"Surely was obvious you didn't like that man," Charles said. "Competition, is he?"
"Not for us. He peddles spirits and guns. Name's Septimus Glyn. Worked for the Upper Arkansas Agency a while. Even the Indian Bureau couldn't stomach him. He sneaks around sellin' what he shouldn't, and every season or so he picks out some young girl, honeys her up with promises, gives her the jug till she grows fond of it, then takes her away with him. When she's no good for anything but whorin', he sells her."
"I saw a girl in the wagon."
"Don't doubt it." Disgusted, Wooden Foot didn't turn around to verify it. "Must be a Crow. He's cut his hair Crow style. They're a handsome people, but he'll ruin her looks 'fore he's done, the no-good whoremaster."
Charles watched the wagon receding on the rim of the gray plain and was glad he hadn't been forced to socialize with Septimus Glyn. When he saw Willa Parker, he must tell her that not all whites exploited the Indians. Jackson didn't. Neither did the Jesuit priest. He hoped that little bit of information would be pleasing. He found himself wanting to please her.
They reached the Smoky Hill route with their forty-six ponies; all their trading goods were gone. Wooden Foot repeatedly said his new partner brought him luck.
They'd seen no white men other than Glyn south of the Smoky Hill. Once on the trail, though, they fought eastward against a tide of galloping cavalry troops, Overland coaches, emigrant wagons. One party of wagons, driven two and three abreast, refused to allow them any clearance, and so the traders had to halloo their pack mules and ponies between the wagons, eating dust. Twice, oxen nearly trampled Fen. Two valuable ponies ran away.
After the traders got through the wagons, they reined up. They looked as though they'd coated their faces in yellow flour. The dust made their eyes all the larger and whiter.
"Swear to God, Charlie, I never seen so many greenhorn wagons this early in the season."
"And the traffic's bound to make the Sioux and Cheyennes mad, isn't it?"
"You're right," Wooden Foot said.
Charles watched the canvas tops lurching west. "I had a strange reaction when those wagons wouldn't give us room. All of a sudden I understood how the Indians feel."
Thirty miles outside Fort Riley, Kansas, they saw the first stakes marking the route of the oncoming railroad. Every mile or so thereafter, they passed piles of telegraph poles waiting to be planted. One pile was nothing but ashes and charred wood. "The tribes are 'bout as partial to the talkin' wires as they are to settlers," Wooden Foot remarked.
They rode on. Weather-burned and toughened by his return to a life outdoors, Charles felt fit and very much in harmony with his surroundings. His burned-out feeling was disappearing, replaced by renewed energy and a zest for living. If he was not yet healed, healing had begun.
The morning was warm. He cast off his gypsy robe, pushed up the sleeves of his long Johns, and lit a cigar, noticing eight more vehicles coming toward them over the prairie. These turned out to be high-wheeled canvas-covered U.S. Army ambulances, each pulled by two horses. Mounted soldiers formed a moving defense ring around the vehicles. "Who the hell's this?" Wooden Foot said.
They ran their mules and ponies in a circle and waited. The ambulances stopped. A colonel jumped down and greeted them. A second officer hopped out of the lead wagon, a stringy fellow with a hawk face and bristly red hair mixed with gray. His face startled Charles more than his three stars did.
"Morning," said the general. "Where have you gentlemen come from?"
"The Indian Territory," Wooden Foot said.
"We wintered with the Cheyennes," Charles said.
"I am on an inspection tour. What's their state of mind?"
"Well," Wooden Foot said, cautious, "considerin' that no one chief or village represents the whole shebang, I guess I'd say the tribe's mood is distrustful. Black Kettle, the peace chief, he told us he didn't know how long he could hold his young men back."
"Oh yes?" said the general, bristling. "Then I'd better talk to that redskin. If one more white man is scalped out here, I won't be able to hold my men back, either."
After that he calmed down. Charles puffed on his cigar and exhaled blue smoke. The general gave him a keen look. "Did I detect a trace of Southern speech, sir?"
"More than a trace, General. I rode for Wade Hampton."
"An able soldier. You like cigars, sir." Charles nodded. "I do, too. You're welcome to a fresh one of mine while we cook up some food."
"No thanks, General. I'm anxious to head on east and visit my son."
"Safe journey, then." The stringy officer gave them a casual salute and he and the colonel returned to their ambulance.
As soon as they got the horses moving, Wooden Foot said, "You know that shoulder-straps?"
"Sure. That is, I've seen pictures. His bummers burned a whole lot of my home state."
"Lord God, you don't mean that's Uncle Billy Sherman?" "Yes, I do. Wonder what he's doing out here?"
At Riley, they learned the answer. Sherman had commanded the Division of the Mississippi since shortly after Charles passed through Chicago. He'd shifted his headquarters to St. Louis, and then, in March, had persuaded Grant to create a Department of the Platte, to shrink the unwieldy Department of the Missouri and promote better management of both within the Division. This displeased John Pope, the commander of the Missouri Department.
There were inevitable Army rumors to go with the facts. The larger administrative unit would soon be renamed Division of the Missouri. Sherman thought the Department of the Platte's commander, St. George Cooke, too old at fifty-six. He wanted Winfield Hancock, "Superb" Hancock of Gettysburg, to replace Pope. He wanted Congress to authorize new infantry and cavalry regiments, assigning some of them to Plains duty, although it couldn't be done in time to help the 1866 travel season.
Charles got the idea that Sherman had strong, largely negative views about Indians, yet did not want to become involved in making policy that affected them. "Sheriffs of the nation," that was Sherman's definition of the Army's role. Pope was more of an activist. He had insisted that emigrant trains organize before leaving jumping-off points such as Leavenworth. Otherwise, he said, his regiments wouldn't be responsible for them.
At the sutler's, Charles picked up a letter from Duncan. "Why, he's a whole lot closer than when I left. They transferred him to Fort Leavenworth in January. Let's hurry up and sell those horses."
By the first of June all the animals were gone, having fetched just over two thousand dollars for the company. The traders rode east and, at Topeka, banked their money, each man keeping fifty dollars for personal expenses. On the winter count Wooden Foot painted three sacks bearing dollar signs. He and Charles shook hands, Charles hugged Boy, and they agreed to rendezvous on the first of September.
With a sly look, Wooden Foot said, "Bound anyplace 'sides Leavenworth? Case I need you, understand."
"Oh" — Charles settled in Satan's saddle — "maybe St. Louis. Have a barber work me over." His beard had grown long and thick. "Take in a show. I met that actress, remember."
"Mmm, that's right. Nearly slipped my mind." Charles smiled. "The saucy freethinker who doesn't give a snap if people scorn her for invitin' a gent to supper."
"That's the one."
"You been so impatient, I figured you had somethin' in mind. So it's that there Augusta."
Suddenly bleak, Charles said, "Augusta was my son's mother. She's dead. I've never mentioned her name."
"Not woke up you haven't. You talk in your sleep, Charlie. I figured it was a happy dream. I'm sorry."
"That's all right."
"I want you to feel good. You're my friend. It was damn lucky we met up at Jefferson Barracks."