“Oh, yes,” she said, “I can see that,” and she gave the appropriate orders to Fu Yu, who bowed in response, flashed open a fan, and said, with expectation, “Mah?”
“He’s asking for his mother?”
“No, Marshal, that’s what he calls a horse. He usually rides in one of the wagons. He’d rather ride a horse.”
“That I can understand. Assure him that he shall have his mah.”
We rode to the farm without serious incident—and Fu Yu, though he spoke not a word to me, proved an interesting companion. Every so often he set a bird loose from his billowing sleeves. It flew some distance and then returned at the beckoning of his singsong Chinese voice. I was put in mind of Noah and the doves aboard the ark. I assumed Fu Yu was using the bird as an avian scout, and I marked the magician as a man of initiative, if not an Old Testament prophet.
I introduced Fu Yu to Isabel. He bowed and when he came upright reached out and pulled an ace of hearts from behind her ear and handed it to her as a gift. He bowed to Beauregard as well and then waved his palm before the major’s face, lifted his eyepatch, and said (the first English words I’d heard him speak), “You see, yes?”
“Yes, much obliged,” Beauregard replied, flipping the eyepatch down.
To Billy Jack, he bowed, then waved his palm in front of the sergeant’s bowler hat and said: “Lift hat.” Billy Jack did, revealing a cooing dove.
“Wrong bird; I am Crow.”
We stepped inside the parlor, and our council of war was brief. Miss Johnson’s soft blue eyes practically caressed me with her concern for our mutual well-being as I laid out our situation, the grave dangers that confronted us, and the necessity of bringing our command together. I promised her that she would receive expert training from Miss Saint-Jean in the intricacies of the cancan and that I would assist in any way I could.
Throughout my presentation Fu Yu impressed everyone with the wide variety of colored fans that appeared and reappeared with startling rapidity in his hands, as though he was somehow shuffling decks of them up his sleeve. I regretted his distracting from my remarks, but his act seemed to calm the others, so I took it in good grace. Billy Jack was especially impressed: “That magician, that Chinaman—fantastic,” he said. “In French, fantastique Chinois. In Spanish, Chinaman fantástico!”
Beauregard raised an important question: “Begging the Yankee General’s pardon, but it’s one thing to consolidate our force; it’s another thing to supply it. If the Largo Trading Company shuts down supplies to the hotel, we’ll be in worse shape than Marse Robert trudging to Danville before Appomattox; no supplies and no room to maneuver.”
“Hadn’t thought of that, Major.”
“But, sir, a Confederate officer does not raise a difficulty without offering a solution, and my solution, sir, is this farm. Miss Isabel, while short of cattle, has a couple of dairy cows, a mess of chickens and pigs, and a large smattering of vegetables—not enough to sustain us indefinitely, but enough to help. We might also encourage the hotel proprietor to stock up—perhaps we could book rooms for an entire month and advise him to take on appropriate provisions, as we intend to dine regularly at the hotel.”
“By Jove, Major, that’s a splendid thought.”
“To avoid arousing suspicion, Miss Isabel, the sergeant, and the two of us should gradually and subtly assemble our food and supplies. Miss Isabel and I should come into town only after the hotel is nearly fully stocked—something I reckon you’d want to see to yourself, sir. Then, Yankee General, sir, fine horseman that you are, you could return here and lead us in the chicken drive.”
A chicken drive—there was a thought to inspire the inner cowboy in my heart; less dangerous than cattle, I grant you, but skittish animals all the same, and it would require tremendous skill, I reckoned, to herd them in an effective way. And would not the Largo Trading Company men be taken aback, as we drove the cackling yellow-and-brown hens and strutting red-and-white roosters down the main street to the Bloody Gulch Hotel and Spa? I could imagine no more inspiring a scene.
I clapped Beauregard on the shoulder. “My good man, that is strategic genius. So many of you Southerners had it; so glad we’re on the same side now. And you, Isabel, you’d be willing to part with your chickens . . .”
“. . . and pigs . . .” interjected Beauregard, who I suspected was partial to bacon.
“. . . to the cause?”
Isabel came towards me and we held each other’s arms with an emotion that can scarce be imagined outside of wartime. She said, “Yes, Armstrong Armstrong, for the cause; I will do anything for the cause—and I will do anything to keep my chickens and my pigs and my cows and my asparagus and everything else I have from feeding the Largo Trading Company!”
“There’s a girl!” I proclaimed, and I knew, dear one, that your image engraved on my arm smiled in approval at this joyous union of thought (Beauregard’s) and action (Isabel’s) and my own role in helping to carry it out. It was a moment to savor, and as our eyes locked I could think only of the rapture you would have felt if you could have been a part of it.
But as is so often the case, duty bade me to depart—this time, in the service of quartermastery—and on my ride back to town it was hard for me to focus on my surroundings, hard not to imagine the Montana plain swarming with chickens—Beauregard and Billy Jack and I waving our hats and shouting: “Yahoo, ride that chickee in!”—and Isabel, perched on a buckboard laden with asparagus and other comestibles casting her brave blue eyes on the far horizon, seeing in our chicken drive the looming freedom we hoped to deliver to the honest citizens of Bloody Gulch.
Given how distracted my mind was, I later felt fortunate that I had not been bushwhacked by one of the Company’s Indian raiding parties. That thought, however, came much later. My immediate challenge was convincing Miss Saint-Jean to extend her deposit on the rooms so that we could pull off Beauregard’s strategy. I explained everything to her in detail. We were sitting in her room. She was in her business attire, one of her many matching outfits of spangled corsets. This one was purple with frills and black silk stockings, and she wore a feathered bonnet. Canny businesswoman that she was, she was reluctant to part with her capital—either on excess fabric for her corsets apparently, or, more to the point, to extend our stay at the hotel, even when I pointed out that it could be that or starvation.
“You, Armstrong, are trying my patience. Our lives are at risk; our earnings are at risk; everything we have is at risk because you had to ride in from the hills, chased by Indians, kill someone in Applejack, and then jump into my lap, from which point, out of the kindness of my heart, I have saved you by making you, in turn, a Chinese sharpshooter and a marshal, and in both capacities you have seen fit to cause me endless trouble.”
“Miss Saint-Jean, as you surely know, the trouble is not of my making. I am a man pursued by enemies.”
She stared me down hard. There was none of that vibrant compelling warmth of Isabel’s gaze, none of that magnetic attraction between two noble souls—no, this was the hard, dark hue of a blue-steeled revolver, but I liked it and respected it just the same. “Armstrong, this only works as an investment. If I’m going to book it for a month, I’m going to buy it for forever—make it a permanent showplace when we’re not touring; I’ll need it and the saloon. We could even establish homesteads for the girls. This could become our town.” She envisioned the sign welcoming weary travelers: The Bloody Gulch Hotel, Spa, and Saloon, Featuring Sallie Saint-Jean’s Showgirls and Follies.
I have—as you know, Libbie—talked to the titans of industry, but I have never talked to a financier more blessed with commercial vision than Miss Sallie Saint-Jean of the eponymous showgirls and follies. Discussing business with her was different from discussing “the cause” with Isabel, but it was thoroughly engaging and mesmerizing all the same, and I am deeply honored to have known two such wonderful women—and you, dear Libbie, most of all. The deal was struck—with me at least—and Miss Saint-Jean and I talk
ed long into the night about a negotiating strategy to acquire the hotel and saloon, until I came up with the perfect stratagem.
I employed it the following morning by sticking my revolver up the nose of Mr. Smithers, the clerk at the front desk who also happened to be the owner of the Bloody Gulch Hotel and Spa. The deal was swiftly made. I promised him a fair market price for the hotel, to be paid in reasonable monthly installments from our earnings after we overthrew the tyranny of the Largo Trading Company. I also promised him his full weight in chickens to compensate him for his trouble. He seemed nervous, dubious, and unwilling at first; then I cocked the hammer on my revolver and he became much more agreeable. I drafted appropriate papers; we rode out to Billy Jack to have him copy out a duplicate in Latin in case any lawyers got involved; and Mr. Smithers and Miss Saint-Jean signed them with Beauregard and Isabel as witnesses (I could not stand as a witness because of my operating under an alias). Mr. Smithers agreed to keep the sale secret until the hotel was full-on bursting with supplies.
Acquiring the saloon would be a trickier venture because it was owned by the Largo Trading Company—or really, directly by Seth Larsen—so we decided to defer that acquisition for the moment. We did not want to arouse premature suspicion—though of course the chickens could not be kept in the coop much longer.
I spent a couple of days at the Johnson farm making final preparations for the great chicken drive. The buckboard was loaded with coffee and flour and blueberries and asparagus and even (Isabel wanted it as a keepsake) old Sam Grant’s picture, and anything else that might be of use to us and would fit.
The magician Fu Yu was astride a mah at the front, his multi-colored fan held close to his shoulder as a saber; behind him was the heavily loaded buckboard driven by Isabel, led by draft horses and with her cows on lead lines tied to the back; then came the pigs, with Beauregard, a deft man with a horse, keeping the porkers in line; and finally, bringing up the rear in dramatic fashion—for we had dozens upon dozens of squawking chickens—were Sergeant Bill Crow and I, riding on either side of the fryers, mindful not to trample them beneath our horses’ hooves.
I had carefully instructed Fu Yu in the art of command. He raised a fan overhead and then lowered it slowly to the horizon and shouted, “Twoop, fowawd ho!” The chicken drive had commenced. It was a stirring moment.
Fu Yu shook his fan open, applied its gentle breeze, and rode ahead at a leisurely pace. Behind him, Isabel’s two big draft horses did their best to pull their heavy load. Beauregard kept the squealers calm by serenading them in his low Southern drawl: “Swing looow, sweet bacon ’n’ grits, comin’ fo’ to launch my morn’; swing looow, sweet bacon ’n’ grits, comin’ fo’ to launch my morn’.”
As for myself, the orders came naturally: “Yo there, Billy Jack, keep that fryer in line . . . . Don’t let that chick escape . . . . Broilers to the rear!”
As absorbing as the trail work was, our journey would be relatively short, so the chance of having many chickens fall out or get rustled was slight. That allowed me to discuss a thought that troubled my conscience with Sergeant Bill Crow. I confessed how I had given my word to Chief Linewalker to kill Indians no more forever—and how I had obviously violated that word in defense of Isabel. I asked him, “What would your priest say about that?”
“He would say any vow made under compulsion—not valid; it must be an act of free will. And I say, any vow made to Boyanama Sioux is worth less than mud on a stick. Boyanama Sioux are my people’s enemy; my people despise Boyanama Sioux; and I’m very sorry you’re their blood brother—they’re a tribe of scar-faced vermin; in French, vermine cicatrisée; in Spanish, parásito con cara de cicatriz.”
“But surely a vow is a vow.”
“Not under compulsion; not to Boyanama Sioux. You did the right thing protecting Miss Johnson. Every man has a right to self-defense and an obligation to defend others; my priest would say, ‘Bless you, my son.’ ”
“I’ve always been a man of my word.”
“You still are; you gave your word to Miss Johnson to protect her. That’s more important. The Church teaches a hierarchy of duties. If your vow obliges you to do good, it is unbreakable. If it is compelled by scar-faced vermin, if it leads to evil actions going unpunished—then it must be broken. To do otherwise is selfishness and vanity.”
“I’ve never broken a vow before.”
“Name them.”
“My vows?”
“Yes, the important ones.”
“I took a vow to defend my country at West Point.”
“That’s a good vow.”
“I kept it with honor.”
“Any other?”
“I’ve taken a vow not to drink.”
“That’s a good vow.”
“Also, not to gamble—at cards and the like.”
“Fine vow.”
“Most important, I took a vow of marriage to one Libbie Bacon—the finest woman in Michigan, if not the world.”
“You vowed to marry bacon?”
“No, Sergeant, her last name was Bacon—look, it doesn’t matter. I was married—to a woman—my wife.”
“Just one?”
“Yes, of course, just one—you’re a Christian, aren’t you?”
“Catholic Christian, Hail Mary! But different tribes, different customs.”
“Not the Custer tribe, I’ll have you know.”
“But you’re also Boyanama Sioux.”
And I’ll be darned if Billy Jack didn’t hint at a smile—the cheeky Indian.
“Get that rooster back in line!” I commanded.
We rode on, the sun beat down, and sweat dripped from my brow. It wasn’t just the heat but the awesome responsibility of chicken-herding, where any misstep could deprive us of eggs in the morning or fried chicken at night. To break the tension I sang, soft and quiet, a little song I’d made up: “Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little chickies. Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little chickies. It’s your misfortune and none of my own. Whoopee ti yi yo, git along, little chickies.”
I was thinking up new verses when Billy Jack rode up alongside me and said, low but distinct over the squalling of the chickens, “Sioux following us.”
I wasn’t surprised. “How many?”
“War party—close to thirty.”
“Thirty? To watch over four men and a woman?”
“They’re Sioux; they fear chickens.”
I could see why—the squawking, strutting, nervous, flapping rabble before me would unnerve anyone—but I knew the Sioux better than that. You don’t send out thirty scouts. They were a raiding party—they meant to steal our asparagus, our chickens, our dumplings.
“Major Gillette,” I called ahead, “we’ve got a Sioux raiding party following; I reckon they’re after our ham and eggs.”
“Careful, there, porky, careful,” he said to a stumbling trotter. “Follow that buckboard, you Macon bacon,” he encouraged another. Then, turning carefully from his charges, he came alongside. “Well, Yankee General, sir, all I can say is that if they’re man enough to try it, I expect we’ll give ’em the same treatment we gave ’em at Miss Isabel’s place.”
“Sergeant Bill Crow thinks there are thirty of them.”
“Thirty? My, my, they did learn their lesson last time, didn’t they?”
“What about a charge to disperse them?”
“Might make sense if it weren’t for the lady.”
I thought of Fu Yu defending Isabel with his fan and figured Beauregard was right. “And if they charge us instead?”
“A chicken stampede might confuse them a mite; they’ve probably never seen one.”
“No, Major, I don’t suppose they have. Have you?”
“No, but it could distract ’em: they chase the roosters, we get the buckboard to that group of trees—give us some cover, dismount, hold ’em off.”
“And lose our chickens, Major? We’ve got a herd to drive; I’m not giving it to the Indians.”
“Fair enoug
h, Yankee General, sir. I defer to no man in my love of vittles. But your decision then, sir?”
“We’re going hell-bent for leather into Bloody Gulch. My chickens will scramble as fast as their forked feet will carry them. Your pigs will fly . . .”
“. . . and Isabel’s wagonload of blueberry biscuits will roll.”
“Yes, Major; are you ready? It might mean leaner pork chops, but they’ll be whole.”
“General, sir, ready for your orders!”
“Ride up to Fu Yu; tell him, ‘Forward ho, chop-chop,’ and wiggle your arm in front of you. He’ll get the idea, or he’ll be eating our dust. Give the order to Isabel. As soon as her draft horses gain speed, we’ll follow.”
“Yes, sir!” and he bolted away.
I saw Isabel smack the reins; the wagon wheels picked up speed; Fu Yu screamed as he was almost run over; and I called to Billy Jack, “Yee-hah, drive those chickens, drive ’em!”
The straining horses pulled away; the cows, slow to comprehend, strained their lead lines in tardiness; the pigs’ trotters moved like mad trying to keep up; but the hardest job by far belonged to Billy Jack and your devoted husband. The crazed chickens threatened to skitter off in sixteen different directions. But we cut them off at every turn, screaming, “Feed to the front; feed to the front! Cluck-cluck; cluck-cluck!” driving them forward.
Still it was impossible to keep pace. As overloaded as the buckboard was, the horses’ hooves quickened, speed building on speed. The cows mooed their disapproval but ran to keep their lead lines slack. The squealing pigs under Beauregard’s expert management were no match for the swiftness of the draft horses, but even they were pulling away from us, trotting as rapidly as their trotters would carry them. As we fell farther and farther behind, we struggled to keep order and direction among the cluckers. Isolated now from the main body of our force, we were an easy target. Billy Jack and I rode with rifles drawn, constantly looking to our rear, occasionally using a rifle barrel to slap a chicken back in line.
It was a harrowing few miles, as you can probably imagine: heat burning dust onto our faces like powder, rivulets of sweat cutting through it; crazed squawking chickens deafening our ears; our eyes straining at the simmering horizon. But there, finally, it was—Bloody Gulch, the trickling red moat, a narrow bridge with a few men standing by, and the buildings behind.
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