“And a Crow—if not a Sioux—can be a gentleman,” said Billy Jack. “In Spanish, hidalgo. In French, gentilhomme.”
Beauregard nodded. “Better an Indian than a Yankee—beggin’ the Yankee General’s pardon.”
“Gentleman,” I said, “let us forget the last war and prepare for this one.”
Sans clothes, sans mud (there wasn’t time for that), sans everything save breech clout, black wig, yellow bandana, and Indian medicine pouch with salt and foldable toothbrush, I was soon ready, as were my colleagues. We gathered in the farmyard, our whispers covered by the baritone mooing of the cows, the scattered cluck-clucks of the chickens, the truffle-hunting snort-snorts of the pigs, and the sighed breathing of the horses.
Beauregard and I rolled out the barrel. Billy Jack followed carrying an armload of branches. We rolled the barrel down the tunnel that ran beneath the wall and pushed it up and out the other side. The next obstacle was the trench. We had to risk the danger—of both sight and sound—of rolling the barrel across the wooden slats that covered it. We moved painfully slowly, thinking sound was our greatest enemy. It was quite dark, and the Indians would not be looking for a barrel rolling across a makeshift bridge unless they were alerted to it by the creaking of wood rolling on wood. To forestall this possibility, Beauregard had brought a dark blue towel, loaned to us by Miss Saint-Jean, in which we swathed the rolling barrel to muffle its passage across the boards. Once over the bridge, we moved in intervals, rolling the barrel forward, then stopping and hiding behind it, then rolling it forward again. Every time we stopped, Billy Jack leaned over the barrel with his branches, disguising it, so that we were like Birnham Wood marching on Dunsinane.
I need hardly belabor the point that this was arduous work, mentally and physically exhausting; and it tapped every resource I had as an actor. Each time we stopped, my mind told me, “Be a bush of Birnham Wood,” and I struck the pose, held it, and controlled my breathing so that it mimicked the gentle swaying of branches in a breeze. The role was not, I must say, terribly satisfying—because I had to remain invisible to the audience and could win no applause—but it was successful; we were not spotted.
We spent hours advancing the barrel. Finally, we saw the outline of the Indian Trading Post in the distance. Lamps lit its windows, as if Larsen was engaged in some nefarious nocturnal activity of his own. When we reckoned we were close enough, we planted the barrel against a berm of dirt. Beauregard ran the fuse and a trail of powder. He lighted the powder; it puffed; and the flame went fizzing down the fuse. We took cover.
To a trained military ear, the explosion was not that of an artillery shell, but surprise, especially in the dark of night, can fool anyone. We covered our heads, earth went flying, as did shards of wood from the now disintegrated barrel, and when I looked up again the lamps at the Trading Post had gone out—as if Larsen’s gang feared they were under attack. Perfect.
We hightailed it for the safety of the trench, but it was a long run, and as we ran our eyes and ears were alert for the sight or sound of pounding hooves, of an Indian patrol hunting for us. But apparently the patrols had collapsed upon the Trading Post, rallying against what they feared might be a coordinated assault. Still, it was a good three miles back to town, and it was a nerve-jangling half hour until we made it over the trench and back to the safety of our lines.
You might think that sleep would have been impossible after such an adventure, especially for someone like me, who needs little rest and upon whom action is like a tonic. But truth be told, when I staggered up the red-carpeted stairs past the red, velvet, flocked wallpaper to my room, I stopped only to wash my face in the basin before collapsing on my bed. I slept as soundly as any Indian ever had. I guess your Autie is getting old!
CHAPTER SEVEN
In Which I Make More Battle Plans
When I woke, I thought momentarily that I must have collapsed onstage, for my eyes opened to see Miss Saint-Jean’s face directly in front of mine. She looked repelled. My black wig was in her hand.
“Armstrong, will you get out of that ridiculous costume and get downstairs? Larsen’s men are waiting for you.”
“Men? How many?”
“Only two. I think you can handle that. Get a grip on yourself. It’s that weaselly one Dern, and the other one who looks like a killer.”
I sprang upright and splashed water from the basin on my face.
“Get some clothes on, for goodness’ sake. I don’t want my girls seeing you like this.”
There was a mirror in the room, so I took a look. “Why not? What’s wrong? I’m still fit. I need to comb my hair, I confess, and I should let my moustache grow out, but Indians don’t have moustaches . . .”
“Will you get your clothes on? I don’t like Larsen’s men lounging around; they’re trouble.”
“Well, if you’ll give me a moment of privacy, madam.”
Washed and dressed, I trotted down the stairs and there was Dern, sitting in a cocky slouch, and next to him the one named Wyeth. His eyes locked on mine and never wavered. He wanted me to reach for a gun I wasn’t wearing.
“Well, howdy, Marshal. Sorry to have gotten you outta bed. I guess you really do live the life here now, dontchya? Sleepin’ late, livin’ in the hotel and all; havin’ the saloon all to yourself—but I guess you don’t, do you? You got all those kids . . .”
“What do you want, Dern?”
“Mr. Larsen is none too happy about you. He was tryin’ to entertain a few friends last night, professionals he invited out here to do a job.”
“That has nothing to do with me.”
“Sure it does, Marshal. You hear that big explosion last night—kinda like when they blow out a mineshaft?”
“You know there’s no mineshaft. And your boss knows what that was—it was a warning. Next time it won’t miss.”
“That so? Well, he told me you were interested in a deal. I’m to tell you, he’ll take you up on it. And he’s got a warning for you too. He’s hired some new men. Friends of Wyeth’s, in fact; they can make some noise of their own, if you catch my drift.”
“Tell Larsen, we’ll deliver our part of the bargain at midnight at the Trading Post. His part of the bargain has to be there too. You know what that is?”
“No, tell me, Marshal.”
“The boys and men he keeps as forced labor at the mine and the foundry. We’re setting them free.”
“Are you now?”
“We bring them back here, do a head count, and if everyone is present and correct, we’ll turn over the shells for his new toy, a cannon, and he can make his own mineshafts. You got that?”
“Oh yeah, I got it,” Dern said, rising, and Wyeth rose after him. “You best watch yourself, Marshal. This is about the most dangerous deal you’ve ever made.”
“I appreciate your concern.”
“Mama always said, good manners don’t cost nothin’. See you tonight, Marshal. I’ll be there.”
“I hope he is too,” I said, nodding at Wyeth.
“Oh, he surely will be—and his friends.”
Billy Jack and Beauregard framed the doorway to the parlor.
“Major, Sergeant, escort these two men out.”
“Don’t need no escort, Marshal. We can find our way.”
“You tell Larsen what you’ve seen—tell him about the fortifications.”
“That we will, Marshal. Quite a setup you got here. You expectin’ trouble?”
“Anyone who comes looking for it will find it.”
“I keep tellin’ you, Marshal, this has always been a real peaceable town—least it was ’til you got here.”
“Goodbye, Dern.”
“Goodbye, Marshal. You take good care.”
When Billy Jack and Beauregard returned, we sat down to a breakfast of strategy, biscuits, and coffee.
“Well, gentlemen, it appears our plan is unfolding as it should.”
“Yes, sir, Yankee General, sir, what could go wrong now, walking into the enem
y’s camp with a fake cannon and who knows how many hostages to rescue—what do you reckon, a couple dozen at least?”
“Major, I thought we were agreed on our plan?”
“Yes, sir—but it’s a bit like a shotgun wedding; I see no alternative.”
“And you, Sergeant?”
“I trust your judgement, sir. I see it as Crow versus Sioux; Chinamen versus Cheyenne; and you and Major Beauregard versus hired gunmen.”
“Well, that settles it—we can’t lose. Make sure that cannon is ready, Sergeant. Major, write out wills for the Chinamen, leaving everything to Miss Saint-Jean, and have them sign them. I will make sure the ladies are aware of our plans. They’ll need to make arrangements of their own.”
The saloon was as packed as a chapel on Sunday and as noisy as a schoolyard playground. The ladies were having a matinee rehearsal, and the children were watching delightedly and squealing their approval. For many, no doubt, it was the first time they had seen their mothers in tights, kicking up their heels, and performing the ballet du cancan, as the French call it. For me, on the other hand, it was a happy confirmation of the talent we had stocked up here in Bloody Gulch. I had no doubt that most of these women, if not all of them, would return to their farms after Larsen’s tyranny was broken. But it gave me a feeling of accomplishment to know that I had done my small part to bring culture and the arts, the theatre, to this frontier town, to have lifted not just the legs of these women in dance but their hearts in spirit; forevermore they would have stained-glass memories of the hours when they had perfected, to the best of their ability, the terpsichorean art and found within themselves a new and perhaps unexpected form of expression. I paused for a moment, overcome with a wave of emotion, and gripped the back of a saloon chair. An enterprising young girl approached me.
“Hiya, Marshal. Can I get you something?”
“Alderney, dear one, Alderney.”
“What?”
“Milk, a glass of milk, if you please.”
“Sure.”
She skipped off to do her good deed, and I made my way to the stage.
Miss Saint-Jean, leading the rehearsals, looked askance at me, but my natural air of command compelled silence and I proceeded to address the women, who stood attentively, as I suppose one must when wearing such high heels. They were, naturally, dressed in the corset attire that was their costume d’art.
“Ladies, pardon the intrusion—the interruption—but I come bearing good news. Tonight at midnight, I hope to effect the recovery of your menfolk—fathers, sons, uncles, whoever they may be. I hope to restore them to you in the wee hours of the morning. I come to you, however, with a frank, full warning. The task we embark upon is dangerous, there is risk involved, the risk of armed combat, but we have measured the danger, trained for the mission, and expect success. I can tell you no more for now, but in the meantime I ask that you prepare to receive your boys and men, that you set up a medical station as a precaution, that you have meals ready to feed them and rooms where they can bunk. Most of all, ladies, I ask that you prepare yourselves to be the ministering angels, the loving mothers and wives, that I know you to be.” I was about to say, “Dismiss,” but instead concluded with, “That is all.” And then I ran as fast as my boots would carry me to the relative peace of the farmyard and the ever-gracious company of Marshal Ney.
I saddled him and rode out along our trench line. That made me an easy target for any passing sniper, I knew, but I trusted that fate and my destiny held bigger things for me than to be gunned down before we effected the liberation of this town from its slave master. I trusted my star. Someday, I thought, the midnight ride of Marshal Armstrong—the ride that freed the people of Bloody Gulch—would be as memorable to Montana’s citizens as the midnight ride of Paul Revere is to the people of New England. Heroism does not dim with age. Heroes do not fade from memory. They are immortalized in song and story, in statuary and stone, and no society—certainly not the United States of America!—that seeks to perpetuate itself can neglect its ancient, or not so ancient, heroes: its George Washingtons, its Andrew Jacksons, its Davy Crocketts, its Winfield Scotts, its McClellans, its Custers! (I can hear Beauregard interjecting, “Its Lees, its Stonewall Jacksons, its A. P. Hills!” and I will grant him that.)
Perhaps I, as Custer, had gained enough glory—by the measure of most mortal men I surely had—from the war. If it be, then, Marshal Armstrong who gets the glory now in this battle against evil, I thought, so be it. My only regret, darling Libbie, is that my alias precludes you from publicly sharing in the glory. For you are the one whose memory, and Indian-engraved tattoo, is ever in my thoughts and on my arm whenever I take the field of honor.
Our preparations moved swiftly. As twilight deepened into night, we were ready: the wagon horses were harnessed, the cannon and limber were hitched, and the cannon was loaded with acrobats. They tumbled in willingly. Hercules drove Fu Yu in at the end of a ramrod.
I patted Marshal Ney’s neck and whispered in his ear, “This is your night of immortality, noble beast.”
Sergeant Billy Jack doubled as our cavalry bugler for this mission, wearing a bugle suspended from a baldric. He took the reins of the wagon and slapped the horses. Hercules, looking like an emissary guard from the court of the Emperor Hu Dat Mhan, walked alongside the cannon, bearing his ramrod like a staff.
The creak of the limber’s wheels, the horses straining (but not too much) under the harness, the thrill of riding into the dark, the expectation of danger awaiting us, my marshal’s badge shining in the moonlight like a heraldic badge worn by a knight errant—it was, perhaps needless to say, a dramatic moment. I looked back at the hotel and the saloon and saw the women, arrayed like ladies fair, waving their handkerchiefs at me—each one a portrait of feminine devotion, hope, and, no doubt, prayer.
Our first obstacle was immediate. Beauregard and Ives had spent much of the day supervising the construction of a bridge that would allow us to transport the cannon across the trench. The span of the trench was only about four yards, but the weight of the cannon, loaded as it was with Chinamen, was considerable, and neither Beauregard nor Ives seemed as confident about their handiwork as I reckoned they should be.
Beauregard rode ahead and pulled up at the bridge. Ives was still inspecting it, squeezing the boards with his hands, tapping them with his fist. The major gave the bridge a good, long look and said to Ives, “You reckon it’s safe?”
“It’ll see the cannon across—maybe not back.”
“One way’s good enough.”
Beauregard’s horse showed trepidation, but he trotted over the boards and they held steady.
The horses pulling the wagon were far more skittish. They pawed the turf and whinnied their disapproval until Billy Jack shouted, “Giddy-up!” and whacked the reins. They bolted across, but the boards creaked and started to splinter under the weight of the loaded cannon, and Hercules, rather than crossing the bridge himself, jumped into the trench and scrambled his way up to the other side.
Now it was my turn. Marshal Ney looked at me skeptically and, as so often happened, I knew that my horse and I were of the same mind. We would put on a show for the ladies. I wheeled him around and then, with twenty yards between us and the bridge, we faced the span and charged. Trooper that he is, he leapt the trench, touching nary a splintered board, and pranced for the next twenty yards until he figured, no doubt, that darkness was closing in between us and our audience of ladies fair.
After that we ambled our way through the darkened yellow scrubland that separated us from the Indian Trading Post. Now and again, we heard Indians using owl or dovelike hoots to pass word of our progress.
Eventually, in the distance, we saw the lamp-lit windows of the Trading Company, guiding us like a lighthouse—but to the shoals of danger rather than away from them. As we drew closer, black, shadowy figures appeared—a silhouetted army of brigands.
“Armstrong!” It was Larsen.
I rode to the front. “Marsh
al Armstrong.”
“You’re as much a marshal as I am an Arapaho. How many marshals sell cannons?”
“How many Indian agents use slave labor—white slave labor?”
“That’s what you call it. I’m a government contractor.”
“And I’m a U.S. Marshal.”
“I don’t know what your game is—but you’re no marshal. I think you’re a thief; a cocky, no account criminal; a gunman who will finally meet his match.”
“I haven’t met it yet.”
“Well, we’ll see about that. No one takes what’s rightfully mine.”
“And what’s rightfully yours—your slaves?”
“They’re not slaves. They’re gainfully employed. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? Not you, nor your Carolina cavalier friend.”
Beauregard puffed out his chest. “Virginia, sir. I have nothing against the Old North State nor against the old swampy Palmetto State, but I am a Virginian, sir.”
“You’re a traitor—you and all your other Ivanhoe-reading, slave-driving, secessionist rebels. If you want to talk about slavery, look at him . . .”
“At me, sir?” said Beauregard. “You speak of slavery, sir. What of the wage-slavery of Northern factories—or your heinous doings here . . .”
I held up my hand. “That’s enough. I fought in that war once—we’re not fighting it again.”
“It looks like some still haven’t learned their lesson,” said Larsen.
“I reckon some carpetbaggers think they can still take advantage,” replied Beauregard.
“Major, that’s enough. And as for you, Larsen, I should tell you that I was a highly decorated Union General in the war.”
“Is that so? A marshal and a general. Were you selling cannons then too—to secesh like him?”
I instinctively felt for my holster. “I should blow your head off.”
“Beggin’ the Yankee General’s pardon, but shouldn’t we trade him the cannon before we blow his head off?”
I took Beauregard’s point. “As you wish, Major.” To Larsen I said, “Are you prepared for the trade?”
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