A forgotten evil, p.13
A Forgotten Evil, page 13
“Good-bye, Mr. Justin,” she said, leaning forward onto her elbows, the dark folds of her hair falling about her face.
“Good-bye, Miss,” he said, turning the mules about, looking once over his shoulder to see if she was still there, still watching him pass with regret in her heart, but she was gone, and there was naught left but the squeak of his wheels and the emptiness inside him.
On chance of seeing Jim, he swung by the blacksmith shop and found him laboring over his anvil, his face streaked with coal dust and sweat.
“Climb down, Woodcutter,” he said, “and hold this flattie for me.”
Caleb dropped from the wagon and held the flat hammer against the hot iron while Jim struck it with solid and flawless blows, the metal spreading and shaping beneath as malleable as bread dough.
“Wins shorted me again,” Caleb said, while Jim examined the iron against the light from the door.
Jim placed the metal back into the forge and pumped at the bellows.
“If it ain’t red, it ain’t hot,” he said, ignoring Caleb’s comment.
“Said my walnut was wormy and it being the best wood I ever cut.”
Taking the iron from the fire, Jim worked it with sharp, short strokes.
“Caleb,” he said, “Sergeant Wins takes his off the top, bringing up them tallies for his own purposes, and others, too, I figure. It’s the way of things, and every man here knows it.”
“He’s been thieving me all winter,” Caleb said, “and I’m dog sick of it.”
Putting his iron back in, Jim pumped at the bellows once more, pulling out the iron when it was shimmering and white as snow. Sparks showered across the shop when he struck it with his hammer.
“Sometimes a man don’t get his justice when he has it coming, Caleb, but he gets it sooner or later, that much I’m sure of.”
“As long as I can witness it, Jim, that’s all I ask.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, “I suppose I can understand that.”
“I got to figure on what to do now that winter’s near gone.”
“Well, sir,” he said, striking the iron, dropping a beat against the anvil with his hammer before striking it again, “the bakery’s in need of wood year ’round, but the guardhouse boys take care of that.”
“I could cut through the summer, if I didn’t starve out in the doing,” Caleb said.
Sliding the piece into a trough of water, Jim waited as the steam boiled into the air, the smell of metal and rust filling the shop.
“Things are heating up out here, Caleb. Red Nose and Black Kettle are mighty burned up about that Sand Creek raid. They lost a hell of a lot of people, what with them standing under a white flag the whole of the time, just so’s ole Chivington could go home with blood on his hands. Them Cheyenne plan on leveling it out some, I’m thinking.
“Here’s the thing I’m telling you,” he said, taking out a plug of tobacco and picking pocket lint off its end, “they don’t care if you’re a soldier or a woodcutter either one. They’ll gut you out as quick, leaving you for the coyotes, just like them deserters. It’s a mighty poor way to die, my friend, and there ain’t no bounty for me dragging your carcass back to the fort, neither.”
“Maybe I could catch a work train to Leavenworth,” Caleb said, “given that’s how I got out here in the first place.”
Bunching up his coals with the fire rake, Jim gave a couple of pumps on the bellows, and sparks raced up the chimney.
“It’s past time, ain’t it. I heard at Fort Riley that General Custer’s headed this way and that something’s in the works. Trouble and Custer is poured from the same mold, and God help anyone who gets in his way.”
“Fort Riley? That’s where my friend Joshua joined up to fight with Sheridan.”
“Well, he’s apt to get his chance,” he said.
“I best be on my way, Jim, ’fore it gets dark on me.”
“Over yonder is a hasp I forged up out of the commander’s old door hinge. You put it on the inside of that tater cellar and drop a stob through it at night. Least you won’t get scalped whilst you sleep.”
“Thanks, Jim.”
“And right there by the door is a fire poker I worked up so’s you won’t singe off your eyebrows every time you stir up your fire. Now don’t you go catching no work trains without me knowing.”
“I’ll drop by for certain, Jim.”
As Caleb pulled around to the quartermaster storehouse, the wind slid in from the north, spinning and swirling from across the compound. Mule One and Mule Two stepped out with renewed energy at the prospect of picking up oats.
Sergeant Wins swung open the storehouse door, his jaw set and obstinate as usual.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Oats,” Caleb said, “and a wool blanket, maybe a can of lard, if you ain’t shorted me out of it.”
“It ain’t all day I got for you to be making up your mind.”
“Oats and a blanket,” Caleb said.
Wins dropped the sack of oats into the wagon bed when he returned and tossed the army blanket onto the seat next to Caleb. Moth holes big as coffee cups were eaten from its center, and it reeked of horse manure and stable straw.
“This here’s a old blanket,” Caleb said.
“Better than freezing to death in a tater cellar, ain’t it?”
“I want a new one, Wins.”
“It’s ‘Sergeant Wins’ to you, Woodcutter, and I suggest you ride on out of here ’fore I take it back altogether.”
Wins leaned over the side of the dock, chewed for a moment, and then spit an amber wad of tobacco direct into Mule Two’s ear. Flopping her head from side to side, she rattled her harness and then her ear drooped over as if broken.
Caleb stood, Jim Ferric’s new fire poker there in his hand, and he brought it across Sergeant Wins’s ear, tearing it away from his skull. Blood oozed from its mooring, still white with surprise, and raced into the thickness of his beard.
A bellow rose from within Wins, a howl of disbelief that his ear now drooped rootless from the side of his head. Screaming, he leaped from the dock, as a stalking cougar might leap from rocky heights, spilling Caleb into the dust of the compound.
Caleb’s lungs emptied, gasped for air from beneath Wins, the mules rearing, their feet striking the ground with their immense weight and lethal hooves.
Pinned, Caleb was unable to ward off Wins’s staggering blows, the sickening crack of his ribs, like the snap of kindling, and the dazzling pain, and the bile that rose bitter in his throat. But from within him was a reserve, a strength honed and robust from hours at the axe. Reaching into that stock of power, he lifted Wins away, throwing him against the wagon wheel.
Wins shook his head and then pulled himself up by the wheel’s spokes. In desperation, he searched for his enemy, his eyes dimmed and confused. Caleb struck again, this time a stunning and final blow, and waited as he crumbled unconscious at his feet.
He took the tally book from Wins’s pocket and then tossed the soiled blanket into the dirt beside him. As he pulled away, the smell of warm bread drifted from the post bakery, and he was as hungry as he’d ever been in his life.
When they passed the commander’s house, Mule Two hesitated, lifting her tail, and Caleb pulled up. After bobbing her head to loosen the reins, she plopped a salutation of her own making on the red rock path that twisted from the compound to the commander’s front door.
Caleb looked about to make certain no one was watching, took out Sergeant Wins’s tally book, and dropped it center of the steaming plop. With all the bad luck and suffering in the world, there was little sense in passing up such a rare opportunity.
The following week was without event, the weather warmer with each day. There was no need to cut wood now, so Caleb spent his time hunting wild turkey and exploring the meandering stream. Not since the deserters had there been signs of Indians, and no reason to believe they were about, but even so, it was a rare occasion that he left his Spencer beyond immediate reach.
Caleb awoke to a fine spring morning and listened to the robins as they stretched fat worms out of the soft earth of the garden. He cooked his breakfast and fed the last of the oats to Mule One and Mule Two before hobbling them out to graze. With a little luck, they could get by on what oats were left and the green shoots that sprang from the clumps of dead winter grass. Even though it was now thin and short of nourishment, the grass would improve with the sun-filled days.
Now more than ever, it was clear to Caleb that he would have to move on. Fort Harker was enemy territory and with little left except the likelihood of a beating from Wins and his cronies if they caught him alone. It was not the moving so much that he minded, but even now, his dilemma remained unchanged. To go home was to face the emptiness of his past. To go forward was to risk his life in a land fraught with uncertainty and danger.
He poured himself a last cup of coffee and leaned back against the cellar door. He closed his eyes to warm his face in the morning sun. It had been a winter of winters, one he’d never forget, and he was attached now to this hard land, even to this dark and curious home of his.
When he opened his eyes again, a figure was standing in the shadow of the tree where the cultivator was chained. Caleb’s heart ticked up a beat as he reached for his weapon.
“ ’Lo, there, Woodcutter,” the figure called out.
There was a familiarity in his voice, in the tilt of his head and the dangle of his long arms. Caleb dropped his carbine to his side, his finger on the trigger.
“State your business, stranger,” he said.
“Mind if I come into camp?”
“If you come as a friend, and with your hands where I can see them.”
When the figure stepped from the shadows, the blue of his uniform was unmistakable, and there was a grin from under the shade of his hat.
“You got any copper biscuits cooking, Woodcutter?” he asked.
“Joshua Hart? Is that you? Well, I’ll be hanged. What you doing out here?”
“Hunting antelope and Indians with General Custer, what you think?”
“Sit down, Joshua,” he said, shaking his hand. “I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”
Taking off his hat, Joshua pulled up a stump and waited while Caleb poured the coffee. He was older than Caleb remembered, seasoned, the innocence gone from his face.
“I ain’t got long,” he said, taking the cup. “We’re headed for Fort Wallace soon.”
“How did you know I was here, Joshua?”
He sipped at his coffee and wrinkled up his nose.
“Smelt this here coffee clean from Fort Riley,” he said. “What you make it from?”
“Prairie dog droppings,” Caleb said.
“Mighty poor droppings, ain’t they. Anyway, that smithy at Harker put me onto you. Said to tell you that Sergeant Wins ain’t hearing like he ought and that he’s humping the rogue’s march for plopping on the commander’s garden path. Said you’d know what he was talking about, all right.”
“Maybe so and maybe not,” Caleb said. “Guess you’re a mean Sheridan son of a bitch now, Joshua, just like we talked about, strutting around in that uniform and all?”
He set his cup down, leaned forward chin in hand, and studied the fire.
“It ain’t like I thought at all, Caleb. Custer is crazy as a treed bobcat, tearing up everything what comes in his way. Hunts all day long, don’t he, what with them scouts and them hounds of his.”
“Hounds?”
“Shot his horse between the ears whilst chasing a buffalo full speed across the prairie, didn’t he, and we had to pick him up in a wagon and carry him back, and there ain’t no end to the bugling.” Joshua threw his hands up in frustration. “Why, he bugles when we get up in the morning and when we go to bed at night. He bugles to stop and then to go, when we’re doing a number one and again for number two, when we eat and when we don’t eat, when we stand or sit or fall over dead from bugling. There ain’t nothing on God’s earth what don’t get bugled at before the day’s out, and there ain’t a Indian or living creature in Kansas what doesn’t know we are on our way three days before we get there.”
Squinting into the sun, Caleb studied his old friend’s face.
“Guess this gimp leg of mine ain’t so bad after all?”
“I’d trade my horse for it this very minute. Ole Autie Custer will march twenty mile without so much as a rest, leaving his own men to chance if they drop behind or come up sick. God help the horse with split hoof or what falls out from thirst, ’cause it’s his end right there on the spot, and his rider can walk or stay either one. It’s crazy as crazy, riding in circles day on end, looking for heaven knows what, just riding in circles like mules at a sorghum mill.”
“Would you like some more coffee, Joshua?”
“No, thanks, Caleb. My stomach ain’t fit up for prairie dog droppings just yet.”
“So where do you go from here?” Caleb asked, raking out his fire with Jim’s new poker.
“Most likely in a circle,” he said, “though some say there’s a big campaign in the works to drive the Indians south to the Territory come winter. Some say the Seventh Cavalry’s going to do the driving. Maybe we’ll just bugle them to death, Caleb, bugle them ’til they can’t stand it no more, ’til they shoot themselves right out of the saddle. Then we can go home, I reckon. It’s the only thing makes sense anymore.”
“It’s a mighty poor business, Joshua.”
Putting his hat back on, Joshua gave it some thought before looking over at Caleb. “That’s enough about Custer, I’m thinking, ’cause there ain’t no end far as I can see. What about you, Caleb?”
“I’ve been faring,” he said, “cutting wood for Fort Harker and the railhead camp.”
“Ain’t you afraid you’ll get scalped out here by yourself?”
“Them Cheyenne ain’t interested in no woodcutter, Joshua, what with the Seventh Cavalry for pickins’. Besides, I got my Spencer here and a stob for my door at night.”
“Seems mighty thin to me, Caleb. Why don’t you go on back to Kentucky? I sure as hell would, ’cept I’d get my head branded or kicked around the compound until I wished I was dead, or hanged off a cottonwood somewhere.”
Standing, Caleb slipped his hands into his pockets and looked out into the prairie. “Guess you know better than most what I got back in Kentucky.”
“Reckon so. Look it here, Caleb,” he said, showing his sleeve. “Got myself a stripe. Course, it don’t mean spit, ’cept more work and a extra cussing from time to time.”
“Right good job, Joshua. Why don’t you stay a while? There’s a turkey roost not far from here, and we could go hunting.”
“I’d like that fine, Caleb, but I’ve got to get back. Custer finds out I’m gone, and I won’t ever see daylight again.”
Walking with him to where his horse was tied, Caleb waited while Joshua looped his reins over the saddle horn and mounted up. Joshua shook Caleb’s hand, his grip firm and certain.
“You be careful, Caleb.”
“Thanks, Joshua. I’m glad that dream came true. You made it so, and out of no more than grit and hard work. Most men don’t.”
“Thanks,” he said, flashing him a smile. “You think about going on home, Caleb. There’s Baud, ain’t there, and you could always rebuild that cabin.”
“Take care,” Caleb said, waving as Joshua rode up the creek bottom.
That night, the moon rose in the warm sky and cast a thousand shadows under its glow. He gathered his bedding from the cellar, placed it by the fire, and lay on his back. He thought of Joshua and of what they had been through. He studied the sky and the boundless stars, the winks and sputters of light so mysterious and unattainable, and he wondered of his own being, of his own existence in such a vast and unknowable place.
From beyond the cellar, Mule One whinnied, as he was wont to do at end of day, and Caleb rolled onto his side to doze against the final flutter of firelight. She came to him then, in veiled and extravagant reverie, as luxurious and lush as her own sweet laugh. She touched him with fingers as cool as polished marble, her fragrance that of spring honeysuckle.
As his sleep deepened, the fire ashened to gray, and the prairie was silent, not the silence of day’s end, or of order, or of rest and peace, but the silence of fear and foreboding misfortune. Sitting upright, Caleb peered into the darkness, his heart stilled. From all about they watched with furious black eyes, with war paint glistening, with evil bows drawn in retribution.
Chapter 12
The last thing Caleb remembered was the blinding light that exploded in his head. When he awoke, the smell of burning flesh was sweet and strong, a hand smoldering in the coals of his campfire. A stab of pain jolted him into consciousness, and he realized that his hand was in the fire. Rocking in agony, he held the blistered appendage against his chest and struggled to focus through blood-caked eyes.
In the breaking dawn the warriors rummaged through his things, tucking them away or casting them with disdain about the camp clearing. Here and there a yelp pierced the quiet, like an assenting wolf at the chase, first from the confines of his cellar, then from the garden below, then from beyond where Mule One and Mule Two were hobbled out to graze.
Caleb tried to stand, but a foot shoved him down, its suffocating weight against his throat.
“Stay,” the voice said, a voice from somewhere out of Caleb’s past.
And so he lay prostrate beneath his enemy’s moccasin, the smell of earth and despair, the rippling yelps of his attackers, the squeals of Mule One and Mule Two as they kicked out their lives below.
When all had been pillaged, and there was no more, the warriors gathered about his fire, the morning sun sprinkling warm through the trees. His captor jerked him upright by the hair of the head, and Caleb peered back through bloodied eyes, shriveling with fear at what must lie ahead. The sun broke full and bright then, and he saw him, the bits of red cloth in his braids, his father’s axe there in his hand.
