“You just tell him,” says the skinner before he turned & lost himself in the lowering darkness & the horses again shifted & tugged on their ropes to be as far away from him as ever they could be when he passed.
“Whisht now,” says I to the horses my mouth gone dry & stone weariness upon me of a sudden. “Whisht now my pets he is gone away Thank God.”
WELL I WOULD OF WAGERED agin it but Tom took my message from the muleskinner in grand stead. He did not rage or give voice to what he would do to such a buck who dared tell such a terrifying man as himself what he could or could not do lest he be an officer in the great Army of the United States & even then he might better be a good one. No I would of lost my money betting on Tom. More than once in this sad life I would of.
We were sat about the embers of the cook fire sipping coffee after relief from picket duty the sky fierce sparked with stars like spilt salt on mourning cloth I tell you with our brothers in C Company asleep in their rolls around us the prairie nights cool & dry with no need of dog tents at all. They slept the sleep God intended for us under His heavens with the low licking flames of a warm fire beside them & the laughing yips of Coyotes off in the darkness. Outside the faint light from the fire all was in darkness & though there was many hundreds of folks & hundreds more of beasts that made up Carrington’s Overland Circus Parade it seemed that night that Tom & myself were alone to ourselves there on the prairie & this made me feel close to Tom closer than I felt in a long while.
I said to him, “So you will abide by it Tom & not be calling on the whores til we get where we are heading? Or til we are paid out Tom til then at least?”
My brother was quiet for a moment puffing his pipe & staring into the embers before he says to me, “I will heed your message Michael but only as she did tell me herself she did. Not to come back nor to bring no more gifts. She says my gifts will sow trouble for her with the other girls. And the muleskinner may whip her.”
He spoke this last part with a smile around his pipe as if the thought of the muleteer putting his whip to the poor girl was a fine sort of joke altogether. As if the fellow would dare put a finger to her knowing what bitter tribulations would befall him in the shape of Tom should he try it.
“Well,” says I & said nothing more because betimes with Tom there is nothing more to say.
Tom gave a nod & then removed his boots lacing them tightly up again for to keep the rattlers from making a bed of them. He took off his stockings next hanging them beside the other stockings from the yoke erected above the fire like all the old soldiers among us knowing that clean stockings be best but dry were near as good & that bad stockings make for bad feet & bad feet for bad marching. (Though we were mounted as mock Dragoons we did this out of habits we learnt the hard way in the War for in the Army there is no telling when a body might be marching.)
I did too lace my boots tight & set them beside Tom’s. “No snakes back home,” says I in the Gaelic just to be saying something. “Please God none here will find my bed roll warm while I am in it.”
Tom lay out his own bed roll bunching his tunic for a pillow. He pulled his blanket up to his chin & lay there with his arms behind his head his eyes up at the stars. After some time he did reply, “There is f______ snakes everywhere Michaeleen. Every G__ D____ place in the world there is snakes of some sort.”
He said this in English & I understood it very well.
So he did promise to abide by the skinner’s orders but still he laid his eyes & something more upon that girl before we arrived to hammer down stakes here in the Powder River country. It was 5 or so days later when the march hauled up at Ft. Laramie in the Dakota Territory. I will tell you about it but not now. Now I am tired & so cold it is hard to remember the baking heat of them days. It seems so long ago though it is less than a year. A lifetime ago it does feel since there was heat in my bones or sun on my back. So much is come to pass since then.
24
December 15, 1866—Fort Phil Kearny, Dakota Territory
UNDER LOW, GRAY SKIES, KOHN WATCHES THE BUSY blacksmith’s shop in the bitter cold on the morning after his meeting with the informants in buffalo coats. It snowed during the night but the heat from the smithy’s fires has melted a halo of bare mud around the building. From his place in front of the quieter mechanic’s shop, some fifty yards distant, he can hear the hiss of the bellows and the roar of the forge from the smithy’s. The clank of a hammer on an anvil.
Kohn has not seen the blacksmith himself but he has seen men whom he assumes to be his protection. Big men with mustaches worn long and upturned like the horns of bulls, they come to the open door of the shop or stand and smoke under the shoeing area outside which is covered by a slanting, wood-shingled roof. The mustaches are uniform and sinister and so similar that they must be worn as a sign of affiliation. Two of the men wear pistols in holsters and the three others, Kohn assumes, have them stuffed in belts beneath their tunics, knives in boots no doubt. One or two of them squat to pare and shoe horses as they are brought in but in their wariness—the way they eye the yard and the passersby, the way they stroll to cover the back and front of the shop—they reveal themselves to be on picket at the smith’s, convincing Kohn that his visitors were correct and Sweetman the blacksmith does indeed possess something as valuable and coveted as the ledgers.
Kohn wears two pistols, his Remington in a cavalry holster and a Colt Baby Dragoon in his own belt, but hopes they will not see use. Earlier it occurred to him to consult Molloy about how to proceed but he decided against it. The officer was sleeping that morning when he went to visit him and one of the surgeon’s orderlies told Kohn that Molloy had suffered fits in the night and so the surgeon had dosed him once more with laudanum. It was not an unusual thing for drunks drying out to suffer, the orderly told him, and not much harm in the long run just so long as he don’t swally his tongue. Hell, the orderly said to Kohn, the lieutenant will dry out fine and dandy and be fit to drink again in no time at all.
The cold riding hard on his impatience, Kohn makes his decision and crosses from the mechanic’s to the blacksmith’s shop, having seen enough to know that he will be better to go in daylight, with the comings and goings of cavalrymen and civilian drovers alike providing him what safety he will need.
He enters the shop, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the forge-lit gloom within. The air is superheated by the brick forge and two open, raised fire pits and Kohn begins to sweat under his coat. A big man in a leather apron worn over an undershirt with its sleeves cut away tongs a horseshoe still glowing orange from the forge over to a tub of water. He plunges the shoe into the water and it hisses and steams. The smith then lifts it from the water and tosses it into a wooden bin full of shoes with a loud clank.
The smith’s head is shaved tight against lice, like many of the men in the fort. His mustaches are worn long, the same as the men outside, and hang below his chin, glinting with sweat in the forge’s firelight. Like fangs, Kohn thinks. He does not look at Kohn when he says, “If you need a beast shod, you talk to one of the boys. Likely to be a wait today as I’m up to my ass in the devil’s work.”
Kohn sees one of the boys look up from where he is shoveling coal into the forge. He is in uniform trousers and an undershirt, a leather apron and thick leather gloves that extend up his forearms. Noting Kohn’s uniform and boots, the man says, “What you need, soreass? You gonna shoe yourself or you gon’ wait your turn?”
“Do you know who I am?” Kohn says to the blacksmith, ignoring his man.
The smith looks over to him now and after a moment says, “I know who you are. You the Jew dragoon broke up the sutler’s the other day, ain’t you?”
“Word gets about a camp fast.”
“Every goddamn jack on post heard that five minutes after you done it.”
“So you know what I need to see already.”
The smith laughs. “I heard you offering fifteen sheets for some books is what I heard.”
“You he
ard right. I have it right now in my billfold. You just get the books and we’ll do business together.”
The smith’s man sets his shovel against the forge’s brickwork and takes off his leather apron. He leaves on his gloves. He is younger than the smith but just as big. The same mustaches but straggly like winter grass.
“The Dutchie Jew wanna do business,” the blacksmith says to his man and the man smiles and shakes his head. Another of the smith’s men, as if summoned, enters the dim shop and stands behind Kohn, blocking the door.
“That’s right,” Kohn says. “I came to do business because getting my lieutenant or your first sergeant to come here and order you to hand over the books would do no one any good, would it? You or any of the men whose names are in them.”
The man in the leather gloves laughs and looks over at the soldier who has just entered. “Well, there’s our first sergeant right there. Whyn’t you ask him yourself?”
Kohn looks at the figure in the doorway and notes his sergeant’s stripes. He looks around the shop and takes in the American flag hanging on one wall. Beneath it, a smaller flag showing a coiled snake and the legend “Don’t Tread On Me.” In the dim light he can see the blacksmith has extensive tattooing on his massive arms. Not unusual among soldiers who fought in the war, many had their names and hometowns etched in simple lettering under arms or on shoulders in case there was no other means of identifying their remains. Others had skulls and mermaids or eagles underscrolled with the name of their regiments in bold, gothic numbers and letters. Squinting, Kohn reads the legend in bold, black, cursive scrawl on the smith’s arm. “America for Americans.”
“I’ll offer twenty to you to look at those books. That is my final offer.”
“Your final offer, hell. Makes a man think, don’t it, why you want a look at these books I s’posed to got. What you hope to find in ’em.”
“If you know who I am, Corporal, you know I’m here to investigate the killing of the owner of those books along with his wife. Those books may be evidence in our investigation. I could order you to hand them over but here I am, offering you twenty leaves for a look, no questions asked. If I were you, I’d hand them over, but if I were you, you’d have more sense.”
Again, the smith laughs and shoves a half-rendered shoe into the forge, his face glowing orange in the firelight. “And if I were you, I’d kill my Jew self before someone else got wits enough to do it for me.” He spits tobacco juice into the forge and the spittle hisses and jets steam when it hits. “Anyhow, if them books is so goddamn priceless, you make a fool of yourself offering me twenty, when what’s in ’em’s worth more than a thousand, or so I hear.”
Kohn stares at him for a moment. On a table within reach is a heavy iron mallet. He thinks what he might do with it.
Kohn says. “I heard you were one of Quantrill’s raiders.”
“You might have heard right.”
“I heard Quantrill’s boys liked killing kids because it was a sight easier than killing Dutchie farmers. Buggering them, killing them, whichever took your fancy on the day,” Kohn says and notes that the three men are no longer smiling.
“You gon’ get yourself hurt, Jewman.” The smith takes a hot iron poker from the fire and looks over at the gloved apprentice.
“You know, Don, you know what I got a mind to do?”
“What’s that, boss?”
The poker’s tip glows bright orange and the smith holds it up, hefts the poker as if gauging the balance of a cutlass. “I got a mind to stick this iron in the Jew’s eyes. Each eye, one and the other. Then sit the Christ-killing son of a bitch down in front of them books he say I got. Give him a look at what he can’t see in front of his own face.”
“What books would those be?” the sergeant blocking the door says.
“Oh I don’t know. Some books this Jew fucker says I got.”
Kohn looks again at the iron mallet on the bench, at the anvil and then at each of the three men. The sergeant in the doorway meets his gaze but the soldier in the gloves will not. The smith smiles at Kohn.
Kohn says, “I have offered good money and you have declined my offer. Your loss, Smithy. You won’t be offered it again.”
The smith shoves the tip of the poker into the heart of the fire and holds it there for a moment. “I’m a let you leave with your eyesight, Jewman. But I hear you say another goddamn word round camp ’bout any kinda books at all, I’m gonna cook your goddamn heart on my fires. You understand me?”
“You assume I have one, Corporal.”
“You a funny boy. A laughing Dutchie Jew dog. You won’t be laughing we come for you in the night, boy.”
There are voices raised outside the shop and the three men turn to them. Kohn takes the iron mallet from the workbench and slips it into his belt under his tunic.
A young officer enters, shoving the sergeant blocking the door aside. “Corporal, my horse has thrown a shoe and is waiting to be goddamn shod and I am left standing outside with my prick in my hand.”
“Yessir, I’ll do it myself, pardon the wait, Lieutenant,” the smith says. “I been busy as two flies fucking, sir.”
“And less of the goddamn cussing, corporal,” the lieutenant says. “This fort is not the cock-sucking whorehouse where your sister works.”
“Yessir,” the smith says, taking four shoes from the bin and a box of shoeing nails from a workbench. He smiles at Kohn as he follows the lieutenant out into the cold.
25
THE FT. LARAMIE PEACE TALKS & 1ST MEETING WITH MR. LO (AS WE DO CALL THE INDIANS)
I WILL TAKE UP THE PEN AGAIN SIR BECAUSE I CANNOT sleep for the cold & the terrible thoughts in my head. I do not know what time or day it is now though I suppose it does not matter. It is still today or it is tomorrow but nothing has changed for me since I last wrote here some hours ago.
I was writing before about the march of Col. Carrington’s Overland Parade arriving at Ft. Laramie & we soon learnt the reason for our hauling up there. It was the big Pow Wow between the chiefs of the Sioux & Cheyanne & our very own Big Hats of the Army & Government that was called the Laramie Peace Talks.
Well we now do know how much good them talks were at all for you can see how peaceable they made the lot of us both red & white neither side of us giving a penny f___ for the terms of the treaty signed but preferring the bow & musket all round. But for us back then it did be a rest from the road & we took it as soldiers in any Army would & tore up on a fine old spree.
Sure none of us common Bills knew a thing of the negotiations then only that we were free for a day or 3 with light duties & the Paymaster God Bless Him was due to catch us up there with 2 months back pay & Thank God for that for soldiers do raise a fierce thirst in marching. (You know all this well yourself for I can see it in you no offence Sir. I can smell the whiskey on you when you watch me through the Judas window in my cell door.)
But I will tell you of this time because it has a bearing on events to come though I feel that it is only in writing about it that I will discover how.
Well it was at Ft. Laramie where we did lay eyes on our first proper Indian Braves anyway. Of course we did see Indians before back East even & betimes at Leavenworth come to trade skins or meat but they were common sad fat fellows & no soldier of Uncle Sam’s Army would fear them much. And we did see 1 or 2 on the march as well but at some distance. It would happen that one of us Bills would point to a faraway hill where a lone rider or 2 on horseback spied on our dusty parade as it plied the Platte River bank.
“Injins boys,” would say the fellow to spot them. “Taking our measure so’s he can have our hair for a winter hat.”
We would have a fine chuckle at that & point at Buffalo Stu a bald fellow of barely 30 years of age from the great falls of Niagara or the city called Buffalo close by them saying, “Well then you are safe Stu. Your scalp would leave a Brave right f_____ cold come winter.”
And Stu would say, “That may be right boys but my ball sack would
make a fine hairy hat for an Injin baby.”
“An ugly f_____ hat that would be Stu,” says another Bill.
“Ugly f_____ babies,” says Stu & we did all laugh.
I remember saying, “A fierce strange man you are putting the mockers on us talking of losing the ball sack Stu talking like that God Bless Us.”
“Talking like how Paddy Mick? Can you talk like I am talking? In English & all Paddy Mick? Hell them Injins would make a fine pair a boots from that thick Irish tongue of yours.”
Stu was a gasbag of a man a fine Yankee Bill altogether & a veteran like myself & Tom. Also like us he was a 2nd time take on man who did freely admit to coming back in the Army under a different name because he put his cousin up the spout while her husband was away in Canada. “A French Canuck,” says Stu, “is not the type to be trifled with!” & so Stu took on again with the 18th & kept us mightily entertained. God Keep Him Close for he is dead & gone Buffalo Stu or so we do think as he went out to meet the woodtrain one day in October by himself (a fool thing but done at the time before Carrington put a stop to it with one of his Special Orders) & well poor Stu was never to be seen again.
I tell you Sir on that long march we had a smile most of the days & the ragging between us was mighty. Even Tom took his rags from the boys about the campfire his spirit better by far since he made acquaintance with his darling whore. I did worry betimes when some fellow would crack on about the brother’s dinted gob for as I did tell you he was once terrible handsome to look at & it is not easy to go from pretty to what he is like now overnight but in them days Tom just gave a smile or raised an idle fist or shook his head.
But forgive me Sir for it is Laramie I am writing of how it was there at that Pow Wow where we met our first real & proper Indian Braves the ones who will fill you full of arrows & take your scalp or your ball sack if you are not careful. Our first sign of them was near a mile of tee pees along the river outside the Ft. I tell you there must of been 1000 of them & soon we would meet the boys who camped in them.
Wolves of Eden Page 18
