Until Darkness Disappears (A Saga of Texas)

by Will Cook

  “Are you dissatisfied with the results we’re getting, Jason?”

  “Did I imply that? Good Lord, I didn’t mean to. Bad habit of mine, half explaining a thing. When I said we were only doing half a job, I meant that we weren’t doing much of anything for the Indians. The damned Mexican government had that bounty on Comanche scalps for many years, and unscrupulous Americans killed them for the bounty. They never have had a fair shake of it, at all. Even now, our job is to return prisoners to parents and relatives. What about the Indians? Any improvement in their station? Their schools?” Ivers shook his head. “No, not much, Jim.”

  “I have an officer now on the reservation, straightening out some inequities,” Gary said. “If the Indians get just what they’re entitled to, it will be a big improvement.” He paused to shy his cigar ash into the fireplace. “You probably noticed the civilian camp. I have four families living there now. They’ve come to get to know the four returned prisoners who are ready to leave. We’ve taught them to read and write, taught them manners, and in many other areas broken them away from their Comanche or Kiowa training. If the whole thing is congenial, the families will leave with their recovered kin. If not….” He shrugged. “We’ll just have to take it from there. We are not, Jason, going to repeat the tragedy of some years back.”

  “I concur,” Ivers said. Then he went on: “Janice had a difficult time. Her uncle, you know, had a stroke six weeks after they returned East.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  “He was actually through with politics,” Ivers said. “He left her some money. Not wealth, but a house and enough to get her along on if she lived modestly. I met her when I attended the funeral. I saw her again four months later when I came to inquire about some of her uncle’s papers. Jim, I was very attracted to her, and I knew all the rumors, all the gossip. She was a used woman to hear them tell it, but to me she was something refreshing, honest, and straightforward. I loved her.” He looked steadily at Jim Gary. “You were very gallant to her, Jim.”

  “Because I understood,” he said simply. “Those who lived here, they understood. Her uncle didn’t. But I knew that somewhere there would be a man big enough to understand. She tried to stay alive, Jason. And under the circumstances she found herself in, that was no simple thing to do.”

  They heard the women on the stairs, put down their cigars, and got up when they came into the room. Janice Ivers had changed her dress and fixed her hair. She came to her husband, kissed him, then turned to Jim Gary and kissed him, too.

  “Do you know what that was for?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  “For not forgetting me.”

  “How could I do that?” he asked. “For a time there we were a pretty important part of each other’s lives.”

  “Jim, do you ever see anything of Guthrie McCabe?”

  “I saw him four years ago,” Gary said. “He put in a two-year term in the state senate then went into the Texas Rangers. He’s a captain in command of F Company at Fort Concho. With your permission, I’d like to wire him that you’re here.”

  “I’d like to see him, yes,” Janice said. She looked at her husband and smiled. “When you meet him, Jason, don’t play cards with him, or try to out-argue him, or race horses. He can charm a bird out of a tree. He can take your life’s savings and get you to thank him for it.”

  “Sounds like a fascinating man,” Ivers said.

  Gary glanced at his watch. “The officers and their ladies would never forgive me if I didn’t introduce you properly, Senator. I believe we can dine at eight and have an informal gathering in the officers’ mess at nine, if that’s convenient to you.”

  “That sounds fine.”

  “Then if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take care of the details,” Gary said.

  * * * * *

  It irritated Lieutenant Beeman to think that Danniel could desert his post at the sub-agency and just take off scotfree. It irritated Beeman so much that he had a horse saddled, filled his saddlebags, and rode off to find Danniel.

  He knew the general direction of Frank Skinner’s ranch, and he rode there, arriving in the late afternoon. Beeman was surprised to find that Skinner had a wife and three small children. The way the man carried on he had just naturally taken him for a single man with a strong rutting instinct.

  There was no one else on the place except a Navajo horse wrangler and a Mexican cook. Mrs. Skinner came to the door with a rifle in her hands and kept it pointed toward the ground while Beeman dismounted.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” Beeman said, removing his hat, “but I’m looking for Danniel.”

  “He ain’t here,” she said, raising a hand to push hair back from her forehead.

  “But he was here.”

  “Yeah, he was.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  She made a face. “Try Rush Springs. There’s a whore over there he always had a hankering for.”

  Her language and her casualness shocked him. He turned as though to leave, then said: “I’m sorry about Mister Skinner.”

  “Why?”

  He had to grope for an answer, “Well…a husband and a father….”

  “We was never married proper,” she said. She glanced down at the children clinging to her dress. “And only one’s his that I’m sure of.”

  “My goodness,” Lieutenant Beeman said softly, and mounted his horse. Before he rode out he said: “You’ve had an unfortunate life, ma’am.”

  “I ain’t complainin’.” She looked at him and smiled. Her thin face was pleasantly proportioned, but it was not pretty. “You get hard up, come on back. I’ve entertained soldiers before.”

  “Indeed!” Beeman declared, and he got out of the yard as fast as he could.

  From his study of maps he knew the general direction in which Rush Springs lay, and he rode across the Skinner Ranch until he found a road that he followed. Presently a sign told him that he was going in the right direction.

  Darkness began to fall, but finally, ahead in a valley, he saw lights, and half an hour later he rode the length of a narrow street and tied up in front of a restaurant. A dozen men crowded the counter, and Beeman took one of the tables, gave his order, and listened to the talk around him.

  The town was cattle. He could tell by the men he saw in the restaurant and out on the street. After eating, he went outside, took a turn up and down, and then headed for the back streets.

  The place he looked for was not difficult to find. The house was dark, but a string of horses was tied up in front. Beeman took hold of himself, filled himself with resolve, and bravely marched to the door and knocked. A panel opened suddenly, and a woman’s face appeared. She was fifty or more, flabby in the jowl, and her voice was like a file scraped against a piece of tin.

  “Well, well, a soldier boy!” She opened the door. “Come on in, handsome.” She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into the hallway. The place was thick with perfume, and a fat Chinese figurine on a side table spewed incense out of his nostrils. A Negro woman went up and down the stairs, carrying water and towels. A lot of laughter was coming from the parlor.

  “I’m looking for Danniel,” Beeman said, resisting the woman’s tugging.

  “Come on in and look over the girls,” she insisted, dragging him through heavily beaded draperies to the parlor. Three men sat there drinking, and four girls, two of them completely naked, sat on the arms of chairs or on laps. Beeman was almost too embarrassed to speak, but he asked: “Is Danniel here?”

  One of the men wiped foam from his mustache and pointed upstairs. “Why don’t you announce him, Edna? Danniel ought to be finished by now.”

  The woman said: “Now you know that Danniel….”

  She stopped, for Beeman had slipped out of the room and was already going up the stairs. She rushed after him, yelling: “Hey, don’t go up there!”

  Beeman paid no attention to her. He stopped the Negro woman at the head of the stairs. “Which room is Danniel in?�
�� She rolled her eyes and pointed. Beeman was at the door, butting his shoulder hard against it before she could tell him not to. The flimsy catch gave, and he barged into the room, catching Danniel in a man’s most intimate and awkward position.

  Cursing, Danniel flung himself off the woman, and Beeman, out of natural concern for modesty, tried not to look too closely at her, although he saw that she was young and pretty. Then he made a jump toward Danniel, because the man was trying to jerk a pistol out of a holster hung on the bedstead.

  Beeman was too far away to hit him with his fist, but the target was there, so he planted the toe of his boot in Danniel’s crotch. The man, clutching himself, went to the floor, and threw up.

  The girl got off the bed and looked at him. “You’ve ruined him for the night,” she said. “And he wasn’t even finished.”

  The madam and two cowboys had surged into the room. She looked at Danniel and swore because the man had soiled her rug. “All right!” she snapped. “I’ve had enough. You want him, soldier, then you get him out of here!”

  “Thank you,” Beeman said. “It was my intention to take him.”

  One of the cowboys asked: “What you want him for?”

  “A witness,” Beeman said, and he picked up Danniel’s clothes and flung them at the man. He said nothing to him, but Danniel knew enough to start dressing.

  Bo Thomas belched and wiped the last of his gravy off his plate with a piece of bread. He looked at his son and said: “Army grub ain’t changed, but, as long as it’s free, I guess a man can take it. You like it here?”

  “Yes, I guess I do,” Huck said. He tried not to be ill at ease, but his father’s questions bothered him. His mother just sat there like a dog that had been kicked too hard too many times.

  “How come you ain’t called me Pa?” Bo Thomas asked.

  “Well, I guess it’s because it’s been so long. I just haven’t got used to it.”

  “It ain’t my fault you got took by Injuns,” Thomas said. “Won’t do you no good to blame me, either.”

  “Why, I wasn’t doing that.” The boy seemed surprised that his father would think of it.

  “You was a mean little critter,” Thomas said. “Always gettin’ into everything.” He looked at his wife. “And if you hadn’t spent all your time gabbin’ over the clothesline with the other wives, you’d have noticed he’d got out the water gate.” He rubbed his cheeks with the flat of his hand. “I guess you went Injun all the way, huh?”

  “I tried to stay alive and keep from getting beaten,” Huck admitted. “That’s about all I could do.” He looked at his mother, and added: “I remember you. That’s the truth.” He felt compelled to say something kind, to ease the strain in her face, to make her smile, or to remember a time when she had smiled.

  “That’s nice, Huck,” she said, but didn’t change expression at all.

  He started to get up to take his plate to the sink, but Bo Thomas said: “That’s woman’s work. Sit down. You want to smoke?”

  Huck shook his head.

  “I guess you fought the Army just like the other bucks.” He laughed. “What was your Injun name?”

  “I don’t use it any more,” Huck said.

  “Well, you can tell me. I’m your pa, ain’t I?”

  “There’s no use talking about it,” Huck said. “It’s all in the past now.”

  Bo Thomas reached quickly across the table and fisted the front of Huck’s shirt. “When I ask you somethin’, I want an answer.”

  There was no fear in the boy, but Bo Thomas didn’t understand that. Huck had killed his first man at fourteen, raided deeply into Mexico a month after his fifteenth birthday, and took a Mexican girl to wife when he was sixteen. He could not remember all the times he had faced a man with a knife in hand, and now he looked at this man sitting across from him, violence smoldering in his eyes. He wondered what made him this way.

  “Are you going to hit me?” he asked.

  His mother came to the table, an iron skillet in her hand. “Let the boy go, Beauregard. Let him go, or I’ll dent your stupid Irish head with this pan.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Bo Thomas released his grip, and then he laughed and made a waving motion with his hand. “By golly, there’s no need to get all het up. I got a temper, and I never denied it.” He studied the boy carefully. “I just don’t understand you. How can you look at me like I didn’t exist? I gave you life, boy. You’re my own.”

  “You quit pumpin’ the boy,” his wife said, and went back to her dishwashing. “You’ll be all right once you get out of this damned place,” she said to Huck. “You’ll get to thinkin’ white again when you live in a town where there’s trees and nice houses. You can work in the saloon with your pa. It ain’t the best, but it’s a livin’, and someday it’ll be yours.” She tried a smile. It was a feeble thing. “You got to remember that you’ve been an Injun, and you can’t just expect as much as others get.”

  “Your ma’s right,” Bo Thomas said. He rubbed his hand across his cheek again. “Tell me somethin’. Those letters I g o t . . . you write ’em?”

  “Yes,” Huck said.

  “Where’d you learn that?”

  “Here. I’ve been going to school over two years now.”

  Bo Thomas swore and slapped his hand on the table. “Don’t that beat all hell, though? I’ve been a hard-workin’, God-fearin’ man all my life, and he’s lived like an Injun, killin’ and stealin’, and now he can read and write, and I can’t.” He sounded thoroughly angry.

  “I’ve got to get back,” Huck said, getting up quickly.

  “You in a rush or somethin’?” Bo asked.

  “I’ve just got to get back,” Huck said, and went out.

  Major Gary had to admit that the party was a success even on such short notice. The punch was just right, especially after the contract surgeon added the right amount of whisky. Senator Ivers was the constant center of attention. Brevet Major Halliday was unloading his personal grievances. Halliday’s wife, tightly corseted, tittered and tried to hog all the dances with the senator. She was naturally a pushy woman, and, when it came to her own selfish purposes, she was not above elbowing someone else aside.

  Captain Conrad was taking the night air on the east porch, and Gary found him there. Conrad deftly rolled a cigarette with one hand and thumbed a match alight. When Gary offered him one of his cigars, Conrad shook his head and said: “I do everything the hard way, Major. You might say that it’s an attempt to prove that I can still do everything another man can do, but it’s a lie, and even now I admit it.” He tapped Gary on the arm, directing his attention farther down the porch. “Is that sergeant looking for you?”

  “Over here, Wynn,” Gary said, and the sergeant changed course. “What is it, Sergeant?”

  “This is an odd time to come to you, sir,” Wynn said, “but Huck Thomas asked me to do it.”

  “To do what?”

  “To get you to approve his enlistment, sir.”

  “Young Thomas wants to enlist?”

  “Yes, sir, six years.”

  Gary pursed his lips and fingered his mustache. “Have you asked him why?”

  “Well, sir, he wants to stay with the Army for a while. He’s made up his mind that he’s not going back with his folks.”

  “How unusual,” Gary said. “His natural parents, too.” He sighed. “Well, if he’s made up his mind, I won’t stand in his way. Do you have his papers, Sergeant?”

  “Right here, sir.” He handed them to Gary and also produced a small ink pot and a pen, standing aside so that Gary had enough light to affix his signature. Then he took everything back and said: “Shall I tell his folks, Major? The old man is liable to raise hell. He thinks everyone’s trying to pull a fast one on him.”

  “I’ll tell him myself in the morning,” Gary said. “You can assign Thomas yourself, Sergeant. I imagine he wants line duty.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wynn said, saluting.

  He left them, and then Dan Conrad said
: “That’s an odd turn, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Gary admitted. “But a man has his own life to lead.”

  Chapter Four

  Bo Thomas did not accept his son’s decision to join the Army with good grace. The orderly working in Gary’s outer office heard Thomas ranting and swearing, then there was a heavy, meaty sound, and Thomas stumbled out, a hand pressed against his mouth.

  Gary looked at the orderly and said—“Mister Thomas has a toothache.”—and closed the door. The orderly went back to his paperwork.

  Tom Smalling appeared at headquarters, asked to see Gary, and was admitted. Smalling and his mother were ready to leave, and now Tom didn’t know how to say good bye. The words wouldn’t come to him, and he just flung his arms around Gary, hugged him briefly, and ran out. This affected Gary so that his eyes blurred a little as he looked out the window.

  Shortly before noon, Teddy came to headquarters with Gary’s horse. Gary and the senator were going riding because Ivers wanted to see some more of the country.

  Gary came out as Teddy was tying up. The boy wore his hair short now. He had given up his bright cotton shirt and was no longer going barefoot. Dr. Rynder, who was teaching in Beeman’s absence, had said that Teddy was a good pupil, filled now with a desire to learn.

  “Catch a horse up,” Gary said, “and come with us, Teddy.”

  The boy smiled, ran across the parade ground toward the stable. Jim Gary wondered for a moment why he had said it. He supposed it was because he liked the boy, and he thought no more about it.

  Since they were to be away from the post for three days, Gary had Sergeant Wynn rig a pack horse with tent, ground cloth, and cooking gear. When Ivers arrived at headquarters, he wore duck trousers and coat and carried an enormous sporting rifle. Gary thought this a little out of place. Rather than offend Ivers, he said nothing and took along his own. 50- 110 Winchester.

  Gary went to his quarters to say good bye to his wife and daughters. As he walked back, he saw Emily Brail hanging up clothes. Her two children played in the back yard, making mud pies where water from her washtub had splashed on the ground.