The Crossed Sabres (28 page)

He finished the coffee and handed her the cup. “That was fine!” Then he shrugged out of his coat. “You won’t be having any school for a few days. I’ve come to take you home with me. Laurie and I need company.”

She was pleased at his manner, but shook her head. “Why, I can’t do that, Tom.”

“Sure you can,” he grinned. There was a wolfish air about him, his cheeks lean and his eyes bright. “Eileen’s nursing that schoolmaster, Dutton, and you can give her a hand with that. And there’s a new preacher coming to the church next Sunday. Owens told me to tell you to come. His name’s Hunter, I think Nick said. Supposed to be a red-hot evangelist.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of him!”

“Well, get ready, and you can hear him for yourself, Faith!”

She wasted no time, and half an hour later they were on their way to Bismarck. The wind cut across the land, swirled around them, biting at the exposed parts of their faces. “Tell me about the scouting trip,” she said.

“We won’t find much this winter—but all the signs are bad. There’ll be trouble in the spring, I’m afraid.”

As they drove along, she told him about the school and showed off her accomplishments with the Sioux language by speaking a few words. When she caught his grin, she demanded,

“What are you laughing at?”

“Why, you just said, ‘I hope a red bear eats your ugly baby.’ ”

“I did not—!” Faith gave him an indignant look, then saw that he was teasing her. “You’re
awful,
Tom Winslow!”

“I always was,” he nodded. “You’re just noticing it. Tell me more about the school. You seem to be making progress.” He listened as she spoke of her pupils, pleased with the happy expression that gave her face a piquant expression. He had missed her, he suddenly realized, and the thought surprised him. He had lived alone for so long—just he and Laurie—that he had assumed they would never need anyone else. Now he was beginning to feel a vacuum in his life, that he and Laurie were not enough.

Finally she finished telling about the school, then cautiously said, “I went to the Officers’ Ball last week.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. It was fun.” She hesitated, not sure of herself. “Lieutenant Grayson took me.” When he didn’t say anything, she said, “I asked him about the trouble between you two.”

Winslow shook his head stubbornly. “Faith, it’s better not to go back to those things.”

“
Back
to it!” she exclaimed. “Tom, you’ve never gotten
away
from it! You’re letting that time control your life.”

He sat loosely in the seat, but Faith knew he resented her intrusion. He turned to her and asked, “Do you poke into everyone’s business—or am I somebody special?”

She flushed, knowing that she deserved the rebuke, but shook her head defiantly. “I know it’s wrong of me, but it’s such a
waste!
”

“What’s a waste?” he asked.

“It always makes me sad when I see somebody who has such good things just throwing them away. And you have so much, Tom! Men respect you and trust you. You could be a wonderful officer.”

He thought of that, then said, “Some pretty good officers I’ve known have had some pretty rough flaws—even as bad as mine.”

“That’s not the question and you know it!” Faith’s voice was sharp, and in her eagerness to reach him, she put her hand on his arm, squeezing it. “Bitterness is like a terrible disease, Tom. Like poison in a fine, clear spring. You’ve done well with Laurie, but you could be so much more if you’d just let God help you with your struggles.”

The outline of Bismarck was rising out of the flats, and as they rolled along over the rutted road, he thought about her words. Finally he said, “Part of me knows you’re right. Did you ever hear of my sister, Belle Winslow?”

“The one they called The Dixie Widow? I didn’t realize she was your sister, Tom.”

“Belle married one of the officers in the Confederate Army. When he was killed at Sharpsburg, Belle swore she’d never love anyone again, not until all the Yankees were driven from southern soil. It was a hard thing to see, Faith. I loved her a lot. She was such a beautiful girl—a little thoughtless, maybe.” His face hardened as he spoke, thinking of those times. Finally he shook his head, adding, “I saw what unforgiveness can do to a person. It nearly killed Belle.”

“What happened to her, Tom?”

“She fell in love with a distant cousin—a Yankee officer named Davis Winslow. At first she hated him, as she did all Yankees, blaming him for killing her husband. But she got rid of all that hate at last. A fine woman, Belle. She and Davis have four children.”

“How did she get rid of her unforgiveness?”

Tom Winslow studied the outline of the town for a moment,
then said quietly, “She found God.” He was silent for a while. Finally he spoke. “I’ve thought about that a lot, Faith. But it takes a strong person to forgive—maybe I’m not as strong as Belle.”

“I think you’ve got it wrong, Tom,” Faith said. “None of us is strong enough to live as we should before God. It’s not strong people who make it. It’s the weak.” She read his puzzled stare. “Paul the apostle once said, ‘When I am weak, then I am strong.’ That never made much sense to me. But it does now.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Neither did I, Tom. I was always a fairly resourceful person. I took care of my own problems. But when something came into my life that I wasn’t strong enough to handle, I found the secret. God is looking for weak people so He can pour himself into them. Remember all the stories of Jesus, how people wanted to touch Him? Remember the woman who had an issue of blood and had spent all her money on doctors? She just went up and
touched
Him—and Jesus healed her instantly. Suppose she’d said, ‘I’m strong enough to take care of my problem!’ Why, she’d have died of her sickness!”

They entered the long street that led into Bismarck and then to the ferry that would take them across. Faith sat quietly beside him, and only when they were within sight of his house did he speak. “Maybe that’s right, Faith. My mother says it is, and she’s about the strongest Christian I know.”

“You’re a strong man, Tom,” Faith replied. “But no man or woman is stronger than the bitterness that unforgiveness brings. I don’t know what’s between you and Spence, but I do know whatever it was—no matter how bad—it has to go or it’ll destroy both of you.”

He pulled up in front of Eileen’s house. As he helped Faith down, he held on to her for one moment, looking into her face.

“I’d hate most people to speak to me about Grayson,” he murmured. “You’re a persuasive woman, Faith!”

Faith rested in his arms, and though he said no more, she realized that what had happened was a victory—a small opening. She knew the woman Tom and Spence had quarreled over was alive in Tom Winslow.
He’s the prisoner of a dead woman,
she thought, and it grieved her. No man or woman could set him free from the prison he had built with his own hatred. She knew it, but he would have to realize that for himself.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Trap

Winslow had been talking idly in the bunkhouse with Nathan Zeiss and Babe O’Hara when Sergeant Hines entered. “Tom, the general wants to see you—on the double.” Hines frowned and added, “He’s in a bad mood, so keep your voice down.”

“I always speak softly around generals, Hines.” Winslow winked at O’Hara, adding, “General Custer probably wants my expert advice on tactics.”

“Yeah, Sarge,” the big Irishman grinned. “Tell him the best thing would be to give us boys better morale. Maybe weekend passes and an issue of whiskey.”

Winslow went directly to see General Custer. “Go on in, Sergeant,” Corporal Devourney said sourly. “Glad you’re going out in this mess instead of me.”

“A patrol?” Winslow ventured.

“He’ll tell you, I guess.”

The general was standing in front of a map with Spence Grayson when Winslow entered. Grayson’s face was expressionless, but he stared at Winslow steadily.

“Sergeant, you will accompany Lieutenant Grayson on a three-day patrol.”

“Yes, sir.”

Custer’s bony face was drawn with irritation. His temper was evident as he struck the map with a wooden pointer. “We’ve got to know if the tribes are massing in this area. Charlie Reynolds thinks they are. I’d send him, but he’s down with the flu or something.”

Winslow was well aware that Custer put more confidence in Reynolds than any of the other scouts. The quiet little man was about as different in temperament from George Armstrong Custer as a man could get, but for some reason Custer had taken to him.

“What about the Ree scouts, General?” Winslow inquired. “Will they be going along?”

“No. I sent them with Lieutenant Hodgson to scout out the territory back of the Blue Hills.”

“That may be best, sir,” Grayson put in. “I’ve never put too much stock in the Ree reports. They’re so afraid of the Sioux that they multiply their information. See one Sioux and report a dozen.”

Custer made no answer, but scowled as he stared at the map. He was tense and restless from lack of activity. Built for action, he longed for spring when he could mount his stallion and lead the Seventh out into raw, violent confrontations. That is what had made him famous. But when he was confined, as he now was by the cold weather, he was crusty and irritable.

“I want to know what these Indians are doing!” he snapped, throwing the pointer on the desk. “When the fighting starts, we’ve got to have them pinpointed. Otherwise they’ll slip through our fingers as they have before.” He spoke rapidly, outlining the job he wanted done, and ended by saying, “Lieutenant, this is your first taste of this sort of scouting. I want the job done—but these Sioux can be tricky. They’ll try to draw you into a trap, so don’t allow yourself to be deceived. This is a scouting party to gather information. What we don’t need is a story breaking in the eastern newspapers with the Indians winning a victory over us.”

“Yes, sir, I understand.”

“Listen to Sergeant Winslow,” Custer said. “He knows these Indians. Come back in three days with the information. That’s all.”

“I’ll do the best I can, General,” Grayson said.

When they were outside the room, Winslow drew himself up, expecting anything. But Grayson just gave him a hard look and said, “Sergeant, pull ten men out of B Company. Have them issued fifty extra rounds of ammunition. Have them ready to leave at dawn.”

“Yes, sir.” Winslow saluted and returned to the barracks, where he conferred with Hines. The two of them chose ten men, including Babe O’Hara and Leo Dempsey.

“If you don’t watch those two, they’ll be having a little something to keep them warm,” Hines warned, “but if you run into trouble, they’re tough enough for it.”

“Don’t guess we’ll be doing much in the way of fighting,” Winslow responded. “Custer just wants to know where the Indians are bunching up.” He left the barracks and made his way to Eileen’s house.

Laurie opened the door, saying brightly, “Daddy, we’re making popcorn balls!”

He picked her up and gave her a resounding kiss. “You smell sweet. Are you wearing perfume, young woman?”

“Yes! It’s Miss Eileen’s,” Laurie beamed. “Ain’t it sweet? She said I could use some of it.” Then she squirmed and when he put her down, she said, “Come on to the kitchen. We’re all in there.”

Winslow followed her into the kitchen, where Eileen was at the stove and Faith at the table with Larry Dutton, sticking popcorn together with sticky-looking syrup. “Ah, more help has arrived!” Dutton said. “Join us, Tom. We need help with this stuff.”

Winslow sat down and gingerly picked up one of the balls. He took a bite, chewed it, then nodded. “Good! Haven’t had one of these since I left Virginia.”

“We’re going to make taffy tomorrow,” Laurie said. She had on an apron and was standing beside Eileen stirring the syrup with a wooden spoon. “Will you come and help pull it, Daddy?”

“Not tomorrow. Got to go on patrol.”

“In this weather?” Eileen asked, surprise on her face. “Why, the Indians won’t be moving about in this cold.”

“I don’t think so either, but when the general says to go, we poor soldiers have to move.” Winslow took another bite of the sticky ball, then looked at the man across the table. “Wish I could get sick, Larry. Must be nice to have all these women waiting on you, cooking all your favorite food.”

“It’s a nasty job, but someone has to do it,” Dutton grinned. He was wearing a robe, but looking much better. “I’m really all well, but I practice on my cough at night so Eileen doesn’t throw me out.”

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Faith said. “You’ve just found a soft heart and you’re exploiting it.”

“What’s ‘exploiting’?” Laurie demanded.

“It means doing something to get your own way—like you do to me all the time,” Winslow explained.

They sat in the warmth of the kitchen, chatting and nibbling on the popcorn. It was a fun evening, one of the best Tom could remember. He was persuaded to stay for supper, and the men were shooed into the living room until the meal was ready. Dutton pulled out a chessboard, asking, “Do you play the game, Tom?”

“I know the moves.”

When they finished the first game, Dutton, who was an expert player, was shocked to lose. “You’ve just ‘exploited’ me, Tom,” he said, then put his mind to the game. The next game was a long one, which Dutton finally won. “You ought to be a good officer, Tom. I imagine it takes the same kind of thinking to win in battle as it does to win at chess.”

“Well, sometimes,” Winslow nodded. “Lee had that sort of mind—which was why he could beat the Yankees. Seems like all the generals the Yankees sent to whip him could only think of one move at a time. They were all like that—McClellan, Burnside, Hooker. So Marse Robert and Stonewall would plan ahead for about six moves—and win.”

“Didn’t work with Grant, though,” Dutton observed.

“No. Grant didn’t need that kind of thinking. When he lost a pawn, he just reached back and got another one. But when Lee lost, there were no replacements for the men killed. Grant just wore the South out—and he slaughtered thousands of young men from the North to do it. ‘Butcher’ Grant, they called him.”