Shadows were creeping across the hut’s doorway, and curious about how long he had slept, Dunbar slid a hand inside his trousers and pulled out the simple, old pocket watch that had been his father’s. When he brought it to his face he saw that it had stopped. For a moment he considered trying to set an approximate time, but instead he placed the old, worn timepiece on his stomach and lapsed into a meditation.
What did time matter to him now? What did it ever matter? Well, perhaps it was necessary in the movement of things, men and materials, for instance. For cooking things correctly. For schools and weddings and church services and going to work.
But what did it matter out here?
Lieutenant Dunbar rolled himself a smoke and hung the heirloom on a convenient hook a couple of feet above the bed. He stared at the numbers on the watch’s face as he smoked, thinking how much more efficient it would be to work when a person felt like it, to eat when a person was hungry, to sleep when a person was sleepy.
He took a long drag on the cigarette and, throwing his arms contentedly behind his head, blew out a stream of blue smoke.
How good it will be to live without time for a while, he thought.
Suddenly there was the sound of heavy footfalls just outside. They started and stopped and started again. A moving shadow passed over the entrance to the hut and a moment later Cisco’s big head swung through the doorway. His ears were pricked and his eyes were wide with wonder. He looked like a child invading the sanctity of his parents’ bedroom on a Sunday morning.
Lieutenant Dunbar laughed out loud. The buckskin let his ears fall and gave his head a long, casual shake, as if pretending this little embarrassment hadn’t happened. His eyes roamed the room with a detached air. Then he looked pointedly at the lieutenant and stamped his hoof in the way horses do when they want to shake off the flies.
Dunbar knew he wanted something.
A ride probably.
He’d been standing around for two days.
Lieutenant Dunbar was not a fancy rider. He’d never been schooled in the subtleties of horsemanship. His frame, deceptively strong despite being slim, had not known organized athletics.
But there was something about horses. He had loved them from boyhood; perhaps that was the reason. But the reason doesn’t really matter. What matters is that something extraordinary happened when Dunbar swung onto the back of a horse, especially if it was a gifted horse like Cisco.
Communication took place between horses and Lieutenant Dunbar. He had the knack of deciphering the language of a horse. And once that was mastered, the sky was the limit. He had mastered Cisco’s dialect almost at once, and there was little they couldn’t do. When they rode it was with the grace of a dance team.
And the purer the better. Dunbar had always preferred a bare back to a saddle, but the army, of course, permitted no such thing. People got hurt, and it was out of the question for long campaigns.
So when the lieutenant stepped inside the shadowy supply house, his hand went automatically to the saddle in the corner.
He checked himself. The only army here was him, and Lieutenant Dunbar knew he would not get hurt.
He reached instead for Cisco’s bridle and left the saddle behind.
They weren’t twenty yards from the corral when he saw the wolf again. It was staring from the spot it had occupied the day before, on the edge of the bluff just across the river.
The wolf had begun to move, but when he saw Cisco come to a halt, he froze, stepped deliberately back into his original position, and resumed staring at the lieutenant.
Dunbar stared back with more interest than he had the day before. It was the same wolf, all right, two white socks on the front paws. He was big and sturdy, but something about him gave Dunbar the impression he was past his prime. His coat was scruffy, and the lieutenant thought he could see a jagged line along the muzzle, most likely an old scar. There was an alertness about him that signified age. He seemed to watch everything without moving a muscle. Wisdom was the word that came to the lieutenant’s mind. Wisdom was the bonus of surviving many years, and the tawny old fellow with the watchful eyes had survived more than his fair share.
Funny he’s come back again, Lieutenant Dunbar thought.
He pushed forward slightly and Cisco stepped ahead. As he did, Dunbar’s eye picked up movement and he glanced across the river.
The wolf was moving, too.
In fact, he was keeping pace. This went on for a hundred yards before the lieutenant asked Cisco to stop again.
The wolf stopped, too.
On impulse, the lieutenant wheeled Cisco a quarter turn and faced across the chasm. Now he was staring straight into the wolf’s eyes, and the lieutenant felt certain he could read something there. Something like longing.
He was beginning to think about what the longing might be when the wolf yawned and moved away. He kicked himself into a trot and disappeared.
April 13, 1863
Though well supplied, I have decided to ration my goods. The missing garrison or a replacement should be here anytime. I cannot imagine it will be too much longer now.
In any event, I’m striving to consume stores in the way I would if I were part of the post rather than the whole affair. It will be hard with the coffee, but I shall try my best.
Have begun the awning. If my hands, which are in poor condition just now, should be up to snuff in the morning, I might have it up by tomorrow P.M.
Made a short patrol this P.M. Discovered nothing.
There is a wolf who seems intent on the goings-on here. He does not seem inclined to be a nuisance, however, and aside from my horse, is the only visitor I have had. He has appeared each afternoon for the past two days. If he comes calling tomorrow, I will name him Two Socks. He has milky-white socks on both front paws.
Lt. John J. Dunbar, U.S.A.
CHAPTER VII
The next few days went smoothly.
Lieutenant Dunbar’s hands came back and the awning went up. Twenty minutes after he had raised it, when he was relaxing beneath the sprawling shade, bent over a barrel, rolling a smoke, the breeze kicked up and the awning collapsed.
Feeling ridiculous, he pawed his way out from under, studied the failure for a few minutes, and hit on the idea of guy wires as a solution. He used rope for wire, and before the sun went down, Dunbar was back in the shade, with his eyes closed, puffing on another handmade cigarette while he listened to the pleasant sound of canvas flapping gently overhead.
Using a bayonet, he sawed out a wide window in the sod hut and draped a scrap of canvas over it.
He worked long and hard on the supply house, but except for clearing away a large part of the sagging wall, he made little progress. A gaping hole was the final result. The original sod crumbled each time he tried to build it up, so Lieutenant Dunbar covered the hole with yet another sheet of canvas and washed his hands of the rest. From the start the supply house had been a losing business.
Lying on his bunk in the late afternoons, Dunbar returned over and over to the problem of the supply house, but as the days passed, he thought of it less. The weather had been beautiful, with none of the violence of spring. The temperatures couldn’t be more perfect, the air was feathery and the breeze, which made the canvas window curtain billow above his head on these late afternoons, was sweet.