Where the Lost Wander(25)
When I thank him in his native language, telling him I am there to see Captain Dempsey, he rattles off a stream of Pawnee, commenting on the quality of the mules and the size of the jack and asking if he can help me when I’m working with the mares. I am recognized from years past, it seems. When I tell him I won’t be at Fort Kearny long, his shoulders sink, but he points me toward the main building of the fort and Captain Dempsey’s quarters and tells me he’ll keep an eye on the animals until I return.
Inside, I am greeted suspiciously by a Corporal Perkins, whose fastidious mustache, slicked-down hair, and ironed tunic and trousers make me feel every dusty mile between St. Joseph and the Platte. When I tell him the purpose of my visit, he nods, instructs me to wait, and raps on Captain Dempsey’s office door. After a few muted words, I hear a squeaking of floorboards and steady footfalls. Captain Dempsey appears in the doorway, his smile wide behind a graying beard. His black belt is cinched beneath a rounded belly swathed in army blue and bisected by gold buttons. He’s a big man, hearty, and I like him.
“John Lowry. You’re here. I want to see those animals. Do you mind if we take a look right now? Pleasantries later?”
I nod. Pleasantries be damned. I’ve never especially liked tea. It makes me feel clumsy and constricted. I would rather eat and eat heartily than sip from a little cup and wonder how many cookies is polite. And I would rather be done with the conversation ahead. I am not going to hold up my end of the bargain, and I am nervous but resolute. The captain asks me about the trail and travel from St. Joe as we retrace the path from the corrals I took only moments before.
“Charlie’s been excited for you to arrive. He’s been watching every emigrant train, searching for you and your mules.”
“Charlie?”
Captain Dempsey points across the corral at the Pawnee boy, who has already unsaddled Dame and is brushing her down. Dame stands perfectly still, her eyes closed, her head bowed like she is afraid any movement will make him stop. Pott is sniffing at the boy’s shoulder, and Charlie reaches out and pats his nose, spreading the love around.
“Damnation, that is a fine animal.” Captain Dempsey whistles. “The biggest jack I’ve ever seen. I guess that makes your job easier, eh, Lowry?”
I nod. “He’s the finest. But I’m willing to sell him.” The jacks themselves have never been part of any contract we’ve ever had, and the captain’s eyebrows disappear beneath the wide brim of his gray hat.
“The contract is for ten Lowry mules,” Dempsey stammers. “But what did you have in mind?”
“I’ll give you five mules and that jack . . . the darker one.”
“The jack? Why?” His eyes narrow, and he strokes his beard, considering me. A quality jack donkey with the proven record and size of Pott and Kettle could be sold for more than three thousand dollars. I’d heard of one selling for five.
“I’ve decided to continue on with the wagon train to California, and I need the other mules. Take the jack. It’s a good deal.”
The captain circles Pott, who scampers toward Kettle, perhaps sensing a parting.
“It’s a good deal if you know a thing about mule breeding, which I don’t. I’m a cavalry man, Lowry. The army needs good Missouri mules, not donkeys.” He is bartering already, I can hear it in his voice, and I curse myself for starting the bidding with my final offer. Captain Dempsey knows horseflesh and livestock. I have no doubt he knows the value of the jack, but I am the one who is altering the agreement. I say nothing, letting my offer stand.
He scratches his beard like he’s considering something deep, and I brace myself for a proposal I can’t accept. “I tell you what. Maybe you can make up the difference some other way. A band of Sioux attacked the Pawnee village last night. Burned lodges. Stole horses. And now we’re caught in the middle of an Indian war.”
Charlie has gone still, the brush motionless against Dame’s flanks. She chuffs and butts him softly, and Charlie resumes his ministrations slowly, but he is listening to our conversation.
“The army has offered incentives to the elders if they will move north of the Platte—just abandon the village altogether—but they don’t want to go,” the captain continues.
“Moving north of the river will put them farther into Sioux territory,” I say.
“Yeah. But the fort won’t be caught between them.”
“I don’t want any part of that.”
Captain Dempsey sighs wearily and nods but scrunches his face like he’s trying to remember something.
“I believe our contract says that the army has purchased ten Lowry mules and stud services to be supplied to Fort Kearny no later than June fifteenth, 1853. I have it on my desk.”
“Ordered. Not purchased. You fulfill payment upon delivery. You are aware of those terms, Captain,” I say. It isn’t the first time the captain has done business with my father, but I know where he’s going.
He sighs again. “I can agree to the five mules and that jack. But I’m not getting the Lowry stud service outlined in the contract. You have some language skills I need, and it will only take you an afternoon. An afternoon, John. You’ll be ready to ride out with the emigrant train tomorrow, as planned. Consider it good business. I just need you to be my representative.”
I have kept my heritage to myself, but the captain knows my father, and he’s well informed. I’m sure he knows the habits and aptitudes of the men in his command as well as their stories and situations. He knows mine, though we’ve never discussed it. Considering I was supposed to spend a week coaxing my jacks to cover every mare in estrus in Fort Kearny’s paddocks, his demand for one afternoon in his service is not unreasonable, and I nod slowly, agreeing to his terms.