The Crossed Sabres (22 page)

He entered and hung the half from a nail in a rafter. “You might want me to salt that down for you. It’ll keep better that way.”

“I don’t know how to do that. I’ll get the salt.” She watched as he began to treat the meat. “I really appreciate that, Tom. Now, I’d better get back to my classroom. Come meet my pupils, Laurie.”

When Winslow finished salting the meat, he washed his hands and went to the schoolhouse. The Indians looked at him questioningly, and Faith said, “Say something to them in their language, Tom.”

He said a few words, which pleased them. Seeing their smiles, Faith asked, “What did you say?”

“That they are a fine-looking group, and that they have a fine teacher.”

Faith flushed and shook her head. “Gray Dove there is trying to teach me the language. She’s a good teacher—but I’m so slow.”

“Takes time,” Tom said. “But it’ll mean a lot to these
people.” He moved toward a chair, nodding to Laurie. “Come over here and let’s listen. Maybe we’ll learn something.”

Their presence flustered Faith for a time; then she got caught up in her work. She was trying to teach them the letters of the alphabet, and not doing very well. She drew the first three letters on a piece of slate fastened to the wall, pointed at them, and tried to get the students to repeat the sound. They responded poorly, so she said to Winslow, “They just don’t seem to see any sense in learning.”

“I guess that’s about my story when I was their age,” Winslow replied. He told her about his experience at teaching the Apaches in Arizona in a school the government had started for them. “It seems they learn in spurts—or it did there. No progress at all; then all of a sudden they catch on.”

He paused for a moment. “Well, that’s about all I can tell you,” he said and he stood up. “We’d better be riding on, Laurie.” He walked to the door and Faith came out to stand beside the two as they prepared to mount. “Thanks again for the meat,” she said. She was unaware of how lovely she looked in her long-sleeved blue woolen dress, with the sunshine highlighting her auburn hair as she stood there.

Winslow hesitated, then noting that Laurie had gone to get one last drink of water from the well, he said quickly, “Last time I was here, Faith, I was pretty surly. Sorry about that.”

His confession surprised her, for it was her impression that he was not a man who could apologize easily. And now as she looked up at him, some of her surprise mirrored in her eyes, she knew she’d been right. But she was pleased at the character trait that enabled him to admit his wrong.

She said simply, “I was hurt, Tom—but now it’s all right.”

He looked down at the ground, a tall man suddenly made taciturn by his admission. Then he looked up and saw the joy in her eyes. “Well,” he said with a deep sigh, “I’ve been rehearsing that speech for days. Don’t know why it’s so hard for a man to say he’s been a fool.”

“Let’s forget it,” Faith said. “I’ve missed you and Laurie. Will you let her come and spend weekends sometimes?”

“She’d sure like that.” Laurie ran up, and the two swung into their saddles. “Maybe I’ll come and hear you preach,” he grinned, feeling greatly relieved. The incident had burdened him heavily, but now it was as if a dark cloud had passed away. He took off his hat and slapped the flank of his horse, sending him out of the yard, dragging the mule with his neck outstretched.

Startled by his actions, Laurie stared after him, then cried, “Goodbye, Miss Faith!” Digging her heels into the sides of her mare, she turned around and shouted, “I’ll make him come to church!”

Then they were gone. As she turned to go back into the building, Faith felt strangely lighter, and the dark eyes of the Indian children watched her carefully, wondering why she was so much happier than before.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Death on Patrol

“Prepare to mount. Mount!”

Twenty bodies hit the McClellan saddles, accompanied by the grunt of horses and the clack of carbines and canteens and belted trenching tools.

“Right by twos, march!”

The line moved, gray and indistinct; saddle leather against the ruffled beat of the walking horses sang a rhythmic melody as Captain Algernon Smith led the men of A Company past the guard post. They were joined by twenty more troopers commanded by Second Lieutenant Spence Grayson of E Company. They moved out at a fast trot two by two, up the slope of the ridge east of the fort, the line evening out as they headed away from the river.

Captain Smith rode beside Sergeant Hines, with Winslow off to one side. The long double rank of troopers was silent at that hour but gradually took on life as the sun rose higher and the warm rays and ride loosened their muscles. Most of the troopers were Irish, their faces mustached, burned and weather-beaten. Some of the countenances of the group reflected a mixture of good values, hardness, or wildness; others, young, untested innocence.

Winslow sat easy in the saddle, conscious of the sounds around him, the squeezing sibilance of leather, the clinking of metal gear, the slap of canteens, and the talk among the men as the hour moved on. He turned and looked down the line, pleased with the sight of the column, the men so dark
of face that their eyes seemed to glitter. It was a tough line, like a sinuous whip being dragged across the country. He saw Babe O’Hara grin at him, and grinned back, glad for a new rapport between them.

They paused for a rest two hours out of the fort, then again at noon. The air was brisk, but not as cold as it would be in a month. Today the breeze was fresh, clean, and so sharp it went to the bottom of a man’s lungs. About one in the afternoon, they found Captain Moylan and his men waiting for them at the foot of a long, broken butte that lay along the west. Moylan and his men were worn thin, eyes bleary with fatigue. Lieutenant Grayson came forward to listen as Moylan gave the details of his scout. Grayson didn’t look at Winslow, but kept his eyes on Moylan who said, “We’ve stayed pretty close to them, Smith. Too close, maybe.”

“How’s that, Captain?” Smith inquired.

“They could have broken up into twos and threes and faded away,” Moylan went on, scratching his chin. “That’s what they usually do.” He cautioned Smith, advising, “Be careful, Captain.” Finishing his report, he motioned his command forward and as they passed, the waiting troopers and officers saw that some of Moylan’s men were so weary they could hardly sit in their saddles.

“Sounds encouraging, Smith,” Lieutenant Grayson said, his eyes keen with excitement. “We’re fresh and they’ve been on the run for a long time.” He waited for Smith to respond, then urged, “Let’s head out after them as fast as we can.”

“No,” Captain Smith said, “I think we’ll be a little cautious. If these are some of Gall’s warriors, they’re tough.” He turned to Winslow. “Sergeant, ride out and see if you can get a reading on this bunch.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Winslow left, along with Yellow Face, who had kept well off to himself, a frown creased Grayson’s brow, and he said, “I don’t trust these agency bucks. He could lead us right into an ambush.”

“I doubt that,” Smith said briefly. “And we’ve got Winslow along to check his findings.”

“He’s brand new at this.”

“Charlie Reynolds says he’s all right—and Charlie’s a hard man to please.”

Smith kept the troop at an even pace, and at four o’clock Winslow and Yellow Face returned at a fast gallop. Pulling his horse to a halt, Winslow said, “They’re still bunched up, Captain.”

“How far ahead?”

“Maybe five miles.”

“You sure, Sergeant?”

“Sure enough, sir,” Winslow said emphatically. “We got a glimpse of them from the top of a rise.”

“Let’s hit them now!” Grayson said.

The inclination to attack was clearly in Captain Smith, Winslow saw, for the stocky officer was a pugnacious man. But now as he looked toward the low-lying hills settling into the fast falling shadows, he hesitated, finding something not to his liking. Finally he shook his head, saying, “No, I think not. By the time we caught up with them, it’d be dusk at least—or maybe dark. Better to get an early start and try to make contact as soon as possible.”

Grayson was disappointed, but when he tried to protest, Smith shook his head, saying in a clipped tone, “That’s it, Grayson.” Then he turned to Winslow. “Sergeant, is there a spot to camp with water?”

“Yes, sir. A small creek in the timberline—about two miles.”

The troop advanced to a scattered fringe of trees that marked a creek flowing from the northwest. Darkness closed in, and the men removed their blankets and started small fires. As the guards took the horses away from the camp, the smell of bacon and coffee laced the cold air, and soon Winslow was sitting in front of one of the fires, eating hungrily. Babe O’Hara and Leo Dempsey, another Irishman, were swapping stories concerning their success with women. Billy Satterfield,
at eighteen, the youngest recruit of A Company, listened avidly. He was a thin towheaded boy, just off the family farm in Ohio, and was gullible to a fault. Ace Guidry, a dark-skinned Cajun from New Orleans, grinned at the boy. “Boy, don’t believe all you hear from them two.”

Dempsey, a tough one who didn’t like to be challenged, said, “Keep your mouth shut, Guidry, or I’ll shut it for you!”

A long, thin-bladed knife magically appeared in Guidry’s hand, and he said softly, “Come on to me, boy. I’ll beat the Indians to your scalp.”

Dempsey half rose to his feet, but O’Hara broke in. “Cut it out, you two. Ace, put that pig-sticker away before I take it away from you.”

There was a moment’s tension, but then Ace laughed and put the knife away. “I don’t think I’ll try your mettle tonight.”

Corporal Nathan Zeiss, a sober German, changed the subject. “You think we’ll have a fight tomorrow, Sergeant?” Zeiss had a worried look on his blunt face, for he was married, with a child on the way. His hitch was up in four months and he was anxious to be out of the army and with his family in Kansas.

“Looks like it, Nathan,” Winslow said. He took a bite of bacon and chewed it thoughtfully. He was aware that most of the Seventh had not seen action, and this small group was typical. Only O’Hara and Dempsey had been in action; the others were green and nervous. He had seen this often during the war, had been green himself before Bull Run. There was something mystic about war, he thought, looking at the faces of the men. As terrible as it was, men were drawn to it, hypnotized, it seemed, by its very violence. He remembered his brother Mark relating what he had heard Lee say about it. Mark had been a courier at the time, and had carried a message to Lee. The general had been looking down on the Union troops who had crossed the Rappahannock River. The Confederate Army was entrenched along the top of a hill in an impregnable position, but the Union General Burnside
sent the troops against it. The Federals had moved across the field in perfect parade-ground order, lines straight and in step with the music of a band. They had marched straight into the mouths of the Confederate guns time and time again, falling like rows of wheat cut with a scythe as the muskets and artillery of Lee’s men shot them down.

Mark had overheard Lee say to his adjutant: “It’s well that war is so terrible, or we would become too fond of it!”

Now, sitting in front of the fire and watching the faces of the young soldiers, Winslow saw fear and apprehension, yet it was mixed with anticipation of the battle. He sipped his coffee, wondering which of them would not be around a campfire after this one. But realizing such thoughts were not for him to express, he spoke up cheerfully, “It’s a small bunch, boys, and they usually break up as soon as they get hit.”

Monte Simms, a tall, lanky Texan, agreed. “That’s right, Tom. I been on three chases after the Sioux, and they none of them ever stuck together like these.”

“I hope we get ’em surrounded!” The speaker was an undersized redhead, the truculence emanating from his thin face. He bore the unlikely name of Jeff Davis, suffering countless fights over this. He looked at Winslow, adding, “I expect they’re plain yellow, Sarge. Ain’t that right?”

Winslow grinned at him. He liked the young man, for he had a cheerful disposition and was always ready to tackle any chore handed him. “Well, Jeff, if Sitting Bull and Roman Nose and Gall are cowards—I guess nobody ever found out about it.”

“Why don’t they fight, then?” Davis demanded.

“They do fight, Jeff,” Winslow answered. “Matter of fact, aside from hunting, that’s about all an Indian does. The squaws do most of the hard work. The braves just lie around and tell lies to each other except when they’re hunting. But fighting’s what they like best. There’s been war between the tribes since Columbus’s men stepped off the boat. An Indian boy goes through basic training before he loses his
baby teeth and continues on as he grows up, learning how to use a bow, a knife, and a lance. By the time he’s in his teens, he can put an arrow through a man’s eye from fifty yards away—and enjoy it.”

But Winslow’s answer didn’t satisfy the young soldier. “Well, gosh, Tom, why don’t they stand still and
fight
if they’re so tough?”

“Not their style,” Winslow shrugged. “We fight like the Europeans do, which is pretty dumb. But it’s a tradition and men love tradition.”

“Like the Europeans?” Zeiss asked. “How is that, Sergeant?”

“In Europe there’s lots of flat country. The generals would line their armies up across from each other, and they’d advance. Each man had one shot in his musket, so the army that had the most men would usually win. That worked in Europe, but it won’t work in America.”

“Why won’t it work?” Billy Satterfield asked. He was sitting cross-legged, his eyes shining in the firelight. He appeared to be about fifteen years old.

“Because the country is full of hills and woods. When Braddock came over and tried to fight the French and Indians like that, they hid in the woods at the Monongahela and destroyed him. George Washington was Braddock’s aide, and he learned a lesson from that. But men learn hard, and time after time in the Civil War, even the best commanders threw huge armies against men who were entrenched and some who had repeating rifles.”