Cody said, "For Goddard Brothers, the railroad's meat contractor. They pay five hundred a month, and me and my boys guarantee them all the buffalo meat they need to feed their crews. We knock 'em down fast, which makes it a profitable trade."
Charles studied the wagons, their reeking cargoes silhouetted against twilight stars in a rosy sky shading up to deep blue. Dutch Henry Griffenstein was amused by something. "You don't know the meanin' of fast till you watch Buffalo Bill work. He knocks down eleven, twelve bison in the time it takes most of us to load a Winchester."
"Mighty boring, though," Cody said. "Wouldn't mind scouting again. We'd better hustle, boys. It's almost dark."
He waved the wagons ahead and rode on. Dutch Henry grinned inside his huge chest-length beard. "You ever get tired of soldiering, Main, look us up. We can always use another good shot."
After Dutch Henry trotted off, Charles looked at both sides of the street, to see if there was anyone who might have overheard his name.
"Our revels now are ended. These our actors are melted into air, into thin air."
With flamboyant gestures, Sam Trump boomed Prospero's farewell to the audience. This portion had been purloined from the end of the Act IV masque. Trump was confident no one would detect the theft.
A half circle of chimneyed lamps lit the improvised stage. Blankets hung on rope served as side curtains. The theater was the dining-room of the unfinished Drovertown Hotel, a room heavy with the smell of new pine lumber.
Charles had arrived too late for a seat on the benches brought in for the evening. He stood at the back, among some other bachelor officers from the fort. Seated in front of him were officers, their wives, and plainly dressed townspeople, but not a single black soldier.
Over the heads of the audience, Willa spied him only moments after he came in. She immediately fumbled one of Juliet's lines from the balcony scene. She was playing against Trump's giggle-inducing Romeo. Not only was Trump paunchy and too old, but he slapped his heart with both hands at any reference pertaining to romance.
The audience, however, starved for entertainment, clearly loved the Shakespearean excerpts, and listened attentively for two hours. During that time only one tipsy teamster had to be removed.
"We are such stuff as dreams are made on ... and our little life is ended with a sleep." With but a breath between, he jumped to the epilogue of The Tempest, squeezing every syllable of the text for its juice. "... or else my project fails, which was to please ..." Charles fidgeted from foot to foot, while the actor fairly begged the audience for applause. "As you from crimes would pardoned be ... let your indulgence set me free."
Trump's last line was spoken as he swooped into a low bow, anticipating his ovation. He got it. Willa, Trueblood, and the stocky character woman dashed from behind the blankets. All linked hands and bowed. Ike Barnes's wife jumped up and yelled, "Bravo, bravo," which prompted Trump to step forward for a solo bow. He knocked over a lamp. A soldier in the front row stamped on the leaking oil as it flamed, preventing a disaster. Trump paid no attention.
Each time Willa bowed, her eyes remained on Charles. He held his hands high so she could see him clapping. Lord, how pretty she was, and how he warmed at the sight of her. For a moment he felt peaceful; free of spite, the past — all his pain.
As the audience broke up, he joined others moving forward to congratulate the company. "Dear boy," Trump cried, spying Charles and lunging out to have his hand shaken. "How splendid to have you here. I'm glad you saw us this evening. This tour is a triumph. I'm sure they're already hearing of it in the East. When they send for us, I'll have to cancel the rest of the itinerary." And off he went to another admirer.
Charles strode to Willa, took hold of her arms, and kissed her forehead. "You were wonderful."
She slipped a hand behind his back and hugged him. "And you're very bad for my acting. Will you take me out of here?"
"Right now," he said, clasping her hand.
"I'd like to walk," she said. He reminded her about the cold. "I have an old wool coat, very heavy, and a muff."
So they set out, walking away from the unfinished two-story Drovertown Hotel. Suddenly they were facing a rolling black prairie with white and yellow stars sparkling above it.
"Don't you want supper?" he asked. "Aren't you starved after all that work?"
"Later. I want to hear about you." She fairly blushed. "Are you all right?"
"I'm all right." She linked arms with him. He commended her for refusing to play Fort Harker. "Sam told me the tour's been a triumph. You can tell me the truth."
She laughed. "Fort Riley was fair. The audience was off somehow, or we were. I caught Sam trying to sneak to the sutler's just before curtain."
"Did you play Leavenworth?"
"Yes. The audience there was fine."
"Did you have a chance to see my boy?"
"I did. He's wonderful, Charles. Very smart. The brigadier said he'd trained himself with the chamber pot before he was eighteen months old." Charles cleared his throat. She laughed a second time. "Oh, that's right, proper females don't mention such things to gentlemen. The looseness of my profession is showing again."
Amused, he said, "I knew about the chamber pot."
"I should have guessed. The brigadier did say it's difficult for him to handle Gus, because he adores the boy, and spoils him even though he doesn't intend it. He shows him your photograph constantly. Gus knows who you are. He missed you." Another squeeze of his arm. "I miss you, too. Buy me supper and ply me with a little wine and I'll show you how much."
She turned, directly in his path. She flung up an arm, hand around his neck, and pulled him into a kiss. He put both arms around her waist and felt her cold mouth warm quickly. They held one another in silence. Then something in Charles began to push away, distancing him from her.
"Oh, I have missed you. I love you, Charles. I can't help it." She didn't pause, the conventional signal that she expected him to say it in reply. She didn't want to push him. "Perhaps you'll get to see more of Gus now. There seems to be peace on the Plains."
They resumed their walk, going up a small round hill on crackling frost-killed grass. At the summit they stopped, awed by the gigantic canopy of stars.
At length he answered her. "It's always peaceful in the winter."
"Yes. But what I mean is, now there's the Medicine Lodge Treaty. That should promote —"
"Willa, let's not start. You know that the subject of Indians always causes a muss between us." Did he want that? Was that why he put a certain testiness into his tone?
She heard it; it irked her. "Why should we not discuss it, Charles? It's a meaningful treaty."
"Come on. No treaty is meaningful, and Medicine Lodge was worse because only a few chiefs touched the pen. Did you read the dispatches Mr. Stanley wrote for the New York Tribune? The stupid commissioners didn't even read the entire treaty to Black Kettle and the rest. The chiefs wanted to accommodate the commissioners, they wanted the goods and guns, so they signed." By this point she'd separated her arm from his. "As soon as they realize what they gave away, they'll repudiate the treaty. If the Dog Society men don't kill them first."
"And that's what you want, I suppose?" She faced him, her face dim in the starlight. Her breath was a white cloud that spread and disappeared.
"I want the men who killed my friends. I wish you wouldn't bring it up."
"I bring it up because I care about you."