Volume Eight
Chapter
Seven
Get Going
Get Going
In which Dodger is set to a task
Dodger
ducked out of the tent and crossed the wide space, making a beeline for the
supposed agent.
“Critchlow,”
he said as he approached the waiting group.
“What
happened?” Jones asked, surely translating the matching phrases from every
native’s lips. “Will they be all right? Are they safe?”
“I
can’t explain it all right now,” Dodger said. “You would do best to keep your
distance from that tent.”
“It
is as we feared?” Jones asked.
“Yes.
They are armed with explosives. The doc thinks he can get the collars off
safely, but it will take some time.”
Jones
translated the instructions. A murmur of relief went up from the crowd as word
got around.
Dodger
pointed to Critchlow. “I need to talk to you in private.”
“Me?”
Critchlow asked.
The
chief barked something after Jones translated, and took a menacing step between
Dodger and Critchlow.
“He
says you will talk with him,” Jones explained, “and him alone. This outsider
has nothing to do with this.”
Dodger
scowled. It didn’t matter if he encountered priests or peasants, kings
or chieftains, a universal truth always played out. The man in charge inevitably
pulled rank at some point during the proceedings. Now, how did you refuse a
high-ranking officer who wanted his way? Easy enough, you miraculously outranked
him.
And
in this case, the miracles were on Dodger’s side.
“The
Sisters have entrusted us a sacred duty,” Dodger said.
“They
have?” Jones and Critchlow asked together.
“But
they are animals,” Critchlow said, on his own this time. “How did they manage
that?”
“You
wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Dodger said. He returned his attention to
the irate chief, taking his time with his words so Jones could translate them
as he went. “So unless you want to take it up with the blessed ladies in there,
and question their authority, I suggest you step back and let us do what we
were asked to do. Or you can say goodbye to your white buffalo.”
The
chief was none too pleased with Dodger’s bluff. Well, semi-bluff at best. The
older man stared Dodger down for a silent moment, the pair locking gazes,
flaring nostrils, flexing fists. Despite the scowl, the chieftain finally stepped
aside with a few brief words, not all of them polite, from what Dodger
understood.
“He
said do as you must,” Jones said. “He will not interfere.”
“No
he didn’t,” Dodger said. “I may not know many words of your language, but I
know when I’ve been called a right bastard in any tongue.”
The
chief smirked as Jones translated that bit.
Dodger
returned the grin. “Sow-e-ett will be back in a minute with the doc’s bag.”
“But
of course,” Jones said. “We will allow him admittance.”
“Thanks.
If you gentlemen will excuse us.” Dodger grabbed Critchlow by the collar and
dragged him to the Rhino.
Critchlow
complained, of course, but Dodger wouldn’t release his grip on the man. It was
taking everything he had not to lay into the outsider right then and there, but
their discussion was not for prying ears, even if those ears couldn’t
understand the language. What was left of the crowd—for it had thinned some
since the doc’s arrival—parted, leaving Dodger and his companion a clear path. Dodger
continued to drag the protesting Critchlow to the Rhino, where he was met with
a peculiar sight.
Ched
the not-dead man was playing with a group of children.
Dodger
almost rubbed his eyes in disbelief at the sight of the dour driver chasing the
little ones about in his stiff-legged way, landing a gentle touch on the closest
child, who in turn would tag the not-dead man immediately and take off in high
spirits. The driver seemed to be enjoying the game as well, for his normally
eerie smile bordered on face splitting, baring every yellow tooth in the man’s emaciated
face. He also laughed, in his own fashion, with that bone-rattling chuckle that
Dodger thought would’ve frightened the wits out of the average kid. But not
these little ones. They laughed along with Ched, racing and running, tagging
and fleeing all around, over and inside the parked carriage.
“Are
we interrupting something?” Dodger asked.
Ched
halted mid-lurch, much to the disappointment of his young crew. “Ya shure are.”
“I
hate to bring the fun to a stop, but the doc needs you.”
“What
elshe ish new?”
The
not-dead driver turned to his miniature gang and said a few words in their
native tongue. The kids whined in refusal, but Ched repeated his words in
stronger tone, pointing toward the reservation. The children dispersed with
pouts and whimpers. A young Indian girl lingered for a moment, holding her
hands behind her back as she stared up at Ched.
“What
do you want?” Ched asked, looking down at her.
She
smiled and held up a handful of wildflowers, saying something in her tongue. Ched
took them and thanked her with a nod. The young girl gave his leg a brief hug,
then ran off, giggling, to join the others. The driver poked the impromptu bouquet
into the top pocket of his overalls.
“Looks
like you have an admirer,” Dodger said.
“Naw,”
Ched said. “She thinksh it will help with the shmell.”
Dodger
snorted a laugh. “Italian, French, now you speak Ute?”
Tilting
his bony hand in the air, this way and that, Ched said, “A shmattering. Not
completely, but I’m picking up on it.”
“I
didn’t realize you had a thing for languages.”
“Not
sho much a thing ash a shide effect. Once you learn Hebrew, everything elsh ish
a breesh.”
“Hebrew
too?”
“I
had to learn it for my Bahmitzfa. Mother inshishted. Sho did Rabbi Shamush.”
“Ah,
I remember now.” Rabbi Shamus sounded like the perfect name for an Irish Jew,
the same background as the driver himself.
“Ute
ain’t that hard onsh you get down to it. But I washn’t here long enough lasht
time to get it jusht right.”
“You
won’t be here long enough this time either.” Dodger then made the connection as
to what Ched meant. “You were the one who messed up the translations the first
time around.”
“Yeah,
the professhor shaid it had shomething to do with my peculiar shpeech. Whatever
that meansh.”
“Is
your friend ill?” Critchlow asked, reeling from the not-dead driver.
In
the humor of the moment, Dodger had almost forgotten about the agent. “Yes, but
thankfully, it isn’t contagious.”
“Thank
the Lord for that.”
“I
doubt He has anything to do with it.” Dodger pushed the man toward the Rhino.
“Get in.”
Critchlow
stared into the contraption. “I am not setting foot in that death trap-”
“Get.
In.”
The
man recoiled at the stern command, then crawled into the back seat of the
Rhino.
“Up
front,” Dodger said, patting the seat beside him as he climbed behind the
wheel. “We are going to take a little ride. Ched, you take the doc his bag. He
is in the big tent. You can’t miss it. And for Kali’s sake, don’t let him out
of your sight.”
“I
won’t,” Ched said. He snatched the doc’s black bag from the floorboard and set
off for the meeting tent with slow steps.
“Are
you sure he is all right?” Critchlow asked.
“I
never said he was,” Dodger said.
“Where
are we going?”
“We
need to talk. But not here.”
“Talk?
What about? About some imaginary task the buffalo supposedly laid upon our
shoulders? You might fool those naïve savages, but you can’t fool me.”
Dodger
didn’t answer. Instead, he bit his tongue and set to pedaling the Rhino. As he
drove along, he went over the various traits of the outsider in his mind, just
to settle his own infuriated nerves.
Critchlow
was a family man, a fact made obvious by his almost too polite manners. The
various hand-stitched places here and there—a mended cuff, a hemmed collar—suggested
that either a wife or a lover took care of him, though Dodger doubted the man
was the type to shack up without vows. Wife it was. His age spoke of the
possibility of many children—five, maybe more. Unless the wife was barren. No
way to tell.
The
man was religious, perhaps a professionally schooled preacher or even lay
preacher of his chosen faith. The rough outline of a crucifix under his shirt
leaned toward Catholic, but the lack of motioning during the brief prayer said Episcopalian.
Not Mormon, though. The government had enough trouble with the Mormons without
putting them in official charge of the Utes.
Critchlow
might have been a bureaucrat, but he knew how to work hard, as evidenced by his
broken nails and rough hands. He was a low-level official, serving a token
position that came with a ton of daily chores but no office. Chores such as
running a whole reservation full of folks who would rather be somewhere else.
He seemed genuinely happy to be on the reservation, as if he were pleased to
have the job, or at the very least, not stuck with it. Time would tell.
The
agent let out a soft whistle as soon as the Sleipnir came into view, a sound
almost lost in the whipping breeze of the Rhino’s speed. Dodger pulled the
carriage close to the line, bringing it to abrupt stop with a bone-shaking jolt.
He climbed out of the Rhino, then proceeded to all but yank Critchlow from his
side of the vehicle. Dodger shoved the man against the side of the Rhino and pinned
him there.
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