A Good Man

by Guy Vanderhaeghe

  Case shakes his head. “I would like to correct your impression of that afternoon. It was I who was rude to you. I was very short-tempered that day. Hathaway’s irresponsibility put me in a foul mood. I have no excuses for my behaviour. I was a guest in your home. An uninvited one, I might add. I imposed my company on you –”

  “And I was glad you did,” Ada interjects. “I was happy to know you. The way Peregrine spoke of you – I thought we might have a good deal in common.” She smiles faintly. “I was eager to make a friend of you and my eagerness made me act foolishly.” She stops and subjects him to a searching look. “You are taken aback.”

  “I am taken aback. I have no talent for friendship.”

  “From what I have seen, I think Mr. McMullen would disagree. Young Hathaway certainly would. He believes you kind and decent.” She pauses. “Shall I put that description to the test? Will you be so decent as to shake my hand? Be so kind as to let bygones be bygones? Come now, let us be friends.”

  Case looks down uncertainly at the white hand held out to him. His fingers close on her palm; the softness and heat of it are disturbingly intimate. He holds it for just a moment too long and then lets it go.

  “There,” she says, “my conscience cleared on two counts. A good day’s work.” Briskly, she straightens her shoulders. “You know, when winter rolls round, if time hangs heavy on your hands – you are welcome to borrow any of my books.”

  “That is a very kind offer.”

  There is a mischievous glint in her eye. “Of course, I will not press George Eliot on you.”

  “Perhaps you should. Perhaps it would be good for me.”

  “But your opinion of her was so very disapproving and decided –” “All second-hand, paraded as my own. I knew a man who often passed disparaging judgments on her work. I merely parroted him.”

  “And who is this critic?” demands Ada, laughing. “So if our paths ever cross I can box his ears.”

  “His name?” Case says, more to himself than her. “It hardly matters.”

  But it does matter, he thinks. Pudge Wilson.

  They recommence their walk. In a short time, Mrs. Tarr’s house comes into view. Suddenly she stops and says, “I think it best we part here. I did not announce to Mr. Dunne that I was paying you a visit. I slipped off. Now I must steal back into the house through the back. How very wicked of me,” she says, giving him a pert look.

  “Your secret is safe with me, Mrs. Tarr.”

  “Well then, I’m off.”

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Tarr.”

  Case watches her go briskly down the trail, skirts switching.

  ELEVEN

  AT THE BEGINNING OF September, Case had found Walsh’s first brief communiqué awaiting him at the Fort Benton post office. It informed him that the Major had sent his two most dependable Métis scouts, Cajou Morin and Louis Léveillé, below the border to visit the Assiniboine to see if they could learn anything from that tribe about the whereabouts of the Sioux. The Assiniboine professed to know nothing about the Sioux’s movements, asserting that they had had no contact with them since the days before the Battle of Little Bighorn, when Sitting Bull had sent an emissary to the war chief White Dog, promising him a hundred horses if he would join forces with Bull against the Long Knives. Case immediately brought this news to Ilges’s attention. The Sioux chief’s attempt to strike an alliance with the Assiniboine gave credence to the rumours that Bull was making overtures to other tribes to draw them into war with the Americans. It hadn’t been much to give Ilges, but it was something.

  Case hadn’t heard anything more from the Major, which he found exasperating. If Walsh wanted him to keep Ilges happy, the Major needed to make an effort. Walsh’s aversion to paperwork might be one reason for his silence, but it was Case’s guess that the Major was piqued because Ilges had provided no recent updates on the progress of the Crook-Terry campaign. Perhaps he suspected Ilges was holding back on him. If he did, more fool Walsh. Since the end of August, no one knew where Crook and Terry were. It was as if the wilderness had swallowed them up. Then, in the last week of the month, Ilges had a visitor, and he brought with him a great deal of insight into the situation.

  September 30, 1876

  Fort Benton

  My dear Walsh,

  If in your last report to Secretary Scott you did as I urged you – suggest that the joint campaign of Gens. Terry and Crook would come to naught – you will have been well served, may even have earned a reputation for perspicacity in Ottawa. An officer who, until recently, had been attached to Gen. Sherman’s headquarters passed through Benton en route to join his regiment for active service against the Sioux. He is an old friend of Ilges from Civil War days and they spent an evening discussing the most recent developments of which this gentleman was fully cognizant given his position on Sherman’s staff. He was as full of gossip as an egg is full of meat. According to him, the whole campaign turned into an unmitigated debacle because of the animosity and petty jealousy that rules relations between the two men. On August 25th Crook separated his force from Terry’s control on the pretext of providing protection for the settlements in the Black Hills of Dakota Territory. The real reason appears to be he could not abide Gen. Terry’s company any longer. Crook led his men into unfamiliar territory with meagre rations and inadequate supplies. The difficult terrain coupled with many days of cold rain soon took its toll on soldiers and animals. By September 7th, many of the troops were exhausted, stricken with acute dysentery, and suffering from exposure because they had no tents and each man had been issued only a single blanket. Within ten days of separating from Terry, the force was facing starvation and had no alternative but to slaughter and eat the majority of their horses.

  Given the seriousness of the situation, Crook dispatched Capt. Mills of the 3rd Cavalry with 150 troops and 50 pack mules to hasten to Deadwood in the Black Hills to secure provisions. Shortly after setting out, Capt. Mills came upon signs of a large body of Sioux. Scouts found their encampment near a place called Slim Buttes. Mills thought the Indians vulnerable to attack because the bad weather and heavy rain was keeping them hunkered down in their lodges. He attacked at first light and took the Indians by surprise, but he did not press forward, giving the Sioux time to place warriors in a defensive position to cover the escape of the women, children, and elderly. Mills ordered a second assault, but that was met with stiff resistance. By then, warriors had arrived from Crazy Horse’s band, which Mills hadn’t realized was camped nearby. By the time Crook appeared with reinforcements, the initial advantage had been squandered, and the engagement petered out into an inconclusive standoff.

  Ilges’s friend said that the Army is determined to put the rosiest complexion on what they glorify with the title “The Battle of Slim Buttes.” It will be painted as a great victory. To describe it so is the height of absurdity. True, Sioux horses were seized, food stores and tipis taken; nevertheless, casualties among Sioux fighting men were very light. Most of the Indian fatalities were women and children, and sustained during the first attack on the village. The officer who divulged all this to Ilges believes American losses were equal to those inflicted on the enemy. He was disgusted by what appears to have been near mutiny among the American troops after this fight. Contempt for the incompetence of the leadership was given vent to by the rank and file, and Crook’s vain attempt to take his men to the Black Hills was openly and disparagingly referred to as “The Starvation March.” After the battle, soldiers refused to obey orders to assist the ill and wounded. The rule of the day was “Every man for himse” Even junior officers are said to have shown signs of disaffection.

  What should be of most concern to Canadians is the present reluctance of any American commander to come to grips with the enemy. Ilges’s friend said that Terry was so unnerved by Crook’s abandonment of him that he immediately withdrew to Fort Abraham Lincoln. It is reported that Gen. Gibbon has retired to the safety of Fort Shaw. Crook’s bedraggled, sick, and footsore command is licking
its wounds at Custer City. Once his men have recovered, he intends to make his way to Camp Robinson, Nebraska, where his troops will remain in garrison for the foreseeable future.

  It is clear that until some active, resolute American officer is willing to prosecute a campaign against the winter camps of the Sioux where they are most assailable, to harry them continually so that they cannot hunt and provide food for their families, this situation is not going to be speedily resolved. Come spring, the Sioux are expected to resume hostilities, inciting terror among the population. At present, most civilians have returned to their farms and ranches – circumstances leave them no other choice – and things have returned to what might be called a normal footing here in Montana. Nevertheless, this lull cannot be regarded as permanent. I would advise you to make it clear to Secretary Scott that this matter is going to drag on and any hopes he may harbour that the Americans will force the Sioux to capitulate in the next few months are ill founded. The government of Canada cannot take an overly optimistic view, but must keep a cautious watch on developments, and consider every contingency. Scott must not think that the Americans will pull a happy result out of the hat. It is evident that Sitting Bull’s ears are not going to be taken hold of easily. He is no obliging and compliant rabbit.

  This brings me, finally, to a delicate matter. Maj. Ilges has been questioning me as to why you have failed to supply any intelligence recently. I cannot emphasize the importance that you keep in touch. I know you are a busy man with many things on your mind, but please write me as soon as possible. It is important that we be seen as acting in good faith.

  I await your speedy response.

  Yours truly,

  Wesley Case

  October 14, 1876

  Fort Walsh

  My dear Case,

  Thanks for yours of the 30th. Let it be known to the Sauerkraut Farter that I am, as per usual, ever vigilant in his service. My men are constantly in the saddle, combing the border between Fort Walsh and Wood Mountain for Sitting Bull and his cronies. Tell Herr Ilges that on several occasions I have sent my people over the line to the American side to scout in places the Yankees studiously avoid going for fear they might find the enemy there and be obliged to face them. Which is very prudent tactics given the whippings they have been handed every time they bump up against the foe. Further inform Ilges that as of yet I have not a goddamn thing of any real consequence to report.

  Of course, tell him all this as sweetly as possible so as not to offend his tender, girlish sensibilities.

  Yours truly,

  Maj. James Walsh

  October 27, 1876

  Fort Benton

  My dear Walsh,

  Your last letter does you no credit, sir. I will say no more.

  Here is the latest generously provided, I might add, by the man to whom I did not pass on your insults. He received it from a dispatch rider from Fort Buford. Things may be looking up. There is an American officer who appears to have some fight in him, Col. Miles of the 5th Infantry. On or around the 15th of October Sitting Bull attacked a United States Army supply train. When the Indians disengaged, a written demand was found on the trail purportedly signed by Sitting Bull (it is unclear who may have written it, perhaps a half-breed in Bull’s camp) warning that unless Miles pulled out of the Tongue River country the consequences for him would be dire. This resulted in a two-day parley between Col. Miles and Sitting Bull in which both parties adamantly insisted that the other must yield. Miles demanded the unconditional surrender of the Indians. Sitting Bull demanded that all soldiers depart the Yellowstone district and that the Tongue River Post and Fort Buford also be abandoned. Negotiations broke off amid acrimony and recriminations. Miles chose to immediately advance on the Indians. The so-called Battle of Cedar Creek did not result in success for either side, but when the Indians quit the fight Miles did not do as his predecessors have done and choose to call it a day. Instead, he set off in dogged pursuit of the Sioux. Due to this initiative he overtook a large group of Indians (regrettably Sitting Bull was not among them) and forced the surrender of some 400 lodges that pledged to return to the Cheyenne River Agency.

  Yours truly,

  Wesley Case

  November 11, 1876

  Fort Walsh

  My dear Case,

  I admit it; I am a mule. Ilges is a packsaddle cinched to my back and when it galls my withers, I kick and buck. I know that much about myself. That’s why I asked you to act as my spokesman. You can muffle my braying. You think before you speak.

  Yours truly,

  Maj. James Walsh

  With the haying comple, the pace of ranch work eased a little. McMullen was worried that they still did not have enough feed to carry the cattle through the winter and persuaded Case to buy a supply of oats from the mill in Benton. Joe took on the task of freighting the grain from town while Case occupied himself with small jobs: patching the roof of the house, repairing the corrals, and setting out twice a day to round up strays and return them to the herd. The weather remained fine and Case revelled in the sunny days. The six tall stacks they had built gave him a feeling of accomplishment whenever he rode by them; the sight of his cattle contentedly grazing filled him with the pleasure and pride of ownership. Already he was making plans for the future. Even before he had left Fort Walsh, negotiations were under way to persuade the natives to sign treaties with the government. It was only a matter of time before the tribes were removed to reservations, the country opened up to settlers. Homesteads and grazing leases would be granted, and Case had it in mind that when that happened he might sell his land, pocket the money, and he and Joe drive their herd north to less expensive pastures. He sometimes wondered ruefully if he hadn’t more of his father’s head for business than he had ever imagined.

  As to his father, Case had had no answer to his letter that announced to the old man that he would not be returning to Ottawa. He could only conclude that his father had decided that stony silence was his only recourse, seeing that his fury could not be expressed in words. It seemed to Case that all his correspondents were dilatory in replying to his missives. After spending a great deal of time dithering about how to compose a tactful letter to Peregrine Hathaway that would gently bring home to him how he really stood with Celeste Tarr, he had opted for bluntness. He had always found any discussion of the personal and private to be embarrassing, even painful. This he put down to his mother’s influence. “Hearts are not meant to be worn on the sleeve,” she liked to say. “They are hidden from sight for a reason. They require protection.” As yet, there had been no reply from Hathaway.

  He had considered that he might pay Ada Tarr a visit to tell her that he had written to Peregrine as she had asked. The temptation was very great, and it was a struggle to remind himself that great temptations often lead to great disasters. Perhaps the Case men had a fatal weakness, an attraction to women that they had no business pursuing – his father a scullery maid, he a married woman. There was no point in tormenting himself with what he couldn’t have.

  The first winter storm arrives in mid-November, a cold surprise. Case and Joe awake in the dead of night to a shrill, keening wind that shakes the ranch house. The windowpanes chime with blasts of hard, granular sleet and then the gusts begin to trowel a mortar of wet snow over the glass. The two men stand shivering, peering out as the storm draws a white curtain down on the world. All Joe says is, “First light, we better get those cows in.”

  It is still blowing hard when morning spreads a milky, peaked light, the snow wiping chalky smears over the landscape. It robs them of breath when they ride out into it, drives cold needles into their eyeballs. The wet snow blankets their clothing and the coats of the horses. The force of the blizzard has ripped the herd to rags; here and there five or six dazed cows huddle together, rumps backed into the gale. Joe and Case prod the reluctant cattle on towards the haystacks where they can find a lile shelter. Then back they go into the flying snow to chase down a few more strays and shepherd t
hem home. For eight hours they roam the storm, gloved hands welded to reins, rocked in the saddle by buffets of wind. By five o’clock, the sun is so obscured by a gauze of snow that scarcely any light breaks through. Four cows are still unaccounted for, but Joe says they have to give up the hunt for fear darkness overtakes them, making it impossible to find their way home, which would be the end of them.

  At last, they stagger into the house, light the stove, and, like beetles shedding their carapaces, they peel off their snow-caked garments to roast themselves by a roaring fire as they massage their fingers and stamp their feet on the floorboards. Soon a lightning-like stinging starts up in Case’s numb toes, sets him hopping with pain. It’s all he can do to choke back a whimper. Joe holds a frozen ear cupped in one hand, and sucks the frostbitten fingers of the other. His face has gone a queer zinc grey; he begins to shake uncontrollably. “Christ,” he says, “I’m taking myself to bed. I advise you do the same. A slow melt serves best.”

  Case follows his advice, crawls into his cot. He can hear the chatter of Joe’s teeth clear across the room. Between clicks, McMullen jerks out, “In a few minutes, when I thaw, I’ll make us some hot food.” That never happens because Joe drops off. Soon Case slides into a deep, dreamless sleep. Six hours later, he wakes with a nagging feeling that something has gone missing, and soon realizes that what is gone is the querulous whine of the wind, which had been present in his ears for twenty-four hours. A dead calm reigns. Case twists his head on the pillow and listens intently, hears nothing but the boards of the house contracting, the cold snapping its bones. Bundled in his quilt, he gets up and feeds the stove as much wood as the firebox will hold, scrambles back into bed. Bit by bit, the elbow joint of the stovepipe reddens in the darkness. Case drifts off again.