The settlers moved up to the lumber camp, and the miners joined them. Wolfson was away. Resolution was nearly empty. There was no money being spent, because nobody had any. The saloons were deathly silent, and with nothing better to do, Virgil and I rode out and looked at the burned-out homesteads.
The Shoshones had been effective. There wasn’t much to see: the barely recognizable remnant of a dead farm animal, a chimney that hadn’t burned, some scraps of harness, the metal prongs of a rake. A solitary buzzard circled in the sky, without much enthusiasm. Everything edible had been scavenged already. But with regularity along the trail through the settlements there were signs that said the same thing: NO TRESPASSING, per order Amos Wolfson, Owner.
“Think it’s legal,” Virgil said, “Wolfson taking their land?”
“Might be,” I said. “Don’t really know. I think it’s homestead land.”
“That make a difference?” Virgil said.
“I’d think so, but I don’t know.”
“Didn’t teach you ’bout real-estate law at West Point?” Virgil said.
“Nope. Know a lot about the Macedonian phalanx, though.”
“What the fuck is that?” Virgil said.
I explained.
“They taught you that at West Point?” Virgil said.
“Yep.”
“We ain’t been fighting with pikes for a while,” Virgil said.
“War department hadn’t caught on to that when I was there,” I said.
We moved on through the homesteads. Near the buildings, fresh new shoots of green were already beginning to push up through the burnt-over grass. At the top of the rise where we’d left them were the remains of the two Shoshone warriors we’d killed. There wasn’t much left of them. Their horses had long since drifted off, probably homing back to the reservation, the way horses do. Buzzards, coyotes, maybe a wolf, maybe a bear, maybe a cougar, certainly insects and other birds, had fed on them until there was nothing much to feed on. Their weapons were still with them. Something had even eaten at the holster that one of them had worn. The pistol was starting to rust. So was the old rifle. We sat our horses for a time, looking at the remains.
“Don’t seem right,” Virgil said. “He can just take everything they got.”
“No,” I said. “It don’t.”
“Don’t seem like it would be legal,” Virgil said.
“Don’t matter none,” I said. “Legal, illegal. There’s not any law around here anyway.”
“’Cept us,” Virgil said.
“What do we do when Wolfson tells us to move them off the land?” I said.
“Been thinking on that,” Virgil said.
He kept looking at the skeletal remnants of the two Indians.
“Can’t keep taking a man’s money,” Virgil said finally, “and keep saying no to what he wants you to do.”
“I know,” I said.
“Can’t run them people off their land,” Virgil said.
“I know,” I said.