Читать книгу Shaman's Dream: The Modoc War - Lu Boone's Mattson - Страница 12

When the front door banged open, Lindsay stopped sorting through the desk drawers and looked up. He could hear, outside, the sound of the horse being led away to the barn. As was always the case when his middle son appeared, it felt as if the air in the room compressed.

“Sorry,” Oliver said. “I rushed to get here on time, but I got tied up at Ashland. The post: it wasn’t ready.”

He tossed the packet of papers onto the table, then turned to pull off his coat and hat. He hung them next to the others on the hooks beside the door. “It’s come, I believe, father, just as you said it would.”

“Get yourself something to eat,” Lindsay grumbled at him, returning to his searches through the desk. “We didn’t wait on you.

“How you feeling?” Oliver thought to ask.

“Better.”

Jesse gestured imperiously for the packet of mail, and Ivan laid it in front of him, then offered him his pocket knife. Ignoring it, the old man held the parcel in the pool of light that fell from the lamp onto the table. He picked stubbornly at the unyielding knot that held the cord in place around the letters.

“I believe that’s what the boy in the telegraph office was hinting at,” Oliver shouted from the kitchen, not paying much attention to whether anyone was listening. “But I didn’t want to come right out and ask him. That office leaks like a rusty bucket. Any information that is in it always ends up in the street. Have you noticed that?”

He rattled on good-naturedly as usual, ebullient just to be here at last, the bearer of tidings, however bad. Under the lamp-light, Jesse’s finger picked on at the knot.

“Here, Uncle,” Ivan insisted. “Let me.” But Jesse persevered, just as Lindsay, still grousing, kept at the desk.

“I’ll tell you what it says,” Oliver called out to them. “This is according to the telegraph boy: ‘Sorry to hear about your dad’s job,’ he says. ‘Seems a shame to lose the agency.’ He says, ‘I wonder what this Knapp fellow’s like,’ he says. ‘Not as good for the area as your family, I guess.’ And when I got back to the stable, the missus comes out of the house to ask if you would be moving back to Ashland Mills, or would you be going back up to the valley to be by Uncle Charley after this Knapp arrived.

“Look in there, Uncle, and see if that isn’t the name: Knapp.”

“He’ll be looking for these,” Lindsay said, crossing from the desk to the table with the black-bound ledgers held before him. He set them where the lamp light could fall on them, then went back to rummage further.

“What’s that?” Oliver asked. “Ah, yes. The books!” He stood holding a plate of food, fork poised, regarding the documents and little slips of paper his father piled before his brother Ivan.

“The books,” Lindsay repeated. “Of the Klamath Agency. Not quite up to date, but everything should be there. Everything they’d care to see. They’re welcome to them. Good riddance, I say. Let this Knapp see how he takes to government red-tape. I didn’t like it.”

“You can see that, all right,” Ivan said. “Better let us have a look.”

He took a sheaf of loose papers and started shuffling through them, then drew one of the ledgers to him and opened it. Neat lines of script filled the first few pages, notations of amounts received, paid out, the names of the recipients, the items. Cash to provisioners for nails, flour, tools. Money approved by Washington, allocated by the Oregon Superintendent for Indian Affairs. Goods delivered in the past to the agency for their charges: blankets, grain, clothing. Wages paid to the sub-agents: to Ivan and Oliver and Lucien. Gifts received recently from the Methodist church to assist the school. Beginning October 1864, noting the opening of the agency, pursuant to the treaty -- still not ratified -- with Lindsay appointed agent, the list ran on for pages, dates carefully entered. Eventually, though, six pages, six months or a year later, the entries thinned, the labored penmanship grew illegible; many lines were left incomplete.

Ivan sat with a wad of receipts in his hand, the ledger opened before him, while his father watched, chewing at his lips, the line between his eyes furrowing his brow more deeply. Ivan drew a deep breath, regarding the wisps of paper, but said nothing. Instead, he simply began sorting, slowly examining both sides of each paper, setting it into its place atop the proper stack, then going on to the next one.

“He’s right,” Jesse said. The packet, finally overcome, lay open before him, and he held the telegram in his hand.

His brother looked at him; so did his nephews, inquiring. “Who is?” Lindsay asked.

“The boy at the telegraph office. The man’s name is Knapp. Orson C. Knapp. Captain Knapp. To replace Lindsay Applegate. Knapp to report directly to the Office of Indian Affairs, to Parker, just like his boss, Mr. Meacham. Guess Superintendent Meacham doesn’t get to superintend his own new agent. Not the neatest of arrangements, is it? But it makes for an interesting line of reporting. Then Parker to the Interior Secretary to Grant. Well, at least its not Parker to the War Department to Grant. We can take some comfort from that.” He held out the telegram to his brother. “So, Knapp, then. Our captain will be here October 1. What do we know about him?”

“Nothing, evidently,” O. C. said when no one responded. “Maybe a new retiree.”

“Likely,” Jesse said. “Woods are full of ‘em now. I must compliment you, Oliver. Your trip to Salem was timely. For a while there, I thought we’d have more than just a retiring officer as agent. I thought the state’s reservations would be turned over to the army down to the last horseshoe nail and blanket.”

“So did I,” O. C. answered. “And so did Meacham, evidently, along with all the others. But I cornered our senator and reminded him he was elected and wanted to be next year. I put him in mind of all those purveyors of goods and services, all those officials and functionaries who hoped they would be able to vote for him. Jogged his memory about the virtues of civil authority. He high-tailed it to Washington to look after the jobs of voting Oregon citizens. Army’s going to have to find some other sinecures for its excess stock of officers, now that the war is over.”

“Meacham must have thanked you. Saved his new position for him!” Lucien said. “Looked for a while there like he could stop unpacking.”

“Let’s just say I didn’t discourage his understanding about who he had to be grateful to. That storm about jurisdiction’s blown over for the moment, but I don’t assume the matter’s finished.”