Brief description:
Lieutenant James Ferrell, known to his old classmates at West Point as “Beautiful Jamesy,” stood in the dust and watched the Sioux come in for their rations. The silent, stolid line seemed nondescript in the extreme. The squaws were thick-bodied,ugly. The men wore hybrid hand-me-downs, wrapped themselves in blankets against the heat of the sun, although Jamesy could scarcely endure the regulation tunic which threatened to smother him in this Western clime, with heat waves rising from the endless plain which stretched to an infinitely distant horizon.
The Indian Agent’s office opened, the line shuffled forward. It was 1880 and President Garfield had newly come to office in Washington. Captain Harry Grayce of the harsh voice and impeccable New England ancestry said, “Look at them! Ugly, worthless, treacherous. Next month, if they gain horses and arms, they will be slaughtering the ranchers, running off livestock. They would rather steal than earn. The noble red -man! Pahh!”
Captain Grayce was elegant. He had become inured to heat, Jamesy supposed wistfully. The blue uniform fitted the slim-waisted man like a glove; his hat tilted rakishly; all his accoutrements were part of him. Grayce was thirtyish, and had been in the West for seven years. Major Classen was even more experienced. He had been a subaltern at Gettysburg. His lean, hawk’s face was restless, his eyes pale from scanning far horizons, but there was tolerance in him. Iamesy liked Classen. The major was human. He said,
“The Plains Indian was the second noblest of them all—after the Confederacy Tribes. Until we took away his buffalo, he was self-sufficient. War1ike—but noble enough. You’ve spent too much time chasing them.”
Grayce’s narrow features flushed. ...
The Indian Agent’s office opened, the line shuffled forward. It was 1880 and President Garfield had newly come to office in Washington. Captain Harry Grayce of the harsh voice and impeccable New England ancestry said, “Look at them! Ugly, worthless, treacherous. Next month, if they gain horses and arms, they will be slaughtering the ranchers, running off livestock. They would rather steal than earn. The noble red -man! Pahh!”
Captain Grayce was elegant. He had become inured to heat, Jamesy supposed wistfully. The blue uniform fitted the slim-waisted man like a glove; his hat tilted rakishly; all his accoutrements were part of him. Grayce was thirtyish, and had been in the West for seven years. Major Classen was even more experienced. He had been a subaltern at Gettysburg. His lean, hawk’s face was restless, his eyes pale from scanning far horizons, but there was tolerance in him. Iamesy liked Classen. The major was human. He said,
“The Plains Indian was the second noblest of them all—after the Confederacy Tribes. Until we took away his buffalo, he was self-sufficient. War1ike—but noble enough. You’ve spent too much time chasing them.”
Grayce’s narrow features flushed. ...
Publication
Argosy Magazine, April 1943