by T. K. Lukas
Rummaging through a chifforobe, she found some clothes that must have belonged to Jeddy, Winnie’s youngest son, close enough to her size. She pulled them on. Smudging the lower half of her face with coal—just a little—the shadow hinted at the beginnings of a boy’s first beard. With a bit of ingenuity and effort, she’d transformed from Barleigh Flanders, nineteen-year-old landowner and debtor of taxes, into Bar Flanders, not-over-eighteen-year-old orphan boy, soon to be Pony Express rider, and willing risker of death.
She put on her papa’s black church hat, and it fell over her eyes. Stuffing the inside brim with rolled-up paper kept it in place. The mirror on the chifforobe reflected her passing image as she strolled by, stealing glances. With each pass, she tried to blend her new reflection with her mind’s image of how her papa walked.
As soon as the smell of coffee wafted up to her room, she ambled down the stairs, thumbs hooked through belt loops, eyes half concealed with low-pulled hat. She sneaked around the kitchen with the caution of an imposter, trying to stitch her shadow to her new boy-self.
Winnie forked bacon and eggs onto a plate, her back turned as Barleigh stood behind her. Clearing her throat, and with her deepest, most masculine voice she could summon, she said, “I’ll take my coffee black, thank you.”
“My God,” Winnie gasped as she spun around, a hand clasped over her heart. “For a second I thought it was one of my boys.”
“But you knew it was me.” She plopped down onto a chair. Exasperated, heaving a frustrated sigh, she tossed her papa’s hat onto the table. “I stayed up all night practicing my voice and my persona. I have to become a boy.”
“And I stayed up all night last night too, worrying that you’d be doing exactly that.” Winnie sighed. “What you’re proposing to do is irrational. It’s going to be near impossible rolling a rock up a mountain so steep.”
“Near impossible. Not impossible.” She ran her fingers through her chopped-off hair, the shortness of it making her blue eyes appear larger in her face. “Please, Aunt Winnie? Help me with this?”
Winnie twisted and rubbed her hands together, her shoulders lifting and falling with each deep sigh. “It’s rash and foolish and I’ll no doubt live to regret this.” She sighed again. “The first thing we have to do is fix that hair of yours. Bring me my scissors, child.”
Barleigh threw her arms around Winnie’s waist. “Thank you. I’d live to regret it if I didn’t try.”
Winnie set to work giving Barleigh’s hair a proper boy’s cut as she had done for her sons and her husband. “There. Much better. Now. The tone of your voice wasn’t bad, but I knew it was you by the way you stood. If you’re going to be a boy, you have to stand with your legs more apart, less fussy, not so, um, not with your knees pressed close, like you’re hiding an important secret between them.” Winnie let out a hearty laugh.
Barleigh started laughing, too, and the laughter carried them away for a moment. Drying her eyes, she said, “That felt good. Laughing. It’s something I used to take for granted but now add to my list of things for which I’m grateful.”
Winnie dried her eyes on the corner of her apron. “Laughing and crying both are good for the soul.”
Barleigh thought about that for a moment, thinking she’d rather laugh. “What else do I need to fix?”
“Well, the way you’re sitting, all up right with your pelvis tilted forward, back arched. Boys don’t sit like that. Sit back on your pockets, pelvis rolled back and rounded, like you’re cradling a rare treasure in your lap of which you are most proud, but pretend casual indifference.”
They both busted out laughing. Snorting through noses, tears streaming from eyes, laughing.
“And how’s my walk?” Barleigh demonstrated as she moved from the table to the coffee kettle.
“Too girly. Turn your sashay into a saunter. Slow down your steps. Yes, there, like that. And every now and then, scratch your privates and make a readjustment. Act as unintentional about it, as if you’re blowing your nose.”
Barleigh feigned shock.
Winnie looked at her, eyes wide. “What?” she asked. “A husband, three boys, a nephew, and a slew of ranch hands, and I can tell you, that’s what they all do.” She proceeded to demonstrate, exaggerating every nuance, the sauntering, the scratching, the readjusting.
Barleigh doubled over again in laughter that took her breath away. Regaining her composure, she grew serious. “If I leave tomorrow morning, ride to Little Rock, catch the stage to Saint Joe, I can be there by the end of the month. But, I’ll need to borrow a horse.”
Winnie’s brow wrinkled in concern and she chewed her bottom lip. “Are you sure this is what you want to do? One hundred percent sure?”
“This is what I must do.”
“I wish there was a way to talk you out of this, but I know there’s not. I’ll take good care of that baby sister of yours, and your horse. You don’t worry about that, Barleigh.”
“It’s Bar. From this moment forward, I’m Bar Flanders.”
*****
Journal Entry—Tuesday, October 15, 1860
Tomorrow morning, I set off on my journey to Little Rock, then on to Saint Joseph, Missouri. I have this new journal, (a gift from Aunt Winnie), three sharpened pencils, a Colt revolver with plenty of ammunition, and a good and steady horse, even though he’s a slow, milk wagon horse. But, he is accustomed to working all day. I’m counting on Deal being well mended by the time I come home in January to make my tax payment to the bank. Then, Deal and I will return to Saint Joe, continue to ride for the Express, then when summer comes, ride home with lots of money in my pocket to begin the process of building a home to raise my baby sister.
This is my plan.
Destiny dropped the Pony Express way-bill at my feet. What I do with it is beyond destiny—the next part is up to me. I’ll hold fast to my dream of saving my land and rebuilding the ranch, not through an act of folly, but through hard work and determination. I’ll ride fast and hard to reach my destiny’s reward.
But for now, sleep is calling. What lies beyond destiny is a blink and a nod away.
Yours ever faithfully,
Bar Flanders
CHAPTER TWO
SEPTEMBER 26, 1860
Like a giant, he moved across the land, each long stride claiming ownership of the ground beneath his boots. According to the yardstick that measures a man in feet and inches, he stood six and two, but according to the benchmark that measures a man against his peers, Hughes Lévesque stood alone.
The evening’s shadows and the cooling night air made turning back toward San Antonio an easy decision. He had departed the river town earlier that day, midmorning, half sober, and fully committed to his mission of picking up a federal prisoner in Fort Worth to escort him into the waiting arms of justice in Austin, Texas.
Hughes, lean and taut with muscles firm from use, slung his saddle over his shoulder and started walking. He figured he would make it back to San Antonio by sun-up. He hadn’t gone very far before the old gelding up and died on him. It would’ve been thoughtful of him to have picked a better time than in the middle of a full gallop, Hughes thought, rubbing his sore backside. He walked with a slight limp from receiving the full impact of his landing on the hardscrabble ground.
Clouds flitted across the silvery sliver of a moon, blotting out the meager offering of light. The trail was dim and wildly inhabited by coyotes and other nocturnal creatures that prowled in the shadows. He knew he was not alone. He was being followed.
Hughes shortened his stride and emptied his mind of distractions. He slowed his breathing, filling his lungs with the pungent warmth of the night, taking notice of the new smell that hung heavy in the thick, humid air. He detected the smell of a group of horses flanking his right—more than one mare was in heat. The riders wore buckskin leggings, just like Okwara used to. Hughes couldn’t mistake the odor of horse sweat on oiled deerskin leather.
Okwara, the skills you taught me still come in handy, old fr
iend.
His eyes darted left and right in a visual sweep of things that moved in the shadows. Lying to the side of the trail, a branch broken off of a mesquite tree emerged in his peripheral vision. A fresh break. He scooped it up without changing his stride, snapping off a long green thorn from the branch to pick at the dirt embedded under his fingernails.
The call of an Eastern Screech Owl caused him to shake his head—it should have been the sound of a Great Horned Owl in these parts. A coyote yipped. Another yipped its response. Hughes considered throwing his own “yip” to the wind to see what might happen. He tossed the mesquite thorn aside.
Taking stock of his weapons, he felt the heft of the Winchester repeating rifle hanging from his shoulder, designed by longtime family friend Benjamin Henry. It was one of the first models produced, and Hughes’s father had it engraved with the family crest and a miniature scene of their sugarcane plantation as a special gift for his eighteenth birthday. The engraving was a nice touch, but it was etched with guilt. His father would have tried anything to keep Hughes marching in his footsteps.
The carved antler hilt of his large hunting knife pressed against his lower back and was concealed under his vest, while his favorite knife, the much smaller Rezin Bowie, he kept strapped to his leg inside his right boot. It pinched and chaffed when he walked, but knowing it was there comforted Hughes like a double shot of whiskey. Usually in the saddle and not walking like some farmer, he could ignore the momentary distress.
Both of the .44-caliber black powder revolving pistols holstered at each hip held full rounds, as did his .36-caliber Navy Colt, which he kept tucked inside his vest in a pocket hidden in the lining. The secret pocket was made of red velvet, crafted and sewn in by his favorite whore, Lydia, whom he thought of each time he pulled on his vest and tucked in his pistol.
Hughes dropped to the ground on all fours just as he heard the unmistakable sound of a rope hissing and slicing through the air. He dodged the first lasso, but the second, third, and fourth found their target. Yanked to the ground, he kicked like a wildcat, but his arms were bound tight to his sides. He scrambled to his feet but was snatched back down to the ground, again and again.
“A man is no match for four ropes, Texas Ranger.” Except for the words “Texas Ranger,” which were pronounced with perfect English and polished with a soft drawl, the rest was the unmistakable guttural language of the Comanche.
“I count three ropes on me,” said Hughes, speaking fluent Comanche in return. “The first was thrown too high and too quick. I could give you girls some lessons on lassoing. Next time, you’d need one good rope to take down your man instead of three or four.”
A dark figure sitting on a white horse rode into view, coming within a breath of where Hughes lay on the ground. The horse almost stepped on him. Hughes didn’t flinch.
The bare-chested rider wore beaded, fringed buckskin leggings. Black and red paint evenly divided his face left from right through the midline of his strong, straight nose. His horse bore red and yellow handprints on each hip, the mane and tail adorned with eagle feathers to match those woven in the rider’s long black hair.
“Get up, Texas Ranger.”
Hughes scrambled to his feet, the tight ropes biting into his arms. He looked around, tried to assess how many figures on horseback he could see. Four throwing ropes at him, and the one on the white horse in front made five. No telling how many others were hiding in the shadows.
The mounted Indians on the other end of the ropes that bound his arms stepped their horses closer, giving some slack to the bindings.
“I thought we had you, Texas Ranger, back when your horse grew tired of carrying you and decided to die instead. But you are quick like a cat and smart like a fox. You hid yourself away until the moon smiled. Then you came out of your hiding place to travel in the dark, like a wolf.”
“Maybe I am a wolf,” said Hughes “A wolf in a man’s body.”
The Indian dismounted in one fluid movement, sweeping his right leg forward and over the horse’s neck, dropping to the ground. Walking up, he pulled the badge from Hughes’s vest, tossing it to the man behind him who let out a high-pitched laugh as he fastened it to the rawhide catch-rope around his horse’s neck. “Are you the Texas Ranger they call Hughes Lévesque?” he asked, now speaking fluent English.
“At your service.” Hughes gave a slight nod.
Studying him for a moment, the Indian walked around him, taking his time, running a finger down the rifle that hung useless and bound to Hughes’s side. Coming back in front of Hughes, they stood toe to toe, equal in height. He took a hard hold of Hughes’s chin, turning his face left and right, looking deep into his eyes as if divining a secret. “Yes. I’ve heard stories about you. We call you Asgaya gago agatiha gudodi waya agatoli. Man Who Sees With Wolf Eyes.”
“You should call me Waya Agatoli, for short. Be easier to remember.”
Hughes had heard the stories, too. His light, amber-colored eyes sparked many discussions, giving way to his Lahcotah/Siouan nickname. Who started it or how it began, he didn’t know, but a man who saw with wolf eyes would be respected and revered, if not feared, in most tribes.
“Do you know who I am?” The handsome Comanche with the Parisian nose and gray eyes thumped his bare chest with his hands flat, opening his palms outward, showing he held no weapon.
“I’ve heard about you, too,” said Hughes, looking him in the eye. “I believe you are the infamous Isa-tai, also known as Coyote Vagina.”
High-pitched laughter rippled through the mounted warriors, who quickly fell silent except for one. The squat, pudgy Indian hooted, cackled, and pointed. His uncontrolled amusement caused him to list sideways in a precarious slant that threatened to tumble him from his horse.
In a flash, the Indian standing in front of Hughes spun around on his heels, drew a knife from his waistband, and then hurled the gleaming blade at the laughing warrior. His life ended, his laughter silenced, in that one fluid move.
The large, barrel-chested Indian turned back to look at Hughes with eyes that showed no emotion. Gesturing over his shoulder with his chin, he said with casual indifference, “He was Coyote Vagina. Now he’s No More.”
“Much to No More’s misfortune.” Hughes looked over at the dead Indian lying on the ground whose blood had begun to pool dark and wet beneath him. “I had you mixed up. You must be Quanah, Chief of the Noconis.”
“At your service.” Quanah gave a slight nod.
“It must get tiresome, a great Indian chief like you, fighting unworthy opponents like that dead man there.”
“That was no fight. I just killed him. I was tired of the way he laughed. I was tired of him stealing my breathing air, which is a gift to me from the Spirit of the Trees.”
Think fast, Hughes, or you’re a dead man. “Well, it’s the Spirit of the Stars that’s offering you a gift tonight.” Hughes, his voice calm and steady, kept his wolf eyes focused on Quanah.
“What does a white man know about the Spirit of the Stars?”
“The star is a symbol I wear as my badge. But you took my star away. Now, I’m like the man in the moon. And like the stars that outnumber the moon up in the heavens, I’m also outnumbered down here on the ground.”
“And that is my gift?” Quanah snorted. “We are the many stars outnumbering your moon?”
“Look up at the moon, Chief. See how the one moon still outshines the many stars? Your gift tonight is the chance, the rare chance, to outshine the moon.”
“You speak like a crazy man. How does a star outshine the moon?”
“By overpowering it. The star needs a worthy opponent for its true glory to shine. I’m that worthy opponent. Loosen these ropes, then you and I go hand-to-hand, mano-a-mano. If I win, I walk away free. If you win, your star will shine bright and you can do whatever you want to with me. But you won’t have to rack your brain deciding which of your favorite torture tricks to play on me. This fight I’ll win.”
“You spe
ak the bold talk of a man who is used to winning. But my ropes beat you. I could cut your heart out now and be done with it,” Quanah said. “Feed it to you before the blood stops pumping.”
“Where’s the sport in that?” Hughes challenged. “A man doesn’t come along very often who’s worthy of you. Show your warriors what a heroic leader they have, one who’s not afraid to defy the moon for its luster.”
“I have nothing more to prove to my men,” said Quanah, walking past Hughes to converse with his three mounted warriors, stepping around the dead man on the ground. They conversed in their native tongue, several times looking over and laughing at Hughes.
Hughes listened intently, picking up a few words that he could make out—waya agatoli, hanhepi wi, unze. Sees with wolf eyes, something about either the moon or his anus. Whatever they were discussing, he just wanted his ass out of this mess and to not lose his scalp in the process.
Quanah returned to where Hughes stood tied. “I will take you up on your challenge because I am bored. Yours is an interesting proposition, one I’ve never encountered.” He gestured to the Indians behind him to loosen the lassoes from around Hughes. “No guns. One hand weapon. If you win and take my life, my men will spare yours and let you walk free. If I win, I will add your scalp to the ones hanging from my lance.”
Hughes shook the ropes off his arms and tossed his guns aside. “Your warriors will consider it bad pejuta for their leader to be outmaneuvered and die in front of their eyes. Seeing bad medicine, they’ll high-tail it out of here to the Llano Estacado, where they left their fat kids and ugly squaws.”
Like an animal circling his prey, Quanah began to pace, tossing his tomahawk back and forth from hand to hand. “You won’t have to figure anything after you’re dead. I’ll let my warriors take your body back to their fat kids and ugly squaws for them to eat. They’ll use your intestines to lace their moccasins.”
With his hunting knife gripped in his right hand, Hughes faced the chief of the Comanche, pacing, circling, crouching low. Hughes’s knife was long enough to be drawn as a sword, heavy enough to be used as a club, and sharp enough to penetrate bone.
