“How do I get there, Mack?” Tom got directions and ran out the door. He had no money to spare for a street car, so he walked all the way, finding the hospital with no trouble. When he entered, he asked the black-robed woman in charge, “Can you help me? I’m looking for a woman who’s about to have a baby.”
“We’ll need more information,” said the nun. “Let me get the director.”
A slight man with thick glasses named Father Matthew approached Tom and listened carefully, asked a few questions, then said, “You can see her, but . . .”
Tom noted the hesitation and asked the priest, “What’s wrong?”
“Well . . .she’s having difficulty. It’s a hard delivery, Mr. Winslow.”
Tom sensed there was more. “Is she . . .going to live?”
The question troubled the priest. He took off his glasses, breathed on them, then polished them. When he had settled them on his nose, he said quietly, “Our doctor doesn’t think so, but God is always able.”
“Can I see her now?”
“Certainly.”
When Father Matthew admitted him to the room and stepped outside, Tom walked to the bed. A doctor with a large pale face and a heavy beard was leaning over the patient.
“Who are you?” he said as Tom drew near.
Tom looked down, shocked at what he saw. Marlene’s face looked like a skeleton, and pain had drained her of every grace. “I’m her husband,” he answered hoarsely.
“She’s very ill, I’m afraid,” the doctor said. He hesitated, then added, “Stay with her. Call if she wakes up.”
Tom nodded, numb with grief. He stared at his wife, unable to believe what he saw. It was not supposed to be like this, he thought. The shocks of the war had never produced in him anything like the fear that rose within.
Then she opened her eyes.
“Marlene? It’s me, Tom.”
She stared at him out of hollow eyes, seeming not to recognize him. Then she said distinctly, “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I had to come, Marlene!”
“No.” Then pain began to twist her swollen body. When the pain subsided, she gasped out, “I never loved you, Tom. It was always Spence!”
No! his mind cried, but he knew it was true.
She went on. “I was all right—until I heard that he was alive—”
“Alive? He was killed in the war!”
“No—taken prisoner!” she gasped. “He wrote me—and we kept on writing.”
Suddenly the truth hit Tom. “Spence Grayson. He’s the man you came here with?”
“Yes!” Then she began to scream.
The door burst open. The doctor took one look and said, “You’d better wait outside!”
Five hours later, Marlene died. Before she went, the doctor sent for him.
She looked up, eyes hooded with shadow, and said again, “I never loved you, Tom—it was always Spence—”
A sense of utter emptiness filled him, and he turned away.
A nurse nearby, holding a small bundle, stopped him. “This is your daughter, sir,” she said.
Tom halted, then looked down at the baby as the face turned red and eyes squinted shut, ready to give forth a sharp cry of protest.
“Will you be leaving her with us, Mr. Winslow?”
Tom turned to find Father Matthew, who had come to stand beside him.
He reached out and took the little one from the nurse, tucking his finger inside his daughter’s tiny fist, and his heart was comforted by the tug of her hand on his. She was his. She would receive his love.
“No, Father Matthew,” he whispered. “No, she’ll be going with me!”
CHAPTER FOUR
Laurie
Ten years had passed since Mark Winslow had worn a Confederate uniform, yet he still bore a military stance about himself as he stepped off the train and walked toward the ticket office. The pungent odor of woodsmoke from the engine filled the air, and the Wyoming sun burned so brightly he had to squint.
A stubby man with a ruddy complexion glanced up as Mark entered the one-room station. “Help you?”
“Can I rent a horse or a buggy to get to Fort Sanders?”
“Sho’ly. Brand’s Stable, right across from the hotel.”
“Thanks.”
Winslow made his way along the dusty path that led away from the station to a group of weather-beaten buildings scattered across the rolling hills adjacent to the tracks. The stable was no more than a single barn, the paint long ago stripped bare by the sun and the winds. Four horses nibbled at the fresh sprigs of emerald grass pushing through the rocky corral floor. Leaning back against the barn on a cane-bottomed chair sat a man in faded overalls and a cavalry forage cap. Next to him squatted a boy of ten or so. The pair looked so alike it was comical, but Mark repressed a smile, saying, “I need to rent a horse.”
“Shore, Cap’n,” the man nodded, getting up and closing the knife he had been cleaning his nails with. “Got a nice mare. Goin’ to the fort?”
“That’s right.” Mark took a drink from the well nearby as the hostler threw a saddle on a long-legged bay. He noticed the boy watching him covertly, and he smiled, asking in a tone he would have used to another man, “The hunting any good around here?”
The boy’s lips parted in a gap-toothed grin. “Not bad.” He hesitated, then added nonchalantly, “I got me a ten-point buck a few days ago.”
“Ten point? Why, that’s a good buck. Hard shot?”
“Naw. Ain’t hard when you get the hang of it.”
Mark grinned and turned to take the reins of the mare. He swung up onto the saddle and was almost jolted off as the horse pitched, trying to do just that. He tightened his grip and pulled her head up, liking her spirit. “Lively thing, isn’t she?”
“Figured you could handle her,” the hostler said. He squinted in the sun, looking up at Mark. “I know you, don’t I?”
“Name’s Winslow,” Mark replied. “I work for the Union Pacific.” He held the horse’s head up, leaned over and patted her neck. When he looked up he said, “I don’t think I remember you.”
“Prob’ly not,” the man smiled. “I was one of the hooligans you throwed in the pokey the night you and Dooley Young cleaned up the town. My name’s Wiley Hopper.” He pulled off his hat and touched a faint scar on his forehead. “Guess you left your calling card on me that night.”
Mark was instantly alert, his eyes narrowing. He had met men before whom he’d had trouble with when he was assistant superintendent of construction for the UP. At that time it had been a wild, rough town, and his main job of keeping order along the tracks hadn’t been easy, sometimes needing to use fists and guns freely. But the hostler didn’t seem to be hostile. “Sorry about that,” Mark said. “It was a pretty tough town in those days.”
“Shore. Things ain’t the same now, Mr. Winslow.”
Winslow returned his smile. “Well, that’s a good thing. Glad to see you again, Hopper. I’ll be back tomorrow in time to catch the 3:15.” He nodded to the boy. “Wish I had time to have you take me out after a buck, young fellow.” Then he touched his heels to the flanks of the mare, and she shot out of the lot as if she were in a race.
As Mark rode away, the boy asked, “He really the one who gave you that gash, Pa?”
Hopper sobered as the memory of that wild night came back to him. He’d been part of a bunch hired by the saloon owners to handle Winslow, to put him out of business. There’d been enough of them, he thought, remembering how they’d caught Winslow off guard, coming at him out of an alley as he walked the streets. He’d had one man with him, and they’d both gone down, but somehow the two had gotten to their feet. He remembered the cold blue flash of Winslow’s eyes as he’d pulled his gun and begun slashing right and left, sending men to the dirt. There had been enough men to handle him, but Winslow would not go down; and the last thing Hopper remembered was the flash of those eyes as the barrel of a .44 crashed into his head.
“Yep, that’s the hairpi
n, all right, Judd.”
“Aw, he looks like a dude!” the boy protested. “Bet he couldn’t do it now!”
Hopper shook his head. “Well, let’s don’t give him no reason, okay? He still looks pretty tough to me, even if he does wear fine duds. He’s a vice-president of the Union Pacific now. Guess he don’t have to wrestle around with tough fellows like us no more.” He took one more look at the disappearing horseman, then sat down and pulled his knife from his pocket. “Let’s go after another buck next Saturday, Judd.” But as he opened his knife, he thought, He looks about as ringy as he did when he cleaned up every hell-on-wheels from Omaha to Ogden!
****
The trail that led to the fort ran dogleg fashion up and down and around little folds of the earth, past an occasional house, past Indians riding head down and indifferent, their toes pointed outward, their shoulders stooped. He covered the five miles until he came to a highland upon which the fort sat, austere and blunt as it rose from the rolling plain. Passing through the gates after a casual inspection by a private, he rode to the largest of several frame buildings formed in the shape of an L. He dismounted, tied the mare firmly to the hitching post, and entered the adjutant’s office. He was greeted warmly by a large man wearing the insignia of a major. “Well, Mark, what wind blows you out here?”
“Hello, Phil,” Mark smiled. “Came out to see if Martha’s keeping you in line.” Phil Delaney and his wife Martha were good friends of Mark’s, visiting when he traveled the road of the Union or when the Delaneys came to New York on rare occasions.
“You didn’t bring Lola with you?”
“Not this time. She said to tell you she’s going to be put out if you and Martha don’t come to stay with us this year.”
“We were talking about that the other day. I think we can swing it. Come on into my office.” The two men moved to the small room furnished with a battered desk, a table, and two chairs. They sat and talked for a time about families; then Major Delaney asked, “Did you come out to see Tom?”
“That’s right. Is he here?”
“Yes. Just got back last week from a three-month trip up to Powder River. Don’t see how he does it, Mark!” Delaney shook his head, adding, “He’s sure a moving man. Never likes to stay put.”
“How’s Laurie?”
“Oh, well enough, I suppose but . . .” Delaney hesitated as though troubled. He was not a man who spoke his mind lightly, and to give himself time to think, he got up and pulled an olla from where it hung on the wall by a thong. He poured two glasses of water, pushed one toward Mark, then hung up the jug and sat down again. Mark said nothing as the major sipped the tepid water, well aware of Delaney’s habits.
“Well, Mark, I’m worried about Laurie,” he said finally. “I think a lot of Tom, and he does his best for her—but the life he leads, it’s not for a ten-year-old girl.”
Mark nodded. “Lola and I have often said the same thing.” He took a sip of the water, his mind flickering over the life his brother had led since his wife died. At first Tom had tried to settle down at Belle Maison, but he seemed to live under a cloud of restlessness. When Laurie was a mere child, no more than four years old, he had moved to New Mexico and taken over a small ranch, but remained there for less than a year. He had returned to Belle Maison to visit Mark and Lola, bringing Laurie with him, and they had made an offer to raise the girl. Tom had been adamant, not wanting to give her up. So Mark had used his influence to get a place for his brother with the Office of Indian Affairs. That had not been a good solution, however, as far as the rest of the family were concerned. But Tom was pleased with it, and for the past six years had moved all over the northern plains, meeting with the leaders of the tribes, then bringing recommendations on his findings. There was no man who knew the country or the Indians better.
When possible, he had taken Laurie with him; otherwise he boarded her for short terms with various friends. To Mark and Lola it seemed that Laurie had prospered, at least in a physical way, but they were worried about her future.
“Phil, I want Tom to settle down. Lola and I hoped he’d marry again, but he hasn’t. I want Laurie to have some sort of permanence in her life.”
Delaney nodded. “That’s what Martha and I have said. We offered to take the child, but Tom’s very possessive.” He lifted his hand to stroke his Dundreary whiskers, then said slowly, “Guess I’d be the same in his shoes. She’s all he has, Mark.” Then he asked, “What’s on your mind?”
“There’s going to be trouble with the Indians, Phil. You know that better than I do. That expedition Custer led into the Black Hills is going to set it off, I think.”
“Bound to!” Delaney exclaimed. “We gave that country to the Sioux by treaty.”
“We’ve never kept a treaty with them, and they know we never will,” Mark said. “And all that talk about our troops going in to find a site for a new fort was pretty raw!”
In 1873, General Sheridan concluded that a more strategically located post was needed to discourage the Indians from raiding the Nebraska settlements and travel routes to the south. This new fort would fall somewhere in the vicinity of the Black Hills. These invitingly wooded mountains sprawled over the western portion of the Great Sioux Reservation, remote, mysterious, and not well known to the outside world. The Sioux treasured the Black Hills as their “Meat Pack,” rich in game with sheltered valleys and abundant firewood, ideal for winter camping. Drawn by these resources, they had seized the hills from the Kiowas almost a century earlier and had jealously guarded them against whites and other Indians ever since.
But though Sheridan’s proposal to send a troop to find a site for a fort was backed by President Grant and General Sherman, friends of the Indians felt that the operation was a violation of the Treaty of 1868, which barred whites from the Great Sioux Reservation. Both Sherman and Grant scoffed at such a notion, claiming that the government had a right and an obligation to establish a military post on any site—for the protection of the people, they insisted.
The real purpose of the invasion of the Black Hills, however, was not to find a site for a military fort but to obtain its rich resources. The Black Hills offered the last great mining frontier of the West. For almost half a century rumors of gold in the Black Hills had periodically tantalized the nation, but the region remained unexplored, the haunt of Indians who turned aside all comers.
The Treaty of 1868 infuriated Dakotans, for it unmistakably confirmed the Black Hills as Indian domain, therefore barred to all white settlers and even travelers. The “abominable compact with the marauding bands,” as a Yankton paper put it, did not dampen enthusiasm for opening the hills. On the contrary, impoverishing thousands, the Panic of 1873 kindled new ardor. “As the Christian looks forward with hope and faith to that land of pure delight,” rhapsodized the Bismarck Tribune, “so the miner looks forward to the Black Hills, a region of fabulous wealth, where the hills repose on beds of gold and the rocks are studded with precious metal.”
Nurtured by such seductive visions, when Custer took the Seventh Cavalry into the Black Hills on July 2, 1874, two mining experts, William McKay and Horatio Nelson Ross, went along. And it was a matter of course that these two men would find traces of gold, just as it was certain that their reports would leak out.
Mark shook his head in disgust, thinking of the shoddy behavior of the government. “The Sioux know what’s coming. And they’ll fight this time.”
“I believe they will,” Delaney agreed. Then he asked, “But what’s all this got to do with Tom and Laurie?”
“Phil, you now how Sherman hates Indians. Says the only good Indian he ever saw was a dead one. Well, Grant’s told him to ‘clean up the Indian problem’—and you know exactly how Sherman will understand that!”
“Kill them off!”
“Exactly. Sherman has watched Nelson Miles destroy the tribes of the southern plains, and now he wants Phil Sheridan to do the same in the north.” Mark hesitated, then said, “Don’t spread this around
, Phil. I got it from a high official on my promise to keep it to myself.”
“Certainly!” Delaney nodded. “But I still don’t see what all this has to do with Tom and Laurie.”
“Sherman will use the best Indian fighters we have, and that means Custer. He’s a household name and has always been successful in fighting Indians. His brother Tom is a good friend of mine, Phil. I saw him last month and he told me that Custer wants to put together the best group of scouts ever assembled. He wanted to know if I knew anybody who’d be a candidate for the job—heading up the scouts. And I told him about my brother Tom.”
“Well, he knows more about Indians—and about that country around the Black Hills—than anybody else. But that’s just a short-term affair, isn’t it?”
“Maybe not. Custer wants the scouts to be under military authority—which means the leader will have to be a soldier.”
A startled expression crossed Delaney’s face. “Tom would join the army?”
“That’s what I’d like to see,” Mark nodded. “He’d join as a sergeant, but if he did well, Custer’s brother told me it would be no problem to get him a commission. What do you think, Phil?”
Delaney stroked his luxurious whiskers, sipped his water, then nodded. “It would be good. Tom always liked the army, you know. Bad as that time was, he liked it. And he’d be a good officer. We need men who know the Indians.” He drummed the desk with his fingers, thinking hard. “Think he’ll do it?”
“He’s a pretty stubborn fellow,” Mark mused. “But if I can make him see that it’d be good for Laurie, I think he might.” He got to his feet, asking, “Where’ll I find him, Phil?”
“Probably working on his house. It’s half a mile down the south road—back in a grove of cottonwoods on the right.” He rose and accompanied his visitor outside. As Mark wheeled the mare and rode toward the gate, Delaney called out, “Come by and tell me how it comes out.”
The Crossed Sabres Page 5