When he heard the last word, Jerry Franklin went rigid. That meant he’d have to fight Makes Much Radiation—and the prospect scared him right down to the wet hairs on his legs. The alternative was losing face completely among the Sioux.
“Stinkard” was a term from the Natchez system and was applied these days indiscriminately to all white men bound to field or factory under their aristocratic Indian overlords. A “stinkard” was something lower than a serf, whose one value was that his toil gave his masters the leisure to engage in the activities of full manhood: hunting, fighting, thinking.
If you let someone call you a stinkard and didn’t kill him, why, then you were a stinkard—and that was all there was to it.
“I am an accredited representative of the United States of America,” Jerry said slowly and distinctly, “and the oldest son of the Senator from Idaho. When my father dies, I will sit in the Senate in his place. I am a free-born man, high in the councils of my nation, and anyone who calls me a stinkard is a rotten, no-good, foul-mouthed liar!”
There—it was done. He waited as Makes Much Radiation rose to his feet. He noted with dismay the well-fed, well-muscled sleekness of the young warrior. He wouldn’t have a chance against him. Not in hand-to-hand combat—which was the way it would be.
Makes Much Radiation picked up the sword and pointed it at Jerry Franklin. “I could chop you in half right now like a fat onion,” he observed. “Or I could go into a ring with you, knife to knife, and cut your belly open. I’ve fought and killed Seminole, I’ve fought Apache, I’ve even fought and killed Comanche. But I’ve never dirtied my hands with paleface blood, and I don’t intend to start now. I leave such simple butchery to the overseers of our estates. Father, I’ll be outside until the lodge is clean again.” Then he threw the sword ringingly at Jerry’s feet and walked out.
Just before he left, he stopped, and remarked over his shoulder: “The oldest son of the Senator from Idaho! Idaho has been part of the estates of my mother’s family for the past forty-five years! When will these romantic children stop playing games and start living in the world as it is now?”
“My son,” the old chief murmured. “Younger generation. A bit wild. Highly intolerant. But he means well. Really does. Means well.”
He signaled to the white serfs, who brought over a large chest covered with great splashes of color.
While the chief rummaged in the chest, Jerry Franklin relaxed inch by inch. It was almost too good to be true: he wouldn’t have to fight Makes Much Radiation, and he hadn’t lost face. All things considered, the whole business had turned out very well indeed.
And as for the last comment—well, why expect an Indian to understand about things like tradition and the glory that could reside forever in a symbol? When his father stood, up under the cracked roof of Madison Square Garden and roared across to the Vice-President of the United States: “The people of the sovereign state of Idaho will never and can never in all conscience consent to a tax on potatoes. From time immemorial, potatoes have been associated with Idaho, potatoes have been the pride of Idaho. The people of Boise say no to a tax on potatoes, the people of Pocatello say no to a tax on potatoes, the very rolling farmlands of the Gem of the Mountain say no, never, a thousand times no, to a tax on potatoes!”—when his father spoke like that, he was speaking for the people of Boise and Pocatello. Not the crushed Boise or desolate Pocatello of today, true, but the magnificent cities as they had been of yore…and the rich farms on either side of the Snake River…and Sun Valley, Moscow, Idaho Falls, American Falls, Weiser, Grangeville, Twin Falls…
“We did not expect you, so we have not many gifts to offer in return,” Three Hydrogen Bombs was explaining. “However, there is this one small thing. For you.”
Jerry gasped as he took it. It was a pistol, a real, brand-new pistol! And a small box of cartridges. Made in one of the Sioux slave workshops of the Middle West that he had heard about. But to hold it in his hand, and to know that it belonged to him!
It was a Crazy Horse forty-five, and, according to all reports, far superior to the Apache weapon that had so long dominated the West, the Geronimo thirty-two. This was a weapon a General of the Armies, a President of the United States, might never hope to own—and it was his!
“I don’t know how—Really, I—I—”
“That’s all right,” the chief told him genially. “Really it is. My son would not approve of giving firearms to palefaces, but I feel that palefaces are like other people—it’s the individual that counts. You look like a responsible man for a paleface; I’m sure you’ll use the pistol wisely. Now your message.”
Jerry collected his faculties and opened the pouch that hung from his neck. Reverently, he extracted the precious document and presented it to the chief.
Three Hydrogen Bombs read it quickly and passed it to his warriors. The last one to get it, Bright Book Jacket, wadded it up into a ball and tossed it back at the white man.
“Bad penmanship,” he said. “And ‘receive’ is spelled three different ways. The rule is: ‘i before e, except after c.’ But what does it have to do with us? It’s addressed to the Seminole chief, Osceola VII, requesting him to order his warriors back to the southern bank of the Delaware River, or to return the hostage given him by the Government of the United States as an earnest of good will and peaceful intentions. We’re not Seminole: why show it to us?”
As Jerry Franklin smoothed out the wrinkles in the paper with painful care and replaced the document in his pouch, the Confederate ambassador, Sylvester Thomas, spoke up. “I think I might explain,” he suggested, glancing inquiringly from face to face. “If you gentlemen don’t mind…? It is obvious that the United States Government has heard that an Indian tribe finally crossed the Delaware at this point, and assumed it was the Seminole. The last movement of the Seminole, you will recall, was to Philadelphia, forcing the evacuation of the capital once more and its transfer to New York City. It was a natural mistake; the communications of the American States, whether Confederate or United”—a small, coughing, diplomatic laugh here—“have not been as good as might have been expected in recent years. It is quite evident that neither this young man, nor the government he represents so ably and so well, had any idea that the Sioux had decided to steal a march on his majesty, Osceola VII, and cross the Delaware at Lambertville.”
“That’s right,” Jerry broke in eagerly. “That’s exactly right. And now, as the accredited emissary of the President of the United States, it is my duty formally to request that the Sioux nation honor the treaty of eleven years ago as well as the treaty of fifteen—I think it was fifteen—years ago, and retire once more behind the banks of the Susquehanna River. I must remind you that when we retired from Pittsburgh, Altoona, and Johnstown, you swore that the Sioux would take no more land from us and would protect us in the little we had left. I am certain that the Sioux want to be known as a nation that keeps its promises.”
Three Hydrogen Bombs glanced questioningly at the faces of Bright Book Jacket and Hangs A Tale. Then he leaned forward and placed his elbows on his crossed legs. “You speak well, young man,” he commented. “You are a credit to your chief…Now, then. Of course the Sioux want to be known as a nation that honors its treaties and keeps its promises. And so forth and so forth. But we have an expanding population. You don’t have an expanding population. We need more land. You don’t use most of the land you have. Should we sit by and see the land go to waste—worse yet, should we see it acquired by the Seminole, who already rule a domain stretching from Philadelphia to Key West? Be reasonable. You can retire to—to other places. You have most of New England left and a large part of New York State. Surely you can afford to give up New Jersey.”