was forced to lie down on some pallet and match his own steely reserve to the demons bedeviling his flesh.
At first he had experimented with painkillers but only the most powerful had any effect, and these he could not take for they made his mind too fizzy to perform his duty. His only weapon against the grievous attacks that tormented his body was his clear, incisive mind, a mind which he trained to combat his suffering while he functioned. He fooled the doctors who administered his yearly physical, and while the men who worked closest to him knew of his infirmities, no living being guessed at the depth of the daily torture that was his life.
Defeating pain had become his reason to be. Every phase of his existence was based on the never-ending competition between mind and body for dominance, coloring every action he took. All that he did, whether it was conducting a field operation or merely getting out of bed, was a mortal challenge to the tenacity of his will, which he used in every instance with unflagging dexterity, elevating mind over matter.
He personally supervised the care of the elm trees that were planted on the perimeter of the parade ground, insisting, to the consternation of the soldiers who plodded back and forth to the creek, that they be watered regularly. Otherwise, it could not be said that the general had anything approaching a hobby. He drank lightly, slept alone, eschewed games of chance, did not smoke, and had no friends. Pursuit of pleasure was unknown to him.
His characteristic lack of passion was nowhere more evident than in his reaction to the various Indian leaders who were preparing to embark for Washington. Twice he met with them, smoking the pipe and sharing a meal of venison on one occasion. Mackenzie said little at either meeting. His most pronounced expression was a thin, noncommittal smile that followed several good jokes. He noticed a high degree of intellect in an old Comanche man and was impressed by the adequate command of English in another younger Comanche but that was the extent of his feeling.
The general saw no value in discourse with a group of primitive men on their way to meet the president. Such things were simply not part of his job, and Bad Hand was delighted when the delegation of twelve tribesmen departed for the eastern railroad. With all distractions cleared away, he could immerse himself in applying the finishing touches to the coming campaign.
His excitement in taking the field was high. General Sherman had cleared the way for the mountains of provisions and munitions that flowed into the fort. His staffing was only a few souls shy of one hundred percent, and the rank and file could count quite a few veterans among them.
Best of all, General Mackenzie knew that once he was at the head of a column seeking to engage the enemy, his pain would become more manageable. He had never pondered the connection, but when he was in the field the torture never failed to wane.
There was a sharp drop in his pain the same day the Indian delegation ventured east in a convoy of open wagons, and later that afternoon Bad Hand composed a thorough set of orders to be transmitted by wire to Fort Richardson, a post far in the south.
The orders were directed to a young captain by the name of Bradley the same man who, as a lieutenant some months before, had been humiliated by Wind In His Hair. His narrow aversion of disaster on that occasion had seasoned him, and Captain Bradley was proud to receive instructions directly from General Mackenzie.
Though the orders appeared to call for a routine reconnaissance scout into Indian country, they were, in reality, much more than that. The force under Captain Bradley would be large, more than a hundred men, and it would scour the country for a month, far longer than the usual week or ten days. Instead of traveling in a loop, the command was directed to weave to and fro, constantly angling north in a sweeping fashion.
The directive clearly stated that engagement of the Indians was to be strictly avoided, unless, of course, Bradley and his men were fired upon. Nor were Indians to be chased. In fact, the orders stated repeatedly that a primary feature of the captain's mission was to conduct the action as peacefully as possible.
But Captain Bradley understood that the true object of his mission was to gently herd the savages north, bringing them closer to General Fordike's column traveling down from the northwest and General Mackenzie's advancing from the east. Pressed from three directions at once, it was hoped the hostiles would be constricted into a shrinking, inescapable circle of resistance which could be efficiently annihilated.
No one wanted a long war.
Chapter XLV
At the first forward lurch of the train, its special passengers, in a coach reserved exclusively for their use, made a mighty effort to hold off the temptation to panic. Their eyes shot everywhere at once and their car echoed with spasmodic grunts of fear at the unknown.
All were mesmerized at the speed of the land flashing past their windows and the unearthly power of the great engine pulling them along the tracks. Had they been alone they might have spontaneously jettisoned themselves through the first available exit, but the constant reassurances and relaxed manner of the whites traveling with them kept the tribesmen at rigid attention in their seats.
In a remarkably short time the novices acclimated themselves to the velocity and motion of the alien conveyance and were able to turn their attention to the many other mysteries surrounding them. They were inducted into the use of an onboard toilet, tutored unsuccessfully on the mechanics of time, and given a demonstration of the wonders of writing implements. Before long they tested their palates on white man food and filled the car with smoke from the white man's hand-rolled cigarettes.
They remained on the rain throughout the first long leg across the plains, for their safety would have been at risk in the rough settlements of the frontier. In eastern Missouri, when they were allowed off to stretch their bodies on the unmoving platform of a sizable community, a surprising phenomenon presented itself for the first time — one that would become more common the farther east they journeyed.
Despite the early hour, the platform was crowded with white people who had gathered in anticipation of their arrival. As Kicking Bird and Ten Bears and their friends alighted, the throng drew back in momentary awe, then crept slowly forward, entranced by the living embodiment of their imaginations.
The escort had prepared the twelve exotic men for the experience of crossing the Mississippi River, but as they started over the bridge, one of the Cheyenne, a man named Hollow Horn, was suddenly seized with the certainty that they were going to fall into the water. With a curdling cry he leaped to his feet and chopped at the inner flanks of the car with his ax, hoping somehow to slay the monster before it carried the party to a watery death. He was restrained before he could do much damage, and after the crossing Hollow Horn remained seated in a cocoon of mortification.
For some reason no one traveling with the befeathered men from the prairies had anticipated what effect passing through a mountain in total darkness might have on their charges, and when the idea did occur it was too late.
The train had been climbing through a range of low mountains for about half an hour and several of the tribesmen were dozing when it rounded a sharp curve and disappeared into the black maw of a long tunnel. For a full minute, shrieking Indians flew about in the pitch, the racket they raised drowning out the thunder of the engine ahead.
After a sixty-second eternity, a dim but growing light began to suffuse the car, then all at once they were outside again. Most of the men recovered immediately, but one Arapaho, a man named Striking Eagle, was still on the floor in serious difficulty. His long frame was drawn up in a trembling, fetal ball, and after all attempts to rouse him failed, it was concluded that Striking Eagle had suffered a breakdown. Still encased in his imaginary womb, the stricken Arapaho was carried from the train at the next stop. Adamant in his refusal to go any farther, Hollow Horn also disembarked, leaving ten shaken but stalwart comrades to face the wonders that lay ahead.
Oddly, the one among them who took the new world most in stride was also the oldest. Ten Bears had been asleep when the train entered the tunnel, and though he was jarred awake by the ensuing tumult, the old man simply assumed he had slept through sundown. He had been remarkably composed from the trip's outset, and as light again washed into the car, he followed form. He barely glanced at the aftermath of chaos strewn about him and for several minutes was oblivious of Striking Eagle's collapse.
