“There were no words involved. He and I saw you fall in the thick of the fighting. I tried to get to you, but just then the Indians made their push and we were driven back. I lost my gun when a bullet carried away part of my finger. When we could no longer see you for savages, we were certain you were lost as well. At that point Wedlock stood up.”
“Stood up?”
“An old Sioux custom,” said Panther, “when the battle is hopeless.”
Mr. Knox continued. “In the midst of the fighting, with warriors galloping all around him firing and swinging their rifles like bludgeons, Wedlock rose with a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other and dared them to kill him. David, it was the most stirring sight I have beheld, and I saw many such during the war. It’s a miracle he was not killed. It definitely was not for lack of trying on the part of the Indians, some of whom have surely died by now from the wounds he handed out.”
“Did he … sing?”
“Sing?” He paused in confusion. “As a matter of fact–yes, he did sing. ‘I’m a Good Old Rebel,’ if I am not mistaken. How did you know?”
“He told me a story once. I thought at the time it was another of his lies.”
“This is no lie. Ask the Deacon, who saw as much as I did.”
“There is nothing in Scripture to equal it,” announced that august person, folding long brown hands atop his sad-die horn. “Had the heathens not retreated when their leader was slain, they would certainly have cut him down.”
Mr. Knox smiled grimly. “It would have made a fine subject for one of the Judge’s novels. Unfortunately, he missed it, having quit the field at the first sign of a feather.”
“I observed that our guns were placed too close to one another,” explained Judge Blod from inside the wagon. “I decided by changing positions to broaden our field of fire.”
“He was broadening it lickety-split when I fetched him back,” said Will Asper. “The fight was fit and Knox was afraid he’d trip and bust his gourd.”
“In any case, when the Indians withdrew, you were gone.” Mr. Knox had stopped smiling. “We thought they had taken you with them, and since we were in no condition to pursue, we were forced to give you up for dead. The bandits made their move shortly thereafter. I must say Black Ben’s heart didn’t appear to be in it. Blackwater gave most of the orders until Pike and Beacher arrived. Wedlock took charge after that. From the look of him you’d have thought he was on the losing side of the mutiny. No, David, whatever else he was, he was devoted to you. Not that it will speak for him the day they finally drop him through the trap.”
I felt the need to say something, but could think of nothing. Nor have I thought of anything to this day. I never got the man’s measure.
It was decided that because a wagon appeared less threatening than a band of men on horseback, Will Asper and the Deacon must remain behind, also to protect our flanks in case this reasoning had not occurred to Mad Alice. After some protest, the Judge climbed out of the back and limped to a moss-covered boulder from where he could watch the proceedings through Mr. Knox’s binoculars in relative comfort. Mr. Knox studied Panther thoughtfully.
“Perhaps you should stay here as well,” he said. “The sight of an Indian would not be calming in view of what happened to her family.”
“She knows me for a Sioux, not a Blackfoot.”
“If she is as mad as you and David claim, she may not remember.”
Panther considered. He had far from recovered from his brush with death; there were dark hollows under his eyes and the angle he sat his horse suggested that he was still in a great deal of pain from his wound. But Wedlock’s treatment had released his stores of native strength.
“I will go,” said he.
I said, “He has borne more than any of us. It is his right to see the thing through.”
” ‘And thou shalt make the breastplate of judgment with cunning work,’ ” intoned the Deacon, inspecting the chamber of his Henry rifle.
“Don’t be too quick to use that,” Mr. Knox said. “She is just an old woman after all.”
“Let us not forget how she came to be old.” But he scabbarded the weapon.
Panther said, “Let me ride in first.”
Mr. Knox shook his head. “That is not the plan.”
“She has shot at you once already,” said I.
“She will shoot anyway. There is no good in all of us acting as targets. After she fires, it will take her a minute to reload. Your responsibility will be to get to her before she does.”
“What if she does not miss the first time?” I asked.
“That is my responsibility.”
Mr. Knox was prepared to argue and would have, had not Panther dug in his heels and bolted ahead down the slope in the direction of the dugout. I, who had the team’s reins, flipped them before Mr. Knox could nudge me. We rattled off in the Indian’s wake.
Despite my anxiety for Panther, who was unarmed, I felt strange returning to that place from which we had so recently fled. Although scant days had passed since then, so much had happened in the interim that it was like coming back to a seat of childhood memories. Both the stable and the dugout appeared smaller and more crude than I remembered, the distance between them shorter. Only the graves looked the same.
I saw the smoke an instant before I heard the report, blossoming raggedly inside the entrance to the dugout before the wind took it. Panther cartwheeled out of his saddle, rolled on the ground, and lay still. His horse screamed and galloped riderless straight through the yard and down toward the stream that supplied water to the site.
“Panther!” I shouted.
“I am all right! Get inside!”
Mr. Knox was off and running toward the dugout before I could set the brake. The horses ground to a halt on stiffened legs, the wheels screeched, the wagon tilted, hung, and crashed back down with a force that threw me out of the seat. I hit the ground running and tore through the flap that hung over the dugout entrance. I had to grasp the edge of the opening to keep from colliding with Mr. Knox.
As my eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, I saw the schoolteacher with his arms locked around Mad Alice, struggling to contain her as she squirmed and hissed and tried to swing the empty musket by its barrel like a club. The stock came around, snatching off my hat as I ducked. Instinctively I threw a hand up to protect my head and my fingers closed around the weapon. Acting purely upon reflex, I tore it out of her grasp.
She was by no means helpless even then. Bareheaded, hair and eyes wild, she struggled and spat and scratched like a feral cat, kicking and shrieking obscenities that she must have learned from her trappers and prospectors who had passed her way.
“Madam! Cease! Desist, I say! This will–” A small hard fist landed flush upon Mr. Knox’s chin, snapping his teeth together.
Gentlemanliness was not at issue. Leaning the musket against the wall beyond her reach, I spotted the empty stewpot atop the ancient chest of drawers, picked it up by its handle, and was preparing to hit her over the head with it when Panther came in.
“Star-Touched Woman, stop,” he said.
I know not what meaning the name the Sioux had given her held for her, or how Panther knew. At the time it did not matter. What mattered was she ceased struggling. Her eyes, watching the Indian, were like bright tiny sparks in her round face.
Very slowly, Mr. Knox released her and put a hand to his mouth. Her blow had caused him to bite his lip, which was bleeding copiously. He found a handkerchief and pressed it to the new wound. “You are not hit?” he asked Panther.
“I saw the musket just in time.”
“Thought you’d be dead by this.” In spite of her labored breathing, Mad Alice spoke as casually as a Panhandle hostess. “The boy’s some doctor, I guess. Boy, you owe me a good kitchen knife.”
I put down the pot. “You remember me?”
“I’m crazy. Not forgetful.”
“Madam,” said the schoolteacher, “my name is Henry Knox. My compani
ons, whom I believe you have met but not by name, are David Grayle of Panhandle, Texas, and Corporal Panther of the reservation police at Standing Rock.”
“I thought you was my Charlie when you come in that way. We used to have us some screamers, Charlie and me did. Redskins took him last week, my boys too.”
“Your husband and sons are dead,” said Panther.
Mr. Knox glared at him. “That is not the way.”
Mad Alice said, “What you want? I got supper to hunt up.”
“Madam, we have a proposition, if you will hear it,”
Mr. Knox said.
“Spit it out. I’m losing the light.”
Dusk was sifting in when we emerged from the dugout. Mad Alice went immediately to the wagon while Mr. Knox waved to the others on the hill. By the time the Deacon, Will Asper, and Judge Blod joined us–the Judge riding double on the holy man’s claybank–the old woman had most of the contents of the wagon strewn about the yard and was seated among them like a little girl, examining each item in turn. These included the picks and shovels we had carried along as part of our pose as prospectors, as well as sardines and sardinelles in tins, sundry fruits sealed in jars, cheese, salted meat, and a wide variety of pots and spoons and other cooking utensils borrowed from the chuck wagon. She made delighted little noises over each piece of booty and looked not at all like a local legend of forty years’ standing. She became hostile only once, baring what teeth remained in her head when Mr. Knox picked up one of the shovels; then subsided back into her cooking inventory when he explained that he would return it presently.
“Which one, madam?” he asked.
“That one there, by the stable.” She admired her reflection in the bottom of a measuring cup.
Mr. Knox walked to the last grave in the line of five, removed the stones from the mound, and began digging. Will Asper, who had dismounted to watch, said, “Taking up a new line of work, schoolteacher?”
“She saw Peckler bury the gold at the foot of Mount Harney,” said he, turning over the first spadeful. “It wasn’t in the ground an hour before she dug it up and carried it here. It must have taken a dozen trips, but she knew it was worth the effort if she could use it to negotiate with the Blackfeet to return her husband and sons. How she explained to herself the presence of the first four graves, when she insisted upon believing them to be still alive, is not for me to answer; demented people are geniuses at self-delusion. Gold means nothing to Indians, however, and in time, as it laid useless in the earth, she even forgot she had it. Jarring her memory took some time. The articles in that wagon were of much greater value to someone in her position.”
The ground was hard, and each of us took a turn except Panther–even Judge Blod, who appeared to have forgotten his gout entirely. The light was almost gone when the Deacon spelled him. He had taken but one scoop when the blade of the shovel struck something that rang.
Chapter 24
AND LAST
My tale is all but told; and yet, as maddeningly happens once one has closed and strapped his grip, I see that there are items left to pack.
The fifth grave was filled with glittering gold double-eagles, a glorious sight to boy and man. The wooden crates in which they had been buried had long since rotted away, and so we were most of the night transferring them from that dank hole to the wagon by lantern light. Mad Alice had by this time gathered up and moved her new wealth inside the dugout, where when Mr. Knox and I put our heads in to say good-bye she had pried the lids off most of the jars; unaware that this would spoil the contents within days. In an excess of pity, I thereupon left her with Joe Snake’s Centennial Winchester and several boxes of ammunition for hunting purposes–hoping that she would not choose to employ them against unwitting passersby. When last I saw her she had peeled the bright label off one of the tins to decorate her flowered hat with the gay legend EMERSON’S MERMAID BRAND QUALITY SARDINES. It pleases me to think that she is still there, being spoken of in gleeful disbelief by the modern local residents and plotting schemes for the release of her family from the Blackfeet. If so, she would be considerably more than one hundred years old.
At dawn we returned to our camp, the team straining mightily against its new burden, collected Dahlgren and Bald Jim, and left for Deadwood under the guidance of the Deacon. On our way there we were intercepted by Major Alonzo Rudeen and his cavalry, our escorts on the trek from Cheyenne to the Black Hills. The major explained that he had received orders to round up Lives Again and his renegades and return them to Standing Rock and, if they refused, to compel them to surrender under force of arms. Corporal Panther identified himself and informed him that what remained of that band was likely already on its way back to the reservation. Plainly Rudeen did not believe him and our companies parted after he had shaken hands with Judge Blod, his champion in the eastern press. Somewhere in the history of that region, the reader may find reference to Alonzo Rudeen’s gallant victory over Lives Again’s warriors a few days later at Hot Springs. I report now that the “battle” was a slaughter of an already defeated and leaderless band bent upon surrender, and I invite Rudeen if he is still living, or any of his descendants if he is not, to challenge me in open court.
In Deadwood, which was an armed camp amidst rumors of uprising among the Ghost Dancers at Standing Rock, we received proper medical attention for Dahlgren’s wounded leg, Bald Jim’s broken collarbone, Panther’s torn side, Mr. Knox’s abbreviated finger, Judge Blod’s intermittent gout, and my scraped hands and aching head. (Of our party, only the Deacon and Will Asper were unscathed–proving, perhaps, that good fortune falls to opposite extremes.) In the doctor’s reception room awaiting our turns, we held a conference and agreed to say nothing to the law of Bald Jim’s part in the mutiny. Whatever his past sins, which we assumed were legion, he had redeemed himself for his treachery by dispatching Lives Again, thus turning certain massacre into victory.
Bald Jim was grateful in his quiet way. I have no doubt that he has since gone to judgment by way of the gun or the rope. In any case my conscience is clear on his subject.
We made no contact with the authorities during our brief stay in that city. Just as it was in Wild Bill Hickok’s day, Deadwood was filled with brigands and opportunists who would think nothing of falling upon our little group as soon as we were clear of civilization and making off with the gold, and so we prevented rumors of our wealth from spreading by saying nothing of our original mission. Certain were we also that the law would do little, preoccupied as it was with the situation among the Indians. Indeed, even Major Rudeen had displayed no curiosity about our diminished numbers and obvious hard use. This was on the eve of that tragic last period in the conquest of the prairie which would end that winter in the so-called Battle of Wounded Knee.
Corporal Panther took his leave of us on our last day. He was needed on the reservation, he said, and his family was waiting for word of his safety. Because Indians were not allowed in the hotel, he met me in front of the livery where he had been staying to say good-bye. He put his hand on my shoulder.
“We have shed blood for each other,” he said, “and that makes us brothers. There is room for you in my tipi if you ever tire of your civilization.”
I do not recall what I said in response; something inane, I suspect. We clasped hands, and he went inside to saddle the horse we had given him. He had refused a share of the gold.
He never made it back to Standing Rock. I learned later that he was shot in the back while on his way out of the Black Hills by a white miner for his horse and rig. The federal court in Yankton acquitted the miner of murder on the grounds of self-defense. The Ghost Dance campaign was in full swing at this time.
We sold one of the wagons, repaired the others, stocked up on supplies, and struck out for Cheyenne, this time along the more direct route used by the Deadwood stage. The return journey was made without event. It seemed longer than the circumspect trip out and–Devil take an ungrateful boy–boring. I rejoiced when it ended.
&n
bsp; Outside the city limits we stopped to divide the double-eagles. We were six, and each of us, having shared the dangers equally, received an equal part. When Mr. Knox handed me more, Will Asper bridled.
“Where’s he rate?”
“David’s mother was involved long before you,” said Mr. Knox. “She had already earned a percentage when you came in.”
“I didn’t see her around when we was fighting them red bastards.”
“Nor do you see her receiving payment equal to those who did. If not for her and her boarding house we would never have known of the gold’s existence. We shall not argue about this further.”
Morosely, Will Asper distributed his share between his saddle bags and rode out, accompanied by Dahigren. I do not know the fate of that good-natured Swede, but it seems likely that he invested his share honestly and with generosity. Many years later I heard a rumor that Asper was killed at Veracruz, fighting as a mercenary in the pay of Pancho Villa. I often wondered, if this was true, what had become of his portion of the gold. Riches do not stay long with men of his temperament.
Mr. Knox asked Deacon Philo Hecate what plans he had for his share. “You cannot spend all of it upon stained-glass windows.”
“Blast the windows! I shall build a cathedral.” The preacher’s voice boomed. “The lowliest sinner shall find his shelter beneath a roof of gold.”
“Ezekiel?”
“Philo.”
My last memory of that thunderous old man is of his gaunt frame guiding his claybank toward town at a stately pace, saddle pouches bulging with coins and Bible. In the spring of 1901, a friend who had married and moved to Wyoming sent me the following item from the obituary page of the Laramie Record:
Philo Heracles Hecate, aged 78, died suddenly Sunday at the House of the Blessed Lamb in Cheyenne, where he had been pastor for the past ten years. Witnesses to the tragedy, which took place during morning services in the grandiose Italian baroque church on Central Avenue, said Deacon Hecate suffered apoplexy near the end of his sermon and expired before anyone could come to his aid. The House of the Blessed Lamb, designed by its pastor and constructed upon the site of its modest predecessor, had been the subject of much debate between leaders of the congregation and city fathers, who would demolish it to make room for a skating parlor. Burial Tuesday following 10 A.M. services at the Schechaniah Sampson Memorial Chapel adjacent to the church.
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