The Spirit of Thunder

by Kurt R A Giambastiani

  “Sacrée mère!” He clapped his hands and leapt to his feet. “Good boy! Good boy. I knew you’d had a taste of the real thing when I saw you last. Good boy. And I’ve kept your secret, too. Mais oui! I have not told a single soul, and especially not those turds I call neighbors.” His eyes widened. “A drink! That’s what we need. A drink and a toast to celebrate.”

  He dashed into the back room and George spied him pawing through a pile of canvas. He heard the clanking of empty bottles, a muttered “Merde,” an exultant “A-ha!” and the old trader reappeared, a brown stoneware jug in his hand.

  “Not the finest, and certainly not what a president’s son is used to, but it will have to do.” He tipped the bottle back and took a gigantic swallow.

  “D’Avignon,” George said.

  The trader wiped his mouth and offered the jug to George. “À votre santé,” he said. “Have a drink. To seal the deal.”

  Time for the stick, George thought to himself.

  He grabbed onto the jug and D’Avignon’s hands both. “There are terms,” he said.

  D’Avignon froze. “Terms?”

  George took the jug. “Sit down.”

  The trader sat down. “What terms?”

  George stood over the older man and looked down upon him. “You will provide us with tools, supplies, and your expertise at mining and prospecting. You will swear to maintain the secrecy of our activities, the secrecy of our location, and the secrecy of our purpose. You will agree to stay and work with us for a period of not less than three months but no longer than a year. If you fail us in any of these regards, the consequences that will be visited upon you will be most dire.” He paused to hook his thumb meaningfully toward the soldiers at his back.

  “You must abide by all Cheyenne laws during your stay, one of the first of which is—” He raised the jug. “—no liquor. Of any kind. They do not allow it. For me, my father was a teetotaler and I never learned to drink, so it is no hardship. For you, it might be a consideration. So here. Have another drink. It will be your last for quite a while.”

  D’Avignon stared up at George, stupefied, as if he didn’t understand, but George knew that it was precisely D’Avignon’s clear understanding that was the cause of his bewilderment.

  “There are other laws, of course,” George went on, “most of which are the same as those held by our own people. Punishments for breaking such laws range from banishment to beating to a peculiarly effective form of shunning. The Cheyenne do not execute their own, but I warn you that they will have no qualms against killing an outsider such as yourself.”

  “Mon Dieu, mon ami! I might as well be put in prison.” He took another long swig from the jug and some of the pale brown liquor slopped down onto his chin.

  “Prisoners are not paid in gold,” George said.

  “Ah, oui,” D’Avignon said. He put the jug on the floor and stood. “So we have you and me and what...six young bucks?” He looked Sharp Nose up and down. “Though a couple of them seem a bit long in the tooth for this work.”

  “You are hardly one to speak on that subject,” George said.

  “But you’re not after me for my strong back, are you?” He tapped a long finger against his temple. “It’s what I have up here. Now I don’t care what fraction you’ve agreed to give these braves. For all that you are asking from me, however, I demand a share equal to yours.”

  George laughed and held out his hand. “D’accord.”

  D’Avignon grinned but did not shake to seal the deal. “You agreed to that too easily. What’s the trick?”

  “Nothing,” George said. “Except that my share of this will be nothing. I was prepared to give you more, but—”

  “What do you mean? What is this? I think that maybe I was wrong about you. I think that maybe you are crazy. Nothing? What do you mean, your share is nothing?”

  George held up his hands to calm the old trader. D’Avignon held his tongue and his temper, but there was fear in his eyes, fear of madness and the unknown.

  “My share in this is nothing. So will my friends here take nothing. We are here as representatives of the Cheyenne Alliance, the people who control the land in which you live.” George paced off the few steps the room afforded him. This was the most critical part of the negotiation, he knew. Failure would necessitate a grim twist in the proceedings. “I have been empowered to offer you a position as head prospector and mining overseer for the Cheyenne Alliance, working with me and these men, so that we might be able to...utilize...some of the mineral riches of their land. In return for your help and know-how, you will be provided with a one per centum share—”

  “A hundredth? You are mad. I would never consider such a thing for less than a tenth.”

  George sighed melodramatically. “Then I can only assume that you have no confidence in your own abilities to adequately exploit this deposit.”

  “No, no, no,” D’Avignon said, his pride touched. “It is my confidence in you that is lacking. You’re no prospector. How do I know how large the find is? A hundredth of a hundred-ounce find is little more than nothing, but of a ten-ounce deposit? Less than nothing. I have a better situation here where at least I can have a drink on a Sunday afternoon.”

  D’Avignon’s words were harsh, but to George’s ear they were sweet because they were not a refusal. The door had not been shut.

  “A minimum, then,” he said, opening the offer a bit. “A guarantee of three ounces of gold.”

  “And I must then wait until we see three hundred ounces before I see any more? No, I’ll take ten ounces up front and ten percent of anything we find.”

  George raised an eyebrow in calm delay but within his breast his heart was pounding. “Five and five,” he said. “Five ounces up front, and five percent of anything we take in. I’ll go no further than that.”

  D’Avignon scowled. “I should not even be considering such an arrangement. This will have to be a magnificent strike if I’m to make it worth my while, and all on the word of a boy who’s playing at being an Indian brave.” He scratched the back of his head with dirty fingernails. “What makes you think this is such a lode? How much have you found so far? How does it lie? I can’t be expected to leave my stock behind and go traipsing out into nowhere for a few flakes in a tin pan, you know.”

  George smiled. He grinned. He tucked two fingers into his belt pouch. “It’s not a few flakes,” he told the skeptical trader. “And it lies...” He pulled out the nugget that started it all and watched D’Avignon goggle and gape like a springtime bullfrog. “It lies on the ground, waiting to be picked up.”

  The trader took a stilted step forward, staring at the nugget. “Mère sacrée de Dieu,” he whispered. He reached out for the nugget and George let it drop into his hand. D’Avignon felt its weight and brought it to his mouth. He tasted it with his tongue.

  “Incredible,” he said. “I’ve never seen its like.”

  George held out his hand and D’Avignon slowly, reverently gave back the huge nugget of gold.

  “What...did you say?” the trader asked. “Five and five?”

  “Five ounces now. A five hundredths’ share of everything we mine. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” D’Avignon said absently, still staring at the nugget in George’s hand.

  “And you abide by all Cheyenne law, and all instructions as to how we mine?”

  D’Avignon nodded.

  “And you swear to keep the secrecy of our operation, on pain of death?”

  Again, a nod.

  “And you supply us with tools and supplies?”

  “Of course,” D’Avignon said. “We will need a good weighing scale.”

  Chapter 6

  Autumn, A.D. 1887

  New York City

  New York

  “Mr. President.”

  “Mr. President!”

  Custer waved as he stepped down from his railcar and onto the platform. The newspapermen from the New York press leaned in against the linked arms of the Gran
d Central Depot constabulary. They shouted at him, yelling out their questions as if believing that by sheer volume they could somehow force an answer.

  “Good Lord in Heaven,” he said as he turned to help Libbie descend. “How I do hate New York.”

  With one lace-gloved hand his wife lifted the fabric that trailed from her bustle, and with the other she held lightly onto his hand. She stepped down with poise and grace and a friendly smile—her “out in public” smile—and as the journalists called out to her, using her Christian name, she said, “I quite agree. At least at home they pretend to respect us.”

  Custer smiled at her jest and saw her affected smile take on a hint of real humor.

  “Shall we?” he said with a small inclination toward the turbulent reporters.

  “‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,’” she quoted as she took his arm. They turned and the reporters redoubled their endeavors, shouting even louder.

  “‘Or close the wall up with our English dead,’” Custer completed and waved again to the press. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. Some decorum if you please.”

  “Mr. President!”

  Custer checked the crowd of men and pointed to one who he thought would make no trouble; a sallow youth with a badly-fitted Bowry on his head.

  “Mr. President,” the young man said. “Will you be supping with Mr. Villard tonight?”

  Damnation, Custer thought. Serves me right for judging the book by its cover.

  “How’s that?” he said, feigning difficulty hearing the question over the steam release of a nearby locomotive. “Our plans for the evening? Well, I’m sure most of you have heard it all from my aide, Mr. Prendergast. Check with your society reporter, Son, and you’ll find that Mrs. Custer has once again inveigled me into a night at the theater. We’ll be dining this afternoon at our hotel, and then we will be taking in the performance of ‘Ruddigore’ at the new Fifth Avenue Theater.” He pointed to one of the older reporters, hoping he would be less hungry for real news.

  “What’s the latest from the Frontier?”

  Good, Custer thought. A proper question.

  “I received word just yesterday from General Herron. He is pushing out into the Unorganized Territory and building his fortifications. He said that they had already repulsed one attack, destroyed the enemy force, and had suffered no harm.

  “Mr. President,” the reporter said. “Do you mean, sir, that the Army has fought a battle with wild Indians and come out of it without a scratch?”

  “I do, indeed, mean just that. Not a single U.S. soldier was harmed in the encounter. I am quite pleased with the progress General Herron has made both in dealing effectively with the hostile Indians and in managing the construction of the new bridge across the Missouri River. Very pleased.”

  Libbie tugged lightly on his arm, but another reporter spoke up before he could turn away.

  “Sir, will you be calling General Herron back to Washington to discuss future plans?”

  Custer shook his head. “I see no point in disrupting General Herron’s command. He has things well in hand, and we communicate frequently via the new telegraph lines that now cross the young state of Yankton. Today, for instance, he is traveling to the new forts on a tour of inspection. Should I pull the man away from his job, just so you boys can get a chance to needle him with your questions?” He laughed good-naturedly and the reporters allowed the barb to pass. “Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse us, we have engagements.”

  He turned and began to lead Libbie away.

  “Excuse me, Mr. President.”

  Custer bristled and turned with a glower. It was the man with the poorly-fitted hat. The other reporters stepped back from the young man, hoping to distance themselves from presidential disfavor.

  “I just wanted to clarify,” the young man went on. “You said you were dining at your hotel, but not where you will be supping. Will you visit with Mr. Villard after the play?”

  “Why, yes, we shall. Mr. Villard is having a small group of friends over for refreshments.”

  “Is that Mr. Henry Villard?” asked another reporter. “The railroad magnate?”

  “Yes,” Custer replied, unable to keep the note of ice from his voice.

  The reporters picked up the scent. “Henry Villard is known in New York as something of a kingmaker, Mr. President. Does this mean you have decided to run for reelection in ‘88?”

  Custer felt Libbie’s hands squeeze his arm.

  “It means nothing,” Custer said. “We are just visiting New York for the theater and a gathering of friends.”

  “Are you going to run in ‘88?”

  “Mr. President, are you going to run?”

  “It is far too early for that.”

  “Autie,” Libbie said. “Take me out of here.”

  “Mr. President.”

  “Mr. President!”

  It was not until they were safely ensconced and alone in their rooms that Libbie spun and accosted him.

  “Just when were you going to tell me?”

  “Libbie—”

  “When? When were you going to tell me?” She stood, straight and imperious, the blush of her anger blotching the fairness of her cheeks. She was furious, more so than he had seen her in many months.

  “Libbie, it’s just a small gathering after the show.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “At Villard’s. After the performance. Libbie, I really haven’t decided if I even want another term or not. This meeting with Villard, it’s just to keep the doors open.”

  “I don’t care about that.” Her hands shook and her features were twisted. She sat down heavily on the silk-covered couch and began to weep.

  Custer saw that he’d misread her. “What is it? Libbie, dear. What’s wrong?”

  Through her tears, she spoke in a sing-song of frustration. “I don’t care about another term. I know you will run again. It’s the other thing.” Her hands rose briefly only to fall back into her lap as if too tired to gesticulate.

  “What other thing?” he asked. “Libbie, I honestly don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “The Frontier,” she said. “Autie, when were you going to tell me? You are killing Indians again...out on the Frontier.”

  “My dear,” he said, trying to calm her. “We have been working to settle the Unorganized Territory for years. This is nothing new. Now we’re building forts out there. Haven’t you been reading the papers?”

  “I haven’t read the papers for over a year! I can’t bear it anymore. And you...you just go on as if nothing had ever happened. And now you’re killing Indians again.”

  “We are killing Indians because they are attacking our soldiers.”

  “But Autie...” Her pain was palpable. “George is still out there.”

  Custer heard his wife’s words and knew he was unable to help her. “Libbie...” he said. “Aw, Hell, Libbie.” He did the only thing he could do. He sat down next to her on the watered silk divan and held her closely. She turned toward him and wept into his chest.

  “I just want to see him,” she said.

  “I know, I know.”

  “Just once more. Just once. Just so I can know he’s alive.”

  “I know,” he said. What he thought, however, was that it would have been better if their son had died, for all the pain he caused them. Just like Herron said: better off dead. But he would never say that aloud, not to Libbie anyway. “I know, my darling,” he said. “I know.”

  Autumn tamed the summer sun and breathed cool mist across the morning land. Storm Arriving sat down on the dew-damp grass outside his lodge and unrolled the length of leather that held his fletching tools. He began to pull his arrows from their quiver but stopped and spent a moment listening to the world.

  The robins and larks and wrens of early morning were quiet, having sung their songs to the rising sun and headed off on their daily business. Now came the time for daytime birds—chickadees and sparrows, waxwings and th
rushes—all chattering amongst themselves for as long as the sun was shining, allowing no interruption to their conversations save for the teasing jeers of blue jays or the raucous command of a malcontented crow.

  The air smelled of autumn: the thick scent of night-born moisture on dry summer grass, the musky smoke of burning buffalo chips, the earthy smell of freshly-scraped hides staked out to dry. He breathed deeply of it, relishing it, but when he exhaled, it came out in a sigh.

  Speaks While Leaving came outside. She handed him the tiny clay jar with the fish-bone glue she had prepared the night before. “What bothers you?” she asked.

  “Nothing, really,” he said as he unsealed the jar and stirred the translucent jelly with a cherry-wood stick. “The summer has passed us so quickly. With the extra patrols, there has been little time to hunt.”

  “But we have plenty,” she said, sitting down beside him. “Enough for us, and enough to give your mother a winter’s supply as well.”

  “And a good thing, too,” he said. “One Who Flies has been digging all summer. If he didn’t have to feed his walker he would not have gone on a single hunt this season.”

  “You should be glad he has a walker. Otherwise he would not even have enough for himself.”

  Storm Arriving laughed quietly. “That is true. But that is not what bothers me.”

  “What then?” she asked, puzzled.

  He pointed to the blank spots in the circle of the People. “The bands are already departing for winter camps. I have not had time to spend with you, with my friends, and I have not had nearly enough time with my mother and sister.” He chuckled again. “I even miss One Who Flies.

  Speaks While Leaving caressed his arm and took his hand in hers. “You miss him especially, you mean to say.”

  He did not laugh at this. He tightened his lips to hold in the truth, but she was right. The former bluecoat had spent the whole hunting season back at the Sheep Mountains, digging for his precious metal. “He has been too long absent from the People.”

  She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “We will visit this winter.”