He'd bought the pistol for three dollars, after a long search for just such a weapon. He'd sewn a powder bag out of scraps of leather; this lay near him on the blanket of his cot, next to five round lead-colored balls of a size to fit snugly in the pistol muzzle.
Polishing and polishing, he didn't pay much attention as the shanty door opened, admitting a gust of windblown rain and First Sergeant Williams in a dripping rubber poncho.
A sleeper sat upright. "Shut the fucking door! Oh, Sarge, 'scuse me." He lay down again.
The low-trimmed lamp set Williams's spectacles to glowing. "S'posed to have that light out, Magee. What're you doing with that old gun?"
"Uh-uh. New gun. Old trick." It was all the explanation he furnished.
"Well, come on outside," Williams said. "You're going to turn the color of a white man when you see who's back."
Magee, shivering in his underwear in the lee of the shanty, found Captain Barnes, wisely protected by a slicker, holding up a lantern to illuminate the visitor. "Popped out of the dark like a ghost, Magic. Ain't he a sight to behold?"
The old man intended a compliment, and Magic Magee's face almost bloomed into that brilliant, one-of-a-kind smile. But he saw Charles's fever-burned eye sockets and his filthy hands, so held the smile back. Charles said, "Hello, Magic."
"Cheyenne Charlie. I'll be switched."
"Get your clothes on, Magic," Barnes said. "I woke Lovetta and she's put the coffeepot on. Charles says he needs some help. He'll tell you about it."
"Sure," Magee said. "You came to the right man, Charlie. You're still holding my marker."
After the men talked, Lovetta Barnes fed Charles amply and made up a pallet for him near the fireplace. He slept sixteen hours straight, undisturbed by the comings and goings of the old man and his wife. Magic Magee hadn't hesitated about traveling to the Indian Territory. Neither had Gray Owl. Both men looked about the same, though each seemed to have more lines, and deeper ones, in his face. Charles supposed he did too.
They provisioned at the sutler's. Charles bought two spare horses, to bring their total to six, and in the ides of March, with bright sunshine returning and a warm wind blowing in from Texas and the Gulf, the trackers rode south over the Smoky Hill. Their first night out, Charles slept hard in the open air, but he dreamed a nightmare of the three of them riding across the sky on a trail of milky stars. They had blood-smeared faces. They were dead on the Hanging Road.
Special Dispatches to
The New York Times Washington, Thursday, March 4
The ceremonies attending the inauguration of Gen. ULYSSES S. GRANT as the eighteenth President of the United States were to-day carried out with a completeness and a degree of brilliant success which is a most auspicious augury for the success of the Government, now transferred to such earnest and patriotic hands. ...
MADELINE'S JOURNAL
March, 1869. Grant is president. Hostility to him here is understandable, but the national mood is one of optimism. Because he organized military campaigns so successfully, and so often speaks of the need for peace after four bitter years, expectations for his presidency are high. ...
The tail of a northeastern snowstorm lashed the capital before dawn on the fourth of March. In the window bay of his bedroom in the I Street mansion, Stanley Hazard scratched his considerable paunch and peered at the drizzle, the mud puddles, the creeping mist. What else could go wrong with today's events?
Andrew Johnson would not be present at the swearing-in. Grant had spurned Johnson's discreet peace feelers in the wake of the Stanton dispute, and announced that he would not ride in the same carriage with Mr. Johnson, or even speak to him. The cabinet dithered. Should there be two carriages? Two separate processions? The matter was resolved when Mr. Johnson decided to stay in his office during the ceremony, signing last-minute bills and saying goodbye to members of the cabinet.
Stanley's unhappiness had a more personal side, however. Through the maneuverings of his wife, who was still snoring in bed, he had been appointed to the prestigious Committee of Managers for the inaugural ball. It was a great coup socially, and for a day or two Stanley was wearily pleased. Then he discovered that staging the ball might be akin to building one of the pyramids.
The committee couldn't agree on or even find a site large enough for the expected crowd. Growing desperate, committee members appealed to Congress for permission to use the Capitol rotunda. The House voted favorably but the Senate, after much empty talk of supporting the idea, voted it down. The President-elect sent a note saying it was all right, he didn't mind if no one honored him with a ball. Isabel's reaction was typicaclass="underline"
"He's canaille. Not a social grace to his name. Who does he think he is to deny us the premier evening of the year?"
Charged with bringing off this premier evening, Stanley and his associates spent hours in acrimonious debate. Should it be called a ball or a reception? The latter. Should it be ten dollars per ticket (admitting a gentleman and two female companions to supper and dancing), or a more modest eight dollars? The former. Should Mr. Johnson be invited in view of his estrangement from Grant over the Stanton matter? He was not invited.
Should the "more affluent coloreds" of the community be included, despite broad opposition? This vexing question was resolved when a representative of the group sent a note saying they would not attend if asked. Isabel said, "At long last those people are displaying a primitive intelligence. They know they'll be snubbed if they show their sooty faces."
The site finally found was large enough — it was the north wing of the Treasury building — but it wasn't ideal, because it was unfinished. Stanley had spent most of the past forty-eight hours on the site. His fine suit covered with plaster dust and specks of paint, he had helped oversee the work of dozens of mechanics completing the decorating and furnishing of the party rooms.
Now, groggy from exhaustion — he had slept little more than two hours — he confronted catastrophic weather. He felt suicidal.
He staggered to his bureau and picked up the admission cards for the ball. They were as big as the pages of a commercial almanac, gaudily lithographed with a heroic bust supposed to combine the features of President-elect Grant and Vice Presidentelect Colfax. It looked like neither. "Vile," Isabel called it. Stanley had whined for twenty minutes to convince her that he had had nothing to do with it. Head down, he stood there wondering whether all this travail was worth it merely to provide Isabel with one more opportunity to maintain her social contacts and ply her devious and hypocritical brand of flattery. As usual, he had no say in the matter.
He swung his head toward the window like a great ox in a yoke. He listened to the drizzle and wished it would grow torrential and wash away all of today's events, and his snoring wife too.
The procession to the Capitol began at ten minutes before eleven. General Grant, a small, compact, retiring man in his forty-seventh year, wore sturdy, sober American black, like all of the gentlemen attending. He rode in an open carriage. Boisterous people who eluded the police lines and dashed into the muddy street reached into the carriage to touch him. He didn't seem to mind.