The Dying Grass, page 32
as we bold dragoons ride up into the grassy, rocky pine forest
(better this than bein’ a jack up in Wisconsin, sawing trees day and night like some nigger),
and then up into the first rise, pine gulleys dominate in the grass right until the deep shady winds of Lawyer Cañon.
By the way, do you have any idea where Lieutenant Wilkinson went off to?
I saw him puking at the side just now, sir. He didn’t stop or cause any delay, just kept right on and—
How bad did he look?
Not very, I’d say, sir. Just the heat—
I see. You there, private, what’s your name?
Schmidt, general.
What’s the matter?
General, sir, my shirttails—
Then cut them off, but not until camp. If you hold up the column you’ll be punished.
Yessir.
Fletch, would you hunt up Major Mason and find out how he purposes to establish our reserves to-night? And tell Captain Sladen I need him.
Right away, general.
O, and mention that I think it permissible for them to build fires at pleasure.
Yessir.
All of them except the pickets, of course—
Does your arm trouble you, general?
I’m fine. That will be all, Fletch.
2
Planting the guidon in a stubble field at Junction Trail (by which time it has commenced raining), they break ranks, detail their picket line, water the animals, cook and shelter according to their capacities (the officers all in one tent), burnish their arms and rest early, rising at “Reveille” just past four in the morning, as Bugler Brooks fires the morning gun and the sky improves itself from black to grey, like the dozenth wad of cleaning rag rammed through the barrel of a powder-fouled Springfield. The general, wearing his one blue overall suit which will fade month by month in the course of this campaign, is already cross-verifying reports with Major Mason. Our new Bannock scouts have been out all night, each one dreaming of getting a Nez Perce scalp lock. Between them and the tame Nez Perces whom we have hired on in the cause of liberty—Old George, Captain Jack, James Reuben—stretch scant webs of affection. As for Umatilla Jim, who knows how he’ll jump? The tired troopers remain likewise word-niggardly, their discomforts, fears, hopes (mostly of deserting) and rages as luridly various as the painted faces of an Indian cavalcade. With aching eyes and stinking hands they curry the horses. Doc, excited and pleased, explains to Blackie: Now, back when I was a scout on my own hook, while Wood,
whose character will most conveniently reveal itself upon my telling you that the first time he saw those two lines of dark-clad cadets at perpendiculars to the long white sweep of the Academy hall thrilled him much less than observing the petticoated ladies being escorted by their tophatted soldier-men across the plain of West Point and foreseeing certain possibilities,
finishes likewise early, stealing a moment from the Army to bring his diary closer to the present: Left Portland 5 A.M. Captain Wolf promised to post my letter to Nanny. Whether he will is “as GOD disposes.” Excited to see the general; less so the rest of the bunch. Smiles of the colored laundresses. Fletch’s prediction: A week to whip Joseph, but a month to catch that old stinker Toohhoolhoolzote. Through the mountain cliffs, clouds and mists of the Cascade Range to Dalles. The gates of the river lurid with sultry clouds. Then comes breakfast and the move out at six, with sun-glare tautening their cheeks against their skulls. After an hour of march one begins to know in truth that one is working his legs, while after three hours one might as well have been walking all one’s life, and thus it will be until one’s shoes wear out; thus the only lesson of this Nez Perce War. Lurid with sultry clouds, or should I have written lurid with sultry cloud? And why does Wilkinson dislike me although he pretends not to? Or is it merely his manner of late? By midmorning the basalt clouds in the sky-hill of golden grass have gone lavender. The general’s dear friend Sladen, who was his aide-de-camp when he persuaded Cochise’s Apaches to come in on the reservation, canters pleasantly up and down the line, no matter that for a year and a half now he’s lacked a left foot: skittish pony, shattered ankle, gangrene. And the march goes forward—shavetailing in the Indian country, O yes, yes, yes; left, left, LEFT:
This rifle sure enough feels as heavy as a nigger hoe.
How would you know?
Now tell us all about Alaska, Wood. Did you see gold nuggets and such?
Not really. As I told the general—
O yes. Do bring him up.
What’s your implication?
Some of us here are closer to him than you.
Excuse me, Wilkinson,
and by the way, when I consider this Sallie of yours, I wonder: How could any woman whose heart vibrates with the slightest feeling ever endure the prospect of living with you?
but since answering requires me to recapitulate what I told the general, and since some of you were there, I didn’t want to be a bore, that’s all.
All right, Wood, no offense. Just don’t act unique before your brother officers.
Mrs. Norton was slightly shot through her calves.
And that Colonel Perry, they should—
He’ll be acquitted. If Reno and Benteen could walk away after Little Big Horn—
Well, Chapman,
whose grey horse is near about as good as the general’s and whose hair is greasier than Indian pemmican,
you must be feeling mighty fine to-day. You got your war on—
What the hell are you talking about?
Ain’t you the one that fired the first shot?
No, the honor’s all yours, Larry. Chief Joseph shot first at White Bird Cañon. Nearly creased my horse. I saw his wicked Injun eyes, and I sure did shoot back.
That’s not what Shearer told me.
Well, he’s just an ex-Seccesh, and one day I’ll fix him. And don’t tell me it wasn’t you that gunned down Chief Tipyahlanah the other year—
What a d——d redskinned sonofabitch he was! Tried to prevent me from plowing—
He was a good Injun, the kind a man can work with. Me, I would have let him stick around until we got Wallowa nice and easy.
You don’t know nothing. You remember what Elfers said when they acquitted me? Can’t punish a man just for shooting a dog, he said. Tipyahlanah should have been underground long before I done what I done.
Looking-Glass said it was you the Injuns wanted to kill when they went on their rampage. And you so scared you dressed up like a Chinaman and ran all the way to Florence to hide in the diggings!
That’s right. You was on the inside track with Looking-Glass. What does that say about you?
What does it say, Larry?
Who else warned you? Heard tell from your wife, didn’t you, Chapman? Someday a decent white man’s going to cut her throat. So quit it, you d——d squaw man.
You’d better watch yourself, Larry.
They arrive at Norton’s at one-thirty in the afternoon, perfumed by the stink of their sweating saddle-horses.
3
At Norton’s ranch that evening, forty-three miles out of Lapwai, Wood, seated on a corral’s gate with his knees wide apart, his hands and forehead sunburned, the wrinkles of his cavalry boots as dazzling to his tender eyes as the Clearwater’s ripples, withdraws the pistol from his hip and finds it, though uncomfortably hot to the touch, still clean beyond the most distant peril of any demerit. He slides it back home, reads two more pages of The Old-Fashioned Girl by Mrs. Alcott, which there had never been reason for him not to finish on the voyage home from Sitka, remembers his Alaskan copper bracelet, which he now clasps around his left wrist for the duration of the campaign, then, since the enlisted men of Company “D” can manage without him for another quarter-hour, opens his notebook and essays to compose a poem on the subject of his fiancee’s chestnut hair, which she keeps at near about ankle length, but (reader, don’t tell!) bores himself. So doesn’t he love her? I know I do, and all I’ve ever seen of her is her photograph. As for Wood, even while proudly granting the tendency of this or any Indian war to harden him into a manly rage, he’s far from averse to Nanny’s smooth fair face, which constitutes poetry itself, in part because it has half-consistently neglected him; hence he prefers Shelley’s idealizations to Byron’s cynicisms, for where and how can an American live without ideals? In fact he has promised to love this nation above all else, save only GOD. But it’s so hot, especially after Alaska! And White Bird Cañon won’t be pleasant—almost ten days they’ve been lying there. Fletch informs me that some officers are exercised against our general on account of Perry’s failure. Well, they’ll see otherwise! But I
You may call this a picket line, but I don’t. I’m coming back in ten minutes, and I’d better see a GODd——d picket line.
Yessir,
the sun as great and round as a wagonwheel,
Craig’s Mountain behind us,
Wilkinson scarlet with sunburn,
our tame Nez Perce scouts watching me, their many pallid necklace-beads soon to shine in the campfire-light.
No. Admit that the rich men could destroy all the greenback circulation if we don’t watch out.
That’s why Tilden—
Tilden’s a socialist.
What’s that exactly?
Now he’s putting out his reserves and supports where he should, you see, after it’s too late, when Mr. Joe has already—
Quite a yaller jacket’s nest.
Lieutenant Fletcher, how high did we climb?
From Lapwai? About two and a half thousand feet.
Thank you, sir. You see? It’s like Grangeville. You see, Blackie? I’ll bet you twenty dollars there’s but half as many growing days here as in Lewiston—
Fletch, why don’t you have a sweetheart?
O, I’ll get one when I feel the urge.
Well, he’s sure laid hisself liable.
O no. It’s us who’ll get the blame and him the credit. That’s the way of the Army.
Then why the DEVIL did you join, you coward?
Shut up.
If General Crook was here he’d sure have this cleaned up fast. He don’t coddle no noble red man.
You’re hard on him, since his father’s a drunkard.
You deny that that bears watching?
No. I say that in America we don’t hold a man’s origins against him. Thomas Jefferson used to receive European potentates in his nightshirt—
Wood’s hardly a dead President.
Fine. Lay off him, Wilkinson. You don’t have to like him.
Do you?
He’s unformed and conceited. We don’t know if he’ll funk it when the fight comes. But we shouldn’t prejudge a brother officer. And since he has the general’s ear, why do yourself a mischief?
I suppose I’m jealous.
That he got to see Alaska while we were drilling at Lapwai?
Fletch, you’ve never understood—
Looky here. They even left their milk pails on the fence.
You fixing to steal one?
keep thinking about immortality. That’s the question that screams through everything to-night. If those savages murder me, will I see anything after I close my eyes, or will it just be
Them chickens and flowers is all thirsted to death. What a shame; what a shame.
They tore up all their clothes—
Sugar and salt and trash all in a mess—
Not a bad little roadhouse, at least before them Injuns wrecked it.
Well, you should see what they did to the Manuel place.
Ad Chapman used to own that property. The way I heard it, he sold it to Manuel because he—
And then Mrs. Manuel got burned alive by Joseph. Her little girl had to stand there and watch it—
For two bits I’d shoot ’em all.
I suppose they intend to operate on the settlements in the Wallowa. I mean, that’s Joseph’s beef, ain’t it? It was Wallowa he showed mad about.
That’s right. That means they won’t go far. We’ll finish ’em off in two weeks.
I wanted to see that place anyhow. Captain Whipple’s bunch are saying it’s mighty fine grassland, especially where Bear Creek meets the Wallowa River.
Forget it. The big boys must have that section sewed up.
No, this horse needs a full dozen quarts.
But an Injun horse—
I got me a gold pan in my outfit.
Just like Captain Pollock! Why, he’s crazy for—
I’m gonna be rich. You’ll see. When the officers aren’t snooping I’ll check out every stream—
Now, when is the king the proper lead?
Don’t you even know that?
Doc, if I did I wouldn’t be asking you!
All rightie, let’s see your cards. Now, what’s the five GODd——d laws of euchre? Quote them back to me.
Well . . .
night without stars? Unpractised as I am, I do dread this expedition, although I’m sure it won’t be as bad as leaping the hurdles at cavalry exercises at West Point; how I longed then to avert my eyes! After my first battle, or my first wound, it won’t be so bad. And I think my love for America stands beyond fear. We’ll see. Anyhow, Fletch is right; we’ll finish Joseph pretty soon. And Nanny will be proud I went to war. Truth to tell, the only reason I didn’t stay in Alaska was money. It takes cash to marry her. No, that’s not true. I would have regretted missing this excitement, and of course I’d be ashamed if my brother officers were to develop a bad opinion of me. But now, when we’re drawing so near that dismal cañon, I wish I could
How did Norton get away?
He didn’t, jackass! Mr. Joe shot him down—
I tried to ask Chapman, but he—
And Colonel Perry lost fourteen horses at White Bird Cañon.
If they’d only remained in the Cottonwood House—
Don’t you know nothing? This is the Cottonwood House.
That must be Norton over there. They say his wife got it but good. Now, what they did to her, you see, first they—
What’s the password?
Stars and Stripes.
All right. O, it’s you, Jim. Where you been?
Around.
Seen any bad Injuns?
Well, I caught my reflection in the stream.
You’re a caution! Most hilarious Injun I ever knew.
Thanks.
General wants you.
All right. Where’s he?
Over thataway.
Well, Doc said to me, the way you can tell gold from pyrite, you get you some mercury and—
So they took her to Brown’s Hotel. But she’ll recover, they say. Joseph shot her through both legs—
No, Custer didn’t show cowardice. None whatsoever, and that’s an iron fact. It was Reno who—
Joseph himself took a gun and shot her?
Custer could of whipped them Sioux, but he was drunk.
What he did, he put White Bird up to it. I heard from Ad Chapman, who sure knows Indians—
He was as sober as you are now.
Sober as your stinking grandmother—
at least throw off this mood, perhaps by recounting Grace Howard’s eighteen hairpins; O how tightly her hair is tucked up! I’ll bet she’d love to dance. But I’ll never find out. Besides, she’d tell Nanny. And now I’m confined among these loud buffoons who never shut up—
like the drunks shouting from the windows of the Eureka Saloon in Portland; actually I long to drink some booze right now, if the general wouldn’t find out. Fletch would go shares with me, maybe, on a very dark night, but Wilkinson would tell the general. That mean-looking Chapman might be carrying some. Can’t ask him. That lady at the Eureka showed me her
a thousand times better than anything Nanny ever
Once we’re married I’ll teach her, gently but firmly. To make me happy she’ll
But what if she she won’t?
That ain’t Norton. Don’t you know nothing? He got killed by Mr. Joe personal. And that Lew Wilmot with the volunteers, they say he turned tail and left ’em in the lurch here at Norton’s, because—
How do you know Mr. Joe pulled the trigger and not some other Injun? You talk like you was there. Well, was you there?
He’s the chief, see. How could it happen without the chief gave his say-so?
Well, then who’s that feller?
That’s Chapman the squaw man.
If that’s what he is then where’s his squaw at?
Probably keeps her tied up in the barn, with her legs wide open.
Each man of us believes he’ll stay alive. Even I, nauseous with anxiety, can’t imagine not coming back.
I must strive better to remember my CREATOR before death should overtake me. If I ask Wilkinson for guidance he might like me better. What makes the general so brave? Or is he just shamming it as I am? It must be different for old men. After this is over I must ask him frankly—what am I thinking? How could I ever ask him? He’d count me yellow—
O, he ain’t bad. He showed Joseph the rifle at the very start—
Evening, lieutenant.
Good evening, Jim. You looking for the general?
That’s right.
Well, he’s in that tent.
Then I guess I’d better go there.
What is it about that Indian I don’t like? But now I’ll imagine Nanny, just to show myself I can do it. I’m stroking her smooth white cheek, which always reminds me of porcelain. I take her face in my hands and
and
Sometimes when I’m with her I’m so bored I can’t stand it! When the fellows gave it out that Theller felt ennui with his wife, I could hardly believe it—peach of a lady!—but there he was in that Lewiston tent—
(last time I saw him alive)
and Wilkinson’s sure not as fond of his Sallie as he claims
