Murder at Medicine Lodge

by Mardi Oakley Medawar

  “And you were careful to hide your wife’s letters?”

  “Careful enough,” he grunted. “Until one day our late and thoroughly unlamented bugler was assigned to mail duty.” He looked at me, hatred blazing from his eyes. “I soon discovered that he read any and all letters before passing them on. And before I knew it, there he was, demanding to be paid for his silence. When I ran out of money, he came after anything else I had of worth.”

  “Your watch.”

  “Yes. That and a ring my wife had sent to me as a token of her continuing affections.”

  I fished the ring out of my carry pouch, held it up. Lieutenant Danny’s eyes began to shine as brightly as the odd stone. “This is your wife’s ring?”

  “Yes!” he cried.

  I gave it to him and he held it lovingly, turning it so that the strange stone could catch the light filtering in through the seams of the tent. The stone began to glow with its strange tiny lights.

  “It’s an opal,” he said, tears sounding in his raspy voice. “The stone my wife was named for.” He looked at me, swallowed hard. “Her name is Opal-Marie.”

  I stood, went to his desk. He was still gazing at the ring. Not willing to be a witness to this young man’s murder of himself I picked up his revolver, turned the cylinder, and removed the cartridges. When he looked up at me I said solemnly, “You cannot go away. That ring must be returned to your good wife.” I placed the emptied gun on the desk and tucked the bullets into my carry pouch. Then I said, “You need food.”

  * * *

  The one thing William had said he’d wanted was the return of the Lieutenant Danny he’d known. The young man walking slowly beside me was a long way from the officer of William’s memory, but he was closer now than he had been during the time spent quietly enduring Buug-lah’s tyranny. Even so, when William, seated on that same three-legged stool—this time a white cloth over his lap as he peeled potatoes—looked up and saw our approach and the lieutenant waved to him, William’s dark eyes lit up and a broad smile spread across his face.

  “Mr. Danny!” William cried, jumping up, spilling curly potato peelings from apron to ground. Then he quickly corrected himself. “Lieutenant Danny, sir.” While saying this he brought his hand to his forehead in a salute, then threw it sharply down.

  Shyly, Lieutenant Danny’s limp hand came up to his own forehead, then dropped. Billy asked if there was any food the lieutenant might have, and this question sent William running for the large cook tent. Knowing he was going for the food, and ever hopeful that there might be more of that delicious apple pie inside the big cook tent, I followed him.

  The cook’s tent was a sprawling thing, massive in size, the sides rolled halfway up so that the heat from the portable metal ovens and simmering pots on the stoves would not swelter the dozens of men busily preparing the evening meal. Army cooks, I’ve since learned, worked all day, beginning before dawn, quitting just before dusk. They prepared three meals, going from one directly to the next. As the army was playing host to so many civilian dignitaries—never mind that they were asked to work miracles in the field—the cooks had been challenged to serve up splendid meals, dishes the regular soldiers never saw. Which was why so many soldiers didn’t mind working “mess.” Pulling this duty, as Billy phrased it, meant that they were able to enjoy better food.

  Coming to the edge of the tent’s opened doorway, I stood on tiptoe, trying to catch sight of William somewhere among the activity of the cooks and cooks’ helpers. The cooks were two white men, the helpers were all Buffalo Soldiers. From where I stood, craning my neck, it was impossible for me to pick William out. There was nothing for it but to venture farther inside.

  I was immediately in the way; a hurrying man carrying a heavy pan yelled at me. Trying to dodge him, I backed into a man rushing behind me. That man yelled too, and gave me a shove. I was rapidly making my apologies when I turned and, trying to stay out of anyone else’s way, found myself surrounded by bustling men who were much too intent with their own duties to be concerned about an underfoot, lost, and confused Kiowa. It was then, with considerable relief, that I spotted William in the back corner of the tent. Now, like the busy men all around me, I, too, moved with quickness of purpose, but as I drew close to my target, I came to a stop.

  William was preparing a plate for Lieutenant Danny, and while he did that, Sergeant Hicks stood over him and yelled. William was looking noticeably upset, his expression becoming tighter and tighter as he continued piling food onto the tin plate. Still yelling at William, Hicks turned and spotted me. I wasn’t that hard a thing to miss, as I was the only gawking Indian amid all of that milling activity. Hicks and I locked eyes over the expanse. Neither of us even blinked as heads bobbed between our fixed gaze. A second or two passed, then Hicks forced his mouth into a smile and he proceeded toward me. When he was beside me, he placed his hand very firmly against my bare back. I didn’t like that man touching me. I liked even less he’s yelling so close to my ear.

  I recognized only one word that he said—“pie.” The rest was gibberish. His hand pressing at my backbone, he propelled me toward the large table groaning under the weight of prepared foods. I stood as close to William as I possibly could. His profile was sullen as he finished loading the plate.

  The pies Hicks seemed so willing to foist off on me, weren’t at all like the type I’d come to know. These were shaped like half moons and were about a hand-size in portion. The crusts felt oily and hard. They weren’t at all appealing, but I hurriedly took one anyway, then turned and got away from Hicks, fleeing his presence as I tagged after William, who was carting the filled plate through the busy tent. I felt Hicks’s narrow-eyed stare following me during the scant amount of time needed to make a dashing exit.

  Lieutenant Danny was looking slightly less strained and he managed a small joke about the amount of food William had brought out. I sat down beside Billy as the lieutenant forced himself to eat, William hovering worriedly behind him. During this lull, I showed Billy the strange pie, wanting to know if it really was a pie, or something else.

  “It’s a fried pie,” he chuckled. “It’s what the cooks make when the ovens are too full of bread to bake a regular pie. But it’s almost as good. Taste it.”

  I nibbled at a corner and found the crust disagreeable, but the sweet filling was pleasant. I sucked out the filling and threw the rest away, hoping a starving animal would want it because I certainly didn’t. Billy lightly tossed his head to the right, indicating that he would like to speak to me in private. I glanced at the lieutenant and William. The young officer’s fork was doing more fiddling than lifting food to his mouth, and William was crouched before him, speaking to him in low tones. Neither noticed when Billy and I stood and walked off.

  “That young chief is still in trouble,” Billy said flatly. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Billy removed his battered black hat, wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. Clamping the hat back on his head, he said, “I think you’d better talk about this to Hawwy. If he agrees to speak for him, maybe he can save him.”

  “I believe you are right. The best place for that young man’s secret is out in the open.”

  * * *

  Gobsmacked.

  That’s an expression Hawwy taught me. It means, when one is so flabbergasted that words fail, one simply sits there staring blindly and with mouth agape.

  Which was exactly Hawwy’s reaction when Billy and I explained about Lieutenant Danny. After several moments, Hawwy’s unhinged jaw closed. Then he found his voice.

  “My God!”

  Jumping to his feet, standing over me with that superior height of his, he yelled more—but in English, Billy needing to translate at a clip.

  “Do you have any idea how serious this is?”

  “No,” I answered calmly. “I don’t understand at all. A man can’t help who his relatives are.”

  Running a hand through his thick hair, Hawwy began to p
ace the interior of his tent. “Well, of course he can’t!” he shouted. “And that was the point of the loyalty oath.” He whirled around, dark eyes blazing. “Our recent war was a war of brothers, families literally turning on each other. Which is why all Union officers were required to sign loyalty oaths, list the names of relatives known to be on the other side. And if later other names became known, that officer was required to report them. As our young lieutenant failed to report to his superiors that his maternal uncle was none other than the Gray Ghost, he violated his oath.”

  “What would have happened to him if he had reported his uncle?”

  “He would have been sent down from the field, placed out of the way of sensitive strategies. In other words, he would have been confined.”

  “Then that’s why he didn’t,” I shrugged. “He needed to remain where he was in order to save his wife.”

  “His wife?”

  “Yes. He was trying to rescue her.”

  A new suspicion growing, Hawwy bird-eyed me. “Why would his wife need rescuing?”

  “Because she lives in the South.”

  Hawwy’s hands flew to his face. “Oh my God.”

  Staggering now, he bumped his way to his cot, flopped down, lay on his stomach, his head twisting back and forth as he groaned into his pillow.

  I knelt down beside the cot and spoke over his noise. “He said he only stayed in the army to get to his wife. That where she is is under Blue Jacket rule and that he can’t get to her without his blue jacket.”

  Hawwy groaned louder.

  I shook him. “You have to understand. He is a young man in love, and before the death of that man you and I buried together, that man was forcing him to pay money to buy his silence. But even now he is a young man in great distress. I believe another has taken the dead man’s place, threatening the lieutenant as badly as the other one had. But this time, the lieutenant has nothing left to give.”

  He rolled his head my way, looked at me out of one glazed eye.

  “It’s true,” I said firmly. “When Billy and I found him, he was preparing to kill himself.”

  Hawwy sucked in a lungful of air, expelled it slowly. “What do you want me to do?” he asked tiredly.

  “That young man needs a friend. I believe you should be that friend. If you think about it, the two of you have a great deal in common.”

  Hawwy did think. He thought about his love for Cherish, a young woman from a people the Blue Jackets considered enemies. He thought about how he would do anything to be with her, keep her safe—exactly the things Lieutenant Danny had done.

  “You’re right,” he finally said. “I am the most logical one to be his friend.”

  “And you will speak for him when the time is necessary?”

  “Of course.”

  I grabbed on to his arm, pulling him off that cot. “Then this is what he needs to hear. That man needs cheering up.”

  FOURTEEN

  Moving a reluctant Haw-we-sun was like pushing along a big dead tree. He’d agreed to be Lieutenant Danny’s friend, saw the sense of it, but none of this meant that he was in any big rush about it. Nonetheless, Billy and I urged him on, and we were halfway through the sprawling camp when we passed by Stanley, who was standing amid a small group of men, all of them chatting in a friendly manner. When that group spotted us, they stopped chatting, their gaze fixing on me, the lone Indian. They were newspapermen and a Kiowa roaming at will through an army camp hinted at being newsworthy. But they were afraid of me so they held back, merely hoping I would do something they could make note of from a distance.

  Not Stanley. He wasn’t leery of me at all, for he had somehow come to the mistaken conclusion that he and I were great pals. He was the kind of man who hated being idle, and seeing Hawwy, a man he loved associating with the entire time he was at Medicine Lodge, Stanley’s teeth clamped down on the little cigar he was smoking, and he came to join us. He had no idea where we were going and he really didn’t seem to care about why. He just puffed away on that little cigar and spoke with Hawwy, the latter making no effort to respond. Telling all to an inquiring journalist was the last thing Hawwy felt inclined to do, so he kept his mouth firmly closed. When we came into view of Lieutenant Danny’s quarters, we saw the young man himself, preparing to enter his tent.

  Catching up with him, I said through Billy, “I’ve brought someone to help you. To be your friend.”

  Lieutenant Danny’s eyes darted toward a glum-faced Hawwy. Swallowing with difficulty, he replied, “No. Thank you, but no.”

  Hawwy stepped in close, speaking to the other officer in a commanding voice. The younger officer paled. A heavily resigned look settled on his face as he braced his courage. “Perhaps we should speak of this inside.” Lieutenant Danny pushed opened the door flap.

  It surprised me not at all that the letter Lieutenant Danny had been writing was missing, that the only items on the desktop were the pen, the inkwell, the unloaded revolver. But when he saw that his farewell address to the world was gone, he had an emotional breakdown. Billy, quite wisely, grabbed hold of the ever-inquisitive Stanley, hustling him out. Hawwy led the distressed lieutenant to the chair, sat him down.

  I’m afraid Hawwy’s form of comfort merely consisted of standing over Lieutenant Danny and thundering, “Get hold of yourself, man!” while the young man in question sat forward in the chair, holding his shaking head, weeping more forcibly. As my presence had been totally forgotten, I was free to slip inside Lieutenant Danny’s bedchamber.

  Now, from my limited knowledge of a common soldier’s life, the enlisted man’s lot was very strict. At all times a soldier was required to be neat, what little he had was subject to the inspections William told me about. But this rule for soldiers did not seem to apply to the officers. In the few officers’ tents I’d had a look in, it appeared to me that these privileged men had a way of making themselves thoroughly comfortable. Hawwy’s bedchamber, because he was an unrepentant sloven, at times could be too comfortable. Which is why he paid a soldier five dollars a month to keep his living area straight, his life somewhat orderly. Even so, once Hawwy had finished his duties for the day and retired to his tent, he would thoughtlessly slob up that soldier’s efforts. I’d been fully expecting to find the identical disorder in Lieutenant Danny’s bedchamber, but there wasn’t any. His sleeping area was pristine, the cot tightly made-up, the canvas flooring swept, two small cases and one trunk aligned in a row.

  Curious about everything pertaining to the Blue Jackets, I went to the cases and the trunk. Easing open the trunk lid, I was assailed with the gentle odor of flowers. I lifted up a white shirt, sniffed at it. The flowery perfume was thoroughly pleasant. After carefully placing the shirt to the side, I examined all of the clothing. There wasn’t very much. One pair of socks, just one extra uniform, and one set of the leggings Billy called “johns.” They were white and of the same light material as those belonging to Buug-lah. Knowing now just how Buug-lah had gotten his, I closed the trunk lid.

  The first case contained blank white pay-paas. There was only one which was lined with a flowing scrawl. Again I cursed my inability to understand the medicine marks inked on pay-paas, but I studied it intently as I flogged my brain unmercifully, trying to remember exactly what the missing letter had looked like. After a few seconds, I gave up, folding that lined page into a small square, placing it inside my carry pouch. Then I snapped that case closed and opened the remaining bag. Turning an ear to the voices in the other canvased-off room, hearing a level of calm coming into Hawwy’s tone, I knew my time in the bedchamber was running out—which I felt was a shame because I have always loved to meddle in other people’s personal possessions.

  Examining what a person owns, holds as valuable, tells me much about that person’s character. But here I was met with disappointment. This bag, with its sectioned-off compartments, was nearly empty. But I believed I knew what it had once contained. Hawwy had a bag just like this one and in it he kept a shaving mug made of
thick pottery (of an exceptionally ugly brown color), a bone-handled shaving brush, a dark-wood-framed mirror that was badly cracked right down the middle, and a straight razor. Lieutenant Danny had only a razor and a small bottle with a silver-topped cork. Unstoppering the cork, I knew why his person and his clothing smelled of flowers when there wasn’t a single bloom anywhere in that vast prairie. It was because of the little bottle of clear liquid. Loving the scent of it, I again inhaled that lovely fragrance.

  All right, I wanted to steal the bottle. Prior to being caught up with Lone Wolf’s mob headed for the Blue Jackets’ camp, my original intent had been to find a new present for my wife because of the shovel. Well, even though I knew she would have loved to have had it, that big black iron pot William used for washing plates and cups was too big and too heavy for me to cart off. But the bottle of sweet water was just right. And it fit perfectly inside my carry pouch. But it just wasn’t right to steal from a man who had next to nothing left. I couldn’t be just another vulture in Lieutenant Danny’s life. Hating myself for it, I put the bottle back where I’d found it and closed the bag quick, before I could change my mind.

  When the voices beyond the canvas wall became muted, I hastened myself and slipped back into the small front room of the tent. I wasn’t noticed until I asked of Hawwy, “Does the young chief have a soldier-servant?”

  Hawwy and Lieutenant Danny blinked at me. Because Hawwy hadn’t understood the whole of my question, he went to the door and called Billy back inside. Seconds later, Billy repeated my question.

  “No,” Lieutenant Danny answered. “For some time now, I haven’t been able to afford a steward.”

  Well, that made sense, as Buug-lah had been steadily draining him of his finances, reducing him to the necessity of handing over his personal as well as cherished items. A young man like that wouldn’t have the spare money to pay for an attendant. Still, as neat as he appeared to be, I couldn’t see that he actually had need of one. I looked back over my shoulder to the bedchamber. Until my meddling, nothing in there appeared to have been touched. Which meant that whoever had come in, had meant to take only the letter left lying in plain view on the small desk.