They talked of other things. Alan had married his childhood sweetheart, from a good family. They had two children, a boy and a girl. John thought that he could detect little enthusiasm for the marriage. Likely, a “proper” union, with little romance.
As they visited, strolling around the post, Alan finally brought up the subject that John had been avoiding all evening.
“John ⦠I've been waiting for you to ask about my sister Jane. I somehow had the idea that you two were quite interested in each other. But I ⦔
It was a clumsy moment for John. How far should he go? Quickly, he decided that the less said, the better.
“I
was
,” John admitted. “We corresponded a bit, but it was hard to keep up. Mail service was pretty unpredictable. By the time a letter arrived, the address would be changed. I had a few returned ⦠. Wondered if others ever got there.”
“Yes, that would be a problem. But you'd think they'd forward mail. Or you could have sent letters to The Oaks ⦠.”
Suddenly Langtry seemed to realize ⦠He seemed almost too embarrassed to speak. He mumbled and fumbled and at last found his voice.
“My God, John. I never realized.
That
was why Jane was suddenly sent off to school?”
He paused.
“She ⦠She wasn't ⦠uh ⦠in a family way, John?”
“No, no. It never got that far. She did try to write me for a while.”
Alan nodded thoughtfully.
“This makes more sense to me now. My father ⦠John, he's a good man, but obviously somewhat bigoted. I've thought sometimes that his interest in athletes is like his interest in horses. Fun to watch, but ⦠Well, he wouldn't want one to marry his daughter.”
The word, even the implication of “Indian” had not even been mentioned, but it hung heavily between them.
“John, I'm sorry.”
“It's okay, Alan. Water long gone down the river.”
“That doesn't make it right. And you deserve to know ⦠Jane married a French artist of some kind. Father was furious and disowned her. That partly accounted for my mother's death, I think.”
“Then ⦠Where is Jane now? I'd hope she's happy?”
“We don't know, John. She just stopped writing home, a few years ago.”
“You don't
know
where she is?”
“I'm afraid not, John. That's what made it so hard on our mother.”
“So, she might even be dead?”
“That's about it ⦠.”
J
ohn had thought that he was long over the hurt of his first love. How long ago ⦠He had been an inexperienced youth, completely overwhelmed by the stimulation of romance.
In love with love,
he had told himself many times ⦠. An impossible, impractical love that never could have been.
Over the years, he had managed to convince himself. The natural reluctance to relive the hurt and the shame that had been heaped upon him had assisted in his self-recrimination, and he had managed to see his lost love in a negative light. Well, almost â¦
Now, fanned by the breeze of happy memories of youth and joy and excitement, the smoldering embers began to glow again. He began to remember pleasant memories that had lain fallow for half his lifetime. The sparkle in sky blue eyes, the electric glow of sunlight on the gold of young Jane Langtry's hair â¦
For years, he had managed to make himself more comfortable by convincing himself that he had merely been the object of a girlish fling. He could hate her for her abandonment more easily if he could believe that. For years, this pretense had worked moderately well. He could call up enough resentment to offset the pain of having been mistreated and rejected.
After talking again with Jane's brother, who still seemed sincere and friendly, all his pain had come rushing back. With it was guilt ⦠. How could he have misjudged and blamed her for her inability to contact him? Or was this only wishful thinking? Had it been impossible for her to contact him? He
changed his theory a dozen times and, as many times, felt even more confused than before.
Â
He encountered Captain Langtry infrequently, and they exchanged the customary salutes of mutual respect. It was not really acceptable to establish any closer contact.
Several days later, he happened to encounter Captain McCoy, on the company street near the Post Exchange.
John saluted, the captain returned the gesture, and paused. There was a puzzled look on his face.
“I know you ⦠. Buffalo?”
“Yes, sir. John Buffalo.”
“Of course. Wyoming. The gold mine.”
There was a half-amused smile on the captain's face.
“The Rough Riders!” McCoy went on. “Too bad that didn't work out. What are you doing here?”
“Had a need to do something,” said John. “I signed up.”
The captain nodded. “Of course! Cavalry, I suppose. George said you're a good cowboy. Oh, yes, I remember, now. You worked for the Hundred and One.”
“Yes, sir. I
did
. I guess they've closed the show on account of the war.”
“I'd heard that. Well, for now, we'll go fight the Kaiser, right? Good to see you again, Buffalo. Couple of stripes already, I see. Keep it up!”
“Yes, sir.”
John came to attention and saluted smartly. Again, McCoy returned the salute, but then relaxed and extended a hand.
“How about a cowboy handshake on it?” he grinned.
John felt that here was a man he'd like to follow. But likely, he'd never see him again.
Â
He was tired. Completely exhausted ⦠There was a lot of illness on the post, thought to be connected to the harsh winter climate. It seemed to be widespread, though. Influenza ⦠The newspapers, somewhat inclined to sensationalism anyway, appeared to be going wild on this. They wrote of the frequent cases that were cropping up in various parts of the country, and of the degree of contagion. They began to use words like “epidemic.”
Now, with the death toll rising, there was increasing alarm. It seemed that this was a more virulent “flu” than any that had been seen for a generation or more, with a much higher death rate.
To add to the problems with this “new flu,” the Great War was in progress. More people were traveling, worldwide, than ever before. Consequently, the disease was spread by people who were contagious for a few days before they
realized their coming illness. No one knew where it had started, but military bases were hit especially hard because of troop movements. There was a constant flow of personnel in all directions, to and from all parts of the world. The newspapers were now referring to the “worldwide pandemic.” Word leaking out of Germany hinted that it was a crisis there, too.
But John was merely tired. With many of the troops reporting on sick call, the platoon was shorthanded. Some had even been hospitalized at the infirmary on the post. This had resulted in extra work for those still healthy, and more responsibilities for the noncommissioned officers. The increased work load was frustrating, and in turn, exhausting.
The day was over, and John looked forward to an opportunity to rest. Maybe he'd lie down a little while before mess call ⦠. He wasn't very hungry anyway ⦠. Maybe even skip supper â¦
He was passing headquarters area, looking forward to reaching his bunk in the barracks. Just then, the bugler sounded retreat, the end of the working day. Everyone on the post was expected to pause to observe the lowering of the flag by the color guard.
John turned automatically to face the ceremony, and came stiffly to attention as the plaintive strains of the bugle call floated across the parade ground. Old Glory fluttered slowly, oh, so slowly, down the pole toward the waiting hands of the color guard.
The flag must be lowered slowly
, he recited to himself,
as if in regret. It is raised quickly in the morning, in jubilation.
Flag etiquette, taught to all new recruits. But surely, they could do it a
Little
faster. His knees were feeling wobbly. He'd be okay if he could get to the barracks, where he could lie down ⦠.
He tried to focus his eyes on the flagpole and the brightly fluttering Stars and Stripes. It was a blur, a confusing shimmer that assaulted his vision and made his head throb. The top of the pole appeared to be swaying as he tried to clear his thoughts. The gilded knob on the tip was tipping slowly toward him now ⦠. Too far away to hit him, though ⦠No danger ⦠There was a buzzing in his ears ⦠. The pole was still tipping, falling slowly â¦
NO! He
was falling, still stiffly at attention. The buzzing in his head became louder, and he no longer had any control of his body. The ground rushed up against him, just before he struck, a brilliant white light flew toward him out of the distance somewhere and exploded in his face.
Â
John awakened slowly, his head still buzzing. He was no longer on the parade in front of headquarters, but in a building somewhere. It seemed much like a barracks. But where it should have had rows of beds covered with olive-drab blankets, everything was white. Beds, blankets, walls, ceiling. An irrational thought flitted through his mind: Was he dead, and this the white man's Other Side, the Great Mystery of life and death, which the missionaries called
“Heaven”? Since it had a military appearance, maybe this was the heaven of the bluecoats, the white man's warrior society. Some tribes, he had heard, had a special Other Side home for warriors. Maybe â¦
“Oh, you're awake,” said the voice of a white-clad angel at the foot of his bed.
Her face and hair were like those of the angels in the biblical picture books that occasionally had turned up at the reservation school. Bright golden hair, with the setting sun from the window across the room streaming through it. The angle of the sunbeam had a tendency to darken the features of the face itself. But he could easily see that she had the most beautiful of smiles. It was gentle, friendly, happy yet concerned. Another irrational thought:
I am dead; so is Jane
.
Here she is and we meet again
. It was comforting, but such hopes were dashed quickly.
“Glad you're awake!” the angel said. “We need to start your treatment.”
“Treatment?” he muttered weakly. “What is this place?”
“The post hospital, of course,” chuckled the angel. “You're really confused, trooper.”
Then I'm not dead
? He started to ask, but realized that it would sound pretty stupid.
“Who are you?” he asked instead.
“My name is Jackson. I'm a nurse.”
Gradually, it began to make sense. But he could not lie here, helpless. The platoon was short-staffed, already.
“I have to get back to duty,” he told the nurse. “They're shortâ”
As he spoke, he tried to sit up and swing his legs out of the cot. He found that he could lift his head only about six inches. Nothing else seemed to work at all. He felt a moment of panic ⦠. His head fell back.
“Okay, trooper. Now you just discovered what I was about to say. You aren't goin' anywhere. You have the flu ⦠influenza.”
His head was clearing, now. She had mentioned treatment.
“How long, and what treatment?” he asked weakly.
“That's more like it.” She smiled. “A long time ⦠Maybe three or four weeks, if you're doing well.”
“Weeks?”
“Oh, yes. You try to cut it short, you'll be back and a lot sicker!”
“You mentioned treatment?”
“Yes, we'll get you started. Enemas, today, to cleanse the bowel.”
She paused at the look of alarm on his face, and smiled.
“One of the medics will do that,” she assured him. “Then, hot mustard footbaths ⦠Hot packs to the torso to sweat out the poisons. You'll have to drink a lot of fluids. And, just rest while you have a chance. It's back to duty when you're well.”
John didn't comment, but the idea of drinking a lot of fluids was not very
appealing. His stomach was queasy, and putting anything in it would be a challenge. As for an “enema,” he wasn't sure what it was, but he was already reluctant. It sounded far too much like “enemy” to make him comfortable.
He tried to remember what he'd heard about the epidemic. None of it was very good news. As an old gambler, he wondered about his odds, but somehow felt that it would be inappropriate to ask. Probably Nurse Jackson wouldn't tell him, anyway.
He sank back resignedly to wait and see.
A
s the nurse had informed him, he soon received a cleansing enema at the hands of a burly medic, who described it as a “triple-H”: High, Hot, and Helluva lot. It was a new experience for John Buffalo, and one not appreciated. He was too weak to resist, and even weaker when it was over.
Schwarz, the patient in the next bed, in somewhat better condition, seemed to take an unholy glee in the discomfort of others. He had apparently been there for some time, and was recovering.
“That's sure somethin', ain't it?” he chortled as John lay exhausted after the enema. “Hell of it is, prob'ly no good. Might as well shove it up yer ass.”
He chuckled with his crude attempt at humor. John resented it, but was too tired to even answer.
In the next few hours, he learned a lot. He was in a barrackslike twenty-bed ward. Every bed was occupied. He was too weak to care very much.
He had no interest in the watery gruel that they brought him the next morning. In fact, it reminded him of the soapy fluid that had been used for his introductory enema. He nearly gagged over it.
“Better drink it,” advised his obnoxious neighbor. “They'll get it into ya one way or another, you know. This way's better'n the other end.”
He managed a few spoonfuls with shaking hands, and sank back on the pillow. After a while, Nurse Jackson returned, and noticed his plight.
“Here, I'll help a little,” she offered.
With her assistance, he managed to swallow a little more, but even that effort exhausted him. He fell asleep.
He woke a little later, to see two men who appeared to be doctors, accompanied by a clerk with a clipboard who seemed to make notes at each bed where they stopped. The nurse, too, followed the trio, and occasionally furnished information in a low voice. At one bed, on the opposite side of the aisle, they conversed a little longer. John could see the charts on the foot of each of the beds in that row. One of the doctors picked up that chart and ruffled through the pages, shaking his head. Quietly, he spoke to the clerk and handed him the chart.
When the clerk returned the chart to the bed, clipped to it was a bright orange card about the size of a man's hand.
“Uh-oh!” said Schwarz under his breath.
John said nothing. In fact, he tried to fake sleep, so that his neighbor would not talk to him. But the party worked its way down the row of beds, and back up the other side. Soon they stopped near John's position, and the leading doctor lifted a chart from the foot of his bed.
“New one, eh? Bad shape?”
“Pretty weak, sir,” answered the nurse. “Cooperative.”
The doctor nodded. “Well, we'll see. Had his cleanser?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, get him to sweat, and push the fluids.”
“Yes, sir.”
The clerk replaced the chart.
“Hi, Doc,” chortled the abrasive Schwarz from the next bed. “How many you killed today?”
From the irritated looks on the faces of the party on rounds, the man was well known to them.
“Can it, Schwarz,” advised the clerk.
“When can we get him out of here?” asked the doctor.
“As soon as possible, sir,” said the nurse.
“Hey, I can't even stand up yet,” Schwarz protested. “I'm a sick man.”
The party moved on without comment.
There was one other bed, beyond that of Schwarz, where the doctors paused a long time. There, again, John saw the orange card clipped to the chart. It must be a bad sign.
He found that he was tired merely from watching the party on rounds, but Schwarz kept trying to talk to him.
“Tryin' to get me out of here,” the man snorted indignantly. “I'm a sick man. I couldn't go back to duty. Besides, the food's better here than in the mess hall.”
John pretended to sleep again so he wouldn't have to listen. He finally did fall asleep, and was wakened when somebody else entered the ward.
It was a priest in a dark robe, an official-looking cap on his head, and carrying a container with smoking incense. He made his way down the aisle,
glancing at each chart, nodding or speaking to some of the patients, and nearly ignoring others. There must be some indication on the charts, John decided, as to each man's religion.
When he came to the chart across the aisle with the orange card, he stopped and stepped between the beds, toward the head of the patient.
The priest hung his incense on a hook near the bed and took out a small container of liquid of some sort, which he sprinkled on the head of the semiconscious patient. All the while, he was mumbling incoherently.
John had never seen this ceremony, but assumed that it was Roman Catholic. His own contact with missionaries had been with Protestants, who had made it quite plain that “Papists” were to be avoided. They had some radical disagreement in their history, he had always assumed. This he did not understand at all, because among his own people, religion was not something to disagree about. Every tribe and nation of which he had ever heard had some kind of an all-powerful Creator of all things. This God is known by different names among different peoples, because He speaks to each in his own tongue. But to argue and insist that God spoke truth to only one group and falsely to all others would be incomprehensible. “You have your religion, I have mine; it is nothing we argue about.”
Yet here two groups of whites, both professing to be “Christians,” had never really agreed about what God said. To John's people, this was a source of wonder and not a small amount of amusement.
At the present time, John was in no mood for any distraction. He was tired and sick, his head throbbing and his fever burning. The sickly sweet smell of the incense nauseated him, and he greatly resented the presence of the priest. He did not realize that his distaste for the man was largely due to his sickness. He wanted only to rest, and he could not do so with the gibberish in a language unknown to him rattling on and on.
The priest finished his ceremony and moved on, to another bed at the far end of the room to repeat his ritual. Then to the bed beyond Schwarz, to repeat yet again.
Why these three? He wondered. Was this ceremony only for them? That was fine with him, though he found the repetitious gibberish annoying.
“What's he doing?” he demanded of the nurse.
“Just a ritual,” she assured him. “Nothing to worry you.”
“It hurts my head,” he snapped.
“I know ⦠He'll be finished soon,” she assured him. “Try to rest.”
He did manage to doze off for a while.
Â
When he woke, it was because of activity across the aisle. The face of the patient was covered with a sheet, and a pair of medics were lifting him onto a wheeled cart. The body appeared stiff and lifeless.
In a dreamlike fog of confusion, John watched them wheel away the dead man. What was the connection that seemed to elude him? The last rites? That had come before ⦠. Quickly, he looked at the bed beyond Schwarz, who was napping peacefully at the moment. The other bed was empty.
With something like panic, John twisted around to look toward the far end of the ward, where he had also seen the priest pause for the ritual. He propped himself up on an elbow to see better. The bed was still occupied, but the patient seemed to be breathing hard, struggling to get enough air. An orderly or medic stood over him, watching and waiting. John sank back on the bed, completely exhausted from the effort, and still trying to interpret what he had seen. At least two deaths today ⦠Probably three, the way the patient down the aisle looked and sounded. But there was still something he did not quite comprehend. All three had received last rites from the priest, but who decided when such a ceremony was appropriate? How was it decided? It was hard to think. His fevered brain pounded in delirium, trying to solve the mystery, or even to decide whether one existed. Maybe it had something to do with the doctors on their rounds. Yes, that must be it. They had marked three patients by clipping an orange card to the charts. Those three were now dead or dying. It did not seem very important now.
He fell asleep still thinking about it. He was also having more trouble breathing. At times he felt that the thick, gluelike secretions in his throat were blocking off his lungs completely.
His confusion deepened. He slept and woke and slept again. There was no longer any night and day. He had no idea how long he had been there. He drifted through a mindless fog of discomfort and a need for air. He longed to be in the lodge of his parents on the open prairie, to relive the memories of early childhood. Then there had been no worries, no cares, few responsibilities. It had been a long time ago.
He dreamed ⦠. Or maybe it was all one endless dream, a part of the living and dying and crossing over ⦠. What his Arapaho friend George Shakespear called the Great Mystery.
People from his past drifted through the dream sequence. Especially women. His mother, sad and tired beyond her years, as she prepared to send her son away to white man's school. Old White Horse, the teacher. There were many things she had not understood, but she had tried, as she saw fit ⦠. Some of the girls at Carlisle: friends, but not really close.
Startlingly plain was his vision of the golden-haired Jane Langtry. She leaned over his bed, smiling, gently encouraging him to try to eat a little more of the broth that she tried to feed him with a spoon. He roused a little ⦠. No, his vision focused and the angelic form and figure was not his first love. It was Nurse Jackson. The two had become one in his muddled brain. The hair was the same, the blue eyes ⦠. He drifted off again.
There were times when he could not distinguish whether he was asleep
and dreaming or awake and hallucinating. Or was there really any difference? Once he saw Hebbie, standing beside the bed as she had once before ⦠.The dreadful experience on what he had come to think of as the Death Ship. It was different this time. He knew that she had crossed over, and he wanted to join her. He reached out toward her, and she smiled gently, just out of reach.
No, my dear, not yet.
He was never sure afterward whether Hebbie had voiced the actual words, or just the thought. He woke, in the darkness of the hospital ward, lighted only by a dim bulb at each end of the room. It was filled with the smells of sickness and death, and sounds of racking coughs and labored breathing. He wondered how many days he had been here, and how many more he had to suffer.
He slept again.
Â
When he next awoke, it was daylight, and the little party of doctors was in the process of daily rounds. They stood at the foot of his bed, talking quietly. One of them stepped to him and placed a listening device on John's chest for a few moments. Back at the foot of the bed, a whispered consultation ⦠The clerk took something from his clipboard and reached toward John's chart. There was little effort to conceal what it was: an orange card, the size of a man's hand.