Clang! The razor hit the long piece of discarded iron Wash had picked up from near the blacksmith’s shed and hidden up his sleeve. It hit so hard that the iron broke the blade and jarred the razor right out of Landrieu’s fingers. The big Creole stepped back, shaking his numbed hand in disbelief. Wash let the iron slide out of his sleeve, showed it to Landrieu, then tossed it aside.
“Sacre!” the big man spat, clawing out his long-fingered hands with the intent of snatching up Wash like a hawk grabbing a mouse.
What he didn’t count on was what Wash’s father had taught him, after noting how his son was always going to be smaller than the other slave children on the plantation, boys—and girls, too—who could play rough.
“This is an old way of fighting, from your Great-Grampa Hausaman. If someone is taller than you,” Daddy said, “it just means he has farther to fall when you grasp him like so and then bend.”
And that was exactly how, when Private Landrieu Jefferson tried to take hold of him, Wash grasped, bent, and heaved the much bigger man high over his hip—and onto the ground so hard that a cloud of red dust flew up about him.
“Hoo-wee, Bunkie. That was some throw!”
Charley’s shout was followed by the sound of four or five men laughing. Charley and Josh and the others had seen Wash head back of the barracks with Jefferson and followed to take a look-see.
After a moment of gasping on his back like a catfish out of water, Private Landrieu Jefferson got up slowly. He did not look at any of them. He dusted himself off, picked up his bugle—which now had a small dent in it—and disappeared into the night without a word.
It had not surprised Wash that the fight ended with that one throw. He remembered his father’s words. Bullies do not come back at you when you stand firm. Even the big river must flow around an island.
But yet and still, he was not going to let the big Creole get behind him in a fight.
Hours passed as they trotted along in a loose formation. The rustlers’ trail was an easy one for the Osage scouts to follow, led by Baptist John. The huge Indian rode along as easy on his horse as if he was sitting in a rocking chair. Sensing Wash’s eyes on him, Baptist John turned back and smiled. Wash touched the brim of his hat with one finger, and the Osage man did the same.
Osages, Wash thought. Almost as much strangers to this part of the plains as us army men. From what he’d learned, the whole Osage tribe had been uprooted by the government from their old homeland in the Indian Territory to make room for Cherokees who’d been likewise uprooted from the South. Plopped down in the middle of land other tribes like the Cheyennes saw as their own, the Osages had to fight to stay in their new lands. Moreover, for lack of any work, a good number of Osages had ended up being employed by the army as scouts. As a result, the Osages did not get along well with the other western tribes. It was Osage scouts who led Custer to the Washita, where they did about as much Cheyenne killing as the 7th Cavalry troopers that day.
Baptist John fell back next to Wash.
“Ho, Little Friend.”
“Ho, Baptist John.”
“Good horse.”
“He surely is,” Wash replied, smiling as he remembered their last conversation in the stable. He had been tightening the cinch on his saddle when he smelled the grease in the Osage man’s hair and knew that once again the big Indian had come up behind him as quiet as a small breeze. A hand holding a small piece of sugar had then been thrust in front of him.
“Me give?”
“Go ahead.”
As Baptist John gave Blaze that sugar, he had leaned forward to whisper something in the black horse’s right ear. The big animal leaned its head against Baptist John as it never had done before with anyone but Wash, then nodded its head up and down. Baptist John had turned and smiled.
“I told your horse to take care of you,” he said. “It has agreed.”
Baptist John, Wash thought. I wonder what his real name might be. Whenever he introduces himself, John always taps the little Bible in his breast pocket and says “Baptist.” Hard to imagine a man with all the hair shaved off his head but for a little fringe on top as a Baptist. But that is the fashion for him and all the fighting men of his tribe.
The two rode along for a while in silence. Wash looked around. Josh and Charley were behind him, Old Landrieu way off to the left. Everyone tending to their own business, which was mostly trying not to eat too much dust from the riders in front of them.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Another long silence. Then Baptist John nodded.
“You always have your Bible with you?”
“I do. As do you.”
Since Wash was patting his mother’s Bible in his breast pocket as he asked his question, he was not surprised at the big Osage’s answer.
But a little smile did come to his face as he thought of just how good Baptist John could talk English when he put his mind to it. Better than a good many white men out here, and formal as a preacher. Coming, no doubt, from the missionaries and from all his reading of the Bible. Wash had observed how now and then as Baptist John rode along, he would take out the Good Book and hold it open before him, his lips moving as he silently read the words.
Baptist John reached over, lazy-like, to pat Blaze on his neck.
“Your horse is a fine, spirited steed.”
“I do agree.”
Baptist John chuckled. “As thy friend, wilt thou give me thy horse?”
Teasing me, Wash thought. And testing me.
He’d learned that when an Indian complimented you on something and said he liked it, if that Indian was your friend then the polite thing to do was just to give it to him. But this time the answer was an easy one, and likely one that Baptist John fully expected.
“Sorry, my friend. My horse, he belongs to the 10th.”
“Ah,” Baptist John smiled. “Like unto thee and me?”
No reply needed to that.
As the soldiers rode off, Wolf watched with a very heavy heart. He had not been asked to keep watch over the herd. It had been the job of his equally disconsolate friend, Dirty Face, who stood now by his side. Both of them had fallen asleep. For Wolf it was a deeper sleep than he had known in years, untroubled by the dreams that usually woke him in the middle of the night. When he had opened his eyes again, it had been to see the sun lifting up over an empty plain where no horses were grazing.
Now a hand came to rest on his shoulder. Wolf turned to look into the gentle face of Chief Gray Head.
“Do not blame yourselves,” Gray Head said. “Look.”
Wolf and Dirty Face looked down toward the hoof mark by their feet.
“You see that raised mark left by the shoe? Only one ve’hoe horse thief has such a curved mark on the shoes of the horse he rides. Jack.”
Jack. Wolf had heard stories about him. The white rustler who had become friends with their old enemies the Pawnees. Adopted by the best Pawnee taker of horses, Jack had been given a special horse medicine. It was one that made eyes go blind and ears become deaf.
“It was strong medicine,” Gray Head said. Wolf nodded. It made him feel a little better to hear such words from him. Gray Head was a leader of sixty lodges, a man everyone admired.
Dirty Face shook his head. “I am going to throw away my name. I vow that I am going to do something that will give me a new name. I shall do things that will make my family proud. Even if I must die.”
Wolf looked over at his friend. The serious look on his face showed how much he meant those words he had just spoken. It worried Wolf. Making your family proud was a good thing. However, if one did not stay alive, then who would care for them?
Gray Head pressed his hands together. “I still have two horses,” he said to Wolf. “They were tied behind my lodge.” His voice was soft, but deliberate. Wolf listened closely. Though Gray Head always seemed calm, when he made up his mind, he never hesitated.
“You are a Kit Fox.”
Wolf made the sign for yes wi
th one hand. Though young, he had already earned a place among that honored society. The job of the Kit Foxes was to take care of the people.
Gray Head pointed with his lips toward the dust cloud left by the departing cavalrymen. “Two horses tied to the back of my lodge,” he said. “You take the black one. And you...,” he turned to Dirty Face, whose expression had changed from despair to eager hopefulness, “you take the brown one.”
Death sees no difference
between the Big House
and the quarters.
The buzzard does not
just circle in the air for fun.
Don’t tell a white man
he has forgot his hat.
He will just tell you
to go and get it for him.
The wagon that makes
the loudest noise
is the one
that goes out empty.
Just talking about fire
does not heat the pot.
ONE GOOD SHOT
They had made up some of the distance between them and the horse thieves, who were heading north toward Kansas. They had been moving fast for half of a day since coming on their trail. But it was clear they would not overtake them before night.
Sergeant Brown rode back along the line.
“Make camp there,” he said, waving his arm toward a little fold in the prairie out of the wind where a few stunted trees grew. “No fires.”
Cold as it was now getting, Wash understood that order. Those horse thieves were a crafty bunch. One of them might have been left to trail behind the others. The glow of a fire could be spotted from miles away out on these plains. Let them think there’s no pursuit coming after them. He took off Blaze’s saddle and tied him to the rope that had just been run between two of the sturdier trees.
“You hear what I said?” a stern voice said from behind him. It was the voice of Sergeant Brown, but it was not directed at Wash. The sergeant was standing almost nose to nose with Private Landrieu Jefferson, who was holding up his coffeepot.
“Just a small fire, Sergeant. No harm to that,” Landrieu said in a wheedling tone. “I need my coff-ee.”
“What you need is to learn to listen, boy,” the sergeant said, knocking the pot out of the big man’s hands. “No fire, and no java, none at all!”
A mean, snaky look came over Landrieu’s face. Then he reached into his pocket and defiantly pulled out his corncob pipe.
“I just smoke some, no?”
“No!” Sergeant Brown snatched the pipe from his hand, broke it, and tossed it to the side. “We get back to Camp Supply, you either going to be carrying the log or on the chimes, trooper.”
Landrieu clenched his fists. Wash watched. It seemed as if the big Louisianan was about to swing on the sergeant. But Brown did not move. He just stared at the tall man until Landrieu dropped his eyes.
“Uh-huh,” Sergeant Brown said. “You on picket duty, Private. Now.”
Though he looked angry enough to chew on nails and spit out tacks, Landrieu shouldered his rifle and marched out to his post.
Wash almost managed to stifle a laugh. But not quite.
Sergeant Brown turned to him and smiled. “Thank you for volunteering, Private Washington,” he said. “You on picket next.”
Six hours later. Though Wash kept moving his feet in a steady walk, it was a struggle to hold his eyes open.
You’d think a man would have trouble falling to sleep out in the cold wilderness, but you’d be wrong. A day of riding tires you to the bone. Enough sand in my eyes to fill an hourglass.
The full moon cast a faint shadow. Wash had cleared a path around the camp, kicking aside sticks and small stones as he’d walked the perimeter, so there was less chance of stumbling, falling down, and shooting himself. He’d learned that more men shoot themselves by accident than get hit by enemy fire out here, especially when they’re green as Virginia grass.
Josh had told him about seeing that very thing happen. It was one of the new recruits last year, a clumsy boy from Georgia who had never handled any tool more complicated than a hoe. Dropped his Spencer while loading it. When it hit the ground, it fired off a shot through his knee and put an end to his military career.
“Makes a man glad,” Josh had said, “we no longer got those hair-trigger Spencers. Springfield .45 is a weapon you can trust.” Then he had grinned. “Thanks to the traders, it is now our Indians who are enjoying the blessing of guns with minds of their own. Making it possible for our red men to up and shoot themselves rather than waiting for us to do it.”
Did something out there on the prairie just move? There atop that little hill maybe a hundred yards away? There was enough light from the moon for Wash to almost make out something.
AWROOOO!
The howl that came out of the darkness seemed so close that Wash nearly jumped out of his skin. He struggled to regain his balance and raise his gun at the same time.
“Whoa-up, son,” a low, husky voice said from right behind him.
It was Sergeant Brown. “Jes’ a coy-o-te, trooper,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Yessir,” Wash said, putting his rifle back up on his shoulder. “I guess I knew that.”
Sergeant Brown chuckled. “Umm-hmmm. ’Course, it might also be one of them Cheyenne boys from back at the camp. Don’t you doubt that they sent one or two to track behind us. But we be more likely to see a coyote at night than one of our Indians. Got to admire the way they can stay hid. Back when I was first fighting ’em eight years ago, we called ’em kite people. Every time we thought we was about to catch them, we’d just find an empty camp. Like they up and flew away.”
“Yessir,” Wash replied, wondering why the sergeant was talking to him this way.
The most he has ever said to me. Most I ever heard him say to anyone.
As Wash continued walking his round, the sergeant paced along beside him, both of them outwardly silent for the moment, though Wash’s mind was far from quiet.
Why has he picked me out to talk to like this? And why now? Does the darkness make talking easier? Whatever the reason may be, I better listen close. If there’s any man out here on the frontier I’d wish to emulate, it is our sergeant.
Sergeant Brown cleared his throat and spat into the darkness. “Our Indians. Now we figure we got ’em all cooped up on that agency like they was chickens—though chickens is a sight better fed than our Indians.”
There was an angry tone in his voice that Wash thought he understood. The sergeant was not the only army man with more than a little sympathy for the Indians. The government had promised them food and clothes if they gave up and came in. But all they got were moth-eaten surplus blankets and scraps.
If I were in their place, Wash thought, I would doubtless sneak off my reservation to hunt for meat for my starving family.
And then the trouble would start. For though it was not the army’s responsibility to provide the necessities of life for the Indians, it was their charge to keep them cooped up and then to go get them if they strayed. When the Indians were up in arms, it would not be the politicians who would have to fight them. Nor would it be the dishonest traders who did such things as selling a herd of cattle to one reservation, collecting the money, giving the Indian agent a cut of the cash, and then driving that very herd off to sell it to another reservation down the line.
Wash growled under his breath.
“What’s that? You thinkin’ ’bout, somethin’, son?” Sergeant Brown asked.
“Nothing much of note, sir,” Wash answered, cursing himself for not being able to keep quiet.
“You a thinker, ain’t you, Private?”
“Yessir, I suppose.”
Brown stepped in front of him and stopped. He leaned close to look into Wash’s face.
“Son,” the sergeant said, “way you talk at times, using words I never heard from any negro before, makes me wonder. You read books, don’t you? Just like my niece does.”
Wash took
a breath, surprised by the turn in their conversation.
“Y-yessir,” he managed to stammer, trying to choose his words carefully. “But that does not mean I believe that I am any better than any of the other men, sir.”
“Umm-hmmm,” the sergeant said. “Now why am I not surprised you would say such a thing? So answer me this, why you here and not in school, trying to better our race? I look at you, I see school.”
This time Wash could not hold back his feelings. “What school, sir? There’s no schools for coloreds. All I want is to be a soldier. That way I can hold my head up like a man. I can earn an honest day’s pay and send money back home to take care of my mama and my sister and…”
Wash swallowed hard to stop himself, certain he was saying far too much.
But Sergeant Brown just nodded. “Uh-huh. I seen what you does with your money, Private. Don’t spend it on foofaraws or liquor or gamble it away. And you never on the bum and trying to beg or borrow from your messmates. But why you have to be sending so much back home? Don’t your papa take care of your family?”
“My father’s dead, sir. Died at the Crater. And even though he served in the war, there’s never been a penny of pension sent to support my mother and Pegatha, my little sister.”
“Hmm.”
The sergeant turned and took Wash’s free arm to start them walking once more. They were halfway around the perimeter before he spoke again. This time, to Wash’s relief, it was no longer about him or his family or any foolish notion of being something thing other than a soldier.
“You know,” Sergeant Brown mused, “two years ago, there’d be buffalo here. Don’t see none now, does you? How we supposed to keep our Indians from going out and killing those buffalo hunters who slaughters ever’ animal in sight? But we got orders to leave the buffalo hunters alone, even though they be breaking the treaty by hunting on the land south of here was supposed to be Indian forever. You watch. Faster than the Word of God, we are gonna be sent to protect them damn buffalo hunters from our Indians.”
Brothers of the Buffalo Page 9
