Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.
Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.
NOTE: BIG ANNOUNCEMENT! I've decided to change the point of origin for this fanfic. The first chapter took place in mid-July, and my hope was to bring it to November for the Native American stuff so Lenny's chapter (The End of Summer) would literally be the end of summer. Didn't quite get there, so I'm pushing everything back so the first chapter is in late August. As anyone else who's written on this site knows: editing past chapters is a pain, and I don't have the energy to do it. Tremendous apologies. If you want a version of this fanfic with the correct dates, I'd refer you to Archive of Our Own which I have corrected the dates on. Just type the title of this fanfic into that site. Should pop up.
If you want to keep reading on this site, no trouble, just know that while this chapter is a few months after the last one, canonically, only a day has gone by. From here on out, we're in autumn!
Part Forty-Nine: Charles
9:30 PM, October 25th, 1899
On his first night, Charles helped Monroe distribute the vaccines to the sick. They were coughing and studied the foreign men warily, but took the medicine. The native woman whose son had been so sick was the only one to thank him. She swung her arms over Charles' shoulders, battyfanging him with thanks, whispering in his ear, "My boy is Takoda. Takoda. In English it means 'friend to everyone,' and he was, yet no one did a damn thing when he fell ill. You did, and I'll be in debt to you forever because of it." After, she introduced herself as Flower of the Prairie and ponied him to the campfire in the center of camp—it wasn't like the demure ones at Beaver Hollow, it was enormous. They sat beside the fire and its hips were wider than both the natives pushed abreast and its fingers stretched higher than the surrounding tepees. Dad would've liked this, Charles thought. He always liked staring at the dying fire in his lamp as he drifted off.
Flower of the Prairie asked Charles for his story (heh, poor thing didn't know that forcing Charles to speak was one step shy of flaying him alive) and he managed to compress it from birth to waking up with the Germans in three sentences.
When she decided she couldn't beat any more out of him today, she filled the silence herself: she was forty-three, married to a man named after the golden-brown hills of their reservation that blazed so brilliantly under the autumn sun. She'd had many sons and daughters whom she took great pride in, but now only her little Takoda remained. Charles didn't inquire about the fate of the others and she didn't offer it. He learned her sister used to be jealous of her long flowing raven hair and slender hips and her brother used sneak tadpoles into her drinking water, heehawing like a donkey when she spat it out in a squeal. Her sister was dead now, and her brother had been taken and shipped off to reform school.
Later, she invited Charles to stay the night with her and her husband (no, no, in a purely platonic capacity). A brutal battle ensued, with Charles as the undisputed loser.
The second night, Charles returned at nearly midnight from a long day of hunting. His host's husband, Kiona was a passionate huntsman and the pair spent from nearly dusk till dawn on the heels of a great wolf, spanning twelve feet long and five high. Charles wouldn't have believed it if it hadn't been for the tracks. They branded the muddy dirt of Cotorra Springs deeply, branching on for miles. The feces they discovered were plump and pregnant with six human teeth. "Should we—do you think that's some kind of sign?" Kiona had queried. Charles shrugged and they kept on, hoping the lotion they used to mask their scent was enough. They never found the beast, but when Charles returned to camp, albeit empty-handed, he could've sworn the wary looks of the locals had softened. They're warming up to me, he thought, bubbling with airy jubilation. Then he sighed. If he was making progress for himself, Bill was hindering it enough for both of them.
Charles knew rascism. He knew discrimination and prejudice too, but this was a different monster altogether. Bill never seemed to blink, his eyes swayed like a clock hand, back and forth and back and forth. He wouldn't eat what they touched, and when he slept he drew up a coffin of string around him, loosely tied to sticks he'd posted in the ground. The end was coiled around his naked foot, his big toe to be precise. When Charles moved to kick him awake one morning he tripped said string and a vibration worked along the string to its master and the man shot up, two guns fastened on his wrists, fingers shuddering with adreneline. It was at the edge of the reservation, far away from the others.
Charles had never been in a war before, and as he sat presently with Bill and Captain Monroe (he'd hoped a white man might make Bull Williamson more comfortable) around the raging fire at the heart of the Wapiti tribe, he pondered over what discord, what carnage the man had seen and how different it was from what the nuns always promised of hell.
"W-what's it like?" Bill asked Monroe. "Up at Washington?" It was only the three of them at the campfire yet his head was still on a swivel.
"Good," the captain answered, "if you like slow." He held a tin cup of whiskey pressed near the fire. Charles liked it cold, but this man, it seemed, liked it hot.
"Though this new age was supposed to be fast," Charles asked as Monroe took a sip of the boiling firewater.
"Washington missed that train," he said, "missed the last few trains, to be frank." He drank again, a slur appearing as he spoke. "Like with that dinosaur in the Albert cap. The ink was dry on my report the week after I entered the state lines, but still, they're insisting I hang around, waiting, waiting, waiting. Cuz I got to—I got to produce 'irrefutable proof of ill-management and unseemly waste of army resources and manpower' before bringing this to the attention of my superiors. Got to show I'm not—not jumping to conclusions." He scoffed. "Anyone could tell you what's what after one stroll around this place."
Charles perked up. "But when you do… send them your report that is… he's gone? Things'll calm down 'round here?"
Monroe hiccuped. "If I can provide them enough evidence to spook Favours' backers—his name has a lotta swing here, hell, in the White House too. And only if they determine transfer to be a warranted punishment for his transgressions. And only if the guy they replace him with isn't just as bad or even worse than that high-tailing antique." He smiled bitterly. "But yeah. Yes, sir. Then things'll calm down." He sighed and took another swig, burning his mouth in the process. He didn't notice. "Y'know… y'know… your pal stopped by here the other day. While you were huntin'."
Charles clenched his chilly bottle. Shit. "Dutch?"
The captain nodded with a giddy smirk. "Had some—some real intriguing ideas. About the future… about… alternative ways to help these folk—"
He was cut off when his white hat was tipped over his face, so the brim balanced on the lid of his drink and he tasted the remnants of his own scalp inside the hat. "Heh… yeah… very funny, boys."
Kiona and a woman Charles didn't recognize lept over the log bench, sitting beside Monroe. Kiona was a quick one, more gaunt than stout. Even the hat hanging over his long, unkempt hair was a short cap, an auburn fox skin, and the wind rolled right off of it, not slowing him down a mite. He swiped the tin from Monroe's shaky hands, draining it halfway before the woman reached over to it, taking it herself. They liked it hot as well, but Charles, resting an icy bottle of whiskey on his leg, feeling goosebumps prod against it, liked it col—
Oh, Charles realized, that's not a woman. The hair down to the narrow shoulders and bright lips confused him.
"There he is," Kiona chuckled, tossing his arm over Monroe, "the most backward man in the government. Where they hurt us because they're sick of us, this idiot helps us when we're sick."
Monroe snickered, hoisting his collarbones. "What can I say? I like you. You may have darker skin and funny names and your women may have the"—he clasped a hand around the quasi-female's sunken breast—"flattest chests I've ever seen, but you're—" His giggling gave way, and he couldn't finish. Kiona joined in while the man rolled his eyes.
"Shut up," he said to the pair, "I didn't choose it."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Choose what?"
"My name." He rolled his eyes. "Aleshanee. My mother always wanted a girl and when I was born it was stuck between my legs so she thought for a minute she got one. When she found out she was… let's say disgruntled. Gave me a girl's name just to spite me." His hazel eyes flashed with triumph. "But I named my horse after the white man who raped her virginity, so I reckon that keeps things even."
Charles cleared his throat and brought his bottle's bottom up again. To be honest, he wasn't sure what to say after that.
"Go ahead," Kiona sniggered. "Tell him what the name means." The captain echoed this, giggling and insisting he share. Aleshanee scrunched his nose and glanced at the moon, ignoring the men as they egged him on.
Charles chuckled, and, unable to resist the curiosity, began to chant along until his eyes drooped to the side. Bill's claws were buried in his thighs; he was muttering something inaudible. The fire shined in his narrowed eyes with emotions too complex for simple Charles to comprehend. "Bill," he whispered, leaning to his side, "are you okay?" The man said nothing in response, only stared contemptibly, muttering the same thing repeatedly: Dutch said don't hurt 'em, Dutch said don't hurt 'em, Dutch said don't hurt 'em. "Bill," Charles tried again, squeezing his tense shoulder empathetically, "do you want to talk?"
A shiver quaked through Bill, shattering his frozen eyes until they shifted to the man next to him. "No. I don't."
"Bill, what do you want me to do? We can leave if you're too tense. Just tell me what you want—"
"Shut up!" Bill barked, jerking from Charles' grip. "Shut up, you stupid injun! Stop tryin' to be my friend. I don't have any friends."
Monroe and the natives were on their feet then, and didn't look so drunk. "We've got a problem, Bill?" the leader asked.
"N-no. No, sir," Bill muttered demurely, glancing at the captain with something near admiration.
"Well, Bill," he said, losing the tin, leaving the path from his hand to holster unobstructed, "it's late. You can't go around screaming when folks are sleeping." He stepped closer, twisting around the blazing fire. "Especially that word."
"I-I didn't do nothin'," Bill objected. They stood around him in a three-man arc. Fear eddied in Charles' stomach as he recalled what Dutch and Uncle said. When a dog barks, it gets beat. Or it bites. He rose to diffuse the situation when a voice struck them quickly from the left.
"Charles," it greeted briskly, jet black locks dancing behind, "I need your help."
The edge in the voice frightened Charles. "What for?"
Aleshanee, as tipsy as Monroe, hiccuped before gurgling, "Oh, is this about Paytah gettin' captured?"
"What?" Kiona, Charles, and Monroe said in unison.
Eagle Flies snarled at the hermaphrodite. "Keep it down." He glanced over his shoulder, to his father's tepee. It didn't waver and he exhaled. He stormed across and took Charles by the arm, pulling him from the fire, a few feet away into the shadows where he spoke softly. "I need your help to get him out."
Get him out? Charles sighed. "Fort Wallace?"
"Yeah."
Charles snorted. He wanted to ridicule the native, tell him he had a better chance of resurrecting the Ghost Dance than breaking Paytah out. But that wouldn't help. "You have a plan?"
"Yeah," Eagle Flies said. "Tell you on the way." It was structured as a statement, but it wasn't even a question. It was a plea. And Charles answered with a reluctant nod.
"Wait, I'll join you," Aleshanee hollered, cutting off their escape as he stumbled in their path to the stables. "I ain't that drunk… I can—"
"No." Eagle Flies shook him by the skinny biceps. "I need you to stay here and keep the others that were with us in line. My father cannot find out about this."
As he enforced his request, Charles hopped over the carved tree base making up the bench by the fire. "Monroe?"
The captain sprayed the remnants of his hot drink into the fire. It sparkled from the fuel. "Yeah, I'll ride with you."
"Actually," Charles said, holding him back with a hand at his chest, feeling the cold golden button kissing his palm, "I want you to stay here with Bill. He's very dangerous right now. A few days ago he tried to strangle a drunken woman and she was white. Here…?" He didn't need to elaborate.
"Okay," Monroe pledged, "I'll look after him. But, uh, you sure he'll listen to me?"
"Just distract him. He's, um, well, I think he's got a weakness for men in uniform."
"Excuse me?"
In the corner of Charles' eye, he saw Eagle Flies waving him to the stables. "Never mind. Trust your instincts." He trotted hastily after the chief's son, convening as he mounted his ebony Mustang as Eagle Flies climbed atop his, well Aleshanee's (his was missing, most likely dead), white-red Thoroughbred. Charles still hadn't given Lenny's horse a proper new name, he'd been busy, not a second to spare. Right now, and it was only temporary, he was addressing it, simply because he needed to address it as something—what was the alternative, calling it Horse like John?—he called her Taima III. For the holy sake of minimalism, of course.
"What the hell happened?" Charles asked when they finally galloped over the rough-hewn bridge and exited the Wapiti reservation.
Eagle Flies couldn't meet his eyes, instead gaping at a scab he was picking with his thumb while he held the leather reins. "It was a harmless prank, that's all. Dutch said we would teach 'em a little humility."
Dutch, Charles thought with a glower. Of course, it was a Dutch plan. He inquired about the full story and Eagle Flies explained as they rode south, crossing the Dakota River where the water was shallow so they wouldn't stuck hanging at the wrong side of the chasm with Bacchus Bridge blown to flinders. He told Charles how they intercepted an army wagon off the road, the same one that was supposed to send the medicine to the reservation. He mentioned how he, Dutch, and Paytah disarmed the drivers and stripped them naked, making them lead the wagon against the chilly wind. He concluded by saying Paytah wanted to see this reaction for himself and followed them to Fort Wallace, ultimately getting captured.
"You mentioned to Aleshanee there were others," Charles said finally when this lie was fully relayed. "Any dead?"
"No." Thank God. "Just Paytah in their henhouse."
"You got very lucky. Stupid, stupid lucky."
"I know," Eagle Flies relented, drooping his head. "Don't—don't tell Fath—Rains Fall. I can't let him equate one bad decision with the entire idea of resistance, and believe me, he will. He'll get others to do it too, and pretty soon, when Favours shows up to give us the boot and expel us from our land, they'll be leavin' it with a smile."
"Better to leave with a smile than in a sack." Charles leered at his companion in the dark even though he knew it would go unseen. Eagle Flies groaned and queefed an I'm not leaving from his mouth before Charles cut him off. "It's stupid tryin' to fight back—this is the goddamn army."
"Each Wapiti is worth a dozen of them. We could kill at least a hundred of them without losing a single man. "
Charles chortled incredulously. Why couldn't he see? "You say that like it's somethin' to boast about. You know exactly how much of a backlash that will generate from Favours, so stop letting Dutch reframe everything you're seeing. And the army's got ten times a hundred men with cannons and machine guns to boot."
"Y'know, Dutch told me you were a quiet one, like a church, he said—"
"As you'll come to see, he ain't always right."
"Look," Eagle Flies barked, the lethargy in his tone palpable, "I've spoken my side very frankly. And you've spoken yours. And no one's changing their minds, so we might as well just enjoy the peace of silence."
And they did. Fallen leaves rustling in the wind was the only sound that berated them until they arrived at their destination, glimpsing it in all its glory through the canopy of trees.
Fort Wallace was a behemoth. The timber bulwarks stretched fifteen feet high, looping into a squircle that reminded Charles of the dog he missed so badly. The twin towers protruded next to the main gate like folded ears; smoke fluttered above the walls and Charles knew the campfire (twice the size of the one at the reservation) sat in the center of their settlement, a sizzling red nose; there were two watchtowers at its rear, one so short it looked more like a wart on Cain's cheek than anything else, whereas the second was tall, taller than all the others, and slender too. A guard was smoking in its perch, and the white mist that spiraled upwards made Charles think the tower was a long sharp gator tooth, biting into Cain, dragging him to the depths. Or perhaps it was his father, a knife to Clarissa's throat. You ain't my wife, bitch, he'd said. You ain't my wife! Stop your lyin'. Confess! Confess you ain't my wife.
Charles and Eagle Flies blew out their lanterns, mantling themselves in the dark. Stealthily, they dismounted in the treeline, keeping low as they crept forward to a boulder, crouching behind it.
"What exactly was the plan again?" Charles asked, not strong enough to ward off the sarcasm. "Stuff our shirts and knock politely?"
Eagle Flies blew a grim wind at him when he turned his head. "No. I've been scouting this place out all day. Every few hours they—" The gates of Fort Wallace moaned as they bent open. A dozen men, marching in unison, followed the leader, who chanted boisterously. Charles was certain they were coming for them until they branched left, the opposite direction. "—send out a patrol squad. Keeps the men in line and gives 'em some fresh air."
Eagle Flies smirked. "We should be in and out before they get back." He leaned over and lightly sauntered to his horse, claiming his bow and a quiver of arrows, adorned with his signature eagle feathers comprising the fletching, rather than the standard turkey or goose feathers Charles used on his. "Let's use the bows. Gotta stay silent for this one."
Charles grinned in the dark. Silence was the one thing he was good for.
Ssssftoo! Ssssftoo! The pair shot the two guards at the gate, and they dropped noiselessly. They kept low, hobbling on bent knees, past the main entrance to the east wall; they couldn't very well enter through the front door, but they wanted it open in case Paytah was too injured to exit the elaborate way they were coming in.
"Just a little closer," Eagle Flies said, pointing at the tower forming Cain's wart, "we'll enter through there—"
"Wait," Charles hissed, pulling him back against the fort as a watchman emerged from the tower, strolling along the wall-walk, glancing down with his lantern, forming a vivid yellow spotlight an inch from where the natives were flattening themselves against the rampart.
Charles gawked skyward to see the wall's enormous pike stabbing the night air. If a giant came meandering through Cumberland Forest, this fort would give him a mighty fine splinter before smooshing into a crater beneath his foot. Charles had a feeling that was the general attitude here. He could almost hear the patrol leader chanting If you're gonna catch a tartar, use a jagged hook—gut him if ya can't fish him.
The straw-colored light turned away, treading further down the walkway. When it was out of sight, they continued, faring nearer and nearer to the diminutive tower.
Ssssftoo! The guard was defenestrated from the tower to the grass, crashing with a soft thud and an eagle feather plugged into his chest.
Eagle Flies stripped a lariat from his belt and buckled a hook to it. He tossed one end through the tower's window and it caught. Charles climbed up after his partner already reached the top, moving anxiously. They were on the clock.
Charle's neck pooled with sweat as they exited the tower, leaning over the railing on the walkway.
"Where is he?" Eagle Flies asked, sliding a pair of binoculars to his eyes.
Charles did the same, finally getting the chance to drink in the details of Cain's face previously only visible via a magnifying glass. Stacks and stacks of green-black crates sat between the campfire and gate. The barracks were directly underneath them, judging by the groggy men filtering in and out. The stables and hospital were by the gator tooth belfry, and a barred window stood lonely…
"There." Charles pointed at eleven o'clock, in the corner of the fort. In the smallest crevice between the fat bars fused to the window, Charles made out a face: Paytah's. (Heh, he was truly a red man now from all the blood). "There he is."
"Whe—oh, I see him," Eagle Flies growled. "Those bastards… I swear I'll…" His head gyrated and he began studying the whole fort as if for the first time in his life realizing. "Shit. There's a lot of them."
Charles found the valor not to say I told ya so. "Okay, I got an idea. I'll create a distraction and lead them away from the cells. From there I'll get down to ground level and get Paytah out. We'll be near the gate then, and presumably, the poor fella will be too weak to climb back up to the wall-walk, so here's where I need you. You'll create a distraction on the far side of the fort to draw them away again from the front entrance. Then me and Paytah will hobble right out of the front door and you'll sneak back out the way we came in. Meet by the horses?"
"Sounds good," Eagle Flies said vacantly, eyes still wide inside those lensed cylinders. Even with that patrol gone, the place was still infested with army soldiers. So, so many soldiers.
Charles began scurrying down the walkway until he ran into the watchmen with the putrid yellow lantern. He took him from behind, locking him in a chokehold, squeezing until the man's eyes drooped closed and he passed out in Charles' arms. He set the body down and kept moving, reaching Cain's left ear, where another guard whistled as he stood by the window. After collapsing his windpipe, Charles ducked behind a crate obstructing the bridge to the other tower. Another soldier strolled down the wall-walk. He was a younger man, around Charles' age, with blonde hair, a funny gait, and a nose that broke when Charles knocked him out with a single jab. The prison block was in sight now, and Charles brought another arrow to the bow's shelf. Sweat trickled from his neck down his shirt, branching eventually to his arms and hands. His fingers grew slick and he considered recourse for a moment before he let the arrow fly.
Ssssftoo! His aim was perfect. The lantern exploded above the green-black boxes. The boxes were kindling.
"Shit!" Charles heard someone call as the smolder flowered into a bonfire "There's a fire, near the ammo!" '"Fire! Fire!" cried the town crier.' Charles' father used to sing that to him. He loved fire, his father. Loved to stare at his dying lamp as he drifted off to sleep. Soothing, he said it was. So soothing he was sometimes asleep before it was gone. And when he was drunk he forgot to raise the curtains, Charles always did it. But I left. And those curtains could've licked the oily spark in the lamp and caught.
Charles tried to push those thoughts out of his head as he hopped down a ladder onto dry land, hidden between the wall and outside the jailhouse. He didn't need to worry, his father was fine. And if he wasn't, why should Charles care? He left for a reason—Mr. Smith always had a hankering for a belt when he was on the hooch. Besides, Charles had a new family now. Dutch? He scoffed. Micah? Molly? Men were charging away Charles now, to the red inferno that was now growing and bulging so prematurely there was a fear it might burn the whole fort down.
There's my chance, Charles thought and rushed across the other side of the lodge where the entrance was.
"Who are y—" a soldier asked before Charles tackled him, covering his mouth and strangling him until he fell asleep. A knife would've been easier, but he was a private, barely over a boy. Just like Paytah.
The Indian was strung up by his forearms in chains, leaving pink imprints all over them. He was shirtless and his chest was spotted with bruises. His head had been cracked with a hammer and that's where the scarlet veins dripping down the rest of his body stemmed from. (Pardon me, I do apologize, but I can't resist repeating myself: he was truly a red man now.)
"I got you," Charles whispered, looting the key from the fallen guard and unclasping the fetters from Paytah's arms. The man plummeted against Charles, slack as a corpse. Charles thought he was one for a moment.
Then he moaned softly and said "No… put me back up… they broke six ribs… I get a prize when I hit double digits."
Charles snorted. "Good to see they didn't break your sense of humor."
"It's stored in the seventh rib," Paytah grunted as Charles hoisted him onto his shoulder. His arms and legs dangled at Charles' knees. "You got here just in time."
"Yeah, yeah. Charles Punctuality, that's what they call me." He pushed the door askew and exited the prison. More sweat began to pool on his neck and he searched for Eagle Flies. The fire was distracting them, but they needed to be distracted further away from the main gate so he could run into the open and escape. His blood froze when he realized it wasn't sweat. Another droplet hit his head, and then the shower came all at once. The air became dense with water; whatever assimilated Wapiti god was pissing on them now, he was pissing with a vengeance. The red wildfire at the black-green crates sizzled and extinguished instantly.
And a soldier dropped his bucket to the already swampy grass, taking notice of the two natives just outside the prison block. HOOOOOO. The horn was a roar, and then all the soldiers were drawing their pistols.
Charles lept behind a crate just as the bullets came for them, striking with a dupdupdupdup that mirrored the rain on his head. Shit shit shit. "It'll be fine," he murmured to Paytah as he strung out his bow with an arrow. He peeped over the crate to his left for a second before more volleys nearly tore his head off. A soldier was darting around Charles, trying to flank him. Charles aimed the bow at an empty patch of darkness, hearing the footsteps get closer and closer.
Ssssftoo! It struck him dead in the eye.
Charles reloaded his arrow and lifted up quickly, scanning the crowd of troops rushing toward him, picking one off, and retreating back to cover before the wave of gunfire hit him. He did this again. And again, until a sniper, perched in one of the towers, smiled and fired. The bullet hit right above his arrow, cutting through his bow and grazing his ear.
Charles grunted. His black bandana grew too sodden with rain and slid off, revealing the fearful frown he'd been trying to hide from Paytah. "We're gonna die, aren't we?" the native asked, eyes widening with apprehension.
"No," Charles promised, unsheathing his revolver. "Just—"
Then the main gates, their escape, came splintering open. The patrol had heard the horn and hadn't been far. Charles could imagine it; the patrol commander's gruff tone, clapping his hands in snappy bursts. C'mon, move it! On the double, on the double! And double they did, the population of Fort Wallace within seconds as the men herded in, locking the door behind them with a conclusive slam. They were trapped.
The dead men's eyes bounced all around in choppy zig-zags, searching, silently pleading to that full-bladdered Wapiti god for mercy. But there was none to be had. No secondary exits, no convenient way out. The wooden ladder connecting to the fort's wall-walk was fifteen feet from where they were boxed in, but they couldn't make it before getting shot down. And if they could, they'd be poked full of bullets on the ladder, or at the top, or die from the fall down—the only rope was on the other side of the fort, still connected to the hook. The jailhouse was an option, but they were only trading one bad spot for another, and after seeing what they did to Paytah, Charles was forced to seriously consider if going out in a blaze of glory was preferable to weeks of needless torture. He believed it was and cocked his revolver. His heart was racing thump thump in his chest and the soldiers were bellowing but he could only hear incoherent buzzes.
Everything seemed to slow down and he jumped up, gun in his hand, staring down a whole onslaught of enemies. That moment lasted an eternity, rain frozen like translucent silver needles, facing a proscenium of iron barrels at the ready. And, God forgive him, Charles only thought of one thing: Mommy?
BOOM!
An explosion shook the fort and Charles collapsed to his knees. BOOM! He heard the army men shred to pieces and watched the gray puddle under him dye into a fervent red. BOOM!
"Charles!" A voice called. It was Eagle Flies, manning the cannon between Gator Tooth and the murky water Charles' hand was drowning in. The native gave a point to the wall opposite Charles and he didn't understand why until…
BOOM! With a thunderous crash, an orifice was punched into the wall by a cannonball. The shock left Charles in light strides—so light it barely touched the ground—and he followed suit, swinging Paytah over his shoulders and dashing for the exit while the soldiers were down. He hopped over blue-uniformed servicemen, made purple from the blood (this is why the Brits wear their red coats) feeling someone's breath on his neck, and knew it was Eagle Flies. The soldiers, albeit giddy, were still crack shots, stumbling afoot and firing back. Bullets hissed over Charles as he shimmied Paytah to his arms so he could shield him if a lucky hunk of lead came their way. His feet ached but he ran on, watching the crevice in the wall engorge until at last…
They were free! Outside of the fort, they dashed to the forest. Soldiers climbed to the towers, aiming their long-scoped rifles, but by the time their fingers were on the trigger, the three Indians had vanished into the night.
10:42 PM, October 25th, 1899
"We did it!" Eagle Flies cheered as they rode back to the reservation. Their lanterns wouldn't ignite in the heavy rain, but, thankfully, whoever the hell the Wapiti moon god was had more grace. The moon shined a clear path on the muzzy, waterlogged trail. "We beat those bastards!"
Charles scowled disapprovingly, water streaming off his frown. Paytah didn't have the energy to hold on as they galloped, so they tied Charles' navy duster jacket around him, fettering the two men together. "What we did was lose. We needed that to be quiet. A few dead soldiers and a missing body. They'd know it was us, but at least we'd have subtlety. But instead, we blew a goddamn hole in their fort! Had to have killed a dozen men, maybe more!" He was scaring Taima III and she whimpered under him, but he didn't care. "Favours is gonna retaliate, don't think for a second he won't. He'll poison your water supply, pick off the men while they hunt, rape the women who head into town to trade—"
"They won't know it was us."
"My mask fell off!"
"So?" Eagle Flies gave him an amused grin. "It was dark. No one saw us. I shouted some fiddle-faddle 'bout the corruption in penal colonies in the hospital while you gettin' Paytah out. Had plenty of witnesses. Trust me: they'll just think of us as anti-imprisonment revolutionaries or somethin'." He glanced over his shoulder. "And Paytah didn't say anything, did ya pal?"
"Not a word…" he muttered. "... sang a bit though."
Eagle Flies shot Charles a smirk. "See?"
Charles realized where he'd seen that smirk. "W-was… was this Dutch's plan?"
"No," Eagle Flies said, offended. "He had a few ideas, but this was all"—shit—"me. I'm a little tired of you actin' like I'm just his puppet. Like Fath—our chief. I got thoughts—"
"Oh," Charles murmured, "you fool…"
"Hey, you ain't even one of us, so stop with your—"
"Eagle Flies, you're missin' the forest for the trees. Favours doesn't care about what really happened. He just needs an excuse, any excuse, and he'll burn your reservation down to the ground—that's what he wants. And we spoonfed that excuse to him."
Maybe it was the cold dampness, but the color fled Eagle Flies at once. His breathing grew erratic. "N-no… But Dutch said… I did the… I told them—"
"Relax," Charles coaxed. "Deep breaths. You won't be good to anyone if you slip off that saddle and break your damn neck." At his word, Eagle Flies inhaled and exhaled deeply. "Stay cool. You did the right thing, creating a justification like that. We'd be surely fucked without one. And we still have the moral flag to wave at the army's face. Kidnapping an innocent, well, mostly innocent man and—"
"Charles," it was a whisper, "I-I lied before. 'Bout the wagon." He surrendered the true story then, about the valley, the tar and feathers, and all the army men they massacred. He left nothing out.
"Shit," Charles said. "You fuckin' tricked me…"
"No," Eagle Flies said quickly, "I was gonna tell you later… just didn't want us to quarrel while we were—"
"Shit!" he yelled and it echoed throughout the night.
"M-maybe they'll forget about it?" Eagle Flies tried vainly. "They've done that a hundred times over to us. Maybe Favours will call it square?"
All my talk about Dutch, Charles thought, and here I am, doing his dirty work. Shit!
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Shut up!" Charles snapped. "Just… shut the hell up… quiet as a church, if you please, while I think. Let's just enjoy the peace of silence."
The rain cleared up suddenly, and the ride back to the reservation was dark and quiet as a church mouse.
When they crossed that rough-hewn bridge and entered the camp, Charles led him to where Brown Jack was hitched—far away from everyone else. They loitered in the shadows, where no one could see them.
Eagle Flies descended briskly and untied Paytah from Charles, trying to hoist him down. "I'll take him to the doctor." The words jumped out of his mouth. He wanted to get away, a child postponing his punishment. Charles wouldn't have it.
"No," he said sharply, tearing away Eagle Flies' arm. He hopped down, hitting the mud with hefty boots. "We need to have a talk first."
Eagle Flies picked at a loose nail on his finger, and when Charles raised his hand, he jerked away as if steadying himself to be slapped. Instead, Charles' fingers wrapped around Eagle Flies' arm. "It's okay. It ain't good, but we'll get through this." The boy sunk with relief, nearly into the ground like a mole. The native wasn't more than a few years younger than Charles, but seemed that way when he stared up at him with large, adoring hazel eyes. "Here's what we'll do: Favours likely won't strike back if we get Monroe to broker a parlay. Monroe would report back to Washington that he actively escalated an already touchy subject. He needs us to directly provoke him to justify a counterattack, but if we put word of a meeting in the air before he can do that, he has to hear us out. Needs us to lie about what happened in the valley or in the fort."
"But… we won't lie?"
"No. Look…" Charles pulled him closer, "... no one really cares about justice, it's all about recompense. We killed their men, so now someone needs to pay. Who? Doesn't matter. As long as the Wapitis' name is kept clean. So when word of a fall guy comes up, and it will, you will not say a word nor peep. Got it?"
"Yes, sir." He didn't even take a breath.
"Good." He patted him on the back lightly before groaning. "Now… for this meeting to work, we all need to be on the same page. I'm gonna get Monroe in, and you need to tell your father—"
Eagle Flies shook his head sporadically. "No, please. I'll tell Monroe—"
"You will tell your father." The words were laced with so much venom Eagle Flies almost dropped dead then and there. Instead, he walked off, in the direction of Rains Fall's tepee. Smart. Best to take the leap before you talk yourself out of it.
Charles sighed and let himself droop into the cool, swampy grass and stone. What a day… Shit.
Yet, despite all that, when Charles Smith scooped up Paytah and ferried him to the Wapiti's doctor at the far end of the reservation near the lodge, watching all the tents glowing in the moonlight, hearing the lullabies Flower of the Prairie sung to her dear Takoda, and breathing the smokey aftermath of the mammoth of a campfire, dead but still shining orange through the embers, he couldn't help but feel at home.
So much for peace... tune in next time to see how that meeting with Favour's gonna go.
Lotta character work here that'll be important to the rest of the fanfic:
Poor Bill's too broke up from Karen...
Charles' growing disillusion of Dutch, loneliness, and connection to the Wapitis...
Thanks for reading!