A Good Man (26 page)

What should be of most concern to Canadians is the present reluctance of any American commander to come to grips with the enemy. Ilges’s friend said that Terry was so unnerved by Crook’s abandonment of him that he immediately withdrew to Fort Abraham Lincoln. It is reported that Gen. Gibbon has retired to the safety of Fort Shaw. Crook’s bedraggled, sick, and footsore command is licking its wounds at Custer City. Once his men have recovered, he intends to make his way to Camp Robinson, Nebraska, where his troops will remain in garrison for the foreseeable future.

It is clear that until some active, resolute American officer is willing to prosecute a campaign against the winter camps of the Sioux where they are most assailable, to harry them continually so that they cannot hunt and provide food for their families, this situation is not going to be speedily resolved. Come spring, the Sioux are expected to resume hostilities, inciting terror among the population. At present, most civilians have returned to their farms and ranches – circumstances leave them no other choice – and things have returned to what might be called a normal footing here in Montana. Nevertheless, this lull cannot be regarded as permanent. I would advise you to make it clear to Secretary Scott that this matter is going to drag on and any hopes he may harbour that the Americans will force the Sioux to capitulate in the next few months are ill founded. The government of Canada cannot take an overly optimistic view, but must keep a cautious watch on developments, and consider every contingency. Scott must not think that the Americans will pull a happy result out of the hat. It is evident that Sitting Bull’s ears are not going to be taken hold of easily. He is no obliging and compliant rabbit.

This brings me, finally, to a delicate matter. Maj. Ilges has been questioning me as to why you have failed to supply any intelligence recently. I cannot emphasize the importance that you keep in touch. I know you are a busy man with many things on your mind, but please write me as soon as possible. It is important that we be seen as acting in good faith.

I await your speedy response.

Yours truly,

Wesley Case

October 14, 1876

Fort Walsh

My dear Case,

Thanks for yours of the 30th. Let it be known to the Sauerkraut Farter that I am, as per usual, ever vigilant in his service. My men are constantly in the saddle, combing the border between Fort Walsh and Wood Mountain for Sitting Bull and his cronies. Tell Herr Ilges that on several occasions I have sent my people over the line to the American side to scout in places the Yankees studiously avoid going for fear they might find the enemy there and be obliged to face them. Which is very prudent tactics given the whippings they have been handed every time they bump up against the foe. Further inform Ilges that as of yet I have not a goddamn thing of any real consequence to report.

Of course, tell him all this as sweetly as possible so as not to offend his tender, girlish sensibilities.

Yours truly,

Maj. James Walsh

October 27, 1876

Fort Benton

My dear Walsh,

Your last letter does you no credit, sir. I will say no more.

Here is the latest generously provided, I might add, by the man to whom I did not pass on your insults. He received it from a dispatch rider from Fort Buford. Things may be looking up. There is an American officer who appears to have some fight in him, Col. Miles of the 5th Infantry. On or around the 15th of October Sitting Bull attacked a United States Army supply train. When the Indians disengaged, a written demand was found on the trail purportedly signed by Sitting Bull (it is unclear who may have written it, perhaps a half-breed in Bull’s camp) warning that unless Miles pulled out of the Tongue River country the consequences for him would be dire. This resulted in a two-day parley between Col. Miles and Sitting Bull in which both parties adamantly insisted that the other must yield. Miles demanded the unconditional surrender of the Indians. Sitting Bull demanded that all soldiers depart the Yellowstone district and that the Tongue River Post and Fort Buford also be abandoned. Negotiations broke off amid acrimony and recriminations. Miles chose to immediately advance on the Indians. The so-called Battle of Cedar Creek did not result in success for either side, but when the Indians quit the fight Miles did not do as his predecessors have done and choose to call it a day. Instead, he set off in dogged pursuit of the Sioux. Due to this initiative he overtook a large group of Indians (regrettably Sitting Bull was not among them) and forced the surrender of some 400 lodges that pledged to return to the Cheyenne River Agency.

Yours truly,

Wesley Case

November 11, 1876

Fort Walsh

My dear Case,

I admit it; I am a mule. Ilges is a packsaddle cinched to my back and when it galls my withers, I kick and buck. I know that much about myself. That’s why I asked you to act as my spokesman. You can muffle my braying. You think before you speak.

Yours truly,

Maj. James Walsh

With the haying comple, the pace of ranch work eased a little. McMullen was worried that they still did not have enough feed to carry the cattle through the winter and persuaded Case to buy a supply of oats from the mill in Benton. Joe took on the task of freighting the grain from town while Case occupied himself with small jobs: patching the roof of the house, repairing the corrals, and setting out twice a day to round up strays and return them to the herd. The weather remained fine and Case revelled in the sunny days. The six tall stacks they had built gave him a feeling of accomplishment whenever he rode by them; the sight of his cattle contentedly grazing filled him with the pleasure and pride of ownership. Already he was making plans for the future. Even before he had left Fort Walsh, negotiations were under way to persuade the natives to sign treaties with the government. It was only a matter of time before the tribes were removed to reservations, the country opened up to settlers. Homesteads and grazing leases would be granted, and Case had it in mind that when that happened he might sell his land, pocket the money, and he and Joe drive their herd north to less expensive pastures. He sometimes wondered ruefully if he hadn’t more of his father’s head for business than he had ever imagined.

As to his father, Case had had no answer to his letter that announced to the old man that he would not be returning to Ottawa. He could only conclude that his father had decided that stony silence was his only recourse, seeing that his fury could not be expressed in words. It seemed to Case that all his correspondents were dilatory in replying to his missives. After spending a great deal of time dithering about how to compose a tactful letter to Peregrine Hathaway that would gently bring home to him how he really stood with Celeste Tarr, he had opted for bluntness. He had always found any discussion of the personal and private to be embarrassing, even painful. This he put down to his mother’s influence. “Hearts are not meant to be worn on the sleeve,” she liked to say. “They are hidden from sight for a reason. They require protection.” As yet, there had been no reply from Hathaway.

He had considered that he might pay Ada Tarr a visit to tell her that he had written to Peregrine as she had asked. The temptation was very great, and it was a struggle to remind himself that great temptations often lead to great disasters. Perhaps the Case men had a fatal weakness, an attraction to women that they had no business pursuing – his father a scullery maid, he a married woman. There was no point in tormenting himself with what he couldn’t have.

The first winter storm arrives in mid-November, a cold surprise. Case and Joe awake in the dead of night to a shrill, keening wind that shakes the ranch house. The windowpanes chime with blasts of hard, granular sleet and then the gusts begin to trowel a mortar of wet snow over the glass. The two men stand shivering, peering out as the storm draws a white curtain down on the world. All Joe says is, “First light, we better get those cows in.”

It is still blowing hard when morning spreads a milky, peaked light, the snow wiping chalky smears over the landscape. It robs them of breath when they ride out into it, drives cold needles into their eyeballs. The wet snow blankets their clothing and the coats of the horses. The force of the blizzard has ripped the herd to rags; here and there five or six dazed cows huddle together, rumps backed into the gale. Joe and Case prod the reluctant cattle on towards the haystacks where they can find a lile shelter. Then back they go into the flying snow to chase down a few more strays and shepherd them home. For eight hours they roam the storm, gloved hands welded to reins, rocked in the saddle by buffets of wind. By five o’clock, the sun is so obscured by a gauze of snow that scarcely any light breaks through. Four cows are still unaccounted for, but Joe says they have to give up the hunt for fear darkness overtakes them, making it impossible to find their way home, which would be the end of them.

At last, they stagger into the house, light the stove, and, like beetles shedding their carapaces, they peel off their snow-caked garments to roast themselves by a roaring fire as they massage their fingers and stamp their feet on the floorboards. Soon a lightning-like stinging starts up in Case’s numb toes, sets him hopping with pain. It’s all he can do to choke back a whimper. Joe holds a frozen ear cupped in one hand, and sucks the frostbitten fingers of the other. His face has gone a queer zinc grey; he begins to shake uncontrollably. “Christ,” he says, “I’m taking myself to bed. I advise you do the same. A slow melt serves best.”

Case follows his advice, crawls into his cot. He can hear the chatter of Joe’s teeth clear across the room. Between clicks, McMullen jerks out, “In a few minutes, when I thaw, I’ll make us some hot food.” That never happens because Joe drops off. Soon Case slides into a deep, dreamless sleep. Six hours later, he wakes with a nagging feeling that something has gone missing, and soon realizes that what is gone is the querulous whine of the wind, which had been present in his ears for twenty-four hours. A dead calm reigns. Case twists his head on the pillow and listens intently, hears nothing but the boards of the house contracting, the cold snapping its bones. Bundled in his quilt, he gets up and feeds the stove as much wood as the firebox will hold, scrambles back into bed. Bit by bit, the elbow joint of the stovepipe reddens in the darkness. Case drifts off again.