Volume Eight
Chapter
Five
Government
Greetings
In which Dodger runs into another agent
The
second trip to the reservation took a bit longer than the first, thanks to the
doc’s distaste for his own invention. As he put it, the Rhino may have been
designed to reach impressive speeds, but that didn’t mean it had to do anything
of the sort.
“Can’t
we go a touch fashter, shir?” Ched asked from behind the wheel.
“No,
thank you,” the doc said. “This is quite fast enough for me.”
“But
I can walk fashter than thish.”
“If
you wish to get out and walk, then feel free. Dodger and I will remain aboard.”
Ched
glanced up at the mirror, begging with his sallow eyes for Dodger to intervene.
Dodger
shrugged. What could he say? The doc was the boss, bottom line. What the man
said went. Even if it only went about ten miles an hour.
“It’ll
be nightfall before we get there at thish rate,” Ched said.
“Will
you stop complaining?” the doc asked. “If I wanted constant complaints, I
would’ve invited that idiot Torque. Now stop going on about it, or I’ll cut
your rations to a single bottle a week.”
“Is
Feng going to be all right?” Dodger asked, rushing to change the subject.
“He
will be well soon enough,” the doc said. “All he needs is some proper rest.”
“Are
you certain? He seems out of sorts.”
“He’sh
shufferin’,” Ched said. “Any shucker can shee that.”
“Chester!” the doc
shouted.
“Suffering
from what?” Dodger asked.
Ched
glanced into the rearview mirror, but said nothing more on the matter.
“Doc?”
Dodger asked. “What is wrong with him?”
The
doc chewed his lower lip.
“Sir,”
Dodger said. “Please don’t keep me in the dark on this.”
“I
realize you hate secrets,” the doc said, “but this really is Feng’s personal
business.”
Dodger
nodded. The doc had a point. No need prying into another’s business. If Feng
wanted everyone to know, he would tell them.
“Since
that is the case,” the doc continued, “you must promise me you won’t tell him I
said anything.”
“Of
course,” Dodger said.
The
doc turned in his seat to face Dodger. “You’re right. He’s not well.”
“Has
it got something to do with the TAP?”
“Yes.”
“He
said it changed folks who used it.”
“He’s
correct. I’m afraid it has wrecked his metabolism. His physical makeup is
dependant upon the thing.”
“Which
means?”
The
doc looked away. “He’s running out of time.”
“Is
his age catching up with him or something like that?”
“In
a way.” The doc raised his eyes to Dodger again. “To put it simply, he’s … well
… I’m afraid he is dying.”
Dodger
exploded in a flurry of questions. “Dying? How? Why? Can’t we do anything for
him?”
True
to form, the doc answered every question in order. “Yes. He is fading from time
itself. He can’t maintain a single continuous timeline on his own. And no, not
without the TAP.”
“Then
we can rescue him if we fix the TAP?”
“Yes.
And I would love nothing better than to do just that, yet I can’t help the
sinking feeling that this will not turn out very well.”
“Don’t
worry, Doc,” Ched said. “Thingsh might not be ash bad ash all that. Feng
alwaysh shaysh, ‘Look on the shunny shide.’”
“I
wish there were a sunny side,” the doc said. “But I predict a number of dark
days ahead before we see the sun again.”
As
they fell into a reserved silence, each man no doubt wondering what he could do
to help the situation, Ched began to whistle a tune that agreed with Feng’s
outlook on the matter.
They
arrived at the reservation border just after noon. Jones had predicted that there might be a handful of
excited folks waiting to greet the doc. Instead, there awaited an easy fifty or
more natives, all eager to meet the man who sold them the magic ICE machine.
“Lasht
time, it wash all arrowsh and shouting,” Ched said as he parked the Rhino. “Now
you’re shuddenly mishter popular.”
“Oh
dear,” the doc said. “I was hoping I could slip in unnoticed.”
“I
think you lost that chance when we brought the Rhino,” Dodger said.
“I
suppose so. Ah, well. Better get this over with.”
“Are
you ready, sir?
“As
they say, I was born ready.” The doc grinned. Smugness didn’t suit him, but he
sure seemed to enjoy trying it on every now and again.
“Ish
that show?” Ched asked. “Caush I wash born jusht a weak little baby. I couldn’t
imagine being born ready for anything more than mother’sh milk.”
The
doc gave a long sigh. “It’s a figure of speech, you mush-mouthed moron.”
The
three of them climbed out of the Rhino and faced the welcoming throng of
natives. The crowd plied him with foreign greetings, and again, Dodger had some
difficulty with full translation, but he was able to make out good wishes and
words of praise. Among the crowd, Dodger spotted Jones, who pushed through the
crowd to meet the new arrivals.
“Sorry
about the attention!” Jones shouted over the noise. “I’m afraid word got around
that you were back. Everyone was excited to meet you.”
“Not
at all!” the doc yelled as he shook hands and agreed to the occasional hug. “I’m
delighted to meet all of them. Family of yours?”
Jones
laughed. “Some, but not all. We are just one of many tribes across the
reservation. Once word gets around about the buffalo, I am afraid this crowd
will grow much, much larger.”
“Oh
my. I don’t know if I can handle all of that attention.”
“Then
let’s get you on your way. Come, the chief is waiting. As are the Sisters.”
“Ched,”
Dodger said, motioning the tall driver down to his level. “Stay with the Rhino.
If you see the doc wandering around without me, go after him. Then you two get
back to the train and get the hell out of here. Understood?”
“Aye,
Sharge,” Ched said, and turned to weave his lazy way back to the carriage
already crawling with excited children and surrounded by awestruck adults.
Dodger
guided the doc in between himself and Jones. As they moved along, he kept an
eye out for anything that looked like trouble, which was hard, considering the
sheer number of folks that had turned out for the event. Once they were deep
into the crowd, Dodger began to wonder if this wasn’t a mistake. Too many
variables were at play here. Too many folks. Too much distraction. Too much
noise. He was just about to suggest a retreat, when the doc looked back over
his shoulder and smiled at Dodger.
“Isn’t
this marvelous?” that smile asked.
The
man’s honest joy killed Dodger’s worry.
It
was hard for Dodger to shake the role of a hired gun. He naturally thought of
everyone as the enemy. Assumed that every hand hid a weapon and that every
tongue shared a lie. But the doc’s genuine delight relaxed the deep-seated assassin
in Dodger. Not to the point of indifference, mind you, but just enough to enjoy
the moment. Or rather, enjoy the doc enjoying the moment. These folks weren’t
out to hurt the doc. Quite the opposite.
At
least for now.
The
crowd thinned without warning, and Dodger stepped out of the throng to find
himself standing in an open ring a good couple of hundred yards across,
surrounded by the attending natives. In the center of the open space, there sat
a large teepee, most likely a point of gatherings for the tribe. At the edge of
the crowd waited a handful of natives, probably various officials, one of whom was
surely the chief. Just which one, Dodger would have to wait and find out. Ute
tribes weren’t known for extravagant headdresses like those of the Sioux, and
sometimes it was hard to tell who was in charge.
Much
to Dodger’s surprise, there also waited another white man. He stood about
Dodger’s height, with dark hair and an average build. Dodger also made note
that the man was unarmed.
“Professor
Dittmeyer,” Jones said, “this is Chief Atchee.” Jones motioned to the
middlemost native, a man easily as old as the doc himself, if not older.
The
chief grinned wide and nodded to the doc.
The
professor put his hand out in traditional English greeting. “We’ve met before.
I remember you from last time. I hope you won’t hold all of that nonsense
against me.”
Taking
the doc’s hand, the native said a few words in his tongue, which Jones
translated. “It is my honor to see you again.”
“The
honor is all mine,” the doc said, giving the man’s hand a few quick pumps.
Jones
ran through the other natives present, giving names and positions that Dodger
mentally logged. Through Jones’s translations, each gave a short speech of
appreciation, to which the doc nodded and beamed but said nothing, as if
overwhelmed to the point of speechlessness—a state Dodger didn’t think possible
for the professor. When Jones came to the last of the line, he hesitated, as if
unsure what to say. Which was just fine, because Dodger was unsure what to
think about the white amongst the natives.
“Critchlow,”
the man said with a warm smile as he stuck out his hand in greeting. “John J.
Critchlow, at your service. I am the current agent.”
All manner of warning signals went off in Dodger's mind. “Did you say agent?”
“I
did. I’m here on behalf of the Utah Indian Agency.”
“Ah.
Of course. An agent.”
“Yes.
And you are?”
“Rodger
Dodger.”
“That’s
an unusual name.”
“Really?
Sounds normal enough to me.”
“Now
that you mention it, I’m sure that I’ve heard it before.” Critchlow raised his
eyebrows as an idea came to him. “I say, speaking of agents, you couldn’t be
the same Dodger that worked for the-”
“No,”
Dodger said over the man. How long would it take to outlive his hard-earned
legacy? “I’m the professor’s bodyguard. Where he goes, I go.”
“Bodyguard?
Why would a man so beloved need a bodyguard?”
“Because
with great affection comes great resentment,” the doc said. He presented his
hand to the agent. “Professor H.J. Dittmeyer, at your service.”
Critchlow
shook hands with the doc. “Actually, I believe I am at your service, sir.
Especially if you’re the creator of that fabulous ICE machine.”
“I
do what I can. May I have a look at it later if possible?”
“It’s
not up to me, but I am sure Jones can make arrangements. After you see to those
little miracles first.”
“Miracles?”
“The
buffalo?”
“Ah!
Yes. And where might these fantastic creatures be?”
“Right
this way,” Jones said, and directed the doc to the large meeting tent.
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