chilly shade of the hut, so he refilled his cup and moved the camp chair into the direct sunlight of the yard.
He was just sitting down when he saw the wolf. It was standing on the bluff opposite the fort, just across the river. The lieutenant’s first instinct was to frighten it off with a round or two, but the longer he watched his visitor, the less sense this made. Even at a distance he could tell that the animal was merely curious. And in some hidden way that never quite bubbled to the surface of his thoughts, he was glad for this little bit of company.
Cisco snorted over in the corral, and the lieutenant jerked to attention. He had forgotten all about his horse. On his way to the supply house he glanced over his shoulder and saw that his early morning visitor had turned tail and was disappearing below the horizon beyond the bluff.
two
It came to him at the corral as he was pouring Cisco’s grain into a shallow pan. It was a simple solution and it kicked doubt out once more.
For the time being he would invent his duties.
Dunbar made a quick inspection of Cargill’s hut, the supply house, the corral, and the river. Then he set to work, starting first with the garbage choking the banks of the little stream.
Though not fastidious by nature, he found the dumping ground a complete disgrace. Bottles and trash were strewn everywhere. Broken bits of gear and shreds of uniform material lay encrusted in the banks. Worst of all were the carcasses, in varying stages of decay, which had been dumped mindlessly along the river. Most of them were small game, rabbits and guinea fowl. There was a whole antelope and part of another.
Surveying this squalor gave Dunbar his first real clue as to what might have happened at Fort Sedgewick. Obviously it had become a place in which no one took pride. And then, without knowing, he hit close to the truth.
Maybe it was food, he thought. Maybe they were starving.
He worked straight through noon, stripped down to his long undershirt, a seedy pair of pants, and a set of old boots, sifting methodically through the garbage about the river.
There were more carcasses sunk in the stream itself, and his stomach churned queasily as he dragged the oozing animal bodies from the fetid mud of the shallow water.
He piled everything on a sheet of canvas, and when there was enough for a load, he tied the canvas up like a sack. Then, with Cisco providing the muscle, they lugged the awful cargo to the top of the bluff.
By midafternoon the stream was clear, and though he wasn’t certain, the lieutenant could swear it was running faster. He made a smoke and rested awhile, watching the river flow past. Freed of its filthy parasites, it looked like a real stream again, and the lieutenant felt a little swelling of pride in what he had done.
As he came to his feet he could feel his back tighten. Unaccustomed as he was to this sort of work, he found the soreness not unpleasant. It meant he had accomplished something.
After policing up the last, tiny scraps of refuse, he climbed to the top of the bluff and confronted the pile of scum that rose nearly to his shoulder. He poured a gallon of fuel oil on the heap and set it ablaze.
For a time he watched the great column of greasy, black smoke boil into the empty sky. But all at once his heart sunk as he realized what he had done. He should have never started the fire. Out here a blaze of this size was like setting off a flare on a moonless night. It was like pointing a huge, flaming arrow of invitation at Fort Sedgewick.
Someone was bound to be drawn in by the column of smoke, and the someone would most likely be Indians.
three
Lieutenant Dunbar sat in front of the hut until dusk, constantly scanning the horizon in every direction.
No one came.
He was relieved. But as he sat through the afternoon, a Springfield rifle and his big Navy at the ready, his sense of isolation deepened. At one point the word marooned slipped into his mind. It made
He was just sitting down when he saw the wolf. It was standing on the bluff opposite the fort, just across the river. The lieutenant’s first instinct was to frighten it off with a round or two, but the longer he watched his visitor, the less sense this made. Even at a distance he could tell that the animal was merely curious. And in some hidden way that never quite bubbled to the surface of his thoughts, he was glad for this little bit of company.
Cisco snorted over in the corral, and the lieutenant jerked to attention. He had forgotten all about his horse. On his way to the supply house he glanced over his shoulder and saw that his early morning visitor had turned tail and was disappearing below the horizon beyond the bluff.
two
It came to him at the corral as he was pouring Cisco’s grain into a shallow pan. It was a simple solution and it kicked doubt out once more.
For the time being he would invent his duties.
Dunbar made a quick inspection of Cargill’s hut, the supply house, the corral, and the river. Then he set to work, starting first with the garbage choking the banks of the little stream.
Though not fastidious by nature, he found the dumping ground a complete disgrace. Bottles and trash were strewn everywhere. Broken bits of gear and shreds of uniform material lay encrusted in the banks. Worst of all were the carcasses, in varying stages of decay, which had been dumped mindlessly along the river. Most of them were small game, rabbits and guinea fowl. There was a whole antelope and part of another.
Surveying this squalor gave Dunbar his first real clue as to what might have happened at Fort Sedgewick. Obviously it had become a place in which no one took pride. And then, without knowing, he hit close to the truth.
Maybe it was food, he thought. Maybe they were starving.
He worked straight through noon, stripped down to his long undershirt, a seedy pair of pants, and a set of old boots, sifting methodically through the garbage about the river.
There were more carcasses sunk in the stream itself, and his stomach churned queasily as he dragged the oozing animal bodies from the fetid mud of the shallow water.
He piled everything on a sheet of canvas, and when there was enough for a load, he tied the canvas up like a sack. Then, with Cisco providing the muscle, they lugged the awful cargo to the top of the bluff.
By midafternoon the stream was clear, and though he wasn’t certain, the lieutenant could swear it was running faster. He made a smoke and rested awhile, watching the river flow past. Freed of its filthy parasites, it looked like a real stream again, and the lieutenant felt a little swelling of pride in what he had done.
As he came to his feet he could feel his back tighten. Unaccustomed as he was to this sort of work, he found the soreness not unpleasant. It meant he had accomplished something.
After policing up the last, tiny scraps of refuse, he climbed to the top of the bluff and confronted the pile of scum that rose nearly to his shoulder. He poured a gallon of fuel oil on the heap and set it ablaze.
For a time he watched the great column of greasy, black smoke boil into the empty sky. But all at once his heart sunk as he realized what he had done. He should have never started the fire. Out here a blaze of this size was like setting off a flare on a moonless night. It was like pointing a huge, flaming arrow of invitation at Fort Sedgewick.
Someone was bound to be drawn in by the column of smoke, and the someone would most likely be Indians.
three
Lieutenant Dunbar sat in front of the hut until dusk, constantly scanning the horizon in every direction.
No one came.
He was relieved. But as he sat through the afternoon, a Springfield rifle and his big Navy at the ready, his sense of isolation deepened. At one point the word marooned slipped into his mind. It made
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