Hartree took the picket pins. He tossed them up and caught them in front of the wounded Arapahoe. Charles leaned close to Magee and muttered in his ear. Magee said, "Yessir, I’ll see if anybody up front is hurt." He walked toward the locomotive carrying his Springfield rifle.
More passengers were peering from the coach. Hartree addressed them. "Gentlemen — and you ladies especially — I respectfully ask that you stay in there while I deal with these savages. I intend to punish one of them in a way consistent with their treatment of white captives. The lesson will benefit every white man and woman in Kansas."
"Back off, Hartree," Charles said. "I told you this is the Army's responsibility."
Two of Hartree's shootists raised their buffalo rifles. Hartree said, "No, sir, this is railroad business. Don't interfere unless you want several dead niggers to explain to your commanding officer."
A trooper grabbed his sidearm. Gray Owl reached out to stay his hand. "We're on the same side. Or we're supposed to be."
Charles glanced toward the engine cab. Magee had vanished. Hartree tossed the picket pins to Turk. "Go back to that other man and tie him down. Spreadeagle him. Nail those two pins through his private parts."
Charles turned white. The conductor gripped the platform stair rail and said, "Mr. Hartree, that's pretty extreme."
Hartree yelled, "Shut your damn mouth or well save a pin for you. Turk?" The man trotting toward the rear of the train turned back. "Be sure you rip off his clout first. Red, take this dirty scum back there to watch."
The Arapahoe whose arm dripped blood was dragged away. He looked sick. Charles swallowed sour saliva.
Gray Owl was gazing at the train. Suddenly his mouth dropped open. Charles warned him with a look, holding motionless while he watched a wild turkey feather, then a black derby, rise above the roof line of the freight car. Magic Magee climbed into sight, unseen by Hartree or the passengers below.
Charles felt sweat gather and drip from his nose. Slowly, Magee lifted his Springfield to his shoulder. He aimed at the back of the green satin waistcoat. At the rear of the train, one of Hartree's men spied Magee and yelled, just as Charles spoke.
"Turn around, Mr. Hartree. If you crucify that Indian, it'll cost your life."
Hartree spun, saw Magee, clenched his fists. "Shit." He flung a look at his men, who were too far away to do him much good. Charles drew his Army Colt and cocked it. Hartree pivoted back, his face scarlet.
"You interfering bastard, the railroad'll have your ass."
Charles said to his troopers, "Collect those three and put them in the freight car. The Indians can travel in the caboose."
Hartree let out a stream of accusations and foul language, until the men in the coach protested. Magee signaled Gray Owl. The tracker ran forward and caught Magee's Springfield when he tossed it down. Magee hung from the roof of the car, and dropped.
"Well done," Charles said to him. "You can tear up the marker."
"Oh, no, sir. This wasn't anything. The marker's a big one. Anytime you need some help, you ask."
Emotion welled in Charles. Until now he hadn't quite realized what good soldiers these men had become. They were able to respond quickly, obey orders, and generally do a lot more than just shoot an enemy. He felt a rush of pride.
Magee took charge of putting Hartree and his shootists in the freight car, which he then closed, posting two guards outside. The security chief could be heard stomping and swearing.
The conductor again appealed to Charles for help with the wounded man.
"Is he bad?"
"No, not bad, but —"
"Then I want to see to my own first." He was testy, because he was doing things he didn't want to do: controlling gun-crazy civilians; saving wounded Indians. Every damn thing but the one thing he'd joined up to do.
He climbed up and over the platform of the passenger coach, completely missing the intense look Gray Owl gave him; a look that carried new respect and regard.
Private Washington Toby, a lanky mulatto boy from Philadelphia, lay next to the caboose with blood all over his fine buckskin pants. A broken arrow jutted from his leg. Toby clutched his leg while he swore and wept from pain.
"Lie back, Toby." Charles tried not to let his anxiety show. "Let go of your leg."
Reluctantly, Toby did so. Charles knelt and pulled out his Bowie knife. He lengthened the slip in the buckskin to more than a foot. Ever since the tribes had replaced stone arrowheads with ones of strap or sheet iron, arrow wounds were terrible. If the iron hit bone, it often crimped around it, making extrication an agony. Of course if the arrow cut a muscle, or nicked a blood vessel —
To one of the worried troopers standing there, Charles said, "Run back to Satan and open my right saddlebag. Bring me the tobacco plug you'll find inside. Easy now, Toby. You're lucky," he lied. "An arrow in the leg is nothing. If you get one in your belly or chest, they play the funeral march before you fall down."
Toby's mouth wrenched, a sad attempt at a smile. Sweat popped out on his face. Charles pulled the buckskin away from the wound and studied the arrow. "Take hold of my left arm. Hang on tight."
The trooper rushed back with the tobacco plug. Charles opened his mouth and the trooper dropped it in. Charles started chewing vigorously while he grasped the painted shaft and gently worked it from side to side.
It felt crimped in there. He exerted more pressure. Toby's eyes bulged. His nails almost dug through Charles's shirt.
"Easy, easy," Charles kept saying, the words sounding squishy because of the chewing tobacco. Toby grunted in reaction to the pain, then rolled his shoulders off the ground. "Keep him down," Charles exclaimed. Two troopers restrained the wounded man.
Blood was pouring from the wound now. Charles tried to imagine his hands were a woman's, with a woman's light touch. He continued to work the shaft one way, then the other, back and forth, back and —
He felt it loosed. A lump formed in his throat, big as a rock. "All right, Toby, we'll be done in just a couple of minutes." He talked to divert the man's attention. "Just hang on for a couple of more —" He yanked. Washington Toby screamed and fainted.
Charles sagged. He rocked back on his haunches, holding in his right hand the shaft, its bloody head only slightly bent. In a moment Toby opened his eyes. Groggy, he started to weep.
"Go ahead and cry," Charles said. "I know it hurts. What I'm going to do now will help some, until we get you to the fort. Tobacco's an old Plains medicine for wounds."
He spat several times, filling the wound with brown juice. He kneaded the edges to mix blood and tobacco thoroughly. There was no spurting; no darker blood showed. The arrow had done no serious damage.
He wound on a tourniquet and ordered his men to wrap Washington Toby in blankets and let him rest aboard the train. One of the troopers, a shy boy named Collet, gave Charles a look of admiration.
"You a good officer, Mist' August."
When he reached the other side of the train, Gray Owl said to him, "There is one Arapahoe dead. Shall we leave him?"
Charles wiped his mouth. On the point of saying yes, he changed his mind. "If you can repair one of those platforms in the trees, put him on it. Since he's already dead, I guess we can give him that much. I'll hold the train."
Gray Owl gazed at him steadily, then turned and left.
"Lieutenant," the conductor said, his voice carrying a note of complaint now, "you've got to take time to look at the wounded man in here. I think he's all right, but I'm no doctor."
Charles nodded and wearily climbed the metal steps. The civilians moved back to allow him through. From between facing seats, boots and yellow-striped cavalry trousers jutted into the aisle. The wounded man leaned against the wall, his right arm limp.