The Last Good Day, стр. 3
“Where you headed, major?” the sergeant asked.
“On my way home,” Rance said.
“Where’s that?”
“Milberg. In the Shenandoah Valley.”
“Kinda messed you up, didn’t they,” the corporal said, pointing to Rance’s missing arm. “We’ll get even for you with this blue belly.”
The sergeant was tall and thin with a crooked nose and a salt-and-pepper beard. He had a Navy-issued Colt stuck in his belt. The corporal was smaller with shaggy brown hair, cold blue eyes and several days of black stubble on his face. He had a Bowie knife strapped to his belt and a brass spyglass lopped on his saddle horn.
The rider in the Union uniform was an Indian with long black braided hair to his waist and a black feather stuck in the band of his hat, his face bruised and swollen, sitting a solid black horse.
“Do you know the war’s over? Lee surrendered,” Rance said.
“We heard that,” the sergeant said. “We decided to quit some time back.”
“You’re deserters?”
“Not anymore,” the sergeant said and grinned. “You can call me Jake and this is Smiley. What’s your name, major sir?”
“Rance Allison. Why don’t you let the Indian go?”
“Can’t do that, major, we’re going to scalp him,” Smiley said. “The trading post will give us fifty dollars in gold for a Indian scalp. But we’re having trouble deciding if we want to hang him then scalp him, or scalp him then hang him.” Smiley and Jake both laughed.
“Don’t think that’s a good idea either way,” Rance said. “Cut him loose.”
“We don’t care what you think,” Smiley said. “Don’t take orders no more.”
Rance watched as the Indian franticly pulled on the ropes that bound him behind the soldiers.
“You got any gold or Yankee money, major?” Jake asked.
Rance lied. “No,” he said, knowing he had the twenty-dollar gold piece in his pocket.
“What’s in that bag hanging on the horse’s neck?” the corporal asked.
“Medical supplies for my arm.”
“Let me see,” the sergeant said and snatched the bag off Buck, jerking his head back. He opened the bag, dumped the contents on the ground and spotted a half-pint of whiskey.
“Well looky here,” he said and picked up the bottle. “What’s this?”
“For the pain,” Rance said.
“Looks like you been easing your pain some,” Jake said, shaking the bottle. He opened the bottle, took a big gulp and handed it to the corporal, who drank what was left then threw the bottle in the creek.
The Indian pulled his hands free, jerked the bandana out of his mouth and dove off his horse, knocking Jake to the ground, the Colt flying from his belt landing several feet away. Smiley drew his knife and started swinging it at the Indian. The Indian grabbed Smiley’s wrist and they fell to the ground, wrestling for the knife. Jake got to his feet looking for the Colt. Rance beat him to it, cocked and fired.
Jake staggered forward a couple feet and fell dead.
The Indian twisted the knife from Smiley’s hand, grabbed him by the collar and cut his throat from ear to ear.
Rance pointed the Colt at the Indian and cocked it.
“Don’t shoot! I’m done,” he said, dropping the bloody knife on the ground.
Rance lowered the Colt and looked at his bleeding left arm. The bandage was torn loose and a stitch had come out.
“You better do something about that arm, major, before you bleed to death.”
Rance took a couple of steps back, reached down and picked up the bandage and iodine off the ground while hanging on to the Colt.
“You won’t be able to do that with one hand holding that Colt,” the Indian said.
“I’ll manage. Stay where you are,” Rance said.
Blood was running from the stub of his arm at a faster pace. He blinked his eyes and saw two Indians. He dropped the Colt and fell to the ground, out cold.
Sometime later, he woke up with his arm bandaged, his head lying on his bag. He saw the Indian sitting by a small fire, the sergeant’s Colt in his belt. A rabbit was roasting on a stick over the fire, the two dead Confederates lying where they fell.
Rance rose up on his good arm. “How come you’re still here?” he asked.
“Was getting hungry, figured I would eat and wait to see if I needed to bury you.”
“Why?” Rance said.
“You kept that bastard from shooting me, figured I owed you something for that. Want some
rabbit?”
“Yeah, think I do,” Rance said. “Thanks for bandaging my arm.”
The Indian cut a piece of the rabbit off with Smiley’s knife and brought it to him then went back to the fire and sat down. Rance hadn’t noticed before how big the man was. He was over six foot and the Indian was half a head taller.
“Where did you learn to speak English?” Rance asked.
“My mama and missionary school. That a surprise to you?”
“It is. Your mama not Indian?”
“No, a colored slave. Not sure who my daddy was except he was Indian. Don’t think she knew either. Was passed around to a lot of bucks.”
“What tribe?”
“Cherokee,” he said. “North Carolina.”
“Got a name?”
“Gv-nah-ge Tadewi.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Black Wind.”
“Noticed you was darker than most Cherokees. The Cherokee in that region had slaves, fought for the Confederacy. How come you didn’t?”
“Had a different feeling bout it,” he said. “Better eat your rabbit, major, it’s getting cold.”
Rance nodded and took a bite.
“Where’s home, major?” Black Wind said.
“The Shenandoah Valley. A little town called Milberg.”
“My misguided Cherokee brothers fought some battles in the valley under General Early.”
“I know,” Rance said. “Your mama still with the tribe?”
“She died from the fever last year. She was traded to the Cherokee for a horse. We belonged to Chief Yo-nu-gv-ya-s-gi, that’s Drowning Bear to you white folks. The chief was considered a prophet. Was supposed to have died, went to heaven and came back. I barely remember him. He died for good when I was little.