Whit panted, “How much should I bet? This has something to do with the captives.”
Indeed, Belle had tried to question Bud about his version of the “acorn basket” incident, but he had remained fast that it was clearly an ambush set in motion by the very captives Whit had been leading—Tenaya’s sons. For the sons to be killed would jeopardize the battalion’s attempts to subdue Tenaya’s entire village, for they would just pick up and run farther into the mountains, perhaps all the way to the Monos, by the saline lake where her train had been wiped out.
When closer to the camp, Captains Din and Boling came tearing up a hillock toward them. Din demanded, “Did any Indians pass you by?”
“No!” Whit declared. “What happened?”
Boling glared something fierce at Belle. “Your brother is what happened!”
And the two captains continued their chase.
“Oh, dear Lord!” Belle cried. “What has Bud done now?”
It became evident when they got into camp and pushed their way through the tight circle of milling boys.
Chapter Seventeen
When he saw the body of Tenaya’s son lying within pistol range of the oak tree where he’d been tied, shot in the back, Huntley carried on like all possessed.
The fellow had mysteriously gotten loose during the watch of Thaddeus Martin, a crony of Bud Pennington’s, a former ranger from Texas who had often opined that killing Indians or Spaniards, it didn’t matter which, was a duty. Huntley discovered Tad leaning casually against the very oak he had been guarding, a satisfied grin on his out-and-out dough-headed face. He seemed to be expecting praise, for when Huntley started for him puffed up with rage, the smug face vanished, to be replaced with one of abject horror.
Huntley bellowed at Phil Din, “One got away—give chase!” In three enormous strides Huntley had his hand around Tad’s throat, lifting the man who was almost as tall as himself and dragging him up the bark of the oak.
“You have committed murder.” Huntley growled.
Tad scrabbled at the front of Huntley’s greatcoat, his boots running in place in the air. “I–I—Bud Pennington told—”
Huntley didn’t wait to hear the story. He punched the dolt two, three, four times in the face, the bones resounding with a satisfying crunch. Boys came running over, but no one tried to tear Huntley off the miscreant. Huntley only stopped punching him because he didn’t want blood splattered on his shirt, which was already filthy enough.
Tossing the sucker to the snow, Huntley pivoted about looking for Bud. Sure enough, the puffed-up louse came swaggering up, also grinning with the expectation he would receive praise. Bud even saluted. Huntley refrained from thrashing him because he was Belle’s brother, but he stood so close to Bud his rage melted the icicles from Bud’s idiotic beaver cap.
“Private!” he roared. “By Saint Michael, what has happened here? Who was the one to commit this bald murder?”
Bud stood straight. “It was I, Major! He was attempting to escape, so I shot him dead! That imp of Satan shall harass us no longer.”
“You hell-fired blockhead! Are your brains in your balls? Terrell! Put this man in bracelets.”
Of course they had no real bracelets, so Terrell set to tying Bud’s wrists at the small of his back with a length of reata. Bud instantly erupted in a lather, every sinew in his neck standing out in sharp relief. “What in Sam Hill are you doing, Major?”
“Arresting you for murder.”
“Murder? That nefarious son of a bitch was trying to escape, Major! I did everyone a giant favor by polishing off that bugger!”
“You also just led to the ruination of our campaign. What incentive will Tenaya have to come in now, if his son is dead, another one running back to him at this very moment?”
It was clear the mood of the crowd was with Huntley from the way they kept encouraging Huntley to throw Bud a necktie party, by the authority of Judge Lynch.
To change the subject, Bud howled, “You damned lady-killer! Does everyone know what a masher you are? Yeah, that’s right, boys! I have nailed this bastard red-handed mashing his filthy paws all over my dear sainted sister, and more than that, I’ve seen him consorting in an inverted, sodomite manner with that surgeon who—”
“Enough, Bud.”
Suddenly Whit was next to Huntley, having pushed his way through the knot of men. Apparently Whit had no such compunctions about Bud being Belle’s brother, for he grabbed the shrimp by the lapel of his navy peacoat and rattled him about mercilessly. “You have the grit to accuse your superior officer of deviant unnatural doings when it is I, the Indian surgeon, who has been mashing your sister!”
Huntley shook Whit by the shoulder. “It’s all right, Whit, you don’t need to—”
But Whit continued to bellow, “It is I, a detestable mulatto, who found the nerve to ask your sister to marry me! I’m proud to admit I’m part red man! Can you say the same about the crime you just committed, you low-down cur from the bottomless pit?”
Huntley fell back weakly into the chests of some boys who backed him up. Whit? Asked Belle to marry him? He would not be mentioning it right now in front of the entire battalion if Belle had not said yes!
Belle had succeeded in worming her way through the throng, and she, too, grabbed the lapel of Bud’s coat. “Bud! What have you done?”
“Is that true, Bellissima?” Bud was so enraged his words spewed spittle in Belle’s face. “You’re to marry this imp of Satan? Have a bevy of little red men scurrying about? Is that the shame you want to bring on our good family name?”
Huntley instructed, “Haul him away, Terrell. Gag him, too.” He interrupted, perhaps because he didn’t want to hear Belle’s response, but she responded anyway.
“That’s correct, Bud. I’m to marry Dr. Whitney!”
Sick to his stomach, Huntley physically busted in between Belle and her bloviating sibling. “You’re going to Coventry, Pennington. Maybe a few weeks doing pack train duty will prevent you from doing anything like this ever again.”
As Terrell and a few others hauled the thrashing shrimp away, Bud still wailed. “I’ll get you, Whitney! I’ll be hiding, waiting with a necktie party for you when you least suspect it. I’m not going down easily! I’ll kill every last Indian even if the woods are full of them. I didn’t make it to the middle of the High Sierras all the way from Pike County only to wind up kowtowing to a pack of—”
Thump. It was Vowchester, the Indian guide, who had whacked Bud on the head with the handle of his bowie knife. Many men laughed and congratulated Vowchester as Bud drooped to the ground, his eyeballs rolling into his skull.
Huntley was gratified that Belle didn’t try to assist Bud, but he was sickened that she shrank back delicately into Whit’s powerful arms. Whit soothed her by stroking her hair as they both stared at Bud’s limp body being dragged across the snow.
Since both Boling and Din were out chasing down the escaped captive, Whit was the next logical in command to talk to. Huntley approached the happy couple obliquely, so as not to have to look at their faces.
“We’ll need to let Tenaya take his son’s body for cremation.”
Whit looked at Huntley over his shoulder. “Yes, but we should not let him know his son is dead until we can capture him. Listen, Huntley. Belle and I would like to talk to you. About what was just said—”
Huntley interrupted to shout at Vowchester, “And lock up Jim Fell, too! I’m sure he was in on this plot as well.”
He turned back to the couple, affecting a false smile. “There! That’s done with.” And he stalked off to deal with the dead body.
* * * *
Din and Boling had not found the escaped prisoner, but they reported back they’d seen campfire smoke coming from one of the ledges above the lake that mirrored the icy granite monuments. The next morning, Huntley and a contingent of twelve men set out. He purposely did not invite Whit or Belle, having successfully avoided them up till now.
Did that traitor
Whit plan on staying on in Huntley’s house after marrying Belle? As if life just went on as usual, only that now he shared a bed with the most desirable woman in the lower Sierra? Huntley snorted and thought, I think not. No, he couldn’t go on living under the same roof, listening to their lovemaking! He would find a new maid—and a new physician for Agua Fria—even if it meant losing the two most important people in his life.
In a fit of ill temper, he left his horse and climbed to the foot of that old incorrigible Indian’s perch. If he could just capture Tenaya, he could get out of these bushes and back to his warm fireplace. It would be spring by then, and he could make another trip to San Francisco. But he could never practice the skills he’d learned from Whit and Belle, not on hookers or squaws. Only another American woman skilled in European ways would appreciate the finer points of medical massage.
Huntley was angry to have to return to such a prosaic life, when in recent months entirely new vistas had been opened to him by that elegant surgeon and his exotic maid. But what did one expect from the frontier? Afternoon tea along with a healthful frig? A nice satisfying fuck by a roaring fire? Really, it had been such a ridiculous dream.
He sent Boling and some men to cut Tenaya off from the other side, and when Huntley hefted himself over the ledge, Tenaya was barreling straight at him, arms flailing, his mouth a perfect O. Tenaya’s demeanor abruptly altered when he caught a view of Huntley, though. As though he’d seen an even worse demon, the old sachem pivoted about and did a jig back from whence he’d come. It was a simple matter for Huntley to jog on after him, catching him by an arm and spinning him about.
“Where are your others?”
Tenaya made his mouth a thin line. “The men above me were rolling stones down. I do not like to go up, as the stones break and fly everywhere. So I came down.”
Huntley nodded. “Good. I am glad. We have your sons, you know.”
At this, Tenaya refused to say a word. Huntley was obligated to bind his hands with a reata, as he couldn’t risk losing the chief again.
Tenaya remained taciturn the entire way back to camp, although Huntley led him on one of his favorite mules that was nicely caparisoned. Huntley dismounted a hundred feet from camp, motioning for battalion boys to surround Tenaya’s mule. They had left his son’s body on its back in the snow, respectfully covered with Whit’s best blanket. Tenaya would have to know the truth sooner or later, so Huntley gently led him forward, not relishing this moment one bit. But he was commander here, and it needed to be done.
Tenaya was proudly aware he was the center of attention, and walked with head high, scorning every American who gaped. Huntley was only proud that Whit and Belle watched avidly. They would know it was he who had captured the chief. They only halted their odd promenade when practically stumbling over the stiff. The poor, rubbed-out son had died with his eyes wide open, mouth agape in surprise, and he now looked to the hazy bowl of heaven above as though surprised to see it.
Tenaya had no reaction other than a trembling lip. Slowly he raised his head, and the look of pure hatred he shot Huntley was chilling. Tenaya looked at each man in camp in turn, scrutinizing each blank face, as though looking for his remaining captive son.
Huntley said quietly, “We are deeply sorry for the death of your son. The man responsible for this has been punished. You may have some men take the body away for proper burial procedures.”
Not a peep came from Tenaya’s tight lips. Many long, uncomfortable moments passed during which every battalion boy stood like a waxwork figure, as though they enacted a ballet tableau in front of a winter wonderland background of cotton fluff and broken glass glued onto pasteboard.
It was indeed a horrifying moment that Huntley had been dreading, and he broke the painful silence by quietly telling Terrell, “Bring him to his son’s tent, and get him something to eat.”
The battalion disbanded then, albeit in a much more solemn and less raucous manner than they normally did. Men filed back to their tents dispiritedly, and Huntley would have liked to do the same, but that infernal twosome, Whit and Belle, approached him.
“This isn’t a pleasant job,” Whit offered.
Huntley shook his head miserably. “No, it certainly isn’t.” He had missed Whit’s intelligent companionship of late, so he added, “I can’t stop thinking of my fireplace. Lupe concocting a pot of chile verde. There’s a bottle of muscatel I saved, and a pot of olives and some Oregon cheese is calling out to me.”
“Oh, Lordy.” Belle smiled, cuddling Whit’s arm to her breast, furry with the bear’s skin. “I can smell the slapjacks right now.”
Whit added good-naturedly, “Lately I’ve lived on swine until I grunt and squeal. I could do with some French champagne and turtle soup.”
Huntley’s mouth actually began to water. Even a tin of sardines, one of the most frequently maligned foodstuffs in California, so common it seemed to pave the streets of some towns, now sounded like a delicacy. “Lobsters and tongue,” was Huntley’s contribution to the comestible daydream they wallowed in. Now that they were chuckling with the pretense that everything was fine, Huntley ventured to say, “Yes, why don’t we go somewhere and have a chat. I’d like to know more about this wedding—”
“Kill me, sir Major!”
The trio stood stock-still, only their heads swiveling to view Tenaya, shuddering something fierce as though overcome with the vapors. Terrell struggled to contain him, but Tenaya suddenly seemed imbued with a power from above. Tenaya came toward Huntley, dragging the poor boy behind him like so many bison skulls in a religious dance. “Yes, kill me, as you killed my son, as you would kill my people if they were to come to you! You would kill my entire race if you had the power.”
Huntley had to say something. He couldn’t just let the old sachem rant on. He had to show his men his command. After all, they were here to capture Indians, not listen to their lectures. “Now, look here—”
Tenaya spoke in a mixture of Grizzly and Spanish, letting on that he knew far more of that latter language than he’d ever admitted. “Yes, sir American, you can now tell your warriors to kill the old chief. You’ve made me sorrowful and my life dark! You killed the child of my heart—why not kill the father? When I am dead I will call to my people to come to you. I will call louder than you have heard me call. They shall hear me in their sleep and come to avenge the death of their chief and his son.”
“Tenaya!” Huntley was becoming exasperated. “We have punished those responsible for your son’s death. Not every American here was in agreement with his actions. Most of us found his actions highly offensive, and it was not our plan to—”
But Tenaya was stirred into a sublime lather and would not quit. “You may kill me, sir Major, but you may not live in peace. My spirit will be among the rocks, the waterfalls, in the rivers.” The chief appeared many years younger with the strength of his harangue.
A fresh respect for Tenaya erupted in Huntley’s heart. “Old Sachem!” Huntley cried. “We have no wish to kill you. I am sorry if that is your wish, but it is not our wish. We will keep you safe until you can get onto the Fresno reservation.”
Belle stepped forward a half step. “Yes, Old Sachem! The murder of your son was a sad error and mistake by only two or three men. The men responsible will be haunted by your son’s spirit forever! They will fear his spirit and grow cold whenever a breeze passes by.”
Perhaps Belle’s words soothed him, for now Tenaya proclaimed, “The great spirits have spoken! I am done.” And, as though the spirit had suddenly left him, he slumped back into Terrell’s arms, prepared to be dragged to the tent.
Huntley caught Boling’s sleeve and said, “The old sachem looks hungry. See he gets an extra ration or two, and secure him so he won’t have a chance to escape.”
Boling said, “I understood most of what he said. For speechmaking, that old powwow can beat me all hollow.”
The trio walked in silence on a smooth pathway to a nearby summit. Here the narrow silver gle
ams of the Merced River wound beneath the lofty walls. A grand waterfall tumbled into a goblet-shaped recess from a granite dome. It was a gauzy, windless day, and for that Huntley was thankful. He tapped his pipe against a rock, but Whit was the first to speak.
“It’s true, Huntley. Belle has agreed to marry me.”
Huntley’s stomach lurched. Why had they dragged him all the way up here to give him a browbeating? To make him shake in his boots and lord it over him? Belle, at least, wasn’t such a heartless, domineering individual. She could temper this horrifying news a bit, surely.
Whit took Belle’s complacent hand and continued, “It’s true, believe it or not. She has agreed to marry a half-breed, physician though I may be. I’m sorry it had to come out in that manner, with that shit sack”—he glanced sideways at Belle—“that louse Bud bellowing about our unnatural doings. But we’re here to tell you, we don’t wish to discontinue our doings with you. If you agree, we’d like to continue on the same path we were on. Exploring our, ah, our—”
Belle slipped to her knees at Huntley’s feet. “Our love for you!” she proclaimed passionately. She grabbed his gloved hands in her bare ones, and her eyes shined up at him. “Yes, Huntley. I love you both equally, and I could not decide what to do. And Whit loves you so, I could never ask him to abandon you. Nor would I want to.”
Huntley was wordless. What were they proposing? That they continue to fuck the stuffing out of each other—that Huntley fuck another man’s wife? Huntley was accustomed to the mores of Indians where such things were very fluid, and the Far West had vague boundaries for these subjects. Women were so rare as to be mythical, and Huntley had seen more than two or three miners set up housekeeping with only one desirable woman.
Whit added, “We understand if you want us to move. I can even leave Agua Fria if you want me to, if our presence makes you uncomfortable. But honestly, Hunt. I don’t see any reason to break up such a fine thing as we’ve got going for us.”
Sure as Shooting Page 18
