by Will Cook
“Tell me about them,” Gary urged.
“It’s not easy to remember dreams,” she said. “They never seemed very real to me.” She spent a moment in deep thought. “I’ve dreamed about another girl. She was older and rolled me on a bear rug and laughed.” Then she shook her head. “It’s hard to remember dreams.”
“Yes, of course,” Gary said. “Did you ever dream about Indians, Frieda?”
She nodded. “I used to wake up crying. Papa would say that it was something I ate. But I’d always dream the same thing. There was a boy, and they whipped him, and he cried and fought them until they tied him and dragged him behind a horse. Then I’d wake up.”
Gary heard steps on the porch, and Teddy dashed past his window. A moment later he knocked and stepped inside. “Did you want me, Jim?” he asked. Then he saw the girl sitting there. He looked at her and turned his glance to Gary. Then he did a strange thing. He slowly turned his head back and looked intently at her. He walked around her, moving behind her, all the time looking at her intently. He came around to the other side and stood by Jim Gary’s desk and studied her face. She looked at him without embarrassment or reserve, and then Teddy knelt in front of her and gently touched her hand.
“Anna, don’t you remember me? It’s Ted. Don’t you remember, Anna?” He glanced at Gary, and quickly turned back. “Anna, you fell off the pony, and I tried to go back after you, and they were all drunk, and they whipped me and dragged me behind a pony. Don’t you remember it, Anna? I’m your brother, Ted.” He was crying now, the tears running unchecked down his cheeks. “There was Bess, too. She was killed right away when they hit the cabin. Can you remember any of it? You were so little, Anna. So tiny. I tried to wrap you in the bear rug and hide you, but it was no good. They found you.”
He got up and put out a hand and steadied himself against Jim Gary’s desk. He closed his eyes and pressed his other hand against his forehead, as though the flood of returned memory threatened to drown him.
Then he shook his head, opened his eyes, and looked at Jim Gary. “My name is Ted Carpenter… I remember it now . . . all of it. I was five years old when the Indians hit us.”
“You had a dog,” Anna Carpenter said softly. “He bit someone, and I never saw him again. I remember crying about that.”
“That was Speck,” Teddy said softly. “An Indian put a lance through him.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. He looked at Jim Gary. “She’s all I could remember, Jim. You know how I talked about her. Why was it all I could remember?”
“Love,” Gary said, “is a bond of limitless strength.” He came around the desk and put his arm around Teddy. “Why don’t you two go for a walk? And both of you come to my quarters for supper tonight. All right?”
They nodded and went out together. After Gary closed the door, he leaned against it and shut his eyes. He felt that he had, indeed, been privileged. Surely no man could serve better, or better serve than this.
Chapter Five
Lieutenant Carl Beeman and Ben Stagg were having their supper in the Drover’s Hotel when Burt Sims, the U.S. marshal, came to their table and sat down. Sims was an angular, dry-mannered man who favored brown suits and a soft-brimmed hat. He sighed before he spoke. He always did this, as though it pained him to have to say what his duties forced him to say.
“Commissioner Butler wants to see you, Lootenant. At his home.”
Beeman arched an eyebrow. “A social affair, Marshal?”
“Couldn’t say. Likely not.” He sighed, and got up. “I’m glad I ain’t stubborn.”
“Yes,” Beeman said. “It must be a blessing.” He watched Sims leave and finished his apple pie and coffee.
Ben Stagg leaned back in his chair, idly picking his teeth. He watched Beeman carefully. “Daniel in the lion’s den,” he said softly. “Boy, watch yourself.”
“Yes, indeed,” Beeman said. He took a final drink of coffee, and got up. “Are you going back to the reservation tonight?”
“Been puttin’ it off,” Stagg said. “But I guess I’d better keep an eye on Lovering. He ain’t to be trusted, you know. Was he to get it in his head that this affair would be dropped, he’d turn on you. The man’s only interested in keepin’ his own pillow fluffed up.”
Beeman smiled, laid two fifty-cent pieces on the table, and left the dining room. He paused briefly on the street for a look up and down. There was not much traffic because the hour was early, but by nine o’clock the saloons would liven up, and a man would have difficulty finding a place to tie his horse.
The commissioner lived in a large gray house three blocks off the main street. As Beeman approached, he saw two buggies parked in front. He went up the path and knocked. A Negro servant let him in.
Elwood K. Butler was holding forth in his library. He was a robust man in his early fifties, an excellent speaker, and a man with some political promise.
“Ah, Lieutenant Beeman, so good of you to come,” Butler said. “A drink, sir? Moses, pour the lieutenant a drink.” His fingers plucked at Beeman’s sleeve, turning him to face the other two men.
“Gentlemen, may I introduce Lieutenant Beeman?” He indicated a small, sallow-complexioned man with gold-rimmed glasses and a crown of thin hair. “Beeman, this is Mister Clive Maybank, assistant to the Secretary of Indian Affairs.” They shook hands. “And General Tremain Caswell. I believe you’ve already met the general.”
“Yes,” Beeman said, “but I expect the general doesn’t remember me.”
Caswell offered his hand, and it surprised Beeman, for it was not a thing a general officer did when meeting a lieutenant. “I recall you distinctly,” Caswell said. “Give my regards to your wife, Mister Beeman.”
“Thank you, sir.” The servant handed him his drink.
Butler smiled, and proposed a toast. “To friendly relations,” he said, and tossed off his drink.
“I think we can get right down to the heart of the matter,” Butler said. “You’ve done an excellent job of packing our jail, Mister Beeman. It’s a pity we can’t channel your energy into the arrest and incarceration of our genuinely lawless elements.” He laughed, and the others smiled faintly. “But as it is, the situation has become so alarming that Mister Maybank felt it his duty to come here and take a first-hand look. General Caswell, when apprised of the fact that the military had taken over control of the reservation, took the first train. You can see how serious this all has become, Mister Beeman.”
“Sir, I’m well aware of the seriousness. I was aware of it when I discovered that Indian women were being turned into prostitutes for fifty cents, and that the Indians were being short-changed on their beef ration, and that certain individuals were pocketing a profit by irregular dealings.”
Maybank laughed unpleasantly. “Really, Mister Beeman, this is a schoolboy attitude. The American Indian has always been a poor horse trader. The island of Manhattan was bought for.. . .”
“Are you quoting a precedent, sir?” Beeman stared bluntly at Maybank. “Are you telling me, sir, that because the Indians were once cheated that this is a standard by which all dealings are measured?”
“I am saying,” Maybank declared, “that you are pulling this thing ’way out of proportion. All right, we will admit that the agency personnel engaged in mild deceptions. We will admit that they were remiss in some areas where morality is concerned. But this doesn’t warrant charges filed, men locked up and tried.”
“What do you suggest it warrants, sir?”
Butler leaped in to seize the advantage. “Compromise, gentlemen, is the only solution here. Mister Beeman acted in good faith, as any man devoted to his duty would have done, and he is to be commended. Unfortunately Mister Beeman, without a grasp of the whole situation, let his zeal carry him into perilous waters. I feel that this whole thing can be settled without harsh or idealistic argument. Mister Beeman, dropping the charges would effect the release of the prisoners. The cowboys will likely depart or go back to their homes. Mister Da
nniel will be reprimanded, and a letter placed in his file. We’ll find some other agency for him.” He clapped his hands together. “So you see, we have a solution within our grasp, haven’t we?”
Beeman looked at him for a long moment, then turned to General Caswell. “Sir, you haven’t spoken. I would like your views.”
“It seems to me,” Caswell said, rolling his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other, “that you’re in a position to make a lot of unpleasant trouble for Mister Maybank and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. A trial will attract reporters, and people read newspapers, and it just may be that the uproar will cause other agencies to come under close and relentless scrutiny. In this world there are many people who only need a cause. You may be providing them that cause, Mister Beeman. You are about to hit a hornet’s nest with a stick.”
“Are you criticizing my position, or applauding it, sir?”
“I must applaud it,” Caswell said, “although that may be premature. Let me point out some facts, Mister Beeman. To carry this through will almost surely result in convictions for those accused. The evidence against them is overwhelming. You will win that battle, Mister Beeman. But what of the battles tomorrow, and the next year, and ten years hence? To win on this field is to make bitter enemies who will never forgive you, and they will be powerful enemies. I can assure you of that. But you will have your champions, also men of power. Weigh one against the other, Mister Beeman. Measure them against your career. You are possibly ready, pending Major Gary’s recommendation, for a promotion. Can you visualize what it might be like to grow gray in the service and not advance further? It is possible. Can you visualize one dismal command after another, one obscure post after another? This is possible, Mister Beeman. What makes a man a hero or a villain is often a fine line.”
“You have made no definite recommendation, sir.”
“And I won’t,” Tremain Caswell said seriously. “Mister Beeman, in your conduct so far you have earned my respect. You’ve conducted yourself in the highest traditions of honor and duty. As a general officer I cannot fault you in any way. But the decision is yours. Others have faced decisions like this and survived.”
Beeman rolled his empty shot glass between his hands and studied the play of lamplight on it. Then he said: “Gentlemen, I’m not a smart man. I didn’t graduate high in my class. My duties in the service have been routine. In fact, a sergeant could generally have performed them as capably as I.” He raised his head and looked at Maybank and Butler. “Gentlemen, from my own observations, I would say that the Indian receives neither social nor legal justice. And from your own expressed views it seems to me that this situation is not likely to improve greatly. General Caswell has pointed out the risks I run in pursuing this, but I’ll tell you this. Pursue it I will, to the damned hilt!”
A flood of angry color came into Clive Maybank’s face. He took the cigar from his mouth and snapped: “Beeman, I wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for your career!”
“I’d give less for your honor, sir,” Beeman said.
Maybank moved as though he were going to strike Beeman, but Butler quickly seized his arm and held him back. “Mister Beeman, it is not too late to retreat.”
“There is no retreat from right,” Beeman said. “I may be capable of doing damned little in this world, Commissioner, but what I do will not weigh on my conscience.”
“You self-righteous fool!” Maybank barked. He went for his hat and clapped it on his head. He was in the hallway and gave Beeman a final glare and slammed out.
General Tremain Caswell put down his whisky glass and took Beeman by the arm. “If you can stand my company, Mister Beeman, I’d be honored to buy you a drink at the hotel bar.” He clapped Beeman on the back and bowed to Butler, and they went out together.
Senator Ivers and his wife were regular dinner guests of the Gary family, and, to round it out, Dr. McCaslin and Dr. Rynder were often invited because they knew the value of good conversation, and they stimulated Ivers’s fine mind.
McCaslin was holding forth on one of his theories; he had many of them, on a wide range of topics. “You say it’s amazing, Senator, and I say it is quite natural. Young Carpenter had not seen his sister for sixteen years, and yet he recognized her immediately. What seems odd, too, is really self-explanatory. We base recollection on memory alone. Say we haven’t seen old Willis for sixteen years. Our memory of him is as he was sixteen years ago. That’s all we base recognition on.” He waved his hands expansively. “Now Ted Carpenter based recognition on emotion, the blood in his veins, and the seared remembrance of the last time he saw her. She was constantly on his mind. He talked about her a great deal. You’ll recall, Jim, that he liked to watch your own children. It kept bringing things back to him. Everything lay below the surface, waiting to come up. His name . . . everything.”
“This is all very interesting,” Ivers said, “but I’ve heard of cases where brothers associated with each other for years and didn’t know….”
“True, true,” McCaslin said, “but we’re dealing with brother and sister, the protector and protected. There’s a big difference there, Senator. There’s a great deal about the mind we may never know, but it seems to me that, although Ted was five at the time, he began his life from that moment on. He always said that he was about sixteen years old, and now we know he’s twenty-one. Everything began for him after that terrible experience.”
“I’m inclined to agree with Doctor McCaslin,” Gary said. “I’ve seen some strange things out here. Mothers who hadn’t seen their children from infancy would immediately recognize them.”
“I wonder why the Indians abandoned the little girl,” Janice Ivers said. “That’s odd, isn’t it?”
“Well, there could be many reasons for it,” Gary said. “Indians believe very strongly in medicine, and perhaps the little girl was a bad omen . . . bad medicine. Or she could have cried too much. Indian children are not allowed to cry, you know.” He shrugged. “It’s hard to say exactly, although the fact that she was abandoned does not surprise me. I never gave it a questioning thought.”
Jason Ivers knocked ash off his cigarette and said: “You know, Jim, I’ve been-rather looking forward to meeting your Lieutenant Beeman. When is he arriving on the post?”
“Mister Beeman is occupied at Fort Reno,” Gary said, his manner casual.
Ivers’s brow flicked up briefly. “I understood that you were going to recall him, Jim.”
“The matter was discussed, yes, but I decided against it. Mister Beeman sent me a wire yesterday. The trial began this morning. Since the government prosecutors have exhibited some reluctance, Mister Beeman, as friend of the court, is conducting the prosecution for the people.”
“Why the conceited ass!” Ivers blurted.
The women were chatting softly. They stopped now, and Janice Ivers said: “Jason, what a thing to say!”
He bit his lip and collected his temper, then leaned an elbow on the table and presented to Gary a more reasonable manner. “Jim, it was my understanding that we discussed this and reached an agreement. Not in so many words, granted, but a tacit agreement, nevertheless.”
“Jason, I’m sorry there’s a misunderstanding, but in my mind it was a discussion and nothing more. The ultimate decision was military, and mine.”
Ivers frowned. “Jim, it embarrasses me to have to spell this out for you, but if I must….” He glanced at his wife and Jane Gary. “As you know, Jim, I’m chairman of the Indian Affairs committee, and this mess your heroic, dedicated Mister Beeman is stirring up is going to come right back and perch in my lap. A mighty uncomfortable situation, I can assure you.” He crushed out his cigarette. “I’ve been your champion, Jim, when you didn’t have a soul who gave a damn one way or another. Now I’ve asked you for a favor, something easily in your power to grant, and you’ve turned me down. I find that difficult to understand, Jim, and I’ll be frank to say it.”
“I didn’t know your support had strings, Jason.”
> “Well, it has!” Ivers said sharply. “In God’s name, man, try to understand how the world turns. It’s you scrub me, and I’ll scrub you. Pure and simple.”
“Not pure, Jason, and certainly not simple,” Gary said. “Jason, wouldn’t you like to know that your Indian Affairs Bureau was as clean as a whistle?”
“Hell, yes, but I don’t want to be the one who’s smeared in the clean-up.” He sighed, and shook his head. “Jim, pull Lieutenant Beeman out of Fort Reno. They’ll declare a mistrial, and it’ll be done with.”
“And if I don’t?” Gary asked.
“I’ll find it hard to champion a cause that doesn’t have my interests at heart.”
“Jason!”
Ivers waved a hand at his wife, warning her to be quiet. He was steadily watching Jim Gary. “I want an answer, Jim. An answer now.”
Jim Gary sat there, his head tipped forward, his lips beneath his full mustache pursed thoughtfully. Then his eyes came up to Jason’s, and he said: “Beeman stays.”
Ivers threw down his napkin and got up from the table. “I’m sorry you’ve taken that tack, Jim. I like you, but I’ve got to protect myself and my friends who support me.” He nodded to each of them. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
He turned and left the room, and an uncomfortable silence settled. McCaslin and Rynder hastily said good night and left. Janice Ivers fought back her tears, and said: “Jim, I’ve never seen him like this. Never! I just don’t understand it.”
“I suggest that you don’t interfere,” Gary advised. “There’s no need in upsetting your marriage by entering into this, Janice. Besides he’d tell you that it was none of your business.” He sighed, and lit a fresh cigar. “I can’t blame the man for wanting to defend himself. I can’t say that he’s wrong in making deals that aren’t good enough to see the light of day. Jason didn’t make up the rules by which he must play, and he’s no less an honorable man for playing by them. The Army has its own brand of politics, Janice. Everything has its rules, good or bad. Don’t blame him, that’s what I’m asking.”
