When the commission chairman introduced Carrington an angry sound moved through the crowd, like the buzzing of ten thousand blue flies. The noise grew in pitch and volume, drowning Carrington’s words, until an Indian seated on the platform stood and raised his arms. The man was tall and barrel-chested and his voice was powerful. He gestured toward Carrington as he spoke. An interpreter translated the Indian’s words.
“The Great Father sends us presents and wants us to sell him the road, but the Little White Chief goes with soldiers to steal the road before the Indians say yes or no. Every year we are pushed farther north, where the living is hard and our women and children starve. I urge all Indian people to stop fighting each other—Loafers against the Angry Ones, Bear People against Smokes—and come together to fight as one against the wasichus!”
This brought cries of “hou!” and “hoppo!” The head commissioner tried to regain control but could not.
A second Indian, old and bent with wispy gray hair, got to his feet. Again the crowd quieted. In a thin voice he began listing the white man’s offenses against his people and concluded with a prediction. “In two moons, the Little White Chief’s command will not have another hoof left.” Again the Indians responded with loud approval.
The head commissioner abruptly ended the conference. Carrington hurried across the parade ground and ordered the women and children back to camp immediately. He was worried, Harry saw that, but they made the trip without trouble.
When Carrington and his officers returned at sundown they brought two strangers with them. One was short and wiry, the other was a tall, black man dressed like an Indian.
“You know them?” Harry said to Bridger. He respected the old mountain man and spent as much time with him as he could.
“Oh, yeah, I know ’em. The little one’s Jim Brannan—he’s all right. But the other, Jim Beckwourth, he is a son of a bitch and the gaudiest liar this side of St. Louis.”
“Jim Beckwourth!” Harry couldn’t believe it. The Mulatto of the Plains was almost as famous as Bridger.
“Yep, Medicine Calf hisself. I’d like to buy him for what he’s worth and sell him for what he thinks he’s worth.”
They made their way to the headquarters tent, where Carrington was introducing the new men, both scouts, to his officers. Beckwourth looked to be about sixty, with long gray hair worn plaited, Indian-style. His quill shirt and leather leggings were dark with grease and sweat and he left a smell in his wake, like that of an animal.
“A treaty was signed today, but frankly, it won’t be of use to us,” Carrington was saying when Bridger entered. Harry, not allowed to enter when his father was with his officers, listened outside the tent door. “We’re headed into a region the Northern tribes, Sioux and Cheyenne mostly, do not wish to surrender. Even so, I expect no serious difficulty. We will demonstrate patience, forbearance, and common sense in our dealings with these tribes and these qualities will go far to advance our cause.”
Bridger laughed. “It may not be that simple, Colonel. This morning at Laramie I seen some bucks ridin’ off with gunpowder kegs strapped on their ponies and I hear Arapahoes on the trail are beggin’ for matches. They use the phosphorous to make percussion caps. Point is, things could be worse than you think. Mebbe you should hold out for that ammunition you was promised before movin’ on.”
Beckwourth spat on the tent floor. “Gettin’ nervous in your old age, Big Throat?” He called Bridger by his Indian name, a reference to the goiter bulging from his collar. “Jumpy like a old prairie goat? You can’t let a few Injuns beggin’ for matches slow you down, Colonel. You want to get up north and build your forts ’fore winter sets in.”
Carrington turned to his officers. “Any opinions?”
“I agree with Beckwourth,” Mark Reynolds said. “We have no idea when—or if—that ammunition will get here. Besides, we need to consider appearances. To do as Bridger suggests would make us appear weak. We can’t let the Indians think we’re afraid of them.”
Bridger said, “There’s a difference between weakness and being careful, Reynolds. We got women and children along, remember. We got to consider them. But mebbe you don’t think thataway.”
“What do you mean by that?” Reynolds said.
“All right, all right,” Carrington said. “We’ll move on tomorrow, but cautiously, as Major Bridger suggests. I depend on his advice and knowledge. I want everyone here to know that.” He looked at Reynolds.
“No need for that, Colonel,” Bridger said. “I don’t care what some puke lieutenant thinks of me anyhow. Some of your men want their hair lifted, that’s fine by me. But don’t let the Injuns git hold of your women and children, Carrington. Don’t let that happen.”
He turned and left the tent, walking right by Harry and disappearing into the red twilight.
Chapter Eight
Royal Spicer was buried at sundown in a shallow grave by the side of the road. There was no wood for a coffin so he met his maker wrapped in a blue army blanket. Lieutenant Anderson read over his grave from the Book of Psalms and afterward he and Rose covered the mound with broken bottles and whatever bits of glass they could find to keep the wolves away.
That night she wrote to Spicer’s parents, addressing the letter to the Spicer Family, Bardstown, Kentucky. She wrote of his kindness and assured them his death was painless. She was sad for the elderly couple, who’d already lost one son, knowing the pain her letter would bring them.
Even though she was bone-tired, sleep would not come. When finally she began to drift off she was overcome by a wave of hot panic that left her wide awake with a racing heart. Mark should be here, she thought. He should not have left her alone. She gave way to tears of self-pity.
“Cryin’ don’t do no good,” Jerusha said from her pallet on the floor. “Lord knows I done my share and it ain’t worked for me.”
Rose was embarrassed. “I thought you were asleep,” she said.
“Ain’t nobody gonna help you ’cause you pretty or you sweet,” Jerusha said. “You need to harden yourself. You need to prepare for the time of testin’ that’s comin’.”
“Time of testing? What do you mean?”
“I mean we is all gonna be tried—you, me, Lieutenant Reynolds, all of us—and after that we’ll know for sure what we is. You best be ready, ’cause there won’t be no hidin’ when it comes.”
“And who will test us?” Rose said.
“You know who.”
“Oh, what mumbo jumbo! Hard times may lie ahead but we have more to fear from man and nature than divine judgment.”
“Think how you want,” Jerusha said. “Way I see it, ain’t nothing more fearful than His judgin’.”
Rose was not a churchgoer, but Jerusha’s words, and the confident way she said them, left her uneasy. She felt she had been warned, but of what? “I’m tired,” Rose said. “I don’t want to talk anymore.”
At last she slept, waking to a gray, hazy morning. She had a headache, as if she had taken too much champagne the night before. As she dressed she wondered, for the first time since leaving Fort Sedgwick, if maybe she had made a mistake by following Mark into this desolate country. Maybe she shouldn’t have married him in the first place. But then, how could she have done otherwise? Mark, with his hooded brown eyes and easy grin, could have had any girl in St. Louis. The daughters of the wealthy industrialists and bankers—the Blair girls, the Chouteau sisters, the Lebeaus—they all made eyes at him at the cotillions and soirées. But for some reason he had chosen her, Rose King, an orphan girl who, with two older brothers, had been foisted off on the charity of a well-off bachelor uncle. She grew up believing herself plain, too tall, with a flat chest and no talent for coquetry. “You’re a pretty girl, Rose,” her Grandmother Alice used to remind her, “but you’ll never be as lovely as your mother, my poor, dear Rebecca. God rest her soul.” When Mark made it clear he was interested in her and no one else, Rose could hardly believe it. How sweet it was to be envied by those rich gir
ls in their fine silks and brocades. And how astonished her grandmother would have been, had she lived to see it. Of course Rose could not resist him. Still, maybe she should have waited just a bit, as her brother Joe suggested.
“He has a reputation, Rosie,” he said. “They say he’s had his hand up more skirts than a dressmaker.”
“Please, don’t be vulgar,” she said. “Mark can’t help it if women throw themselves at him. Anyhow, I don’t care what he did before he knew me. I’ve changed him, he says. I’ve made him a better man.”
Joe said, “I just don’t want to see you hurt. That’s all.”
That conversation came back to her as they traveled an especially bumpy stretch of road. Her headache worsened and she worried she was getting sick again. When they finally met another train, a southbound line of freighters loaded with animal skins from the distant Black Hills, the wagons smelled like an abattoir. Rose held a handkerchief to her nose as they rolled by.
At midday she asked a soldier to put a ladies’ saddle on Carl. Headache or no, she could not stand another hour in the ambulance. The soldier obliged with a smile that revealed a mouthful of broken teeth. Once the march resumed Carl hunted down Dixon’s bay and fell into step alongside.
“I’m sorry,” Rose said. “He’s devoted.”
“I’m not complaining,” Dixon said.
The day was hot and sultry. As they clopped along, Rose found herself drowsing in the saddle. Would she find a letter from Mark at Fort Laramie? The regiment would be long gone—Anderson’s late arrival at Sedgwick made a Laramie reunion impossible—but surely there would be a letter. She wondered if Mark had received hers, each painstakingly written. It would be easy to lose something so small in this endless ocean of land.
“I don’t like the look of that cloud.” Dixon’s voice roused her from her waking dream. “Better go to your wagon, Mrs. Reynolds. That’s a sandstorm coming.”
Rose turned to see a steel-gray cloud hanging low on the horizon. It was oddly flat, as if pressed down from above by a giant hand. She turned Carl back toward the column, where the wagons were forming a corral, but as the wind rose the old horse got a different idea. For the first time in their association, he fought her, tossing his head and kicking his rear legs. Rose struggled with him, holding her hat with one hand and the reins in the other.
“It’s all right, Carl,” she said, as calmly as possible. “Don’t be afraid.” As she spoke they were hit by a blast of gritty wind that sent her hat flying and filled her skirt like a billowing sail. The white flash of petticoat was all it took to push Carl over the edge. His ears went flat, he gave two hard pulls on the bit, and he was off, running with the wind at his back like a Kentucky Thoroughbred.
Rose leaned forward, gripping the horn of her ladies’ saddle with her right knee and pulling on the reins with all her strength, but the old cavalry horse was hardmouthed and terrified and she was powerless to stop him. The wind grew louder and more urgent, drowning out all other sound. She had no choice but to hold on and pray Carl did not tumble into a ravine or step in a prairie dog hole. She lowered her body Indian-fashion onto his sweating neck and grabbed hold of his mane, cursing the ridiculous sidesaddle. If only she could ride astride!
With a roar loud as a hunter’s horn the storm struck in all its fury. The wind nearly blew Rose from the saddle and the air was so thick with dirt she could not even see Carl’s ears. She choked on the dust and dirt that filled her nose and mouth.
All at once Dixon was beside her in the darkness, leaning in to grab Carl’s bridle. His arrival had a calming effect on Carl, who sidled up next to Dixon’s mare and gradually began to slow. In less than a minute Dixon managed to stop the horses altogether. Rose’s only thought was to dismount, to get her feet on solid ground, but Dixon took her arm, preventing her. He shouted but she could not make out his words.
The storm chose that moment to do its worst. The wind struck them like a blow. Carl squatted in terror as a small tree tumbled by like a bit of sagebrush. Rose felt herself lifted from the saddle, suspended briefly in midair, then slammed to earth so violently she feared her back was broken. Above her the two horses, giant black shadows, wheeled in the swirling cloud of earth and debris, their iron-shod hooves striking the ground just inches from her head. Instinctively she curled into a ball, expecting at any moment to feel the crushing weight of the horses upon her. Instead it was Dixon who found her, taking her in his arms and covering her body with his own. He held her this way for what seemed a very long time, so close she could feel the beating of his heart, until finally the storm played itself out and the air began to clear.
Slowly Dixon released her and stood. The prairie, eerily silent, was awash in a strange greenish light. Rose rolled onto her back and looked up at him. His face was black with dirt with a streak of bright red blood running from a cut above his eye.
“Are you hurt?” he said.
“No, but you are. Your head is bleeding.”
He touched his forehead then looked at the blood on his fingers. “Head wounds bleed a lot. I don’t think it’s bad.” He helped her to her feet, careful to offer his unbloodied hand. Her dress was torn at the shoulder and her hip, which had taken the brunt of her fall, felt bruised and tender.
“Thank you,” she said. “You seem always to be saving me.”
He smiled, his teeth white against his dirt-blackened face.
“You seem worth saving. But then, I’ve been wrong about a woman before.”
Chapter Nine
The regiment left Fort Laramie at dawn, following the North Platte River. Harry said good-bye to his friend Bill Kellogg here. Bill’s father would remain at Laramie. “Well, good-bye, Foot,” Bill said. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.” Harry mumbled a few words of parting, trying not to cry. Bill was his closest friend.
For two days they moved through a flat, prairie-like bottomland. Scrubby pines and cedars clung to the bluffs and sand hills while box elders, quaking aspens, and willows lined the streams. On the third day the road descended a steep canyon with two rocky towers, like castle turrets, at its entrance. Tall cedars wound around the towers’ sides in narrow rows that reminded Harry Carrington of the ropes of greenery his mother looped around the porch rail back home in Ohio at Christmastime.
The column halted at the canyon’s mouth, stopping earlier than usual to rest before a final crossing of the North Platte the following day. After making camp Harry and Mark Reynolds escorted Margaret Carrington and Sallie Horton deeper into the canyon so the women could hunt for moss agates. When cut and polished, the colorful stones made rings and brooches, gifts for friends and family back East. Reynolds carried a feed sack filled with cans that clanked as he walked.
“What’s that?” Harry said.
Reynolds winked. “You’ll see.”
While the women searched the ground Reynolds took three cans from the sack, balanced them on a rock, and led Harry to a spot about thirty feet distant. “You’ve handled a gun before, haven’t you, Harry?” he said.
“Sure,” Harry lied.
“Not one like this, I bet.” Reynolds pulled from his belt a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson cartridge revolver with mother-of-pearl grips and filigree etching on the breech and barrel. He offered it to Harry, who accepted it gingerly, as if it were made of glass. “Careful now—it’s loaded,” Reynolds said. “Beautiful, isn’t she? I’ve got a pair.”
Harry examined the gun closely, admiring the exquisite craftsmanship. “They must’ve cost a fortune!” he said.
“Not a thing, actually. Spoils of war. Anyhow, try her out. Aim for the can on the left.”
Harry extended his right arm. The gun’s weight and balance felt perfect and he liked the way its polished barrel gleamed in the late afternoon light. He closed his left eye, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. There was an explosion of yellow corn as his bullet found its mark. The shot reverberated through the steep canyon.
Reynolds slapped him on the back. “Well done,
Harry. You’re a natural. Go ahead—try the next one.”
Harry was about to fire when Bridger galloped into view on his gray mule. “Stop!” he shouted. “Don’t shoot!”
The old man dismounted stiffly and hobbled toward them with a face like thunder. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Reynolds?” he said, gesturing at the canyon rim. “You afraid there’s still some Injuns around who don’t know we’re here?”
Reynolds surveyed the high ground. “Calm down, Bridger. We haven’t seen any Indians since Laramie.”
Bridger spat on the ground at Reynolds’s feet. “Dammit, Reynolds, you don’t know shit. When you don’t see ’em is the time to be most on the lookout. Another thing—you got no business taking these women so far from camp. Even a shavetail like you should know that.”
Harry eyed the bluff tops nervously, imagining painted Indians lying on their bellies under wolf skins, watching and waiting for the right moment to ride down on them and sink a hatchet in their skulls. His skin rose in gooseflesh.
“Shavetail?” Reynolds smiled but not because something was funny. Harry saw that plainly enough. For the first time, he sensed Mark Reynolds could be a dangerous man. He took the gun from Harry and, for a moment, the boy thought he might use it on Bridger.
“That’s what I said,” Bridger said. “It’s officers like you git folks killed out here, Reynolds. Pukes who don’t know shit from sherbet and don’t have the sense to admit it.”
“You’ve been out here too long, old man,” Reynolds said. “You’ve forgotten your manners, if you ever had any. If you weren’t so old I’d be pleased to remind you.”
Bridger stepped forward, fists clenched under his grizzled chin. “Go ahead! You’re from Missouri, ain’t you? Show me what you got!”
“I’d like to, Bridger, but I can’t hurt an old man. It’s bad form.”
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