Everyone Can Be Quarter-to-Three
Charlie woke with a start, calmer now, though the shock still gripped him. He wasn’t ready for this. He’d thought his Pawnee was passable, but these weren’t Pawnee. They were Arikara, speaking a tongue he barely understood.
From the teepee next door came the preacher’s screams, ragged and high, as they flayed him alive. That could be Charlie next.
The lodge he sat in was bare, the air thick with the cloying sweetness of rosemary mingled with the charred scent of cooked meat. Heat pressed against him; sweat trickled down his spine.
He remembered the old tales of Hugh Glass dragging himself through the Dakota snows, fighting off bears and slipping past war parties. Back then, those stories had sounded like legends. Now, trapped here, Charlie knew the truth: he was no hero. All they needed to kill him was to place him out in the cold, stripped of fire and shelter.
One of the three warriors rose and slipped out of the teepee. The others remained, silent and watchful. The oldest bore a fresh wound from the battle, blood still seeping through, yet his face betrayed nothing.
It was then Charlie realized, with a sudden stab of absurdity, that he needed to piss. He’d felt the urge even before the ambush, before the slaughter began. But how did a man ask such a thing here? In what tongue? Should he risk humiliation, or simply let it go in his pants?
The flap opened. The warrior returned, this time with an older man whose hair was streaked with gray. He carried an old pocket watch, cradled like a relic, and settled by the fire across from Charlie.
The man spoke, slow, words in the Arikara tongue. Charlie swallowed and answered in Pawnee, his voice low, uncertain.
— We can speak in English — said the old man.
—You speak English?
—What’s your name?
—Charles Dawson, Esquire. But everyone calls me Charlie.
— This is Kicking Bird. That is Seven Rivers. And this is my son, Wolf Paw. I am Quarter-to-Three, chief of the Mandan. What are you doing here?
—I am a fur trader.
— Did you come to hunt?
— No. I came to purchase pelts. But tell me why did you attack us, Chief?
— Because you are in my land, Charles Dawson. You entered without asking. Everything you carry now belongs to me.
— We came in peace.
— Peace? Then why do you carry guns? We have dealt with fur traders before. We know what your peace means.
— I am sorry for what happened in the past. I promise you: I am not like those others.
— We already dealt with the preacher. And the rest of your caravan, men, women, children. All of them.
— There is no need to harm me. I can pay for your pelts, fairly.
— We do not trade with white men. The only reason we have not skinned you is this…
The old man raised his hand. In it, he held a watch.
— My watch? It’s yours. I can give you several more —Charlie said.
— I want to know how to read it, how you command time.
— You want to read the time on that watch? Fine. Press that button to open it… that’s right. Can you count?
— Of course. The priests called me Quarter-to-Three, but I never knew why.
— Do you know the numbers? Can you read them?
— I can count to a hundred. The priests taught me.
— Good. That’s all you need. A day has twenty-four hours. An hour has sixty minutes. A minute has sixty seconds.
— What is a second?
— See that hand moving around? One full turn is a minute. Sixty little jumps — those are seconds.
— Can you stop it?
— If you stop winding it, the watch will stop.
— No. Time, Charles Dawson. Can you stop time?
— No. Of course not.
— Then why measure it?
— So you can plan your day, Chief. Schedule things. Know where to be.
— Call me Quarter-to-Three. Why don’t you look at the sun? The land tells you where to be. What about going back in time?
— The watch only tells time. It does not control it.
— How do I change the time on this watch, Charles Dawson?
— Pull out that crown — yes, that one. Turn it back to set the hands. Careful… there.
The chief set his jaw and turned the crown.
— I will turn it back — all the way to yesterday. I want this day again.
— That’s impossible — Charlie said.
— If tomorrow we live this day again, you will become our shaman. But if the sun breaks and the day is not repeated, by daybreak you will be skinned, Charles Dawson.
Quarter-to-Three left the teepee with his three warriors.
Charlie, shaking, felt the sudden warmth spread down his legs. Relief. But if he was going to escape, he needed his pants to dry first.
He spotted a sharp wood chip lodged in the beam he was tied to. Quietly, he began rubbing the ropes against it. The fibers frayed, little by little, until at last, just before dawn, he slipped free.
Charlie crept toward the teepee’s exit, careful not to make a sound. But as he pushed the flap aside, his breath caught.
Quarter-to-Three stood there. Behind him, the same three warriors.
The day had changed.
