Murder at Medicine Lodge (24 page)

“I once thought that Hicks and Cullen were friends.”

“Cullen doesn't have friends,” he snorted. “Neither did Hicks.”

I mulled this for a second, then said something offhand, the remark meant only to keep the conversation going, about how even good friends can often have strong arguments—these arguments even leading to fights where one man accidentally hurts another. I told him that such things were normal and that he did have friends, and on and on I went, his big head turning between Billy and me while I droned on and Billy dutifully translated. I continued to blather and as I did, Little Jonas's hands became huge fists. When his voice became a roar, I jumped off the cot and stood just out of his reach, looking expectantly at Billy.

“He said…” And Billy went on to explain. He was still interpreting as I grabbed Little Jonas's hand and shook it so vigorously that I rattled his chains. Confusion shone from his black eyes but he kept his mouth firmly closed. The instant I let go of his hand, he turned his face away and pretended I was no longer there. But that was all right. I understood why he was angry and besides, I already had what I'd come for. Walking the few steps necessary, I went to Hawwy, indicated my desire to leave. As we walked out of the tent, I informed him that I needed to reexamine the uniform found out on the prairie, as well as Hicks's corpse.

Hawwy stammered that I had better begin with the latter as the army wasn't known to lollygag when it came to burying dead soldiers. Then he led us straightaway to where the short-shrift funeral would soon be taking place.

Hicks's final home was located in a good place. The grave being dug would face east, each day offering the dead man a glorious sunrise. What I liked best was that his grave would always be sheltered by the long, hanging branches of a tall cottonwood. Turning away from the grave, I saw that this site, high on a gentle slope, afforded a splendid view of the wide valley. When he'd been alive, Hicks hadn't inspired the impression that marveling at the downright splendor of the frontier was something he bothered with, even on a perfunctory basis. Dead, he was bound to be considerably less appreciative. Looking now at the wrapped-up remains of Sergeant Hicks, I thought about what he'd said, that he had remained in the army because he had a wife and child to support. I pondered that, while Hawwy spoke with the two soldiers digging the grave. When he had finished talking, Hawwy spun on his heels and sprinted back to where I stood waiting with Billy and Stanley.

“They said we can look,” Hawwy told us, “but that we'd better be quick. The chaplain and a team of officers will be coming soon to begin the burial.”

Billy was still in the midst of translating this when I hurriedly went for the body.

The first thing I noticed as we untied the ropes lashing the blanket to the cadaver and pulled the blanket away, was the strong smell of cigars. That odor, having been trapped inside the thick blanket, wafted for freedom. After a few seconds of exposure to cool air, the initial pungency subsided and was reduced to a strong hint rather than an outright reek. Hicks had been stripped down to coarse-textured, long white underclothing. Surprised by this, I looked across the body to Hawwy. Billy clearly wasn't happy about having to be so close to the dead man, but because Hawwy needed him to talk fast for us, he stood as near as he could without having to shout. Stanley, on the other hand, was hovering just behind Hawwy, his expression eager.

“His uniform will be cleaned, mended, then reissued.”

“His boots too?”

“Yes.”

“What about his gun? His side pistol?”

“Guns do not belong to soldiers,” Hawwy said flatly. “Guns are army property.”

“Are soldiers permitted to make warriors' medicine marks on their weapons?”

“No,” he said, his tone final, “they are not.”

I puzzled that one. The warriors I knew would not think of going on the war road without having their weapons … well … “blessed,” if you must. Then those weapons were marked not only with the signs of ownership but with the signs of whatever spirit power was with that warrior. If the army did not allow soldiers any personalization of pistols and rifles, how did anyone know which gun belonged to which soldier?

Throwing that question aside I next looked for any personal items inside the shroud. “Where is his watch?” I cried.

“Oh,” Hawwy said in an impassive tone, “they must have taken his watch to send back to his family.”

This most certainly was not a respectful way to treat the dead. A man's most prized possessions needed to be buried with him. Shaking my head at the barbarity of the whites, I went on to the examination of the corpse. The dead man wasn't warm anymore, but he wasn't completely stiff. As easily as if he were still alive I could push his lips around, raise them up and pull them out, even open the mouth while I inspected teeth, gums, and the area under the tongue. And while I did this, Stanley hung over Hawwy, asking, “What is he doing? What is he doing?” I know because Billy chuckled, said that our enthusiastic newspaperman seemed to know only one question when it came to all things concerning me, that question being, “What is he doing?”

Which is yet another reason why I didn't like Stanley. He made me feel as if I were an oddity, an interesting species to study while scribbling down his observations. When he did this, he made me mad enough to want to jump up and down, make outrageous noises, convince him that I was indeed the fearsome, mindless savage he so longed for me to be. I couldn't help but remember as I raised Hicks's tongue and scraped the underside with my fingernail, how Stanley had invited—no
pushed
me into sharing the noonday meal with him, foisting my very unwelcome presence on the other newspapermen and the Washington dignitaries. I realized now that he had most probably done this in the hope that I would behave in some far-fetched manner. Seething as I concluded the examination of Hicks's mouth, I took small comfort in imagining his disappointment that I'd managed to bluff my way through that uncomfortable meal, never mind that I'd been so self-conscious that, until the pie was served, I hadn't appreciated any of the food. The more I thought about Stanley thrusting me into that kind of fiery test, the more determined I became to pay him back. Just when and how, I couldn't think, as I had more on my mind at the moment than petty revenge.

I looked up at Hawwy. “I've found what I came for.”

“Good,” he sighed, looking relieved.

He tensed up again when I said, “Now I need to inspect this man's uniform.”

This need took us straight back to the bombastic Captain Mac.

*   *   *

“God's eyes!” he roared. “Will he never leave?”

Captain Mac was waving his arms while his quarter moon–shaped face was shoved incredibly close to Hawwy's, the latter standing with his chin so tight against his neck that his profile, growing red with anger, blended in almost perfectly with his Adam's apple. Suspecting that any second the confrontation would turn physical, Stanley sidestepped several paces away. Evidently, if fists were about to fly, he wasn't fond of the idea of being caught by a stray. Billy must have had the same exact thought for he huddled close to me, whispering madly against my ear, repeating the clash word for word.

“That Red Stick is a nuisance—a menace. I've said it once, I'll say it again. He has no right to be poking his nose into army business and he most certainly does not have the right to go around accusing innocent troopers of murder.”

Hawwy came strongly to my defense. “May I remind you, sir, the commanding staff have issued him the right to do just that—to find whatever information is possible to be found, either confirming or repudiating the charge of murder currently leveled against the trooper who, at this very moment, is locked in chains and confined to quarters; this Indian you profess to despise is our best hope of averting a war that we most certainly will not win.”

“We have Gattling guns,” Captain Mac fumed.

“But not enough bullets to feed those guns in order to defend ourselves from the tide of warriors surrounding this valley.”

Captain Mac stepped back, his face beet red. In a try for composure, his hands tugged at the hem of his jacket as his straightened his spine.

Hawwy opened his mouth to say something more, but I cut him off.

“Tell the captain there is one way to settle the matter. That if he will indulge me, I will be as quick as I can.”

Hawwy only partially understood me. I turned to Billy but he stood there like a mute, looking mortally afraid of Captain Mac. Roughly pushing him, I yelled, “Tell him what I said.”

Hesitantly, he did. Which sent Captain Mac on a new tear. No longer caring that he was defaming me as well as every one of my grandfathers, I stood my ground, shouting over his bellowing to Billy. Once he stammered through this translation, Captain Mac, seeming eager to prove me a complete fool, escorted us to the supply tent where the uniforms—one belonging to Sergeant Hicks, and the jacket and trousers belonging to Little Jonas and William—were being kept.

I went to the mismatched uniform first. Lifting up only the jacket, I sniffed at it. My actions seemed so ridiculous to Captain Mac that he raised his arms to the ceiling of the storage tent, tipped back his quarter-moon face and let go a belly laugh. As my opinion of the man was that he was little better than an idiot, I was not offended. He continued laughing, whacking Hawwy so hard on the shoulder, that he bucked forward as I set that jacket down and picked up the one belonging to Hicks. Hawwy sent me pleading looks, hoping against hope that I would not let him down, make him look the fool to a superior officer.

Working toward that end, Captain Mac immediately stopped laughing when I took Hicks's pistol out of the holster, brought it up to my chin, allowed it to rest there for a second, then leveled it at him. My holding a gun that was aimed at his heart shocked the very breath out of him. Ever the combative warrior, he was desperately trying to draw out his own sidepiece when I casually cocked back the hammer.

FIFTEEN

Hearing that warning sound, Captain Mac gave up the tussle of trying to get his gun out of the holster, his hands charging higher than his shoulders, the sign of surrender. A very nervous Hawwy followed suit. Seeing a friend with his hands in the air reminded me of Hears The Wolf seizing the moment and my instinctive reaction to it, surrendering right along with the Blue Jackets. Now I understood why Skywalker had gotten so mad, because looking at Hawwy behaving in the same stupid way had me fuming too. Captain Mac was shocked again when I eased the hammer gently home, then approached, offering him the pistol. Captain Mac looked to Hawwy, and on his nod, both cautiously lowered their hands. The captain took the offered gun and then held it in his two hands as if at a loss as to what to do next. Finding his courage, Billy leapt to my side when I called for him, translating as I spoke to Captain Mac.

“I apologize for my former stupidity. For a time I believed that Cullen had lied. That the dead sergeant did not chew his cigars. That's why I needed to look inside the dead man's mouth. Hawwy took me to the body and I had a real good look, and to my surprise, I did find traces of tobacco wedged between his teeth and lying under his tongue, so it's as Cullen said—the tobacco stain on the jacket could easily have been made by the dead sergeant. But then I thought, What if Cullen had shot him after all, and once the man was dead on the ground, he simply switched pistols? This could very easily been done, as by Hawwy's account, all of your guns are exactly the same.”

His eyes flaring as he stared at the weapon he held, Captain Mac roared, “The rotten little swine!”

My feelings exactly, but for a different reason.

Before I could say anything more, Captain Mac turned the animosity he had held against me, onto Henry Stanley, yelling for the reporter to get the hell out of the supply tent, not to show his face again if he knew what was good for him. Stanley made the mistake of pointing out some particular freedom which he and his brother newspapermen shared, and that was enough for Captain Mac. After sticking the pistol in his belt, he picked the smaller man up and heaved him out of the tent.

Stanley landed inelegantly on his backside. Picking himself up and dusting himself off, Stanley had a lot to say concerning physical abuse. Captain Mac's answer was to close the tent flap in Stanley's face. When he came back to me I handed him the pay-paas I'd taken from Lieutenant Danny's case.

The new foursome—Hawwy, Billy, Captain Mac, and I—formed a tight circle as Captain Mac read the pay-paas.

“Are these marks things he is saying to his wife?” I asked.

“No,” he said, his expression utterly confused. He looked quickly up at me. “I wasn't aware that he had a wife.” He went back to reading. “These are just copies of reports.” He looked from the pay-paas to Hawwy, and they went into a discussion. Feeling on edge, I turned to Billy.

“What are they saying!”

Billy looked bewildered. Then, with a shake of his head he said, “It's not that important, Tay. They're only talking about how old the reports are, that they should have been filed months ago.”

That really hit a nerve. “What are the reports about?”

“About the dead sergeant Hicks, and Cullen. The lieutenant was recommending both be … punished.”

“But they never were?”

“No. The reports were not given to Captain Mac.”

“Why did he want them punished?”

Billy asked Hawwy, then turned back to me. “It doesn't say. The lieutenant did not finish writing.”

As the last of this began to fade from Billy's mouth, I exclaimed, “Tell Hawwy that I would like to look through the first dead man's things again.”

Captain Mac went with us as we hastened back to Hawwy's doctoring tent. This time, knowing just what I was looking for, I concentrated on Buug-lah's personal effects and all of his clothing. Captain Mac was overawed by the expensive items belonging to Buug-lah.