Chapter 22
Men – very drunk and very angry
Wow it was cold that night. The wind was up, and it was ugly being outside. I hurried along back to the hotel, head down and feet moving as fast as I could move them. Along the way, I had this vision based on what Marc had said. Dakota was like this very large organism. DeSmet was a puncture wound. Foster had stuck a syringe full of angry-men into the wound, and he was pushing the plunger. He wanted the organism to react. I was pretty certain it would.
With that weird image in my head, I pushed my way into the hotel and stood for a second gathering myself. I was out of breath from moving fast through icy air, my eyes were watering, and my nose was running. Basically, I was a mess. But so was the hotel. I almost backed right out of the lobby. If you have ever walked down Bourbon Street during Marti Gras, you have seen masses of outrageous drunks. Now picture wall to wall drunks, but all of them armed and all of them shouting – mostly obscenities. The place was beyond scary. It looked like shooting could break out at any moment. And the sound, well, it was deafening.
“Don’t leave your rifle in the truck. The damn Sioux will steal it.”
“What?” A man was shouting at me, and I wasn’t sure I was hearing right.
“Your rifle. Keep it with you so it doesn’t get stolen.” As he said this, he pointed to my shoulder where presumably my rifle should be. His own rifle was far up on his right shoulder. In his right hand was a large beer mug, mostly empty.
“Where are you from?” I was practically screaming to be heard over the noise, but I was interested.
“Down around New Mexico. I drove two days to get here, but if they are going to start shooting hunters, we have to stand up to them, right?”
“What do you hunt?”
“Some elk, some mule deer. Got a fourteen pointer the year before last.”
“Ever hunt buffalo?”
“No. I would love to drop one of those big bastards, just to see them drop, but what do you do with the meat? It’s too dry, and cleaning one of those things takes all day and stinks like hell. No, let the Indians have them.”
“So…” He looked confused, and then angry with my question.
“It’s the principle of the thing, damn it. If they stop men from hunting buffalo this year, what will it be next? You have to stand up for your rights, or you will lose them.” And, apparently that was all he wanted to say to me. He seemed even to growl a bit as he turned and headed toward the bar. It didn’t look to me like he had much chance of actually getting another beer. The bar was backed up ten or twelve deep its entire length.
But that was his problem. My problem was maneuvering through the crowd to get to the stairs. I was almost there when I spotted Foster. Somehow they had found a huge bench to be his throne, and he sat accepting delegations of angry-men. They were lined up almost as deeply as at the bar. Somehow he spotted me through the crowd, maybe because I had stopped moving and was staring at him with malevolence in my eyes. I had come to really hate that man.
“Professor Murphy.” If there was one voice that could carry across that room, it was Foster’s. I didn’t answer. I continued to stand and stare. “Join me professor, we have much to discuss.” Which was worse, sitting with the man, or walking away and appearing to be afraid of him? I chose to sit. It was a struggle to get to his side of the room, but once there, a man got out of a chair so I could join the inner circle of Foster’s group.
“Gentlemen, this is Professor Shawn Murphy. He is an American historian. His specialty is military history.” As far as I was concerned, the only gentleman in the building was the poor bastard tending bar, but Foster presented me as if he were addressing a royal court. What a despicable man.
“And Mr. Foster, Tilden if I may” (I was pleased to see a small shudder as I mentioned his odd first name), “how would you describe your profession?”
“I would say I am a philanthropist and a guardian of civil rights. At the moment I am protecting the rights of hunters.” At this point of course, there was a large chorus of “You tell him/Yeah/Right” etc. You get it, drunks showing approval.
“How did that work out for you up in the villages?” I just couldn’t resist.
“There will be a price to pay for what they did.” (Imagine another background chorus of “yeah” etc).
“Yes, there is a price to be paid.” At this point he and I entered a staring contest. Very juvenile, but a bit fun.
“As a military historian, “ he finally blinked and restarted the conversation. “How would you estimate the fighting ability of the Sioux?”
“They will work for peace as long as possible. But if they fight, they will be patient and disciplined. If you intend to take on the Sioux nation, you better get about ten thousand more of these guys to go along.”
“No, no, no. You completely misunderstand. It is not our job to seek out the murderers up there. That is for the government to do. We are just here to remind the government to do its duty.”
So, I was right about his plan. He wanted Canadian troops here. Even if nothing else happened, he would have a visual background for every story he wanted to tell about the Canadian government. If they established peace, they were “oppressors.” If they got into a gun battle, they were “aggressors.” Heads he wins; tails he wins.
“I think the government has a pretty good idea where its duty lies. By the way, which government are you talking about? The Canadian government, or yours?” I wondered how many desert rats knew Foster was a foreigner. Hoping I had scored one, I decided it was time to exit. “Now, if you will excuse me.” I stood and stepped away.
“I might ask the same about you.” I guess that was the best he could come up with on short notice. I didn’t feel too badly burned by it and didn’t try to respond. It was time to get out of this madhouse before shooting broke out.
The Canadian Civil War: Volume 3 - West to the Wall Page 22
