man. Striking in every way, from the slate green eyes above a perfect nose, those bow-shaped lips that made every young woman want to be kissed by him, even the long hair hung in ringlets over his ears and the collar of his canvas mackinaw.
Of medium height, Wiser made most folks forget that he was not all that tall, surely not standing beside Jubilee Usher, the leader of this company of freebooters staying two days ahead of the Union troops who had been tracking them for the better part of three weeks now. But in looking at Wiser, most folks simply forgot his height. He was just so damned handsome, women flocked to his side, and most men wanted to be around Wiser, for that was where a fella could find the bees. Circling the hive.
Even his hands were attractive. How he kept them so clean, especially under the nails, living off the land the way Usher’s outfit was—it amazed most of the others, who stayed away from water and Wiser’s bars of lye soap like the combination had the mortal scent of the plague on it. And no matter what, Wiser always had a splash of some sweet-scented water to pat on his freshly shaved cheeks every morning when he was about his personal toilet. While many of the rest joked each morning before mounting up how good Wiser smelled, how much they wished they could have something so fragrant to curl up with in their bedrolls at night, Wiser went right on the way he went on.
And he figured that was something Jubilee liked about him. And one of the big things that set him apart from the rest of Jubilee’s bunch. In fact, Wiser was Usher’s right hand. The one who passed Jubilee’s orders down to the rest, the one who loved the fact that he drew the lot of whipping those who broke Jubilee’s “Orders of the March.” It was as if dealing out punishment to the rest of the ragtag band was some reward for faithful, unquestioning service to not only Jubilee Usher—but to Jubilee’s wrathful God.
Yet as Wiser stood there this morning, wiping the soap scum from his straight razor, looking over the busy camp of Jubilee’s faithful Danites, Wiser wondered why men like he and Usher had to consort with the likes of these rogues and desperadoes—the unclean vermin it took every bit of his strength of will to control at times.
Jubilee was emerging now from his tent, his long coat freshly brushed by the Negro manservant he had carried along these last few years of wandering the midlands, just off the frontier itself. Usher turned and gave orders to have the tent struck.
“Once you have the woman dressed, mind you. Let’s be quick about it now.”
How Wiser wished Jubilee would tire of that captive woman and cast her aside as he had cast so many others aside. This woman with the light-colored hair and the sun-burnished skin. But even though it had been only a matter of weeks, Wiser brooded that Jubilee would likely hold on to this one. A real prize she was—this other man’s wife Usher had claimed as his private spoils.
Her, and the three children off that hardscrabble farm back in southern Missouri.
With a course hand towel, Wiser wiped the soap residue from his cheeks, gazed back into the smoky mirror, and admired the sharply defined face, its long, bushy sideburns of reddish brown, sweeping down into the meticulously waxed and curled mustache.
Each time he stared into a mirror, it was as if the sinking feeling returned to remind Lemuel Wiser of why he had taken this path in life, each day finishing this ritual by looking away from the attractive reflection in the mirror, and having to stare once more at the crude, handmade black boot that covered the stub of his left foot.
While the right was stuffed into a shiny cavalry officer’s boot, the left was but a terribly deformed clubfoot with which he had been born.
In days gone long ago, children had been cruel. So young Lem Wiser had grown up to be every bit of that and crueler. But by the time he had reached his early teens, Lemuel had taken to allowing himself to be called the nickname that poked fun at the ugly clubfoot that looked every bit like a pig’s hoof.
Jubilee was striding his way atop his long legs, smartly dressed in silk vest and long-coat. He was tugging on the points of that brocade vest as he asked, “You are ready for the day’s march, Boothog?”
“I am, Jubilee. Soon as I finish my toilet.”
Usher walked off, whistling and carefree without another word.
And Wiser was left once again to watch how gracefully Jubilee strode across the leaves and fallen branches of the forest floor, ultimately left to stare at his own deformed foot. Knowing he would never walk but with an ungainly lurch-and-drag.
He silently cursed his mother once again, wherever she might be now. It was she who had handed down her curse to him, this single deformity on such a beautiful man.
“Boothog …,” he whispered, slapping lilac water on his freshly scraped cheeks.
9
THE DAY AFTER they had killed all the wagon soldiers along the North Platte River, the warrior bands had begun to wander off to the four winds.
No chief could hold together such a great gathering. It was time to prepare for another buffalo hunt, perhaps follow some of the antelope herds. After all, it was a time of celebration that had begun that very night as they danced over the scalps Roman Nose’s Shahiyena had taken near the white man’s fort. Many of the dancers wore the fine blue tunics with brass buttons taken off the soldier dead.
By now the young Oglalla war chief had become a shirt wearer among his people. To put on the white, brain-tanned shirt that reached his knees meant Crazy Horse pledged his life to his people. For their safety he would die. His was a sacred vow, much respected, and with it coming much medicine power.
“
This brave one who thought so little of himself, who had offered his body as a decoy time and again to lure the white walking soldiers into traps.
Yet in this rich season, Crazy Horse sensed the stab of something intrude upon the celebration of his life—like the piercing pain of a lance point. Runners had come, bringing word from those bands who had stayed close to the Holy Road and the fort called Laramie.
It was there, the young scouts reported, that the soldiers were growing in number, every week more numerous, like puffballs sprouting on the prairie following a spring thunderstorm. Only then they had struck their camp of tents at the fort—marching north as quickly as their mules and wagons would allow once they had crossed the North Platte.
“Who is this man bellowing that all Lakota and Shahiyena males over twelve summers will be killed by his soldiers?” Crazy Horse demanded as the scouts told their story to the war-band leaders: Red Cloud, Young Man Afraid, and High Backbone.
“He is the one who leads his army toward our hunting ground.”
“We must show this soldier chief that we will not stand for his army shoving its fist down the throats of our people,” Crazy Horse vowed, eyes narrowing. “Instead, we will make this soldier chief choke on his own blood!”
“
But the young scouts had sobering news to tell the warrior chiefs. The soldiers were guided by Indian trackers.
“Tell us of these trackers,” Red Cloud demanded.
“Scalped-heads,” the scout leader replied. Pawnees. “Ten-times-ten. And some mud Indians from the great mud river.” Omaha and Winnebago. “They lead the soldiers into our hunting ground.”
“Our ponies are strong,” Crazy Horse said as the others fell silent. “They have their bellies full of summer grass, and the winds are cooling in their nostrils. We can ride circles around the soldiers and their scouts—and poke our heads up where the white man will not expect us to be. Let us go drive the white man from our hunting ground this one last time. Let us go make the white man bleed!”
