Part 19 (2/2)

Besides, I heard tales from the General that made me glad to be safe in the civilized East.

After my goodnight kiss from Sarah, I often crept downstairs to the parlor and sat for hours with the General. We'd sit in front of the fireplace, him smoking his pipe, both of us taking sips of rum, and he'd talk on and on about his times with the Army.

He told me about West Point, and about Civil War battles, but mostly he liked to talk about his experiences during the Indian Wars.

Back on the yacht, Whittle had gone on considerable about going West and joining up with savages. If he'd had a chance to chat with Matthew Forrest, though, I reckon he might've sung a different tune. For one thing, most of the Indians were already killed or tame by now. For another, they did things to white men that would've made any reasonable chap eager to stay clear of them.

The General went on considerable about such horrors. I don't know if he just enjoyed trying to shock me, or if he had had to talk about them. Maybe it was both. to talk about them. Maybe it was both.

Scalping seemed like a frightful thing, but that wasn't the worst of it.

Whenever the Indians had a chance to work on dead men, they stripped them naked and not only scalped them but packed them full of arrows and cut off their heads and arms and legs and privates and scattered such things about. It sounded just as bad as what Whittle'd done to Mary and Trudy.

The redskins didn't usually do such things to women, though, so Whittle had them beat there. They mostly hung on to the white women, and abused them, and kept them for slaves.

The General told me the two main rules of Indian fighting: don't let the heathens capture your women, and don't let them take you alive.

When women were at risk, you had to kill them. If it came down to one bullet left, and you had a choice of whether to plug an Indian warrior or your wife, why there wasn't any choice to be made. You shot your wife in the head.

He told me about a time when it looked as if the Sioux and Cheyennes might overrun Fort Phil Kearney, so the soldiers put all the women and children inside the magazine and left an officer with them who was supposed to touch off the powder and blow them all to smithereens rather than let the Indians take them alive. Fortunately, it didn't come to that.

He said the worst thing, next to letting them get their hands on women, was to let them take you you alive. alive.

One thing they liked to do was to strip a fellow naked and stake him out on the ground. Then they'd build a fire by one of his feet. When that foot was good and crisp, they'd cook the other, and then the legs and arms. They took their time about it, too. When they finally got tired of it all, they'd build a fire on the poor chap's chest and that would finish him.

Another favorite sport was to hang their captive upside down over a low fire. The head would cook real slow. By and by, though, it'd explode.

Sometimes, a white man would get turned over to the squaws. The General clammed up about what manner of games the squaws played on their prisoners, so I judged it must've been a sight worse than what he had had told me. That was hard to imagine, though. told me. That was hard to imagine, though.

The upshot was, you'd rather be dead than captured.

If things got nip and tuck, you always saved your last bullet for yourself.

He told me about a time he found himself and his troops surrounded. He had a revolver for himself, but plenty of the others didn't. They only had rifles, so before the Indians came whooping down at them, every one of them tied a string around his rifle trigger and put a loop at the other end. That way, when it came down to the last round, they could put the rifles' barrels to their heads and use the toes of their boots to pull the triggers. Well, they got out of that sc.r.a.pe all right, but the General said it was common, when he came upon a ma.s.sacre, to find whole pa.s.sels of men who'd shot their own women and children, and followed it up with a bullet for themselves.

It made me sick to hear about such things, and to think about them afterward. Putting a gun to your own head seemed mighty extreme, but for a man to shoot his wife and children or anyone else he loved-it made me shudder.

One time, I asked the General how he felt about it. He took a pull on his pipe, and let the smoke out slow, then said, ”There are many fates worse than death. Slow torture at the hands of the red man, that's one of them. Another is to lose those you love. A bullet in the brainpan is quick and merciful next to either of those circ.u.mstances.”

I never told him about Trudy. But I spent considerable time worrying my head about the way she'd ended. Getting done by Indians was no worse than how Whittle'd butchered her. I took to feeling guilty about saving her life. If I'd let her hang or drown and not been so quick at jumping to the rescue, she would've been spared from his knife. The trouble is, I'd known known it. Even while I'd been working to save her those times, I'd known she might be better off dead. But I'd gone ahead and saved her anyhow. it. Even while I'd been working to save her those times, I'd known she might be better off dead. But I'd gone ahead and saved her anyhow.

Maybe I didn't have it within me to do otherwise. But after hearing all the General had to say about saving a bullet for the woman, I knew I'd done wrong.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Losses Early in April, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, Mable went roaming off. She'd pulled such stunts five or six times before, always sneaking out of the house when the rest of us were busy. On this particular day, the General was snoozing by the fire and I stayed in the kitchen to keep Sarah company while she baked cookies. It wasn't till the cookies were done and we carried out a plate so the General and Mable could enjoy some hot ones that we noticed she'd gone missing again.

It always fell on me and Sarah to go hunting for her, as Sarah didn't want the General out in the weather for fear he'd come down with pneumonia or such. Besides that, he never worried much about his wife's disappearances.

I came back to the parlor after a quick search of the house and shook my head. ”She seems to have gone off,” I said.

Sarah winced.

The General swallowed a mouthful of cookie and said, ”Yes. There's been a palpable, refres.h.i.+ng silence for the past hour or so. My eardrums have greatly appreciated the respite.”

”Grandpa!”

”Oh, now, no need to worry your head about Mable. I believe she only takes her little jaunts for the fun of being retrieved.”

”It's pouring pouring outside.” outside.”

”The rain'll do her good. She hasn't bathed in a fortnight.”

That was on account of me, I reckon. Sarah'd woken me up a couple weeks ago and after giving me my morning smooch, she'd said a hot bath was waiting for me. It had gotten to be a fairly regular thing. Every few days, she would prepare my bath bright and early so I could have it before the General and Mable got around to stirring. I'd go down and soak, then by and by she'd come along with coffee for both of us. She'd sit on her chair near the tub, and we'd have a nice chat while we sipped. Later on, she'd come over and scrub my back for me.

I'd found the business a trifle embarra.s.sing the first few times, but that pa.s.sed as I got used to it. Then I got to where I really looked forward to those baths.

Sarah took her baths on the days between mine. When she finished, she'd come into my room all fresh and rosy from the heat, her hair still damp. I always stayed in bed and waited for her.

It usually ran through my mind, while I was waiting, that maybe I could head downstairs and take coffee to her her, and stay and chat and maybe wash her back for her. The notion made me feel a bit squirmy. It also put my mind at ease, though, for the way I got stirred up by thinking about Sarah in the tub made it clear Whittle hadn't ruined women for me, after all. I purely longed to go down and visit her, but I felt guilty about it. After all, Sarah was some ten years older than me and often put me in mind of Mother, so it didn't seem right.

I let her go on bathing alone, figuring if she wanted me to join her, she ought to ask.

It bothered me considerable that she never asked, but allowed she must have her reasons, so I never let on that our bathing ritual seemed a mite one-sided and unfair. Besides, whenever I imagined imagined her asking, it wrecked my nerves so bad I judged I'd likely turn down the invitation. her asking, it wrecked my nerves so bad I judged I'd likely turn down the invitation.

Anyhow, on that particular morning two weeks before Mable wandered off into the rain, I put on my slippers and robe and hurried downstairs. Sarah had gone on ahead of me. I figured to find her in the kitchen, starting the coffee. But she wasn't there, so I waltzed on into the bathroom.

Mable must've thought the bath was meant for her.

She'd beaten me to it, but not by much. She wasn't in, yet. With one foot on the floor, she was holding on to the edge of the tub while she swung her other leg over the side. Of course, she didn't have a st.i.tch of clothes on.

She hadn't seen me. I should've stepped out quick and silent, but I didn't.

Not that I took any pleasure from the sight of her. Not by a long shot. But I was so surprised to find her climbing into my tub that I just stood there, gaping.

Her face was all dark and wrinkled like old wood. So were her hands. But the rest of Mable, mostly, was white except for a pa.s.sel of blue veins and looked maybe thirty years younger than her face. She was so skinny her bones showed through her skin. The way she was bent over, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s dangled. They were long and rather flat, and hanging so low the nipple of one rubbed the rim of the tub.

I saw all that pretty quick, and then I noticed her scars. When I saw those, I gasped. Must've been fifteen or twenty of them, though I never got a chance to count. Puffy pink scars, each about an inch long, on her rump and down the backs of both her legs. I'd pretty much gotten used to Mable's limp, but seeing all those nasty scars made me realize why she hobbled.

Well, the gasp gave me away.

Mable looked over her shoulder and let out a frightful squeal. I hotfooted into the kitchen. Safe outside the door, I called in, ”I'm frightfully sorry, Mable.”

”You'll be be sorry when I lay my hands on you. Land sorry when I lay my hands on you. Land sakes sakes! A woman can't bathe in her own house! Sarah! SARAH!”

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