Chapter 17

The Captain stood with the smell of shit in his nose wondering how and why his luck had taken such a turn in the last year. He wondered what he had done to invite these circumstances onto himself and whether or not he was in the position where his decisions and actions might yet invite further circumstances of freedom and the ability to fulfill his duty. The past few days had been less than shocking for him. Drake and his henchmen seemed to believe they inflicted some unique and insurmountable mental and physical anguish onto their captives but it was all rather menial compared to what the Captain had already witnessed owing to his military career. He'd felt worse than the sweet burning of his muscles after hard work or the monotonous throbbing of bruises and lacerations inflicted upon him, and he'd had to wrestle with deeper conflicts than those presented by the jeers and taunts of a few uneducated cattle rustlers turned "ranchers". And the Ixopaw he saw here--he assumed they were Ixopaw--threatened his life sometimes by the hour, but they didn't impress him. He'd killed his fair share of them and it wouldn't be long until the rest of the Army finally arrived to kill the rest. He said nothing when they laughed over slitting his throat in the night, but inwardly he plotted his retribution against them, intent on undoing their savagery and bringing the Country he loved to their primordial, spiritual swamp. That, after all, was his mission.

If, of course, he managed to survive Glory's Dawn.

He hadn't seen much of Sarsparilla since they got here. He hoped that wherever he was Sarsparilla kept the fight in him to continue. The Captain hadn't thought too much of Wales or even Guerrero, for he suspected they were more the mercenary type and that they were more than interested in collecting their own gold from New Attica, but for Sarsparilla he reserved his respect as a soldier as well as a man. He supposed that from a certain point of view Drake would be better served to end the old man's life, as Sass presented a risk and danger to contain more so than most who winded up here. Perhaps Drake had thought the same already, and acted on his instincts.

This afternoon had been spent shoveling manure and cleaning up a barn in the penumbra of dying light on an overcast day. Humidity threatened a rainy night, and exacerbated the manure stench and the acrid ambient heat stifling him while he worked. His mind played back over Sass, Drake, Wales and his son. His boy. Waiting for him, living his life apart from him. The Captain hadn't heard back from his in-laws since all that had happened to him in June, but he thought it might not even matter to the boy if they never met again. It would probably be best for the kid. It hurt to think that way but it was the only rational expectation he could have.

The barn door opened behind him and someone walked in. The Captain knew it was Drake before he turned around.

"Fine day for it," Drake said, looking over the dirt floor and checking his boots for any waste. "How's the honorable captain enjoying his stay so far?"

The Captain kept up his work, refusing to even look at Drake.

"You hate me now, think I'm scum. Think I'm just a criminal, an outlaw. But in time I think you'll see how pointless all of this is. You're shoveling shit, but it's for your pride that you do it--not by my hand. Far as I'm concerned, you'd make a hell of a gun."

Again the Captain ignored him. With his shovel he gathered up a pile and dumped it into the wheelbarrow he was using.

"I heard you was from Fort Abraham. Served with Custer in the 7th, didn't you? Has to sting, knowing your buddies were burned to the last while you stand here wasting your life shoveling shit for the man responsible for their deaths. Well, at least I paid my contribution. Didn't slaughter no helpless villagers, not like you, but I paid my share regardless.

"I know you got loyalty to the Army. Hell, I even respect it. I mean that. A quality like loyalty is rarer than gold, better too. But you got to consider what it is you're loyal to. See, I'm a true American. I'm a pioneer, a builder, a harbinger. Imagine if the hills of New Attica remained pristine. Imagine if they remained uncorrupted, safe from the hand of greed. We, family of mankind, are a violent people. But violence is a tool, a mechanism by which we defend ourselves and any extension of ourselves. Nice thing about that is you can define the 'self' to be anything you please--something you can really be loyal to."

The Captain stopped now and wiped sweat from his face with his shirt. His flesh was caked in thick layers of mud, dirt, oil and feces and he yearned for a simple bath. "You want I should fight in your Army? Wear black and all of that?"

"Of course I do. This--you slaving away--it's disgusting. I feel the same about that lovely old negro you've brought along--what do you call him?--Sasafrass? You two belong in a battlefield, not a barn."

"Well...I agree. But I'm no traitor."

"No, I suppose not. You know, I am a military man myself. Served in the Montona Territory Volunteer Infantry, 15th division. That's where I met a lot of my friends, Mr. Molet for instance. Fought under a seargent major by the name of Oliver Pace, West Point feller. Hell of a man. He looked out for his men, he listened to us, he heard us, you understand. He reasoned a well-maintained regiment was a well-prepared one. And he had the respect of our CC, I assure you.

"As it happens we had a hell of a summer fighting the Cree, much as you've had against the Sioux. Well we was having trouble moving them down the Boaz River, losing men, horses, supplies. Women and children too. And one day, they got us real good. We went out on an evening patrol, only to come back about an hour later after seeing smoke in the sky. They'd gone in on a friendly Blackfeet camp and slaughtered everyone inside before lighting the place on fire. We saw flames and arrows and people that we loved charred blacker than black. Some of them, their eyes was melted into cream, and you could see the light from the flame shimmering in there. What does Oliver Pace do? He marched us in the dead of night some fifteen miles upriver to a Cree encampment in the woods, and us has tear the place to pieces. We used dynamite, blew down trees to crash into them, smash em. We shot their horses so they couldn't run, and when we got the warriors gathered up we scalped them and shot their wives and mothers and daughters and then shot them.

"We all thought that was that. The matter was resolved. Till a letter came. Oliver Pace was courtmartialed, for 'methods inhumane and immoral'. He was stripped of his rank, discharged...who knows what happened to him after that? Rumor was an upshot officer in the regiment turned Pace in, wanted the job for himself. Didn't get it either. Go and figure that, will you? Man had the courage to do what had to be done, and he was punished. Exiled. He, after all, wasn't loyal to himself. No sir, quite the opposite, like you, and in the end he suffered for it. Also, like you."

Drake's eyes had a shine to them like his eyes were glass, obsidian. As he spoke the Captain focused on them, watched them while they shimmered and spoke a language all their own, speaking to him. "I'm loyal to my self, alright. My self counts towards the man next to me, taking the same gamble I am. He who has fear and adrenaline sending contradicting information to his brain, who sees the lowest and basest things, evil things, every day of his life. I'll happily give my life for that man because he's me. There isn't anything to win but your own life, and that can't be won either you might as well try and save the next. Loyalty ain't a virtue, Mr. Drake. It's instinct, and it keeps you human."

Drake's expression didn't change. His eyes kept shimmering. The Captain wondered if he saw something in the man's face that wasn't there, something missing that was always missing. For some reason, he didn't feel threatened by the man before him. He couldn't say at that moment if that was a good or bad thing, but it was a fact.

Drake suddenly jolted into life, his static stare disappearing in a single twitch of his face, replaced by the more cocksure smirking one he usually displayed. He reached into his shirt collar and pulled out the pendant he wore around his neck. Suspended on a crude leathery string that the Captain thought might be sinew was a silver eagle with a truly large wingspan, and Drake was holding it up between forefinger and thumb for the Captain to see. It looked exactly like the necklace he had been saving for his boy.

"What do you think?" Drake asked him. "Does it look familiar?"

"It wasn't mine in the first place. See if I care whether you parade it around."

Drake clicked his tongue. "No, it wasn't yours at all. It was the brother to this one," he waved the pendant about, then tucked it back underneath his shirt. "It is good you brought it back to me. Saved your life, potentially. Your friend's, too. Think about what I said. My offer stands."

"Sid, that Panther man's here to talk to you," said a man at the barn door. "He's waiting at the house."

"Until next time," Drake said with a wink, "get back to work. This place stinks like hell."

Panther Sprung sat stiffly in an uncomfortable chair struggling to keep his temper under control. He'd always had trouble with his anger, especially as a young man when anger flows as naturally through the body as air, but he wasn't sure he'd been this powerfully upset in all his days. He was quite through with Hassidius Drake, and the nightmare about him he'd had was confirmation of that.

He'd asked several of the ranch hands and one of the Ixopaw who stayed here about Black Heart but no one would tell him anything. He worried she hadn't come here after all, that he was wasting his time. If she wasn't here, or if she refused to see him, he wasn't planning to push much farther. He had love for Black Heart, but he and the matrons had a move to undertake. He could not waste time and lives over the ignorance of a hotheaded girl. Ah, perhaps she was more like him than he thought. In that case he could count on her finding some wisdom eventually.

This ranch home was disgusting to him. It was too big and too finely polished. It seemed more like a poor imitation of a home than an actual one. Drake tried to compensate for his own failings with material luxuries and it was embarrassing. The man had certainly changed in recent years, or he was simply becoming his father. Panther Sprung truly lamented that.

He was up out of the chair and pacing back and forth in the sitting room when Drake at last came in. His smug smile assured Panther that he was right for coming here.

"Have you changed your mind about me, old friend?" said Drake, gesturing for Panther Sprung to sit down in the awful chair he'd just got up from.

Panther declined the chair. He cleared his throat and did his best to concentrate on not leting his voice quiver. "Sid, you know why I am here. My daughter Black Heart left Kuroctu and she has come here. I'd like to bring her home."

"Straight to the point. Boring, polite, cold. I don't understand why you hate me. Yes, your--ahem--'daughter' is here. The girl you took in and taught to fight, but whom you treat like a bloodthirsty fool. She's here, and she seems happy, but I shall fetch her. For you, pal. And something else: I've recovered something which you lost a year or so ago, something you no doubt miss. Now where is it?" From his back pocket he brought out a clenched fist, extending it towards Panther. The chief did not step towards it. Slowly, Drake opened his hand and revealed the necklace that he'd taken from the Captain.

Panther's eyes widened. He thought he'd never see that relic again. He'd hoped it had been destroyed. "How?" was all he could muster to say.

"Fortune favors us, Igmuwatagola. I consider it a good omen, a sign."

"I consider it a burden, more trouble than its worth."

"So you don't want it back, then?" Drake's fingers curled round the talisman as his hand was pulled slowly back.

But Panther reached forward and opened his palm. The pendant was dropped into his hand by a grinning Drake, and Panther's fist closed around the necklace. The chief held it firmly. "Thank you, Drake. I truly am grateful. But you have to understand, this changes nothing."

"Even so, I hope I've demonstrated I harbor more ill will towards you, Igmu. As for Black Heart, she is currently away."

Panther's eyes narrowed. "Is she?"

Drake took the seat next to Panther, pulling at his jacket and fidgeting with a ring he wore on his right pinky finger. "Afraid so, buddy. Headed for the old Fort Labrador with my good friend Sebastian Tick. Remember him? I presume so. Of course dear Jean Molet is with them--I assure you no harm will come to her." He pulled off his hat and mussed his black, wavy hair. A few rogue strands dangled over his mustached lips--he looked sweaty and crazed.

Panther in turn removed his own hat and laid in his lap. His right hand still clutched the pendant. A familiar energy percolated around his fingers, knuckles, then his wrist and up his arm, responding to him, answering his rising anger. "And what are they doing at the fort, Drake? Setting off a beacon, marking the start of renewed killing? Yes, reinvigorating the genocide. That's what you're doing. Meanwhile, I have made my decision. The Ixopaw, Drake, are not yours--we are not your warriors, as you seem to expect. We will be leaving New Attica, as it turns out."

It was Drake's turn for fury. It came shooting up from his stomach, source of the soul, with all the momentum of a bullet shot from a gun. "Or so you say. Yes. Run away. Take the women and children, the elderly, the meek and the simple. Take every able-bodied Indian man. Flee beyond the hills to the border, as would be sensible, no? You are a disappointment, Panther. Weak of Will. You know, the man who took that holy relic off of you, who stole it from you--the essence of Wakinyan, I'm talking about here--he lies haggard, beaten and pathetic on my ranch. In a nearby barn where I keep some of my cattle. I don't imagine you'd wreak retribution upon him, or to make him fear the name of Igmuwatogala again. Maybe remember that you have killed a thousand times for your freedom and for your people by staring into the face of all that you oppose and choosing either mercy or justice. None of this, I wager, interests you in the slightest, does it?"

"For once, Sid, I agree with you. It does not interest me, putting some lame dog out of its misery. You've sought retribution on my behalf, and that is justice enough I suspect. You would be wise to come with me, you know. To follow us into Canada. We can begin anew. There will be more battles to fight. If you should choose to remain here, however, and fight for New Attica, you will surely die--and no one will thank you for it. No one will consider you a hero."

"I should hope not. And make no mistake, should you follow through with your own plans, everyone will consider you a coward. History will be most unkind to you."

"I know of many histories. And what are the histories but stories? Stories of your people, stories of mine. War, famine, massacre, domination, conquering and enslaving...over and over, from one people to the next. The time has come for my people. There is no justice, no mercy. History is happening right now--stories are being written and their endings are known, known by all. This is a white man's country now. A country of law, of taxes, of commerce. We face beaurucrats and diplomats in the places of warriors wearing war paint. The Bighorn victory was a hollow one. History will show that to be true."

Hassidius Black stood up at once, returning his hat to his head. His face was flushed with animalistic anger and his eyes were black as a stormy sky. "I should kill you, Igmu. I should shoot you between the eyes and be done with it. But I respect our past together--our own history. My apologies, but you will not see Black Heart today. I half-heartedly hoped your fire would be rekindled upon reunion with your Mark, but you have rejected me. Flee to Canada and be no more, but do so with the knowledge that you reject the Ixopaw, the Sioux Nation, and upon doing so grant me the authority to lead our people into the next century and beyond. My New Attica will take the White Man's industry and science and join it with Ixopaw wisdom and knowledge to become the best version of both these worlds. See that the Thunderbird guides me well." He struggled to resist the urge to do it, to take his old friend's life despite himself. Yet, as ever, his Will prevailed, and after a few haughty moments of back-and-forth he stepped aside to allow Panther room to stand and leave.

Which Panther did. For the first time in his life he feared Drake, not for his own sake but for the sake of all humanity. Who in the heavens of the stars had decreed Hassidius Drake be invested with such power? What deal had been made atop the Bear's Lodge all those many years ago?

He said nothing while he left, but as rode away from Glory's Ranch and towards the Race Track he kept watch on the overcast sky, waiting for the smallest sign of a tempest, completely unsure of what Drake might do to him the instant Panther wasn't ready or waiting. It was an agonizing ride back to Kurotu, and he prayed for Black Arrow.