“No,” George said. “I gave all I had to you.”
Good Voice snarled and struck George a backhanded blow across the face, knocking him on his back. Two Roads held back the second attack. George looked at Two Roads.
“Go,” George said. “You will never have this chance again.”
Two Roads released Good Voice and the Red Shield chief turned to command his men. Two Roads did not move, and George saw the pain that creased his brow like a heavy crown.
“This is no way to fight a war,” he said. “This is shameful.”
“Yes,” George whispered as gunfire began to chatter and war whoops curled the air. “It is shameful, but we must choose. We must choose.”
Two Roads stared at George, his eyes brimming with tears. “Kit Fox,” he shouted. “Attack.” Then he stood, lifted his rifle, and walked to join the slaughter.
George wanted to die. He wanted to stand up and cry out to the nearest officer with a sidearm. His countrymen were dying—his countrymen—men dedicated to protecting the citizens of the United States...
...and who would do so by killing the Cheyenne. By killing the Arapaho. And the Yankton. And the Hunkpapa, the Lakota, the Mandan, Ree, Shoshone...
...By driving these People off the land they had inhabited for a thousand years...
His countrymen...
George looked at the battle, a frenzy of gunsmoke and running men. He scanned the land with a tactical eye: the captain shouting for the attention of his men, the cluster of officers’ wives, the Indians on whistler-back firing into fleeing bluecoats, the group of infantry running toward the rear cars. He leapt on his whistler and drew his knife. He rode out and into the battle.
“I choose,” he shouted. “I choose.”
It was not a battle. It was a massacre. George ran down men in blue wool, slaying them—at first hand-to-hand with his knife, and later gunning them down with a dead officer’s revolver. He slew them in the shadow of the wrecked cars. He chased them out onto the prairie and slew them on the golden grass. Against all code of military honor, he targeted officers and threw the enlisted men into further panic. When the sun was only two hands high, he stopped. It was over.
He was sticky with the smell of death and spattered head-to-toe with blood. All around him, the ground was strewn with bodies. His breath quavered as he saw them, men and women, tumbled and lifeless across the landscape. He could not speak, for the two warring halves of his soul still vied within him. One half wished to cry out in horror, while the other wanted merely to shout his thanks at having survived.
He rode toward what had been the rear of the train. Storm Arriving was already there, and he stared at George as he rode up to the scene.
“I did not recognize you,” he said.
George could not keep back the small, bitter laugh that escaped him. “There is little left that is not changed.”
Storm Arriving squinted; a long, appraising look. “I believe you,” he said.
In the boxcars they found all they had hoped for, and more. Crate after crate of Winchester’s repeating rifles represented a definitive policy shift for the U.S. Army—one that concerned George, not for what it meant in itself, but more for what it portended for their future. They found revolvers, too, and nearly a whole car of ammunition, powder, and casings. Men were coming up to George, asking him what this item was or what the purpose of that object could be. Everything from clothing to compasses, haversacks to hardtack. They found supplies of beans, coffee, peas, and rice. They found salt pork and flour by the barrel, bolts of cloth, dried apples, canned sardines and oysters, and, of course, cases of liquor. George watched as the soldiers pounced on the latter, taking out the bottles and throwing them up as targets to be shot in a game that filled the air with the sharp scent of whiskey. Long ago Sweet Medicine, a holy man of the People, had warned them about the vé’ho’e and his liquor. The council of chiefs had taken the warning with great seriousness, and the tradition of abstinence was still strong. But it was when a Kit Fox soldier brought an unusual cylinder to George that everything took on a different flavor.
“One Who Flies, what kind of bullet is this?”
George took the offered object. It was like an oversized bullet and casing, more than an inch in diameter and six inches in length. It weighed more than a pound. He looked up at the cars of cargo. “Where did you get this.”
The Kit Fox soldier pointed.
“Take me there.”
The last boxcar—the last car before the ten or twelve cars of horses and other livestock—was nearly empty compared to the others. The first thing that George saw when he looked in the door was the stenciled word: EXPLOSIVES.
“Everyone out,” he said.
Some of the soldiers began to take offense but George simply cut them off with a gesture. “Do not speak. Do not touch anything. This car holds thunder-sticks.”
The soldiers froze. They had only just seen what dynamite could do. Quietly, they stepped down from the boxcar.
“Keep them away from here,” he told the soldier who had brought him the artillery shell. The soldier signed his concurrence and George pulled himself up into the boxcar.
In the crates marked EXPLOSIVES he found more dynamite; shorter sticks than he had been using with Vincent, but thicker, too. They looked new, and were probably more stable than the few charges George had left. Five crates, each with forty sticks. Twenty times what he and Vincent had brought back from Winnipeg.
Across the car were the blasting caps, also of new manufacture and designed specifically for the Army’s thicker charges. Another crate held coils of fuse, stiff loops wrapped and tied for stability.
In the next corner he found the crates of ammunition. Artillery shells like the one the Kit Fox had brought him, they were set in groups of ten, a hundred shells to the crate. He stopped counting crates at twenty-five. But what were they for?
In the last corner was a jumble of wagon wheels and long, rough-sided boxes. George lifted the wheels and axle bars off the boxes. Other pieces of wood and wrought iron—fashioned to some purpose and tagged with paper labels marked with one of the Army’s obscure part numbers—were stacked in the corner in disarray. George shoved them all aside and looked at the boxes. They were unmarked. With a stout metal bar he cracked one open and pulled off the wood slats. Within, nestled in a bed of excelsior, was a huge, six-barreled rifle. To one side was a book. George picked it up, opened it, and began reading about the Hotchkiss Flank-Defense Revolving Cannon.
Except for chairs that stood empty along the walls, all the furniture had been removed from the State Dining Room. It was a week before the election and the place was full. Colored servants with white cotton gloves moved soundlessly on gum-soled shoes, serving drinks from silver trays. Ladies whispered in groups, the silk of their dresses doing likewise, and men in white ties and black tails clumped together like penguins on icebergs. Everywhere Custer looked he saw smiling faces, and the boisterous chatter nearly drowned out the Brahms coming from the double quartet at the north end of the room.
The string players finished their piece and started another. Custer recognized the opening strains of a waltz by Strauss the Younger. The cellos and violas laid down the lopsided impetus upon which the violins floated their melody. He smiled and looked across the room.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. He walked across the dark, hardwood flooring to a group of women, one of whom was his wife. He extended a gloved hand to Libbie. “A wheel about the room?” he asked.
Libbie glanced at the women with her and actually blushed, her thin lips turning upward in a shy smile. “Autie? A dance?”
“Why not?” he said. “We have this grand room. Shame to waste it, if you ask me. Besides, I like the old standards, not like those new ones that Wagner or those French fellows are coming up with. Can’t dance to those, don’t you agree, ladies?”
Libbie’s companions—governor’s wives, congressmen’s wives —all smiled in prim concurrence, never d
aring to contradict a man in public.
“Come along, Libbie. Let’s dance. Just like Saturday nights back in Monroe.”
Libbie’s smile went all girlish and she put her gloved hand on his arm.
“If you ladies will excuse us,” he said with a nod. He led his wife resolutely to the center of the room. Guests cleared away, giving them space, smiling indulgently at their host’s sudden whim.
The tempo was quick and the players gave the waltz the elongated first beat preferred by the Viennese style. Custer found his feet moving effortlessly. Libbie beamed at him, at home in her fine clothes, at ease in the center of attention.
“You are lovely,” he told her.
She smiled. “And you, my Beau Saber. It’s been a long while since I’ve seen you in a swallowtail coat. I do believe that you are by far the most dashing gentleman in the room.”
Custer laughed. “That’s not a hard task,” he said, “considering all the bulldogs we invited tonight.” He pressed his hand into the curve of her corseted waist, led her into a grand sweeping curve, and then spun her in a half turn so that they were side-by-side, promenading up the length of the room like skaters on a frozen lake.
Some of the other guests decided to emulate their hosts. Couples began to twirl their tentative way into the rapidly clearing center of the room. Custer swung Libbie back around to face him as they danced.
“I’m sorry that this year has been so difficult,” he said. “Next year I’ll—”
She shushed him with a gloved finger against his lips. “No promises,” she said. “Not tonight. You’ve been campaigning for six months, making promises everywhere. You’ll have a hard enough time keeping those without making dubious ones to me.”
Custer nodded. “As you wish,” he said.
The waltz came to an end and the guests applauded, their gloved hands muffling their praise.
“A two-step,” a young governor suggested.
“No,” said an older statesman. “A galop.” The crowd approved the latter choice and turned to their host for a decision. Custer nodded toward the musicians.
“Whatever they want,” he announced.
“Now, there’s the mark of a true politician,” someone commented loudly, and friendly laughter spun through the room.
The music began, lively and cheerful—the “John Peel Galop,” an old favorite. Custer turned to his wife but before they stepped back into the impromptu dance floor, he caught sight of Jacob at the tall double doors. Jacob motioned, asking for Custer’s attention.
“Aw, Hell,” he murmured.
Libbie looked over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Autie. The election is only a week away. There are bound to be interruptions tonight.”
“Yes, but this is the first one to interrupt me after I’ve started to enjoy myself.”
“Well...” She straightened his tie. “It won’t be the last, I hope. Thank you for the dance, my dear.”
Custer leaned over and kissed his wife’s hand. Then, with a casual smile he did not feel, he walked over and met Jacob outside in the hallway. Samuel was with him.
“What is it?” he asked as he strode to the cross hall and started up the stairs two at a time. “Problems with our numbers?”
“Oh, no, sir,” Samuel said, trying to keep pace with his president and retain his air of dignity at the same time. “The numbers still look good. We will lose New York—”
“That is expected, even with Morton’s help.”
“Yes, sir. And some of the south is going to be too close to call—”
“But not the North?”
“The Union & Labor party is drawing ten percentage points in the cities. That is helping to break Cleveland’s bloc with the Democrats.”
They reached the upper floor. “But that’s not what you wanted to see me about, is it?” He turned toward his office.
Jacob and Samuel stopped at the landing. Custer turned.
“What?”
“In the library, sir,” Samuel said.
Custer felt the ruffled edge of anger touch him. “What’s going on here? Jacob?”
“There’s been an attack,” the secretary said. “On a trainload of recruits heading into the Territory.”
Custer noted that even though there were still several territories that had yet to achieve statehood, whenever someone said simply “The Territory,” they meant the only territory that mattered now: the Unorganized Territory.
“How bad?”
“As bad as it’s ever been.”
“When?”
“Early this month. On the ninth.”
“Three weeks ago?”
“Word just came in this week. We’ve been keeping it quiet since then,” Jacob said.
Custer’s mind whirled. An attack. On a train. In the Territory. He looked toward the library door. “What’s going on here?”
Jacob looked embarrassed. “It’s a reporter. From Harper’s—just a stringer, really. He heard the story from a relative. He says he’ll hold it until after the election if...”
Samuel finished the sentence. “If we pay him one thousand dollars.”
Custer felt his blood rise to his face. “Get Higgins and Campbell.”
“They’re already in there.”
Custer walked to the library doors and pushed them open. The gas lamps wavered, and in their unsteady light he saw his two bodyguards standing on either side of the doorway. Near the desk, coming quickly to his feet, was a thin, dark-haired man of about thirty years. He wore an old Gabardine raincoat and held his round-topped hat in his hands.
“Mr. President,” the man said. “I believe I have some information that—”
“Shut your lousy little mouth,” Custer said. The man blanched. Custer walked up to him and stared him right in the eye. The reporter tried to look brave, but Custer noted a narrowing of his eye, like a dog expecting a blow. He turned and began pacing back and forth before him. “Secretary Greene and Mr. Prendergast, here, have informed me that you have learned of the tragic and terrible attack on our forces in the Unorganized Territory. Is that true?”
“Yes, Mr. President. I got a letter from—”
“They also tell me that you freelance for a newspaper.”
The man nodded.
“And that you are willing to hold off on reporting this story.”
“Until after the election, sir, if—”
“If we pay you a thousand dollars.” Custer stopped and turned on the man. “Correct?”
The man looked right and left. His face broke into a grin and he laughed nervously. “A thousand dollars? Is that what they said?”
Custer looked at Jacob. The Secretary of War gave a slight nod.
“Not a thousand, Mr. President,” the man was going on. “Not a thousand...but if you could see your way clear to staking me to something...enough to get me and my family out there to the Frontier...for one of those homestead claims, sir.” His gaze touched on everyone, searching every face for a hint of sympathy. “A few hundred, sir...I’d gladly hold off on this story...forget all about the letter my cousin wrote me...until after the election’s over.”
“Gentlemen,” Custer said, turning to the men present. “You heard him clearly?” Four heads nodded.
“Higgins. Campbell. Arrest this man.”
“What?” the reporter cried out. “Mr. President! I didn’t do nothin’.”
Custer slapped the man across the face and stared at him, allowing all the hatred and viciousness he felt seep into his expression. “You have just tried to blackmail the President of the United States and affect the democratic process. You’re lucky I don’t plan to have you charged with treason.”
“But, Mr. President—”
“Get this trash out of here.”
The guardsmen each grabbed an arm and led the man to the door.
“Take him down the back stairs,” Custer said.
“Autie,” Jacob said when they were gone and the door was closed again. “Is this wise? Locking
up a stringer from Harper’s?”
“You think I should have paid him off?” Custer shook his head. “No, we’ll lock him up until after the election. That will keep him quiet and save us the problem of dealing with an extortionist. The story might break anyway, but at least we’ve plugged this one hole in the dike.” He looked at Samuel and Jacob, still angry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jacob looked at the floor. Samuel simply frowned.
“We didn’t want to distract you from the campaign,” Jacob said. “There was nothing you could do, anyway. We told you as soon as it even threatened to get into the papers.”
Custer calmed himself. They’re not the enemy, he reminded himself. He smoothed back his hair and took a deep breath.
“Never keep me in the dark again,” he said calmly. “Never.” He glared at each of them in turn. “Now, let’s get back to the party before we’re missed.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” the two men said.
Herron and his entourage rode westward through the early snow, on their way toward the fort. The wind pushed and shoved at them like a schoolyard bully, slapping at hat brims, tugging at cloaks, shoving them back the way they’d come. Herron snarled at the unseasonably early storm.
Even the weather wants us out of this place, he thought.
A gust shot a fusillade of ice at them. Herron’s horse spooked and spun and he pulled at the reins to keep his mount under control. Looking around in the blowing snow, he found the long, snow-covered mound of the railroad that they had been following like a lifeline.
“General, are you all right?” Noyles asked.
The wind fired at them again with cold, cutting shards of ice and snow, and Herron was heartened to see even the overly-capable Noyles raise a hand to ward off the sting. They held there, hiding behind cloak and arm until the wind released them.
Herron reached inside his coat and grabbed the small, leather-clad flask he kept there. He offered it first to Noyles who refused with a silent gesture. Herron took a swallow of the old single malt.
The first swallow was always the worst: a mouthful of charcoal and peat. But it was necessary, in order to achieve the second swallow, which was full of warmth and heather. He finished with yet a third, and tasted oak wood and felt the heat turn to a burn that crept down his gullet and filled him with pungent fire. He sucked air through his teeth as he corked the flask and returned it to his coat pocket.
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