The Guard House and Other Stories

by Ryan Christiansen



  Lake Sakakawea

  The Guard House and Other Stories

  By Ryan C. Christiansen

  Copyright 2011 North Dakota Parks and Recreation Department

  This work was produced under the Artist-in-Residency Program with the North Dakota Parks and Recreation Department and the North Dakota Council on the Arts.

  www.parkrec.nd.gov

  www.nd.gov/arts

  Published by Knuckledown Press, Fargo, ND

  www.knuckledownpress.com

  Cover design: Copyright 2011 Ryan C. Christiansen

  Photos: Copyright 2011 Ryan C. Christiansen

  Knuckledown Press

  Fargo, ND

  www.knuckledownpress.com

  For Jodi, Henry, and Eva

  and, of course, Apollo

  Contents

  Captain (Bt. Lt. Col.) Powell

  The Caretaker

  Great-Grandfathers

  A Fish Story

  The Guard House

  The Guard House and Other Stories

  Captain (Bt. Lt. Col.) Powell

  I leave the flap on the holster open so that I can rest my fingertips against the revolver. The hot barrel singes and cures the leather. Burnt gunpowder swirls inside the chambers, except for one.

  I’ve kept one shell in the cylinder, just in case.

  Two or three hundred Indian braves (five or six hundred, my lieutenants say, twice as many men as we have in our camp) circle their horses at two hundred yards. They taunt us with weapons raised high and they cry victory, but they are cowards.

  During the night, they hid in low ground near the camp and stole a few mules. Near the foundations for the new fort, a half-dozen hid in piles of adobe bricks. They surprised an old man on his wagon and so he spat at them (as if he might bully his way through), but they cut him off and freed his mules. They shot him dead with an arrow—point blank—and so I’ve given the order to fire.

  The first of two rifled cannons launches a shell into their midst. It whistles to its mark and bursts.

  “Sir, one has lost a leg,” my lieutenant reports.

  With my spyglass I watch them retreat, but they regroup at 1,800 yards. I pull a long, shallow breath and burnt powder coats the insides of my nostrils. The ash cauterizes my throat like a good pipe after breakfast.

  “Fire the second cannon,” I say.

  I press my fingertips closer to my revolver. When the second gun pulses my mouth snaps to a smile and I taste the elixir of burnt powder on the lips. The blast has left me deaf and we’re in a pantomime now. My men gape and ambulate. The lieutenant says something I cannot hear, but even from a third-mile I can see the shell has ripped open one of their ponies. My soldiers raise their fists and my ears begin to ring their satisfaction. I take comfort we have in some small measure ripped open a crease in this hell and creation called Missouri.

  Along this dirty languid river, the buffalo cross from bank to bank and get stuck until they struggle and disappear. On either side, the land runs treeless and greasy carpets meet only sky. Air burns in a heat that has been stoked by winds, which rush and carry dust into our lungs. Dull hills dare to stand, but they only crumble in the rain.

  This world is Hell. Fires burn. At night across the prairie, they cast their echoes against the sky while legions of mosquitoes descend to swarm our heads and necks.

  I’ve told my men (and they think I jest) that I wish to be buried in the Indian way on a platform. Anyone who has traveled here has seen these open-air tombs roosting on a hill. Ten-foot poles keep the wolves away and that’s where I wish to be wrapped from head to toe in my bedclothes. Let me lie there beneath the stars. Let me dry up in torrid summer and corrode when weather turns wet. Let my wrappings fly like streamers in the wind, because there’s nothing here for me now: my family has gone away. I watch Indians retreat in tattered leggings and they remind me of the ribbons in my daughter’s hair.

  I’m a field officer. My whole career I’ve been in posts athwart this frontier. I can’t afford to leave, however, not yet—at least not before death.

  And here is death: I let the cylinder on my revolver burn my fingers. It reminds me that there’s one bullet left.

  The Caretaker

  “I am the caretaker,” he said, straightening his back. He barked the words, a command, not an answer to a question, for I hadn’t asked. He directed blue eyes straight into mine and though he stood as still as my transit, he tilted his head to the left. He favored that shoulder.

  I explained that I was a deputy surveyor for the U.S. General Land Office under contract to survey townships in the new State of North Dakota, but he took little interest. When I offered to show him how we measured distance using the Gunter’s chain, he said nothing. He stayed near to the old guard house, which was 14 chains west of the section line.

  “I am the caretaker,” he repeated. He pulled a scarlet handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. He had a severe, German countenance and hid a smile behind doggish whiskers. His blond mane turned gray and I took him to be nearly sixty, but he was tall, thin, and agile and wore spurs. I saw no horse.

  “We’ll be in the area,” I said.

  He only nodded.

  I stepped away and measured the parade grounds: 5 chains square with its center 16 chains, 50 links from the section line. I noted officers’ quarters to the west, an old warehouse to the north, and a large barn approximately 3 chains southwest from the quarters. Two or three small outbuildings stood on the perimeter, but none of the structures were in good repair.

  When we finished, I waved back to the caretaker. “Thank you,” I said. He disappeared inside the guard house.

  Our survey work began May 18, 1897, to delineate a portion of the Fort Stevenson Military Reservation, the part which is embraced in Township 147 North of Range 85 West of the Fifth Principal Meridian.

  On this third day of our survey, we started out on the north bank of the Missouri River at the corner of sections 10, 11, 14, and 15. We proceeded north along the section line between 10 and 11 and through dense brush and small cottonwood. After 38 chains and 20 links, we met Douglas Creek, where we marked the quarter-section point.

  We continued on. At 47 chains and 20 links we left dense brush behind and ascended from the river bottom to a plateau 30 feet high. The edge runs east-west at 48.20 chains.

  Six chains farther from the edge of that plateau, we found ourselves east of the guard house for the old fort, and the caretaker.

  We continued north. At 57.18 chains we crossed the Bismarck and Fort Berthold road, which bore east-west along the river.

  During the next couple of days, we surveyed the area north and east of Old Fort Stevenson and then returned to the corner of sections 2, 3, 10, and 11. We camped for the evening.

  After dark and with our bellies full, the fire dying, we heard a whoop and a holler from the old fort.

  I took one man with me. We made our way back along the section line to where we’d chained off to the parade grounds. I used my spyglass to ascertain what might be occurring inside the old fort. Near to the guard house someone had lit a bonfire and surrounded it with old logs. I saw a figure moving in the flare.

  We moved in. Two chains from the fire, we hid behind an outbuilding and saw the caretaker near the fire stark-naked except for his boots and the scarlet handkerchief around his neck. He crawled across the dirt to plant a pole with red and blue swallowtails like a guidon. I shrank when I saw him raise his Remington sport rifle.

  “Get yer heads down into that buffalo grass!” he yelled, “and get behind the horses! We have the high ground now, men, but we’re vulnerable. I do declare if I ever see Libbie again, there will be jubilation!�
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  He began shooting. He sat up, took aim, fired, and hid. Fortunately, we’d come from the east and his shots disappeared west and south.

  “Expend your cartridges wisely!” He yelled. “Tom, if I die here today, I expect you to take care of Boston and Autie. Oh, how I do miss that court-martial.”

  He fired again. After a few shots, he fell back and gripped his shoulder. “I’ve been hit!” he said. “General Sherman did say that I could go to Hell if I wanted to. Well, here I am.”

  He pulled two pistols from his boots and commenced firing. When they emptied, he dropped them and fell back to the ground. Perhaps he thought he was dead or pretended to be, but his chest rose and fell. Clearly, he had adrenaline. More than likely, he was full of whiskey.

  “Should we check him out?” my companion asked.

  “No,” I said. “Leave him be. He’s the caretaker.”

  Great-Grandfathers

  The drive to Fort Stevenson State Park had been a blur. Long hours working the dragline at Falkirk Mine and the days, weeks, and years that had passed since he’d played pro ball weighed upon Pete’s shoulders. He