'Uh-huh. . And who are you?'
Dances With Wolves had noticed half a dozen loose cartridges lying on a corner of the constable's desk when he first came in, and one word sprang into his mind like a huge sign.
'Bullet. . Gunther.'
The constable's eyes narrowed even more.
'Bullet? That's your name.'
'Yes,' Dances With Wolves answered placidly.
'Well, who are you, her brother?'
“Yes.'
Suddenly one of the children, whom the constable had already noted were extraordinarily quiet, startled him by stepping up to the desk and grabbing one of his spare revolvers. The girl, who couldn't have been more than seven or eight, walked nonchalantly to the center of the floor, the revolver swinging in her hand with practiced ease, squatted in front of a large scorpion, and smashed it with the butt of the gun. Apparently, the insect was not dispatched with the first blow and the little girl hit it again, this time with more force than might have been expected of a child. Then she rose off her haunches, retraced her steps to the desk, returned the revolver to the spot where she had found it, and resumed her place next to the boy.
Evidence was mounting, and though it was still too soon to draw a conclusion, the constable suspected he was dealing with people who had suffered some unknown trauma of the severest type. The actions of the little girl were disturbing, and the dull-witted behavior of her father was even more alarming. To the practiced eye of the constable, the look of the man who called himself Bullet Gunther was one of the most predatory he had ever seen, and were it not for the presence of children, he could easily have imagined his visitor as a habitual killer.
'Where are you from?'
“The east.'
'And where in the east would that be?' the constable questioned.
Dances With Wolves' memory whirled in his head and suddenly stopped at a place called St. David's Field, the place where he had tried to end his life during the Great War.
“Tennessee.'
The constable whistled.
'You're a long way from home.'
'Very far from home.'
The words were so remote, so cold and chilling, that they seemed to pass straight through his body. The constable recoiled as he tried to remember if trauma could induce dementia. The constable rose out of his chair and faced Dances With Wolves at eye level.
'Have you lost someone?' he asked bluntly.
“Yes.'
The constable glanced cagily at the unmoving children.
'Did you lose your wife?'
'Yes.'
The constable was certain that the clever line of questioning he had adopted would bring him to the truth. He leaned forward.
'Did you lose her to the Comanches?'
Dances With Wolves blinked for the first time. He was trying to think of what to say when he was seized with an urge to follow where the white man led.
'Yes.'
'Your name isn't Bullet Gunther, is it?'
“No.'
'And you want to find Christine Gunther?'
As if he had solved a difficult combination lock, the constable was thrilled to feel the tumblers in his mind click into place and marveled at the simple answer he had formed to what had seemed a complex riddle.
He had never encountered a 'revenger' before, but they were not uncommon and he had studied several cases that had come to his attention during conversations with other lawmen scattered along the frontier. Revengers were difficult to deal with because of the universal empathy for families who had been victimized by marauding Comanches. So many were so deeply disturbed that the revenger's true intent was nearly impossible to ascertain. That's what made them dangerous.
To the constable's agile mind, the visitors in his office fit the profile to perfection: homicidal gaze, halting, twisted speech, children rendered numb through barbaric brutality. He remembered reading about some cases in which repatriated captives were murdered. An eleven-year-old boy had his skull crushed by a revenger bent on destroying not only Indians but anyone who had had contact with them. On more than one occasion, former captives had been kidnapped and tortured for information as to the whereabouts of an abducted family member. He even remembered reading a celebrated case in which a revenger whose entire family had been slaughtered in his absence, persistently courted a former captive, a fourteen-year-old girl, in a misguided quest for matrimony.
He felt profound sympathy for the shattered family standing in his office, but at the same time he was thrilled — in a professional sense — to have a firsthand encounter with a revenger to add to his lexicon of criminal experience. But a higher calling superseded these emotions. The constable's oath was sacred. Law and order must be upheld, and the presence of a revenger was a clear threat to the peace. The unwritten rule in managing such individuals was to employ a firm hand. Revengers were best controlled by keeping them moving, and that tried technique would be employed with this one.
While the constable thought, Dances With Wolves' mind had been working on a different line. He had decided that if he had to kill the white men, he would take the man with the star first. He was hoping to cut his throat with such speed that he could reach the man who had answered the door before he knew what was happening. He was already tensed for action, and as the constable came around the desk, his hand drifted almost imperceptibly to the skinning knife tucked in his belt.
His fingers closed around the handle as the constable lifted a hand and brought it to rest on his shoulder. Had the pressure of his touch been stronger or the look in his eyes slightly less benign, the blade would have passed under the constable's chin in a single, perfect stroke. But the touch on his shoulder was light, and there was no malice in the eyes.
'I don't know your name,' the constable began, 'and you don't have to tell me. I can't know how you feel, but I want you to understand that I'm real, real sorry for all your trouble.'
Dances With Wolves' eyes had turned to slits as he listened to what he could not understand. Perhaps it was his own clumsy English, but he could not imagine what the man with the metal star was talking about.
The constable couldn't read his listener, either. The stranger seemed disoriented instead of comprehensive and the look in his narrow eyes was mindful of sudden death. The skin along the constable's shoulders rippled with terror and for a split second he thought he might have miscalculated. But the homicide in the stranger's eyes suddenly evaporated and the shuddering along his shoulders ceased. The constable sighed.
'You get your children and get on your horses, 'cause I'm gonna need you to leave town. I'll ride along with you myself.”
The constable's hand left Dances With Wolves' shoulder. He turned his back, snatched a fedora off its peg, and started out of the office. He paused when he saw that his revenger had not moved.
'Come on, friend. . let's go.'
Before he reached the door Vernon's constable glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw with satisfaction that the stranger had begun to shepherd his children along in compliance with the order.
They rode in silence until they reached a fork in the road almost a mile out of town.
The constable indicated a track that curved northeast. “You folks take your business that way.'
Dances With Wolves looked perplexed and the constable sidled his horse closer.
'Lemme tell you something, mister. . just a little piece of advice. Whatever happened to you I wouldn't wish on a dog, but the way you're goin' isn't gonna get you anywhere. You need to take care of these children. You need to find yourself a wife. . get yourself a new life started. Huh?'
Dances With Wolves nodded.
'As far as Christine Gunther is concerned. . you need to give that up. Nothin' good can come from it. Now,
