Medieval, Herron thought. Positively medieval.
George and Vincent rode through a golden forest. The slanting sun of morning heated the ground, raising a mist, but the rain-wet air held the firm promise of winter. Their whistlers walked leisurely beneath pied boughs, leaves the color of fire, of earth: deep purples and bright scarlets, pale yellows and crinkly browns. Their beasts’ feet whispered through the fallen leaves. George’s mount stopped unbidden and sniffed. He let the hen have her way, and she took a step toward the bole of a nearby maple, sniffing the ground. Victor’s whistler became interested and the two men let the two beasts dig down through the new carpet of leaves until they found their prize: a patch of black, bulbous, half-buried mushrooms. The whistlers argued over the tidbits in hoots and rough nudges, but soon they had consumed their treat and the men toed them back into motion.
“We’ve been gone more than three weeks,” George said. “It’s time we headed back, don’t you agree?”
“Ah, oui, of course,” Vincent said. “If you wish. But I was thinking that those hills over there look promising.” He pointed to the east where, past the trees and beyond a small valley, several dark, folded ridges rose up out of the gentle land.
“No,” George said. “That is the Teaching Mountain. It is a place the People hold in great reverence; a most holy place. We will not be digging there.”
Vincent sighed and shrugged, and George chuckled at the trader’s dismay.
“We have found six other sites already, enough to make you rich. Aren’t you satisfied yet?”
“You seem immune to it,” Vincent said.
“Immune?” George looked over at his companion, thinking he must have misunderstood. “What are you talking about? Immune to what?”
“The fever,” Vincent explained, as if it were obvious. “You, and your Indian friends, too. Completely immune.”
George continued to stare.
“Gold fever,” Vincent said. “You seem immune, but me? No, no, no. I’ve got it, and a bad case, too. Six sites? A drop. Sixteen? Better. Sixty? Ah, mais oui! Then I might be able to think of being satisfied.”
George laughed out loud. “And what would you do with such wealth?”
Vincent raised a haughty eyebrow. “Why spend it looking for more, of course.”
Their laughter echoed in the still, clean air. A chipmunk scolded them from atop a fallen tree, making them laugh all the more.
They headed east, down out of the uplands and back toward the prairie that would lead them home to the mining site in the Sheep Mountains. The woods began to thin as they descended, and the two men caught glimpses of the vast plain that lay ahead. Their whistlers, too, could see the open land, and they yodeled in anticipation of being back in more familiar terrain.
“Vincent,” George said. “You’ve been a tremendous help to us. We owe a great deal of our success to your advice and instruction. I doubt we would have achieved half of what we have without you.”
“And there’s more to come,” Vincent said, smiling. “That seam shows no signs of weakening.” He shook his head. “Though what your Indians are going to do with it, I can’t guess.”
“Since you mention it, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.”
“Oh? Tell me.”
George hesitated. He had kept their ultimate purpose a secret from Vincent. The weeks of digging had turned into months and the old trader turned prospector had been satisfied to direct the operation, weigh the day’s take, and parcel out his percentage. He had never asked what George or the Cheyenne intended to use their massing fortunes for, though he had been unable to hide his curiosity.
But, once again, George felt unequal to the task before him. Once more he felt the lack of worldliness brought on by a bookish nature. He needed help—help Vincent could provide.
“We want to make some purchases.”
Vincent snorted. “Purchases? You could purchase the whole of Illinois with what you’ve mined so far. I’ll be no good to you there, but anything else, and I am your servant. What is it you desire?”
“Arms,” George said plainly.
“Ah! Mais oui! Enfields? Henrys? Sharps? It will be a pleasure. Will you be hunting buffalo or smaller game? I know some do not care for the larger bore, but in my experience—”
“No,” George said. “Not hunting rifles. Not shotguns. Arms.”
Vincent looked over at George with head held back and a crease across his brow. “Arms?” he asked.
“Yes,” George replied. “Arms. Military arms.”
The old trader frowned. “Oh, George, do not ask me this. Please.”
“Why not? Can’t you help?”
“It’s not that—”
“Then you can help.”
“Well...yes, but—”
“But you won’t.”
Vincent held out pleading hands.
George was disappointed, but not beaten. He played his last card. “We would make it worth your while.”
The old man winced, then shook his head. “It is not like that. Please, try to understand. I am an old fils de pute who has happened into a lucky circumstance. I am not a brave man, and what you ask...it is dangerous.”
George sighed. “Well, if you won’t help, I’d appreciate any advice you could give me.”
“What? You? You are not thinking of...not you?”
“Who else?” George asked in reply. “None of the People could do it.”
“Trading raw gold for military arms?” Vincent said, incredulous. “You?”
“I,” George said.
“You realize it is against the law. In Canada as well as in your United States. To supply Indians with weapons—even rifles, not to speak of military weapons—it is a serious crime.”
“Yes, I know, but these people need those weapons. If you had only seen what I have seen. Those people will be slaughtered if they can’t defend themselves properly.”
“Have you considered,” Vincent began in a solicitous tone. “I know you are fond of these people, but have you considered that perhaps this is what God intends for the world?”
George clenched his teeth, remembering the carnage of the past year; the cavalry’s sneak attack on the camp of the People, the hundreds dead including Mouse Road’s older sister, Blue Shell Woman. He remembered the young woman, no more than nineteen years of age, lying in her mother’s arms, her blood dripping into a puddle of rain, her eyes staring up to the heavens, her chest ripped open by American bullets.
“What I have seen,” George said, “had nothing to do with God.”
They rode out of the trees and into open country. In front of them the hills spilled out onto a world of long lines and subtle curves. The sun was climbing toward noon and the west held the promise of more rain. To the south, a herd of deer grazed. They lifted their heads at the sight of the men on their whistlers, and silently bounded away. George smiled as the deer displayed the distinctive tails that gave them their Tsétsêhéstâhese name: Timber-deer-waving.
“I will do this, Vincent. But I surely could use the help of a man like you.”
His companion remained silent, and George did not look over to gauge the older man’s reaction. He was troubled enough by the size of the task for which he was now solely responsible.
They reached the open prairie and let their whistlers run. The rainstorm that threatened held its breath as they coursed beneath its blued-steel belly, and George was grateful for it. They’d been wet enough on this trip.
The next day, when they arrived back at the mining site, they found the mining crew filling in the trenches and re-laying the carefully preserved sod over the upturned earth.
“What are they doing?” Vincent asked.
“Closing up for the winter. Unlike us, those men have families. They’ve been apart from them long enough.”
“Yes, all right,” the older man said testily. “But why are they filling in the trenches?”
“We have to protect the land,” George
explained. “We have to leave as small a mark on the earth as possible.”
“But we’ll just have to dig it up again in the spring.”
“Then that is what we will do.”
Vincent made a rude sound and folded his arms across his chest. “It is a very great waste of time, I say.”
“Come,” George said with a chuckle. “Let’s see how they did during the month we were gone. That ought to make you more tolerant of our ways.”
They walked over to the lodge where they kept their supplies, the undivided gold, and Vincent’s precious scales. Gets up Early, the Little Bowstring soldier who had taken over the managing of the operation in their absence, met them there.
“How was your trip?” he asked.
“Very good,” George said. “We found other places to get the chief-metal when this place is empty.”
Gets up Early smiled. “Remember them well, One Who Flies. I do not think you will be needing them for a long while.”
He ushered them into the lodge. George heard Vincent swear under his breath.
On the left side of the lodge were the five beds for the men who slept there. On the right side, along the lodge wall, were the empty parfleches and depleted sacks of meats and grains that had been sustaining them during their stay. But toward the center of the lodge, stacked up next to the dark firepit, were several leather bags. Some were merely fist-sized, but one of them was the size of a five-pound sack of flour.
“Five, six, seven...how many?” George asked.
“Two times ten plus two,” Gets up Early replied, using the People’s accretive numbering method.
George nudged Vincent. “One of those is yours,” he said.
“Tabarnaque,” Vincent breathed. “Incroyable.” He looked at George, his face slack. “I am rich.”
George smiled. “Indeed, you are. And there’s more than enough for me to get started as well.”
Vincent looked at the sacks of gold, then back at George. “I cannot let you,” he said.
George’s good humor evaporated. “I must,” he said. “I will.”
“You will end up dead. They will take one look at your boyish face and they will split your gut and divide the profits while you lay dying.”
George looked Vincent straight in the eye. It was a thing he had learned not to do, living among the People, for they considered it very rude, but George was not so far from his upbringing that he had forgotten how to act among whites.
“Then help me,” he said. “Watch my back, or let me watch yours, but help me. Keep me alive, Vincent D’Avignon, because I will go. With you or without you, I will go.”
George could see the battle the trader waged, the tug-of-war that went on inside his mind as his lackadaisical conscience fought with his well-developed sense of self-preservation. His brows knit and relaxed, his eyes looked here and there, from George to the gold to Gets up Early. His breath sounded harsh and at several points he seemed about to speak, but did not. Finally, he took a deep breath and let it out, his bony hand caressing his wrinkled forehead.
“I’ll want a commission,” he said.
George smiled.
Chapter 7
Winter, A.D. 1887
Westgate
Yankton
Herron returned Shafer’s salute and pointed to an empty chair.
“Shut the door, Colonel, and sit down. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Lt. Col. Shafer pushed the door closed and dropped his gangly frame easily into the armchair. Herron returned his attention to the reports and messages on his worktable.
The wood burning in the wide cast-iron stove shifted with a muffled shump. A pot of water sat atop it, simmering, humidifying the air and building fantastic geometries of frost on the rippled glass of the unshuttered windows. Outside, the world was brown and white, mud and snow, dark wood and bright ice. The only exceptions were the river—a deep, dark flow of frigid, ice-lined water slowly moving downstream—and the equally dark stone and metal of the unfinished bridge, its skeletal frame beginning to arch across the black currents.
Herron put aside the official telegraph messages that had so displeased him and Shafer’s poorly-typed reports that had simply angered him.
“Lieutenant Colonel,” he said, and the chief engineer uncrossed his legs and sat a little straighter in his chair. “I have been reading reports on your progress and I am not pleased. Correct me if I have misinterpreted their content—and I truly hope that I have—but what I believe they are saying is that we are going to miss our target date by three months.”
He paused, waiting for the desired correction from Shafer, but the colonel only shrugged shoulders and eyebrows as if to say: c’est la vie.
Herron silently cursed all artists before he continued. “Allow me to put it this way, Colonel. Tell me how you are going to get us back on schedule.”
Shafer blinked. “Sir,” he said. “I’m not.”
“You’re not.”
“No, sir. I can’t. We’re behind schedule, that’s true, but there is no possible way to get us back on schedule.”
Herron stood and began to pace the length of the short carpet behind his worktable. He could feel his blood pounding in his ears. “Shafer,” he said, and held up a thumb and forefinger. “I’m this close to busting you to major and letting someone else build this God-damned bridge.”
He picked up the telegraph messages. Strong capital letters stood in straight, bold lines. “The President informs me that he will soon introduce his ‘Homesteader Act’ to Congress.” Herron read from the message on top of the sheaf. “‘I expect its passage to coincide with the official opening of your bridge in March.’ Do you hear that, Shafer? In March. Not June, not July. March.” He tossed the messages onto his table. “Good Christ. Come spring we’re going to have a hundred thousand desperate people out here wanting to cross that God-damned bridge in hopes of building a new life. I’ve got squatters out there already trying to preempt Custer’s act and I don’t have the men to protect them. I don’t have the men because I have to ferry supplies across the river. And why am I ferrying goods across a winter-swollen river instead of sending them across by train?”
“The God-damned bridge, sir?”
“Don’t be flippant, Colonel.” Herron stopped and pointed a finger. “It’s one of the worst choices you could make right now. Your only worse choice is to be argumentative.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“We were supposed to have a usable cart deck by now and be working on the rail deck. You haven’t even finished the main arch yet. Now I don’t want to hear can’t and I don’t want to hear won’t. I don’t want to hear not possible or beyond my control.” He leaned forward, fingers on the table. “I want to hear just two things: how and when.”
Shafer’s brow was furrowed and he bit his upper lip. He was thinking hard, and then he sat up straight and looked Herron in the eyes. “All right, sir. It’s like this: we were sent a shipment of wrought iron that was of substandard quality, courtesy of Senator Matherly’s father-in-law. I can’t use that iron. I won’t use it. It is not possible to get a new shipment from Penn’s Sylvania any faster than it is already coming. I’m sorry, sir, but it is simply beyond my control.”
Herron’s pulse kicked up from a canter to a full gallop. Still, and somehow, he was able to force a prim smile.
“You are a clever man,” he said. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. But as long as I am your superior, Lieutenant Colonel, be it in nothing other than rank, you will show the proper respect.” He pointed to the scene outside the window. The barges and wooden scaffolding nearly obscured the otherwise graceful curves of wrought iron that tried to span the main channel of the Missouri. “Now tell me, you’ve got iron here, yes? And you’ve got two hundred men sitting on their asses, yes?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“But nothing. You’ve got what you need, so cut corners, redesign, I don’t care, just get those men to work.”
“B
ut, sir, the wrought iron we have is not good enough.”
“It’s not a work of art, here, Shafer. It’s just a God-damned bridge.” He stood straight and folded his arms. “Finish it, Colonel, or I’ll get someone who will. Dismissed.”
Gets up Early and the rest of the mining crew escorted George and Vincent to the trading post. The Indians took all the whistlers back home and left the two white men with two weeks’ worth of food, two heavy sacks of raw gold, and a dozen buffalo hides for use in acquiring a mode of transport that would be less...conspicuous.
Vincent traded most of the buffalo hides for two old mares and some western clothing for George—a usurious price in light of the quality of goods received—and then, keeping their gold well-hidden from the traders that still lived at the post, they headed north.
George had not ridden a horse in nearly two years and he wondered how he had ever found the process the least bit comfortable. His new trousers, the old saddle, and the horse’s rocking motion made him sore within a few miles. Hastening to a trot or canter did not help, either. When the wind picked up and began to howl across the wintry landscape of the Santee Territory, blowing snow up their backs, George was sure it could get no worse. In time and miles, though, he learned that he was wrong, that the discomfort with which he started the ride was only a specter, an image, a dream portending the painful nightmare that the journey quickly became.
When they rode into little Pembina, at the border between the Santee Territory and British Canada, George felt like the definition of misery. He dismounted with ginger care and stood at the hitching rail while Vincent went into the assayer’s offices to turn some of their gold into coin.
Beyond Pembina was Emerson, then Otterburn, and St. Norbert. At each town they stopped and exchanged some of their gold with a bank or assayer or goldsmith. At each town, too, Vincent insisted on buying something—a new shirt, a new suitcoat, two more and better horses—and their possessions began to accumulate.
“We don’t need this stuff,” George said as Vincent handed him a flat-topped John Bull hat and a gray frock coat.
The Spirit of Thunder Page 18