XX
Charles walked back through the Lakota camp toward his wagon. Dozens of women were gathered at the singing circle, but where were all the men? A few scattered old women overseeing the children remained at their tents and canvas tipis. None of the women would look at him. Many of the children ceased their activities when they spotted him, and they froze until he passed. He sensed no disrespect behind his back, just fear and otherness. He was a curiosity, as alien in their world as if an elephant had just trundled through, something to be feared and kept at a distance.
He stopped beside his wagon and noted that the mailbag had been left for him as usual to take back to the Post and Telegraph Office in White Pine. All that remained now was to find someone to help him carry Oliver from the infirmary and put the horses back into harness. It would be dusk now before he reached White Pine.
The sound of a door caught his attention, and he spotted a figure emerging from the commissary. The quartermaster and the line of Lakota women were long since gone with the coming evening. The figure drew out a ring of keys and locked the door behind him, then turned and, seeing Charles, started. Sergeant Weatherly quickly suppressed the look of guilt on his face, but Charles was not interested in that. He needed help with the wounded man.
“Sergeant! A word, please.”
Weatherly descended the commissary steps, clutching his woolen coat around him. “What is it, Doctor? I got to get a move on. Just doing rounds.”
Charles approached him. “I need a bit of assistance carrying Mr. McCoy to the wagon. Perhaps a couple of men to carry a stretcher.”
“Yes, sir, I can do that.” He looked to be in a hurry, but would not meet Charles’ eye.
“Good, I can—”
Something fell out of the bottom of Weatherly’s coat, a heavy lump wrapped in paper and tied with a string. He stooped quickly to snatch it up.
Charles caught the scent of smoked meat. “Is that bacon, Sergeant?”
Weatherly looked abashed and paused as if struggling with how to answer. Finally, he straightened and sighed. “Yeah, it’s bacon. You going to tell the Major?”
“Why do you need to steal from your own stores? Are your rations as insufficient as theirs?”
“No, sir, you got it all wrong, sir. We get plenty to eat. It’s mostly shitty Army chow, but we ain’t hurtin’ for vittles. This here.” He held the butcher’s package before him. “This here is for them.” A gesture with it toward the Lakota camp.
Charles crossed his arms. “Two pounds of pork will hardly feed the entire village.”
Weatherly shrugged and sighed. “I know that, sir, but it’s all I can do right now, today. I’d give ’em a whole beef if I could, but there ain’t no way to do it under Wilson’s nose.”
“A laudable sentiment, sergeant, but why?”
Weatherly sniffed and looked away. “These people don’t deserve what they got. We whupped ’em, and after we whupped ’em, we just keep on whupping. I don’t truck with no killing of women and babies, doctor.”
“Your unit didn’t arrive until after Wounded Knee Creek.”
“But I heard the stories. I hear a lot, and I see a lot, walking around this camp. Half the time, they have to beg us for food and everything else we promised them. The other half, they want to put a knife in my guts. My men talk, the farmers talk. I picked up a little Sioux here and there. I hear them talk. It’s like the sadness and melancholy is just … soaked up into everything.” He stretched his arm wide. “You believe in ghosts, sir?”
“I’m a man of science, sergeant.”
“Well, I read this book on ghosts and stuff, you see, and it said that places can get … embroiled in bad stuff, kinda like soaked in death or sadness or evil, and that’s why some places get haunted. When that happens, sometimes folks just don’t feel right when they go into one of those places.”
“Interesting theory, sergeant, but what does this have to do with two pounds of bacon?”
Weatherly hefted the package. “This here, this is healing medicine. The Major don’t see it, or don’t care, but everyone around here needs to heal. Indians and white folks both.”
Charles thought about this for a moment. He did not know if he would ever be able to expunge the memory of that snow-blasted, blood-spattered field of death from his memory, or the sound of a heavy lump of hard-frozen meat falling into a mass grave like a chunk of cordwood. What kind of scars did that kind of experience leave on a man’s soul? He had gone out there with the newspapermen and the local civilian leaders after the blizzard passed, looking for survivors, anyone needing medical attention, and found himself in the role of gravedigger. Little did he know that three months later he would be digging two more graves.
Too many wounds in succession compromised the body’s ability to heal itself.
Charles sighed and said, “I appreciate your candor, Sergeant, and your kindness. I’ll not say anything to anyone about this. What if you get caught?”
Weatherly relaxed a little and shrugged. “We should be getting new orders any day now, and Gutterson, the quartermaster, is a lazy bastard content to sit on his ass. I figure we’ll be long gone before anyone bothers with an inventory.”
Charles nodded.
“I’ll just deliver this,” Weatherly continued, “and then I’ll muster up a couple of men to stretcher that kid over here.”
“Thank you. There’s just one more thing. Tell me about the man who attacked his fellows last night. Lieutenant Cox was it?”
Weatherly swallowed hard at the surge of visceral memory. “What do you want to know? Green as hell, with a nice, fresh West Point stick up his ass. For all that, still a decent enough young feller, for an officer.”
“Had he been acting strangely? Was there any indication of psychological maladies?”
“Psycho-what?”
“Did he ever act crazy?”
“No, sir, just the opposite. If anything, his asshole was tighter than a champagne cork. The only thing I noticed about him yesterday is that he looked awful tired. One of the other officers mentioned this at morning mess yesterday, but the lieutenant said he had been having trouble sleeping. Belly was giving him trouble, he said.”
Charles rubbed his chin. “Has anyone else been complaining of that?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“How is morale among your men?”
“Today, they are mighty scared. That business last night spooked them something awful, and Sioux in this camp outnumber us five to one.”
“But most of those are women.”
“You think a Sioux woman can’t put a knife in your belly when she’s got a mind to? If that was me living over there, I’d be looking for a sight of payback. Wouldn’t you?”
Charles was not certain. If he had to change places with them, what would he do? “Keep your ears open, Sergeant, perhaps make some inquiries. I would be most grateful. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Another door opened across the yard, and Major Wilson stepped outside, cigar between his fingers. He stood for a moment on the porch, listening. In the distance, the sound of the women singing echoed through the camp.
Weatherly spun his back to Wilson and stuffed the package of bacon back into his coat.
Wilson blew a cloud of smoke. “What is that infernal racket?”
While Weatherly arranged himself, Charles spoke up. “It’s singing, Major.”
“What in the hell do they have to sing about?”
Charles swallowed the bitterness in his throat. “I cannot imagine. But it’s just a group of women.”
Wilson spat onto the ground. “We cannot have them building themselves up to a war dance. Sergeant, take a squad of men over there and silence that gibbering nonsense.”
Weatherly saluted. “Yes, sir!” Without another word to Charles, he hurried off to gather his men.