He tied Harriet to the hitching rail, removed his saddlebags, and entered the store. The interior smelled of old wood-smoke and dust. Ruby Alden looked up from her work: “Good afternoon, Henry. What can I do for you?” she asked in her thick, English accent.
“Afternoon, Missus Alden. I’ll be needing a few things.” He approached the long counter and set down his saddlebags. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked over the counter expectantly.
“I need ten pounds of flour, ten pounds of salt pork, five quarts of beans, a pound of dried beef…do you have any of those peach preserves left?”
“We do. And I have four dozen biscuits made this morning with fresh eggs.”
“That sounds good. Two jars of the peaches, and a dozen of the biscuits…going to need some more tobacco…and a dress, fit for riding. The woman’s a slight bit smaller than you are, begging your pardon. I’ll need shoes to go with it; around this size…” he pulled a length of hide thong from his shirt pocket and stretched it out on the scarred, wooden counter, “…if you have them.” She raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing.
“Also, does Mister Alden still want to sell that roan gelding he traded for awhile back?”
“No, I’m sorry. He sold it to a young sergeant from Massachusetts.
“I reckon I’ll go see Seth Pritchard then. I’ll need a ladies’ saddle as well.
“As for the dress, there isn’t much call for ladies fashion here, Henry; I have plenty of fabric but that’s all…”
“Sell him yours.” Came a man’s voice through a partially opened door on the far wall, behind Henry. “It doesn’t fit you anymore.”
Frederick Alden, Ruby’s husband, opened the door the rest of the way and stepped through.
“Good day, Henry,” he said, walking up to the counter and lifting a hinged portion of it so he could walk through and join his wife.
“You haven’t worn that dress in seven years, and you’re not getting any smaller. Sell him the dress, and Grace’s saddle. Although I must admit I’m curious as to what Henry requires them for.”
“Oh, Frederick, we can’t part with Grace’s saddle,” Ruby said.
“Grace has been gone eight years, dearest. We’ve got her other things. We don’t need that old saddle, and I’d just as soon have someone get some use from it. Care to satisfy a dull storekeeper’s curiosity, Henry?
“Thank you, Mister Alden, but it’s not my place to say.”
Frederick Alden looked disappointed. “Very well. Shall we say three dollars for the dress and eight for the saddle? I’ll throw in a new horse blanket, free of charge.”
“Sounds fair enough.”
“Come with me, Henry, I’ll show you the shoes,” Ruby Alden said, sparing an irritated look at her husband. “Bring along that strip of hide, I’m sure we’ll have something close.”
After finding a pair of plain shoes that were nearly identical in length to the hide thong, Henry borrowed a pen and ink and purchased a sheet of paper and an envelope. He jotted a quick letter to William Bent stating simply that he was needed up on the Powder River. He signed it Henry, then addressed it to William. Afterward, he paid for everything and left the store to see about a horse while Ruby gathered the rest of his purchases.
Seth Pritchard was a recently mustered-out volunteer who’d spent his free time at Fort Laramie buying and selling horses and mules. He hadn’t left Fort Laramie yet because he didn’t have any place in particular to go (recently he’d been thinking of heading down to Texas, or maybe California). He was known to be a cheat if he could get away with it and would frequently take advantage of settlers passing through. He was also known to float loans to other soldiers at exorbitant interest rates. Henry didn’t care for him, and due to Henry’s skin color, the feeling was mutual.
Pritchard always considered himself a Union man, but he didn’t like niggers any more than he liked injuns. He especially hated smart niggers.
Pritchard was camped a few hundred yards downriver from the fort. The short, big bellied man was sitting in front of his tent on a wooden stool when Henry rode up.
“Well, look who it is,” Pritchard said without standing.
“Afternoon. I need a horse, if you have one for sale.” Henry said, bringing Harriet to a stop.
“That so? Well, all I got’s one for sale. I’m closing up shop here before long, now the war’s over and they don’t need me anymore. He’s up under the shade of that tree; not the black, that one’s mine. You’d just about disappear if you rode him.”
Henry ignored the witticism. He urged Harriet forward a few steps and looked at the two horses tethered to a tree by the river. “That’s the roan Frederick Alden was selling awhile back. Missus Alden told me he sold it to an army captain.”
“That’s right, only it was a sergeant. The sergeant wasn’t much of a card player and needed my help more than he needed that horse. It’s a fine saddle-horse. I don’t reckon you could afford him, unless they’re payin’ negro scouts officer’s wages now.”
Henry said nothing and rode over to inspect the animal. After a few minutes he came back, knowing the horse would probably take all of the rest of the money he’d been indifferently stowing in his saddlebags for the past three years.
“I’ll pay a hundred and fifty dollars,” Henry said.
“That’s a hundred and seventy-five dollar horse if ever there was one.”
“Thank you anyway, then.” Henry said and started away.
“Wait just a second. I didn’t say I wouldn’t sell it to you for a hundred and fifty. I just said it was worth a hundred and seventy-five.”
Henry dismounted and removed the leather pouch he kept his money in from his saddlebags and counted out the money. “That bridle don’t go with the horse unless you want to pay another three dollars.”
Henry gave him the three dollars.
“You’ve done right well for yourself, learning to speak injun, haven’t you?”
“Does he have a name?”
“What? The horse?” Pritchard bellowed laughter so hard he nearly fell off of his stool. “Let me get your bill of sale. Don’t want you to be getting hanged for a horse thief.”
9
Henry led the horse back to the store. The sidesaddle was sitting on the splintered porch. It was dusty, but appeared more than serviceable. He opened the door and entered. There was a tall, stoutly built man at the counter speaking to Frederick Alden, and three more sitting at one of the four tables on the far wall. The Aldens served coffee, tea, and Ruby’s homemade biscuits as well as keeping a pot of beans simmering for hungry customers. Henry glanced at the men at the table and his blood froze.
Emmet Dawson was one of them.
He must have felt Henry’s eyes on him, because he looked up from his coffee and stared at Henry, hard. Henry didn’t see any recognition in the stare, but there was something else he could easily place: scorn.
“Can I help you, boy?” Emmet asked, rubbing his gray-flecked beard. Henry shook his head and turned away, but not before he saw Emmet’s son (Henry couldn’t recall his name) look up at him. Unlike his father, his mouth was agape with stark recognition.
Henry moved to the counter where his saddlebags lie next to his other purchases, his back to the tables. “Ruby! Henry’s back,” Frederick called out, not looking away from what he was doing.
Ruby came through a door-sized opening in the tall shelves behind the counter—where they kept a small stove for the coffee and beans—and walked over to where Henry was packing some of his purchases into his saddlebags.
“I’m sorry, Missus Alden, but I’m going to need two blankets,” Henry said.
“Of course. I’ll be right back.”
“Could you bring them to me outside? I want to go ahead and get the horse saddled.”
“You found a horse. Good. I hope the saddle will suit…I’ll go and get the blankets.”
“Thank you.”
Henry threw his saddlebags over his shoulder and mana
ged to stack everything else up in his arms. He carried the tower awkwardly to the door, and was just trying to get his hand out enough to reach the handle when a voice from behind him said: “Let me get that for you.”
Henry turned his head and saw the tall man who’d been standing at the counter. He was smiling warmly.
“Thank you,” Henry said, stepping aside so the man could reach the door handle.
Once outside, Henry set everything on the porch except the horse blanket, grabbed up the sidesaddle and hurried over to the roan. He looked over the roan’s back at Harriet, who was tethered next to him, and stared at the Spencer rifle’s stock poking out of its leather scabbard. He imagined walking back into the store with it and shooting Emmet Dawson and his son.
He forced the thought away and set to work.
“That was Frederick’s horse,” Ruby said, coming up behind him a few moments later. “How did you come upon him?”
“Seth Pritchard ended up with him somehow,” Henry said, cinching the saddle straps. “Does he have a name?”
“No, I’m sorry. Frederick never names his animals.” She patted the horse’s neck then ran her fingers lightly over the saddle, almost lovingly, before turning back to the store.
“Take good care, Henry,” she said.
“Thank you, Ma’am.”
10
After wrapping the food he’d purchased in one of the blankets and tying it to the new horse’s saddle, Henry mounted Harriet and headed toward the barracks. He stopped in front of a quartet of soldiers
who were standing beside a wagon with a broken wheel.
“Afternoon. I’m looking for Lieutenant Elliot.”
“Elliot? I don’t recognize the name, but I’ve only been here three weeks,” a man with corporal’s stripes on his uniform answered.
“Sergeant Campbell, then?”
“What do you need the sergeant for, nigger?” a whip-thin soldier with a grease bucket in his hand asked.
“Eyes to your work, McCandles,” the corporal said, without looking away from Henry. “Sergeant Campbell’s over there.” He waved his hand toward a small building some two hundred feet away. “Counting boots, I think,” he added with a chuckle.
Henry rode over to where Sergeant Campbell and another soldier were dumping burlap bags full of boots out onto the ground and sorting through them. The same boots they’d loaded onto a wagon in St. Joseph back in April, Henry thought. It was now June.
“I figured you’d have already handed those out,” Henry said.
“I did,” Sergeant Campbell said, standing and brushing off his trousers. “These are new ones. Damn things fall apart after a couple good marches.” He nodded his head at the packed horse. “You getting married or something?”
Henry was puzzled for a moment, then he smiled. “The saddle? No, not planning to any time soon. Do you remember that lieutenant who came in with us from St. Joseph? Elliot?”
“I remember.”
“Is he here?”
“No, he isn’t. He rode out a few days after he got here with a colonel by the name of Picton.
“You know where I can find them?”
“They headed down the Platte. Might have been seventy-five, a hundred of them.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard to find.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you looking for him?”
Henry thought it over for a moment and didn’t see any reason not to tell Sergeant Campbell about Clara.
“I found a woman. She’d been taken by some Cheyenne Dog Men; Short Bull. She and Lieutenant Elliot are supposed to be getting married.”
“Was she coming here with a wagon and some escorts?…Hanfield?”
“That’s right.”
“Christ Almighty, She’s got everyone and their brother looking for her. Where is she?”
“She’s safe. I’d be obliged if you’d keep this to yourself for the time being.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, it’s not for me to say. I just want to see her to Lieutenant Elliot and let them sort it out.”
“Henry, she’s got men here looking for her. She comes from an important family back in New York. You don’t want to be putting yourself in the middle of something like this. Especially being…being a negro. You want to get hanged like those Sioux? If you’ve found her, I’m obliged to report it to my superiors.”
“Did something happen here?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Indians are gone—most of them anyway. And what Sioux?”
“Don’t change the subject, Henry. That’s army business. Tell me where the Hanfield woman is.”
“Tell me what happened here.”
Sergeant Campbell sighed. “There was another woman, she had a child with her. She was taken by some Cheyenne last summer—”
“Dog Men?”
“I don’t know, probably. I don’t know all of the details. Some Sioux ended up with her somehow—William Bent’s son, George, says the Sioux ransomed her and the child from the Cheyenne so they could return them here as a gesture of peace. General Moonlight didn’t see it that way, and had the two Sioux chiefs involved hanged. After that he started worrying about retaliation, so he sent most of the Indians that were here to Fort Kearny with a detachment of men. A bunch of them ran off before they got there; Captain Fouts ordered a pursuit, and he and four soldiers were killed. The rest of the army detachment gave up and sent word back here. General Moonlight rode out the day before yesterday with two hundred and twenty men to run them down.”
Henry sighed. “He wanted to send more than a thousand Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Sioux to live on Pawnee lands? What did he expect would happen? There isn’t even enough food there. They’d starve come winter…They’re not going to let you treat them like prisoners.”
Sergeant Campbell looked down at the soldier who was still on his knees sorting shoes. “Private Jackson, go take a rest. Get yourself some coffee or something.” The soldier got up without a word and walked away. Sergeant Campbell watched him go, then turned his attention back to Henry. “You think I like watching what’s happening to these people? Well I don’t. But they’re not helping themselves by raiding and killing and abducting white women and children. If they kill a soldier or a settler you can rest assured we’re going to kill a hundred of theirs. You speak their language. Don’t they know they can’t win?”
“They’re starting to understand that whites aren’t going to be satisfied until they take everything worth having. Most of them would rather fight knowing they can’t win than spend their lives confined to some piece of dirt where nothing grows and no game can live, waiting on the few crumbs thrown to them by their white masters. I expect there’s going to be a lot more fighting before too long.”
“Where’s that put you?”
“Somewhere in the middle, I reckon.”
“Since General Moonlight’s gone, Captain Lange’s in command. I can’t say I like him much, so I try to speak with him as little as possible. I don’t see why that needs to change today. I thought Lieutenant Elliot seemed like a decent enough man. Hopefully he’ll move her as far from here as he can.”
“I’m obliged, Sergeant.”
“I can’t help you if this turns into trouble for you.”
“I wouldn’t ask it. There is something else. Can you see this gets down to Fort Lyon? It’s for William Bent. It’s important he gets it.” Henry pulled the envelope he’d addressed to Bent and handed it to Sergeant Campbell.
“I’ll see it gets there, but there’s no telling when he’ll get it.”
“I’m obliged.”
“I’ll be seeing you, Henry.”
11
It was late afternoon when Henry returned to Owl Woman’s camp. Clara was no longer reading Dickens, but was sitting next to Owl Woman and the two others, helping the women stitch small pieces of hide together. Owl Woman was leaned over, closely inspecting Clara’s work. After a moment she raised her head and nodded h
er approval to Clara.
Henry dismounted and led the horses to where the women were sitting in a semi-circle.
“He’s not at the fort. He left with some other men a few weeks back. We’ll have to go find him.” He began unpacking Clara’s new horse.
“I hope these fit you,” he said, handing her the cloth wrapped dress and the shoes. “There wasn’t much to choose from.”
“Thank you, Henry. Will you be able to locate John?”
“I reckon it’ll be easy enough. You have some folks looking for you back at the fort, though. Might be best if I take you there while I go find him.”
“No. I want to go with you. The only people waiting for me at Fort Laramie would be men sent by my father…Theo Brandt, I’ve no doubt. I have to see John.”
“I thought as much. I just want you to know that it’ll be more sleeping on the ground and eating dried meat, boiled beans, and whatever else I can hunt or trap—mayhap for weeks. I guess I don’t need to tell you that some of the Indians might not be so friendly as those Sioux we came across. Also, they saw you with me. If the Cheyenne Dog Men are looking for whoever killed their chief and they pass through wherever those Sioux were camped…they’d be out to kill me.”
“I want to go with you,” Clara said firmly.
“No sense leaving until the morning.” He handed Owl Woman a jar of the peaches, and she keened with excitement. “There’s a jar for you too,” he said to Clara.
12
Clara stood naked in Owl Woman’s lodge looking down at her belly. It was protruding appreciatively. She rubbed it gently and wondered whether it was a girl or a boy. She picked up the dark green riding habit. It was of high quality but years out of fashion. It reminded Clara of something from the back of her mother’s wardrobe. She put it on and discovered it fit reasonably well. She only wished for her undergarments. There was a matching pair of stockings wrapped inside the dress, and she slipped them on. The shoes fit even better than the dress, although she thought them to be of much lower quality—housemaid’s shoes. She smiled to herself imagining the stares she would have drawn in New York wearing such an ensemble.
In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Page 18
