The Englishman's Boy (37 page)

The gramophone starts again. People are dancing upstairs, the chandelier shivers in sympathy.

“But the strangers among us have no memory of this – the fired roof, the women taken captive, the lurking, painted nightmare. The unseen enemy everywhere, at the turn in the river, behind the bluff, hidden in the long prairie grass. They know nothing of that.”

Someone in the back of the house screams. It is followed by shrieks of laughter.

Chance pleads with the surrounding darkness. “If Mussolini exalts the spirit of the Roman legions, the German the Teutonic knight, the Russian the pitiless terrorist, surely we are entitled to do the same. The picture of the rawhide frontiersman is entitled to hang in the mind of every American. To hang illuminated by lightning – the cold eyes, the steady hand, the long rifle revealed in brightness. Europe returns to wilderness and returns us with it.” Seconds pass as I stare up at him. “A Frenchman noted that the profound contempt of the Greek for the barbarian is only matched by that of the Yankee for the foreign worker who makes no attempt to become truly American. So be it. Was the Jew there when our forefathers knelt by the window in fear for their lives, watching the woods? Was he with us when we rode out on the broad plains under the eyes of savages? Can he understand us? Argue our case to the world? I know what you are thinking, my friends. Do not insult the Jew, you think, he repays every insult with interest. He …” Chance trails off, holds himself perfectly still on his pedestal. “No matter. The lonely house must be protected. The wilderness encroaches on the fields we have cleared, the wilderness stirs abroad. It is coming.
They
are coming. I walked among them. One day soon a face will peer in your window, the face of a Blackshirt, or the face of a Bolshevik. They who resurrect the savage
ghosts of their past must be challenged with the savage ghosts of
our
past. I will help, I will raise up our ghosts. Steel yourself. Meet strength with strength.” His neck turns stiffly like the turret of a tank, testing every corner of the room for opposition. He is done. “Help me down,” he says.

I take the groping hand. The palm is the hood of a mushroom, stickily moist. He steps down abruptly, clutching at me to keep from falling. He hangs on my shoulder. “You see, Harry?” he says, face close to mine. “Rewrite it. Change the girl. The enemy is never human.”

25
 

W
ith the addition of George Hammond, the party that approached Little Soldier’s camp tallied thirteen. This made the Englishman’s boy distinctly uneasy; they were back to the bad-luck number they’d suffered before Hardwick cut loose Farmer Hank. Now he felt as if Farmer Hank had changed shape, remounted, and was spurring himself across Battle Creek with them.

The Englishman’s boy stuck close to Ed Grace. They rode side by side, knees almost touching; the strong-boned profile of the Eagle with its powerful hooked nose was stoical, as pale as the marble bust of a Roman senator. He looked neither right nor left, but kept his eyes fixed dead ahead as if they were fastened on stern duty.

Hardwick had given the command to go forward at a walk, in good order, so as not to give the impression they were attacking; nevertheless every man carried a rifle at the ready, butt planted on hip. The camp stirred excitedly at their coming; the wolfers could hear the strident, hysterical barking of dogs, could see figures dodging in and out of lodge entrances, young boys hurrying to catch ponies in the pasture, women snatching up children on the run. In a matter of minutes, a phalanx of fifty or sixty warriors had assembled on the outskirts to meet them.

Hardwick halted his men three hundred yards from the camp, waved a white handkerchief in the air to announce a parley and rode forward, accompanied only by George Hammond. The fierce
afternoon heat warped the air between the two parties like a flawed and wavy windowpane; sweat slid out from under the derby on the Englishman’s boy’s head and trickled down his face.

Some of the welcoming party were drunk, had the same slack-jawed whisky belligerence written on their faces as the majority of wolfers Hardwick had left waiting behind him. Yet a goodly number of the Assiniboine were stone-faced and sober, waiting so profoundly, so mutely still, the only discernible movement in their ranks was the flicker of a feather when a gust of hot breeze licked it. Their faces were painted red like the Bear Cult man’s, except their eyes were circled in white instead of black. The warriors’ hair was hacked short over the forehead, daubed and smeared with white clay, drawn back in long, thick queues trailing down their spines. Many wore ear beads, and those who went shirtless displayed two black stripes of tattoo running from their throats to their bellies. The red of the faces was repeated in red flannel breechclouts and leggings, black and crimson trader blankets which many of the old men wore draped around their shoulders.

The only firearms Hardwick could spot were Northwest muskets. The Indians without guns were armed with lances and horn bows.

Hammond leaned across his saddle-pommel to draw Hardwick’s attention to a tall, lean Assiniboine in a round wolf-skin cap, the owner of a ferociously lupine face extravagantly pocked with smallpox scars and looking like an adobe wall riddled by a blast of buckshot. “I know that bird,” he said. “He’s a bad one. Killed two Blackfoot outside of Fort Kipp last year. His name’s First Shoot, and he does.”

Hardwick nodded, then began to speak, demanding to see the chief, demanding to see Little Soldier. He spoke a childish English, scolding them for stealing Hammond’s horse and saying if the Assiniboine didn’t want heap trouble, Little Soldier better make the bad Assiniboine return the pony pronto.

He had just launched into this pidgin peroration when Abe Farwell galloped up from the fort on a saddleless mule, legs flapping against its ribs. On second thought he had decided the stakes were too high to sit this one out; if there was trouble with the Assiniboine, a post
full of trade goods and a winter’s cache of furs and buffalo robes would be placed in jeopardy. He was offering himself as interpreter and mediator.

“Which one of these rascals is Little Soldier?” Hardwick wanted to know.

Farwell quickly scanned the crowd. “He ain’t here.”

“Then you tell one of these monkeys to fetch him. On the double.”

“You want the horse back, there’s your man,” said Farwell, pointing out First Shoot. “He’s head of the Agi’cita, the Soldier’s Society – Indian police. If Hammond wants his horse back without bloodshed, you ask First Shoot to get it for you.”

Hammond’s jaw was working angrily under a wiry black beard which crawled so high up his cheekbones it stopped just short of his eyes. “I ain’t asking nobody,” he said. “I ain’t begging for what’s mine. I paid once to get my property back to keep the peace, but they turn around and steal it off you again. I ain’t asking any more, I’m telling.”

Hardwick was studying First Shoot. His face betrayed he understood a little of Hammond’s speech.

There was a disturbance at the back of the warriors. The crowd parted to make way for Little Soldier, blind drunk, leaning on his Sits-Beside-Him wife for support. A big American flag was tied in a bib around his neck. Looking like a grey-haired baby taking his first uncertain steps, he stumbled forward to greet Hardwick.

“There’s your chief,” said Farwell, under his breath. “Think you can talk any sense into him?”

Little Soldier began to orate.

“What’s he jawing on?” Hardwick snapped.

Farwell translated. “He’s saying he brought the Star Flag to show you how good a friend Little Soldier is to the Americans. They gave him this Star Flag because he never kills Americans – only Peigans. The Peigans kill Americans all the time. Maybe sometime you’d like to come with him and rub out a few Peigans. Maybe you’d like to make him a present of needle-guns so he could kill the Peigans for you and save you the trouble.”

“You tell him my trouble right now is a horse. That’s my only trouble. You tell him George Hammond’s horse was stole by one of his people. You tell him a couple days back Indians stole nigh on twenty head of my horses. You tell him I’m losing patience with redskin thieving ways and I’m of a mind to do something about it. You tell him that.”

“I ain’t telling him no such thing. You can’t talk to him like that in front of his own people.”

“You tell him what I said – straight out – or I’ll make my point by riding over and ripping the flag off that lying old rogue.”

Farwell, looking uneasy, addressed Little Soldier. Before he was finished, Little Soldier interrupted him, speaking wildly, flailing an arm, teetering back and forth on his heels.

“He says nobody from his band stole Hammond’s horse. Maybe Hammond’s horse wandered. Horses wander. Maybe some bad Peigans took the horse. He knows Hammond’s horse. A sorrel horse. Look for yourself; there are no sorrel horses anywhere in Little Soldier’s camp.”

“No,” said Hardwick, “there ain’t never no stolen horses in an Indian camp. That goes without saying. Shit.”

“He says to show Hammond he speaks the truth, he will give him two horses of his own. They will be hostage horses. When Hammond finds his wandering horse again, then he can give the ponies back to Little Soldier. If he doesn’t find his horse, he can keep them. That’s fair, he says. Two horses for one. Let them shake hands on it and then when Hammond brings him a bottle of whisky they will be friends.”

“I don’t want two goddamn starving, bag-of-bones Indian ponies for my horse,” blurted Hammond. “My horse is grain-fed and fat. He’s got thoroughbred blood in him. I ain’t horse-trading with no son of a bitch of a pilfering Indian. I want my horse back and that’s the end of it.”

Farwell said a few words to the chief. He answered.

“He says he can’t give you what he doesn’t have. You might ask him for the sun, but the sun is not in his power to give. He will give
you what he has to give – two horses for one. Be happy with what he has to give – the Assiniboine are poor Indians. They came to the Cypress Hills to escape the hunger in the north. The hunting is good here but they are not fat yet. They need horses to run the buffalo, but he is willing to give George Hammond two horses so there will be no bad blood between them. George Hammond should take his horses and be happy. There are young Assiniboine men with no horses who would bless Little Soldier’s name if he were to make them such a generous present. He says take the horses or you will make the young men angry. He cannot be responsible for young men when they are angry.”

A queer smile flitted across Hardwick’s lips. “I believe I just heard a threat,” he said.

“No, no,” soothed Farwell, “it ain’t no threat – it’s the truth. Take the goddamn horses, Hardwick. This is a mighty poor band. He’s making you a big gift. Big enough it hurts. I don’t think they own more than a dozen horses. He’s trying to smooth things over. Be polite – take them.”

“Tell him I piss on his horses.”

Farwell heeled his mule in front of Hardwick, strategically blocking the old man’s view of the white man’s sneering face. Little Soldier smiled broadly while his wife clutched his elbow, steadying him as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

“Tom, I ain’t going to say that. Don’t go hot-headed on me now. Some of these young bucks are full of Solomon’s whisky. Don’t go poking the hive with a stick. Let it rest.”

Hardwick stood in his stirrups and shouted over Farwell’s head. “I piss on you and your horses! Understand? I want Hammond’s horse! Give us Hammond’s horse or take the consequences!” Uncomprehending, Little Soldier grinned foolishly back at him, but First Shoot understood enough English to grasp Hardwick’s meaning. He began to angrily shout and a discomfiting murmur arose and spread through the ranks of the warriors. Stepping forward, he flung his buffalo robe to the ground in a passionate gesture. Others followed suit,
Stripping off their clothes. Farwell trotted his mule back and forth between the two white men and the Indians, holding up his arms in supplication, doing his best to cajole them in the Assiniboine tongue.

“They’re getting ready to fight,” said Hammond anxiously. “Throwing off their clothes so if they take a bullet it’ll be a clean wound. We better pull stakes.”

The Assiniboine were nearly naked now, taunting the whites, brandishing muskets, making the air whine as they whirled poggamoggans threateningly above their heads, shaking bows and lances as Farwell desperately pleaded with them.

“Farwell, clear out!” shouted Hardwick. “Clear out or, damn your hide, I’ll fire anyway!”

“Don’t you do it!” screamed Farwell. “Not with a white man between you!”

Hardwick and Hammond, carbines levelled, were backing their horses away from the shrieking Assiniboine. Suddenly, Hardwick’s horse reared. Hammond had fired.

A frantic scramble to suck leather, clawing to keep his seat. The horse slammed back down on its forelegs, hard, popping him up, skidding his boot out of the stirrup. He heard the dull pop of a musket discharging, caught the dazzle of the haunch of Hammond’s horse, spinning in a tight turn. Farwell flew by him, wide-eyed and screaming, clinging to his mule, slashing it into a clumsy, slew-footed gallop with his reins. Fumbling with his boot to retrieve the lost stirrup, fumbling with the Henry, without aiming Hardwick squeezed a shot off over the flank of his horse. Then he was pounding after Hammond and Farwell, flattening himself low in the saddle, brutally slapping his pony’s rump with his rifle barrel. A spasm of muzzle-loader fire erupted at his back. He shrank down further, pinching himself as small as he could. His neck tingled with the expectation of a bullet.