Quicksilver Passion (123 page)

You better keep quiet, Cherokee,” one of the men next to him on the rail said.
I hear rumors that you’re next for daring to buck him.”

As Cherokee watched, another six men carried the wooden coffin ashore, followed by the bewildered blacksmith in chains. They put the crude wooden box on the ground and Dowdy slumped down on it while the soldiers started digging a hole.

The gawky youth turned and looked toward the boat. In the warm September sun, sweat beaded on his red face and ran down his neck into the collar of the blue uniform that he had put on to survive—only to survive.

Cherokee stared back at him helplessly, then looked around for Dimon. But the officer was in his cabin, having turned over the dirty work to a lesser officer who looked miserable as he directed the men who dug the hole.

How ironic. How unjust, Cherokee thought. Surely the rash young officer wasn’t going to break all the rules and carry this thing through. Surely at the last minute when the hole was dug and the firing squad lined up, Dimon himself would appear and call the whole thing off. Yes, of course that was it.

He had the wildest impulse to go over the side, attack the squad with his fists, and somehow rescue the scared boy. The two of them would take off running through the tall prairie grass. For miles around, there wasn’t a tree—nothing but a gently waving sea of grass.

Dowdy looked at him, gave him just a hint of a smile, and shook his head.
Don’t,
he seemed to say with his eyes.
Don’t try anything foolish, Cherokee, they’ll kill you for it
.
Don’t do it!

Nothing seemed real. Cherokee stood on the deck with the others. The breeze blew toward him and brought him the slight scent of wild flowers among the prairie grasses.

Almost in a trance, he heard the sound of the shovels, the water slapping against the sides of the boat. A man near him coughed and from somewhere in the grass, a
guque,
a quail, called:
Bob white. Bob, bob white
...

The sun beat down on the scene, making his skin itch under the blue wool, reflecting off the rifles and the brass buttons of the men on shore.

The men were through digging the hole. They stepped back and waited.

Cherokee stood almost paralyzed on deck, watching along with the others. A cottontail rabbit hopped out of the grass, reared up on its hind legs, and sniffed curiously at all the men on the shore, the boy slumped on the wooden box, and the pile of fresh black dirt.

The firing squad was lining up, coming to attention. The officer in charge came over, took Dowdy by the shoulder, stood him up, and offered him a blindfold. The young man hesitated, then shook his head. He looked toward Cherokee and his mouth formed the silent words:
Good-bye, friend
.

Ready!”

The firing squad brought their rifles to their shoulders. The movement made the light catch their brass buttons. Any moment now, Dimon would run out on deck and stop this, Cherokee thought frantically, looking toward the officer’s cabin. The door remained closed.

Aim!”

Bob white. Bob, bob white
. . .

Fire!”

No!” Cherokee screamed, but his shout of protest was drowned out by the sudden crack of rifles. Even as he watched, his young friend stumbled backward, paused for what seemed like an eternity, then crumpled and fell.

The frightened quail exploded up out of the grass in a flurry of wings. The rabbit took off in a flash. The echo of the rifles echoed and reechoed for a long moment, and then in the sudden stillness, Cherokee heard the men around him let out a collective sigh as if they had all been holding their breath. He felt so hot in the blue wool that for a long moment standing there smelling the sweating stink of close-packed bodies, Cherokee thought he would be sick. Then he swallowed hard and fell to his knees on the rough, wooden planks.

Through the other’s legs, he could see the men on shore lifting the big body, putting it in the wooden box, nailing the lid down.

Ham like my daddy cures it and maybe pecan or sweet potato pie
. . .

I’ll speak your part for you
. . .

Oh, would you, Cherokee, would you do that?

Somewhere in Bedford County, Tennessee, a pair of elderly people might be sitting down to dinner at this very moment, not even knowing that their son lay newly dead on a riverbank, forever far from home.

The squad put the box in the hole and filled it in. Then they marched back on board and the gangplank was raised.

The
Effie Deans
blew her whistle, and with a shout, the lines were cast off and she drifted away from the shore even as the big paddle wheel came to life and began to churn the muddy water.

Cherokee, still almost in a state of shock, walked to the rear of the boat and stared back. The prairie grass still blew and a rabbit peeked at him from the grass. Only a mound of fresh dirt disturbed the vast, empty stretch of desolate prairie.

Good-bye friend
.
Good-bye ...

The
Effie Deans
churned her way up the river. Cherokee stood at the stern and stared at the little mound of dirt until it was finally lost from view. And then he collapsed on the deck and shook, full of fury and anger as the night came on.

He wondered if the upstart colonel had plans for Cherokee, too. And if the brash young officer was foolhardy enough to execute the naive blacksmith, Cherokee decided Dimon wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone else he considered a threat.

Cherokee had given his word to fight for the Union. But as far as he was concerned, the Union had broken its word to its soldiers. Everything had changed now. He didn’t intend to wait until Dimon had time to plan a fitting end for Cherokee.

He said nothing to anyone as he ate his supper and made his plans. The rifles were stacked up near the cabin. How would he get one? Out here in this desolate prairie, a man without a weapon among wild animals and hostile Indians was a dead man. Somewhere upriver, he would have to steal one of those guns and get ashore when the
Effie Deans
tied up to send a patrol to hunt a little fresh meat. Cherokee would make his plans carefully.

A couple of days passed while he schemed. Then something happened that changed things so that he no longer had time for elaborate plans.

Night had fallen and the men lay in their blankets on the crowded decks and slept as best they could. There was a guard, but he was posted at the far end of the deck.

A man crawled to him in the darkness.
Cherokee?”

He didn’t move.
What?”

You done me a favor once and the boys are riled about Dowdy, so I’m tellin’ ye.”

Telling me what?”

He saw only the outline of the soldier in the moonlight, and wondered who it was.

We heard talk,” the man whispered.

What kind of talk?”

First thing in the mornin’, Dimon is gonna arrest you, too, on some trumped-up charge. He’s afraid you’ll lead the men in a revolt.”

Morning
. No time for elaborate plans.
And then?”

Whata you think, Cherokee? You’re to be shot!”

Cherokee’s heart seemed to falter and then beat faster, as he remembered all too vividly the shooting of Private Dowdy.
I’m much obliged for the tip, soldier.”