The Holy Road dww-2

by Michael Blake

  "And do as I say."

  "Father," began Snake In Hands, "I cannot think when you talk. You talk all the time."

  "Let's just find Mother and the baby and go home," added Always Walking. "All we do now is talk."

  Two horsemen, coming at a canter, emerged from a bend in the road.

  "No more," hissed Dances With Wolves.

  He could see that they were both men and, as the riders drew closer, Dances With Wolves instinctively checked to make sure his rifle was resting in is scabbard.

  When he glanced up again he could see the glint of a metal star on one man's breast and his heart jumped. In a few seconds he would know if the constable had carried out his threat. He hoped desperately that he would not have to kill the approaching riders, because it would give him so little time to locate his wife and daughter. But readying himself as the riders came up, he leaned down along the side of his horse, pretending to check his girth while he gripped the stock of his rifle.

  The man with the metal star brought his fingers to the brim of his hat as he and his companion loped past without breaking stride, and to Dances With Wolves' profound relief the ordinary drum of hoofbeats began to fade behind him.

  "Do not look at them," he whispered in Comanche to his children. When the hoofbeats of the lawmen's horses had fallen away to nothing, carrying off the clearest; most dangerous impediment to the success of his mission, Dances With Wolves' heart quickened with the feeling that the Mystery had come forward to aid him. But as he tried to decide whether or not to turn up a side road, new doubts crowded his mind. Perhaps his wife and child were being kept indoors. They might, for some unknown reason, be in another settlement miles away. Maybe they were ill. Maybe they were dead.

  Still, he took the sidetrack, and as soon as he made the turn, the trepidations he had labored under for so long lifted off his shoulders in the same way a morning mist vanishes under a powerful sun.

  A hundred yards ahead three people were walking up the middle of a hard-packed earthen shack. A small child was sandwiched between a large shuffling man and a woman. The child was holding the woman's hand and no amount of white man clothes could obscure their Comanche identity.

  Dances With Wolves shouted, "Follow me! Don't stop!" and as his horse leaped into a gallop, he was a warrior again, uttering the series of high, sharp barks of a man charging to battle.

  When Stands With A Fist turned to face the oncoming sound, she was momentarily confused by the sight of a white man racing toward her and reflexively stumbled backward for the safety of the roadside. But the white man was screaming out her name in Comanche and all at once she knew it was him. Sweeping Stays Quiet into her arms she jumped back into the center of the road.

  He was coming at a full run and when he leaned along the charging horses' shoulder and extended an arm, Stands With A Fist planted her feet and reached out. His hand slammed into her arm, locked itself on her bicep, and suddenly she was swinging up in a high, smooth arc that brought her down behind the saddle.

  But as she landed on the horse's rump the animal bucked and she listed to one side, almost going over. Struggling to right herself, she lost her grip on Stays Quiet and the little girl tumbled off, landing prone on the road.

  Stunned by a rush of action he could not comprehend, Axel Strunk had stood still as a post, but when he saw Stays Quiet on hands and knees, shrieking in the road, he bellowed in anguish and lumbered toward her. He had taken only a few tottering steps however when he was hit from behind by a force that sent him sprawling to the edge of he road. When he looked up he saw two children, a boy and girl on horseback, galloping after the man who had grabbed Stands With A Fist. And between them, suspended in space, a foot or two above the ground, was his little friend.

  Unable to absorb what had happened, Axel sat crying on the side of the road. Several citizens had witnessed bits and pieces of the rescue, but despite their entreaties, Axel Strunk was unable to enlighten them with further information concerning the bizarre incident.

  As more curious inhabitants were drawn to the scene, it soon emerged that it would be impossible to inform the town constable, for he had already departed on official business to an outlying community. It was quickly concluded that it would be logical to repair immediately to the Gunther home, and it happened that Cousin Gunther himself was in residence when the small mob of worried townspeople, pushing the bewildered, grief-stricken simpleton in front of them, ascended the porch.

  Cousin Gunther had no better luck in extracting an intelligible account from Axel Strunk, who refused to do anything but sit on the bench and sob into his hands.

  It was obvious that Cousin Christine and her child had been abducted, though for what purpose and by whom remained unclear. The kidnapping had only been witnessed in its final stages and those who had seen it were certain that white people, a man and two children, had been the perpetrators. Yet all within earshot were just as certain that they had heard the unmistakable howls of an Indian.

  Before a search party could be formed, the searchers would have to know what they were looking for, and thirty minutes passed before the notion was put forward that a "revenger" had snatched them. That led to an animated discussion concerning the dangers of fooling with someone so crazed, and as Cousin Gunther listened, he became more detached, withdrawing into a dreamy, altogether balmic glow. The regular earnest application of prayer had worked a miracle, releasing himself and his family from their unbearable burden.

  "Yes," he agreed, "a revenger is nothing to fool with."

  The litany of excuses for inaction continued until, at last, a woman who had said little before now shook her head and, in a rare patch of silence, offered the inescapable conclusion no one had yet dared to express, "If they're not dead already, they will be by the time anyone catches up. I'm not letting my husband get killed over that."

  No rescue party was formed that day, and when the constable returned to be apprised of what had taken place he soberly echoed the sentiments of his constituents.

  "No, I can't waste a minute's time tryin' to get them people back. Far as I'm concerned, we're a lot better off without 'em."

  Weeks passed before news of the once-famous captive's disappearance at the hands of a revenger saturated the frontier. But it evaporated rapidly. Alive, Christine Gunther was something to talk about, but death quickly reduced her to an arcane memory of times past.

  Chapter XXXVII

  The fight at Adobe Walls, like other reports of skirmishing along the frontier, elicited little excitement at Fort Sill. That the free tribes had managed to raise such a large force prompted considerable talk, but the fact that a small group of civilian hunters had triumphed over hundreds of warriors only served to confirm the belief that the dismantling and subjugation of the wild societies of the plains was inevitable, and Colonel Mackenzie continued to devote his seemingly depthless reserves of energy to raising the great installation that would function as a clearinghouse for the changeover to come.

  He had been in regular telegraphic contact with General Sherman, who rarely failed to express his ongoing consternation at the massacre on the Great Salt Prairie while he kept Fort Sill's commander up to date on every appreciable shift in the political winds of Washington.

  The president still clung to a policy of pacification, but the General of the Army was certain that adjustments were sure to come. The Quaker plan, for all its scope and sincerity, was not yielding significant results, and fruitless projects supported by public monies were something no politician, no matter how highly placed, could suffer for long.

  Colonel Mackenzie, glad as he was for the biweekly wires, did not have to be told from afar that the assimilation initiative was not working. The proof was in front of his face.

  On balance, he had a high regard for Lawrie Tatum. The little Quaker possessed boundless determination and had consistently attacked his impossible task with the zeal of a terrier unearthing a bone. His honesty was as sincere as his faith, and Colonel Mackenzie c
ould find no fault with all that he had created from virtually nothing. He had erected a school and recruited a Quaker teacher for Indian children, built stockpens to hold the government-issue beeves, had systemized a line of trade for the goods offered by the post sutler, and was even conducting daily classes in the art of agriculture.

  But Lawrie Tatum's naivete could be annoying, and it regularly occurred to Colonel Mackenzie that the shiny-domed, arm-waving little man cut a ludicrous figure. It was as if the agent had mounted a grand party to which no one came. School attendance fluctuated between zero and four or five. Agriculture classes were often canceled because no one showed up, and most of the aborigines who frequented the subtler's store rarely had anything to trade, but merely loitered in the shade of the porch, trolling for handouts.

  Like a wilderness doctor on rounds, Lawrie Tatum rode his mule in a daily circuit of camps scattered through the vicinity, doing his best to indoctrinate and minister to the tiny fraction of wild people who had taken the white man's holy road.

  But despair nagged at him, and it required the Quaker's entire reservoir of faith to continue. There were no leaders among the enrollees, who were comprised of the aged or infirm, the opportunistic, and, in some cases, the feebleminded. Those who had answered his call were merely stragglers. Even Lawrie Tatum knew that his efforts would be fruitless so long as the core of the Comanche and Kiowa nations ran free.

  The first tremor of change arrived at the end of summer, when Colonel Mackenzie was promoted to the rank of brigadier general. At the same time he had been summoned east for the broad purpose of "consultation." Though he could not know the exact nature of his summons, during the long trip to Washington he became convinced that the military was about to assume a more active role in the affairs of the wild tribes.

  General Mackenzie spent a week in the capitol. His evenings were exhaustive gauntlets of social gatherings which did not provide much leisure. The parties and charity functions he attended were packed with military brass, and General Mackenzie, who had never grasped political life or its intrigues, felt uncomfortable in the top-heavy presence of his masterful fellow generals.

  He was even more out of place in the company of women. Perhaps because he had been brought up in a houseful of aunts who had raised him as if he were a little girl, as an adult he ran from anything having to do with the female sex.

  For years he had worried that his lifelong bachelorhood would be an impediment to promotion, but now that he had the stars on his shoulders, he was confident that no amount of whispered asides or late-night pillow talk between man and wife-or mistress-could take them away.

  The peace of mind his generalship afforded him brought with it a clarity, and despite the memories of so many old wounds, he found his powers of concentration at full capacity during the many important policy meetings he attended during the day.

  The round of conferences reached a crescendo on the last full day of his stay, when, in a party that included General Sherman, his number two, General Sheridan, and four other men of field rank, he met with the president.

  At first General Mackenzie was lulled into believing the meeting was of no particular importance. The president and his generals behaved more like old acquaintances than they did men of stature. They bantered among themselves for a time, and even when they got down to business, the agenda seemed to provoke no urgency. Gradually, however, it dawned on the new general that any interview with the commander in chief must, despite the collegial atmosphere, be paramount.

  He listened keenly as General Sherman laid out the state of affairs on the frontier and was taken aback when the General of the Army suddenly turned in his direction and announced, "General Mackenzie, provide the president with a firsthand account, if you please."

  A bolt of panic surged through the new general, and in the second or two it took to subside, Mackenzie's athletic mind formed a plan. He would be clear, succinct, and objective. And he would not try to hide his deformity. If the stumps started their odd clicking, as they most likely would, he reasoned that it would be best if the president not only heard them but saw them as well.

  Thus General Mackenzie placed his forearms on the tabletop, taking care to fully expose both hands, and began a concise report of his experiences in the field. He prefaced his remarks about the activities of the Quaker agents with a brief declaration of the high respect he held them in before outlining the miserable results of their struggle. He related his observations on the massacre of the corn train and a few other examples of outrage that had recently come to his attention. He concluded with a short but dramatic account of the fight at Adobe Walls.

  When the stumps on his hand first began their disconcerting syncopation, the president dropped his eyes to the source of the sound. Mackenzie had paused long enough to provide the commander in chief's gaze a graceful exit, and from that point on, the odd disfigurement ceased to be disruptive.

  The president, who had listened attentively, sat back in his chair and glanced into space before fixing the new general with his smallish eyes.

  "What do you think of those buffalo-hunters?" he asked flatly.

  Again Mackenzie was taken aback.

  "As a race, sir?"

  Everyone laughed, and the president was still chortling as he said, "I can only imagine what they're like as a race — a bad dream!"

  The generals laughed until their eyes ran, and when the guffawing had finally dwindled into snorts and chuckles the glassy-eyed president looked at Mackenzie again.

  "I mean, what do you think of them being there?"

  "Well, I believe it's unlawful, sir."

  "Are you doing anything to uphold the law?"

  "In my opinion, sir it's impossible to enforce the legislation."

  "How can that be? "

  "Sir, the buffalo trade is popular and lucrative. It's something like a gold rush. Every prominent restaurant in this city has buffalo tongue on its menu."

  "That's right," the president agreed, "and it costs an arm and a leg.”

  The room was silent as the president rubbed his eyes with both hands.

  "Well," he said, dropping his hands, "the army is convinced that the peace policy is a failure."

  "On most accounts, sir," Sherman answered.

  The president rose out of his chair, signaling closure. "Come up with an alternative and we'll schedule another meeting."

  "We have an alternative, sir."

  The president stood for a moment longer before descending again to his high-backed chair.

  "Let's hear it, then."

  "Actually, sir," Sherman explained, "it's more a variation than it is an alternative."

  "All right, all right."

  By way of introduction, Sherman indicated the small, bullet-eyed man next to him and said, "General Sheridan has been the primary formulator, so I'll let him speak to it."

  "Good," grunted the president.

  Sheridan was known to the president as a master at applying lethal pressure on a weakening foe, and his ideas for dealing with the "Indian problem" were cut from the same cloth. As he listened, the president quickly realized the plan was smart, simple, and, best of all, politically adroit. The Quaker agents would deliver a clear message to all camps on the plains: all would be required to enroll on reservations within thirty days of receiving the message. Those not enrolling would then be considered hostile and subject to pursuit and punishment by the forces of the United States. The public would believe that the government was offering the olive branch to all 'peace-loving natives' while serving notice to the hopeless incorrigibles. In less than five minutes General Sheridan had laid out a reasonable, workable solution to the whole unrelenting mess, and as the president rolled it over in his mind, he could find no good reason to reject it.

  "How soon would you be able to mobilize?" he asked Mackenzie.

  "In a week, sir."

  Encouraged, Sheridan leaned forward.

  "If I might just add, Mr. President. ."

 
"Yes? "

  "As the ultimatum is delivered. . might it not be wise to invite the most amenable leaders to visit Washington. We know from past experience that a trip to the capitol has a sobering effect, even on the most intractable chieftains. And the timing might prove quite advantageous."

  "Excellent idea," the president remarked, rising out of his chair again. "Let's get some of those people out here."

  Ranald Mackenzie returned from Washington wearing stars and girding himself for battle. He immediately called together the Quaker agents and instructed them to disseminate the War Department's ultimatum to the tribes of the southern plains in any manner they felt prudent. Then he hunkered down on the veranda of his quarters to plan his campaign. One of the hallmarks of the general's field operations was meticulous and canny planning. His attention to detail had enabled him to carry the day on numerous occasions, and he would spare no efforts as he laid his nets for t}re subjugation of the primitives.

  Sheridan seemed to take a campaign for granted, and though Mackenzie had not known him well before his trip east, he departed Washington with the impression that General Sheridan knew quite well what he was talking about. They had shared a brief but memorable conversation as they left the White House and crossed Pennsylvania Avenue.

  "You handled yourself well, General," Sheridan had said' "I particularly liked what you did with that silly question about the buffalo-hunters.”

  "Thank you."

  "The president has been sensitive to this business of the buffalo hunting. Half of Congress — half of the congressional wives, anyway — they're bitching constantly about the 'slaughter of the buffalo.' I don't think a day goes by that he isn't assaulted by some plea to save the buffalo. To hell with the buffalo! Those hunters are saving the army time, trouble, and money. They're killing the Indian commissary. No buffalo, no Indians, no problem. Simple as that."

  "You think there'll be no need of a campaign?"

  "Of course there'll be a campaign," Sheridan replied jovially.