but not all, of the troopers availed themselves of that offer; then, many gathered for all-night card games. Many others took the opportunity to write one last letter home, and several, Falcon noticed, seemed to have a sense of foreboding.
Tom Custer invited Falcon to join him, Boston, Calhoun, Autie Reed, Keogh, Cooke, and Weir. They were all gathered around a campfire, drinking, joking, and laughing, though Falcon had the idea that a lot of the laughter was forced.
“Jimmi, my boy,” Tom Custer said. “Do you think there will be any women in Fiddler’s Green?”
“Now, why would I want to be worrying about women in Fiddler’s Green?” Calhoun answered. “I’m married to your sister, remember?”
“Ah, yes,” Tom said. He held up his finger. “But once you get to Fiddler’s Green, that won’t matter. Do you think Maggie will never get married again?”
“First thing I’m going to do when I get to Fiddler’s Green is look up Major Elliot and ask him just what the hell he was thinking by running off by himself like that back there at Washita,” Cooke said.
“I thought Major Elliot was dead,” Boston said.
“He is.”
“Then what do you mean you are going to look him up when you get to Fiddler’s Green?”
The other officers looked at Boston and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Boston asked.
“Yeah,” Autie Reed asked. “What is so funny about that question?”
“You boys will find out in a few days,” Keogh said.
“No, they won’t,” Tom said, taking a drink of whiskey from his tin cup. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “If they have any sense, they’ll be back with the trains.”
“I don’t intend to stay with the wagons once the fighting starts,” Boston said.
“Me neither,” Autie Reed added. “Uncle Autie has said that when we go into battle, I will have the honor of holding the flag.”
“You are staying with the trains,” Tom said resolutely. “It’s bad enough that Autie is going to get himself and me killed. There’s no sense in killing you, too.”
The little group of men, who had been singing and laughing earlier, now grew quiet.
“Tom, that’s a little morbid, isn’t it?” Cooke asked.
“You’re right, Cooke,” Tom said. He smiled broadly, then reached over and slapped his friend on the back. “A few days from now, we’ll both be laughing about this—either back in garrison or at Fiddler’s Green. No sense in getting all morbid over it now.”
“Where is Fiddler’s Green?” Autie Reed asked.
“It is more of a what than a where,” Keogh answered.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Here’s a poem for you, lad,” Keogh said. Standing up, he stuck his left hand inside his tunic, held his right arm out in front of him, then stepped forward with his right foot and in a deep and booming voice, delivered his poem:
The others applauded.
“That still doesn’t tell me what Fiddler’s Green is,” Autie Reed complained.
“Perhaps Colonel MacCallister can explain,” Tom Custer suggested, though it was obvious from the tone of his voice that he didn’t actually believe Falcon could explain it.
“Fiddler’s Green is a place where the fiddler never stops playing, and the glass never runs dry. It’s a place where all cavalrymen go after they die, there to await the final resurrection,” Falcon said.
“Just cavalrymen?” Boston asked.
“Just cavalrymen,” Falcon replied.
“What about people who aren’t actually in the cavalry, but who ride with them?”
Tom laughed. “All right, little brother, if you are that set on getting into Fiddler’s Green, I reckon I can put in a good word for you. For the two of you,” he added, looking over at Autie Reed. “Though you,” he said, pointing to Autie Reed, “will have to stand over in the corner until you get a little older. It wouldn’t do to have you drinking with the likes of us, as young as you are.”
