The man insisted he was being truthful, course that didn't make it so. Thus far the fellow had done nothing to build trust just distaste. But what if he did know something? It was worth hearing him out.
"Why do we have to go anywhere, we can talk right here. Tell us what you have to say and then I'll decide if it's worth letting you out of those chains," Benjamin declared.
“Once I’ve told you what I know, if you still don’t believe that I’m on the square, you can drag me backwards through the dirt all the way the Kalispell and hand my carcass to the Marshall for target practice.”
"Oh I will hand you over alright. But you are getting ahead of yourself, I haven't heard a damn thing yet. Convince me," Barlow pressed.
"Oh...and you can start with something easy, who are you anyway?"
Oh I will hand you over alright. But you are getting ahead of yourself, I haven't heard a damn thing yet. Convince me," Barlow pressed.
Lorenzo looked a little uncomfortable. “Very well. I’ll tell you some ol’ facts and figures here and now, but I’m not repeating names in front of these, ahem, minions. There’s such a thing as being sued for slander you know. I’ll give the names to you alone, Captain, then you can spread it about as you please.” It wasn’t just that, the men whose liberty and lives he was bargaining with were dangerous: in themselves and in their connections. He’d rather not have folks remembering, at a later date, that it was he who had first bandied their names about.
"Oh...and you can start with something easy, who are you anyway?"
Lorenzo gave a broad grin, and wondered whether to give his real name. In various parts he was known as Pete Bosco and W. Arthur Anderson, but in this instance, he decided it best to stick to the truth. As Mark Twain would say ‘If you tell the truth you don't have to remember anything’.
“My name is Crabbe” he said, giving a slight sort of bow “With two Bs!” he added, for some reason looking at the Sarge and the Trooper. “Late of Ogallala, Nebraska, although originally I hail from that notable town of Bowling Green in the good old state of Kentucky, where all the girls are pretty, the bluegrass grows up to your knees and the polecats smell of perfume.” He announced proudly.
“How about yourself, Cap? You sound like a Northern man to my ear.” He asked, trying to warm the taciturn icicle up a little.
The man looked a little uncomfortable. “Very well. I’ll tell you some ol’ facts and figures here and now, but I’m not repeating names in front of these, ahem, minions. There’s such a thing as being sued for slander you know. I’ll give the names to you alone, Captain, then you can spread it about as you please.”
"You seem to be under the misapprehension that you can make the terms here. I told I want to be convinced and so far I've heard nothing yet. My men aren't going anywhere," Barlow was not about to let the man set the conditions. For one thing he didn't even trust the man wasn't leading him on.
At least the fellow could give out his name, well assuming he wasn't giving an alias.
"My name is Crabbe” he said, giving a slight sort of bow “With two Bs!” he added, for some reason looking at the Sarge and the Trooper. “Late of Ogallala, Nebraska, although originally I hail from that notable town of Bowling Green in the good old state of Kentucky, where all the girls are pretty, the bluegrass grows up to your knees and the polecats smell of perfume.” He announced proudly.
If that was to impress, it failed dismally. Barlow just stood there.
“How about yourself, Cap? You sound like a Northern man to my ear.”
"Barlow," the officer grudgingly gave out that much then stayed on point, "Now if I don't hear some useful details come out of your mouth in the next minute, off you go to the Kalispell jail. I am losing what little patience I possess."
"Barlow," the officer grudgingly gave out that much then stayed on point, "Now if I don't hear some useful details come out of your mouth in the next minute, off you go to the Kalispell jail. I am losing what little patience I possess."
Lorenzo felt a compulsion to remind the officer that patience was a virtue and, further, that virtue was its own reward, but now did not seem like the time for quaint homilies.
“All right Captain, I’ll play you fair.” Said Crabbe, with the air of doing the military man a great favour “How about this for starters, I’ll tell you all about the last shipment this feller made, let’s call him ‘C’ for now, or at least the last one I ever heard about. It’d be three weeks ago now, early April by my reckoning. Sold a bunch of six rifles to some Two Kettles bucks over on the Tongue River, for solid gold nuggets no less: where they got that from, well I guess that’s another story and the feller who told me this wasn’t in a hurry to say. He’s a buck called Looks Down and like the bravest of braves, isn’t above a little begging on the side, he came sniffing around Mingusville when he heard I was there, begging for booze. Course, I refused him!” Lorenzo swore, hold his hand to his heart in an effort to convince the Captain that he was telling the truth.
“Now, this rifle he had, he said was no good: but it was a factory new Sharps, a point five I should say, looking a the cartridges the feller had supplied them with. Factory new…” he repeated “.. still had the packing grease all over it. I offered to take it off his hands, but he was attached to it, even though he said it was faulty. No doubt some idiot’s told him by now to clean off the grease.”
He glanced at the Captain to see if any of this was interesting him.
Rifles for gold nuggets, interesting. Barlow knew the Indians were never the sort to do any mining or even prospecting so they might have gotten the gold from some whites. The Black Hills supposedly was filled with gold which was one of the reasons the government was now changing their mind and deciding to move the various tribes off what had supposed to have been Indian land after one of the treaties had been signed. Even though a representative of said government, Barlow knew when it came to profit, the government didn't give a damn about any treaty. They could change the conditions and make the Indians sign another one and move elsewhere. Needless to say the Indians felt differently and, honestly, Benjamin sympathized with them. It wasn't right but the way most people looked at it was the natives were impeding the march of civilization. Even if the government wanted to keep this latest treaty, thousands of new settlers were already moving into the Black Hills territory, the Army couldn't stop that flood if they wanted to.
Thus the impending major campaign being planned for this summer, once and for all the Army was going to force the hostiles to the proper reservations or destroy them. Proud and warlike themselves, tribes like the Sioux and Cheyenne were going to fight hard, all the military men were sure of it.
And part of the problem was the Indians were getting more and more better armed than the troops themselves. One way or the other they were acquiring not just these Sharps carbines the man identified but the fast firing magazine rifles like Henrys and Winchesters. Back in Washington the War Department had looked into purchasing repeating rifles but concluded the troops would use up ammo too rapidly and that cost money. So they decided the cavalry would continue to make due with their single shot carbines, the Sharps.
"Alright, Mr. Crabbe with two B's, now we are getting somewhere," Barlow remarked when the man paused.
"Any chance you can give me something on the possible location of this... C ....fellow? Obviously he isn't operating out of any town. But you might just know his approximate whereabouts or one of the routes he uses regular?"
A gun runner's very success depended on him keeping on the move, staying ahead of the authorities plus trying to find the ever elusive Indians who would be his customers. But if they could narrow it down, then Barlow would have a better chance of running them down.
"Any chance you can give me something on the possible location of this... C ....fellow? Obviously he isn't operating out of any town. But you might just know his approximate whereabouts or one of the routes he uses regular?"
“Oh, he doesn’t have what you’d call a regular route, I mean this feller ain’t selling soapflakes. He can’t turn up and sell the same goods at the same place week after week, or month after month even. See, most the tribes he sells to are on the move themselves, if you get my drift. He doesn’t even have a regular base of supply, though it’s always somewhere with a railroad station, that how they ship the ‘goods’ from back East.”
Crabbe stopped short and looked down at the manacles on his ankles.
“Ow, these irons are sure chaffing my pins something awful, Cap! You know it’s hard to give a clear account of things with a nasty distraction like that annoying a body.” He pointed out, shifting his feet as if in pain.
“Now, where was I? Oh yeah, so the way to find this feller is the same way the redskins do, and that’s strictly word of mouth. I’d start by finding the Two Kettles, they’ll be upriver on the Tongue by now, I’d reckon. They’ll know where C is, no mistake. I wouldn’t tell them that you’re after him though: the injuns love him, for obvious reasons. Looks Down called him ‘Grandfather’. Why, it’s about the only thing all those warring vermin do agree on! Even Lakota and Crow alike’ll smoke the peace pipe for an hour or so around that fellow’s trading wagon.” he mused.
“You just tell those savages that you’ve got an important message for him, or some tommy-rot, tell ‘em President Grant’s sent him a medal.” he laughed at this himself and shook his head at the gullibility of some of the Indians, he was warming to the subject matter now and becoming quite detailed in his help.
“If they start looking hostile, try and talk to a girlie* called Eagle Woman That All Look At – they listen to her and she’s one of the more peaceable sorts.” He looked thoughtful for a second “You know Cap, I’m going to be really interested to hear how you fellers get on running ol’ Grandfather down!”
“Oh, he doesn’t have what you’d call a regular route, I mean this feller ain’t selling soapflakes. He can’t turn up and sell the same goods at the same place week after week, or month after month even. See, most the tribes he sells to are on the move themselves, if you get my drift. He doesn’t even have a regular base of supply, though it’s always somewhere with a railroad station, that how they ship the ‘goods’ from back East.”
Yeah, that was what Benjamin figured too but it had to be asked. This time he had no reason to believe the man was lying.
"Right," he nodded and let the man continue.
“Ow, these irons are sure chaffing my pins something awful, Cap! You know it’s hard to give a clear account of things with a nasty distraction like that annoying a body.” Crabbe pointed out, shifting his feet as if in pain.
"I am considering having them removed right now, keep talking - it will no doubt influence my decision one way or the other," Benjamin replied.
"Now, where was I? Oh yeah, so the way to find this feller is the same way the redskins do, and that’s strictly word of mouth. I’d start by finding the Two Kettles, they’ll be upriver on the Tongue by now, I’d reckon. They’ll know where C is, no mistake. I wouldn’t tell them that you’re after him though: the injuns love him, for obvious reasons. Looks Down called him ‘Grandfather’. Why, it’s about the only thing all those warring vermin do agree on! Even Lakota and Crow alike’ll smoke the peace pipe for an hour or so around that fellow’s trading wagon.”
"Well, the Crow wouldn't help him, they're on our side when it comes to fighting the Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapahos," Barlow declared, "Custer and Crook both use Crow scouts all the time. They're glad to fight their old enemies for us."
In fact Barlow wished this outpost had itself a few Crows to help when it came to scouting and such. All he knew was that the fort had a white scout and that man was accompanied by what the troopers claimed was an Apache? That jasper was a long way from his stomping grounds.
Then the man started telling him what to say once they contacted some Indians. While he didn't care to be told what he should do by this fellow, he did give a possible useful name - woman at that too.
The prisoner looked thoughtful for a second “You know Cap, I’m going to be really interested to hear how you fellers get on running ol’ Grandfather down!”
Benjamin suddenly smiled, a rare enough occurance for him especially on duty.
"Good to know, Mr. Crabbe, because you are going along with us to find this Grandfather. I appreciate you volunteering," he announced calmly but forcefully.
"Sergeant, unshackle our guide here," he ordered and the veteran NCO promptly complied.
The prisoner looked thoughtful for a second “You know Cap, I’m going to be really interested to hear how you fellers get on running ol’ Grandfather down!”
Benjamin suddenly smiled, a rare enough occurrence for him especially on duty.
Lorenzo smiled too, the stern officer seemed to be melting at last: pretty soon he’d probably be giving him a pat on the back and a farewell drink before setting off on his heroic, and possibly suicidal mission while the civilian waved him off and got back to business in Kalispell.
"Good to know, Mr. Crabbe, because you are going along with us to find this Grandfather. I appreciate you volunteering," he announced calmly but forcefully.
“Hey, what?!” Lorenzo could only splutter at this revolting suggestion.
"Sergeant, unshackle our guide here," he ordered, and the veteran NCO promptly complied.
“No! Sarge, you leave them ankle chains on, I ain’t going on no God damned trip up the Tongue!” he yelped “Guide?! You don’t need me to find those men, your Scouts’ll show you the way! You’ve got Army Scouts haven’t you? Charley Reynolds? Fred Girard? ‘Mad John’ MacIntosh?” he cried, trying to think of the more famous ones he’d heard of.
Run out of Kalispell, after all the work he’d done to get started there with his money-spinning ideas or forced to go on a trek into hostile Indian territory to find that dangerous, Indian-loving maniac de Lancey! Talk about being stuck between a rock and a hard place.
The Sergeant had removed the shackles: it looked like he was headed for the 'hard place.'
Needless to say, their sudden volunteer was taken aback by the announcement.
"Hey, what?!”
"You heard me," and Benjamin was not about to repeat himself.
"No! Sarge, you leave them ankle chains on, I ain’t going on no God damned trip up the Tongue!” Crabbe yelped.
He might as well been talking to the moon, the NCO ignored him and kept about his business.
“Guide?! You don’t need me to find those men, your Scouts’ll show you the way! You’ve got Army Scouts haven’t you? Charley Reynolds? Fred Girard? ‘Mad John’ MacIntosh?”
"What way? You said yourself the man is elusive and is continually on the move. Besides, you know what this Grandfather looks like. Look at it this way, there just might be some sort of reward for this? And if so, you just might get a share of said reward. Think of it as a business venture," Benjamin explained.
And if an appeal to his greed didn't work then there was always this.
"Now - quit your whining and buck up like a man. We will supply you with a horse and if you won't sit on him willingly, I will have you tied onto the animal. Just so we're clear," he glared.
"What way? You said yourself the man is elusive and is continually on the move. Besides, you know what this Grandfather looks like. Look at it this way, there just might be some sort of reward for this? And if so, you just might get a share of said reward. Think of it as a business venture," Benjamin explained.
“Bus…? Well, then, it’ll be the worse business venture I ever undertook, and I’ve undertook some shitty ones, I don’t mind telling you!” he grumbled, then an idea struck him. “Oh well, course, if I’m coming with you fellers, I’ll just need to quickly step over to Town to fetch my horse and a slicker and some decent grub for the trip. Oh, and some sort of shooting iron, maybe. Might get hairy out there, you know.” he told the grizzled veteran officer, like he didn’t already know. “You can send this feller with me if you’re worried I’ll high-tail it.” he offered, indicating the less experienced man standing next to the Sarge.
"Now - quit your whining and buck up like a man. We will supply you with a horse and if you won't sit on him willingly, I will have you tied onto the animal. Just so we're clear," he glared.
“All right Captain” Lorenzo held up the palms of his hands in surrender and acknowledgement that he’d failed to pull the wool over the man’s eyes on that one. “No need to tie me to a nag, them army saddles are painful enough without that added inconvenience.” he said, his butt felt sore just from the thought of it. “Oh well, least the saddle won't be as hard as that Army hard-tack we'll be eating for a week, know what I’m saying fellers?” he chuckled knowingly to the two non-commissioned men.