“You are right, Jacob. We brought them here. Have you ever wondered why?”
“Why?” Jacob said, puzzled at the question. “Why, to get rid of us, of course.”
“Wrong.”
Be delicate, George cautioned himself. Do not make them feel stupid.
“We brought them here to prove to you that we could.” He let the words sink in. “How could we prove to you that we were serious about our goals? How could we prove to you that we deserved the respect due a sovereign nation?” George stepped to the table where the map of the Unorganized Territory had been spread out. “How could we convince you,” he said, gently placing a hand over the spot where the Sacred Mountains stood, “that we were willing to protect this by any means necessary?”
George looked up from the map and saw his father’s smile.
“You were dining with the devil,” Custer said, “even at the risk of your very soul.”
“A ploy?” Jacob said, aghast. “You brought invaders to our shores as a ploy?”
“A ploy. A tactic. A stratagem. A...vision?” He smiled at Jacob. “Call it what you will, Mr. Secretary. I believe it worked. I believe we got your attention.”
“This is outrageous!” Jacob shouted.
But Meriwether was shaking his head. “No,” he said. “It is merely ‘politics by other means.’”
“Indeed,” Custer said.
George kept it rolling. “With us, the Spanish can defeat you. With us, you can defeat the Spanish. We, to put it bluntly, are the key.”
Custer sat down on the divan and rested both hands on the head of his cane. “And if they defeat us, what do you foresee?”
“I see the Spanish holding the territory between the Mississippi and the Missouri, a buffer between our angry nations, an enemy on your border.”
“And if reversed?”
“I see you holding those same lands, as we had discussed during our last...visit together.”
Custer studied his son, and George knew he was remembering the outcome of that visit; the violence, the blood, the death, the dishonor. But his father was shrewd, too, and not one to let emotion or past pain ruin a chance at victory. They had been about to announce an agreement that day, on the White House steps, just before the assassin’s gun went off. “Just as we had discussed?” he asked.
George raised an eyebrow. “With one exception.”
His father squinted. “What exception?”
“As to territory, we hold to the agreed-upon plan,” George said. “The Alliance would cede everything east of the Missouri downstream of the Trader River. It would also cede all lands between Kansa Bay and the Niobrara.”
“And the sting?”
“The Alliance offers thirty million dollars.”
“What?” Jacob blurted. “It was fifty million!”
“Conditions have changed,” George said.
“In gold?” Custer asked.
“Autie!” Jacob said.
“Quiet,” he ordered. Back to George, “In gold?”
“In gold,” George replied.
“Do it,” Custer said with a glance at Jacob.
“You can’t mean it!” Jacob said.
“No argument,” Custer said, pounding his cane on the floor. He stood and looked at every man in the room. “I’m selling two-thirds of the land for three times the price. And I’m getting us out of this damned war! Do it.”
Samuel, the president’s aide, cleared his throat, reluctant to disagree. “Sir,” he said. “Only Congress has the power to—”
“Damn Congress,” Custer said. “If they can’t see the sense in this, we’ll find another way to make it so. We’ve been pouring blood and gold into this Territory for a hundred years, and in all that time, what have we gained? Have we gained one square mile of governable land? Have we established one town that hasn’t been lost or that exists under constant threat?”
“But sir,” Samuel said, his voice all patience and understanding. “How can we cede sovereign control to a group of insurrectionists?”
Custer leveled a steely-eye at his aide. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we have been superseded. The Cheyenne and their alliance have already been recognized by the Spanish Crown as a sovereign nation. Besides, we’re not ceding anything. We’re selling it. We bought it from the French. We’re selling it to the Alliance. Simple as that. Now you men,” he said, waving an arm at the suit-coats around the room. “Start setting things in motion. We need to act quickly.”
George hadn’t spoken a word during this last exchange; he’d barely breathed through it all. His father was agreeing! It was going to happen! He could barely believe it and was afraid that any word he said might destroy it all. His mind whirled with thoughts, with ideas. He wanted to run into the other room and shout the news to Mouse Road, to hug her and swing her around! It was happening!
“Mr. President.”
It was Meriwether, and his baritone was like a knell. Motion stopped as every man sensed the coming of an objection that might change the President’s mind. Custer pivoted on his cane and gave his general a gimlet eye.
“Yes?”
The scrutiny unsettled Meriwether. George saw him glance around and find neither friend nor foe; he was on his own and he would receive either acclamation or denigration, depending on how his words were received.
Meriwether took a breath and settled himself before speaking. “Sir, we have no guarantees.” He nodded to George. “I intend no offense, but it is only prudent to point out that we have only your assurance that this offer of alliance is genuine.”
George’s father looked from general to son through narrowed eyes. George knew his father well enough to see that the general’s complaint had struck home, and to be honest, it was accurate. Accurate, but not deniable.
“I have acted as translator, as interpreter, and as liaison for the People for many years now,” he said, taking the reins away from the general. “And I challenge the general...” He extended an arm and turned to point to every man. “I challenge anyone in this room to name a moment, or cite an instance, where what I said was not backed by the full authority of the Great Council.” It did not matter to George that this was the first time he had done exactly that; he wanted these men to consider his past credentials. He watched as his father, Meriwether, Jacob, and several others exchanged glances.
Eventually, consensus was reached. “No,” his father said. “You have always been a trustworthy messenger.”
George tried not to feel any sting at the characterization, but he also felt the pressure of their trust. It hurt to twist it in this way, but if he was wrong, then all was lost anyway.
“Then I tell you,” George said, “as a messenger from the Cheyenne’s most trusted speaker, that this is a true and genuine offer. If you accept it, we will return to the People and ratify the agreement.”
Meriwether scowled, untrusting, as did others, but it was George’s father who made the decision.
“Do it,” he instructed.
Men moved to obey.
“Now,” Custer said to George, “let’s go see your mother.”
Chapter 20
Thursday, October 16th, AD 1890
North of the Red Paint River
Unorganized Territory
The horses’ hooves made hollow drumbeats as Alejandro and D’Avignon rode across the stony creekbed. The prospector had led them on a circuitous course, going well out of their way before doubling back toward the Sacred Hills. There were other places, he said, where mining was possible, but nothing to match the promise of these dark, foreboding heights.
“Look,” D’Avignon said, pointing. He jumped down from his dun-colored criollo and tossed the reins to Alejandro. He knelt down at the water’s edge, dipped a hand into the running edge of the creek, and scooped up a small handful of gravelly sand. “Hee-hee!” he laughed as he picked at the grains. Then he leapt up and ran over to Alejandro, thumb and forefinger pinched. “Your hand, your hand,” he said, and Aleja
ndro held out his palm to receive the treasure.
“There,” D’Avignon said.
Alejandro stared. In his hand was a globular nugget the size of a split pea. “¡Dios mío!” he swore. “It is just as you said.”
“Just lying there, waiting to be picked up and taken away,” D’Avignon said, grinning. “Worth the risk?”
Alejandro nodded. “Without a doubt.”
D’Avignon took back his reins, mounted, and led off again. Alejandro tucked the nugget of buttery gold into his shirtfront pocket for safekeeping and followed, gently guiding with knees and reins.
He had surprised himself by how quickly he had become re-accustomed to living it rough. The aches of the first weeks had quickly disappeared, and the increased activity and lean rations had slimmed his belly and lightened his step. He had put away his finer clothes and requisitioned more durable garb from stores, so now he rode in dungarees and a shirt of cotton twill, with an overcoat of wool-lined oilcloth that shrugged off rain and thorny snags alike. He felt fifteen years younger, relished the slap of cold air on his face each morning, drank burned coffee like a veteran, and stuck to the saddle as if born to it. To be honest, he felt a little guilty, enjoying any part of this ordeal when he knew his wife was worrying about him, and when he thought of how much was really at stake, both personally and politically. But he was enjoying it, or parts of it at any rate, especially this part, riding across the streams and hills of a magical landscape.
From the moss-clad rocks they rode upslope beneath the spreading branches of age-old trees. These were not dark, slope-shouldered spruce or tall, pillared ponderosa. They rode instead beneath the bright russet of bur oak and the flaming yellows of fading aspen. The sun, snared by the autumnal colors, was diffused by a million leaves, surrounding them with a rich, heavy light that hung in the air like fine silk. Chickadees chased each other, angry sprites that argued from branch to branch. The air was thick with moisture and the smell of dew-fed mushrooms growing in the humus of the forest floor. The horses’ hooves were quiet now, treading the soft, spongy earth, and their misted breath went in and out like air through a smith’s bellows. The sound was comforting, filled with strength and life, and for a time both men rode in silence.
They climbed upward along a twisting, crook-back trail, the creek running joyfully to their right, the higher ground on their left. The trail wove between trees, around boulders, growing thinner with each switchback, until Alejandro could not tell where the path lay at all.
“You know where you are going?” he asked.
“Naturellement,” D’Avignon replied. “I have been up here too often to go astray.”
As if to prove his point, the sound of voices drifted through the wood; angry voices.
“Merde!” D’Avignon put heels to his horse’s flank and sped up the slope. Alejandro did the same, and his paint leapt forward to follow D’Avignon’s criollo.
Alejandro leaned forward, held up an arm to ward off low branches, kept his knees tight against his gelding’s sides, and twisted his torso to maintain an even balance while his horse pushed up the tortuous path. Then the ground leveled out, the path straightened, and D’Avignon lashed his reins in urgent command. The horses sped forward and Alejandro heard more voices shouting in anger and alarm. Ahead, a sun-filled clearing appeared in which two men grappled, raising dust. D’Avignon rode through the brush and dismounted, jumping into the midst of the fray, arms out in an attempt to separate the combatants. Alejandro rode into the clearing and saw a knife blade flash in the sunlight.
“What is going on here?” he demanded in his best military-command voice. The fight became a frieze.
Two men stood at odds, D’Avignon between them. One man held a knife, its long, fixed blade clean and sharp. Ringed around the trio were the other men of the camp, clothing soiled with dirt and sweat, faces grimed and hair greased by weeks of living rough.
“What is going on here?” he asked again. He pointed to the man with the blade. “You. Speak.”
Faced with authority, the fight drained out of the men. The man holding the knife drooped, waved the blade in the direction of his opponent, and the explanation worked its way to the surface.
“Emilio,” he said. “He stole—”
“You lying son of a whore!” Emilio lunged, but D’Avignon kept him back.
The gunshot made men jump in alarm. They looked and saw Alejandro, pistol pointed at the sky. He nodded at the man with the knife. “Stole what?”
The knife hit the dirt and the man straightened up, a glimmer of the soldier within returning. “He has been pocketing some of the gold.”
“I—” Emilio began but checked himself.
“And you,” Alejandro said to Emilio. “You deny this allegation?”
Emilio nodded. “I deny it.”
“Search him,” Alejandro said to D’Avignon.
D’Avignon did so, searching the man’s pockets, even his boot tops.
“He keeps it in his pants,” the accuser said. “I saw him by accident, down at the privy hole.”
Alejandro looked back at Emilio. There was a twinge of fear—a slight wideness, a heightened activity—in his eye. “Take it out.”
“But—”
“Take it out or I’ll have you stripped and then we’ll find it anyway.”
Emilio considered his position, dropped his façade of indignation, and instead opted for pitiable justification. “It’s my mother, sir” he said, his face suddenly all sadness and sentiment. “My aged mother, a widow. She is ill, and only has my youngest sister to care for her.”
“Take it out,” Alejandro repeated.
Reluctantly, slowly, Emilio undid a button on his shirt, did the same to his undergarment, and reached in below his belt. After a moment he pulled out a leather pouch that had been suspended from his naked waist by a length of twine.
“Take it.”
D’Avignon grimaced as he reached out and took the sweat-stained pouch.
“Open it.”
D’Avignon complied, spilling some of the contents out into his hand. Tiny nuggets glinted in the sunlight.
“How much?”
“Several ounces, at least.”
The second gunshot produced much the same reaction as the first, and men ducked their heads amid shouts of surprise. As the echo rocketed through the hills, Emilio hit the ground, the back of his head blown out. Alejandro holstered his sidearm.
“What is your name?” he said to the dead man’s accuser.
“Bernardo Gomez Contreras di Marianas,” he said.
“You will be our overseer,” Alejandro said, and he looked around the group. “You are all receiving a handsome wage,” he said, then pointed to the dead Emilio.
“He took an oath. You all took an oath. Before God Himself, you swore. This is the punishment for betrayal. Bernardo is our overseer, and will report to me directly. Keep him safe, if you value your own skins, for men like you are two-a-penny, and I can replace you all in a single afternoon. You are in the middle of a strange, vast, dangerous land, and D’Avignon and I—and now Bernardo—are the only ones who can provide you a way out of it, a way home, with enough riches to last you years. Do not think you can leave here with more than your fair share. But work well, work hard, and you will be amply rewarded.” He looked again around the ring of men.
“Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir,” they responded as one.
“Good. Now bury that man.”
He saw D’Avignon staring up at him, one eyebrow lifted in unspoken question.
“What?” he asked as the other men carried the dead man off into the woods. “You didn’t think me capable?”
D’Avignon cocked his head. “To be honest, no, I did not.”
Alejandro dismounted and tied his reins to a tree branch. He held his hand out for the pouch of gold. With an oily smile, D’Avignon handed it over. “If I learned one thing only, in my years of command, it is that without strong leadership, men like th
is will degenerate into howling apes within a month. Add women or strong drink—”
“Or gold,” D’Avignon supplied.
“—or gold,” Alejandro agreed, “and it can happen overnight.” He tucked the pouch into his vest pocket and gestured to the camp around them. “Now, if you would show me how well these men have done?”
The camp was rudimentary; the crew had been chosen with such privations in mind, and they had not made many improvements over the basics needed for survival. Stacked stones formed a windbreak on two sides of the firepit, and a heavy kettle hung from tripod astride the ashes of last night’s fire. Deadwood was piled nearby, but had not been sectioned or split. Even the tents Alejandro had provided had not been erected as such, having been repurposed instead as tarpaulins and coverings for crude lean-tos. Downslope—and presumably downwind—Alejandro saw the bloody remnants of a butchered deer amid a midden of other refuse. The conditions were far too brutal for his liking, but then he was not the one living here. These were base, uncouth men, well-fit for the conditions. The promise of gold consumed all else in the fires of avarice, purging them of all civilized needs.
D’Avignon led him through the camp to the only tent that was set up according to its original purpose. Auburn leaves and rust-colored pine needles littered its conical roof, but Alejandro noted that all the guy lines were still taut and trimmed. The land around it had been cleared of brush and woodfall.
“Yours?”
D’Avignon snorted. “You have to ask?” he said. “These others, they live like wild dogs. I’m surprised they don’t sniff each other’s asses to say ‘Good morning.’”
He stopped at the flap to his tent, crouching to inspect the opening. He undid the laces with care, and then inspected the threshold. Alejandro saw him pull up a pair of small twigs that had been tied with a length of thread. “No one has been in,” he said, and then entered himself. Alejandro followed.
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