“Wise or not, I shall do it!” he said as he continued writing, using his words like a cavalry sabre, slashing at his enemies. He saw himself being forced out of action by his enemies in Washington, and he had to have action. It was his only gift, and without thought of defense or skill or retreat—the method which had made him a young general at the age of twenty-five—he drove at his foes with his pen.
****
With Custer gone, the routine of the Seventh slowed. Early winter rains fell, and the Missouri rose five feet, transforming the current into a mud-greasy surface filled with driftwood. Sections of the bluffs collapsed, sending small tidal waves onward. Inside the fort, life went on. Two soldiers deserted, but were captured the next day and tried the following week. If Custer had been on the post, they would have been shot, but they escaped with a year’s prison sentence.
Fifty recruits arrived to replenish the Seventh’s thin ranks. In addition to rumors of a War Department scandal, the news filtered west of a plan being formed by Grant and Sherman to crush the Sioux. General Terry, the department commander at St. Paul, sent urgent orders for the Seventh to overhaul its equipment and to whip its recruits into shape as rapidly as possible. This meant that on the bitter cold mornings recruits went through their monotonous revolutions on the parade ground, marched outside the fort for rifle-range practice, and daily scouted westward. Freighters broke the first light snowfall with supplies for the quartermaster and commissary depots on the reservation. The Far West, a riverboat with Captain Grant Marsh commanding, came downriver and stopped briefly to report he had been fired on four times in four days along the upper stretches of the Missouri. On December 6 the telegraphy flashed news from the East that couriers would be sent out to instruct the recalcitrant Sioux to come into the reservations by January 31 or be treated as hostiles.
The absence of the commanding officer meant that Winslow and the scouts spent little time roaming the hills. As Mitch Bouyer put it to Winslow, “Them Sioux are holed up fer the winter, Tom, ’cept for huntin’ parties. Don’t see no sense wearing our backsides out in them hills.”
Herendeen added, “They’ll be out soon enough, come spring, like ants swarming outta an anthill.”
Winslow agreed and was glad for the relief. He put in some time on the post, but the scouts needed no advice from him as to keeping their horses and equipment in good shape, so he was able to spend more time with Laurie than at any time in the past. They enjoyed being together, all the more because Tom knew that it was the peace before the storm that would break loose in the spring.
Eileen, of course, was with them a great deal those days, and somehow Larry Dutton was drawn into their circle, coming often for dinner at Eileen’s. Occasionally the four would go to town for entertainment. It was on one of these trips one early Tuesday afternoon that they stopped outside a building to read a crude poster advertising a troop of traveling entertainers.
Laurie’s lips moved as she read the huge block letters, then asked, “Daddy, what’s an Ethiopian Eccentricity?”
“Nothing you should see, I’m sure.” Winslow grinned over her head, winking at Eileen and Dutton. “Besides, it says ‘Adults Only.’ ”
“Oh, Daddy!” Laurie pouted. “I’ll bet it’s nothing at all!”
Dutton patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Laurie. There’s a minstrel show coming in two weeks. I’ll get us some tickets right up front for it.”
His promise satisfied Laurie, and they moved down the street toward the restaurant. While they were eating, Eileen asked, “Do you know your part for the program, Laurie?”
“If she doesn’t, I do,” Winslow said emphatically. “I’ve listened to her say that poem so much, I’ve memorized it myself!” They were in town for a school function, with Dutton’s prize scholars performing.
After the meal, as they were walking to the school, Winslow looked at the sky and commented, “Some bad weather coming at us. We’d better hole up like squirrels after the program.”
The room was filled, parents talking loudly while waiting for the program to begin. Winslow looked around at the families gathered, most of them country people, awkward and gentle, from the outlying area. Their faces and hands looked leather-like as a result of rain, worry, and work. Most of them had few possessions; their struggles were occupied with keeping the roof dry and the stove warm. They were slow to speak and humble in their beliefs and a thousand miles away from the main stream of American life.
Dutton announced from the platform, “I guess we’ll get under way. Will all the students please come forward.”
Somebody played the piano while a group of first graders made a ring on the stage, singing as they turned a circle; others danced or recited. But it wasn’t the first graders Winslow noticed. Across the aisle, a farmer’s wife, the mother of one of the children performing that day, sat bent forward, her hands clutched on her lap, her eyes closed, her lips moving—every thought, every feeling seeming to flow on her face, softening and making it wistfully pretty. Later he would always remember that face, how she had savored that moment of pleasure out of a hard existence.
Winslow’s thoughts were interrupted as Laurie came forward to the edge of the stage. He was surprised to discover he was nervous for her. In fact, he couldn’t remember the first line of her poem. He didn’t have to worry—Laurie did well and was applauded enthusiastically.
When the program was over, Laurie rushed up to Tom. “Did I do all right, Daddy?”
“You did fine, sweetheart. I was the one who was nervous. I couldn’t even remember how the poem went.” He brushed his hand against her rosy cheek. It startled him to see how much she looked like Marlene. With a sudden force he realized she would soon pass into that mysterious realm of young womanhood—and he would not be able to go with her. A twinge of sadness rose in his heart.
Eileen sensed it. “She’s growing up very fast, Tom,” she said quietly.
He looked at her quickly, but before he could speak, Nick Owens approached him, a worried look on his face. “Tom, it’s getting bad out there. Could be a blizzard moving in.”
“Got the feel of it, Nick,” Winslow nodded. “What’s up?”
“Well, I’m worried about Faith,” Owens said, rubbing his chin nervously. “She’s out there all alone, and she don’t know blizzards.”
“Why, she’s been in storms, I’m sure,” Eileen assured.
“A blizzard is not a storm. It’s the world turned upside down. It’ll drive the breath from your lungs and the heat from your body—and kill you almost as quick as a bullet!” Owens corrected her. “She could get caught just going to the barn and wander off and die. And I feel responsible. I was out there two days ago, and she didn’t have much wood. I was going to send Earl out to take care of that, but I forgot.”
“Like me to run out there, Nick?”
“Hate to ask you, Tom, but I got a sick child, and—”
“No problem. Maybe we could put a load of split wood on your wagon.”
“Say, that’s a good idea! I’ll run get some fellas to help me load the wagon—”
“Daddy, can I go with you?” Laurie asked as Owens hurried away.
“No, not this time.” He picked her up and gave her a resounding kiss on the cheek, then put her down and turned to Eileen. “Can you keep her tonight?”
“Yes, Tom. Will you be back tonight?”
“Well, I doubt it. By the time I get there and have the wood unloaded, it’ll be pretty late. I’ll probably stay over and come back tomorrow.”
Something in his reply seemed to disturb Eileen, Dutton noticed. He waited until Winslow was gone and Laurie moved away to talk to one of her schoolmates. “What’s wrong, Eileen?”
She started at his abrupt question, then shrugged. “Well, it seems a little . . .imprudent. The two of them all alone out there.”
Dutton studied Eileen so directly that she flushed. “I suppose I shouldn’t think such things, should I?”
“You’re jealous of t
he preacher lady.”
Eileen blinked, and though she kept her voice down, there was anger in it. “Jealous! Don’t be silly, Larry!”
Dutton shrugged, knowing that he was making her angry, but there was a streak of perversity in the red-haired schoolmaster. He had watched Winslow and Eileen together ever since his recovery and had said nothing, but now he spoke out. “If you weren’t jealous of her, Eileen, you wouldn’t be so upset at the mention of it.”
His logic caught her, and she dropped her eyes. Finally she lifted them and said quietly, “You have sharp eyes, Larry. I didn’t think I was quite so transparent.”
“Be strange if you weren’t drawn to him,” Dutton said. He made an unimpressive figure as he stood before her, his slight figure upright and his face almost boyish. “He’s a man women admire—and you’ve been lonely.”
Eileen looked at him with a new interest. “Well, what do you think, Mr. Lawyer? Do I have a chance with him?”
“Sure you do,” Dutton nodded instantly. “The question is—do you really want him, Eileen?” His lips drew firm, and he shook his head, saying, “You get all tense every time he goes out on patrol. And you’ve told me what a misery it was for you when your husband went out. I admire Tom as much as I admire any man—but I don’t think he can make you happy as long as he’s in the army.”
“He’s a very talented man,” Eileen answered quickly. “He could have a career outside the army.”
“Maybe—but I don’t think he wants that,” Dutton said. “We’ve talked a lot, Tom and I, and from what I hear, he’s got no plans to leave the army. He’ll get a commission when the campaign is over. Custer’s promised that to him.”
Eileen was defensive and asked rather sharply, “I thought Tom was your friend, Larry. Why are you talking against him?”
Dutton looked down, considered his reply, then made it, looking up to meet her gaze. “He’s my friend, but I’m convinced he’d make you unhappy. You might talk him into leaving the army, but that would make him unhappy. But there’s one more thing . . .”
“Yes? What is it?” Eileen asked when he hesitated.
He smiled crookedly at her, but said evenly, “He’s not the only man in the world, Eileen. I’m here.”
Eileen gave him a startled glance, taken off guard. But then she thought of his attention toward her since she’d nursed him and recalled that the possibility of his saying something like this had flashed through her mind more than once.
“Took you a little while to get around to that, didn’t it, Larry?” she said gently. Then she added, “Come along, let’s take Laurie and go home.”
He took her arm and said, “Maybe we can talk later.”
She smiled. “You lawyers . . .I’m afraid of you! You just come and make the popcorn for Laurie and me.” They collected Laurie and left the building, each of them holding one of her small hands.
****
The blizzard caught Winslow only a mile from the mission. At five he could see the building, but ten minutes later the light failed. A sound like the trembling echo of a distant train came to him, and he whipped up the horses in an attempt to outride the storm. But ten minutes later he knew he had lost the race, and pulled the team to a walk.
A gray wall moved toward him, awesome and frightening. Nothing could stand before it, and then he felt the first snowflakes. Almost at once the full pressure of the blizzard was on him, the winds tossing the wagon from side to side, howling like a demented spirit.
There was nothing to follow, for the snow blotted out the road instantly, and there were no telegraph poles or rails to follow. His only hope was to keep the team aimed as straight as possible toward the mission, for if he missed the buildings and headed into the rangeland, he would be dead before morning.
The wind rocked the wagon and the team fought him. There was no time in the midst of that vortex—just blind power of wind and cold. The horses stopped, and when he lashed out with the reins, he realized his movements were as slow as if he were under water. The bitter cold had begun to paralyze his mind, and a sense of danger shot through him. He stamped his feet on the floor of the wagon, but felt little. Then he yelled into the wind and stretched his arms, moving very slowly.
The team plodded ahead, shoved by the wind, and when Winslow realized that he was freezing, he stepped out of the wagon. There was only faint sensation in his feet as he walked to the head of the team to lead it. By now the sound seemed muffled and farther away.
Walking warmed him somewhat, but the cold was slowly sucking the vitality out of him. Once he thought of leaving the team, but shook that idea out of his mind. He pounded his face with his hands, and then stamped his feet. He was losing his senses, for the sound of the wind faded, though he knew from the whipping of the snow around him that it was as potent as ever.
It became a matter of putting one foot in front of the other, each step a conscious decision. An insidious warmth seeped through his legs, and he knew he had little time.
Ten more steps—and his head struck something unyielding, the force of it knocking him to the ground. Brilliant lights shot across his vision, and when he tried to get up, he failed. The wind seemed to die down to a muted moan, and the warmth began to flood his entire body.
With a start, he jerked himself to his knees, then struggled to his feet. He put his hand out, now almost numb, touched a post, then ran his hand up and felt a cross piece. His fuzzy brain barely comprehended the thought: Why, this is the sign on the road in front of the mission!
Turning at right angles, he drove himself forward, pulling the reins on the horses after him. Five minutes later he ran into the side of the barn. To his right, he saw a faint gleam and knew it came from Faith’s house. Staggering like a drunken man, he made his way to the front of the barn, managed to unbolt the doors, and with what was left of his strength, pulled them open, led the team inside, then closed the doors.
His face was stiff with ice and his hands were numb, but he knew better than to rest. Unhitching the team took half an hour, but by that time the relative warmth of the barn had restored some of his sensations. He remained there, slapping his arms against his sides and stamping his feet until he could feel needles of pain, then opened the door and made for the house.
When he hit the porch, he fell, and the door swung open, shedding yellow light. “Tom!” a voice said, and he felt Faith’s hands pulling at him. “Get up . . .help me. You can’t stay out here!”
He pulled himself up with her help, and she half shoved him through the door, kicking it shut behind her. He heard the sound of the door slam, but it was muffled and faint. The warmth of the room was like a drug, and he shuffled toward a divan and fell sprawling into it, his feet on the floor.
He never knew when she picked them up and put them on the divan, for despite his determination to stay awake, he slipped into sleep, falling helplessly into the blackness as a man might plunge into a dark hole.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“He’ll Never Change!”
A sharp stinging sensation in his feet awoke Winslow, and he opened his eyes to find Faith sitting in a chair beside him. He turned his head to look out the window and saw that the storm had spent itself, or so it seemed. It was quiet, the keening of the wind had ceased, and he could hear the faint crackling of wood burning in the potbellied stove across the room.
“How do you feel?” Faith leaned forward anxiously.
“Feet are tingling,” Winslow said. He lifted himself, swung his feet to the floor, and flexed his hands, which were also prickling as if thousands of small insects were biting him. He tried to smile but his lips cracked. “A couple hours of sleep made a difference.”
“Almost eight hours,” she said. “It’s six in the morning.”
He stared at her, then shook his head. “Cut it pretty fine, I guess. Can I have some of that coffee?” He stood to his feet, feeling strangely light-headed, but was relieved that it was no worse. She brought him a mug of steaming black coffee, and he dran
k it slowly, savoring the sensation.
“What brought you out here, Tom?” she asked.
He drained the cup and handed it back to her. “Didn’t like the thought of your being alone in the middle of a blizzard. If you don’t know those storms, they’re dangerous.” He grimaced and flexed his fingers, adding, “Even if you do know them, they can get you.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” she said quietly. “I would have been all right, I think—but it was kind of you.” She seemed strained and nervous. Something was on her mind, something she wanted to say but was holding back. He had never seen her like that. He waited for her to speak, but when she did, it was an abrupt, “I’ll fix breakfast.”
“Got a load of wood for you—from Nick Owens,” he said. “I’ll unload it after breakfast.”
She suddenly lifted her head and turned toward the door, for the sound of steps on the porch came clearly.
“Somebody’s out in bad weather,” Winslow murmured in surprise. He thought perhaps one of the Indians might have dropped by, but the door swung open, and there stood Spence Grayson!
Grayson was wearing a pair of heavy mittens and a thick buffalo overcoat, and carried a load of wood in his arms. At the sight of Winslow, he shot a steely look at him before crossing the room to dump the wood into the woodbox beside the stove.
Instantly, tension filled the cabin like electricity, and Faith said quickly, “Tom, the storm caught Spence. He dropped by yesterday afternoon and by the time he was to start back, the blizzard hit.”
A strange mixture of emotions surged through Winslow—his close brush with death, his struggle to stay alive, his intense hatred toward Grayson. Away from the routine responsibilities of life at the fort, yesterday’s battle with death had brought to the surface feelings held in check for years. The raw wound lay exposed and demanded revenge.
Life as a soldier seemed a million miles away, and of no importance. The sight of Grayson’s handsome face as he stood across the room unleashed the bitterness and a gush of black anger that Winslow could no more control than he could have controlled the storm that had almost killed him. Grayson was watching him with an alert expression, his eyes glinting with hatred.
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