The Dying Grass, page 33
(to tell the truth, she sounds about as simple as an Aetna Centennial sewing machine)
and even the general has been known to allude unenthusiastically to the marital state; so does that mean that whichever bride I end up with will disappoint me? That cannot be true.
I’d better go peg out my blanket with the officers pretty soon or they’ll call me peculiar. But, dear LORD, don’t let me end up like them! Trimble will tell us all over again how many of the Modoc horses were no bigger than dogs, and I’ll have to ask after Pollock’s brood; his wife must be in the family way again. Well, he’s been good to me. But I dislike applauding his nigger songs. Although Parnell must have recollections of being a British Lancer. Will he tell me anything? That would pass the time. GOD help me to outstretch myself
and attach Nanny to me so she can’t
Sing us a fine song.
Nope.
The general’s right: Wilkinson and Fletch do both look run down. I wonder if it’s typhoid?
Trimble’s mad against Perry. He spoke of testifying.
That Umatilla Jim bears watching, I fear. Better tell Fletch when I—
So there you are, Wood! Are you correcting your memoirs?
No, Wilkinson, I’m writing yours. Did you enjoy the march?
Well, it’s fine to breathe a different atmosphere from Lapwai, anyway . . .
Wood, are you settled now back at home?
Sure am, Captain Pollock. You’re looking fit—
By GOD, my boy, we loved it at Wallula! Every man jack except that melancholic major was tanned and healthy. Plenty of fishing, and sometimes we even got to play “base ball.” Not that we had your opportunities, of course.
Well, sir, I didn’t exactly find any gold!
You didn’t? D——mnit if I didn’t count on you to make us rich! What’s the matter with you?
All they talked about was copper.
To hell with copper! Did you buy that new hat up in Alaska?
In The Dalles.
And then that Lynn Bowers lifted up her petticoats—
Should have figured.
Wood, tell us again about that Chilcat chief.
All right. Well, when Sitka Jack, who’s a “character” on his own account, took me to his lodge, or palace as I should say, I knew right off that here was a true potentate of the red men! Imagine grand totem poles on either side of him, carved to resemble grotesque heads stacked on top of each other. He looked me over like a man who wouldn’t be imposed on. I told him about the fearsome one-armed chief who had sent me, and he pretended not to be impressed. The squaws brought out baskets of smoked salmon and blueberries. When he gave me permission to go upriver—
And did you find Alaskan gold? Tell us honestly—
No, tell us about the squaws!
Fine-figured, and very piquant.
Piquant, he says! By the way, Wood, Sladen was asking about your people. He’s wondering if you’re connected to Ralph Erskine, whom I gather was a friend or something of his family.
Well, I do know that Elizabeth Erskine, daughter of Ralph Erskine, is one of my ancestors and I can prove it once I bring Nanny out West, because my mother has a silver spoon engraved E.E.,
by which time Wilkinson is already passing round his Sallie’s ambrotype:
What a belle she is, and how she can smile!
so that Fletch pores dreamily over the portrait, until Wilkinson’s eyes commence to flash. What Fletch is particularly curious to know (for no good reason) is whether a lock of Sallie’s hair lives coiled within this romantic object, but he’s too polite to open it without leave,
which reminds me of Nanny, staring slightly downward, smiling, with her hair coiled elegantly upon her head, and her earrings as colorful as peacock’s tails. Somehow I can almost imagine Fletch killed and in his grave. But Wilkinson’s impervious to bullets, and I’m simply going to be careful
but brave, of course—better brave than careful even if I
how much would Nanny miss me? Maybe she’s still exchanging letters with Mr. Tracy Gould, d——n him, or that other smart rich bastard whom her father thinks the world of.
I’d wager he’s got his heart fixed on this here place if Norton don’t come back. See him gazin’ slyly about?
You got your heart fixed on this place, don’t you?
Now you quit shitting on Mr. Chapman. I don’t care if he’s a squaw man. He’s a true metal-hearted American—
What’s your dream?
My dream about what?
Every American’s got a dream.
I’d marry a nice white gal and we’d find ourselves a walnut-shaded ranch house in a grassy draw by a creek—the right kind of creek, you see, not wide enough to flood or thin enough to go dry in August . . .
Well, I aim to be up higher. Maybe someplace like Wallowa, if the winter’s not too bad.
Now that his brother officers have momentarily finished with him, Wood commences to consider all over what he often did in Alaska (with certain intermissions): namely, the way that Nanny’s reddish-brown hair flows to her knees—a sight of awe-potent abundance now conscientiously represented by:
cataract of chestnut locks
secrets of her
her—o, GODd——nit! Never seek to compel the Muse. All the same:
the blue ribbon in Nanny’s hair
and that passionate pride in herself which I quickly learned to feel about her and hope someday to feel about myself, although her pride derives half from her studied performance of herself as a woman and half from the form whose perfection manifests itself in the eyes and attentions of men, whereas I for my part have not yet relinquished the hope of becoming myself in some true and simple yet worthy way which will not require self-consciousness. Can there be a woman of this type? Perhaps squaws are this way.
Doc?
What is it now?
How big is a scalp?
Just about the size of a silver dollar.
Is that really how big mine is?
Sure.
And an—
You’ll find out, probably to-morrow. Now let me be.
If I had my Shelley here I’d borrow just two lines. Nanny would never
Will I be the one to get Joseph to-morrow? To be the hero of the hour and also
see him bleed! Pollock told me he burns women alive.
What’s the password? Stop or I’ll shoot!
Stars and Stripes.
O, it’s Jim.
Now let me come into the shade; it’s hot out here.
the kiss of her hair
of her
her little you-know-what
as she o’ersees my romantic vigil
Then where’s Norton at?
What?
I said where’s Norton at?
How can I think when they
Took his folks to Grangeville.
Left the dirty work to us, did he?
General, Umatilla Jim is here.
Do come in. Jim, have a seat. How are you enjoying military life?
Pretty good, general.
Joseph’s in the bag, don’t you think?
Yessir.
Teach me an Indian word, Jim. My wife has advised me to write a book about Indians.
Wapato.
And what’s that?
Duck potato. Sometimes they call it arrowweed. There’s some in the pond down there. Our squaws wade in and pull it up with their toes—
Wapato.
That’s right.
Thank you, Jim. I like that medallion of yours. So you’re a Rutherford Hayes man, I see.
Very funny, general.
Well, then where did you get it?
Mr. Tsépmin paid me this, when I took his wife back to the reservation. He said it’s worth money. Is it, general?
Is Mrs. Chapman a loose woman?
O no, general, just old. Worn out teeth. Five children now. Tsépmin he got tired of her, said to me, Jim, take her away quick!— But what he gave me, it’s not worth money?
My LORD! Do you suppose Colonel Perry is getting close?
Well, general, he left Grangeville two hours ago, riding fast—
What sign of Joseph?
Nothing fresh. I guess they’re across the Salmon, digging camas and arguing out their next move—
He’s a very dangerous Indian.
Yessir.
Jim, what do you suppose he’s thinking right now?
BATTLE WITHOUT MUSIC
JUNE 24
1
We’re ready to move out, general.
It’s Sunday.
Well, yes it is, sir.
You’d surely like to hear that move out bugle, wouldn’t you, Captain Jocelyn?
You’re right about that, general.
Your zeal reminds me of a little story. You see, the regimental band was playing in order to urge us on at Fredericksburg. Were you at that battle, captain?
No, sir.
I didn’t think so. Well, it was an impressive engagement. The enemy had deployed every battery they could. Some of our men were nervous. So the band played, to give us heart and impel us forward. It was very rousing music, captain.
Yessir.
And then a Confederate shell struck it, and all its members were killed. We went into battle without music, captain. That will be all. Fletch, who’s officer of the day?
Captain Whipple, general.
Is he aware that to-day as on every other Sunday there’s to be a dress inspection?
Of course, sir.
All right. Evidently it slipped Captain Jocelyn’s mind.
2
But I should have begun my accounting of this Sunday right at dawn, when the morning gun has said what it could, and Colonel Perry, his pipe lost or stolen back in Lapwai in the days when Theller still lived, rolls himself a smoke in a scrap of letterhead which advertises B. F. Field’s patent for compressed board of any thickness, manufactured at Lyons, Iowa. Every man in Company “F” had better answer roll call, and to hell with the others. Soon they will be smashing their pilot bread or boiling it in coffee; pork-steam will perfume the officers’ commissary; but not yet. Perry has always favored this early hour for watchful thinking, and he imagines that he is happy. The letter which Wood delivered from Mrs. Perry in Portland was satisfactory in its sentiments of loyalty, worry and hinted desire, although it left her husband as bleak as usual. He wishes he could have drawn a new uniform for this campaign, which may well drag on like the Modoc War. As soon as Wilkinson appears, he will ask to study Colton’s map. The general’s tent remains shut, but Perry knows that unless his superior officer expired during the night, he must be poring over the small square leather-bound Gospels which his brother Charles gave him in some darkly remote year before the Secession War was ever heard of.— GODd——d one-armed General Prayer Book!— And where are the reds? Perry, like his general, would rather go over and over the country in his head, with the aim of predicting the movements of the arch-enemy, Mr. Joe. Since that villain loves Wallowa so much, why wouldn’t he sweep back through there with his braves, wiping out all the Americans he can? According to our scouts, the valley continues quiet, but so was White Bird Cañon until we heard that screech owl’s cry. High time to clean out Wallowa, and burn the contents of every hide dump and camas pit! Captain Whipple will have mapped those sites if he’s worth anything. Settlers and volunteers can do the rest—or will they also fuck that up? GODd——n this, and d——n Mr. Joe. Anger and grief for the fallen Theller come curving in an almost shocking white flash like the twin stabbers of a longhorn bull. This time I’m not intending to bring a single live Indian home from the field, except maybe some pretty little Nez Perce squaw who doesn’t scream. I’ll make her promise that her heart’s good forever, and then if she does what I say, I’ll let her go in Lewiston. Anyhow I’d never get away with it, not while old Prayer Book’s in charge. He don’t know a thing. Does he even realize how to starve Mr. Joe? We ought to set the camas prairie on fire. Once his roots are all burned up, then we have to keep him away from his hunting grounds. Better ask James Reuben how to destroy that cous they eat. And I’ll shoot and keep shooting; I won’t take squaw prisoners—although I won’t shoot down their children on purpose, no matter in hell what they’ve done to ours.
All this he thinks between the first and second notes of “Reveille,” just after the morning gun.
At the third note (5:30 a.m.), the tent opens,
the men rustling, yawning, rising, buckling on their pistol belts, Perry, already immaculately ready, with his hands on his hips:
If General Crook were in charge of this outfit, he’d be over the ridgetop hunting mountain sheep, and all the same we’d be a d——d sight better organized.
Is Lieutenant Wilkinson still abed at this hour?
Seems a bit feverish, general. Should I fetch him?
Has he reported sick?
No, sir.
Then I expect to see him in five minutes, in full trim and with a good excuse.
Yessir.
Captain Randall, Lieutenant Bomus needs to verify that your requisition is correct. Just because your volunteers showed up unprepared—
Lieutenant, I’ll tell you what you can do with your d——d bullshit. And you can tell the general—
O can I?
Roll call!
Wilkinson, I thought you knew how important it is to set an example at the beginning of a campaign.
I apologize, general—
Are you sick?
I’m all right, sir.
Look at me, Wilkinson,
and, dear LORD, preserve this fine young man from the whitish fur on the tongue, the morning and evening fevers, the vomiting, flux and thirst of typhoid.
Yessir.
Report to Doctor Alexander at once, and I hope you feel better. Go now. Perry, will Joseph have crossed the Salmon?
I expect so, general. A mighty inconvenient stream for us—
Isn’t that Toohhoolhoolzote’s territory yonder?
Sure is. Pretty rough country in that direction, if they withdraw into the mountains—
Could the River Renegades have linked up with them over there?
Well, general, you know how easily Indians can move.
Yes. Have you doped out the nearest ford to White Bird Cañon?
No, sir. On Colton’s map—
I’m disappointed in you. Then send me Chapman; he knows the country. Are you ready to set out for Grangeville?
Sure am, general.
Go then, and GOD bless you. Fletch, who was officer of the day?
Captain Jocelyn, sir.
Can you fetch him? O, good morning, captain. A pleasure to see you. What happened on your line?
It’s dead quiet, sir. The pickets report no contact.
Naturally. Indians don’t give way step by step. They gallop away.
Yessir.
What news from your scouts?
Well, general, I’m expecting two of our Bannocks to ride in from Slate Creek any minute now. The other scouts have reported in, and they believe that most or all the hostiles have skedaddled to the Salmon River.
Is Looking-Glass still quiet on his reservation?
Sure is, general.
Good. I expect that Colonel Perry will confirm their report once he rides in.
Yessir.
From now on, we’ll verify and double-verify, so that Joseph and his confederates can’t surprise us again.
Absolutely, sir. And the men are eagerly awaiting the move out call—
Well, but we must give Colonel Green time to get in position from Boise. If Joseph makes a junction with the Weisser Indians, we’ll be that much farther from victory.
Yessir.
And you heard my point about Colonel Perry. He may not arrive for some hours. Who knows what he might encounter en route?
Yessir.
As for Joseph’s Indians, if they’re still there once we’ve finished our business at White Bird Cañon, we’ll drive them into the water.
I should certainly hope so, sir.
All right, captain;
FATHER IN HEAVEN, help me continue impartial to this hostile blockhead whose shiny desperation to repeat Perry’s folly fatuously supposes itself twin to Lowe’s tears—sincere, I have no doubt—when Custer refused to take the two Gatlings to Little Big Horn; GOD help me to
carry on. Now, Fletch, I need Captains Trimble, Miller and Whipple.
Right away, sir.
Captain Trimble, how are you this morning?
Ready for action, sir.
I’m glad. But, Fletch, I don’t smell coffee. Go see if there’s some failure at the commissary wagon.
Yessir.
Now, Trimble, some citizen families on Slate Creek have barricaded themselves against the Indians. I need you to reënforce them.
All right, general.
Show yourself as actively as you can. Try to fix Joseph’s attention on you while we get in position.
I’ll do my best, sir. Should be a mite easier than Gettysburg!
No doubt. O, good morning, gentlemen. Excellent coffee, don’t you think? Brew us another pot, would you, Fletch?
Right away, general.
Captain Miller, once Colonel Perry has delivered his report, you’ll lead the infantry to Johnson’s ranch.
Yessir.
In the meantime, of course, we’ll hold our usual inspection.
Yessir.
Everything had better shine like a silver dollar.
Yessir.
Before you go, Trimble, what’s your opinion of our Indian allies?
You mean James Reuben’s bunch, sir?
Yes.
Well, Parnell always says to me—
Lieutenant Parnell, what exactly do you always say?
Well, general, I often like to say: That’s Indian character for you. The instant we whipped the Pi-Utes, Crook asked for ten bucks to volunteer against the Pit River Indians, and ten of the finest stepped forward, ready to heal their wounded spirits by attacking a weaker foe. So these tame Nez Perces—
and even the general has been known to allude unenthusiastically to the marital state; so does that mean that whichever bride I end up with will disappoint me? That cannot be true.
I’d better go peg out my blanket with the officers pretty soon or they’ll call me peculiar. But, dear LORD, don’t let me end up like them! Trimble will tell us all over again how many of the Modoc horses were no bigger than dogs, and I’ll have to ask after Pollock’s brood; his wife must be in the family way again. Well, he’s been good to me. But I dislike applauding his nigger songs. Although Parnell must have recollections of being a British Lancer. Will he tell me anything? That would pass the time. GOD help me to outstretch myself
and attach Nanny to me so she can’t
Sing us a fine song.
Nope.
The general’s right: Wilkinson and Fletch do both look run down. I wonder if it’s typhoid?
Trimble’s mad against Perry. He spoke of testifying.
That Umatilla Jim bears watching, I fear. Better tell Fletch when I—
So there you are, Wood! Are you correcting your memoirs?
No, Wilkinson, I’m writing yours. Did you enjoy the march?
Well, it’s fine to breathe a different atmosphere from Lapwai, anyway . . .
Wood, are you settled now back at home?
Sure am, Captain Pollock. You’re looking fit—
By GOD, my boy, we loved it at Wallula! Every man jack except that melancholic major was tanned and healthy. Plenty of fishing, and sometimes we even got to play “base ball.” Not that we had your opportunities, of course.
Well, sir, I didn’t exactly find any gold!
You didn’t? D——mnit if I didn’t count on you to make us rich! What’s the matter with you?
All they talked about was copper.
To hell with copper! Did you buy that new hat up in Alaska?
In The Dalles.
And then that Lynn Bowers lifted up her petticoats—
Should have figured.
Wood, tell us again about that Chilcat chief.
All right. Well, when Sitka Jack, who’s a “character” on his own account, took me to his lodge, or palace as I should say, I knew right off that here was a true potentate of the red men! Imagine grand totem poles on either side of him, carved to resemble grotesque heads stacked on top of each other. He looked me over like a man who wouldn’t be imposed on. I told him about the fearsome one-armed chief who had sent me, and he pretended not to be impressed. The squaws brought out baskets of smoked salmon and blueberries. When he gave me permission to go upriver—
And did you find Alaskan gold? Tell us honestly—
No, tell us about the squaws!
Fine-figured, and very piquant.
Piquant, he says! By the way, Wood, Sladen was asking about your people. He’s wondering if you’re connected to Ralph Erskine, whom I gather was a friend or something of his family.
Well, I do know that Elizabeth Erskine, daughter of Ralph Erskine, is one of my ancestors and I can prove it once I bring Nanny out West, because my mother has a silver spoon engraved E.E.,
by which time Wilkinson is already passing round his Sallie’s ambrotype:
What a belle she is, and how she can smile!
so that Fletch pores dreamily over the portrait, until Wilkinson’s eyes commence to flash. What Fletch is particularly curious to know (for no good reason) is whether a lock of Sallie’s hair lives coiled within this romantic object, but he’s too polite to open it without leave,
which reminds me of Nanny, staring slightly downward, smiling, with her hair coiled elegantly upon her head, and her earrings as colorful as peacock’s tails. Somehow I can almost imagine Fletch killed and in his grave. But Wilkinson’s impervious to bullets, and I’m simply going to be careful
but brave, of course—better brave than careful even if I
how much would Nanny miss me? Maybe she’s still exchanging letters with Mr. Tracy Gould, d——n him, or that other smart rich bastard whom her father thinks the world of.
I’d wager he’s got his heart fixed on this here place if Norton don’t come back. See him gazin’ slyly about?
You got your heart fixed on this place, don’t you?
Now you quit shitting on Mr. Chapman. I don’t care if he’s a squaw man. He’s a true metal-hearted American—
What’s your dream?
My dream about what?
Every American’s got a dream.
I’d marry a nice white gal and we’d find ourselves a walnut-shaded ranch house in a grassy draw by a creek—the right kind of creek, you see, not wide enough to flood or thin enough to go dry in August . . .
Well, I aim to be up higher. Maybe someplace like Wallowa, if the winter’s not too bad.
Now that his brother officers have momentarily finished with him, Wood commences to consider all over what he often did in Alaska (with certain intermissions): namely, the way that Nanny’s reddish-brown hair flows to her knees—a sight of awe-potent abundance now conscientiously represented by:
cataract of chestnut locks
secrets of her
her—o, GODd——nit! Never seek to compel the Muse. All the same:
the blue ribbon in Nanny’s hair
and that passionate pride in herself which I quickly learned to feel about her and hope someday to feel about myself, although her pride derives half from her studied performance of herself as a woman and half from the form whose perfection manifests itself in the eyes and attentions of men, whereas I for my part have not yet relinquished the hope of becoming myself in some true and simple yet worthy way which will not require self-consciousness. Can there be a woman of this type? Perhaps squaws are this way.
Doc?
What is it now?
How big is a scalp?
Just about the size of a silver dollar.
Is that really how big mine is?
Sure.
And an—
You’ll find out, probably to-morrow. Now let me be.
If I had my Shelley here I’d borrow just two lines. Nanny would never
Will I be the one to get Joseph to-morrow? To be the hero of the hour and also
see him bleed! Pollock told me he burns women alive.
What’s the password? Stop or I’ll shoot!
Stars and Stripes.
O, it’s Jim.
Now let me come into the shade; it’s hot out here.
the kiss of her hair
of her
her little you-know-what
as she o’ersees my romantic vigil
Then where’s Norton at?
What?
I said where’s Norton at?
How can I think when they
Took his folks to Grangeville.
Left the dirty work to us, did he?
General, Umatilla Jim is here.
Do come in. Jim, have a seat. How are you enjoying military life?
Pretty good, general.
Joseph’s in the bag, don’t you think?
Yessir.
Teach me an Indian word, Jim. My wife has advised me to write a book about Indians.
Wapato.
And what’s that?
Duck potato. Sometimes they call it arrowweed. There’s some in the pond down there. Our squaws wade in and pull it up with their toes—
Wapato.
That’s right.
Thank you, Jim. I like that medallion of yours. So you’re a Rutherford Hayes man, I see.
Very funny, general.
Well, then where did you get it?
Mr. Tsépmin paid me this, when I took his wife back to the reservation. He said it’s worth money. Is it, general?
Is Mrs. Chapman a loose woman?
O no, general, just old. Worn out teeth. Five children now. Tsépmin he got tired of her, said to me, Jim, take her away quick!— But what he gave me, it’s not worth money?
My LORD! Do you suppose Colonel Perry is getting close?
Well, general, he left Grangeville two hours ago, riding fast—
What sign of Joseph?
Nothing fresh. I guess they’re across the Salmon, digging camas and arguing out their next move—
He’s a very dangerous Indian.
Yessir.
Jim, what do you suppose he’s thinking right now?
BATTLE WITHOUT MUSIC
JUNE 24
1
We’re ready to move out, general.
It’s Sunday.
Well, yes it is, sir.
You’d surely like to hear that move out bugle, wouldn’t you, Captain Jocelyn?
You’re right about that, general.
Your zeal reminds me of a little story. You see, the regimental band was playing in order to urge us on at Fredericksburg. Were you at that battle, captain?
No, sir.
I didn’t think so. Well, it was an impressive engagement. The enemy had deployed every battery they could. Some of our men were nervous. So the band played, to give us heart and impel us forward. It was very rousing music, captain.
Yessir.
And then a Confederate shell struck it, and all its members were killed. We went into battle without music, captain. That will be all. Fletch, who’s officer of the day?
Captain Whipple, general.
Is he aware that to-day as on every other Sunday there’s to be a dress inspection?
Of course, sir.
All right. Evidently it slipped Captain Jocelyn’s mind.
2
But I should have begun my accounting of this Sunday right at dawn, when the morning gun has said what it could, and Colonel Perry, his pipe lost or stolen back in Lapwai in the days when Theller still lived, rolls himself a smoke in a scrap of letterhead which advertises B. F. Field’s patent for compressed board of any thickness, manufactured at Lyons, Iowa. Every man in Company “F” had better answer roll call, and to hell with the others. Soon they will be smashing their pilot bread or boiling it in coffee; pork-steam will perfume the officers’ commissary; but not yet. Perry has always favored this early hour for watchful thinking, and he imagines that he is happy. The letter which Wood delivered from Mrs. Perry in Portland was satisfactory in its sentiments of loyalty, worry and hinted desire, although it left her husband as bleak as usual. He wishes he could have drawn a new uniform for this campaign, which may well drag on like the Modoc War. As soon as Wilkinson appears, he will ask to study Colton’s map. The general’s tent remains shut, but Perry knows that unless his superior officer expired during the night, he must be poring over the small square leather-bound Gospels which his brother Charles gave him in some darkly remote year before the Secession War was ever heard of.— GODd——d one-armed General Prayer Book!— And where are the reds? Perry, like his general, would rather go over and over the country in his head, with the aim of predicting the movements of the arch-enemy, Mr. Joe. Since that villain loves Wallowa so much, why wouldn’t he sweep back through there with his braves, wiping out all the Americans he can? According to our scouts, the valley continues quiet, but so was White Bird Cañon until we heard that screech owl’s cry. High time to clean out Wallowa, and burn the contents of every hide dump and camas pit! Captain Whipple will have mapped those sites if he’s worth anything. Settlers and volunteers can do the rest—or will they also fuck that up? GODd——n this, and d——n Mr. Joe. Anger and grief for the fallen Theller come curving in an almost shocking white flash like the twin stabbers of a longhorn bull. This time I’m not intending to bring a single live Indian home from the field, except maybe some pretty little Nez Perce squaw who doesn’t scream. I’ll make her promise that her heart’s good forever, and then if she does what I say, I’ll let her go in Lewiston. Anyhow I’d never get away with it, not while old Prayer Book’s in charge. He don’t know a thing. Does he even realize how to starve Mr. Joe? We ought to set the camas prairie on fire. Once his roots are all burned up, then we have to keep him away from his hunting grounds. Better ask James Reuben how to destroy that cous they eat. And I’ll shoot and keep shooting; I won’t take squaw prisoners—although I won’t shoot down their children on purpose, no matter in hell what they’ve done to ours.
All this he thinks between the first and second notes of “Reveille,” just after the morning gun.
At the third note (5:30 a.m.), the tent opens,
the men rustling, yawning, rising, buckling on their pistol belts, Perry, already immaculately ready, with his hands on his hips:
If General Crook were in charge of this outfit, he’d be over the ridgetop hunting mountain sheep, and all the same we’d be a d——d sight better organized.
Is Lieutenant Wilkinson still abed at this hour?
Seems a bit feverish, general. Should I fetch him?
Has he reported sick?
No, sir.
Then I expect to see him in five minutes, in full trim and with a good excuse.
Yessir.
Captain Randall, Lieutenant Bomus needs to verify that your requisition is correct. Just because your volunteers showed up unprepared—
Lieutenant, I’ll tell you what you can do with your d——d bullshit. And you can tell the general—
O can I?
Roll call!
Wilkinson, I thought you knew how important it is to set an example at the beginning of a campaign.
I apologize, general—
Are you sick?
I’m all right, sir.
Look at me, Wilkinson,
and, dear LORD, preserve this fine young man from the whitish fur on the tongue, the morning and evening fevers, the vomiting, flux and thirst of typhoid.
Yessir.
Report to Doctor Alexander at once, and I hope you feel better. Go now. Perry, will Joseph have crossed the Salmon?
I expect so, general. A mighty inconvenient stream for us—
Isn’t that Toohhoolhoolzote’s territory yonder?
Sure is. Pretty rough country in that direction, if they withdraw into the mountains—
Could the River Renegades have linked up with them over there?
Well, general, you know how easily Indians can move.
Yes. Have you doped out the nearest ford to White Bird Cañon?
No, sir. On Colton’s map—
I’m disappointed in you. Then send me Chapman; he knows the country. Are you ready to set out for Grangeville?
Sure am, general.
Go then, and GOD bless you. Fletch, who was officer of the day?
Captain Jocelyn, sir.
Can you fetch him? O, good morning, captain. A pleasure to see you. What happened on your line?
It’s dead quiet, sir. The pickets report no contact.
Naturally. Indians don’t give way step by step. They gallop away.
Yessir.
What news from your scouts?
Well, general, I’m expecting two of our Bannocks to ride in from Slate Creek any minute now. The other scouts have reported in, and they believe that most or all the hostiles have skedaddled to the Salmon River.
Is Looking-Glass still quiet on his reservation?
Sure is, general.
Good. I expect that Colonel Perry will confirm their report once he rides in.
Yessir.
From now on, we’ll verify and double-verify, so that Joseph and his confederates can’t surprise us again.
Absolutely, sir. And the men are eagerly awaiting the move out call—
Well, but we must give Colonel Green time to get in position from Boise. If Joseph makes a junction with the Weisser Indians, we’ll be that much farther from victory.
Yessir.
And you heard my point about Colonel Perry. He may not arrive for some hours. Who knows what he might encounter en route?
Yessir.
As for Joseph’s Indians, if they’re still there once we’ve finished our business at White Bird Cañon, we’ll drive them into the water.
I should certainly hope so, sir.
All right, captain;
FATHER IN HEAVEN, help me continue impartial to this hostile blockhead whose shiny desperation to repeat Perry’s folly fatuously supposes itself twin to Lowe’s tears—sincere, I have no doubt—when Custer refused to take the two Gatlings to Little Big Horn; GOD help me to
carry on. Now, Fletch, I need Captains Trimble, Miller and Whipple.
Right away, sir.
Captain Trimble, how are you this morning?
Ready for action, sir.
I’m glad. But, Fletch, I don’t smell coffee. Go see if there’s some failure at the commissary wagon.
Yessir.
Now, Trimble, some citizen families on Slate Creek have barricaded themselves against the Indians. I need you to reënforce them.
All right, general.
Show yourself as actively as you can. Try to fix Joseph’s attention on you while we get in position.
I’ll do my best, sir. Should be a mite easier than Gettysburg!
No doubt. O, good morning, gentlemen. Excellent coffee, don’t you think? Brew us another pot, would you, Fletch?
Right away, general.
Captain Miller, once Colonel Perry has delivered his report, you’ll lead the infantry to Johnson’s ranch.
Yessir.
In the meantime, of course, we’ll hold our usual inspection.
Yessir.
Everything had better shine like a silver dollar.
Yessir.
Before you go, Trimble, what’s your opinion of our Indian allies?
You mean James Reuben’s bunch, sir?
Yes.
Well, Parnell always says to me—
Lieutenant Parnell, what exactly do you always say?
Well, general, I often like to say: That’s Indian character for you. The instant we whipped the Pi-Utes, Crook asked for ten bucks to volunteer against the Pit River Indians, and ten of the finest stepped forward, ready to heal their wounded spirits by attacking a weaker foe. So these tame Nez Perces—
