The Crossed Sabres

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Sergeant Winslow reporting, Lieutenant,” Tom said, giving a precise salute.

  Varnum returned the salute. “You’re new?”

  “Yes, sir. Enlisted last Monday.”

  A smile tugged at Varnum’s thin lips. “Rapid promotion,” he commented, then added, “You’re to work with the Ree scouts, I’m told. Captain Custer mentioned you.” He studied Winslow carefully. “Have you had prior service, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. Five years of the Civil War—on the losing side.”

  Varnum’s eyes gleamed with humor. “We’ll try to see that you’re on the winning side this time. I believe Captain Custer said you’d been working with the Indians. Speak any of their languages?”

  “Sioux pretty well. Some Crow and a little Cheyenne.”

  “That’ll be a help!” Varnum exclaimed. “Well, the scouts are probably over at the stables. Let’s go.”

  As they walked along the parade ground toward the stables, Varnum filled him in on the scouts. “We’ve got two fine white scouts, Lonesome Charlie Reynolds—he’s General Custer’s favorite—and Mitch Bouyer. Two others, Herendeen and Girard, are used part of the time. All are civilians, of course. You’ll be the only soldier represented.”

  “What about the Indians?”

  “All Crows. They hate the Sioux so bad they don’t feel it’s a betrayal to try to crush them. All of the Ree tribe. They can move about better than any white man, but their information isn’t always accurate. General Custer doesn’t trust them as much as I do. Bloody Knife is their leader. He’s a good one. Doesn’t blow up his report of ten Sioux into two hundred the way some of the others do.”

  They turned toward the large barns used to hold forage, and Varnum nodded. “Looks as if they’re getting ready to pull out over there. You can meet the men and get some kind of a feel about them, but don’t make this trip.”

  The scouts stopped talking and turned to face the two men. “Hello, Charlie—Mitch,” Varnum greeted. “Got someone for you to meet—the man we talked about.”

  Lonesome Charlie Reynolds was stoop-shouldered, short and stocky, with restless gray eyes. He surveyed the new man silently. Winslow learned later that Reynolds was a man of few words, soft-spoken, and quiet to a fault.

  Mitch Bouyer was somewhat taller than Reynolds—a spare man with moody brown eyes and a large nose. He was dressed in a faded brown suit and wore a broad-brimmed hat pulled low over his brow. His thin lips opened in a slight smile. “Hello, Tom. Kind of pulled your picket, ain’t you?”

  “Guess so, Mitch,” Winslow smiled. “Good to see you.”

  “You two have met?” Varnum asked, surprised.

  “Sure have, Lieutenant,” Bouyer nodded. “Winslow here pulled my bacon out of the fire down south. I got crossways with a Cheyenne war party and was about to give up when Tom here come along. Saved my scalp, I reckon.”

  Varnum was pleased. “Well, that’s fine. You can help Sergeant Winslow get settled. You’re going out today?”

  “Taking a little trip over to Wolf Canyon.” It was Reynolds who spoke this time. “Heard that Gall was in those parts. Like to know about it if he is.”

  “Lieutenant, I may as well ride along, part of the way, at least,” Winslow offered. He wanted to talk to Bouyer and to get better acquainted with Reynolds and the Ree.

  “Of course,” Varnum agreed. “Report to me when you return.”

  He turned and walked away, and Bouyer chuckled deep in his throat. “Another old acquaintance of yours here, Winslow.”

  He gestured toward the small group of Ree Indians, and Winslow smiled. Walking over to the group he nodded to a tall, heavy Indian. “Hello, my friend Yellow Face,” he said in the Sioux language. “It is good to see my brother again.”

  The Indian nodded. “You are in this place,” he answered. “But you will not put your friend Yellow Face in the jail this time!”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Winslow had gone into an Indian camp to rescue a pair of Mexican teamsters captured by the band of Yellow Face, and when the big Indian had tried to stop him, Tom had been forced to knock him out with the butt of his revolver and put him in jail for the night. “My brother is much wiser now than to drink the firewater that eats the brain.”

  A laugh went up from the Indians around Yellow Face, and Mitch Bouyer inserted, “Ain’t got no more sense now than he did then, Tom!”

  Yellow Face grinned.

  Winslow met the rest of the Indian scouts, one of them Bloody Knife, whom he rode beside as the group left. This was, according to Varnum, the Indian the general trusted the most, so Tom wanted to find out what he was made of.

  Bloody Knife was better looking than most of the Ree Winslow had met—smooth aquiline nose, small ears and mouth, superbly cut lips. But there was a curl in his mouth that indicated he was a scornful man, which proved to be true, as Winslow learned later. The Indian was impertinent toward whites and even ridiculed Custer’s marksmanship. Instead of being offended by the latter, Custer was amused and made him a court jester.

  He seemed amiable enough, however, and spoke freely with Winslow as they rode along. Tom learned that the Indian was half Sioux, a fact the Ree seemed to hate. Bloody Knife was well aware that the Sioux hated him more than the rest of the Indian scouts, the full-blood Ree, and this pleased him greatly.

  “What will the Sioux do, Bloody Knife?” Winslow asked.

  “They will fight,” Bloody Knife nodded, his lips drawn into a scowl. “They are gathering now, and they will be many when all are come. More than any gathering of the people!”

  More for a test than for information, Winslow said, “But there are many old enemies among the people. The Sioux and the Crow have killed each other for many years. They hate one another greatly.”

  Bloody Knife shot Winslow a brittle look. “They hate each other—but they hate the white eyes more!” Those cryptic words Tom would never forget.

  All day the small band rode through the broken country, keeping their eyes peeled for any trouble. At noon, the Ree were sent in another direction so more terrain could be covered. As Winslow watched them go, he repeated to the two men what Bloody Knife had said.

  “He’s not wrong about that,” Bouyer nodded emphatically. “Me and Charlie have tried to tell Custer the same thing, but he’s a stubborn man.”

  The three rode along for a time, and then Winslow said, “I’m heading back. Just wanted to get acquainted.”

  “Keep your scalp on tight, Tom,” Bouyer grinned, and when Winslow was out of earshot, Mitch turned to Charlie. “What you think of him?”

  Lonesome Charlie Reynolds was chary with his praise. “Knows how to keep his mouth shut, and that is good. But can he scout?”

  “Good as you or me, Charlie.”

  Reynolds snorted. “Let’s not be giving the man too much credit, Mitch. If he’s half as good as either one of us, he’s an angel!”

  “You’ll see,” Mitch nodded confidently.

  ****

  Winslow had left the scouts purposefully, having an errand on his mind. He rode south, following the snaky windings of a dry riverbed, crossed over and let his horse pick the pace. The country was broken by raw outcroppings of rocks, and he deliberately kept away from them out of habit. As he rode along, his eyes moved restlessly from point to point. He was not expecting trouble, but he had lived with danger so long that it was second nature for him to look for it, to expect it even when there seemed to be no danger. Many of his friends had died because they had let their guard down, and he wasn’t taking any chances.

  Like the Indians, he was one with the land. The circling of three buzzards far off to his left sent a tiny message to his brain, as did the explosive burst of speed that propelled a large rabbit out of a thicket. Most men would have watched the rabbit, but Winslow watched the thicket, knowing that something had triggered the wild run of the animal. When a coyote came plunging after the rabbit, Winslow’s mind registered the fact, and his eyes moved o
n. Every movement of tree, bush, cloud of dust, or animal was within the realm of his interest, and he was well aware of the three Indians who came from behind a low-lying hill before they appeared.

  They stopped their horses and waited for him. Two of them were armed with bows and arrows; the other one carried a repeating Spencer.

  Tom drew to a halt, lifted his hand upward, and spoke to them in their language. “Have my brothers had good hunting?”

  The Indian with the rifle gave him a closer inspection. “How does the pony soldier know my speech?”

  “I have spent many years in this country. Tall Antelope is my blood brother.”

  This information brought a definite change in the three, and the one with the rifle nodded. “We hunt the antelope.” Then he spoke to his two companions, and the three of them wheeled their ponies and headed west without another word.

  If I’d met them at another time—or if I didn’t speak Sioux, it might have had a different ending, he thought. He moved on, storing the incident in his memory. Someday he might meet one of these three again, and he wanted to have this experience to call on. It was this careful attention to details that had enabled him to survive as long as he had, and he was aware that if he let his guard down for one brief moment, he could well become one of those bleached skeletons that dotted the land.

  At four o’clock he saw what he was seeking, now just a dim smudge on the horizon. Soon it grew larger, becoming a barn and a house. He noted the horses penned in the corral and heard the sharp blows of hammers. He had asked Nick Owens how to find the place, and the businessman had given him instructions, but had not asked the question that was in his eyes: Why are you looking for a mission? Tom had said, “I told Miss Jamison I’d try to stop by. I know some of their Sioux language and a few of the chiefs in the area.” The answer had satisfied Owens to a point, and he’d expressed his thanks for any help Winslow could give the missionary.

  He pulled his horse up to the watering trough, let him drink a little, then tied him to a post, and walked into the barn. Two men were busy putting up partitions, while Faith did the cleaning up. She was wearing an old dress, with her hair tied up in a bandanna. When she did glance up, she was startled, not recognizing him at first.

  “I didn’t hear you ride up,” she smiled. “Are you on duty?”

  “Not now. Came to see what I could do.”

  “Well, these two know their business; they’re very good carpenters,” she said, turning to the men. They didn’t cease working, but had their eyes on Winslow. “I’ll go fix supper,” she said. “You two must be starved.”

  “Could do with a bite,” one of them nodded, a tall, lanky man with red hair and bushy whiskers. “Just give us a call, sister.”

  “Is that what they call you—sister?” Winslow asked as they left the barn and headed toward the house.

  “They do call me that,” she nodded. “Sometimes they call me reverend. I think they get kind of confused. Guess I don’t know what I am exactly.”

  As he followed her inside the house, he saw that she was indeed a tidy woman. The rooms were neat, and the air smelled clean, with a mixture of putty, soap, and disinfectant. He noted the small table and four chairs, the cook stove, and the new pipe, and through the door he could see a bed with a pink counterpane.

  “You’ve been busy,” he observed. “It looks nice.”

  “Nick Owens brought some men from the church,” she nodded. “They did most of it. Now, would you rather have bacon and eggs—or eggs and bacon?”

  “Whichever’s the quickest.” He saw the woodbox was nearly empty, so he left to work on the pile of logs dumped to the side of the house. The wood was dry, and the dust smelled good as he bucksawed a log into short lengths, then picked up an axe and split the cylinders into quarters. When he finished the log, he carried the sticks in and filled the woodbox.

  “Would you go call the men?” she asked. “It’s all ready.”

  The four of them dug right in. Not only had she made bacon and eggs but also sawmill gravy, biscuits, and a pot of pinto beans, which she had prepared earlier. When the men finally slowed down, she brought a deep dish to the table and removed the cover. “Peach cobbler!” the tall carpenter groaned. “If you’d told me about this, I wouldn’t have made such a hog of myself. Well, a man’s got to eat it or he ain’t no man atall!”

  The shorter man had not said ten words, but he smiled when Faith gave him the remains of the cobbler as they left. “Don’t go to bed hungry, Roger,” she said.

  Tom leaned back in the chair, sipping his coffee from time to time, apparently at ease. “Where’d you learn to cook?” he asked as she washed the dishes. He had offered to help, but she had refused.

  “Oh, my mother taught me.” She finished the last dish, took off her apron, and moved to the window. “It’s so quiet out there!” she said finally. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “All right.”

  The night was dark, for it was that time just before the moon and stars came out. As they wandered down the path, she spoke of her gratefulness for all the help she’d received, her lilting voice conveying the happiness she felt.

  “I want to start having services of some kind,” she said. “But how would I get the Indians to come?”

  He smiled. “They know you’re here, Faith.”

  “But—I haven’t seen a single person except the men who’ve worked on the mission!”

  “They’re looking you over. Trying to figure you out. They’re pretty careful.”

  “Like you, Tom?” she asked. The question popped out impulsively.

  He gave her a sudden glance, wondering about the question. “Well, I guess so. I’ve lived with them so long, I guess I’m like them in some of their ways.”

  She considered that, wanting to understand him. He was an enigma to her. “I guess you might as well know the worst thing about me, Tom.”

  He was amused at her remark. “You drink on the sly?”

  “Oh, worse than that!” she laughed.

  When she said no more, he took her arm and pulled her around. “Well, don’t leave a man hanging! What’s the worst thing about you?”

  “I meddle.”

  “Well,” he grinned, “I guess that’s part of being a woman, isn’t it?”

  “No, I mean I can’t let people run their own lives.” She grew more serious, and was acutely aware that he had not released her arm. Not only that, she was a young woman alone with one of the most attractive men she’d ever met—and she was telling him her faults! You’ll run him off like a scared rabbit! she thought, but plunged ahead.

  “Tom, we haven’t known each other very long. But you were so kind to me on the trip here. And I’ve grown fond of Laurie.”

  “She likes you too,” he said soberly. “I joined the army to have some kind of stability.” Then he asked, “Is that your meddling?”

  “No.” She hesitated, debating whether she should forego the question that had been troubling her for days. Then she said quietly, “Laurie told me how angry you became when you saw Lieutenant Grayson. Why do you dislike him so much?” She could see that her query had hit a nerve, and said quickly, “Well, I told you I was prone to meddle. I have no right to ask—but Laurie said you changed so abruptly after you saw him. You became harsh, and it frightened her. I think that’s why I asked. If I’m nosy, it’s because I don’t know any other way to go about it.”

  Winslow dropped his hand, and she thought he was going to walk away angrily. Instead, he stared out over the desert, seeming to hear something. Then he brought his eyes back to her. It was so dark she could not see his face plainly, but his voice gave him away, for it was tense, not his easy, casual tone.

  “It goes back a long way, Faith. I don’t think it’d do any good for me to talk about it.”

  “All right, Tom.”

  She moved away from him, and he followed her. They said nothing for a time; then he said with a trace of anxiety, “I hope you’re not angry.”

&
nbsp; “Why, of course not!” This time it was she who reached out, touching his arm lightly. “I just hate to see you hurt . . .because when you’re affected, Laurie is, too.”

  “In that, you’re right.” He let the silence run on. Finally he said slowly, “We had trouble once. I thought it was all gone, forgotten. But as soon as I saw him, it all came back, worse than ever.” He hesitated, then added, “Nothing ever dies.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Faith countered. “I have a scar on my wrist. When I was ten years old I ripped it open on a barbed wire fence. It hurt worse than anything I’d ever known.” She held her wrist up and peered at it by the faint light of the moon that had risen. “See? It’s still there, the scar.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “That the pain is gone, Tom. Only the scar is there. I know I was hurt once, a long time ago. I still can remember the pain. But it has nothing to do with me now!”

  They walked the rest of the way back to the house in silence. When they came to the door, Faith could see by the light of the lamp that his wound was still raw. His face was torn at its remembrance.

  “I guess that’s true of a cut on the arm, Faith . . .but other kinds of hurts are different.”

  “Tom . . .you have to learn how to forgive,” she whispered. “Unforgiveness is like a dreadful disease, eating away on your spirit. It makes you bitter and you forget how to love. And when that happens, you’re dead inside.”

  Winslow listened to her, and for a moment, she felt he was going to speak, which was what she so badly wanted. If he would only talk about it, something might happen!

  But he shook his head. “I know that’s the way you feel about it. My mother says the same. Fine people, my family, Christian to the bone. All my people have been Christians.” He struggled to put his thoughts into words, then finally gave up. “Whatever it takes to do that, Faith, I don’t have it in me. Thanks for the supper.”

  He moved away so quickly she could not stop him; even if she ran after him, it would be hopeless. He was in a prison of his own making, and nothing she could say would change it.