mind it so much. Maybe he was getting soft and old, after all. "Let me paint a picture for you, then. They'd be totally unprepared. The nearest Army garrison is ten days' ride. There are still enough Apaches in the mountains out here, and still enough of them that remember Pretorio and Victorio before him, that there'd be a lot of blood on the ground before it was over. These white people out here think the Indian Wars are over. I don't know if they'll ever be over, until Washington has finally succeeded in destroying all the culture these people have. If the Papagos rise with the Apaches to fight, and have a strong leader, I think they could go on into Tucson itself."
Reeves whistled.
"Can you imagine that, Trooper?" Thomas said. "Can you imagine that fine new city, with its wide streets, cathedrals, and university, trying to fend off an Indian raid with its police force and whatever shopkeepers Marshal Murphy could get together? These white people are babies, Trooper. There'd be blood everywhere. The fact that the Army would crush the Apaches once they got here is irrelevant. There would be a lot of damage in those few days between the telegram going out and the garrison arriving."
"Why didn't you tell Murphy this?"
"Because he wouldn't have believed me. I was playing a game back there, Trooper. Murphy is a good man, but he's a white man and as a white man he could only let me go so far in trusting me. He wouldn't want a Negro telling him his business, no matter how good a man he is. He has the force of a dominant culture behind him. Let's be cold about it, Trooper. Do you think if Bill Adams hadn't been white, the marshal would have let us come out here to risk our hides to find his killer?"
Lincoln was silent.
"Do you?" Thomas pursued.
Lincoln said, "Back home, my farm isn't my own. There's a white man in Birmingham who owns the land, the horses, the house, everything. He owns half of what I produce. Sometimes, Lieutenant, I think the Emanci pation Proclamation and the Thirteenth Amendment are just pieces of paper."
Thomas laughed grimly. "They are, Trooper. When I got out of the Army I saw just how true that is. We have to be very careful in this world. Do you remember what I once told you, what my friend Ames in the War Between the States told me? 'Hold what you have very tight, and it will not get away.' Do you remember what happened to Ames, Trooper?"
Lincoln was silent.
"You remember all right," Thomas said. "His white captain kept sending him out on the worst missions, until a bullet finally found him." Thomas was about as angry as Reeves had ever seen him. "That's us, Trooper. We always get the worst missions."
They caught up with Bartow late in the afternoon. To their surprise, the half-breed had already set up a comfortable camp, and was lounging with his bedroll rolled at his back against a rock, chewing at a huge piece of jerky. Thomas found himself liking this man, despite his bad habits. Though he said he had never been in the Army, he had Army written all over him. He was disciplined and neat. Thomas liked that.
If only he could cut out the man's tongue . . .
"Howdy, boys!" Bartow said in greeting. "Been waiting on you for hours. Hungry?"
Thomas began to say no, fearing the man would hold out his ragged jerky, but instead Bartow got up and went over to a robustly smoldering fire. Over it, on a stick spit, was a roasting piece of meat.
"What is that?" Lincoln asked.
Bartow smiled. "What do you think?" Lincoln examined the small carcass. "Rabbit?"
Bartow laughed. "Heck, no! Ain't no rabbits out here!" He turned to Thomas. "Care to guess, chief?"
"It's prairie dog," Thomas said simply. The lines of the cooking body were unmistakable. "Yep!" Bartow laughed.
Lincoln made a face. "Can't remember ever eating prairie dog . . ."
Bartow said, "Tasty as anything! Tried for a snake, but couldn't catch one of the critters. Maybe tonight . . ." He turned to the prairie dog carcass, humming to himself, and
Reeves whistled.
"Can you imagine that, Trooper?" Thomas said. "Can you imagine that fine new city, with its wide streets, cathedrals, and university, trying to fend off an Indian raid with its police force and whatever shopkeepers Marshal Murphy could get together? These white people are babies, Trooper. There'd be blood everywhere. The fact that the Army would crush the Apaches once they got here is irrelevant. There would be a lot of damage in those few days between the telegram going out and the garrison arriving."
"Why didn't you tell Murphy this?"
"Because he wouldn't have believed me. I was playing a game back there, Trooper. Murphy is a good man, but he's a white man and as a white man he could only let me go so far in trusting me. He wouldn't want a Negro telling him his business, no matter how good a man he is. He has the force of a dominant culture behind him. Let's be cold about it, Trooper. Do you think if Bill Adams hadn't been white, the marshal would have let us come out here to risk our hides to find his killer?"
Lincoln was silent.
"Do you?" Thomas pursued.
Lincoln said, "Back home, my farm isn't my own. There's a white man in Birmingham who owns the land, the horses, the house, everything. He owns half of what I produce. Sometimes, Lieutenant, I think the Emanci pation Proclamation and the Thirteenth Amendment are just pieces of paper."
Thomas laughed grimly. "They are, Trooper. When I got out of the Army I saw just how true that is. We have to be very careful in this world. Do you remember what I once told you, what my friend Ames in the War Between the States told me? 'Hold what you have very tight, and it will not get away.' Do you remember what happened to Ames, Trooper?"
Lincoln was silent.
"You remember all right," Thomas said. "His white captain kept sending him out on the worst missions, until a bullet finally found him." Thomas was about as angry as Reeves had ever seen him. "That's us, Trooper. We always get the worst missions."
They caught up with Bartow late in the afternoon. To their surprise, the half-breed had already set up a comfortable camp, and was lounging with his bedroll rolled at his back against a rock, chewing at a huge piece of jerky. Thomas found himself liking this man, despite his bad habits. Though he said he had never been in the Army, he had Army written all over him. He was disciplined and neat. Thomas liked that.
If only he could cut out the man's tongue . . .
"Howdy, boys!" Bartow said in greeting. "Been waiting on you for hours. Hungry?"
Thomas began to say no, fearing the man would hold out his ragged jerky, but instead Bartow got up and went over to a robustly smoldering fire. Over it, on a stick spit, was a roasting piece of meat.
"What is that?" Lincoln asked.
Bartow smiled. "What do you think?" Lincoln examined the small carcass. "Rabbit?"
Bartow laughed. "Heck, no! Ain't no rabbits out here!" He turned to Thomas. "Care to guess, chief?"
"It's prairie dog," Thomas said simply. The lines of the cooking body were unmistakable. "Yep!" Bartow laughed.
Lincoln made a face. "Can't remember ever eating prairie dog . . ."
Bartow said, "Tasty as anything! Tried for a snake, but couldn't catch one of the critters. Maybe tonight . . ." He turned to the prairie dog carcass, humming to himself, and
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