Reaching into the pouch for more, he placed a second pinch into the other nostril and snorted again, then leaned back against the cave wall with a sigh of contentment.
His eyes closed.
Maybe in the spirit cave Shadow will find spirit wives? Then he will not need the white chief’s money to bring wives into his tents. This is Shadow’s tent now – bigger and better than all the others! He grunted with satisfaction and fell asleep with visions of a hundred spirit wives tending to his every need and pleasure.
* * *
The sound of a pigeon flying into the cave startled the renegade into consciousness. He watched it sail gracefully downward, perch on a rock and begin to peck at the feed that had been left there for it. Another pigeon was in a wooden cage nearby. It began to coo in hunger when it saw its friend having a meal. However, as a homing pigeon the caged bird’s feed was located miles away and it would have to wait until it could have a meal there.
With a curious grunt Blue Shadow got up from the rock floor and went over to the new arrival. He picked up the pigeon, placing one hand over its spine and wings. Then he removed a piece of paper that had been wrapped around one leg. He put the bird back down and lit the oil lamp. Having learned to read English at the reservation school, the outlaw held the small piece of paper close to the glass and read the message aloud.
“Smokey and...Jessie...were killed. The...woman...rescued by...sheriff. We will take her...again...soon. Wait for...instructions.”
These white men cannot even keep a woman prisoner, he thought with contempt. Now the white chief wants to take her again. Ha! They say Shadow is crazy. This chief’s head is crazy broken.
The Nokoni hocked angrily onto the cave floor and ground the spittle into the dust with his foot.
Shadow had not told the white chief that the hideout cabin had been found by the search party days before Georgia’s kidnapping. He had kept the information back deliberately because he knew it would mean trouble for the whites sooner or later. He hated the white race. Ever since he was a boy and they took away his people’s land Shadow had hated them. When he became a man the renegade took every opportunity to strike back. This gave him pleasure and satisfied the hatred – for a while. But it always came back even stronger.
The deception about the cabin had given him pleasure. Now that it had succeeded in getting two of the white outlaws killed it gave him even more satisfaction. The Nokoni smiled.
Foolish white men. So easy to mislead.
He grabbed a small slip of paper and a pencil off a natural stone shelf in the cave wall. Placing the paper against a smooth piece of rock he slowly and laboriously wrote two letters on it:
OK
Then Shadow went to the pigeon cage, opened it, and wrapped the message around the bird’s leg, securing it with a piece of string. He held the bird aloft in both hands and threw it upward into the air.
“Go to Broken Head, little one!”
The pigeon flew up to the skylight and disappeared.
* * *
When Arthur Richards heard rumors that James and Georgia’s wedding date had been set, he was compelled to go and visit them. Rumor also had it that Charles Warton had given his full approval and blessing to the marriage. This news positively drove Arthur toward the Golden Lane to see if it was true.
On a dark, overcast Thursday in late May the hotelier told the livery boy to bring his carriage around front and put the top up in case it rained. Then he grabbed his umbrella and was off.
Aunt Martha and Georgia were doing the lunch dishes when they saw a one-horse carriage approaching on the ranch road.
“Who is that comin’?” the old lady asked, squinting through the window.
“Looks like Arthur Richards,” said Georgia. “Seems to be in an awful hurry too.”
Martha chuckled. “Must’ve heard about the wedding date and all. Hee-hee! Arthur never could stand hearing any big news without showing up to see for his self if it’s true.”
Georgia didn’t feel intimidated about the visit now that her secret about being a Boston debutante – and not a seamstress – was known. In fact, now that she could talk freely about the city and its culture, she found herself looking forward to Arthur’s visit. She took off her apron and hung it on the wall, then walked outside with Martha to welcome their guest.
“Why Arthur Richards!” Martha called out as his carriage rolled up in front of the veranda. “What took you so long?”
Arthur looked surprised. “Begging your pardon?”
“Figured you’d have been here soon as the date was set, if not sooner,” she teased him. “You’re slowing down a bit, Arthur. Come on up for some iced tea.”
Richards jumped down from his carriage and gave the reins to the stable boy. Then he bounded up the veranda steps with his usual dash and greeted the ladies. “You are absolutely right, Aunt Martha! I just had to come and see if it’s true.” He looked at Georgia. “So... I hear that you and James have a wedding date, young lady.”
“Yes it’s true. September 13,” she said happily.
“Fabulous! My sincerest congratulations to the both of you, Ms. Warton.”
“Thank you. Please call me Georgia.”
“Another little bird tells me that your father gave his full approval and blessing to the union. My congratulations again.”
“Right again and thank you again, Arthur,” Georgia giggled. “James and I are very happy with how things turned out.”
“I’ll bet you are,” he said.
“James tells me that you’re a fine chess player. Would you care to join me for a match on the veranda?”
“Why, I would be delighted. Thought you’d never ask.”
As she arranged the pieces on the board Arthur watched her graceful movements and fine, ladylike posture. Suddenly he blurted out, “I knew the first time we met that you were no mere seamstress, Georgia. I could tell by your movements. The way you sit in a chair. The exquisite diction of your Boston accent.”
She flushed with embarrassment. “So you’ve heard that news as well, I see.”
“Yes, it’s all over town I’m afraid – how the Sheriff of Sonora got the surprise of his life when his fiancé’s daddy showed up with the amazing story of a runaway bride.”
Georgia’s face flushed again. “Really, Arthur, you needn’t bother rubbing it in. I’m glad that the truth is out now. I hated living that stupid lie when I first arrived here. The reason I told James I was a seamstress was so he wouldn’t throw my letter into the garbage. He says he would have done that if he knew I was a Boston society girl. But now he’s glad he didn’t.”
“I’m sure he is,” Richards muttered darkly.
“What is wrong with you today?” Georgia asked.
“I’m sorry...I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. I’m not myself these days,” he said.
Georgia was genuinely stumped by Arthur’s behavior. Is he jealous of James and me? Does he hold some sort of grudge against me for it? He’s being so nasty all of a sudden...
Martha appeared on the veranda carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and several glasses. Georgia felt relieved to see her and hoped it would help Richards cheer up. The old lady filled three glasses and put two of them on the table for them. Then she took a seat.
“You two young’uns must be having a good conversation out here. Nobody’s made a single move yet.”
Arthur looked over at Georgia. “Yes, we are having a good talk indeed, Martha. Were you shocked when you found out the truth that James’s dear lady here isn’t a seamstress but a Boston debutante?”
Martha stared at him for a moment, then looked over at Georgia, who threw her a puzzled look in return. “Well now...” Martha began slowly, “it was a bit of a shock I reckon, Arthur. But I understand now why she did it. Knowin’ James like I do, he would’ve thrown a debutante’s letter away on sight.”
“Yes,” he replied sharply, “James has got no more taste for those kind of ‘highfalutin’ air
s than you do, Martha.”
“You’re right, boy. And I’m thankful Georgia ain’t stuffy at all. Sure, she comes from Boston money, but she don’t act like no highfalutin debutante. She’s a right down-to-earth gal. So don’t you be puttin’ no guilt on her for being from money back east. You hear me, boy?”
Georgia watched in astonishment as Aunt Martha tore a strip off of the businessman like he was an errant schoolboy. She half-expected her to grab the man by the ear and tell him to go stand in the corner. Arthur, for his part, simply bowed his head stoically.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he said sheepishly after a moment, then looked up at Georgia. “I do apologize again, Ms. Warton. I should go now. Perhaps we will be able to have this game of chess another time.”
“It’s okay, Arthur,” Georgia said, “please stay awhile. You don’t have to go.”
“No. I’m sorry. I must go. Good day to you, ladies.” He got up from the chair, leaving his iced tea half finished, and walked quickly toward the stable where his carriage was.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into that boy,” Martha said, watching him go. “He always could get a bit moody at times but I never seen him be rude like that to a woman.”
“It’s all right, Martha,” Georgia said. “I’ve been treated far worse. You wouldn’t believe some of the treatment I received from men back in Boston. It’s like they believe a woman should be seen and not heard. Like she’s just a pretty ornament on the mantelpiece or a trophy on the wall.”
“I know the type, girl,” said the older lady.
“Whenever I spoke my mind they said I was too headstrong. When I shared a passionate opinion they said I was just being a hysterical woman. Such a double-standard! I couldn’t stand it. It’s not fair.”
“You got that right, girl. A woman ought not be shy to speak her mind. After all, we’re one half of the human race too, ain’t we? Our experience of life is just as important as a man’s.”
“That’s one of the things I love about you, Aunt Martha: you always tell it like you see it. You’re so strong! Like the way you handled Arthur just now. You weren’t rude or anything. Something needed saying and you just went ahead and said it.”
“Well, girl, I wouldn’t go talkin’ to every man like that. You’ve got to know the right time to say your piece. I’ve known Arthur since he was knee high. Sometimes a man just needs a sharp word to snap him out of whatever’s got him tangled up inside. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But I reckon as women it’s one of the ways we can help ‘em. Do you know what I mean, gal?”
“I think so,” Georgia said.
“I hope you won’t think too badly of Arthur. He’s a good man at heart and got his problems like all of us too. He grew up dirt poor in Sutton County, came from a very humble family. He worked so hard to pull himself out of poverty, to make something of himself. Built that business of his from scratch. Some of the moneyed folks here slighted him along the way, as if he weren’t good enough for ‘em. I think he took it very hard. Maybe that’s one of the reasons Arthur’s so set on being the man of culture in the county, always trying to improve and get more educated.”
“Do you think he does that to try and gain the approval of those who snubbed him?” Georgia asked.
“Maybe. I don’t rightly know for sure. But it’s like that in this old world, isn’t it, gal? Our upbringin’ – the family we’re born into – has a way of markin’ us for life. Sometimes it leaves scars that we’re forever tryin’ to heal, even if we don’t know it. It can make us do things and we don’t even understand why.”
14
“How would you like to rope a steer today?” David asked.
“Who? Me?” Georgia said. “I was only joking when I told James that I wanted to rope a steer. I really just said it to try and get out of shooting another gun, David.”
“Oh, come on! It’ll be fun,” he teased.
Breakfast had just finished in the Golden Lane kitchen. The sheriff had gone off to work in Sonora and David was set to supervise the hands that morning as they roped and branded some cows.
“You’re serious?” Georgia said to him.
“Absolutely, girl,” he grinned and turned toward Martha. “Auntie, can we borrow Ms. Warton here for awhile and show her what brandin’ Texas calves is like? She’s showed an interest in it.”
“That’s a fine idea, David. A little education on what a workin’ ranch looks like. You go ahead, Georgia, and I’ll see you around lunchtime.”
“Don’t worry, Señorita Warton,” Francisco said, “we will not be roping full-grown Texas longhorns today, just the calves. They are not so dangerous to handle.”
“Well okay then,” she grinned. “Looks like I’ve been drafted to be a cowgirl today.” She took off her kitchen apron with a flourish. “Where’s my Stetson, partners?” They all laughed. “Hey, can my daddy come along and enjoy this cross-cultural exchange too?”
“Of course he can,” said David. “And we’ll get him a Stetson too.”
* * *
A few minutes later they were all gathered at the corral. David had gone all out and found a couple of Stetsons for Georgia and Charles to wear. Not only that – they had both donned full range outfits: canvas pants, gingham shirts with a vest, and, of course, tough leather cowboy boots.
“Can’t I wear a six-shooter too?” Charles joked.
“Nope! But if you do really well today we’ll let you play with one next time,” David chuckled. “With no bullets.”
A holding pen next to the corral had been stocked with a couple of dozen young and agile calves. They bleated excitedly, sensing that something unusual was happening outside of their normal routine. An open fire nearby had a couple of “GL” branding irons – standing for “Golden Lane” – heating on the coals.
“Why are you branding them with a GL iron if you’re selling the place soon?” Charles asked.
“We’ll be takin’ the name with us,” David replied, “saves money on buyin’ new irons and having to rebrand all the stock, too.”
“I see,” said the older man, feeling a stab of guilt knowing that the McCloud brothers planned to sell the ranch in order to pay off his own debts. He resolved to pay them back as soon as possible for their generosity in bailing out the Warton family.
“Okay fellers, let’s get rollin’!” David called out. “How’s them irons in the fire doin’?”
“They’re ready to go, Boss,” a hand called back.
“Okay, good. Francisco you wanna rope the first couple of calves to show Georgia and Charles how it’s done?”
“Si, Señor David,” Fran replied. He mounted his horse and readied a lasso rope for action. When he was prepared, a hand opened a corral gate and the young Mexican rode into the arena.
“Fran is our chief vaquero – that’s Spanish for cowboy – and probably the best rope thrower in Sutton County.”
On a signal from David, the gate to the holding pen was opened and a single calf bounded out and began running around the corral. Francisco spurred his horse after it, swinging his lasso in circles. When the calf came within range, he threw a loop over the beast’s head. His horse came to a quick stop as the weight of the calf pulled on the rope that was tied to the saddle horn.
The vaquero jumped off his horse and ran toward the calf, picking it up and throwing it onto its side in the dirt. He grabbed the tie-down rope or “piggin string” that had been clenched between his teeth and proceeded to quickly tie three of the animal’s legs together. Once the beast was immobilized, Fran went over to the fence and grabbed the branding iron. An old cowboy named Charley passed it to him between the fence rails. Fran walked back to the calf and quickly seared the GL brand onto the animal’s left hip, untied it and let it go. The entire procedure took just a few short minutes of intense action.
Charles and Georgia were impressed. “That’s outstanding,” the old man said.
“I’m sorry I ever asked to do that,” Georgia deadpanned. “Can I go s
hoot a gun instead, David? You’re not going to actually ask me to rope a calf, are you?”
David laughed. “No. James would kill me if you got hurt. Do you think you could brand one though, Georgie?”
“Oh, mercy,” she said, “if only Annabelle could see me now. This is so romantic. Daddy, you go first.”
“Really, Pumpkin!” Charles puffed in mock indignation. “You want to send your father in there as the guinea pig first? That’s deeply cruel of you.”
“I think of it more as some long overdue payback for sending me to debutante school.”
“Ouch, that hurts! Way, way below the belt, Ms. Warton,” he chuckled. “Okay. Tell me what to do, David.”
Caught Between Love And Duty Page 12
