A Good Man (53 page)

“Why would he have made this long journey except for friendship and trust?” Walsh demands. “And if it wasn’t for that, then what do these things count for in the end?”

Looking at Walsh’s troubled face, it strikes Case that the Major’s earlier indignation at not receiving his due for bringing Sitting Bull into parley is merely a reflection of his anger at having compromised his own principles. Case says, “I think you hold yourself to too high a standard, and Bull as well. A man in your position needs to be realistic and keep his sympathies in check. Sitting Bull will choose his friends to suit the situation. There is plenty of talk in Montana that he’s trying to form alliances right now – with the Blackfoot, the Assiniboine, wherever he can make them.”

“I’ve heard the same things and questioned him carefully about it. He gave me his word this isn’t true, and I believe him.”

“You know very well that alliances are kept in secret and only announced when the time is fortuitous. If he is content to sit in your pocket now it is because it affords him some benefit and protection. But I suspect the time will come when he won’t find it so comfortable there. When it does, he will have no scruples about doing whatever he needs to do to advance his cause.”

Walsh’s answer is sharp. “Not at my expense. He would never do anything to harm me personally. I’m not as bad a judge of character as you seem to think. I’ve had plenty of time to take the measure of the man. I’ve eaten with him, slept in his lodge. And I’ll tell you this, I’ve never met a straighter, more upright fellow.” The Major hesitates. “And I’m the one who has put him squarely in my pocket, in spite of what the costs may be to him.”

Case feels a surge of impatience. “It’s the way of the world. If it became a choice between survival and friendship, which do you think Sitting Bull would choose? Which would you choose?”

The Major snaps, “Way of the world? Don’t patronize me, my boy. And what business do you have, pronouncing on the character of a man you haven’t met?”

n="justify">Case says, “Then rectify my ignorance. Introduce us. I’d like to meet him.” As an afterthought he adds, “And interview him for my paper.”

Walsh stands, pulling at his bottom lip. “You know that might be a worthwhile thing. Canadians ought to have a chance to see matters from Bull’s side of the fence. The government is in such a damned fever to pitch him out the door. It’s all Colonel Macleod and his henchmen can think of, earning credit with Ottawa for evicting Bull from the property. How happy they would be to see him plunked down on some American reservation to grow potatoes and polish a missionary’s pew with his arse for the rest of his days.” He gives Case a sidelong glance. “Somebody ought to tell the truth about how things stand here at present, set the record straight for the public.”

Feeling a twinge of conscience, Case hastily says, “There’s no assurance an interview that presents the truth
would
be published. I can make no promises on that score.”

Walsh turns a deaf ear to Case’s qualification. “I’ll get Louis Léveillé to translate for us. Terry has asked the Sioux to dance for the commission tonight. He thinks that gesture will please them, set a good atmosphere for the talks tomorrow. Maybe we can meet after the Sioux perform.” He stands a moment, thinking, then says, “I must be off now. I have an appointment with Colonel Macleod. I’ll get a message to you when I have the interview arranged. Give careful thought to your questions for Bull. You have a lot to learn about the man.”

Case watches as Walsh crosses the parade ground, his gait tentative, his eyes contemplating the ground. Case has never seen the man in this light before. The lion is limping because he believes he has betrayed a man whose loyalty he owns. That is the thorn in his paw and it needs to be drawn.

The air is filled with the shriek of eagle-bone whistles, the heartbeat of rawhide hand drums, the shrill, quavering voices of the Indian singers. A huge bonfire roars in the fort’s square, pine knots crack, greasy billows of smoke churn and spit sparks, the whitewashed palisades of the fort are smeared with the violent red and yellow brushstrokes of the fire.

The night is crisp and clear; a blue moon stares down on the dancers. The breath of the Police and Americans, bundled up in heavy coats, smokes as they gaze at the breech-clouted warriors weaving and stamping, sweat steaming from their naked skin. Bodies are slashed, blazed, dotted, and zigzagged with paint. A yellow face, a vermilion mouth. One eye, rimmed in white, stares out of a coal-black countenance. A blue mask spotted with white raindrops pecks at onlookers. Heavy braids whip and jerk as warriors stalk and lunge, re-enacting old war deeds, their moccasins kicking up clouds of dust that shimmer and glow in the light of the flames.

Rain in the Face wears an eagle-feather bonnet capped with curved and menacing buffalo horns. His body is completely covered in charcoal, except for his ribs, which are marked with bone-white streaks of paint. The skeleton gyrates, singing his battle exploits to Macleod and Terry. An interpreter leans down between their chairs, mumbling Rain in the Face’s words in their ears.

The dance, intended as a conciliatory gesture before the opening of negotiations, has taken an unfortunate turn. It is known that Terry is well aware there is no greater hater of the Custer family among the Sioux than Rain in the Face. Once arrested by Tom Custer, the General’s brother, the Sioux warrior spent three months in the Fort Lincoln jail before he made his escape. Now he describes to General Terry how he revenged himself on the Custer brothers at Little Bighorn. Shaking a scalp-decorated coup stick in Terry’s face, he points out which of his trophies he peeled from Long Knives’ heads, demonstrates how he rode among the soldiers at Little Bighorn, caving in their skulls with his stone hammer. Terry sits, lockjawed, one hand pulling at his beard while Rain in the Face taunts him with the carnage he wreaked.

Leaning against a palisade wall, Case fastens his eyes on a figure huddled up in a blanket in a dark corner of the fort. Earlier that evening, Louis Léveillé had pointed him out to Case and identified him as Sitting Bull. Seemingly oblivious to the proceedings, the chieftain keeps to his corner, praying, mourning the recent death of his little son.

Case turns his gaze to Walsh, positioned directly behind Terry and Macleod, standing with his arms folded across his chest. The Major may have been relegated to the second rank of luminaries, but he is not a man to let himself pass unnoticed. He has exchanged his uniform for a fringed buckskin jacket and a slouch hat decorated with an eagle feather and long silk scarf. Has Terry remarked that Walsh shares Custer’s taste for strutting about in fancy dress? Has he noted the scarcely disguised amusement with which the Major is watching Rain in the Face’s performance?

Earlier that afternoon, when Léveillé had brought news from Walsh confirming that an appointment had been set with Sitting Bull, Case had seized the opportunity to enlist the Métis scout’s services, have him introduce him to some of the chief’s lieutenants and translate certain questions he had concerning their leader. The answers he received had been most informative. But as the hours passed, and the interrogation of Sitting Bull grew nearer, Case had felt a growing trepidation that soon turned into a bad-tempered disquiet. Perhaps Walsh was right. What business did he have judging the Sioux chief, or anyone else for that matter? What was he risking, proceeding with this interview? What had he risked by leaving Ada and coming here at all?

All afternoon, agitated thoughts had raced through his mind until he sought to banish them with a bottle. The whiskey hasn’t smoothed him out as he thought it would; it has done the opposite. Now he is full of Dutch courage, and ready to let the cards fall where they may.

The dancing ends a little before ten o’clock. Case lingers outside the gate of the fort, wondering why it is taking Walsh so long to scare up Léveillé. A short distance away, soldiers and Police are fraternizing in the American camp. The tents are tinted powder blue by the moonlight. Coffee pots are on the boil and a brisk trade in souvenirs is under way between Police and soldiers: insignia, badges, uniform buttons, even the odd lance pennant and regimental guidon change hands. Loud raconteurs hold forth, a game of craps is being played on a blanket spread on the grass, a policeman and a soldier arm-wrestle on a packing case, strain mightily for the honour of their respective nations as their compatriots lay wagers and cheer them on.

As he watches all this, Case takes an occasional pull from a hip flask, reinforcing his resolve. Walsh finally appears, Léveillé in tow. Louis is looking chastised and penitent, and Case wonders if the scout hasn’t been dressed down by Walsh for taking him to meet the Sioux headmen. The Major likes to run things his way.

“Case,” says Walsh abruptly, “are you ready? I don’t see you carrying a notebook.”

“What is writ in my impeccable memory is never lost.”

Walsh must have caught a whiff of his breath. He gives him a suspicious look. “Are you drunk?”

“No. But I have had a few drops.”

Walsh frowns. “Well, come along then.”

Sitting Bull’s travelling lodge is set apart from the rest of the Sioux tipis to afford the grieving father privacy. A fire burning inside plays on the skins and flickers in the doorway. The entry flap is pinned open; Bull is expecting them.

Léveillé calls out a greeting; the trio stoops and enters. Walsh presents the chief a rope of tobacco wrapped in red flannel. Hands are shaken all around. Léveillé introduces Case at length, which leads Case to surmise that the guide has been given instructions by Walsh to inflate his stature and importance. Sitting Bull solemnly nods, regarding him with a shrewd eye throughout Léveillé’s peroration.

This is the first time Case has seen the famous chief at close range. He is a formidable-looking man, barrel chested, the head monumental, face broad, deeply creased, thin lipped. But it is Bull’s sharp, penetrating black eyes that rivet his attention, so much so that when Léveillé finally concludes his lengthy introduction, and Bull gestures to his guests to seat themselves on the mountain sheep fleeces he has spread for them, Case hovers awkwardly on his feet for several seconds before sinking down next to Walsh.

Bull lights a pipe, a polished red stone bowl with a stem sheathed in bird skins and hung with eagle feathers. He prays before passing it round. When the pipe is finished and reverently cleaned, Bull leans back against a willow backrest under a medicine bundle suspended from a lodge pole, and begins to knead one of his legs with big sinewy hands.

Suddenly, Case says, “I am sorry to see that your leg troubles you.”

Sitting Bull gives Léveillé a questioning glance and Louis interprets what Case has said. The chief nods slowly and then, in a sonorous bass, begins to speak, Léveillé’s translation singing accompaniment. “Many years ago when I was a young warrior a Crow challenged me to fight him, man to man. I put on my Strong Heart bonnet and sash and went out to face him. I killed that Crow but I took a ball from his musket in my foot. It has troubled me for a long time, but it is a small trouble.” He pauses, perhaps to lend weight to the implication that he now faces larger concerns. Then he says, “But let us speak of why you have come to me.” Pointing to Walsh and using the name the Sioux have given him, Bull says, “Long Lance told me you were once one of the Old Woman’s pony soldiers, but that now you cry the news all over her country. He says that is why we must talk. That you can speak the truth about Sitting Bull and his people so that all of the Old Woman’s white children will understand how the Americans made us suffer. Then they will have pity on us.” Sitting Bull smiles. “And Long Lance tells me you are a great friend of his. I am a friend of Long Lance too, and I would like his friend to be mine also.”

“Yes,” says Case, “Walsh and I are very good friends. Such good friends that when he is puzzled he comes to me for counsel and I point the way to him.”

Walsh remarks, “That’s pretty damn thick, Case.”

Léveillé’s eyes flit uncomfortably from Walsh to Case, uncertain whether he should translate what has been said. There is a moment of silence. The Major gives a grudging bob of the head. “All right, Louis, get on with it.”

The Métis passes on Case’s claim to be Walsh’s adviser. The chief studies Case for a moment, then leans forward and taps him on the knee with his forefinger. “What you say surprises me. Why does Long Lance need your wisdom? Why does the Old Woman give him her pony soldiers to lead if he does not know the way to go?”

“Sometimes the horse with the biggest lungs, the biggest heart, gallops so fast he cannot see the holes that lie ahead that will break his legs. He needs someone to warn him of them.”

“And Long Lance is such a horse?”

“Yes. He is the kind of strong horse that runs as if nothing can bring him down.”

Walsh interjects. “Bull isn’t interested in your half-baked ruminations about my temperament.”

Case ignores him. He sees that the chief is pensively fondling something dangling on his chest. When he looks more closely, he sees it is a crucifix.