Murder at Medicine Lodge (20 page)

“Thank you,” I said. “You've been very helpful. I will next speak to Sergeant Cullen.”

Hicks snorted in disdain, stuck his cigar in his mouth and muttered, barely loud enough for Billy to hear. As Billy and I were walking away I asked him what Hicks had said. Billy grunted, “He said, ‘Good luck to you.'”

*   *   *

Cullen has to be the nastiest man I have ever encountered. And not simply because he was noticeably neglectful about bathing. Everything about him was nasty—his demeanor and manner of indolent speech. Yet as awful as he was, if Hawwy hadn't been there, Cullen's insolence would have been much worse.

“Don't know what you're talking about,” he answered, languidly shifting the wad of tobacco in his cheek. Sending Hawwy a look of sheer loathing, he spit a brown stream off to the side. Chewing again, he said, “Everybody knows Hicks is a liar and a horse's ass. You can't believe a word he says.”

“I believe him,” Hawwy fumed.

Cullen's smirk became a mocking half-smile. “Well, Lieutenant, that is your privilege.”

The half-smile stretched, indicating that he was not afraid of Hawwy—of anything, really. Nor did he intend to answer any more questions. As he sauntered away, I came to the conclusion that his overconfidence had nothing to do with the recent death of his primary accuser. After all, Hicks and the objectionable Miss Tuttle were still able to testify to his misdeed. This had to mean Cullen had something stronger than two living witnesses.

Stanley was enraged. “That man is a disgrace!”

For once, Henry Stanley and I were in complete agreement.

Having missed breakfast, I was too hungry to think properly. As it was nearing the noontime meal, I started off with Billy to wait for food in the enlisted men's line but Stanley wouldn't hear of that. For some unknown reason, he wanted me to eat with him. As my doing that meant Billy would have to come too, Stanley hesitantly agreed to that as well. Which is how I found myself sitting at a table, dining with all those newspapermen.

Those white men might be there to write stories about Indians, but they were a bit discomfited that one was so near to them in the open-sided tent. Then, suddenly remembering that Mrs. Adams was an Indian too, and not wishing to offend her in any way, aside from the lift of brows, the meaningful exchange of glances, they offered no overt objection. Having never before sat at a cloth-covered table, nor been faced with an array of cutlery, I felt at odds with the situation myself. Following stiff introductions, Billy and I were shunted to the end of the table and promptly disregarded. After hurriedly sitting down when everyone else did, my hands nervously but lightly touched the fork, knife, and spoon lying before me. Mrs. Adams, looking pretty in a bright blue dress with a white collar and white cuffs at the end of long sleeves, rested her elbows on the table, hands clasped together. In this pose she craned around the man seated next to her, speaking Arapaho in a near whisper.

“Have you ever eaten with anything other than your fingers?”

I must have sent her a scathing look, for her expression lost its smugness, became instead startled. Then she turned away, rapidly conversing in English to the man on the other side of her. Instantly I felt sorry at having offended her, for without her, I was at a loss. So was Billy. Our presence was generally ignored, the soft hum of conversation flowing all around us, and Stanley became so caught up in it that he completely forgot his two invited guests.

I was decidedly uncomfortable by the time the food was brought in, carried on big trays by three black soldiers. I didn't look at the soldiers because I was too busy trying to place my napkin across my lap, as I'd observed the others doing. I heard Billy muttering to the soldier placing a plate of food before him and with a pleasant start, recognized William. He beamed me a toothy smile as he placed my plate down, then moved on. I kicked Billy's leg and whispered frantically, “Tell him I would like to speak to him.”

“Now?”

“No. After we've escaped these people.”

The meal consisted of stewed meat, pan-fried potatoes, and a large slice of bread. From the corners of my eyes, I watched the others, not doing anything until I was sure I knew just what to do. Before anyone ate, a large man at the end of the table stood and everyone bowed their heads. I bowed mine too. Billy didn't. Then that man talked for a while and sat down. Everyone lifted their heads and the meal began and previous conversations resumed.

With the smallest dull-edged knife, people smeared a yellow substance on their bread. When the little crock containing the butter came my way, I, too, slathered my slice of bread, and with the correct knife. The sharper knife was used for cutting the meat, and awkwardly I held that knife in my right hand, the largest fork in the left. Then, before taking a bite, everyone, with the exception of Stanley, switched the fork and knife around. As this seemed to me a waste of effort, I did it the way Stanley did, keeping the fork in my left hand, continuing to hold the knife in my right.

After all that tedious cutting and forking, I was very glad when that meal was over. But after the plates were picked up and taken away, I was confused as to why everyone remained seated. Until William and the other two soldiers came back, once again carrying heavy trays. I had never before seen or tasted apple pie and since then, I must confess, I haven't been able to get enough of it. But when that first wedge was placed before me, I couldn't have been less interested in it if I'd tried. Using the big spoon, I clumsily ate apple pie. It was wonderful, the combination of sharp and sweet tastes pleasantly melting together on my tongue. That dessert was worth every minute of the anxiety I'd suffered through the main meal. I would have gladly gone through it all again for another piece of that pie. Hopefully, I looked up to see if there was anyone who might not be enjoying their portion as keenly as I, might even pass their toyed-over plate in my direction. No such joy. Conversation had become nonexistent; everyone at the table was concentrating on eating this final and most delicious course. Once my pie was gone, I struggled against the temptation of picking up the small plate and licking it clean. Temptation was winning until Mrs. Adams leaned forward and spoke softly.

“You have done very well. These men are saying that you are a credit to the Kiowas.”

A pleased smile on her face, she sat back and began to speak across the table to a man who was openly watching me while, forlornly, I only had eyes for the traces of apple-pie filling smearing my plate. I didn't take my longing eyes off of it until that plate was picked up and taken away.

*   *   *

It was easy to get away from the others, even Stanley. The newspapermen might have been impressed with me, but they didn't want to talk to me or be seen standing anywhere near me. Their attitude about Billy was much worse—for, not caring what anyone of them thought, after not bowing his head during that man's talk, he'd eaten the entire meal using just the flat-bladed knife. Their contempt of him was confirmed by Mrs. Adams when she paused before me during her sweeping exit, informing me that Billy was uncivilized, that I should choose my friends more wisely. As far as I was concerned, I had. Billy was worth ten of anyone in that tent.

I have yet to alter from this opinion.

*   *   *

We found William washing dishes. He was very friendly, teasing us about our recent ordeal.

“But that last part was good,” I said, patting my stomach appreciatively. “What was it?”

William said, “Apple pie.”

Those were the first English words I ever learned. Billy nudged me and said, “He wants to know if you would like more.”

I nodded with my entire body. William laughed as he stood, flinging sudsy white soap from his dark arms.

He gave me an entire pie, and not one of the busy soldiers working in the large cook tent seemed to care that I ate from the metal plate with my hands. Between gobbling bites, I asked William questions. Savoring each mouthful, I listened to what William had to say.

“I have been in the army for three years. I joined after my old master's place was burned. That was in Georgia. The officer that freed me, gave me a place in the army, was Lieutenant Danny. He is the bravest man I have ever known.”

I stopped eating, raised my eyes and fixed on William's. His description of a brave young officer did not fit with the lieutenant I'd known out on the prairie. The even more glaring discrepancy was my memory of the two sergeants roughing up the lieutenant, as well as his appearing to be mortally afraid of them. William seemed to understand my thoughts.

“During the war,” he said softly, “the lieutenant wasn't afraid of anything. Men followed him without question.” William looked away, the side of his face twitching as he lapsed into deep thought. Taking a deep breath, letting it go with a sad sigh he said, “It's only been lately that he's been … nervous.” Vexed by this, William stood up from the little three-legged stool he'd been perched on and cried, “He doesn't talk anymore. He used to talk all the time. And laugh—Lord, that man could laugh. He was always with us, his brown boys.” William stabbed his chest with his thumb. “That's what he called us, his brown boys. He'd sit right down and eat with us and laugh at all our jokes. He was part of us and he made us feel like we were part of him. We didn't think nothing about following that man right into the mouth of hell because he was Lieutenant Danny, and where he went, we went. No questions asked.”

William's expression became indescribably sad. “Since coming to the Territory, he doesn't come around us much. Everything is changed. We hardly ever see him, and when we do, all he says is, ‘What do you want, Trooper?' We can't go to him like we used to, we can't count on him like in the old times. Now all we got is Captain Mac, and that man wouldn't care if we all fell off the world tomorrow. This army has become a sad piece of work. I'd quit if I had somewhere else to go.”

“You have no family?” I asked.

William barked a laugh. “You don't understand about slave days, do you? Slaves didn't have families. All we had were masters. Now we don't even have that.” His eyes locked with mine. “I know you're hunting up a way to help Little Jonas, but if you got time during your hunting to look for the man we once called our friend, we'd appreciate it if you'd tell him that he's missed.”

Listening, I heard more “I” than “we” but what I said was that I would do my best to find the Buffalo Soldiers' missing hero.

Rising from the stool, I handed over the emptied pie tin and William took it. I signed that I would like to wash away the stickiness of the apple pie. William pointed back to the big pot with the low fire burning underneath it. I went there and took a good long time about scrubbing my hands, arms, and face in the hot, sudsy water. That kind of bath felt good and that pot held a lot of water. What I liked best was that a fire could be kept going directly under it. I just knew that Crying Wind would love to have a pot like that. Picking it up and casually carting it off would require the combined strengths of three stout men and one highly enthusiastic boy. That pot was not like the shovels. It wasn't something I could simply fold up and hide under my vest. But still, I knew my wife would want it. She could use it for just about anything—but my mind kept telling me that it would be perfect for winter bathing, that this pot would end forever my turning blue in an icy creek or river. It takes hours to feel warm again after a bath like that. And sometimes the pain is incredible. Yet every bit of this is endured winter after winter because my people have always had a deep-seated need to be clean. The worst insult a Kiowa can give is to say someone is dirty.

Cullen was a dirty person. I thought about Cullen as I finished cleaning myself. When I returned to William, I said, “I have one last question for you. I want to know how you got that wound to your leg.”

William was instantly alarmed, then became agitated as he went into a great long tale. According to him, Little Jonas had attacked him for no reason.

“He hit me. Hard enough to knock me down.”

“You had no idea what he was talking about?”

“No!”

“When did you discover that your spare trousers were missing?”

“The next day. I went right to Captain Mac but, as usual, that man was about as helpful as a bug bite. I saw him take out the report forms but I wasn't allowed to stay around and make sure he filled them out, so on my own I started asking around and then here comes Little Jonas again, this time saying that everyone in the camp was telling him how I was calling him a thief. Well, that made me mad because I hadn't said a word about him to anybody, except maybe that he'd had no right to hit me the way he had, so I yelled right back, told him I knew he had taken my pants. That's when we really got into it. I was peeling potatoes and had a knife in my hand. In the fight, I ended up sticking myself with it and that's how my leg got cut.”

“How long did you take care of the wound before seeking medical aid?”

“Three days.” He eyed Billy for a second, then looked away. “I don't trust army doctors. They're the cause for a lot of nubs getting tossed out of the army.”

“Nubs?”

William raised his voice. “Men missing an arm or a leg! We call them nubs. I didn't want to be a nubby black man trying to look for work or be begging for handouts, so I took care of myself as long as I could. When it got so bad that it hurt all the time and made me feel sick in my belly, I started thinking that being a live nub was better that being a dead trooper. If you hadn't been where you were the day I got taken into sick call, most likely I wouldn't be walking around like I am, 'cause those army doctors do love to cut off arms and legs. You did me a big favor. I won't ever forget it. As long as I'm on mess duty, when you want pie, you'll get pie.”