by Ford Fargo
"Come here. Yeah, you."
The little girl cowered. Her wide eyes darted around, a trapped animal looking for escape.
"Your ma's Lilybeth, isn't she?"
The girl solemnly nodded. If Wil hadn't blocked off any possible escape she would have bolted.
"She's in a family way?"
Again all he got was a single nod. He fumbled about in his pocket, pulled out a ten-dollar gold piece just paid him by Pratt. With a great show, he held it up, let the sun glint off it, then quickly palmed it. He thrust out his fist.
"Put your hand under mine. Go on. I won't hurt you."
The girl hesitantly reached out. Wil slowly opened his fist and drew back. The gold coin now rested in a small, filthy palm.
"You give that to your ma. Don't you go tryin' to spend it now, you hear? You give it to her so she can get some decent food 'fore your baby brother comes."
"Might be a sister." The girl finally spoke. Her voice was as timid and frightened as she looked.
"You're right. It might be a baby sister. You give that to your ma and you take real good care of your baby brother—or sister."
He didn't wait to see what the girl did. Any thanks would have fallen on deaf ears. He neither wanted nor expected it. Stride longer now, he got to the saloon and went inside just as Asa tapped a new keg of beer. For once, it didn't taste bitter. Not at all.
***
A little tipsy, Wilson Marsh made his way from Asa Pepper's back to his studio. From the glare of the sun and how it hammered down on the crown of his bowler, it was nigh on noon. He had wasted the morning, and it felt good. Damned good. He patted his vest pocket where most of the money from the Short Finger-Pratt deal still rode. Asa had given him a hard time about his tab, but the saloon keeper never let him have too much credit, so a single coin had taken care of not only his bill but the rest of the morning's drinking.
He slowed when he got near his studio. A moment of panic seized him. Then he hiccupped, smoothed his shabby coat and tipped his hat to a jaunty angle. With more confidence than he felt, he went to the front door where a cavalry officer stood impatiently. He had stripped off his canvas gloves and clutched them both in his left hand so he could swat his right palm repeatedly as if he killed flies. The image made Wil giggle. He swallowed such drunken mirth when he saw the fierce look the officer gave him.
"Good afternoon, Major. Are you waiting for a portrait? A fine-looking officer such as yourself needs a—"
"Are you Wilson Marsh?"
Wil almost denied it and kept walking. The only run-ins he had were with the local law. Satterlee and Gardner had it in for him. So far he had kept clear of the cavalry, though he had ridden with Captain Dent and not been appreciated.
"I am the town photographer. What is it you want from me, Major?" He let the sentence hang just a moment.
"I am Major Joab Putnam, acting commander, Fort Braxton."
"Do tell. Come on in, Major."
Wil got the door open. He kicked a folded piece of paper to one side. He always stuck it under the door when he left the studio. If it was disturbed when he returned, it meant someone had come a' calling. It was a simple way to protect the sanctity of all the blue pictures he had taken. Even so, he glanced toward the floorboards in the corner. Beneath them in secure containers were the original photographic plates. The place could burn down and those plates would be secure.
The major looked around the studio and sniffed, as if the chemical odors offended him. From the way he held himself, most everything offended Joab Putnam. He had a face that was hatchet-thin and a long nose that jutted out like a knife blade. His blond hair was curly and seemed to float as a stray gust of wind blew through the door. Such flowing locks looked better on a woman, but Wil wasn't likely to tell the man that. He wore a bushy mustache that quivered as his upper lips registered new displeasures as he walked around.
The man was tall, thin as a rail and his quick, nervous movements warned of a spring pressed so tight it might erupt at any moment. What direction such an explosion might go depended on the man's choler.
"You have the look of an academy graduate."
"You have a sharp eye, sir."
"I'm a photographer. That's what people pay me for." Wil neglected to mention he recognized the ring on the man's bony finger. "You said you are the acting commander at the fort. What's happened to Lieutenant Colonel Vine?"
Putnam made a vague gesture, then slapped his gloves across his palm. He stood a little straighter, as if watching his post ride past in review before speaking again.
"He has returned to Washington to visit family."
"Always a good family man, but . . ."
"But? Are you impugning his integrity, sir?"
"Not at all, Major. It's just that the post has been needing a real officer to command it. A West Point man like yourself. Discipline has been lacking." Wil watched closely for the proper signs that he hit the man's reason for being. It came to him in a rush how to deal with the major. "And, from what I can tell, as a civilian only, mind you, Vine lacked gumption. He should have used his troopers to better end."
"How is that, sir?"
Wil saw he had the major's attention now—and his agreement.
"What good is having a cavalry unit and letting it rust away with garrison duty? He should have been in the field, bringing glory to the troops and himself. Distinguish yourself in battle, I say."
"Like General Custer."
"The Boy General. Yes, Major, that Medal of Honor he won was deserved." Wil ignored the court martial. "To sally forth, to go into battle with pennons flying, the bugler giving the order to charge."
"I see that I have found the right man for this mission."
"I'm not a soldier, Major Putnam. I am only a humble photographer, following in the footsteps of the great Mathew Brady and others."
"Exactly!" Fire lit the man's pale blue eyes. His thin lips curled into a cruel smile, and Wil thought he grew a couple inches in stature as ambition burned him alive. "I need photographic evidence of my prowess—of my men's prowess—in battle against the savages."
"Haven't heard of any trouble. Old Mountain has settled down peaceably enough, off the traditional Kiowa hunting land. How they got him to agree to that is anybody's guess."
"They stir," Putnam said as if calling to the heavens to inform God and all the angels. "They prepare for war."
"How's that?"
"The Kiowa and the Cheyenne conspire to unite against all the settlers. They are plotting to eradicate every white man in Wolf Creek. Then they will sweep across the plains for larger towns."
"That's a prospect to strike fear into all our hearts." Wil wondered what the hell the officer was going on about. The Kiowa were settled down now, and even if Cheyenne came this far south and east, an alliance likely divvied up buffalo hunting and wasn't to take scalps.
"Pack your equipment. You will ride with C Company as we meet the redskins in battle."
"C Company? Captain Dent's company?" This gave Wil pause. Tom Dent was always polite, but it was a cold polite that iced his bones and made him wish he was somewhere else—anywhere else. "He still riding with the half-breed?"
"Do you mean Charley Blackfeather? Yes, he is scouting for the captain. I don't know the ʼbreed personally, of course, but Captain Dent is high on his ability to track and scout. It's good we have some who are traitors to their kind, though in this Blackfeather's case, it can only be said that he is half a traitor."
If the major had picked two men more likely to do him dirty, Wil couldn't name them. Except for the sheriff and the marshal. Some of the others in Wolf Creek had less than his best interests at heart, too. But in the field, he depended on the protection afforded by the captain's troopers. All Dent had to do was pull that detachment and there might be one dead photographer entombed in his rolling darkroom.
He hadn't worked that much to convince Short Finger his pictures stole away souls. Would Blackfeather believe that tall tale, too? I
t gave him hope of getting some leverage on the scout. A few pictures of enemies as a peace offering might sway the breed's opinion enough to carry on up to the captain. From all he had seen, the scout and the cavalry officer were friends. Or at least they were friendly. That was more than Wil was with any of the soldiers.
"How many pictures, Major?"
"As many as it takes, sir. As many as it takes."
Wil should have refused, but given a free rein to glorify Major Putnam was an opportunity he couldn't pass up. He had money in his pocket. After this expedition against the Kiowa and the Cheyenne, he would have pockets bulging with gold coins.
***
One of his better skills was eavesdropping without seeming to. Sitting on the drop gate of his rolling photographic darkroom wagon, Wilson Marsh fiddled with the camera tripod, a small screwdriver turning back and forth but accomplishing nothing but allowing Wil to cock his ear so the powwow with Major Putnam and Captain Dent came through loud and clear. The major had brought Dent to the lot south of Wil's studio for some reason. The best he could tell, the captain was supposed to buy supplies, but the cavalry officer had his scout with him. That didn't ring true for buying supplies for a company as it did the two of them wetting their whistles. More than once, Wil had seen them at Asa Pepper's, heads together and scheming about who knew what. They had always been wary of him, but out here in the lot, with their commanding officer not ten feet away from Wil's tinkering, there wasn't anywhere for them to plot in secret.
"I received a report from the fort," Putnam said. He slapped his gloves across his left palm to emphasis how serious the new information was.
Dent glanced toward the half-breed scout. Charley Blackfeather stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Rather than wearing Indian garb, Wil wondered why the scout wore a cavalry trooper's jacket over a denim shirt. The canvas trousers might have been taken off a dead prospector. Ever vigilant, Wil identified a few dirt stains. He doubted Blackfeather had been panning for gold along Wolf Creek. More likely he had scooted along in the clay and gotten the white stains on his knees from spying on the Indians that had Putnam so hot under the collar. Charley Blackfeather sure as hell wasn't trying to pass as a white man dressing like one.
But there was a bigger question gnawing at him. Wil wondered what went on in the captain's head. Although his scout showed no emotion, Charley Blackfeather's opinion of the major was obvious in the way he stood, how his attention wandered when he ought to have been listening. Wil hastily returned to his screwdriver when Blackfeather's dark gaze fell on him. All it took was a single word from the scout to the captain, and Dent would send him on his way. Wil found himself more excited than ever at the prospect of what was going to happen and wanted to know all about it without the major telling him.
Spying was half the fun.
"About the Cheyenne," Dent said with no enthusiasm.
"Yes, the interlopers. They are a danger. They incite the Kiowa into rebellion." Major Putnam emphasized this bit of information with a particularly hard slap of his gloves. Wil jumped when the crack sounded like a whip above a mule team.
"So, we're launching a campaign against the Cheyenne? Is that it, sir?" Tom Dent frowned. "I hear from the settlers scattered all over the prairie. The band of Cheyenne coming from Colorado had family with them. They never even stole a sheep or cow. Gerald Grimes, a ways to the northwest of the fort, said he was afraid at first, then sold for good money two cows and a plow horse he was going to put down. He told my scout that he wished the Cheyenne would settle down here."
"This Grimes fellow doesn't have a family, does he?"
"I don't know what that's got to do with his bartering, Major. He—"
"He had no reason to fear that his womenfolk would be ravished."
Wil saw Blackfeather recoil at that. The scout almost spoke, but Dent waved him to silence with a curt gesture.
"There hasn't been word of anything of the sort happening. The opposite, Major. They're moving with their families. War parties are only braves and their mounts, intending to ride far and strike fast."
"I am surprised that a man of your experience on the frontier cannot see through the ploy, Captain." Major Putnam stopped and faced Dent squarely. Dent never flinched.
"What ploy is that, sir?"
Putnam turned red in the face, sputtered and then did a sharp about-face and walked away. Over his shoulder, he issued his order. "Arrange to pick up supplies, Captain. Then rejoin your company and prepare to do your duty."
"What duty?" Blackfeather turned his back to the retreating major. "What is he telling us to do?"
"Cool off, Charley. He's new to Fort Braxton. He might not want anything more than to ride out with trumpets blaring, have this jackass take a picture of him at the head of the column, then ride back into the post." Dent jerked his thumb in Wil's direction.
Being called a jackass was mild compared to what some in town said. Such insults meant nothing to Wil. He tossed his screwdriver into the back of his wagon, hoisted the tripod and slid it under leather straps. With two quick yanks he had the tripod secured so it wouldn't bounce around as they crossed the rugged prairie. Only then did he turn to the officer and scout.
"You got a wagon of supplies waiting for you at Pratt's. You don't fetch them soon, Waymon's likely to take the Army's money and sell the lot to someone else."
"That's what you'd do, Marsh." Dent came over and shoved his face close to Wil's. "The major wants C Company to babysit you. Once we're out on the trail, you fend for yourself. Your wagon breaks down, that's your concern."
"Are you saying you'll have this breed sabotage my wagon?" Wil flinched when Dent lifted a fist to poke him in the face. Only Blackfeather's grip on the captain's wrist kept him from getting punched.
"He's not worth the trouble, Tom."
"You're right." Dent backed away. "Get our horses, Charley. I'll be along in a second." He turned back to Wil. "You're all the time spying when you ought to be minding your own business. Have you heard the major say what he expects from this sortie?"
"He wants to see who in his command he can trust. Can you follow orders, Captain Dent?"
The cavalry officer raised his fist again, then dropped it. Wil had seen thunderclouds stuffed full of lightning that looked less frightening than Dent's expression. The officer backed away took the reins of his horse as Blackfeather held them out, then mounted. The two trotted away, leaving Wil all by his lonesome.
Wil knew it would take Pratt a goodly while to load whatever the cavalry had purchased. He hitched up his swayback horse, then climbed into the driver's box. For a moment, he sat wondering what the hell he was riding into. Then the lure of easy money and photographs that would grace a dozen Eastern magazines prompted him to snap the reins and get his horse pulling. The wagon rattled and clanked as he got it on the street. Rather than going to the mercantile, he cut across town to the main road going north. Dent and his supplies had to leave this way.
As Wil drove out, he saw John Hix in front of his barber shop. There was no love lost between the two of them, but Wil thought the barber looked especially fierce today. He stood in the doorway of his shop, opening and closing a pair of scissors, as if wishing he had Wil's nose between the blades.
"Top of the morning to you, John!" Wil waved. The gesture he got in return made him laugh. Any day he got Hix's goat was a good day, even if he had no idea what provoked the man today.
Then he got his horse pulling a mite faster when the cavalry wagon came tearing down the street behind him. The major wasn't a man to be fooled with. Pratt must have had the supplies ready by the time Dent reached the store.
A mile north of town they joined the rest of C Company. In five, two other companies fell into line, riding fast enough that Wil found it hard to maintain the pace. Major Putnam was in a powerful hurry to get north. This road led toward Satanta, but Wil guessed the goal was this side of the giant oxbow in the Cimarron River on the south banks where Old Mountain had settl
ed his tribe. The major could find out from the Kiowa where the Cheyenne were, then pay them a visit.
It wasn't likely to be a peaceable visit, either. Wil hoped he had brought along enough photographic plates.
***
Charley Blackfeather moved quietly along the riverbank, his feet in the water and his belly sliding in the mud. Occasional rocks made him wince, but the Cimarron had rubbed the stones smooth enough for them not to leave cuts. He slid against a fallen log and let his shadow merge with the rotting limb when two women walked along not five feet away, chattering away about their lovers. Charley smiled, just a little, then waited for them to get their buckets of water and trudge back toward the main encampment.
He flopped on the grass and wiped off as much mud as he could. He wore moccasins. Getting the water out of them took only a few seconds. The hide plastered itself to his feet when he snugged them back on. It would take some time for them to dry. By then he would have finished his scouting and have returned to the Army encampment a mile to the south.
Moving in shadows, like a shadow himself, he neared the settlement. Old Mountain had moved his people here a little over a month ago and given up their traditional hunting grounds in exchange for peace. A few fires smoldered. Some women stirred and went about their tasks in the pre-dawn hour. Nowhere did Charley see anything unexpected. After watching the sleepy routine of a camp not yet awake for another day, he crept back to the river, cut south and then fell into a ground-devouring stride that returned him to the cavalry encampment in less than ten minutes.
Major Putnam had ordered him out. As such, he should report first to the commanding officer. He ought to. Instead, he turned to where Dent had bivouacked C Company. The captain sat by a low fire, poking it with a stick. He never looked up as Charley neared.
"Your moccasins are wet. They make sucking noises when you walk in the grass."
"You make sucking noises when you talk." Charley hunkered down by the fire. The feeble warm helped dry his clothing.