_Around the 15th of March each year, folks start saying,
"Give the country back to the Indians!" Well, that's what we
want to talk to you about._
* * * * *
I didn't even hear her come in. What with the Sioux rising against the
white settlement at the fork of the Platte, the attack being set for
dawn, and Chief Spotted Horse's impassioned speech to his braves, I
wouldn't have heard anything under a ninety-seven-decibel war whoop.
Soft lips brushed the back of my neck and she said something.
"That's fine," I said.
"_Sam!_"
I heard _that_, all right. I looked up from the typewriter. "Hey,
that's a _nice_ nightgown!"
"I said I think I'm getting a cold."
"Well--with a nightgown like that...."
"Silly!" Her smile would have corrupted a bishop. "You coming to bed?
It's almost midnight."
"Soon's I finish writing this chapter. Best thing I've ever done."
"More Indians?"
I reached for a cigarette. "Sure, more Indians. What else would one of
the country's leading authorities on the original Americans be writing
about? I hate to keep harping on the same subject, my sweet, but the
dough from my last book bought you that mink stole you keep dangling
in front of your girl friends."
"If you make so much money at it, why are you still a reporter?"
"I _like_ being a reporter."
"What about _me_? Between reporting and Indians my love life is
beginning to wither on the vine. You should have married a squaw."
"Who says I didn't?" I gave her my best leer and reached out an
exploring hand. She blushed and backed away, laughing. "Nothing doing,
Sam Quinlan! You want me I'll be in bed."
"Hey-hey!"
She gave me a quick kiss, evaded my grasp and disappeared into the
bedroom. I finished lighting the cigarette, typed a few more lines.
But my working mood was gone, a casualty of a black lace nightgown.
Finally I got up from the desk and snapped on the radio and, while it
warmed up, strolled over to the living room window.
* * * * *
At this hour Washington was largely in bed. Away over to the east I
could see the dim glow of lights marking the Mall, with the Capitol
dome beyond that. Now that communism was dead, buried and unmourned in
Russia and her satellites, with peace and prosperity booming from Iowa
to Iran, even the President would be sleeping like a baby. Any day now
I would be down to covering PTA meetings for the _Herald-Telegram_.
That was okay with me; my big interest was "Saga of the Sioux"--the
third in the series of books I was writing on the history of the
American Indian.
An early autumn breeze crawled in at the open window and moved the
line of smoke from my cigarette. A quiet serene night, with the faint
smell of burned leaves in the air and the promise of a cool, sunny,
peaceful tomorrow. A lovely night, made far lovelier by the thought
of the beautiful blonde waiting for me in the next room. After twelve
years of marriage I still found her to be the most exciting and
rewarding woman I had ever known.
"... most of eastern Colorado," the radio said suddenly, "as well as
the western fringes of Nebraska and Kansas."
I turned the volume down. Weather report, probably, except that the
announcer was making it sound like a declaration of war or a "sincere"
commercial.
"We repeat," the voice continued, "since 8:10 this evening, Eastern
Standard Time, literally nothing has come out of that section of the
country. All communication has ceased, outbound trains and planes are
long overdue, highway traffic out of the area has stalled."
"Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"You coming to bed?"
"... tuned to this station for further bulletins con--"