Two in the Field

by Darryl Brock

  “Actually, I’m more of a journalist.”

  “Libbie,” he groaned. “You didn’t bring—”

  “Now, Autie, I’m sure Mr. Fowler isn’t here for that. They need help, which I believe Tom mentioned.” She turned to us. “Sensation-seekers and reporters want to take all our time.” She beamed adoringly. “Once, Autie was so hounded by the press that I found him hiding out in the chicken coop!”

  Custer looked less than ecstatic at her sharing that particular recollection.

  “What a caution,” I muttered.

  Cait pinched my arm.

  Libbie urged him to show off his trophies. For twenty minutes we pretended to be rapt while Custer worked his way around the room describing how he’d shot this creature and stuffed that one. He’d taken up taxidermy and treated us to many technical details of the process. We made close inspections of buffalo and grizzly and antelope heads. We studied the black-tailed deer he’d nailed from six hundred yards. We noted details of a sand-hill crane (“extremely difficult to bring down”), a mountain eagle, a tiny yellow fox, and a great white owl whose glass eyes followed us from above his desk. I could feel Cait struggling to keep quiet, revolted by this killing for souvenirs.

  “Autie loves all creatures,” Libbie said, as if sensing her reaction. “Out on a march he will lead his men around nesting meadowlarks.”

  Why? I wondered. Not worth stuffing?

  Cait had had enough. “The reason for our coming—”

  “Later, my dear,” Custer said imperiously. “I apprehend your urgency, and will address it after dinner and the affairs of the evening.”

  You asshole, I thought. Cait’s face flushed, which only made her look lovelier. Custer had stolen frequent glances at her throughout his taxidermy tour. Now he offered an arm to escort her. Laughing, Libbie cut in and steered him outside. I looked at Cait, who rolled her eyes wearily.

  We weren’t the only dinner guests. Brother Tom was there with gold braid dripping from his blue cavalry tunic. Also Captain George Yates, a quiet man with a pleasant wife. And Lieutenant James Calhoun and his wife Margaret, who turned out to be the Custers’ sister—and the owner of Cait’s dress.

  As if there weren’t enough Custers, we were introduced to another. Boston Custer was young and sallow of cheek—consumptive, Libbie told us later—and the only man besides me in civvies. He was employed as something called a forage master, for which young Boston drew seventy-five dollars a month, a handsome bit of nepotism.

  Libbie explained that they formed the core of Autie’s “royal court” at Fort Lincoln, her tone nominating it as the grandest assemblage since Camelot. There was much jovial soldier talk and oodles of nicknames: Calhoun was “Jimmy;” Yates was “Georgie;” Boston was “Bos;” Custer was not only “Autie” but “Jack,” from “G.A.C.” stencilled on his trunks.

  Light wines were served, and toasts to the 7th Cavalry followed. Custer and Libbie, teetotalers, hoisted their juice glasses with the others. Mrs. Yates played sentimental songs on an upright piano rented by the Custers in St. Paul, and everybody sang. The young officers flirted obliquely with Libbie, who pretended to be shocked and told them they were naughty.

  We dined on roasted plovers and wild onions and venison, with a delicious gravy over potatoes. Okra and squash came from gardens worked by soldiers. Given the fort’s barren surroundings, it was an impressive table.

  Talk swung to last year’s Black Hills trek, which the men unanimously agreed had been glorious. Custer ranked it among the best experiences of his life.

  “It wasn’t so very pleasant for us waiting here,” Libbie said with a pout, drawing nods from the other wives. “Not after the Sioux chiefs came here and warned you against going into their country.”

  “We feasted them in proper fashion,” Custer said. “Then went with a larger force.”

  The men laughed.

  “We heard that four thousand savage hostiles had beset you.” Libbie shut her eyes and shuddered. “Small wonder I swooned in your arms when you rode in!”

  “You were very brave, Sunbeam.”

  I stared at my plate.

  “Someday,” Custer promised, “I’ll show you the Hills in all their splendor.”

  Unable to hold back, I said, “Aren’t the Indians guaranteed that area?”

  “Why, yes.” He turned slowly to me. “By the Treaty of Laramie, signed in ’68, that is presently the case.”

  “So aren’t we breaking the law by trespassing?”

  All of them were looking at me. Not only had Custer led a thousand-man force into the Black Hills, he’d allowed his name to be attached to rumors of gold there.

  “The Sioux and others have also broken that treaty,” he said in a lecturing tone. “They agreed not to harass settlers along the railroads and rivers, but in the past year alone, over a hundred whites have been killed between the Yellowstone in Montana and the Niobrara down in your Nebraska territory. Yet we’ve continued supplying the tribes’ rations well beyond the four-year period called for by the ’68 treaty. We’ve spent millions doing that.”

  I asked if those millions actually went to the tribes.

  “That is another issue,” he retorted. “Nobody criticizes the Indian agencies more than I. My point is that our government has abided by the treaty. Since the Black Hills continued to be a haven for hostiles, however, I was ordered to make a quick reconnaissance mission. Which I did.” He spread his hands flat on the tabletop.

  “Gold and other minerals make that territory too valuable not to be developed,” Tom Custer chimed in. “History will decide the matter.” He looked at his older brother. “I believe we’re in a falsely quiet period just now.”

  “Is that so, Autie?” said Libbie.

  Custer nodded. “Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse won’t agree to selling their sacred Paha Sapa, even if all the others do. That was shown last month when they refused to accompany Red Cloud and Spotted Tail to Washington to complain about the agents.” He sighed. “Lord knows, they have plenty to complain about, but I agree with Tom that we’ll have to settle with the hostiles. All tribes will be ordered to their reservations before the year is out, and I have a hunch that those two, Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull, will defy us.”

  “Have you seen Crazy Horse?” I asked curiously, aware that the famous Oglala chief did not allow himself to be photographed or sketched.

  “On the Yellowstone once, through glasses,” he said. “My scouts told me it was Crazy Horse. Unlike the other chiefs he wears but one feather.” He laughed. “He tried to lure me into a trap that day—a predictable Sioux trick—but I was too canny to chase after him.”

  “That’s probably a good policy.”

  He frowned. “What is?”

  “Not chasing him.”

  Custer’s electric eyes bored into mine. “The Oglalas were unusually aggressive that day,” he said sharply. “They took us by surprise and nearly overrode our positions. But once we massed and advanced with all weapons discharging, they broke and fled. They’ll do it every time. It’s a fact, mister.”

  It’s a fact you’re gonna die thinking that way.

  After dinner, to our disgust, we had to wait further while they played charades for several hours. Finally everybody but Tom departed. Custer then sent us back to his study while his brother “briefed” him on our situation. A chain of command thing.

  “I must advise you not to go,” he said on joining us. “Adding your lives to your son’s won’t benefit anybody.”

  “We’re going,” Cait said flatly. “Will you help us?”

  “How?” he countered. “If I offer men or provisions, I’ll face a court martial for deliberately countermanding orders.”

  “How about volunteers?” I said. “Maybe a few men who missed last year’s expedition and just happen to go out riding with us.”

  He snorted in derision.

  “An Indian scout or two, then,” I persisted. “They’re not official army, right?”

  “
Most of them deserted last time,” he said tersely. “They won’t go near the Paha Sapa.”

  “Why not?”

  He smiled. “Fear of the Great Spirit who speaks there in a voice of thunder.”

  “Then you refuse us help?” Cait said, as if she couldn’t believe it.

  “I am helping,” Custer retorted. “I’m offering professional advice, although as an officer of the United States Cavalry I cannot take action. In your spot, here is what I would do. First of all—” he turned and spoke to me—“I would leave Mrs. Fowler here. Exposure and bad water killed two of my men out there. It’s no place for a white gentlewoman.”

  “I’m going to find my son!” she said indignantly.

  “Very well.” Custer studied her, the my instead of our doubtless registering. “Then it’s crucial that you move swiftly, while things remain peaceful. You have the advantage that our route has been improved on; there’s even an occasional coach out of Bismarck that carries gold seekers close to the Hills.”

  “I thought that they’d all been removed,” Cait said.

  “Hundreds were, but there’s no way to prevent some from sneaking back. Troopers, too, have deserted to hunt gold.”

  I saw a ray of hope. “The army’s still in there?”

  “In again,” he corrected. “An infantry company and several cavalry troops under Captain Pollock have been detached to the Hills until further notice.”

  “Can’t we wire him to find Tim?” said Cait.

  “There is no telegraph line anywhere near.” Custer smiled indulgently. “Tomorrow I will indeed send a wire to Omaha. From there it will be relayed to Fort Laramie, then delivered by rider to Pollock. But if the men you seek are well hidden …” He finished with a shrug, then let his eyes travel over Cait. “If you insist on going, wear men’s clothing.”

  “For a certainty,” she said in a flat tone.

  “You’d do well to buy provisions and digging tools in Bismarck,” he told me, “and offer to outfit six or eight gold seekers to take along to discourage Indians. Make sure somebody has been that way before and can guide you.”

  “Any idea where to look for McDermott?”

  He stroked his mustache. “The richest territory for claim-jumping is north of where we explored last year, called Custer City now,” he replied. “That’s good for you because it’s closer and your enemy won’t expect you from the north. Once in the Hills, pare your numbers down so you can move with stealth. There are many small canyons with streams. You’ll need to scout them carefully.”

  “We’ll find him,” Cait said.

  “With your spirit and some luck,” Custer told her, “you just might do it.”

  I could tell he didn’t think we had a prayer.

  “In the morning get some orders of rations from our quartermaster.” He handed me a slip of paper. “It’ll help out in the first days, when you need to move fast and don’t have time to hunt.”

  Cait thanked him and said, “I’m afraid we have nothing to offer in return.”

  She said it sweetly and I couldn’t tell if she intended any irony. In fact Custer hadn’t given us a hell of a lot. But I did have an offering for him. His life.

  “May I say something?” I asked at the library door.

  “What is that?” He looked expectant, probably anticipating praise.

  “If you go after the Sioux next summer, don’t split your command.” My words came faster as his face hardened. “Especially if you find them at the Little Bighorn River—”

  “Samuel, what are you—” Cait began.

  “Whatever you do, don’t attack them.”

  “Why not?”

  Well, there it was. How could I answer? Try to tell him that he and all his men would be wiped out?

  “Believe me,” I said. “It will be a terrible calamity.”

  “What impels you say this, sir?”

  “I … uh … I just know.”

  He smiled coldly. “I see.”

  “I can’t tell you any more than that.”

  “No.” He held the door wide for us, his face unfriendly. “I dare say you can’t.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  All we lacked was a guide.

  Linc and I stood beneath a gaudy sign that read Banjo Bill Kuller’s Argonaut Emporium on the dust-blown main street of Bismarck, our supplies piled all around: a pup tent for Cait and tarps for everybody else; rubber and wool blankets, spirit lamps and alcohol, matches, flour, lard, coffee, vinegar, baking powder, dried apples, bacon, beans, and cooking pots. Also several new Winchester ’73 repeating rifles with impressive firepower that we hoped would safeguard us against bandits and hostile Sioux.

  For our prospector companions we had rubber hip boots, picks, gold pans, saws, hatchets, long-handled shovels, quicksilver, and a powerful magnet for use in cleaning gold. Such things were plentiful in Bismarck, where many establishments competed to equip “Pilgrims” and “Argonauts.” Traffic to the Hills was picking up again since most of the army had pulled out.

  We’d recruited half a dozen eager volunteers in the first saloon we visited. They were still boys, really, but eager for riches and adventure, and they seemed reasonably familiar with mounts and guns. What else they knew I had no idea, and didn’t much care. Once we reached the gold area, they’d be on their own. “No stops along the way,” we’d made clear. “Not for sickness. Not for injuries. No stops whatsoever.”

  They agreed.

  We’d paid a stable for our three mounts—the goldbugs provided their own—and six pack horses. Now we were waiting for them to be delivered. Cait was in a hotel room, presumably putting on her new jeans and otherwise making herself ready for the rugged 220-mile journey.

  The trouble was, we didn’t have a guide. Linc’s night among Custer’s Crow scouts had confirmed that they would not go there with us, in good part because they feared Crazy Horse. In Bismarck we’d found several so-called guides who’d visited the outskirts of the Hills, but none had ventured very far inside.

  So there it stood. All we had was the generalized map we’d brought from O’Neill City, on which Linc had noted some information from Custer’s scouts.

  “We’ve got to go anyway,” I told him.

  “Easy to get lost without a guide.” He looked troubled. “Easy to get ambushed if we don’t know what’s ahead.”

  “What choice do we have?” I said. “We’ve got to find Tim.”

  Just then a whoop came from a stretch of the riverbank called Pleasure Point, where a collection of huts sported signs such as “My Lady’s Bower” and “Dew Drop Inn.” As the commotion continued we turned to see a ragged figure go sprawling to the street in front of jeering men and grinning whores.

  “Panhandle over there!” one of them yelled, and pointed at us.

  The figure rose slowly and stood weaving.

  “Drunk Indian,” Linc muttered.

  He spotted our piles of goods and came lurching our way.

  “I don’t believe it,” I said wonderingly.

  “What?”

  “He’s the one who nursed me to health and left Lily behind.”

  It took him a while to reach us. “How,” he said, raising his hand in greeting, then stretching it out to us. “Gib … mahnee.”

  “How,” I said.

  He showed no sign of recognizing me.

  “Woka,” I said, and mimed drinking.

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Why’d you run off and leave your baby?” I rocked an imaginary infant in my arms.

  “Let me give it a try.” Linc cut loose with a series of whooshing vowels punctuated by soft grunts. It must have been Lakota because the Indian did a big double take and fixed his bleary eyes on me. Fingering an amulet at his neck, he muttered something.

  “What’d he say?”

  “Big medicine.”

  “What is?”

  “I think it’s you.”

  “Me?”

  “He says he’ll come back here—” Linc paused
while the Indian signed—“before the sun goes to bed.”

  “Tell him he’s not getting any money.”

  Linc called out something as the Indian moved up the street with the stateliest tread he could manage.

  “What’d you say?”

  “Asked if he knew of a guide.”

  “You asked him?”

  Linc shrugged. “Got a better notion?”

  He showed up again just after the horses had arrived too late and we’d returned them to the stable for overnight keeping, having decided to start at daybreak tomorrow.

  He’d cleaned up. Buckskin breeches now instead of filthy jeans. Hair combed and gathered together into a braid with beads worked into the tip. Eyes red-rimmed but more focused. Still a sawed-off little runt, but apparently trying to stand straighter.

  “He says his heart is bad.”

  I stared at him. “He’s gonna have a coronary?”

  “Not that kind of bad.” Linc pursued the matter with whooshes and grunts. “More like his spirit.” The Indian’s manner turned reproachful. “He also says you shouldn’t say the baby was his—she wasn’t.”

  “Not his baby? Dammit, I asked him and he said yes, it was his!”

  Linc relayed it. The Lakota eyed me with what looked like heavy irony. “What he told you was, the beadwork on the dog-pull crib was his,” Linc said. “He thought you were admiring his work. Says the baby isn’t his.”

  “Then what was he doing with her?”

  “Says he had a vision,” Linc relayed, after more conversation. “Supposed to give the girl to whites, so she’d grow up protected and maybe someday help her people.”

  Looking sorrowful, the Lakota spoke further.

  “He says he thought when first seeing you here that your having gotten a pelt attached to your face—I reckon he means the beard—would get him off the hook for dealing with you. But his spirits say no, he can’t slide off so easy.”

  “What does he want?” I said. “Lily back?”

  “He ain’t getting that,” Linc said firmly.

  “Ask who the mother was,” I said. “She’s dead, I know that much.”

  “He says it’s not time to tell you.”