pupilless eyes across this paper half a dozen times since he left Fort Hays, but no amount of study could make him feel any better. His name was misspelled twice. The liquor-breathed major who had signed the paper had clumsily dragged a sleeve over the ink before it dried, and the official signature was badly smeared. The order had not been dated, so Lieutenant Dunbar had written it in himself once they were on the trail. But he had written with a pencil, and the lead clashed with the major’s pen scratchings and the standard printing on the form.
Lieutenant Dunbar sighed at the official paper. It didn’t look like an army order. It looked like trash.
Looking at the order reminded him of how it came to be, and that troubled him even more. That weird interview with the liquor-breathed major.
In his eagerness to be posted he’d gone straight from the train depot to headquarters. The major was the first and only person he’d spoken to between the time he’d arrived and the time later that afternoon when he’d clambered up on the wagon to take his seat next to the stinking Timmons. The major’s bloodshot eyes had held him for a long time. When he finally 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 I could 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 the major began to write. He wrote furiously, ignorant of the sweat cascading down his temples. Dunbar could see more oily drops sitting in formation on top of the nearly bald head. Greasy strips of the major’s remaining hair were plastered along his skull. It was a style that reminded Lieutenant Dunbar of something 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 the desk. 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 he knew, because the major had, for some time, clung to sanity by the slenderest thread, and the thread had finally snapped ten minutes before Lieutenant Dunbar walked into the office. The major had sat calmly at his desk, hands clasped neatly in front of him, and forgotten his entire life. It had been a powerless life, fueled by the pitiful handouts that come to those who serve obediently but make no mark. But all the years of being passed over, all the years of lonely bachelorhood, all the years of struggle with the bottle, had vanished as if by magic. The bitter grind of Major Fambrough’s existence had been supplanted by an imminent and lovely event. He would be crowned king of Fort Hays some time before supper.
The major finished writing and handed the paper up.
“I’m posting you at Fort Sedgewick; you report directly to Captain Cargill.”
Lieutenant Dunbar stared down at the messy form.
“Yes, sir. How will I be getting there, sir?”
“You don’t think I know?” the major said sharply.
“No, sir, not at all. It’s just that I don’t know.”
The major leaned back in his chair, shoved both hands down the front of his pants, and smiled smugly.
“I’m in a generous mood and I will grant your boon. A wagon loaded with goods of the realm leaves shortly. Find the peasant who calls himself Timmons and ride with him.” Now he pointed at the sheet of paper in Lieutenant Dunbar’s hand. “My seal will guarantee your safe conduct through one hundred and fifty miles of heathen territory.”
From the beginning of his career Lieutenant Dunbar had known not to question the eccentricities of field- grade officers. He had saluted smartly, said, “Yes, sir,” and turned on his heel. He had located Timmons, dashed back to the train to pick up Cisco, and had been riding out of Fort Hays within half an hour.
And now, as he stared at the orders after a hundred miles on the trail, he thought, I suppose everything will work out.
He felt the wagon slowing. Timmons was watching something in the buffalo grass close by as they came to a halt.
“Look yonder.”
A splash of white was lying in the grass not twenty feet from the wagon, and both men climbed down to investigate.
It was a human skeleton, the bones bleached bright 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, sticking out like pins on a cushion. Dunbar pulled one out of the earth and rolled it around in his hands.
As he ran his fingers along the shaft, Timmons cackled over his shoulder.
“Somebody back east is wonderin’, ‘Why don’t he write?’”
That evening it rained buckets. But the downpour came in shifts as summer storms are wont to do, somehow seeming not so damp as other times of the year, and the two travelers slept snugly under the tarp-draped wagon.
The fourth day passed much the same as the others, without event. And the fifth and the sixth. Lieutenant Dunbar was disappointed about the lack of buffalo. He had not seen a single animal. Timmons said the big herds sometimes disappeared altogether. He also said not to worry about it because they’d be thick as locusts when they did show up.
They’d not seen a single Indian either, and Timmons had no explanation for this. He did say that if he ever saw another Indian, it would be too soon, and that they were much better off not being hounded by thieves and beggars.
By the seventh day, Dunbar was only half listening to Timmons.
As they ate up the last miles he was thinking more and more about arriving at his post.
Captain Cargill felt around inside his mouth, his eyes staring up as he concentrated. A light of realization, followed quickly by a frown.
Another loose one, he thought. Goddammit.
In a woebegone way the captain looked first at one wall, then another in his dank sod quarters. There was absolutely nothing to see. It was like a cell.
Quarters, he thought sarcastically. Goddamn quarters.
Everyone had been using that term for more than a month, even the captain. He used it unashamedly, right in front of his men. And they in front of him. But it wasn’t an inside thing, a lighthearted jest among comrades. It was a true curse.
And it was a bad time.
Captain Cargill had let his hand fall away from his mouth. He sat alone in the gloom of his goddamn quarters and listened. It was quiet outside, and the quiet broke Cargill’s heart. Under normal circumstances the air outside would be filled with the sounds of men going about their duties. But there had been no duties for many days. Even busywork had fallen by the wayside. And there was nothing the captain could do about it. That’s what hurt him.
As he listened to the terrible silence of the place he knew that he could wait no longer. Today he would have to take the action he had been dreading. Even if it meant disgrace. Or the ruin of his career. Or worse.
He shoved the “or worse” out of his mind and rose heavily to his feet. Making for the door, he fumbled for a moment with a loose button on his tunic. The button fell away from its thread and bounced across the floor. He didn’t bother to pick it up. There was nothing to sew it back on with.
As he stepped into the bright sunshine, Captain Cargill allowed himself to imagine one last time that a wagon from Fort Hays would be standing there in the yard.
But there was no wagon. Just this dismal place, this sore on the land that didn’t deserve a name.
Fort Sedgewick.
Captain Cargill looked hung over as he stood in the doorway of his sod cell. He was hatless and washed-out,
