The Crossed Sabres

by Gilbert, Morris

  They rose the next morning just before dawn and fixed a big breakfast of bacon and eggs. Winslow had persuaded the sergeant in charge of the mounts for the Seventh to lend him a mule for the trip, and he had packed blankets and food on the animal. He saddled the two horses; then they mounted and rode out of the fort. He skirted the river and headed toward the low-lying hills, the beginning of the plateau. By the middle of the morning, they came upon little hills and bluffs bordering the winding course of Heart River. By noon they were fifteen miles from the fort and stopped to eat the lunch they had packed.

  Sitting on a fallen tree beside the river that purled at their feet, they devoured sandwiches and the remnants of a caramel cake Eileen had provided for the trip. Afterward they drank from the cold waters of the river, then sat leisurely, enjoying the warmth of the sun. A small furry animal swam into view, his sleek head making a V-shaped ripple. “Look!” Tom whispered, “but be very quiet.” They watched the furry animal scramble out of the water. He was eight inches long and another six in the tail. The tail itself was black and scaled, and was flattened vertically, like a belt stood on edge, not horizontally like beavers. They could see his water-slick coat that emphasized the smooth contours of his body, and the pale soft hair underneath, almost like rabbit fur.

  He began chomping on a ten-inch weed, pushing it into his mouth steadily with both forepaws as a child feeds candy into his mouth. For at least five minutes, he moved among the weeds, totally unaware of being watched.

  Then he stopped abruptly, his body quivering, and with a flash of movement dived toward the river and disappeared into the water.

  Winslow looked up and motioned toward a red-tailed hawk sailing overhead. “That bird just missed his lunch,” he commented.

  “What was it, Daddy?”

  “Muskrat.”

  “And the bird would have eaten him?”

  “Sure would. Hawks and owls—and minks and otters, too. But I guess men are their worst enemy. I had a friend in Virginia, years ago, who trapped muskrats. He told me that in ten years he killed 30,000 muskrats.”

  Laurie’s lips grew firm. “I think that’s just awful, Daddy! They’re so adorable!”

  “So is a young calf,” Winslow shrugged, “but both of us ate those steaks last week.” He saw that the concept bothered her but knew of no other way to introduce her to that grim aspect of the world. “Well, let’s get moving,” he said, and they mounted and moved toward the ridge, where they would camp.

  He shot two rabbits later that afternoon, adding them to the pack on the mule. Later he downed an antelope and dressed it. “This will make a good meal for Miss Eileen,” he said, noting that Laurie had looked at the beautiful animal with some degree of sadness. He made a try at modifying this, by saying, “God made all the animals for man’s use. Pretty nice of Him to watch out for us.”

  That thought pleased her, and by the time they reached a clump of timber, she was excited about making camp. He let her do as much as she was capable of—helping gather wood, putting the blankets down for their beds, getting out the food. He hobbled the horses, and by the time the sun fell, the cheerful fire drove the falling darkness back. He cut sharp sticks with his knife and let her roast one of the rabbits. When they were eating, he said, “Food always tastes better outside, doesn’t it? No matter how bad it’s cooked, I always gobble it down. But you did a real good job of cooking, Laurie.”

  After supper they sat and watched the fire, adding branches from time to time. The firelight reflected the glow of pleasure in Laurie’s eyes, and she talked excitedly about the day’s events. Once after a pause she asked, “What did my mother look like, Daddy?”

  She had asked him this many times. “She was very beautiful, Laurie. When you’re a few years older, you’ll see her every time you look in the mirror.”

  She thought about that when she drifted off to sleep later, wondering what it would have been like having a mother.

  As they slept, the fire snapped and popped, and the logs settled with a sigh from time to time. A heavy silence muffled the land, broken occasionally by the cries of a timber wolf that floated on the night air.

  At dawn they awakened and fixed a quick breakfast of eggs and bacon, saddled up, and moved away from the camp. This was not hostile Indian territory, but Winslow kept a sharp watch, for the Sioux were not shut in by boundaries. All morning they roamed the low hills, exploring small creeks and stands of timber. Often they saw deer, but Winslow took no shots, content to let Laurie enjoy their floating gait as they fled away.

  At noon when they crested a hill, Laurie saw something on the horizon and asked, “What’s that, Daddy?”

  “That’s the school, the one Miss Faith teaches in.”

  “Oh, let’s go see her!”

  Winslow agreed, but as they rode toward the buildings, he felt distinctly uncomfortable. He had seen Faith only twice since his encounter with her and Spence Grayson, both times chance occurrences in Bismarck. She had been civil enough, yet he had not missed the restraint in her manner—and could not blame her for it. When he had left her place that day, the anger the sight of Grayson always triggered had slowly faded, and it was then he realized he had been unfair to the woman. But there had been no way to speak of it to her; even now when the opportunity was before him he felt uncomfortable and wished he’d taken another route.

  Faith had been reading a story to her pupils—twelve of them, ranging from the ages of ten to fifteen. It was an awkward situation, for she read in English, and Gray Dove, the oldest girl, translated into the Sioux language for the others. At the sound of horses, Faith had gone to look out the window. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “Why don’t you draw a picture of a buffalo on your tablets?”

  Stepping outside, she greeted them with a smile. “Hello, Laurie—Tom. Nice to see you.”

  Laurie slid off her horse and ran to Faith, beginning at once to tell of the camping trip. Winslow removed the antelope from the mule and held it up. “Brought your dinner.”

  “Oh, that will be good,” Faith said. “Let me put it in the larder.” She waited until he halved the antelope, then led the way to the back of the house where a shed had recently been added. “The men thought this would be handy,” she said, opening the door.

  He entered and hung the half from a nail in a rafter. “You might want me to salt that down for you. It’ll keep better that way.”

  “I don’t know how to do that. I’ll get the salt.” She watched as he began to treat the meat. “I really appreciate that, Tom. Now, I’d better get back to my classroom. Come meet my pupils, Laurie.”

  When Winslow finished salting the meat, he washed his hands and went to the schoolhouse. The Indians looked at him questioningly, and Faith said, “Say something to them in their language, Tom.”

  He said a few words, which pleased them. Seeing their smiles, Faith asked, “What did you say?”

  “That they are a fine-looking group, and that they have a fine teacher.”

  Faith flushed and shook her head. “Gray Dove there is trying to teach me the language. She’s a good teacher—but I’m so slow.”

  “Takes time,” Tom said. “But it’ll mean a lot to these people.” He moved toward a chair, nodding to Laurie. “Come over here and let’s listen. Maybe we’ll learn something.”

  Their presence flustered Faith for a time; then she got caught up in her work. She was trying to teach them the letters of the alphabet, and not doing very well. She drew the first three letters on a piece of slate fastened to the wall, pointed at them, and tried to get the students to repeat the sound. They responded poorly, so she said to Winslow, “They just don’t seem to see any sense in learning.”

  “I guess that’s about my story when I was their age,” Winslow replied. He told her about his experience at teaching the Apaches in Arizona in a school the government had started for them. “It seems they learn in spurts—or it did there. No progress at all; then all of a sudden they catch on.”

  He
paused for a moment. “Well, that’s about all I can tell you,” he said and he stood up. “We’d better be riding on, Laurie.” He walked to the door and Faith came out to stand beside the two as they prepared to mount. “Thanks again for the meat,” she said. She was unaware of how lovely she looked in her long-sleeved blue woolen dress, with the sunshine highlighting her auburn hair as she stood there.

  Winslow hesitated, then noting that Laurie had gone to get one last drink of water from the well, he said quickly, “Last time I was here, Faith, I was pretty surly. Sorry about that.”

  His confession surprised her, for it was her impression that he was not a man who could apologize easily. And now as she looked up at him, some of her surprise mirrored in her eyes, she knew she’d been right. But she was pleased at the character trait that enabled him to admit his wrong.

  She said simply, “I was hurt, Tom—but now it’s all right.”

  He looked down at the ground, a tall man suddenly made taciturn by his admission. Then he looked up and saw the joy in her eyes. “Well,” he said with a deep sigh, “I’ve been rehearsing that speech for days. Don’t know why it’s so hard for a man to say he’s been a fool.”

  “Let’s forget it,” Faith said. “I’ve missed you and Laurie. Will you let her come and spend weekends sometimes?”

  “She’d sure like that.” Laurie ran up, and the two swung into their saddles. “Maybe I’ll come and hear you preach,” he grinned, feeling greatly relieved. The incident had burdened him heavily, but now it was as if a dark cloud had passed away. He took off his hat and slapped the flank of his horse, sending him out of the yard, dragging the mule with his neck outstretched.

  Startled by his actions, Laurie stared after him, then cried, “Goodbye, Miss Faith!” Digging her heels into the sides of her mare, she turned around and shouted, “I’ll make him come to church!”

  Then they were gone. As she turned to go back into the building, Faith felt strangely lighter, and the dark eyes of the Indian children watched her carefully, wondering why she was so much happier than before.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Death on Patrol

  “Prepare to mount. Mount!”

  Twenty bodies hit the McClellan saddles, accompanied by the grunt of horses and the clack of carbines and canteens and belted trenching tools.

  “Right by twos, march!”

  The line moved, gray and indistinct; saddle leather against the ruffled beat of the walking horses sang a rhythmic melody as Captain Algernon Smith led the men of A Company past the guard post. They were joined by twenty more troopers commanded by Second Lieutenant Spence Grayson of E Company. They moved out at a fast trot two by two, up the slope of the ridge east of the fort, the line evening out as they headed away from the river.

  Captain Smith rode beside Sergeant Hines, with Winslow off to one side. The long double rank of troopers was silent at that hour but gradually took on life as the sun rose higher and the warm rays and ride loosened their muscles. Most of the troopers were Irish, their faces mustached, burned and weather-beaten. Some of the countenances of the group reflected a mixture of good values, hardness, or wildness; others, young, untested innocence.

  Winslow sat easy in the saddle, conscious of the sounds around him, the squeezing sibilance of leather, the clinking of metal gear, the slap of canteens, and the talk among the men as the hour moved on. He turned and looked down the line, pleased with the sight of the column, the men so dark of face that their eyes seemed to glitter. It was a tough line, like a sinuous whip being dragged across the country. He saw Babe O’Hara grin at him, and grinned back, glad for a new rapport between them.

  They paused for a rest two hours out of the fort, then again at noon. The air was brisk, but not as cold as it would be in a month. Today the breeze was fresh, clean, and so sharp it went to the bottom of a man’s lungs. About one in the afternoon, they found Captain Moylan and his men waiting for them at the foot of a long, broken butte that lay along the west. Moylan and his men were worn thin, eyes bleary with fatigue. Lieutenant Grayson came forward to listen as Moylan gave the details of his scout. Grayson didn’t look at Winslow, but kept his eyes on Moylan who said, “We’ve stayed pretty close to them, Smith. Too close, maybe.”

  “How’s that, Captain?” Smith inquired.

  “They could have broken up into twos and threes and faded away,” Moylan went on, scratching his chin. “That’s what they usually do.” He cautioned Smith, advising, “Be careful, Captain.” Finishing his report, he motioned his command forward and as they passed, the waiting troopers and officers saw that some of Moylan’s men were so weary they could hardly sit in their saddles.

  “Sounds encouraging, Smith,” Lieutenant Grayson said, his eyes keen with excitement. “We’re fresh and they’ve been on the run for a long time.” He waited for Smith to respond, then urged, “Let’s head out after them as fast as we can.”

  “No,” Captain Smith said, “I think we’ll be a little cautious. If these are some of Gall’s warriors, they’re tough.” He turned to Winslow. “Sergeant, ride out and see if you can get a reading on this bunch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Winslow left, along with Yellow Face, who had kept well off to himself, a frown creased Grayson’s brow, and he said, “I don’t trust these agency bucks. He could lead us right into an ambush.”

  “I doubt that,” Smith said briefly. “And we’ve got Winslow along to check his findings.”

  “He’s brand new at this.”

  “Charlie Reynolds says he’s all right—and Charlie’s a hard man to please.”

  Smith kept the troop at an even pace, and at four o’clock Winslow and Yellow Face returned at a fast gallop. Pulling his horse to a halt, Winslow said, “They’re still bunched up, Captain.”

  “How far ahead?”

  “Maybe five miles.”

  “You sure, Sergeant?”

  “Sure enough, sir,” Winslow said emphatically. “We got a glimpse of them from the top of a rise.”

  “Let’s hit them now!” Grayson said.

  The inclination to attack was clearly in Captain Smith, Winslow saw, for the stocky officer was a pugnacious man. But now as he looked toward the low-lying hills settling into the fast falling shadows, he hesitated, finding something not to his liking. Finally he shook his head, saying, “No, I think not. By the time we caught up with them, it’d be dusk at least—or maybe dark. Better to get an early start and try to make contact as soon as possible.”

  Grayson was disappointed, but when he tried to protest, Smith shook his head, saying in a clipped tone, “That’s it, Grayson.” Then he turned to Winslow. “Sergeant, is there a spot to camp with water?”

  “Yes, sir. A small creek in the timberline—about two miles.”

  The troop advanced to a scattered fringe of trees that marked a creek flowing from the northwest. Darkness closed in, and the men removed their blankets and started small fires. As the guards took the horses away from the camp, the smell of bacon and coffee laced the cold air, and soon Winslow was sitting in front of one of the fires, eating hungrily. Babe O’Hara and Leo Dempsey, another Irishman, were swapping stories concerning their success with women. Billy Satterfield, at eighteen, the youngest recruit of A Company, listened avidly. He was a thin towheaded boy, just off the family farm in Ohio, and was gullible to a fault. Ace Guidry, a dark-skinned Cajun from New Orleans, grinned at the boy. “Boy, don’t believe all you hear from them two.”

  Dempsey, a tough one who didn’t like to be challenged, said, “Keep your mouth shut, Guidry, or I’ll shut it for you!”

  A long, thin-bladed knife magically appeared in Guidry’s hand, and he said softly, “Come on to me, boy. I’ll beat the Indians to your scalp.”

  Dempsey half rose to his feet, but O’Hara broke in. “Cut it out, you two. Ace, put that pig-sticker away before I take it away from you.”

  There was a moment’s tension, but then Ace laughed and put the knife away. “I don’t think I’ll
try your mettle tonight.”

  Corporal Nathan Zeiss, a sober German, changed the subject. “You think we’ll have a fight tomorrow, Sergeant?” Zeiss had a worried look on his blunt face, for he was married, with a child on the way. His hitch was up in four months and he was anxious to be out of the army and with his family in Kansas.

  “Looks like it, Nathan,” Winslow said. He took a bite of bacon and chewed it thoughtfully. He was aware that most of the Seventh had not seen action, and this small group was typical. Only O’Hara and Dempsey had been in action; the others were green and nervous. He had seen this often during the war, had been green himself before Bull Run. There was something mystic about war, he thought, looking at the faces of the men. As terrible as it was, men were drawn to it, hypnotized, it seemed, by its very violence. He remembered his brother Mark relating what he had heard Lee say about it. Mark had been a courier at the time, and had carried a message to Lee. The general had been looking down on the Union troops who had crossed the Rappahannock River. The Confederate Army was entrenched along the top of a hill in an impregnable position, but the Union General Burnside sent the troops against it. The Federals had moved across the field in perfect parade-ground order, lines straight and in step with the music of a band. They had marched straight into the mouths of the Confederate guns time and time again, falling like rows of wheat cut with a scythe as the muskets and artillery of Lee’s men shot them down.

  Mark had overheard Lee say to his adjutant: “It’s well that war is so terrible, or we would become too fond of it!”

  Now, sitting in front of the fire and watching the faces of the young soldiers, Winslow saw fear and apprehension, yet it was mixed with anticipation of the battle. He sipped his coffee, wondering which of them would not be around a campfire after this one. But realizing such thoughts were not for him to express, he spoke up cheerfully, “It’s a small bunch, boys, and they usually break up as soon as they get hit.”