While I was packing, I came upon my war-dress as a Blackfoot chief, the gift of Many Horses, dear Rain's squinting brother, on that day, only three years ago, when I made her a widow. If only I had married Rain!
I wept when I was born, and every day explains the reason why.
The señora never guessed that I was outlawed, but seemed much more than content with a hundred men to play with. She had come down in the world from an inspector's lady to a constable's poor thing, but seemed much more at home in her new part, playing cat's cradle with Red Saunders. Red 'oped she would 'ave 'appiness.
Throned in Buckie's tent, she held her court after supper, while I dragged up my friends and introduced them. "Allow me to present Wee James' legs—the upper part of him having gone aloft." Wee James stood six-foot seven.
"This is Tubby, our brevet acting deputy vice-cook. Allow me to make known Detective-Sergeant Ithuriel Fat McBugjuice, bai bingah, yaas. The grin with a face attached belongs to Mutiny. Rich Mixed makes his bark and wags his compliments. Here's Sergeant Snuffleton, all present, and correct waist measurement fifty-nine, my dear, and bustle a number twelve. Calamity makes his bow. And this is Tribulation, with a bad cold from oversleeping on sentry."
I went to the lines, where Buckie and Brat were loading my pack-horse, and would not let me interfere with that, or with the saddling. Restless, I wandered among the tents, where the boys were preparing for a morrow in which I should have no share. "Sweat, you poor workers," I told them. "Lick, spit and polish, for every day has its dog; but I'm a free civilian. No more parades, no more pack drill, no guards, no cells, no more fatigues except good bed fatigue.
"Go it, you pigeon-breasted shave-tails, clean harness, you poor-souled rookies, you pemmican eaters, you pie-biters, you ring-tailed snorters!
"The Blackguard was taken young and raised on alkali—everybody's dog on government beans and sow-belly, rode sweating hell-for-leather after horse thieves, rebels and coyotes, wore government socks, and didn't believe in the gawspel—
"Sweat, you slaves, rustle, you gophers, till the civvies send kids to camp for a convent training, you sons of sin—but I'm for the open range, and you'll hear my long wolf-howls by starlight."
Then I was back with Black Prince to say good-by, and when Brat came to fetch me, I turned on him with a snarl, blaspheming horribly.