IV
Charles Zimmerman surveyed the squalid tent camp where the Lakota were interned. The last of the spring snows had melted and turned much of the camp into a bog of cold mud. Wisps of smoke rose from fires of dried horse dung, and the air surrounding the camp held a vague, sour stench.
He reined the wagon toward the commissary shack, where a long line of Lakota women waited for rations of food or medicine.
Red Horse came alongside the wagon, his face grim, supplicating. “Doc Zimmerman?”
Charles tried not to think about how ragged Red Horse’s clothes were. Buckskin trousers, moccasins, nothing else under a stained, torn peacoat. “Red Horse. How is Born-with-a-Smile?” He stepped down and grabbed a satchel from the seat.
“She is very sick. Army man not give medicine.” Red Horse pointed to the commissary.
Charles moved to the back of the wagon and opened the gate, revealing crates of medicine and bags of grain. He pulled out several packages of medicine and a bottle of laudanum from a crate and handed them to Red Horse.
Red Horse’s face was solemn. “Thank you, Doc Zimmerman.”
“I’ll check on Born-with-a-Smile in a few minutes.” Charles glanced at the soldiers standing guard. “Get out of here with that before they shoot us both.”
Red Horse hurried away and disappeared among the tents.
Charles strolled to the quartermaster shack, tipping his hat to a passing soldier. His patent leather shoes struck a hollow sound against the planks as he passed gloom-shadowed Lakota women. He bypassed the queue and stood before the quartermaster. Behind the quartermaster stood Sergeant Smith, a hard-eyed veteran with a nose like a hatchet, fingering his carbine.
The quartermaster smelled like an outhouse. “Everything there this time, Doc?”
Charles caught himself staring at the sweat on the fat man’s lip. “Pardon?”
“I said, is everything there?” The quartermaster’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes.” Charles handed him the bill of lading.
The quartermaster paged skeptically through the paperwork. A grunt escaped his bloated lips. “You know we’re gonna count everything.”
“You do what you think best, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Smith stepped forward. “If everything is in order, Major Wilson has been waiting, Doctor. The Major shouldn’t have to wait.”
Charles said, “Is it urgent?”
“He’s in his office.”
“More urgent than a dying woman?”
“The Major is in his office. Sir.”
Charles knew the meeting with the Major would be unpleasant regardless of when he visited. “Then I will see him later.”
Numerous eyes followed him away. He grabbed his medical bag from the wagon and headed into the tent village.