A cloud of smoke, partly trapped between the two bodies, obscured Barclay’s view for a moment, but then he could see the Indian’s dark eyes dimming. He didn’t have the strength, however, to hold the Arikara’s body up with one arm, and the upper half of the bloody corpse fell onto Barclay’s chest.
Barclay lay there, feeling each ache in his suffering body and wondering just how he was going to get the body off him. He was certain he would be unable to move the dead warrior by himself. On the other hand, he figured, he could just lie there and rest for a day or a week. His muscles certainly could use the indolence to recover a little.
The problem was resolved for him when one of the Sioux pulled the Arikara off and dropped the corpse next to him. The Sioux grinned and held out a hand. With trepidation, knowing it was going to hurt, Barclay took the warrior’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled up. He winced involuntarily as the old pains found renewed vigor inside him, before settling back to a dull, constant throb.
The warrior—Barclay noticed he was the one he had come to help in the first place—was still grinning. The Sioux was a few inches taller than Barclay, which surprised the soldier a little. The man was in his late thirties, Barclay figured, and looked in the prime of manhood. He appeared to have all his teeth, which was more than Barclay could say for a good many white men of the same age. His face and body were fleshy without being fat. The warrior’s high, unlined forehead was covered with white paint speckled with red dots. The paint went down to the warrior’s rather prominent, wide nose. The bottom half of his face was unpainted, though sweat had carried some of the color down there. Barclay decided that all in all, this man was as impressive up close as he had been from a distance.
“You one good sumbitch,” the Sioux said, his words thickly accented but quite understandable. He clapped Barclay on the shoulder.
“Thanks,” Barclay said, not sure of himself.
“No. I thank you,” the warrior said. His voice was a deep, pleasant rumble, like comfortable thunder in the distance.
“Wasn’t much,” Barclay mumbled, feeling quite discomfited by the situation.
“Hell, was much,” the Sioux said, adding a nod to his wide grin.
Barclay shrugged, but he grinned back.
“I’m Walking Thunder,” the warrior said. “Who’re you?”
“Private Miles Barclay.”
Growing serious, Walking Thunder said, struggling with the English words, “I am much thanks for you save me.”
“Like I said, it wasn’t much.”
“Goddamn, was much. Goddamn much,” Walking Thunder insisted solemnly.
“Glad I could be of help.”
Walking Thunder nodded, then cocked his eyebrows quizzically. “You good?” he asked. “You look hurt.”
“I’m painin’ all over,” Barclay said with a rueful grin. He wondered if Walking Thunder understood all this. “But it ain’t from the fightin’. It all comes from haulin’ them goddamn keelboats up the goddamn river.”
“Bad work,” Walking Thunder said with an understanding nod. “No real man would do that.”
“I don’t have much choice.”
“Army bad, too,” Walking Thunder said firmly. “It not right a man should live so. Men should live like the Lakota.”
“I’ll have to check that out sometime, Walkin’ Thunder,” Barclay said seriously. “But right now I expect I better get back to my squad before I get in even more trouble.” He grinned again.
“You cause army trouble?”
Barclay nodded.
“Goddamn, I like you,” Walking Thunder said with a laugh. “Good sumbitch make trouble for long knives.”
“I’ll remember that next time I’m in the guardhouse,” Barclay said with a laugh before lurching off toward his squad. He stopped along the way to retrieve his rifle, knowing that the soldiers were watching him.
“Looks like ye made yersel’ some friends there, laddie,” Dunnigan said when Barclay reported back to his squad.
“Reckon so,” Barclay admitted. Once again he was uncomfortable in the role of hero, if that’s what he was being considered. “Better than havin’ those Indians as enemies, I suppose.”
“Aye, that it’d be.”
“I suppose you’re gonna report me for havin’ done it, though?” Barclay asked more than said.
“Why would I do that, laddie?”
“Disobeyin’ orders,” Barclay responded, somewhat surprised.
“I dinna hear ye disobeyin’ none of my orders,” Dunnigan said firmly. “Any of ye other lads hear Private Barclay go against my orders?”
The men of the squad—all friends of Barclay—shook their heads.
“Ye did, however, follow my orders to the letter, when I sent ye off to help our poor savage ally. Aye, exceeded my orders from what I could see.”
“Thanks, Mac,” Barclay said gratefully.
“Aye,” Dunnigan growled. “Now get your ass back in line, laddie, before I have to do somethin’ awful to ye.” But he winked.
** ** ** ** **
Captain Pennington and Sergeant Noordstrom were not happy with Barclay’s newly acquired status as savior to the Sioux. But what really made them angry was the fact that they could do absolutely nothing about it. Oh, they had planned to, for sure, and had even begun taking steps to have both Barclay and Dunnigan court-martialed for disobeying their orders.
Barclay had thought about Dunnigan’s taking “credit” for him helping Walking Thunder after the squad had reported back, and had wondered about it. Claiming he had issued the orders for it would certainly make Dunnigan look good in some eyes. Barclay just wasn’t sure if he resented it or not.
He changed his tune, however, when Pennington started plotting court-martials. Barclay realized that Dunnigan was taking a considerable amount of heat which would otherwise have fallen on his own already overburdened shoulders.
Pennington’s anger really soared, however, once word got to Colonel Leavenworth of what Barclay had done. Barclay hadn’t realized until then just who he had aided. Dunnigan gave him the news.
“That red savage ye saved was a big chief, laddie,” Dunnigan said as he squatted by the fire next to Barclay. “The way Ashley’s men explain it, he’s not the big chief—they say the red men have no overall chief, which dunna make sense to me—but is one of their most important war chiefs.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Interesting hell, laddie. It’s saved our bacon.”
“How so?”
Dunnigan grinned. “Since Colonel Leavenworth learned just who it was ye saved, laddie, Captain Pennington and his nefarious partner canna touch the neither of us two.”
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Barclay’s face. “That would cramp their plans, wouldn’t it?” he said.
“Aye.”
“Well, I don’t know how long my bein’ in the colonel’s good graces is gonna last,” Barclay said, “but I aim to enjoy it while it does.”
“That’d be wise,” Dunnigan said thoughtfully, “since when ye—and me—fall out of favor, things might go hard on ye.”
“Won’t be no different from normal, then, will it?” Barclay said with a crooked grin.