All you need to know about war, about what it really is, you can get from one look at the pile of arms and legs outside a battlefield surgeon's tent. My drawing of that bloody pile and of the wounded men stretched out on the ground as they waited their turn under the knife and saw was one of the few rejected by both Harper's Weekly and Leslie's Illustrated. But I could not rub out that image from my mind or my dreams. So when the War ended I took my sketchbooks, pencils, pens, and watercolors and headed west to record the face of a new far country, of the natives living there, and the soldiers sent there to pacify the land. I hoped to eventually get to the Pacific.

I traveled up along the Missouri and in late afternoon in May 1868 I reached Fort Caudill in the Dakota territory, where I was to meet the guide Jacob Wethers who would lead me through Utah to the Oregon territory and, perhaps, to California. I had a letter of introduction to the trader and owner of the general store, a Horace Kerr, who offered me a room at the rear of his establishment. He said I would have to share it with a man named Charles Gordon, a former officer in the Confederate cavalry, who was presently out hunting. The bed belonged to Gordon so I was given a blanket and a pallet to put against the far wall.

I put my horse and mule under the care of the Cavalry stable boy, paid him with two silver dollars, and returned to the general store. I deposited my baggage and carbine in the room and, sketch pad in hand, went out to tour the fort. It was typical of such places with barracks for the enlisted men, bachelor officers quarters, cabins for the married, headquarters building with the commanding officer's apartments, the general store, with an attached tavern, a one story hospital, and stables for the horses and mules. All this was contained in a ten-foot-high wall of rough timber as palisades. Just outside the fort, hard by the main gate, were a scattering of tents occupied by native men and women.

Enlisted men were out doing the usual run of daily tasks. I saw two sergeants and a captain supervising. I soon discovered there were only two undersized troops of cavalry stationed there. By the west wall a blacksmith was forming an iron brace for the underside of a prairie carriage for a twelve-pound howitzer. I began to sketch him at work when a young lieutenant approached and introduced himself as "Lieutenant Michael Zwick" and asked who I was. I told him. He said "the Colonel's lady" had noticed me and wondered if it would be possible for me to join her and Colonel Chambers later for dinner. I answered that I would be more than pleased.

After I finished the rough sketch of the blacksmith I retired to my room to wash, change clothes, and become more presentable. Lieutenant Zwick knocked on the door and offered to accompany me to the Colonel's apartment.

I was led into a small but stylishly furnished parlor where Colonel Chambers was talking to a large man wearing First Sergeant chevrons, the yellow diamond above three stripes. The Colonel, who was a Lieutenant Colonel not a bird Colonel, looked to be in his fifties, had gray hair with a black mustache. He was pale, thin, and his right hand shook when he offered it to me. He walked with a limp that I later discovered was the result of a wound received at Buena Vista in the Mexican war. The sergeant was Samuel Bricker, who nearly crushed my hand in his large paw.

The Colonel dismissed Lieutenant Zwick with thanks and said, "Abbie will expect you later to accompany her." Zwick smiled and nodded as he left. Then the Colonel turned to me: "Well, I hear you're an artist, sir. Were you one of the specialists in the War?"

"Yes, sir, I mostly followed the Army of the Tennessee. I became an admirer of Grant and then of Sherman."

"So you saw action?"

"Enough. I had a horse shot under me once and had a bullet pass through my hat close enough to part my hair."

Sergeant Bricker laughed. "Nearly scalped and not by an Indian."

"Were you at Shiloh?" the Colonel asked.

"Yes."

"A terrible, terrible chaos. The rain turned red from all the blood. I was not then and am not now a Grant man. He had no notion of proper military procedure. Halleck was the real thing. Grant was a shopkeeper. He has no understanding of the fundamentals and is contemptuous of his betters. Of course, Johnston—I knew him at Buena Vista—was the greatest strategist but he died at Shiloh. Shiloh was the last fight for me. After that affair I trained recruits near Cincinnati at Camp Dennison. Abigail, my wife, was pleased with that since her aunt lives there in a village known as Indian Hill."

"I know the area, sir. I've passed through Cincinnati several times."

At the rustle of skirts from a doorway, the Colonel turned and said, "Ah, here are the ladies."

I turned to see an extraordinarily lovely young woman in her mid-twenties. She had long curls that shone like red gold; her eyes were a dancing blue under long lashes; and her smile was enough to light up a room. Behind her stood a plump older woman with a full pleasant face.

"May I introduce my wife Abigail."

She came quickly to me and held out her hand as she said, "Please, everyone calls me Abbie. There is no need to be formal."

Sergeant Bricker said, "The other lady there is my missus and I call her a lot of things but she answers to the name of Bess."

Mrs. Bricker took my hand in both of hers and squeezed. "I'm very pleased to meet you, sir. It's a fine thing to be an artist."

After an exchange of pleasantries all around and humorous asides from Sergeant Bricker directed at his wife, we went into dinner. The meal was served by a half-breed woman, wife of an enlisted man, and her daughter. To tell the truth, I recall it was tasteless boiled chicken with vegetables I did not recognize. I was asked about my activities during the War but I directed the conversation away from me and to the experiences of the others. I found out that the Colonel was a friend of Abbie's uncle and when her father died the uncle and aunt raised her. When she was seventeen, the Colonel proposed and she accepted. The Colonel had been posted to this fort two years ago and had to "do the difficult but necessary job" of establishing military discipline. The fort had been overrun with savage squaws who offered certain sexual services to the men with the result that there was a very high incidence of diseases of that nature. Drunkenness, too, was common. Sergeant Bricker had been sent from Fort Snelling to assist and, over the resistance of men and officers (with the exception of Lieutenant Zwick), the job was accomplished. It was necessary to transfer or discharge a number of men, who have not been replaced. The fort is now undermanned because there is some talk of closing it. "In any event, the hostiles have not been a problem for some time. There have been occasional instances of the theft of a horse or two, but that is all. There is nothing like the trouble with Red Cloud or anything near the nature of that savage butchery in Minnesota."

After the meal we returned to the parlor where the men had brandy and the ladies sipped sherry. In a half-hour Lieutenant Zwick appeared and went to the piano where he accompanied Abigail as she sang several songs while they both read from the sheet music on a stand on the piano. I believe she sang "By the Sad Sea Waves," "Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair," and "Old Folks at Home." Then she requested that the Lieutenant play a piece more classical.

He smiled and said, "Hungarian Rhapsody number two by Franz Liszt." He played, from memory, exceptionally well. His hands moved rapidly and lightly over the keys while he closed his eyes as if reading the music in his mind. When he finished we all applauded: the Colonel politely, the Sergeant violently, and the two ladies with evident enthusiasm. The Lieutenant was clearly moved by our response and I saw he particularly noticed Abigail's reaction.

I said, "I am a mere sketcher, but there is no doubt that Lieutenant Zwick is a musical artist of the highest caliber."

"Here, here," said Sergeant Bricker as he downed his glass of brandy.

Then Mrs. Bricker mentioned the children and that she did not like to leave them alone too long. "Mary is twelve and very responsible but little Annie gets frightened in the night."

I thanked the Colonel and Abbie for the dinner and the pleasant evening. I said, "Mrs. Chambers, I would like to try to catch your lovely face in a drawing. Whenever you have the time, I would be honored."

"Oh, sir, the honor is mine. When it is convenient for you, please let me know."

The Colonel said, "An excellent idea. Perhaps you could paint a miniature for me to carry when I'm in the field."

"I'll try, sir." Then I left with Sergeant Bricker and his wife. Lieutenant Zwick stayed and as we walked across the parade ground the soft sound of the piano and Abigail's singing voice came from the parlor.

Sergeant Bricker said, "Now, my man, you must stop at our place and have a man's drink. Oh, and to get rid of the taste of that boiled bird they called chicken."

"Sam," Mrs. Bricker said, "that's enough. You know the Colonel has a bad stomach."

"So? Why inflict his misery on others? Well, John, what do you say? I suppose I can call you by your name and you call me Sam and this well-fed beauty of mine should be called Bess."

His wife punched him in the shoulder.

"Hey, woman, don't go startin' a fight in front of our guest."

"Oh? I'm to take 'well-fed' lying down?"

He grabbed her around the waist and hugged her. "I like a woman where there's something there to hold on to in the long night."

"That's enough now, Sam. Mr. Worth will wonder what kind of people he's with. Mind, now. Perhaps you had a touch too much of that brandy."

He laughed. "I could drink a gallon of that before my nose'd get red."

At their small cabin set against a far wall, Mrs. Bricker went into a bedroom to check on her girls and Sergeant Bricker flourished a bottle of "sour mash whiskey" and poured me and then himself very substantial amounts.

I said, "I was surprised that there weren't other officers at the dinner. I saw a captain on the parade ground earlier."

"The Colonel is not what you might call popular. Of course, they all like to take a gander at his Lady, but not enough to put up with his lectures. Besides, I believe officers and men much preferred the old ways here. Myself, I never was for whorin' around, even before my Bess. My old man told me to keep it in my pants until I met the right woman. He's long dead now, bless his cantankerous soul, but I believe he was right."

"Who was right?" Mrs. Bricker asked as she came out leading a little thin yellow-haired girl of eight or nine wearing a nightgown.

"Why, my old man."

"Pshaw on your old man. He never spoke three words without two of them being curses."

"True enough, Bess, true enough, but he sure took a shine to you."

"It was my blackberry cobbler he liked, not me."

"Agreed there, my love. Now why is our Annie out of her bed?"

"The child heard a strange voice and she wanted to know who it could be."

I made a slight bow to the girl as I said, "My name is John and I'm going to guess that yours is Annie."

The girl quickly looked at the floor and grabbed Mrs. Bricker's skirt with her left hand. It was then that I noticed that the child had a stub at the wrist where she should've had a right hand.

Mrs. Bricker said, "You see, dear, he is just a nice man who is talking to Daddy. So let's you and me go back and you can crawl in with your sister. So say good night."

The little girl mumbled something, glanced up once at me, then turned and led Mrs. Bricker to the bedroom.

"She's a sweet thing, she is," Bricker said. "But she gets scared at night, you know." He pointed to his hand. "Sioux. I went with a detachment to Fort Ridgely and found her there, an orphan. God knows what she saw and it's only through God's mercy that she didn't bleed to death. Old Abe would only let us hang thirty-eight of the bastards. So she's ours now and Bess loves her as much as Mary. Oh well, we do what we can with what's given us. Have another, will you?"

"A little one, please." As he poured I said, "I'm to share a room with a Charles Gordon."

He shook his head. "A bad lot, he is, man. A bad lot. He was a Johnny Reb but not from the South. He's Charles Gordon the Third, mind you, from New York. He joined the rebels for the excitement, he says. For the excitement—imagine that? I'll give him one thing—he can fight. Corporal O'Malley called him out one day for being a traitor and such and they went to it just outside the gate. It was no contest. O'Malley charged, arms and fists flying, and Gordon stands still and straight as a tree and shoots out a left and then a right and O' Malley went to the ground for a little nap. I seen him shoot too. I guess it was to be certain he had no more trouble, but, anyway, he set up two lighted candles about thirty paces away, took his revolver in his right hand and shot the flame off one candle. Then he put the pistol in his left and shot the flame off the other candle . . . without disturbin' the candle, mind you. He spends most of his time out in the country. Doing what? I can't say. Looking for excitement, I guess. One of the men said he'd seen him riding with a band of Indians. Not Dakotas or any of those damn Sioux. Maybe Cheyenne? Well, how about another, John?"

I smiled. "No thank you. I'll be lucky to find my way back to my room."

At that moment Mrs. Bricker came out and said the little girl was fast asleep. I told her goodnight and she said, "You stop by tomorrow and have dinner with us. I'll fix a good meal for you and it will give Sam an excuse to have a whiskey or two and to tell all his old stories."

"Hear that?" Sergeant Bricker asked. "If she wasn't such a beauty and a holy terror when riled, I'd have tossed her out years ago."

He winced and pretended to be in severe pain when she punched him in the shoulder.

I said goodnight again and went out into a night with a half moon coming up in the east.

When I got to the room behind the sutler Kerr's store, Charles Gordon the Third was there. He sat at a small table under a lantern as he read. He wore a red velvet robe and red slippers and the book in his hand was covered in red morocco leather. His black hair was long and tied with a red velvet ribbon. He turned to face me as I entered and said, "I assume you are the sketch artist."

I nodded.

His eyes were as black as his hair and he fixed them on me as if examining me or assessing me. "I am Charles Gordon the Third."

"I'm John Worth . . . the First."

He smiled. "I saw your sketch pad there and I took the liberty of glancing at some of your work. It is professional, capable, but nothing more—the work of an observer with a passably good eye."

I shrugged. "I suppose the truth is that I'm a visual reporter, an illustrator."

"Yes, exactly. I was not saying it was worthless." He paused to let that sink in. "I hope the light will not prevent you from sleeping. I want to finish this passage before retiring."

"May I ask what you're reading?"

"You may," he said and waited.

Then I smiled. "Well, what is it you're reading?"

"Mazeppa."

"I'm afraid I don't know it."

"I didn't expect you to. It's Byron."

I didn't bother to undress. I removed my boots and covered myself with a blanket and faced the wall. The First Sergeant's whiskey greatly aided the coming on of sleep.

Some time in the night I heard something. With no window the room was completely dark. I lay still and listened. A rustling sound and then movement from the bed. Then a woman's voice: "Charles, oh, Charles, you were gone so long." It was Abbie.

"Quiet," he said. "Get on top."

There was more movement of the bed and then a woman's soft whisperings and the gradual increase in the sound of their breathing. That went on for some time and then I heard her sigh. After a few minutes she said, "I must leave before he knows I'm gone."

"He must know. Why hide it? Stay here."

"No, no, I can't. Oh, I wish I could. Oh, my darling, how I wish I could. Kiss me and I must go."

I heard the rustle of her dress or skirt or gown and then her light steps to the door.

After she had left I heard him on the bed and then he struck a match. I saw his face and eyes glowing yellow as he lit a small thin cigar. He said, "Of course, you heard."

I said, "Yes."

"Do you know who she is?"

"Yes. If you like I'll find another place and move out in the morning. I should think you'd want privacy."

"Not necessarily. It's totally up to you. When I'm out on one of my excursions you might even replace me. She is not as sensual or as accomplished as a native woman, but the experience is not unpleasant. Of course, an added fillip is her being the Colonel's Lady."

I said nothing.

"Are you scandalized by my attitude?"

"I don't think the young woman is a whore."

"Oh, I don't pay the lady."

In the morning I took my gear and went to the door.

Still lying down, he said, "It is not really necessary, you know."

"I wouldn't feel comfortable."

"Have it your way. But if you'd stay long enough you might be able to sketch the lady in flagrante delicto."

I told Kerr that I would find other lodgings.

"Not much else unless you want to bunk in the enlisted barracks. It's all right if you don't mind the smell and the drunken fights."

I bought a small tent that was no more than a piece of canvas and two metal sticks with a cross-rod. He overcharged me, but I expected it. I decided that I would most likely be sleeping out in country for most of my travels and often during the war I'd lay on the ground without any cover.

I set up my little camp on the other side of the stables. I had a coffee pot and real coffee and corn cakes, so I made a small fire and had breakfast.

Sergeant Bricker came around the stable and strode over to me.

"John, my missus is takin' it hard that you would shift for yourself without coming by to us. I think it's down right impolite and maybe an insult that requires us to settle it man to man."

"I didn't want to bother you or your wife. I've spent many a day and night, both wet and dry, in the last eight years out in the open."

"That's no excuse and you well know it. Now are we to go to fisticuffs or are you going to follow me to the house and get a real breakfast? And pick up your gear there and leave this pup tent."

I was treated to sausages and eggs and home-made rolls. I had the pleasant company of Bess and her two daughters. Mary was the image of her mother and well brought up and polite. Annie was still shy of me until I brought out my pencils and pad and drew quick sketches of Bess, Mary, and her. She slowly approached closer and closer to me and finally was looking over my shoulder. So I tore out a sheet and gave her a pencil.

"Now you try."

"What?"

I looked around the kitchen and pointed to the coffee pot. "Start with that."

"Yes, Annie," Mary said. "See if you can."

Then I ripped out a sheet for Mary and gave her a pencil too. Soon the girls were concentrating as hard as they could, their mouths screwed up, their noses wrinkled, as they tried to draw. When I looked up at Bess, she winked at me. So I had a fine morning drawing with the girls and helping here and there with a line or a suggestion.

Finally Bess told them that drawing was a fine thing but now it was time to go over the arithmetic and then the reading. "Now go into your room and get your books." When they left she said, "You leave your equipment and goods here and you will find a comfortable pallet for you in my house. My Sam and I won't have it otherwise."

"Thank you Mrs. Bricker."

"And that's enough of that Mrs. Bricker nonsense. You call me Bess. Now you don't need to tell me why you couldn't stay with that Gordon. There's more than enough talk going around about him and a certain person. It near breaks my heart to think it's true. No good will come of that, I'm sure."

I went out with my pad to walk around the fort. I saw Gordon riding out on a large black horse. Gordon wore a slouch hat with a red feather in it, a buckskin jacket with fringes, and red morocco hipboots. He saluted me but I did not respond. I sketched a few buildings and the parade ground with the three howitzers facing the gate.

I heard someone behind me and I turned to see the Colonel on the porch of the headquarters building.

"Mr. Worth, my wife is free at the moment if you would care to draw her."

Abbie was in the parlor, fresh faced and smiling. I told her to sit at her ease in the chair by the window while I sat opposite her and began to draw. There were no marks or flaws on her face and years had not begun to tell on her skin, so I was able to work very quickly. I sketched her in the chair, standing by the window, at the piano, and then a full sheet of just her face. That last drawing I gave all my attention, took time with it, even shading it carefully. We chatted all the while about nothing in particular. I did try to see the woman of last night in the smiling late morning face before me, but there was no hint.

I gave her all the sketches but not the detailed drawing of her full face. I said I'd make a copy and try to do a colored miniature for the Colonel. She thanked me and I left.

Outside I ran into Lieutenant Zwick who asked if he could see my drawings of Abbie. I showed him the sketch and he said, "You've caught her exactly. It is a perfect likeness and you captured, somehow, the special quality of her beauty. I suppose it wouldn't be possible . . . ?"

"For me to make a copy for you?"

"That's what I meant, but maybe that wouldn't be proper."

"Who has to know that you don't want to know?"

He thought for a moment then said, "That is true. Is it possible then?"

"By tomorrow."

He smiled and walked away.

I spent the afternoon on the small porch of Bricker's cabin while I copied the drawing of Abbie and started a watercolor version. Mary was busy with household chores and Bess was doing cooking and washing. Annie, though, stayed by me and followed every movement of my hand. Later I went to the general store and bought two ledgers and a packet of pencils.

In the evening Sergeant Bricker came home and we all sat down to beef stew. After the meal I gave Mary and Annie each a ledger and pencils. I told them they were to draw or write whatever they wanted. They were both pleased, especially Annie, who immediately went off to herself and began drawing.

Sergeant Bricker brought a checker board and checkers and asked if I'd care for a game. We were closely matched but I eventually won. He leaned back in his chair and said, "You must be part Irish to be so lucky as to beat the second best player in all the Dakota territory."

"Oh? So who's the best?"

He stood up and offered his chair to Mary. "Let us see how you do against a slip of girl."

It was not much of a contest.

Sergeant Bricker said, "No, no, John, this is not give-away your playing." Then he laughed and brought out the whiskey.

"Give me another chance," I said. Mary did but the result was the same as the first game.

"I'd call that a slaughter, John, if I wasn't polite."

"Good night and to bed, girls," Mrs. Bricker said.

Mary and Annie hugged and kissed their parents and Mary told me goodnight. As they started to the bedroom, Annie turned around, ran back to me, and kissed me on the cheek before rushing after her sister.

Sergeant Bricker said, "Ah, you're the kind that steals the ladies' hearts."

Mrs. Bricker said, "No, Sam, the child just knows a good heart is all."

We talked for an hour or so and then Bess fixed a pallet for me out of the way before she and Sam went in to bed. I used the jakes out back, stared up at the moon and the sky rich with stars, and then went inside. I lay there for a long time before I fell asleep.

The next morning when I was coming from the stables after seeing to my animals, Gordon stopped me. He was in his full regala of buckskin and red hipboots and carrying the long Sharps rifle.

"Worth, I'll be going on an excursion for several days and I wonder if you'll still be here when I return."

"Unlikely. My guide, Wethers, should be here soon."

"Well then, I suppose it has to be done now. I'm on my way to get my horse and then you can follow me."

"I don't understand. Why should I follow you?"

"I want the drawing to show me with the forest as background."

"You want me to draw you on your horse?"

"Certainly. It will make your career once I am famous . . . or notorious. It doesn't matter which. Get your sketch pad and meet me at the gate."

"Why should I?"

He laughed. "Because this is your opportunity to be part of history."

I didn't see what there was to lose so I went to get my pad and pencils. He was standing by his horse and waiting at the gate. I followed him about one hundred and fifty paces or so to the edge of the tree line.

He said, "I want you to know what I plan to do so you can record it for history along with your portrait of me. I chose you because there is no other reasonably intelligent person in this benighted outpost. For the last year I have been learning the language and the ways of the Sioux. There are several dialects—Dakota, Lakota, Miniconjou, Santee—but the root is the same. I admire their warrior ethos. The whites have nothing to compare with them. I crave glory and exterminating savages with rifles and cannon is not glorious. There are no more Jeb Stuarts in the cavalry. Besides, what true warrior would serve under a dwarf called Sheridan or with a fool like Custer, a parvenu, a poseur if ever there was one. Glory lies with the fight against the herd of shopkeepers, lackeys, and cowards. They would cut down the forests, turn the great prairies into farms, and exchange cattle for the great bison. All honor is on the side of the Indian, the warrior mind, the savage heart."

Then he mounted his horse and, holding his rifle in is right hand, struck a pose. He held that fierce warrior image for a long time, his face in profile and his lower jaw thrust out. When I was finished he rode over and I handed the drawing up to him.

"Not perfect, of course, but I didn't expect that. I will give you this—it has the correct sensibility, as if I were already a statue. It will do. Now you must preserve it for history."

He returned the drawing and rode away and I watched his horse turn left and right, threading through the trees. The last I saw of him was that red feather in his hat disappearing into the dark forest.