has heard it called. The Indians see them too, silhouettes against the gray skies above them, and wave for them to come down and fight, calling out challenges lost to the wind and distance.
“There will be more about, I imagine,” Kohn says.
Jonathan nods and digs his heels into his horse. “More,” the scout says.
They come down out of the hills and follow the trail across a vast meadow of winter grass. Beyond this is a stand of pine forest where the fort’s timber is cut. Several hundred yards away a herd of antelope turn their heads to the pair and then bound away. Approaching the stand of forest known as the Pinery, they are stopped by sentries on picket at a circle of upturned wagon boxes acting as a corral for the woodtrain’s grazing mules and oxen.
“Ain’t no Indians ’llowed in the cut, Sergeant,” one of the sentries says.
“He is with me, Private, as a scout.”
“Suit yourself, Sergeant, but I aim to tell you they get mighty spooked in them woods on seeing Mr. Lo. They’s like to shoot him first and ask you later who the hell he is.”
“I would not like to be the man to take a shot at Jonathan here,” Kohn says.
“Well, I wouldn’t neither but that’s the way it goes, Sergeant.”
“There are hostiles on the other side of that ridgeline, Private.”
“Oh, there be hostiles every-damn-where. Hell, we had a picket out yonder, out in a dug-in post just a hunnert, two hunnert yards that ways, there. But he ain’t there now. A little bit of his blood and hair is all they left of him and not a one a us seen nor heard a damn thing. We abandon that picket post and graze the beasts hereabouts now though the grass ain’t no good. Hell, you ain’t telling us nothing we don’t know. They everywhere, the hostiles and there ain’t no goddamn fucking thing we can do about it nohow.”
“Look alive then, Private,” Kohn says, scanning the plain, the grass caressed by the cold wind. In the distance, at the foot of the hills leading west to the Big Horns, the antelope have reassembled.
“Better than looking dead, Sergeant, I tell you what.”
Kohn spurs his mount and Jonathan this time follows him. If the Pawnee has understood the sentry’s words he gives no indication and soon they enter the stand of forest. The high whine of the horse-driven sawmill can be heard over the hack of axes, the rasp of handsaws. All around are the stumps of cut trees. The trail is mud and there is dirty snow on the denuded, north-facing side of the hill rising up from the creek that runs through the stand of forest.
They are met by a young lieutenant on a hungry piebald, the officer’s filthy greatcoat hanging open, two Navy special revolvers in his belt, a cavalry carbine in an open scabbard on what appears to be a civilian’s saddle. There is stubble on his jaw, his eyes are bloodshot. The officers of this posting, Kohn thinks, are some of the worst he has seen in his time in the army. To a man, they are slovenly and drunk. He has experience in such matters. Even during the thick of the bloodletting between the states, most officers at least attempted to appear in command of their faculties. Many couldn’t manage it but in this place it is as if, much like Captain Molloy, they have given themselves up to ruination. Their men, Kohn knows, are only happy to join them in this. He salutes the lieutenant.
“Sir,” he says, handing the officer the oilskin wallet containing Molloy’s orders from General Cooke. “I am under orders from General Cooke and have the run of the fort and its surrounds, sir, by orders of Colonel Carrington. I am here to arrest two men from C Company, sir. Privates Thomas and Michael O’Driscoll.”
The lieutenant stares at Kohn and Jonathan with dead eyes. “Who’s the Indian?”
“He’s our scout, sir, out of Omaha. He’s Pawnee. Friendly, sir. Hates the Sioux as much as we do, if not more.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s possible. We do fairly hate them here.”
“The two men, sir. Where can I find them?”
The lieutenant shakes his head as if coming out of a dream. “Arrest them? What men are these?” He opens the oilskin and removes the paper orders, glancing at them before shoving them back into the wallet. “You mean to arrest these men, for what, Sergeant, goddamn it all? You