CHAPTER I
Lieutenant Dunbar wasn’t really swallowed. Butthat was the first word that stuck in his head.
Everything was immense. The great, cloudlesssky. The rolling ocean of grass. Nothing else, no matter where he put his eyes.No road. No trace of ruts for the big wagon to follow. Just sheer, empty space.
He was adrift. It made his heart jump in astrange and profound way.
As he sat on the flat, open seat, letting hisbody roll along with the prairie, Lieutenant Dunbar’s thoughts focused on hisjumping heart. He was thrilled. And yet, his blood wasn’t racing. His body wasquiet. The confusion of this kept his mind working in a delightful way. Wordsturned constantly in his head as he tried to conjure sentences or phrases thatwould describe what he felt. It was hard to pinpoint.
On their third day out the voice in his headspoke the words “This is religious,” and that sentence seemed the rightest yet.But Lieutenant Dunbar had never been a religious man, so even though thesentence seemed right, he didn’t quite know what to make of it.
If he hadn’t been so carried away, LieutenantDunbar probably would have come up with the explanation, but in his reverie, hejumped right over it.
Lieutenant Dunbar had fallen in love. He hadfallen in love with this wild, beautiful country and everything it contained.It was the kind of love people dream of having with other people: selfless andfree of doubt, reverent and everlasting. His spirit had received a promotionand his heart was jumping. Perhaps this was why the sharply handsome cavalrylieutenant had thought of religion.
From the corner of his eye he saw Timmons duckhis head to one side and spit for the thousandth time into the waist-highbuffalo grass. As it so often did, the spittle came out in an uneven streamthat caused the wagon driver to swipe at his mouth. Dunbar didn’t say anything,but Timmons’s incessant spitting made him recoil inwardly.
It was a harmless act, but it irritated himnonetheless, like forever having to watch someone pick his nose.
They’d been sitting side by side all morning.But only because the wind was right. Though they were but a couple of feetapart, the stiff, little breeze was right, and Lieutenant Dunbar could notsmell Timmons. In his less than thirty years he’d smelled plenty of death, andnothing was so bad as that. But death was always being hauled off or buried orsidestepped, and none of these things could be done with Timmons. When the aircurrents shifted, the stench of him covered Lieutenant Dunbar like a foul,unseen cloud.
So when the breeze was wrong, the lieutenantwould slide off the seat and climb onto the mountain of provisions piled in thewagon’s bed. Sometimes he would ride up there for hours. Sometimes he wouldjump down into the tall grass, untie Cisco, and scout ahead a mile or two.
He looked back at Cisco now, plodding alongbehind the wagon, his nose buried contentedly in his feed bag, his buckskincoat gleaming in the sunshine. Dunbar smiled at the sight of his horse andwished briefly that horses could live as long as men. With luck, Cisco would bearound for ten or twelve more years. Other horses would follow, but this was aonce-in-a-lifetime animal. There would be no replacing him once he was gone. AsLieutenant Dunbar watched, the smallish buckskin suddenly lifted his amber eyesover the lip of his feed bag as if to see where the lieutenant was and,satisfied with a glance, went back to nibbling at his grain.
Dunbar squared himself on the seat and slid ahand inside his tunic, drawing out a folded piece of paper. He was worriedabout this sheet of army paper because his orders were written down here. Hehad run his dark, pupilless eyes across this paper half a dozen times since heleft Fort Hays, but no amount of study could make him feel any better. His namewas misspelled twice. The liquor-breathed major who had signed the paper hadclumsily dragged a sleeve over the ink before it dried, and the officialsignature was badly smeared. The order had not been dated, so Lieutenant Dunbarhad written it in himself once they were on the trail. But he had written witha pencil, and the lead clashed with the major’s pen scratchings and thestandard printing on the form.
Lieutenant Dunbar sighed at the officialpaper. It didn’t look like an army order. It looked like trash.
Looking at the order reminded him of how itcame to be, and that troubled him even more. That weird interview with theliquor-breathed major.
In his eagerness to be posted he’d gonestraight from the train depot to headquarters. The major was the first and onlyperson he’d spoken to between the time he’d arrived and the time later thatafternoon when he’d clambered up on the wagon to take his seat next to the stinkingTimmons. The major’s bloodshot eyes had held him for a long time. When hefinally spoke, the tone was baldly sarcastic.
“Indian fighter, huh?”
Lieutenant Dunbar had never seen an Indian,much less fought one.
“Well, not at this moment, sir. I suppose Icould be. I can fight.”
“A fighter, huh?”
Lieutenant Dunbar had not replied to this.They stared silently at one another for what seemed a long time before themajor began to write. He wrote furiously, ignorant of the sweat cascading downhis temples. Dunbar could see more oily drops sitting in formation on top ofthe nearly bald head. Greasy strips of the major’s remaining hair wereplastered along his skull. It was a style that reminded Lieutenant Dunbar ofsomething unhealthy.
The major paused in his scribbling only once.He coughed up a wad of phlegm and spat it into an ugly pail at the side of thedesk. At that moment Lieutenant Dunbar wished the encounter to be over.Everything about this man made him think of sickness.
Lieutenant Dunbar had it pegged better than heknew, because the major had, for some time, clung to sanity by the slenderestthread, and the thread had finally snapped ten minutes before Lieutenant Dunbarwalked into the office. The major had sat calmly at his desk, hands claspedneatly in front of him, and forgotten his entire life. It had been a powerlesslife, fueled by the pitiful handouts that come to those who serve obedientlybut make no mark. But all the years of being passed over, all the years oflonely bachelorhood, all the years of struggle with the bottle, had vanished asif by magic. The bitter grind of Major Fambrough’s existence had beensupplanted by an imminent and lovely event. He would be crowned king of FortHays some time before supper.
The major finished writing and handed thepaper up.
“I’m posting you at Fort Sedgewick; you reportdirectly to Captain Cargill.”
Lieutenant Dunbar stared down at the messyform.
“Yes, sir. How will I be getting there, sir?”
“You don’t think I know?” the major saidsharply.
“No, sir, not at all. It’s just that I don’tknow.”
The major leaned back in his chair, shovedboth hands down the front of his pants, and smiled smugly.
“I’m in a generous mood and I will grant yourboon. A wagon loaded with goods of the realm leaves shortly. Find the peasantwho calls himself Timmons and ride with him.” Now he pointed at the sheet ofpaper in Lieutenant Dunbar’s hand. “My seal will guarantee your safe conductthrough one hundred and fifty miles of heathen territory.”
From the beginning of his career LieutenantDunbar had known not to question the eccentricities of field-grade officers. Hehad saluted smartly, said, “Yes, sir,” and turned on his heel. He had locatedTimmons, dashed back to the train to pick up Cisco, and had been riding out ofFort Hays within half an hour.
And now, as he stared at the orders after ahundred miles on the trail, he thought, I suppose everything will work out.
He felt the wagon slowing. Timmons waswatching something in the buffalo grass close by as they came to a halt.
“Look yonder.”
A splash of white was lying in the grass nottwenty feet from the wagon, and both men climbed down to investigate.
It was a human skeleton, the bones bleachedbright white, the skull staring up at the sky.
Lieutenant Dunbar knelt next to the bones.Grass was growing through the rib cage. And arrows, a score or more, stickingout like pins on a cushion. Dunbar pulled one out of the earth and rolled itaround in his hands.
As he ran his fingers along the shaft, Timmonscackled over his shoulder.
“Somebody back east is wonderin’, ‘Why don’the write?’”
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