
“You stay here. And make sure you keep that little man with you.”
Billy and I led Hicks off. Away from an angry officer and a grilling newspaperman, the sergeant proved more forthcoming.
“I did not kill him. I wanted to, but I didn’t.” He took out a cigar from a worn-looking tin c
ase, bit off the end, spat it an impressive distance. Matches were also in the case. Hicks struck one on the heel of his boot and lit up. He was the kind of man who comfort–smoked, and judging from the reek of his jacket, he needed a lot of comforting.
Fanning blue smoke away from my face, I asked, “Why did you ask to go through the dead man’s things?”
“Because he had something of mine.”
I pulled the watch out, held it up high by its chain. Hicks’s eyes lit up, remained fastened on the dangling watch.
“This?”
Trying to be more considerate now, he blew smoke out of the side of his mouth as he nodded.
“It is worth a lot of money?”
“No. It’s only valuable to me.”
“Why?”
“My father gave it to me. A year before he died.”
“How did Buug-lah come to have it?”
Hicks didn’t want to answer. For a space of minutes he battled between the desire to have his property returned to him, and the necessity of giving up the information that would secure the return. To tempt him further, I caused the watch to swing, the sunlight glinting off the gold metal. By the third swing, desire won out.
“He was keeping it until I received my pay packet. According to him, I owed him twenty dollars.”
I swung the watch more. “Why?”
“It’s all Cullen’s fault!” a very frustrated Hicks hollered. “If I hadn’t been with him that night in Dallas, Wakefield wouldn’t have had anything on me. But because I couldn’t prove I hadn’t been with Cullen the whole of that night, it was just my word against his. I didn’t have enough money so I had to give him my watch until I did.”
I took the man’s hand, placed his watch in the palm. Tears began to shine in the eyes that looked at me so gratefully. He lowered his head.
“Thank you,” he murmured, lovingly caressing the watch case.
He was easy to lead now, and Billy and I led him to the shade of trees, the three of us being quiet for a time. “Tell me,” I said, breaking the silence, “what you know of that night in Dallas.”
Like a fountain he gushed forth.
“We were ordered to the Territory and given four days’ leave in Dallas before the reassignment. Cullen liked to go to the expensive places, but I have a wife and a daughter who live back East. I have to send them money, so I can’t afford to spend very much on myself. I went to an ordinary saloon and Cullen went to a better one. I’d promised to wait for him but he was taking a long time. I decided I didn’t want to wait anymore so I set off for the stable to get my horse. I was halfway there when I heard shooting. Cullen ran past me, yelling for me to run. I didn’t question him, I just ran. We got our horses and rode hard out of Dallas.
“I asked him later what had happened, and he said that a woman had tried to cheat him. That as he was leaving, she hollered for the men working in the saloon to stop him. He wouldn’t stop and the shooting started. I didn’t think very much of the story until that dead pig everyone is so worried about went after Cullen, demanding money. Cullen said I was involved too, so he came after me. That’s all I know.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful. I will next speak to Sergeant Cullen.”
Hicks snorted in disdain, stuck his cigar in his mouth and muttered, barely loud enough for Billy to hear. As Billy and I were walking away I asked him what Hicks had said. Billy grunted, “He said, ‘Good luck to you.’”
* * *
Cullen has to be the nastiest man I have ever encountered. And not simply because he was noticeably neglectful about bathing. Everything about him was nasty—his demeanor and manner of indolent speech. Yet as awful as he was, if Hawwy hadn’t been there, Cullen’s insolence would have been much worse.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he answered, languidly shifting the wad of tobacco in his cheek. Sending Hawwy a look of sheer loathing, he spit a brown stream off to the side. Chewing again, he said, “Everybody knows Hicks is a liar and a horse’s ass. You can’t believe a word he says.”
“I believe him,” Hawwy fumed.
Cullen’s smirk became a mocking half-smile. “Well, Lieutenant, that is your privilege.”
The half-smile stretched, indicating that he was not afraid of Hawwy—of anything, really. Nor did he intend to answer any more questions. As he sauntered away, I came to the conclusion that his overconfidence had nothing to do with the recent death of his primary accuser. After all, Hicks and the objectionable Miss Tuttle were still able to testify to his misdeed. This had to mean Cullen had something stronger than two living witnesses.
Stanley was enraged. “That man is a disgrace!”
For once, Henry Stanley and I were in complete agreement.
Having missed breakfast, I was too hungry to think properly. As it was nearing the noontime meal, I started off with Billy to wait for food in the enlisted men’s line but Stanley wouldn’t hear of that. For some unknown reason, he wanted me to eat with him. As my doing that meant Billy would have to come too, Stanley hesitantly agreed to that as well. Which is how I found myself sitting at a table, dining with all those newspapermen.
Those white men might be there to write stories about Indians, but they were a bit discomfited that one was so near to them in the open-sided tent. Then, suddenly remembering that Mrs. Adams was an Indian too, and not wishing to offend her in any way, aside from the lift of brows, the meaningful exchange of glances, they offered no overt objection. Having never before sat at a cloth-covered table, nor been faced with an array of cutlery, I felt at odds with the situation myself. Following stiff introductions, Billy and I were shunted to the end of the table and promptly disregarded. After hurriedly sitting down when everyone else did, my hands nervously but lightly touched the fork, knife, and spoon lying before me. Mrs. Adams, looking pretty in a bright blue dress with a white collar and white cuffs at the end of long sleeves, rested her elbows on the table, hands clasped together. In this pose she craned around the man seated next to her, speaking Arapaho in a near whisper.
“Have you ever eaten with anything other than your fingers?”
I must have sent her a scathing look, for her expression lost its smugness, became instead startled. Then she turned away, rapidly conversing in English to the man on the other side of her. Instantly I felt sorry at having offended her, for without her, I was at a loss. So was Billy. Our presence was generally ignored, the soft hum of conversation flowing all around us, and Stanley became so caught up in it that he completely forgot his two invited guests.
I was decidedly uncomfortable by the time the food was brought in, carried on big trays by three black soldiers. I didn’t look at the soldiers because I was too busy trying to place my napkin across my lap, as I’d observed the others doing. I heard Billy muttering to the soldier placing a plate of food before him and with a pleasant start, recognized William. He beamed me a toothy smile as he placed my plate down, then moved on. I kicked Billy’s leg and whispered frantically, “Tell him I would like to speak to him.”
“Now?”
“No. After we’ve escaped these people.”
The meal consisted of stewed meat, pan-fried potatoes, and a large slice of bread. From the corners of my eyes, I watched the others, not doing anything until I was sure I knew just what to do. Before anyone ate, a large man at the end of the table stood and everyone bowed their heads. I bowed mine too. Billy didn’t. Then that man talked for a while and sat down. Everyone lifted their heads and the meal began and previous conversations resumed.
With the smallest dull-edged knife, people smeared a yellow substance on their bread. When the little crock containing the butter came my way, I, too, slathered my slice of bread, and with the correct knife. The sharper knife was used for cutting the meat, and awkwardly I held that knife in my right hand, the largest fork in the left. Then, before taking a bite, everyone, with the exception of Stanley, switched the fork and knife around. As this seemed to me a waste of effort, I did it
the way Stanley did, keeping the fork in my left hand, continuing to hold the knife in my right.
After all that tedious cutting and forking, I was very glad when that meal was over. But after the plates were picked up and taken away, I was confused as to why everyone remained seated. Until William and the other two soldiers came back, once again carrying heavy trays. I had never before seen or tasted apple pie and since then, I must confess, I haven’t been able to get enough of it. But when that first wedge was placed before me, I couldn’t have been less interested in it if I’d tried. Using the big spoon, I clumsily ate apple pie. It was wonderful, the combination of sharp and sweet tastes pleasantly melting together on my tongue. That dessert was worth every minute of the anxiety I’d suffered through the main meal. I would have gladly gone through it all again for another piece of that pie. Hopefully, I looked up to see if there was anyone who might not be enjoying their portion as keenly as I, might even pass their toyed-over plate in my direction. No such joy. Conversation had become nonexistent; everyone at the table was concentrating on eating this final and most delicious course. Once my pie was gone, I struggled against the temptation of picking up the small plate and licking it clean. Temptation was winning until Mrs. Adams leaned forward and spoke softly.
“You have done very well. These men are saying that you are a credit to the Kiowas.”
A pleased smile on her face, she sat back and began to speak across the table to a man who was openly watching me while, forlornly, I only had eyes for the traces of apple-pie filling smearing my plate. I didn’t take my longing eyes off of it until that plate was picked up and taken away.
* * *
It was easy to get away from the others, even Stanley. The newspapermen might have been impressed with me, but they didn’t want to talk to me or be seen standing anywhere near me. Their attitude about Billy was much worse—for, not caring what anyone of them thought, after not bowing his head during that man’s talk, he’d eaten the entire meal using just the flat-bladed knife. Their contempt of him was confirmed by Mrs. Adams when she paused before me during her sweeping exit, informing me that Billy was uncivilized, that I should choose my friends more wisely. As far as I was concerned, I had. Billy was worth ten of anyone in that tent.
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