He don’t even say hello and he goes to the gap between the sheds and barn and starts shooting there. I’m wiping blood out of my eyes and the world is a ringing bell but I drag myself along and stand at his big back and peer out and see Tennyson standing straight up on the porch with his rifle ranged and firing out across the fields at figures running for the scrubby copses. Rosalee standing with a box of bullets and Tennyson only pausing to reload his Spencer. Then firing like a veritable trooper and also Starling firing and maybe Tennyson thinks it’s me. One foe man nearly made it to the house but he’s splayed in death and another further back has fallen and is just a black brushstroke on the frost. The rain that fell has frozen on the earth and that’s the tale it told. Then curious peace descends and the firing echoes in your brain and it’s like we taste the moments ticking by for Death but Death retreats. I yearn to know what’s happened in the house and why is John Cole not took his share of firing on the porch? Why our old galooting friend’s sprung up might be another question. My ear is spouting blood and the bell of time is queerly tolling and maybe then down I fall. Before I fall completely Starling stoops and drags me up and hoiks me against his shoulder. Goddamn Irish, he says, never could abide them.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ME AND STARLING go back round by the barn because we don’t want Tennyson killing us for good measure. So we come up the back of the house. Inside we got Lige Magan kneeling to John Cole. First I think he’s dead but he just had his eyes closed the moment I come in. Then he opens them and sees Starling. Jesus, he says, what you doing here, Sarge? He just appeared like a angel, I says. If that’s a angel I ain’t going to heaven, says Lige Magan. Where in the name you sprung from, Starling? Lige says. There’s a pour of blood coming out of John Cole’s thigh. How he got a bullet in a thigh beats me. Must of shot him through a chink in the log wall. Jesus, John Cole, I say, you hurt bad? I see Winona over against the kitchen wall. She’s pale as a summer sky. Now Rosalee comes back in and Tennyson must be keeping a weather eye open still on the porch because he don’t follow her. I rummage around in the wound with the horseshoe pliers to get that bullet and then Starling and Lige sit on John Cole and I give the wound a poke with the smoky poker and there’s a smell of John Cole burning. He lets out a roar wouldn’t shame a donkey. Holy merciful God, he says. I hope those killer boys don’t come back, Lige says. They ain’t coming back because we killed too many, says Rosalee. I think we got the most of them, says Tennyson, just come in. I shot Tach Petrie anyhow, he says. You did good, says Lige.
An hour later we’re just looking at the coffee Rosalee’s prepared. No one drinks. Well, Starling, says Lige, what the hell brings you here? Starling ain’t a man for a slow story. He tells it. I here on different business, he says. I weren’t here to save you sorry boys. I is surprised you living such reckless lives with murdering thieves and such creeping up. Now, Starling, what this other business? Well, I’ll tell you, he says. Then he tells us. Caught-His-Horse-First has took Mrs Neale and her two girls. Then he were seen over in Crow country. That a mighty big country but the major and two hundred men ride for days. Not a trace of the Sioux. Next day come into the fort a German trader with a message from Caught-His-Horse-First. Says he killed the woman and the child with black hair. He wants his sister’s child and he’ll give the other white child in barter. Then, he says, he will make another treaty and then there will be peace on the plains. Starling says the major’s face look like someone painted him with whitewash. Never saw a human person so white and strange. And who’s his goddamn sister’s child, Lige Magan asks. That that Injun kid there, Starling says. So, says Starling, the major wants to know where to find her and I says I know, she’s with John Cole and Thomas McNulty in Tennessee. Well, go down to Tennessee and ask them to bring her back, the major says – please God they will. John Cole’s groaning on the bed. It’s the worse idea I ever heard! he cries. Goddamn it. Then Starling Carlton is shouting things and John Cole shouting back. Something in my stomach lurches. Then Winona steps in close to him, touches his hand on the ragged sheet. I got to go back, she says. John Cole’s staring at her then and don’t say nothing. I guess he feels the force of some strange justice in her words. He’s white as a apple core. I ain’t letting you, he says. Mrs Neale was kind and good, she says. I owe her. You’re a good girl, Winona, he says, God knows, but you ain’t going back. No, but I got to, she says. Well, you ain’t.
The whole thing decided the next morning when Winona and Starling Carlton gone. She’s took a horse from the field. Must have left in the small hours. John Cole can’t shift so I get another horse from Lige and set off after. Can’t be but six hours ahead. I’ll catch them. I ride like a devil for a bit but then can’t risk winding my horse. It’s deep December and this ain’t no season for a trip to Wyoming – that what they calling that country nowdays. Three days later I come up into Nebraska. Guess I’m seeing the signs here and there, hoofprints in the thin snow, or think I do, but it could be anyone. I asked every farmer I passed in Missouri did they see a fat man travelling with a squaw? Starling’s pushing on hard for sure. After four days I know I ain’t going to catch him and it irks me now when night falls, but I got to sleep too. Only human nature. I got to kill what I can on the way but it mostly birds and jackrabbits and at least I got dried beef. One afternoon way off in the distance I see a vast low pancake of smoke rising off what seems to be a visitation of blackness. It’s a herd of buffalo that strangely lifts my heart. Must be in their thousands but too far south for me to try my good fortune. The big Platte river sits somewhere north of me and I know there was an Irishman for every buffalo digging out the railroad in these late years. They say the Pawnee in ferocious temper all round here and I am nearly afraid to strike my lucifers to make a fire but in the night the glass falls to the positions of death. I hope Starling finds water and food if only for Winona’s sake. Then it’s a blizzard comes. A woeful blizzard with wind so sharp it would shave off your beard. All I can see is the moon of my compass. The blizzard blows five days and when it stops I ain’t no wiser. Surprised to see scattered farms and houses in western Nebraska where once there was only the strange sea of grass. Onto the big trail now but no one runs oxen this late in the year. If they even come this way now. The new railroad rolls on into eternity but the rails as silent as the rocks. The land all silver white and the sky high and loathsome dark. Ain’t a soul to see. Snow lies two feet deep and the poor horse don’t like it. I come through a little patch of graves where Irish and Chinee buried. Just a little scrap of ground with a wooden fence in all that winter-hampered silence. That night there’s a great jamboree of lightning and noise that makes the far hills stand out black as burnt bread and then I got to hobble my horse and hunker against a rock. Thunder so loud it frights the dreams out of my head. Memories flying out. Just wanting Winona. Something about the major’s loss gnaws at my heart. But I’m wanting Winona.
When I get to the fort at last I am inclined to feel some relief. The picket lets me pass without a word. I go straight to the major’s office without even searching for Starling. I got to go where the decisions is made. That’s how it is. I go in and I see the major. His face is thin and white. He don’t look like the man I knew. He comes straight over from his table and takes my right hand in his. He don’t even speak. In the creases of his sere face there is what looks like redness painted. It just don’t look right. He looks like he swallowed a live rattlesnake and it’s biting him from the inside. Striking again and again and he don’t flinch. He says something about his gratitude. He says it’s all set for tomorrow and messages been sent. If I want a ninety-day signing he can give it and rescind it when it’s done. I can’t find the damn words to tell him why I came. He must think I came up with Starling. On his table is a daguerreotype of Mrs Neale that was likely taken about the time he married her. Maybe old Titian Finch hisself it was who took it. He catches me looking at it. In his eyes I see a glimmer of his old self. He says something about Angel his daughter and then I say I can’t credit that Mrs Neale is gone. Mrs Neale is gone right enough, he says, and Hephzibah too. That’s it, he says, you are quite right. That Captain Carlton was going to fetch you was the only thing that kept me breathing. Please God tomorrow we’ll have Angel back. We’ve put a drummer boy’s uniform on Winona, he says, to show what we think of her. I just can’t find the words that John Cole would need me to find. I’m staring back at him and then I am saluting and going out. The return to the fort bathes me in past times. Strange shadows and voices eddy back. Troopers that once I knew and the horrible singing and bitter character of Sergeant Wellington. Every life has its days of happiness despite the ugly Fates. I seen plenty men pass in my mind from something admirable to something you don’t care about. But not that whittled major. That’s what I’m thinking I guess. That straightforward man that never could bear injustice.