The Blue and the Gray Undercover

by Ed Gorman

  The day passed more quickly than he could have imagined. At the setting of the sun, his father returned. Handing him a carved pipe and a bag containing the dried fruit of the peyote cactus, he said, “Follow the dreams this brings you. They will lead you to your spirit guide. Do not return until you have found each other.”

  The boy looked closely at the pipe, ran his fingers over the carvings, put the mouthpiece between his lips and sucked. He heard a tiny whistle of air, a melody almost.

  “Your spirit guide will take care of you,” his father said.

  “I’d rather not go. There are dangers out there,” the boy responded, never having been too big on the spirit-guide business.

  His father nodded; still, the intractable set of his mouth told Nattee-Tohaquetta that he had no choice but to depart from the bosom of his family.

  That night, alone in the darkness, the boy filled the pipe, lit it, and took one short puff. He inhaled and waited, hoping for something to happen that would cancel his father’s plans. Nothing happened, not really, except that he lost his fear and began to grow excited at the idea of escaping his father’s control.

  Early the next morning, the boy crawled out of the pit. He packed a small bag with some eggs and a few other provisions and bade his mother, his father, his sisters, and his uncle farewell. Bravely facing the unknown, he headed through Paradise Valley, northward in the direction of Walker Lake.

  That night, after puffing more thoroughly on the peyote, he lay under a cotton tree. Not sure if he was fully awake or asleep, and afraid to find out, he watched an Indian being clubbed with an empty pistol by a white man dressed in the strangest outfit he had never seen. He did not know it then, but he was getting his first view of a Nevada Volunteer.

  The Indian died; the white man, angry that the clubbing had ruined his pistol, took the man’s scalp. Exacting revenge, the dead Indian’s friend killed two white men and left the bodies near the lake. Weeping women, stumbling across the bodies, tied grasses into small bundles which looked as if they were meant to be used as funeral pyres.

  Nattee-Tohaquetta was not happy. He puffed again on his pipe and fell asleep, only to be awakened by a conversation between two uniformed white men who sat easily on the other side of the bush that hid him from view.

  “Do you miss your wife and family, Colonel McDermit?” the one man asked.

  “Indeed I do, Lieutenant,” the colonel said, “but the last of this foolishness is near. I am so sure of it that I have written to my wife and told her to fatten the biggest turkey in our stock for my return at the end of this month.”

  Through a gap in the branches, Nattee-Tohaquetta watched three men approach. They were carrying with them a grotesque trophy. The boy had never seen such a thing before; he felt his stomach heave.

  “I know my reputation,” the colonel said. “I am considered soft on the Indians, preferring discussion and compromise to battle. That is truly my preference, yet I must say that scalp—a grand French tradition—pleases me immensely.”

  He leaned forward, almost as if to kiss the bloody object. At that, the boy lost control. Forced to abandon discretion, he vomited up his meager dinner. The sound of his retching was sufficient to draw attention to himself, and he was soon being escorted to the other side of the bush.

  “Spying on us, were you?” the colonel said, with apparent anger.

  “N-no, sir.”

  “Then what were you doing?”

  “Looking for my spirit guide—”

  “‘Sir.’”

  “Sir,” the boy repeated.

  “Well, whatever your name is, go to the lake and clean yourself off,” the colonel said. “When you’re done, prepare to come with us. We could use an Indian guide for the climb ahead.”

  “My name is Nattee-Tohaquetta,” the boy said.

  “Okay, Nate. Go. Do as I said.”

  Nattee-Tohaquetta glanced at the scalp and did as he was told. When he returned from the lake, two of the three men who had appeared with the scalp had gone. The third was packing the gear that belonged to the two men who were clearly his superiors.

  With the boy in the lead and the newcomer trailing, they climbed to about seven hundred feet above the valley before stopping to catch their breath and rest.

  “I feel I am climbing straight to the heavens,” the lieutenant said. He broke into song:

  “Soon with angels I’ll be marching

  With bright laurels on my brow.

  I have for my country fallen.

  Who will care for Mother now?”

  Sitting down to rest, the two talked of the glory of God, of love and justice and angels. McDermit, the colonel, spoke of their good fortune in being given the opportunity to serve both God and country, a country which, he pointed out, allowed them to feast on wild currants for breakfast and dine on trout from the stream.

  * * *

  Later, while the men slept, the boy returned to the place where he had left his meager belongings. He rested there for a while, under the cotton tree, with the intention of hastening out of the valley at his earliest opportunity. He awoke to see the third man hovering close by, observing him.

  “The colonel and the lieutenant will continue alone. They wish you to take me to Cottonwood Station,” he said, when he saw that Nate’s eyes were open. “You will be paid for your trouble.”

  Perhaps he should not take money from a scalper of Indians, Nate thought, but refusing seemed stupid. “Okay,” he said, a little tentatively so that it would seem as if he had considered other options.

  Nate’s days and nights developed a pattern. He led the way, spoke when he was spoken to, shared his food with the Volunteer, who called himself Mr. Stewart, and did not share his pipe. After sundown, when the stars were out and he was far enough from Mr. Stewart to feel some sense of privacy, he used the pipe to warm him. It gave him sleep, but it also brought him ugly dreams of a war where people burned to death and others lost their limbs. He dreamed of digging a rifle pit alongside another Paiute brave and watching soldiers approach, then turning and running as they came upon bloody scalps drying in the morning sun. He walked in his dreams with the Paiute Nation from the Humboldt to the Carson, and grieved for those who stayed behind and, branded hostiles, died.

  When the sun shone, he moved on. As he walked, his feet hurt, but they took him to Cottonwood Station where Mr. Stewart immediately availed himself of the telegraph office. He came out with two sheets of paper in his hand. He looked very well pleased with himself.

  “These were waiting for me,” he said, though he did not explain what “these” were and kept the papers away from the boy’s eyes. It wouldn’t have mattered had he done otherwise, since Nate did not know how to read. “I must be at Walker Lake by March the fifth to meet with my … um … friends,” he went on. “Will you take me there, Nate?”

  Since Nate had intended to spend his birthday at Walker Lake, this suited his purposes. He agreed to help out.

  “First, I wish to purchase a horse,” Mr. Stewart said. “Wait for me here.”

  He left Nate to his own devices. When he returned, he was riding a horse of sorts, mangy at best, but equipped with a halfway decent saddle and saddlebags.

  Leading the horse, they left Cottonwood Station. They got as far as Carson Lake before they stopped again. After a few hours’ rest, they moved on. Nate kept walking, and listening, and hearing, inside his head, the song whose melody had been just beyond reach the day he first tried out the pipe. The one the colonel had sung at the top of the mountain:

  I have for my country fallen.

  Who will care for Mother now?

  Finally, Nate and his companion reached Walker Lake. They made camp in a sheltered place where they could find easy fodder in the small weirs and dams which diverted the fish from the main lake. Nearby, the boy found an edible grass which contained a seed that was pleasant to chew and, when dried and smoked, induced new and different dreams.

  Long and complex dreams were in no
way unusual for an Indian boy approaching puberty, but he was supposed to dream about his spirit guide—or maybe about girls.

  Neither was the stuff of these dreams.

  They were about Paiutes and Shoshones; about soldiers with names like Lieutenant Joel Wolverton and Colonel Charles McDermit; about a second lieutenant by the name of Lansing; and about his tribal chief, Josephius. And new men appeared in his dreams: Lieutenant W. Gibson Overend of the Second Cavalry Volunteers and a Mexican Pack Mule Teamster.

  He saw ranchers and men in mine shafts, working hungry side by side. He saw water holes being fenced, hunters coming home empty-handed, he saw forests where piñon nuts had been harvested being turned into timber for the mines.

  What he did not see or hear was the voice or form of his spirit guide.

  By this time, young Nattee-Tohaquetta was running low on peyote and provisions and high on confusion. Truth to tell, he felt lost and lonely and began to think longingly of his family.

  The peyote had also increased his hunger. Thinking to allay his hunger with fish, he moved and made camp behind one of the large scrub bushes that dotted the shores of Walker Lake.

  * * *

  It had been a long day, so Nate chose to sleep first and fish later. Perhaps, he thought, his spirit guide would come to him tonight and he could head for home with the dawn.

  His wish was granted, if only in part. When the moon was high in the sky and it was surely after midnight, his birthday dreams were interrupted by the poking head of so strange and hideous an animal that he was sure he had gone mad. What he saw looked like a giant sage-hen, with its legs and neck devoid of plumage and incredibly distended so that it stood well over six feet. The feathers that covered its enormous body were an odd grayish brown color. The good part was the gigantic egg which he could see within his peripheral vision; the bad part was that he could never go home again. He didn’t dare lie to his father, nor could he embarrass himself and his family by telling them the truth, that this bizarre-looking creature was his spirit guide. He would have to find a way to circulate a rumor that he had lost his scalp to one of Nevada’s Sagebrush Soldiers, so that his family would believe him to be dead.

  He pushed at the bird, such being what he presumed it to be. It skittered to one side, but made no attempt to fly. He would have understood if he’d known anything about ostriches. However, he did not, and this remained a puzzlement for years to come.

  Satisfied that he was not in any immediate danger from the creature, he started to rise, but the sudden sound of voices floating toward him from the other side of the bush stopped him.

  Parting the branches, he saw by the light of the moon a stranger whom Mr. Stewart addressed as Robert.

  The man stood a small distance away, unsaddling his horse. He was a few years older than Mr. Stewart, somewhere in his late twenties, though it was difficult for Nate to tell for certain with a white man.

  The man called Robert set down the saddle and turned toward the bushes on the opposite side of their camp, his hand resting on the pistol butt at his hip. By the attitude of his body, Nattee-Tohaquetta knew that he listened for something. The Indian boy heard it, too, the sound of a heavy man dismounting from a horse in the darkness.

  “I believe I hear him coming,” Robert said at last. He spoke with a guttural accent unfamiliar to the boy.

  “I hope you’re right,” Mr. Stewart responded, somewhat irritably. He squatted next to the makings of an unlit fire. “I am not loath to confess that I have even lost my yearning for silver. All I want to do is get this over with and return to Cleveland.”

  “Cleveland,” Nattee-Tohaquetta repeated, under his breath. He liked the sound of it. He would take it as a part of his name. Henceforth, he would be Nattee-Tohaquetta Cleveland.

  At that moment, there appeared a large older white man. The boy instantly recognized him as the one Chief Josephius called the Indian Agent, the man who was supposed to help the Paiute, but instead took money from white ranchers to allow their cattle to graze in the Paiute’s fields.

  “Did you bring the money, Agent?” Mr. Stewart asked.

  The newcomer handed him a bulging leather pouch. “That is why I am here,” he said, in a surly voice.

  Mr. Stewart took the pouch and patted it. Then he walked over to his horse, which he had yet to unsaddle, and stuffed the pouch inside the saddlebags. “You may leave now,” he said.

  Without any further exchange of words, the Indian Agent disappeared the way he had come. Nattee-Tohaquetta could hear him mount his horse and ride north very quickly.

  Back in the small camp, the man called Robert searched in the saddlebags he had just placed on the ground until he found a bottle. He opened it, drank heartily, and passed it to Mr. Stewart, who shook his head.

  “Later,” he said. “When we have eaten.” Returning to the pile of sticks, he hunkered back down and lit the fire. When the trail of smoke had spread flames to the larger branches, he asked, “How soon until you can get the funds to Germany and your troops arrive?”

  Robert, who had been drinking steadily, held the bottle upside down to show that it was empty. “Do what? Come now. You don’t really believe that stuff, do you?” he asked.

  “Believe it? Of course…” He looked up at Robert. “You’re drunk,” he said. “I’m going to get some water for cooking. We’ll talk when you’ve sobered up.”

  “This is as sober as I’m going to get for a long time,” Robert said, feeling around for another bottle. “Get the water if you like. I’ll split the money while you’re gone.”

  “Split it? That’s not your money … or mine.” The expression on the uniformed man’s face told the young observer behind the bush that trouble was afoot.

  “It’s our money now,” Robert said, laughing.

  “But the mercenaries, the Confederacy—”

  “The mercenaries be damned. The Confederacy be damned. I may have told Rabe that I’d come get this money for him, but I don’t have his convictions or yours.” Robert took another hearty slug of liquor and tossed the bottle aside.

  Mr. Stewart looked stunned. “You mean, you’re not Robert Rabe?”

  The stranger laughed again. “No, you fool, Rabe died in my arms. I’m Ulrich Luserke, adventurer. As of now, wealthy adventurer.”

  “You’re not going to have that money,” Mr. Stewart said.

  If he stepped out there now, Nattee-Tohaquetta Cleveland thought, it was possible his presence alone could prevent the blood from flowing that every instinct told him was about to be shed. But he did not step out, and Mr. Stewart turned toward the rifle that lay resting on the ground behind him, presenting Robert with his back and opportunity.

  In what seemed like no time at all and forever, the man who said he was not Robert had his gun in his hand and he had fired. Mr. Stewart jerked once, yelled, gurgled, and keeled over.

  Walking perfectly sober and moving fast, the shooter gathered together a few things including the other man’s hat. He made sure that the saddlebags that contained the money were secure and, without once looking back, he mounted the other’s horse and rode away.

  Neither the boy nor the gigantic bird that had awakened him moved, Motionless, they watched as two Paiutes, not much older than Nattee-Tohaquetta, came by and finished off Mr. Stewart, crushing his skull with a rock. Obviously unconcerned about being apprehended, they joked with one another, saying that they had rendered his scalp valueless, and took everything they could carry before they vanished back into the brush.

  * * *

  Nattee-Tohaquetta set off toward Austin, Nevada, where he hoped to find Colonel McDermit, tell him what he had seen, and gain his good graces. He needed temporary employment and a few solid meals. He was closely followed by the ostrich, which had decided that the boy was her master.

  It was a time of hardship for Nate. He went hungry often and was not above stealing livestock when his belly growled with hunger. He worked briefly for the Reese River Reveille in Austin, in return for fo
od and old copies of newsprint which he used as a blanket. Then he realized how much the newspaper’s owner and editor-in-chief detested his people, and he left their employ. He had long run out of peyote, but not out of nightmares in which he heard the crunching of rock against the skull of Mr. Stewart, and the plaintive melody and words about a mother left without anyone to care for her. Mostly, he heard war cries and thunder across the desert he called the Mojave.

  And then things changed.

  Through a stroke of good fortune, he met a lovely young woman by the name of Dora who took him into her heart and unto her bosom, settling him at her place of employment—the larger of Austin’s two whorehouses. There, his ostrich provided the rental ladies with eggs to eat and feathers to refill their beds in exchange for board and lodging for the two of them.

  Though he occasionally missed his family and he sometimes suffered nightmares about what he had seen at Walker Lake, the boy settled readily into his new life. In what free rime she had, Dora taught him many things, including the skill of reading. Since he would not take lessons from the Reese River Reveille, she used as his schoolbook Virginia City’s Territorial Enterprise.

  It was thus, during a reading lesson, that he learned of the death on August 7, 1865, of Colonel McDermit.

  The notice in the newspaper read,

  On August 7th, 1865, Col. R. C. Drum of San Francisco received the following telegram: “Col. McDermit was killed yesterday afternoon within half a mile from camp by Indians lying in ambush.”

  The telegram was signed “G. F. Lansing, 2nd Lieut. 1st Inf., Nevada Volunteers.”

  That night, seated with a variety of house guests at dinner, Nate at last told the story of Robert Rabe, the crooked Indian Agent, and of Isaac Stewart, the turncoat Nevada Volunteer.

  By coincidence, one of the guests was none other than William Wright, owner of the Territorial Enterprise, and his good friend and colleague, Samuel Clemens.

  Mr. Clemens swore that if he ever visited Germany, he would make it his business to find “this murderous Luserke rascal” and recover the $25,000 and return it to the Indians. Mr. Wright, being a much more practical man, immediately resolved to report the story of the death of “Other ……… 1” in his newspaper and to inform the Nevada Volunteers accordingly.