XVII
Charles’ wagon had been unloaded of its food and medicine shipment from town. Oliver McCoy still lay within the infirmary, sleeping fitfully, his breath coming and going in shallow, ragged starts. The body of Private Garrett had been removed, and poor Spalding lay in shock.
The major had ordered a cleaning detail to scrub Garrett’s blood and brains from the floor and wall. With so much carnage within, the place felt more like an abattoir now than a place of healing and rest. Guards were placed at all the doors.
Charles stood outside, watching the rear of his father’s buckboard recede on its way off-post.
The way that Wilson had been almost deferential to Charles’ father, a civilian, seemed wildly out of character. A civilian who had just shot an unarmed soldier, albeit a murderous one. Charles would have expected Wilson to react with outrage, but he had simply chewed his cigar and accepted yet another death among his ranks, almost as if he had expected it. Wilson was a military man to the core, and the sneer of contempt for everything of the civilian realm dripped from every utterance. Charles’ father and Major Wilson had doubtless been acquainted since Wilson’s detachment had arrived in January, certainly due to his father’s capacity as marshal of White Pine. But for all of Charles’ life, his father had worn that old cavalry hat from his Civil War days. Hank had been a quartermaster, so Charles had always been curious about where he had gotten the cavalry hat. Charles had asked on one of the rare occasions where relations between them were less strained, but his father had simply shrugged and grunted and changed the subject.
Wilson barked more orders at his men before disappearing into his office.
Charles released a long, tight breath. His fists ached from being clenched.
How could Wilson expect the Lakota to respect him when he treated them as little more than sub-human? How could Charles not expect to be tarred with the same brush? Wilson was just the latest in a long, erratic succession of incompetent overseers. When Wilson was gone, Charles would still have to work with these people, and they might easily forget all the help he had already given them. His work was already difficult, having to contend with barriers of understanding that went beyond language.
Wilson’s earlier treatment of Little Elk had stoked Charles’ outrage. He would reassure her before he left that he had the interests of the Lakota at heart. The memory of her warm touch on his hand had nothing to do with it.
He had a vague notion of where her tent lay, out on the fringe of the camp, so he walked through the squalor again and did his best to present the Lakota with a kind face. Nevertheless, the hopelessness of their plight ate at him with every step. Running a railroad track and a train filled with cattle and grain right up to the front gate of the agency would be a worthy beginning for the aid these people needed.
The sound of singing reached him, growing louder as he approached the outside edge of the camp. Two shapes in Army blues, carrying rifles, stalked toward him, muttering between themselves. Their voices sounded tremulous and they gripped their weapons tight.
When they spotted Charles, he said, “What is happening over there? Are you investigating another uprising?”
The corporal answered, “They’re having some sort of party, but we can’t reckon what they’re celebrating.”
The private said, “Maybe they’re celebrating us shooting each other. You carrying iron, sir?”
Charles shook his head. “I am not.”
“Then best not go that way unless you got red skin,” the private said.
“I’m not offering violence, so I will expect none.”
The corporal shrugged. “It’s your scalp.” The two of them then moved on.
A twinge of nervousness was not reason enough to hold him back from his intention, so he took a deep breath and continued toward the singing. Little Elk would likely be found there.
However, when he reached the bright circle of singing women around a large fire, Little Elk was not to be seen. Neither were any men in evidence.
He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak, but they sang louder, otherwise appearing to ignore him. In the ebb and flow of the song, he heard a drum faintly somewhere nearby, out of rhythm with the music here, but could not pinpoint the source.
The depth of his outsider-ness yawned before him, between him and them, like a bottomless chasm a hundred feet wide.
The women smiled as they sang, with a strange relief on their faces, as if they had not expected what they were experiencing at this moment. How long had it been since they sang together? The tone of the song felt like joyful camaraderie, even though he could fathom none of the words.
For several long moments, he stood and listened, feeling the alien song wash over him, then he hung his head and departed.