“You all right, sir?”
“Fine. Major, I must tell you: I could have taken him myself, but I made a vow to kill no Indians.”
“A vow to kill no Indians—not even if they’re trying to kill you?”
“That was not specified.”
“But for heaven’s sake why?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“What sort of vow is that? I mean to say, Yankee General, sir, a woman’s life is at stake. Perhaps we make a codicil to the arrangement.”
“Back to your position, Major.”
I confess, his words gave me pause. I pivoted to the window, knelt, knife clenched in my fist, and waited for the next brave to show himself. Even with danger directly in front of me, I had to answer a deep philosophical question. A vow is a vow, but a woman is a woman—and, as I mentioned before, a man’s a man for all that.
I had to decide where my duty lay. I looked at the dead Indian, a giant of a man, laid out on the floor. I thought of Isabel and what she might have endured. I looked at my fists—strong as iron, but against armed Indians, how many could they handle?
We were surrounded by howling war cries—and then gunfire: theirs, Beauregard’s, and Billy Jack’s.
“Isabel, stay down. Beauregard, Billy Jack—make your shots count!”
Our gun belts were the limit of our ammunition. I felt the bullets lined up along the leather. I could strip my belt and give it to Beauregard, or I could take the revolver from its holster—regard it as a tool like any other—and put it to its most noble purpose, defending a woman. I shifted the knife to my left hand, pulled the gun, and felt its weight, heavier now with decision. You know, Libbie, I am a man of my word.
As if competing for my allegiance, I heard the coyote yells of the Indians and Isabel crying out, “Major, over there!” Another shot.
I peered over the shattered glass. “All clear here,” I announced. “Billy Jack, do you need help?”
“Three dead at the posts; one’s at the trough.” Bang. “He’s dead too.”
That was at least five. “Major?”
“Got two, sir. Don’t see any t’others. But they’re sure as heck raisin’ a ruckus.”
That was true enough. They were still yelping like hounds of hell and bullets were blasting and chipping away at the house.
“Beauregard, Billy Jack, be sure of your targets.”
We had ammunition enough—if we were disciplined. I’m careful about that: always save a bullet for another day, especially when you’ve got no quartermaster.
“Isabel, stay down, but crawl to the kitchen; it’s safer here.”
She was my responsibility; I wanted her close; and I’d made my decision: I would kill no Indian—unless it was to save her.
Her blonde head appeared in the doorway. She pulled back and gasped when she saw the Indian carcass.
“Don’t worry, he’s dead.”
She crawled around him, keeping her distance, as though he were a giant snake that might rise and strike again.
Knife in one fist, revolver in the other, I reckoned I looked like a buccaneer. I tried to ease her mind. “I’m sorry about the window, Isabel. But we’ll repair it—and I promise you, if they put a hole in your coffee pot, I’ll wreak a terrible vengeance—a vengeance such as they have never known. No woman will ever suffer on my account—and that pledge,” I said, thinking aloud, “takes precedence over any promise wrested from me under the compulsion of the Boyanama Sioux.”
Isabel looked deeply into my eyes. “Marshal, are you wounded?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Have a fever?”
“No, ma’am.”
“You’re quite sure? You’re all right?”
“Ma’am, with the new clarity in my thinking, I’m as right as a wolverine with a treed squirrel.” She seemed confused and I tried to reassure her. “Everything will be fine, Isabel, everything will be fine,” and I patted her hand with my fist that still gripped the knife. “Oh, sorry.”
I looked over the window sill. Twenty yards away, the barrel of a Winchester rifle seemed to have propped itself on a fence rail; behind it, unseen, was a hostile. Thought and action were suddenly one. Trusting my speed and marksmanship over his, I fired, ducked, and shoved Isabel flat on the ground. I peered over the sill again. The Winchester had fallen like a stick through the railing; its owner’s hands hung there like brown mittens on a wash line.
I heard more gunshots and Beauregard shouted, “Dropped another—for sheer impertinence: tried to use my hay bales for cover.”
A mounted Indian sped across my line of sight. “Billy Jack—can you get him: Indian on horseback.”
There was a shot, and an answer: “Yes.”
The yelping ended; the shooting too; the survivors were slipping away. I couldn’t let that happen. They’d go to Larsen. I knew that meant more danger for Isabel.
“Beauregard—to the kitchen. Guard Miss Johnson.”
“Thank you, Yankee General, sir. Thought you’d never ask.”
“Billy Jack, come with me!”
The two of us stepped out the front door: he cautious, crouched like a panther; I bold, tall, revolver drawn, knife held low, ready for a fight. We stepped off the porch and onto the dirt. Billy Jack swung round, checking the rooftop and rear approaches. I strode for the front gate, brash as can be, hoping to draw enemy fire, flush them out. I reached my hand for the fence post. Winchester rounds cracked the air, splintering wood, erupting plumes of dust. Billy Jack and I flopped on our bellies, rolled from the gate, and three mounted howling Indians burst from a small copse, snapping off rounds. Billy Jack and I returned fire—and so did Beauregard from the shattered kitchen window. One hostile dropped immediately. The other two came on fast with bullets singing over our heads. Billy Jack I think got one; whether I got the other I cannot rightly say, but he came hurling off his horse at such a velocity that his corpse rolled right into the barrel of my revolver. I prodded him; he didn’t move; and there was silence again.
I tried to do a quick sum in my head. “I think that’s thirteen, Sergeant.”
“Still could be others.”
“Could be, but I reckon not. If there were, they would have charged together.”
I stood and dusted myself off. Billy Jack followed my lead.
“Well, Sergeant, it looks like we’re in a war after all.”
CHAPTER FOUR
In Which I Am Reminded of My Duty
We had another swift council of war in the parlor, where we decided it would be best if Beauregard and Billy Jack stayed behind with Isabel and I went into town on my own. If we had in fact killed every Indian meant to spy on us and keep us captive at the Johnson farm, it would be quite a shock for Seth Larsen and his gang to see me sauntering down the street. I thought I’d relish that.
But it wasn’t mere vanity that called me away. It was that harsh drillmaster: duty. There was a high-kicking line of women counting on me for protection. There were Chinese acrobats who needed my military leadership. There was Rachel to whom I was still indebted for my life and Miss Saint-Jean to whom I was still indebted for my disguise. And there was duty, always duty: I had an army to train; and from what Isabel had told us, a cause that was just.
I have always been a master at reconnaissance, assessing an enemy’s disposition, recognizing gaps in his line. Those talents, along with dash, courage, and stamina are what made your Autie the youngest major-general in the Army, Libbie. So, I tried, on my ride into town, to regain that mental acuity, maintain a sharper lookout, and hone my scout’s eye for skulking Indians. But I saw none, and my mind drifted to those in my care. I thought of Miss Saint-Jean and our first meeting; she in her theatrical apparel, I in my buckskins, and how welcoming she had been to a tall, handsome, strong, fair-haired stranger—for that was all she knew about me at the time. I thought of Miss Rachel, how she had rescued me, how attractive she had been as an Indian (even with that half-skull neckerchief), and how she had become eve
n more attractive as a white cancan dancer, revealing talent that I had never before fully realized she possessed. I thought of Isabel at the farm—a blonde blossom of Montana, tall and radiant as a sunflower, and as needful of protection as a palomino threatened by wolves.
For a while, these three women, these three grave responsibilities weighed upon me, as only duty can, and then my mind roamed to thoughts of freedom, of escape from burdensome duty, if not as a Ree scout, perhaps the freedom of an actor whose responsibility lay not in saving lives but in elevating hearts and minds, bringing people to new insights about humanity, and putting me in regular professional contact with women like Miss Saint-Jean.
Could I have been an actor? No, as attractive as it was, I pushed that silly thought away, and again recollected that more likely, if I hadn’t been a soldier, I would have been a scout with nary a care in the world other than riding after the enemy. No worries about paperwork or politicians; none of the weight of command; merely the joy of life in the open air and the satisfaction of duty well rendered, of an enemy found so that he could be destroyed. Yes, I should have liked to have been an Indian scout.
I think that was the thought foremost in my mind when I rode into Bloody Gulch and tied my horse to the hitching rail outside the Bloody Gulch Hotel and Spa. I pushed open the front door and approached the clerk. “Any messages for me?”
“Why, no, sir. Were you expecting something?”
“Maybe from Washington. I’ll check at the telegraph office.”
I walked down the plank boards past the saloon and the General Store, and I do believe that every soul in town who heard my boots, could see out a window, or was passing me by on the dusty street turned to stare. When I swung open the door of the telegraph office, I had my first reward. Dern, leaning back, boots on the table, nearly fell out of his chair.
“Why, Marshal, I thought you were at the Johnson place.”
“Was. Here now.”
“No trouble? No Indians and such, I mean. I heard you was worried about Indians—you know, after what happened here with the gunfight and all. We’re not used to that sort of thing.”
“No, no trouble. Nothing I couldn’t handle anyway. Just came by to see if there was a message for me from Washington.”
“Well, I tell you, Marshal, I gotta confess. I still don’t know how that dang thing works. ’Fraid I can’t be of any use to you at all on that score. But if it does go clickety-clack, and you’re at the hotel, I could always let you know. Can’t tell you what it says, but I can let you know it’s workin’.”
“Much obliged, but that won’t be necessary. If they want me, they’ll find me—even if it means sending a troop of cavalry.”
“Are you really all that important, Marshal? I mean, no offense, but it ain’t quite expected, is it, that a marshal is so darned important to the United States Government that they’d send a troop of cavalry to find him?”
“This one is,” I said, smiling. I winked. “And some day you’ll know why.” I moseyed on back, the floorboards creaking beneath my boots, past the saloon, down to the hotel. Miss Saint-Jean was standing just outside.
“I heard you were in town.”
“Just got back.”
“You got my message.”
“I did, but I couldn’t keep the appointment.”
“You had a better offer.”
“I wouldn’t say that. It was a matter of duty.”
“Yes, you soldiers are very keen on your duty, aren’t you? Shall we step inside? Coffee and a chat? Dining room’s empty; just the two of us.”
“I’d like that,” I said. Speaking low, I added, “My duty, by the way, included killing a dozen Indians. My deputy should have scalped and buried them by now. But no worries, they weren’t customers.”
Miss Saint-Jean is not easily shocked—I mean no dishonor to her when I say that—but my news gave her pause.
We sat down, a bored waiter (who doubled as cook and bellboy, I’d noticed) brought us coffee, and Miss Saint-Jean said, “Well, Mr. Marshal, Mr. Indian-fighter, I suppose it won’t come as news to you, but all these young gunmen slouching around town, looking for trouble, have finally found some—you. They’ve got you in their sights. They can hardly wait to pull the trigger.
“You mean men like Dern? They don’t bother me.”
“They’ve hired new gunmen.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To kill you—the new ones have a reputation apparently.”
“So, do I.”
“For being dead.”
“Anyway, Larsen wouldn’t be so foolish.”
“The hiring’s supposed to be secret, but they were so cocky and excited, they were spouting off at the saloon. If you get killed by known outlaws, the blame will fall on them, won’t it, not on the Largo Trading Company? The cowboys thought that was pretty funny.”
“Strange sense of humor, don’t you think?”
“My point, Marshal, is that on your account, we’re not safe here. Gun battles—I’ve seen too many—can get out of hand. They might start by shooting you, and then . . .”
“There won’t be an ‘and then,’ Miss Saint-Jean. They’re not getting me—or you or your showgirls either. In fact, I’m giving you another one.”
“Another what?”
“Another showgirl—Miss Johnson, with whom I dined last night. And I’ll give you: Beauregard and his card tricks; and an Indian who is a human dictionary capable of translating any word into Spanish, French, Latin—you name it. No one has an act like that.”
“No one would want it.”
“It’s a matter of theatrical vision; I can see him now . . .”
“I’ve seen him already.”
“Then you know.”
“I know, Marshal, that my show is not an orphans’ home; it is a business, a business to which you have already done a great deal of financial harm.”
“But surely yesterday’s performance was successful?”
“How can you talk about success? Gunmen are coming to kill you.”
“They won’t . . .”
“Those cowboys I heard were talking loose; they didn’t care who heard them. They said that you’re a dead man; a dead marshal; they said these hired guns are bad men, really bad men; they’re betting on who gets the honor.”
“Of killing me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, no one’s collected so far—and their Indians lost.”
“From what I heard, they’re not the last.”
“Miss Saint-Jean, the fact is: we can’t turn tail, even if we wanted. Larsen’s men have us penned in.”
“He’s after you—not us.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. You know too much. He enslaved a town; why have mercy on a handful of Chinamen and cancan dancers?”
“All right—so leaving town is a risk; so is staying here with you.”
“Miss Saint-Jean, you once reminded me of my duty, and I’m grateful. Now I remind you of yours. We’ve got these girls to protect and we’ve got the future of Montana and the West to defend. We can’t let the Largo Trading Company destroy these people’s families and farms when just beyond here, if we can break the company’s noose, is the U.S. Cavalry who can set things aright. And you, ma’am, should have more faith than anyone in our mission, because you know who is actually leading it, and if I may remind you, ma’am, I was the youngest general in the war . . .”
“. . . and the man responsible for leading a troop of cavalry into a massacre . . .”
“Redemption, Miss Saint-Jean, I seek redemption, and I shall find it in leading you and your girls, and the Chinese acrobats, and Beauregard, and Isabel, and Billy Jack—that’s the Indian, the walking dictionary . . .”
“And Isabel—that’s the woman you were with last night?”
“Yes, but the point is, I’m going to lead you all to safety—do you understand?”
“I understand, General—or Marshal—that I don’t have much of a choice, thanks
to you. I only ask that you remember your duty extends to every one of my girls.”
“Madam, they are never far from my mind—and the Chinamen, Miss Saint-Jean, I never forget the Chinamen.”
“The Chinamen can take care of themselves.”
“Even better when I’m done with them. Our regular routine will be saber drills and skirmish practice. The Largo Trading Company will regret they tangled with us.”
To ensure they would, I needed to cogitate on strategy and tactics. I retired to my room and there envisioned the disposition of our forces and the enemy’s. Larsen had an overwhelming superiority in numbers, and he had us surrounded. We held the hotel, which was not easily defensible, and Miss Johnson’s farm. Considering how precarious both positions were, I reckoned that consolidating our forces at the Bloody Gulch Hotel and Spa was the right and proper choice. Not only were there rooms for all of us, and a restaurant, and of course the stage (our drilling field) at the saloon, but the hot springs behind the hotel offered ample bathing facilities for Miss Saint-Jean and her terpsichoreans—and proper hygiene could prove crucial if we faced a prolonged siege. Strategy, tactics, and duty demanded, then, that I return to the Johnson farm for Isabel and encourage her to return to town with me. It was by far the safest course.
If Larsen compelled us to fight a pitched battle, I would be content to fight it here, at the hotel, at the center of Bloody Gulch, with the shopkeepers as witnesses to our courage. Perhaps it might fan whatever embers of manliness remained in them.
Though I am a man to keep my own counsel in matters of strategy, I informed Miss Saint-Jean of my intentions and asked her to set Hercules and the acrobats as guards around the hotel. I also asked that, as a temporary matter, the magician, Fu Yu, be assigned to me as an aide.
“A lone rider, even as gallant a one as myself,” I explained, “might be easily ambushed. But a two-man patrol, combining a cavalryman’s dash and daring with a fan-wielding magician’s talent for mystification, would doubtless be unstoppable.”
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