"No, sir, I don't," the lieutenant answered. "And I'm not sure I care to learn."
Drew's anger flared like a bonfire in high wind. He was tired and hungry and hot. He'd been passed over for a plum assignment and given duty he abhorred. It bothered him even more to have to take the Indians' part against some junior officer whom Drew both outclassed and outranked.
"Well, you damn well better learn, Lieutenant," he said, his voice ominously low. "Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse is the peace chief to the Oglala Sioux. He's a man the army needs to cultivate. He could make the difference between a peaceful summer and one that's drenched in blood. So I suggest you take your tail in there, Lieutenant, and inform Colonel Palmer that he has an important visitor.
"Or," he continued, holding the man immobile with the threat in his eyes, "you can direct us to quarters, and we'll wait to have our discussions with those peace commissioners I keep hearing about."
"Oh, Mr. Beauvais and Mr. Sanborne have already arrived," the lieutenant volunteered.
"Have they now?" Drew asked silkily. "Then dispatch someone to let them know that Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse has come to talk. That is what they're here to do, isn't it?"
"As you say, sir," the staff officer relented, and spun away.
Drew escorted Man-Afraid-of-His-Horse and his two companions to benches on Old Bedlam's wide, inviting porch. It wasn't long before Colonel Innis Palmer came out to greet them. The peace commissioners arrived soon after, panting for breath and trailing a translator, a secretary, and several junior officers.
With the situation well in hand, Drew slipped away to billet his men for the night. Drew supposed that either peace talks or negotiations for ammunition would begin in earnest the next day, and since he had no part in those, he meant to leave for Fort Carr in the morning.
As good as his word, Drew climbed the rise behind the hospital just after daybreak and sought out the spot where his first wife lay. He stood over the grave with hat in hand, suddenly regretting that he hadn't thought to bring flowers.
Laura had always liked flowers. She'd liked the novels of Sir Walter Scott, rustling silk dresses, playing chess, and sitting on the veranda in the shade. What else had she liked? Drew couldn't quite remember.
He stared at the neat wooden marker and wondered what he was supposed to feel. The single time he'd gone to where the troopers had buried his parents, the memories and the hatred had torn holes in him. He'd stood there sobbing like a child, shaking and cursing and vowing revenge. He'd left that canyon changed, devoted and impregnable.
Now he looked to where Laura lay and felt not loss, not grief, but betrayal. He had come to the fort as a married man and left a widower, come with a child and left with a responsibility. If Laura had lived, if she'd had relatives he could have sent Meggie to back in the States, he wouldn't be caught like this, saddled with a daughter he cared for but didn't understand, shackled to a woman he both loved and hated, or bound in a marriage that compromised everything he believed. If Laura had lived, he wouldn't be trapped between his responsibilities to the world of the living and the vows he'd made to the dead.
The wind picked up, ruffling Drew's hair, whipping his uniform tunic against his legs. He shivered a little in spite of the growing warmth of the morning sun.
It was lonely here. Quiet and peaceful, but lonely. As lonely as he felt sometimes when he watched Cassandra and Meggie playing together. As lonely as when he awoke from dreams of the massacre and found Cassie sleeping beside him. As lonely as he was when he painted the life and the people he'd lost. As lonely as...
Drew tried not to complete the thought, but his innate honesty wouldn't let him deny it. As lonely as a man who wanted to love and couldn't let himself.
Drew took a long, last look at his first wife's grave and knew she couldn't help him. Even when she was alive, she hadn't been able to help him.
He hadn't been able to help himself.
"Good-bye, Laura," Drew said quietly, and walked away.
* * *
Drew spotted the man as they topped the rise, a lone rider driving a herd of horses and mules. Even from this distance he could see that the man was an Indian. He wore leggings and a breechclout and rode as all the Indians did, as if he were part of his animal.
For a moment, Drew simply watched him driving the herd with nothing more than the wave of a rope and the cantering of his own horse, flowing with the same rhythm and gait as his thick-chested mount. There was poetry in the motion of the horseflesh, in the thick tan swirls of rising dust, and the play of light and shadow.
I'd like to paint this, Drew thought.
In the meantime, the Indian had driven his horses nearer.
Drew pulled out his pocket telescope and scanned the surrounding landscape. Though there was no sign of other hostiles, it paid to be wary. Once he had satisfied himself that the man was alone, he trained the telescope on the herd. He was looking for brands, proof that this redskin had stolen at least some of his stock. What Drew began to realize was that each of the animals was marked—marked with the "US" brand. This Indian had been stealing exclusively from the army!
For a moment Drew was stunned by the man's audacity, and then he laughed.
"Horse thief!" he shouted to the men drawn up behind him, and gestured to the Indian in the basin below.
Those two words served as both order and condemnation. The troopers surged past him in a cloud of dust. Drew watched them charge down the rise. Half a dozen broke to the right of the Indian and his herd, while the rest rode around to the left. Drew galloped after them, howling with exhilaration.
The redskin spotted the soldiers and maneuvered his herd to the south, trying to snake beyond them. But no single man could offset the control of a dozen riders. The soldiers turned the horses, driving them in tighter and tighter circles.
Realizing the herd was lost, the Indian broke for the north like one possessed. Sergeant O'Hearn and Corporal Stockman lit out after him. The three of them thundered past to Drew's right, and after sparing one quick glance at where the rest of the troopers were balling the herd, he spurred his own mount after them.
The Indian was sprawled facedown in the dust with Stockman's boot between his shoulder blades when Drew caught up.
He dismounted on the fly. "Let him go," he ordered.
He pulled out his revolver and jerked the Indian to his feet. "Where did you get those horses?"
The Indian stared back, all tensed muscles and black-eyed fury.
"I want to know where those horses came from," Drew shouted as if the man were only being obstinate.
The brave made no reply.
"You want me to try some hand talk, sir?" O'Hearn offered.
Drew nodded grimly and watched as the sergeant made a series of gestures. The buck answered back.
"He says he rounded up some strays."
Drew gave a snort of laughter. "I'd be a damn sight more convinced if he told me those horses came in the overland mail."
The brave strung together a series of angry gestures.
"He says he heard that the army was paying a bounty for the return of their stock," O'Hearn translated. "He says he was headed for Fort Laramie to trade the horses back and collect his money."
"And a very nice business that could be for such an enterprising fellow," Drew observed.
"He says," Sergeant O'Hearn paused to watch the Indian's hands, "that he got most of the horses from a village of Arapaho up north. He says he'll show us where it is if we let him go."
"He can make that offer to Major McGarrity when we get back to Fort Carr this afternoon," Drew said with a nod. "In the meantime, tie his hands and put him on the back of one of the troopers' horses. I hear the hostiles teach their ponies tricks, and I don't want this one getting away from us."
Stockman did as he'd been bid, while Sergeant O'Hearn wound the Indian pony's bridle around his hand. "Do you believe what that young buck says about them paying a bounty for army animals?" O'Hearn asked.
"I
'll believe what a redskin tells me, Sergeant, only when I see pigs fly."
Chapter 14
"The government's mark is on the back of the label," Hunter insisted, bending over Ben McGarrity's desk and pointing to a stamped impression in the shape of an eagle. "It means that can of milk came from one of the licensed traders."
McGarrity moved the paper closer to the lit lamp and nodded. "And you think one of those men is trading with the Sioux illegally?"
"Condensed milk is too expensive to be on the list of approved trade goods," Hunter said, "yet this can got to the encampment somehow. Whoever traded it is probably trading for other things—like arms and ammunition."
"Like the cache you discovered in Red Cloud's village." The major sat silent for a moment. "And you think this second mark, this horseshoe, will tell us who the trader is?"
"Yes, I do."
"But why would any trader put his mark on contraband?"
"It might have been put there by mistake," Hunter suggested. "Or he might figure the odds of someone tracking down a single can of milk were pretty long ones."
McGarrity nodded and rubbed at his beard. "I'll have someone go fetch Jessup. He's probably more familiar with the traders' marks than anyone."
Tyler Jessup took his own sweet time answering Major McGarrity's summons. When he finally made his way into the office, he was all bristle and blather.
"I don't see why you have to take a man away from his work to answer some damn question," he complained. "Now that the weather's better, the wagons are coming through thick and fast, and with the money freed up at payday, I'm downright busy. I can't afford to have the store locked up for long, so you better tell me what's so all-fired important."
Hunter had seen McGarrity chew up far fiercer men than Jessup and sat back to enjoy the fireworks.
"Well now, Mr. Jessup," McGarrity drawled. "You're here in this fort at the behest of the U.S. Army in general and me in particular. You set your hours by my clock, and the poker game in your back room goes on because I choose to look the other way. Don't you forget for a moment how all this works." He cleared his throat. "Now since we have that clarified, Mr. Jalbert and I have need of your expertise."
Jessup scowled in consternation, knowing he was caught.
"I have the label from a can of milk," McGarrity began to explain, "that was stamped and sold by one of the licensed traders. But on closer inspection, we discovered there's a second stamp."
"It's how we know whose goods are whose when they're shipped west," the sutler volunteered. "Each of us has a different mark."
"Then I would like you to identify the trader who handled this particular can." McGarrity handed the label across his desk and turned up the wick on the lamp.
"You get this up in Indian country?" the sutler asked. It wasn't a particularly inspired guess. Everyone at the fort knew where Hunter had been.
"Well, damn!" Jessup exclaimed when McGarrity inclined his head. "I knew she was up to something when I sold her that milk."
"This is your mark?" the major asked. "This horseshoe?"
"It sure enough is," Jessup confirmed. "My mam used to call me 'Lucky' 'cause she won a big bet on a horse race the day I was born. I been using that horseshoe to mark things all my life."
"And how could you possibly remember who bought this particular can of milk?" the major wanted to know.
"I remember 'cause she bought 'em all. Eighteen cans."
"And who was that?" Hunter asked, his patience wearing thin.
Jessup grinned, knowing he was about to offer up someone's future. "That squaw woman."
"Squaw woman?"
"The one Captain Reynolds married."
Hunter's stomach pitched. "Cass Reynolds?"
"What would Mrs. Reynolds want with eighteen cans of milk?" McGarrity asked, glancing across first at Jessup and then at him.
Considering where he'd found this, the answer seemed obvious.
"Your West Point perfect captain knew about it, too." Jessup was taking a shine to the role of informant. "Reynolds came in on payday and chewed my head off over that bill. I told him then exactly what I'm telling you."
Hunter narrowed his eyes. He didn't doubt Jessup's word. The man was having too much fun causing trouble to have made this up.
Still, it didn't make sense. Hunter knew just how hard Cass was trying to be a good wife to the captain. Why would she deliberately jeopardize his position and her own by selling unauthorized goods to the Indians?
"You going to arrest that gal?" Jessup prodded McGarrity. "She's not to be trusted, not with that heathen mark of hers. Light-fingered, she is, too. She tried to steal from me when she first come. Could be spying for them redskins."
Anger flared in McGarrity's eyes. "We don't condemn people out of hand here, Mr. Jessup. If Mrs. Reynolds sold that milk to the Indians, there must be an explanation for it."
"Explanation, shit! She's a bad one. I knew it the first time I clapped eyes on her." When neither Hunter nor McGarrity jumped on the bait, Jessup shoved to his feet. "So am I done? Can I get on back to my store?"
The major nodded, and Jessup left.
Hunter folded up in Jessup's chair, grappling with the sutler's revelations. McGarrity looked nearly as confused as he felt.
"It isn't possible Cassandra is more than she claims, is it? The Cheyenne didn't send her back to inform on us, did they?"
Hunter shook his head. "You know as well as I do that Cass is no spy, but it looks as if she's the one who gave the Indians milk. We're going to have to question her—"
"Major?" One of the orderlies knocked on the door to McGarrity's office and poked his head inside. "Captain Reynolds just rode into the fort, and it appears he's got a prisoner."
* * *
From the moment he turned his ambition to soldiering, Drew Reynolds had imagined a time when he and his men would ride back to their fort battered, victorious, and covered in glory. Returning with a single prisoner and a herd of rustled horses wasn't everything he'd dreamed about, but they'd recovered more than two dozen head of army stock and caught the redskin who stole them dead to rights. If he hadn't been all trussed up in military regulations, Drew would have hanged the thieving bastard on the spot.
He rode right up to headquarters with his prisoner in tow. He needed a sip of satisfaction after all the months of waiting to fight, and he intended to help himself to it.
Drew dismounted, tightened his fists in the Indian's clothes, and dragged him off his horse. The man's hands were bound behind him, and he fell facedown in the dirt. Drew grabbed the redskin's shoulders and hauled him to his feet just as Major McGarrity strode out the door and onto the porch.
"What's all this?" he demanded.
"My men and I caught a horse thief, sir, on our way back from Fort Laramie," Drew reported. "He had about two dozen head of army horses and mules and hadn't even bothered to doctor the brands. There's no telling where he stole them or how many soldiers he killed to do it."
McGarrity nodded in approval. "Good work, Captain Reynolds," he said, "but if I'm not mistaken, most of the stock the army loses is run off while it's grazing. Let's not make this worse than it is."
Drew felt the color come up in his face. "This man's still a rustler, sir."
McGarrity acknowledged his point and turned to the Indian. "And what do you have to say for yourself?"
When the thief didn't answer, Jalbert stepped up to take his part. "I think he's Arikara, sir, and may not speak any English."
"Arikara?" the major echoed, his brows rising in surprise. "What's one of your people doing this far south?"
"The tribe has been pretty much displaced by stronger neighbors," Jalbert answered.
"By the Sioux, you mean."
Jalbert nodded. "The tribes are old enemies. With settlers moving west along the Missouri River, they're rubbing against each other more than usual. When there's a confrontation, it's the Arikara who usually get the brunt of it. Let me see what I can find out."
Jalbert concluded his conversation with the Indian prisoner. "Many Buffalo is an Arikara who came south to see about signing on as a scout," Jalbert told them. "Somewhere along the way he heard that the army was paying a bounty to anyone who returned their stolen animals."
"That isn't true, is it?" Drew demanded, already beginning to see the trend of the Indian's lies.
"Not that I've heard," McGarrity answered. "But there's no telling what some post commander low on horses may have offered."
"Whether it's true or not," Jalbert went on, "Many Buffalo saw it as an opportunity to earn some money and endear himself to his prospective employer. He says he stole the horses and mules from a small band of Arapaho camped up near Lodgepole Creek. He was driving the herd to Fort Laramie in hope of collecting the bounty and signing on with Major North's scouts."
"If all that's true," Drew challenged, "why did he run when he saw us coming?"
"Wouldn't you have run if you were him?"
Goddamn Jalbert for taking the Indian's part. Drew could feel his face get hot again. "Certainly I would run if I were a horse thief caught red-handed."
"There will have to be a hearing in either case," McGarrity broke in. "We'll call it for eleven o'clock tomorrow. In the meantime, Corporal"—McGarrity motioned one of the orderlies forward—"lock this man in the guardhouse."
As Jalbert translated, panic flared in his prisoner's eyes. Drew had heard redskins hated being locked up, but it took a corporal and two privates dragging him to get Many Buffalo the length of the parade ground into the guardhouse.
Drew had just gathered up the reins of his horse to leave when a towheaded fireball came charging across the parade ground toward him.
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