The Adventures of Dixie Dandelion

by R. H. Burkett

  Joe pranced and danced all the way down Main Street. When we got clear of town, I gave him his head. The painted gelding streaked across the flat, hard trail like a lightning bolt. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of McCullough and Buck. They stayed even for about a quarter of a mile, then dropped back. I melted into Joe’s shoulders and forgot about everything except the sound of pounding hooves and the wind biting my face.

  When Joe settled into a lazy lope, I circled around and rode back to McCullough. He leaned forward on his saddle horn and watched me ride toward him. His warm bourbon eyes blazed and glowed in the sunlight. A half smile pulled at his lips.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Joe fits you.”

  The sun played tag with the clouds and lost its bite the farther we rode into the hills. With each hoof beat the tightness in my shoulders eased. I smiled over at McCullough. “Who’s this friend we’re going to see?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” he answered sounding lost in thought.

  We continued on. The fresh scent of pine needles and honeysuckle circled our heads. I took in a deep breath. Wondered why he was so quiet. I tried again. “Cat got your tongue?”

  “What?” His scowl surprised me.

  “Why so quiet?”

  “Been thinking, that’s all.”

  “About what?”

  A huge sigh shook his wide shoulders. He turned in the saddle and pushed his Stetson back of his head. “Horses. Been thinking about horses.”

  I didn’t like his tone. Felt like a child being scolded for asking too many questions. My temper simmered.

  “Keeping up with two horses is a waste of time. What I need is one horse with the speed and agility of Joe and the strength and dependability of Buck. Hope my friend has just what I need.”

  I couldn’t believe it. He was going to trade Buck for another horse? He loved Buck. My insides twisted. It was my fault. If I hadn’t taken Joe, McCullough wouldn’t have to get rid of his faithful, persimmon-eating buckskin.

  As if he heard my thoughts, he said. “Been thinking on trading horses for a while. Buck’s carried me many a mile, but he can’t clear those six-foot fences as easily as he once could.” He patted the horse’s tanned shoulder. “He’s earned a rest.”

  Still didn’t make me feel better. My mood turned sour. Wished I hadn’t come. The bubbling sounds of a nearby creek gurgled through the air. McCullough reined to a stop. “We’ll hold up here for a bit.”

  He dismounted and strolled off through the woods. Guess his coffee had run its course too. I stepped down and led Joe over to the water’s edge. He and Buck drank with long, slurpy gulps.

  A blood-curdling shriek tore through the still wooded air. Spit froze in my mouth. Joe jerked his head around and snorted. The yell came from the direction McCullough had walked.

  McCullough!

  With my heart about to bust from my chest, I scurried up a large boulder and looked down. Below me McCullough and a huge, black-haired Indian rolled on the ground. Damn! If I only had a gun. On second thought, maybe it was better I didn’t. Another war-whoop ripped through the trees. Fighting panic, I searched for a weapon. My hand found a good sized rock. I threw it at the Indian’s head. Hit McCullough in the back of the neck instead.

  Damnation!

  Where was Fang when I needed him? That mutt picked a fine time to stay behind and lie in wait for a mangy tomcat.

  The Indian pinned McCullough to the dirt. Think Dixie. Better do something fast before that Indian kills him. Without a second thought, I leaped from the rock and landed on the savage’s back.

  Legs wrapped tight around his waist, I beat at his head with my fists. The smell of rancid bear grease almost made me puke when I grabbed a hold of his braids and yanked. He backed off of McCullough, shook, and roared like a crazed grizzly. Teeth clenched, I stuck to him like a cocklebur to a saddle blanket. I heard McCullough yell.

  “Dixie!”

  A quick glance made blood roar in my ears. McCullough bent over clutching his belly. Oh God. This heathen stabbed him in the stomach. Anger and fear spurred me on.

  Legs squeezed tighter. I yanked and pulled his greasy hair. Fingernails scratched his thick neck like cat claws. I bit his ear.

  With a howl, the Indian pitched forward. I somersaulted over his head and landed square on my butt.

  The hat flew from my head, and hair spilled into my face. My teeth rattled, and air left my lungs.

  I’m gonna die. Knew a man would be the death of me.

  Through tousled, curly locks, I caught sight of McCullough lunging past the Indian in an effort to reach me. Damned if I’d let him die for me.

  Grabbing anything I could find, I flung dirt, rocks, and twigs at the Indian.

  “Dixie. Stop.” McCullough laughed.

  Laughed?

  In disbelief I watched him slap the Indian on the shoulder and walk toward me. “Dixie, this is the friend I was telling you about.” He offered me his hand.

  His friend? Oh how stupid of me. I should’ve known.

  Thoroughly pissed, I ignored his gesture and struggled to my feet. I tore at the buttons on his cotton shirt and searched for the gaping cut the Indian’s knife made. “You mean he didn’t stab you?” I pushed the hair back out of my eyes with trembling hands.

  “Is that what you thought?” McCullough’s look of surprise did little to quash my anger.

  “What else was I supposed to think? He pounced on top of you yelling and screaming.”

  A slow grin spread across his square face, and he slapped his knee. “Aw, darlin’ that’s just Spotted Owl’s way of saying howdy.”

  The Indian inched toward us. So mad I could chew nails, I shot him a look of pure death. He stopped in his tracks which tickled McCullough even more.

  “Dixie, this is Spotted Owl, my friend.”

  Not feeling at all hospitable, I stood and gawked at the red-skinned man. He was shorter than McCullough with arms and legs the size of tree trunks. Black eyes stared back at me, but he said nothing. Smart Indian.

  Still chuckling, McCullough walked toward the creek. He threw his friend a grin. “We’ll get our horses and catch up with ya.”

  He rubbed a purple bump on the back of his neck. “Why’d you throw that rock at me?”

  “Didn’t mean to hit you. Was going for the Indian.”

  “Good God, woman. Sassy was right. You can’t aim worth a hoot.”

  The chuckle in his voice infuriated me. “Well, excuse me for trying to save your hide. Next time I’ll let him scalp you while I run for help.”

  “You really were trying to save me, weren’t you?” He mounted up. “Dang, darlin’, I’m touched.”

  He was making fun. I whirled ready to fly into him, but the fire burning in his dark eyes wilted my insides. He was serious. A quiver tickled my stomach. I couldn’t meet his smoky gaze.

  “None of this would’ve happened if you told me your friend was an Indian in the first place.”

  He rode over to Joe and held him by the bridle while I climbed into the saddle.

  “Yep. You’re probably right.”

  Damn the man. How could I argue with that?

  Chapter Twelve

  McCullough fell in beside Spotted Owl. I rode a few paces behind them. Solid as granite, the Indian chief kept staring at me like I had spots or something. When he turned and gawked at me for the hundredth time, I had enough. A slight nudge from my heel put Joe into a slow lope. Heard the Indian grunt when I rode by.

  “McCullough’s woman not happy.”

  McCullough’s woman?

  “Dixie?”

  I slowed to a trot but refused to turn around. It wasn’t long before Buck’s shoulder came even with Joe’s. “What’s got you so riled?” McCullough asked.

  “Why’s he looking at me that way? Doesn’t his tribe have women?”

  “None with fiery red hair.”

  Why does he think I’m your woman?” I tucked stray wisps under my hat.


  “’Cause you’re with me and you’re riding my horse.”

  “And that just naturally makes me yours?”

  He ignored the sarcasm dripping from my tongue. “In his eyes it does. And it would be best if you let him keep right on thinking it.”

  Everything in me balked against that line of reasoning, but his words carried a warning. He and Spotted Owl acted like loyal friends but maybe only to a point. Being McCullough’s woman offered me protection. From what? I didn’t know and hoped I didn’t have to find out.

  “How does he know I’m riding your horse?”

  “Who do you think I got Joe from?” He laughed.

  “So Spotted Owl’s your horse-trading buddy.”

  A slight frown creased his smooth forehead. “Naw, not him directly. Gotta trade with the medicine man, or rather the medicine man’s son.”

  The slow chuff, chuff of hoof beats came up behind us. This time when Spotted Owl cast a curious glance my way, I managed a weak smile. He answered it with a toothy grin. Maybe he wasn’t such a big, bad Indian after all. I wondered at the scowl on McCullough’s face.

  “Don’t you like the medicine man?” I asked.

  “It ain’t that.” He rubbed his square jaw. “Croaking Frog is old and crank—

  “Wait!” I laughed. “Croaking Frog? You’re joshing.”

  The serious look on both of their faces told me I’d made a mistake making fun of the name. The chief’s smile disappeared. Ebony eyes narrowed. His deep, rough voice rumbled like thunder. “Not every warrior called Gray Wolf or Crazy Horse.”

  Hell and damnation. I done pissed off the Indian. Embarrassed, I stammered, but the grin pulling at McCullough’s lips stopped me from a lame apology. A mischievous glint in Spotted Owl’s eyes let me breathe again.

  “I fool McCullough’s woman.”

  I didn’t laugh quite as hard as they did at the joke, but I couldn’t help but smile at the two of them hee-hawing like silly school boys. Besides, the smile crinkles around McCullough’s brown eyes were cute and made a perfect partner for the dimples that danced in his square face. He should laugh more often.

  “Is the medicine man’s name really Croaking Frog?” I asked when they stopped to catch their breath.

  “Yep. Wasn’t pulling your leg about that. Promise to keep a straight face when you see him.”

  I’d try. But I swear if the medicine man’s son was named Chirping Cricket, all bets were off.

  If it wasn’t for the scent of wood smoke hanging heavy in the air, I would have missed the village. A thin trail surrounded by trees and their leafy canopy magically opened up into a valley rich with green, wavy grass and the sight of horses and tipis planted beside a cheerful singing creek. Bronzed-skinned, half-naked children shouted our arrival. Black, oily braids bobbed from side-to-side as they scurried to their mothers. With dark eyes that loomed large and round in their small faces, they watched us ride past. I waved and smiled when a small boy ducked behind his mother’s back only to peer up at me with a shy grin on his face.

  A leathery Indian who looked older than dirt shuffled toward us clutching a red blanket around his shoulders even though the sun rained down warmth. McCullough stepped down from Buck’s back and greeted him with a firm hand shake.

  “Croaking Frog, the winters have been good to you.”

  “Um. Come. We sit. Smoke.”

  I might as well have been invisible. Not sure what to do, I waited and watched. Round, squat, with bulging eyes, and a squashed flat nose, Croaking Frog didn’t fit the image of any Indian I’d ever pictured. However, he did indeed look like a big fat bullfrog squatted on a lily pad waiting for a stray fly to buzz by.

  Taking a long draw from his pipe, Croaking Frog spoke in a deep, raspy voice. “What bring Tall Warrior back to our village after so many moons away?”

  “I need a horse.”

  The old Indian shifted his beefy rump to look back at Joe. “Spotted pony not to liking?”

  “Joe’s perfect, but I gave him to Dix…my woman for a gift. I’m looking to trade the buckskin.”

  “You have woman?” He put his pipe down and struggled to his feet. “I must see.”

  By this time the tribe had us surrounded in a large circle. Every eye trained on me. Felt like a lonely peppermint stick in a candy jar being slobbered over by dozens of sweet-toothed young’uns.

  I climbed down from Joe. A gust of wind blew my hat off. My hair flew about my face and hung down my back. Brushing the wild curls away, I heard the whole tribe gasp as one. I didn’t understand. One minute I was a piece of sweet candy. The next, the big, bad wolf. A shiver of fear zipped up my spine. McCullough stepped to my side and placed his hand on my shoulder. Never thought I’d be so relieved to feel his touch.

  Thought poor ol’ Croaking Frog’s eyes were gonna pop out of his head. What had I done now?

  “Woman is fox spirit.”

  Another intake of breath came from the crowd. A broad-shouldered brave charged like a raging bull. I leaned into McCullough’s hard chest. Hell and damnation, I wanted out of there.

  “Dixie, meet Black Bear. Croaking Frog’s only son.”

  Like his father, Black Bear’s name fit like a hand in a glove. Tall, sinewy, and strong, he walked quick and silent stopping so close to my face I could smell his wild, gamey body odor. Eyes the color of pitch stripped the courage plumb out of my bones. My innards shriveled up like a piece of over cooked bacon from the heat of his stare. Damn near gagged when he ran strands of my hair through his bear paw hands. Legs shaking, I clenched my jaw so tight that I thought my teeth would crack. McCullough musta’ felt my trembling. His hand tightened.

  “Easy, darlin’. He doesn’t mean any harm. In fact, you should be honored. Fox medicine is powerful to these Indians.”

  Honored? Oh, hell, yes. That’s exactly how I felt as Black Bear petted my head like I was a prized coon dog.

  “Woman’s hair like foxtail.”

  Wow, he could talk. I’d expected roars or grunts. He lifted his gaze from my head and grinned at McCullough. “Tall Warrior lucky man.”

  The grin changed him from a fierce grown up bear into a cute cub. The starch came back into my legs, but I wasn’t going to let my guard down. Cute or not, a bear is a bear.

  McCullough stepped from my side. “Black Bear, I need a good horse. Can you help me out?”

  His smile widened. “Have many horses. Come. Look. Foxtail Woman come too.”

  Foxtail Woman?

  Oh well, it beat the hell out of Chirping Cricket.

  Chapter Thirteen

  McCullough let Black Bear run in front of us. He looked down at me and smiled.

  “You all right?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  A muscle in his square jaw jumped. I said something wrong. All sense of humor left his eyes. His usual velvet-warm voice turned chilly.

  “Dixie, you’ve got grit. More than a lot of men I know. But you don’t fool me. I felt your legs shake when Black Bear touched you. He’s fierce, big, and wild. If ya weren’t spooked by him, it wouldn’t be normal. Why do you feel the need to deny that? Especially to me?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Felt lower than dirt when he stomped away. Don’t think I’d ever forget the hurt in his voice.

  Tears stung my eyes. No one understood. Papa was dead. Mama, murdered. I was alone in a wild territory on the run from a man so evil the devil would spit him back to God. Fear followed me like a shadow. It walked beside me on the streets and curled by my side at night. Nothing or no one, not even Peg or her girls, could ease the black worry that gnawed at my gut day in and day out. Like the runt of the litter, if I didn’t act brave and fearless, I’d be eaten alive especially in a town as lawless and immoral as Six Shooter Siding. I couldn’t let my guard down. Show weakness. Couldn’t give off the scent of a helpless female. I’d be prey for varmints like Whitaker and Calhoun. I had no one to turn to. If I didn’t protect myself who would? Even as I asked the qu
estion, my heart knew the answer.

  Jackson McCullough would.

  Not if you keep pushing him away.

  “Get out of my head, Papa.”

  A loud yell dried my tears. The ground shook. Excited, I ran toward the sound. I stood by McCullough’s side and watched horses of every size and color cover the prairie like a living blanket of browns, sorrels, grays, black horses and white. Black Bear stood proud in the midst of his herd. He turned to McCullough with a grin and gave a sharp whistle.

  When I was a young girl, Papa told me stories of a white-winged horse of the gods. I loved the notion, believed it too except he got the color wrong. A horse, dark as midnight, glided across the prairie so silent and smooth, I searched for black wings. Mane and tail flowed like onyx ribbons in the warm breeze.

  Black Bear reached into his buckskins and pulled out something small. A persimmon. The black slowed and plucked the treat from his palm gentle and soft. So the sweet fruit hadn’t been McCullough’s idea. With a smug look, the young brave took a hand full of mane, swung onto the stallion’s back, and nudged him toward us.

  “See Tall Warrior? Thundercloud tame. You like?”

  Stupid question. The black was big and strong enough to carry two men the size of McCullough all day if necessary with jack-rabbit speed. A blind man could see how much he wanted this black horse birthed by thunder and lightning.

  McCullough ran his hands over the horse’s silky withers and down his long legs. Thundercloud stood calm under his touch. Black Bear slid to the ground.

  “You like?” he asked again.

  McCullough rubbed the black’s inky nose and chuckled when the horse nuzzled his pockets looking for more persimmons. “You take the buckskin in trade?”

  “Have many horses. No need for another.”

  A large sigh shook McCullough’s broad shoulders. “Thought you’d say that. What do you want?”

  I thought Black Bear’s thin lips would split from his wide, possum grin. He pointed his finger at me.

  “Trade horse for Foxtail Woman.”

  Holy hell! My stomach twisted into a knot. My head swam, and I stumbled. Didn’t know what scared me more. An Indian buck wanting me or the look on McCullough’s face. For an instant I thought he’d hand me over no questions asked.