by Saler
The lieutenant's eyebrows rose in surprise - Chief was the only one of his men who didn't smoke, why would he need a lighter? "Thanks for saving my bacon back there," the Indian was saying when Garrison's attention snapped back from its tangent; saying it as if it was something he found difficult to vocalise. As if it were something that when against his whole nature. The turned back and the uncomfortable angle of the shoulders reinforced that impression.
~*~*~*~*~
That night, Chief sat in the old arm chair nursing the kid's dog. He liked dogs. With dogs you knew where you stood, if they didn't like you they let you know it. Not like people who lied and cheated you, hiding their feelings and pretending. Well, he'd learnt to do that too. He'd had to.
The dog stirred in his arms, looking up at him with big brown eyes. It was a long time since he'd had a dog - not since he was a kid back on the Reservation. He leaned back and closed his eyes, and was transported back to the summer when he was seven years old.
He heard his Grandfather's voice arguing with his parents while he waited outside, sitting under the window with the pup in his lap. It was a poor, scrawny little thing, barely alive when he'd found it out in the desert. He'd carried it home wrapped in his shirt and begged his mother for some milk. His father had told him to get rid of it, they didn't need any more useless mouths to feed, but Grandfather had thought that they should let him keep it, that it would teach him responsibility. The voices went on and on � his step-father's loud bluster, Grandfather's quiet, reasonable tone and, very occasionally, a word from his mother, keeping the peace between the two.
Eventually, his step-father had grudgingly agreed. He wasn't happy about it, but, as headman of the tribe, Grandfather's wishes counted for something, even with his son-in-law who didn't take suggestions easily.
"Li'l Chief, your grandfather says that you should be allowed to keep the mutt," he'd announced, his tone betraying the fact that he disagreed. "You'll be expected to do extra chores to pay for its keep. If you don't, it'll be gone. No arguments, right?" He'd nodded silently unable to believe his luck, and, with a list of rules as long as his arm, the dog had become part of his life.
As long as he could remember, he'd been called 'Li'l Chief'. Grandfather, 'Chief Grey Horse' to everyone else, had dubbed him that when he was born, his first grandson, and everyone had followed his lead. In accordance with the old customs his real name was used only by close family members, and then not in the presence of outsiders.
He'd grown up knowing that he was Grandfather's favourite. They spent every moment together when he wasn't in school. The Chief had taken him under his wing and taught him secrets of surviving in the hard land that was their home, and allowed him to tag along with him on anything that wasn't secret tribal business. He had taught him to be self-sufficient and to believe in himself � something that no one else cared enough to do, and it became a common sight to see the old man and the boy around the Reservation with dog following close behind, or sitting beside the fire outside the Chief's tepee studying the lore of the tribe with the dog curled up close by, watching them.
He'd wanted a good strong name for his pup, to help it survive the harsh reality of life on the reservation, but had trouble thinking of just the right one. He'd asked his Grandfather for advice, but the old man would only say that, to ensure that the name embodied its full power, it was important that he decide for himself, and to look for omens.
With this in mind, he had taken a long walk into the hills with the pup at his heels, and when they arrived back the pup was known as 'Wolf'. He was the strangest looking wolf that anyone on the Reservation had ever seen, but the boy was adamant, so 'Wolf' it stayed. From that inauspicious start the dog had been his constant companion right up to the time he'd had to leave home.
He had never told anyone, even Grandfather, how he had come by that name, and the clarity of the memory surprised him now. He smiled in the dark as he stroked the dog's head. Then the smile faded.
He'd always taken it for granted that he would succeed the old man, but when he was fifteen his grandfather had died and his cousin had been appointed the new chief. That was then he had been made to realise that his mixed blood meant that he could never hope to hold such an honoured position. The first time he had been aware that it made a difference. It left the boy feeling betrayed and deprived of what he saw as his birthright.
He changed then. Lost in his anger, and with no purpose in his life, he quit school and took to hanging out with the older kids, drinking and staying out all night and treating his home as no more than a place to sleep it off. Even Wolf was left behind as he spiralled out of control, no longer afraid of his ailing step-father, and too big for take his mother's attempts at discipline seriously. She tried to talk to him, but he closed his eyes to her pain and hardened his heart to her anguish, brushing her out of his way as he headed for the door and, eventually, even she gave up and let him go his way.
Before long, he had his own 'tribe'; a gang of layabouts who were always in trouble for petty misdemeanours but, to his mother's relief, no serious crimes - until one day when he was eighteen. A run-in with a rival gang from a nearby town changed all that.
Fights with white gangs were nothing unusual. The white kids were always ready to rumble with the 'dirty redskins', and usually he and his gang were more than ready to oblige. He became known as a dangerous opponent, ready to fight dirty in order to win, and, by now, the white kids tended to give him a wide berth, wary of his reputation, but this time something was different. There was a new kid in town, the nephew of the manager of the factory that employed half the population. He'd been sent out from the city by his parents to get away from the 'bad influence' of his friends. Little did they realise that he was the bad influence. Out here in the sticks, the kids were impressed by his big city ways and he soon had a following of like-minded delinquents, cruising the city after dark, looking for trouble.
The gangs crossed paths one Saturday night in town. Things escalated from the usual name-calling to an outright challenge, and before long they were squaring off behind the bleachers at the school sports ground.
He didn't remember now just how the fight had started, but he did remember telling the others that he wasn't going to let any loud-mouthed white kid get the better of him, and when the kid had tripped him and come at him with a metal bar, his automatic reaction had been to swing his blade. Before he knew it, the kid was lying on top of him, bleeding all over him. He'd pushed the body aside and scrambled to his feet, getting the Hell out of there before anyone could call the police. He knew no one would believe him that it was an accident. After all, he was an Indian and around there that didn't count for much.
He didn't dare risk going home so, reluctantly, he turned his back on everything he knew and headed east. He hadn't been back since.
That was how it had started. He hadn't known till much later that the kid was only wounded, not dead, but by then it was too late. By then he'd been arrested for a murder that had been intentional, and there was no turning back.
~*~*~*~*~
It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to think of home, and all it stood for; about his mother and about Wolf, the only things that had ever meant anything in his lousy life since Grandfather had died. Maybe, if he got out of this alive, he'd go back and see how they were. Maybe. He shook his head and pushed the memories back where they belonged.
First he had to survive this war.
Well, he'd survived prison, he'd survive this � if only to get his own back on all those people who'd crossed him through the years. He was young and he was smart. Smarter than people gave him credit for. He'd learnt that if he kept his mouth shut they tended to discount him and think him no threat. It also meant that he heard more and, thanks to Grandfather's training, he remembered what he heard.
He'd been smart enough not to give away his real name when he'd been arrested, too. He figured that that way his mother would not find out that he'd been in trouble, and some time in the future he might be able to go back home without disgrace attached to the family name. They weren't too fussy about Indians anyway, so when they'd asked him for his 'real' name, he'd made one up. One that he figured they'd think was suitably 'Indian sounding', and he'd used it later when he needed a 'real name'. Funny how the girls seemed to go for that stupid name.
He knew that most people, including Garrison, figured that 'Chief' was originally a derogatory nickname, and he saw no need to disabuse them of that idea. It was his life, and he didn't intend to share his business with anyone he didn't have to. The less people knew about him, the better he liked it.
Those other cons might think they knew him, but they didn't. They knew what he allowed them to know. Nobody really knew him, but he knew them. That smarmy Italian, thinking he was the world's best conman � well, he hadn't conned this con. He was being conned himself, if he only knew it. And that safe cracker hadn't fooled him for a minute. Making out like he was a tough guy � Hah! He was strictly small time. Just because he dropped names like he knew people didn't make him tough. Just made him stupid. As for the Limey, that snivelling little Limey, he wouldn't last five minutes in his world.
The Warden, now, HE was different. Chief hadn't realised it at first, just figured him to be another screw in a different uniform, but he wasn't. He was the biggest con man of them all. He'd conned them all into this deal, letting them think it was for just the one mission then, after they'd completed the mission, he'd broken the news: They were in for the duration plus six months, unless they wanted to go back where he'd found them.
And the man was tough. Tougher than just about anyone Chief had ever known - even his step-father, who hadn't exactly been a pussy-cat. More than just tough, he was brave, too. He'd proved that over and over right from the first mission. He didn't shrink from doing whatever needed to be done, and so far he hadn't asked them to do anything that he wasn't prepared to lead them into, and out of again, and, although he'd told them from the start that they were all expendable, he had proved that he wouldn't just abandon them if the mission went wrong. He couldn't think of anyone else who would have risked their life to save him the way Garrison had done yesterday. That had really thrown him for a while, but he decided to play along until he figured a way to turn it to his advantage.
He suspected that there was a lot about the Lieutenant that they'd never know, unless he wanted them to know it, and he had no desire to get on the wrong side of him, at least not just yet...
