had swung about and came now from the direction of Lost River and Linkville. A few gulls sailed in low over his head away from the lake and set down to walk about on the stubble of last summer. They turned their backs to the wind as they sheltered behind the hillocks of bunch grass. Sure enough, here came the snowflakes. Just in time to close up the rail-splitting operation.
He turned and waved toward the men that it was time to go on in. Then he picked up his shirt from the ground and shrugged into it. He swung the axe onto his shoulder and, round-backed, hunching against the wind, he waved to the others again.
#40
And in the morning, when it had stopped snowing and cleared up again, Black Jim shouted over by Keintpoos’ place. Bogus Charley ran out with the others. And he saw the tracks where the wagon came in. Against the thin white layer of snow, the parallel lines from the wheels were dark where the ground showed through. The marks led in from the road and over to where there had been a pile of rails. But now there was nothing except some trampled-down grass. He could see where another wagon had come in, and that pile was gone, too. And when he followed the tracks back out toward the road, he knew they were going to turn up toward the agency, and they did, sure enough, do it. And then he and Jack took off running until they caught up with the Klamaths. He and Jack could hear the harness jingling ahead of them on the road and the groaning of the heavily loaded wagons. The Klamaths weren’t trying to hide or anything. Just going along toward the agency like nothing was wrong.
“Hold on there,” said Jack, and the Klamaths hauled back on the lines and the mules stopped, their breath cloudy in the morning air. The drivers turned on their seats, half smiles on their faces, the lines held up by their chins like it was a temporary interruption.
“Where you think you’re going?” said Jack.
“Hello, there, Keintpoos,” the man in the first wagon said. “Bogus Charley, howdy.”
“I said, where you think you’re going!”
“Well, looks like it’ll be to the agency,” the wagon driver said, nodding down the road.
“You took my rails,” said Jack.
“No. They ain’t yours.”
“We cut ‘em.”
“Don’t matter. They’re ours. Our trees. Our land. Cut posts, we’ll take them, too.”
The driver turned back toward his team and clucked to it, flapping the leather straps against the mules’ rumps. And the wagons lurched forward again, leaving you standing in the road. And you turned around and followed your footprints back toward the camp, Jack cursing, the muscle in his jaw wadding up and smoothing out, wadding up and smoothing out while he ground his teeth.
“Get ready, Bogus,” he said. “Get your horse. You talk for me.”
#41
For an hour or more the Klamaths had been gathering. At first they hung around down the street a ways, but as the morning grew later, they moved closer and closer to the office until they were nearly against the building itself, clogging things up. Knapp held the tin cup in his hands, sipping from it occasionally, as he watched them assemble. Every so often he got up from his desk and wandered to the window then crossed to the back of the room to check on Ivan counting out the pieces of clothing from the new allotment. The commissary would look up, say a number out loud so he wouldn’t forget it, and ask Knapp if he wanted something.
“No. No,” the agent would reply. “But they just keep on coming. What the hell’s going on?”
Ivan shrugged, mouthing the new number. When he finished a bundle he wrote down the count on a slip of paper then went to have a look for himself.
“You’ll find out soon enough. They’re expecting something, aren’t they?”
He watched as two wagons turned off onto the track that cut behind the workshops, wondering what it was they were carrying. He had counted out another pile of shirts when the sound of raised voices caught his attention and he went again to peer out the window.
“There’s your answer, I guess,” he said to the agent. “It’s Jack and Bogus Charley.”
Two Indian ponies trotted purposefully up to the Klamaths bunched around the porch, but the Indians at the back of the crowd held their ground, forcing the riders to rein in.
Ivan looked the agent over, sizing up his condition. Outside, the commotion grew louder, with the Klamaths beginning now to shout.
“Want me to handle this?” he asked.
“What are they saying?” Knapp demanded.
Ivan opened the door a bit and listened.
“They’re laughing at him mostly. Saying they’re like women.” He fell silent, trying to pick up the Indian words. “Saying they don’t belong here. Ought to go back where they came from.”
Ivan swung the door full open, ready to step out, but Knapp ordered him back.
“Hold it, Applegate,” he said. “This is my goddam job.”
The agent banged the cup onto his desk and lurched over to his commissary. Jack and Bogus Charley had tied their horses on the far side of the street, then started pushing their way through the Klamaths.
“Where’s your rails at, Jack?” someone shouted.
“Better watch your women!”
Jack fixed his eyes on Knapp, who stood in the open doorway. Like a swimmer fighting a tide, he plunged toward him, ignoring the jeers of the Klamaths, Bogus Charley sucked along in his wake. They shouldered their way to the steps, then mounted above the cat-calling Klamaths.
“You on Klamath land now, Jack.”
“You eatin’ our fish. How you like it?”
“How come you cuttin’ up our timber? Who told you do that?”
“Shut up now!” Knapp shouted. “All of you. Get on back. What you doing here, Jack?”
Keintpoos stood at the edge of the porch, Bogus on the step below him. When he moved to enter the office, Knapp let go of the door jamb and stepped out toward him, pulling the door to.
“Say what you’ve got to say out here, Jack. I don’t want you coming inside there. We’re busy.”
In a torrent of Modoc words, Jack blurted out the story, Bogus Charley rushing to keep up his translation, the Klamaths hooting him on. Grim faced, Knapp listened, until the noise from the crowd made him throw his hands up over his head.
“All right! All right!” he said. “Everyone be quiet! I got something about rails, and something about the Klamaths took them. That right?”
When the translator nodded, Knapp turned to Jack.
“But they were brought here to the agency, right? So what are you stewing about? They belong here.”
“But the Klamaths said they were theirs.”
“They are. They from our land.”
“Never mind, Jack. Go on back to work and mind your business. I’ll look into it,” Knapp said, turning on his heel and yanking the door open again. Before Bogus could translate what Jack was saying, it slammed to, the agent inside.
When Bogus started up the step toward the office, Jack pulled him away and shoved him back down to the street and their horses. They mounted up amid the cat-calls and