by Win Blevins
Then Smith walked the hundred yards to see if the poor devil was all right. But Ecclesiastes Ratz, who hadn’t been all right for years, had taken leave of this world. Strained to support his three hundred pounds even standing still, his boiler had burst.
Smith found no pulse and no heartbeat and no breath. He folded the man’s arms over his chest.
He walked back to the wagon where the girl squatted. Before he could get a word out, the girl declared, “I’m yourn now.” When the Indians looked puzzled, she made signs: Me. You.
Oh, darn it, Hindy realized, the signs didn’t make any sense. “I’m yourn!” she said loudly. She thought about it for a moment. “Squaw belong to braves!”
Hindy Ratz wasn’t afraid. The Indians would either kill her or they wouldn’t. Would rape her or they wouldn’t. Would take her home as a squaw, or they wouldn’t. There was no place to run and no place to hide. Hindy was what life had made her, a fourteen-year-old fatalist.
Why not a fatalist? Hindy had lived for more than a year now, ever since her ma died in Topeka, with a crazy man. Ecclesiastes Ratz kept hearing call after call from the Lord, and he followed the calls across the vast and empty plains like vagrant winds that sometimes blow here and sometimes blow yonder but always blow.
From town to town they went, sleeping in the back of the wagon, eating whenever someone would stake them to a meal, talking about the dark meanings of the riper passages in the Book of Revelation. The Reverend Ratz knew the King James Version of the Bible the way the actors of his time and place knew Shakespeare, which is to say in bits and speeches quite unrelated to the larger whole, such as the book the words might have come from or the prophet who might have spoken them. But the reverend had a fecund imagination and could hold forth for hours on the meaning of a single phrase.
Some people cottoned to the Reverend Ratz’s style of exegesis and would put something in the hat he passed. An occasional widow was moved to supply him with an entire sack of flour, or similar bounty. But most of the Reverend Ratz’s admirers were only the poor, the disenfranchised, the people society had no place for. So Hindy was as likely to find kernels of corn in the hat as small coins. She was grateful for the corn, as a supplement to her irregular meals.
During their year on the road the Reverend Ratz had become more and more spiritual. That meant he forgot to pass the hat half the time. Forgot to clean himself. Forgot to eat—even at three hundred pounds, he’d lost fifty since Hindy’s ma died. Forgot, literally, to come in out of the rain. And kept hearing those winds that sent them on cross-country gallivants through territory unspoiled by roads. The reverend didn’t believe in taking the roundabout route to do the Lord’s will. As a result he and Hindy pushed their wagon up the steep sides of many a gully and out of lots of axle-deep sand.
Hindy didn’t know how they’d survived a whole year. She’d long since, without telling Pa, taken to begging for food, and even stealing. She would have done anything she could think of to get a little less miserable in this world. In particular, Pa always warned her to beware of lustful men, who only wanted to take her to bed. That became her heart-of-hearts hope—a bed sounded warm and dry. Compared to the back of the wagon, it would surely be soft. She took to letting her bottom sashay a little extra when a man might be looking. But she never got so much as a lecherous whistle.
So, even looking at these verminous Indians, the girl figured her lot couldn’t get much lower. In one way it would probably be better. The Indians might be vermin, as Pa said, but they probably weren’t crazy.
“Me yourn!” she hollered, as though volume would clear the language hurdle. “Take squaw!” If she thought it would have helped, she would have dropped her drawers.
So she was flabbergasted when the young Indian, the one who’d gone rolling like a wheel, said politely, “Don’t be afraid. We’ll help you.”
His English sure didn’t sound broken—it sounded right proper.
“Is that man your father?” the young Indian asked, nodding toward the fallen Reverend Ratz.
“That’s Pa,” Hindy said meekly.
“I’m sorry,” the Indian said. “He’s dead. His wounds were nothing, but his heart gave out.”
“Could you let me have something to eat?” Hindy asked.
Chapter 2
Smith just reined in his big, clumsy horse and sat and looked disgustedly at Sings Wolf. Now, he said to himself, we’re ass-deep in manure.
The three scouts also sat their horses still, there on the rock outcropping, their carbines held steady on Smith, Sings Wolf, and Hindy. Two white men and a breed, from their hands. Since they were silhouetted against the late-afternoon sun, Smith couldn’t see their faces.
How had the soldiers seen them and they not seen the soldiers? How had Smith and Sings Wolf gotten so sloppy? Smith felt old and not up to the game.
“Throw your weapons on the ground and dismount,” said a metallic voice. “Now!”
Another voice barked the same words in broken Cheyenne. So, thought Smith, one of them knows something. He looked hard at the man on the right, the one who spoke the Cheyenne words. He didn’t recognize him. Jesus, but the bastard had an arrogant face.
Smith leaned over and set the butt of his .44 on the ground and let the rifle fall as softly as he could.
So now they would get arrested for kidnapping Hindy and killing her dad. They’d likely be shot.
Sings Wolf didn’t make a move to drop his rifle, but Smith went ahead and slid off the horse. At last Sings Wolf did the same.
They had rested for two hours, but in the cottonwoods, not in Ratz’s crazy campsite in the open with no water and no shelter from the wind. Hindy had eaten all they’d let her have and begged for more. Smith gathered that she was relieved to be with someone other than her father, anyone else, redskin or white. From what she said about her pa, he understood why. She was a lively little critter, and Smith couldn’t help liking her.
But Smith was considerably irked. The reverend had killed Smith’s horse. The wagon was useless—where they were headed, it would only slow them up. The reverend’s supplies were barely worth taking, some sugar and half a sack of cornmeal. The shotgun would come in handy. So they put Smith’s saddle on one of the draft animals for Hindy and Smith rode the other bareback. He wasn’t as comfortable on the clumsy beast without stirrups, and Hindy probably couldn’t keep up, so they were slowed down.
Sings Wolf said in Cheyenne that they’d get in trouble for taking the girl along.
But what else could they do?
Just to the nearest farm or ranch, Smith said.
And now they would keep breath and body together only if Hindy Ratz vouched for them. Smith felt a little edgy about having his life in the hands of a kid he didn’t really know—a white kid who had a crazy father and might have crazy fears about Indians. He felt very, very edgy about having his life in the hands of United States soldiers, any United States soldiers. It wouldn’t do to admit that he especially mistrusted the half-breed.
“Gut evening, Mrs. Maclean,” said Dieter Richtarsch. He strode from the house onto the porch with the air of a confident man, intending to lift the spirits of his patient. And he was confident, but not about this patient.
Elaine Maclean put down her book. “Good evening, Dr. Richtarsch,” she replied. “It’s good to see you.” She’d seen him both days since Adam left, in fact. Though he came from the fort to check on her, she had the impression that the good doctor also liked the nightlife in Dodge City. Well, she told herself, an army mess wasn’t much, and Dodge City was said to provide fancy meals. It also provided women. Fran Wockerly—Elaine had finally found out her first name—said Dr. Richtarsch was fond of the fleshpots.
Richtarsch looked at his mechanism for traction, which seemed to be in perfect order, the weight pulling properly. He drew her nightgown up and removed the splint. Something in the demeanor of this particular woman made him aware of the routine act of compromising her modesty. She had style, this pa
rticular New Englander—that was good.
He removed the dressing and palpated the area of the break delicately, trying not to hurt the patient or to reopen her wound. The bones seemed to be in good order. A nasty-looking wound, though, all jagged. Human flesh was really not a very durable commodity. Rut the wound looked OK. He applied more yeast with elm bark and charcoal and put on a new dressing.
The wound was beginning to hint that it might give trouble. He sniffed at it. He couldn’t detect bacteria in this one by sniffing—sometimes he could, but not this time. He noted to himself that the area was inflamed and warm to the touch. He thought it was infected. The question was whether the woman could throw off the infection.
He counted. Six days since she got injured. That was a little long, but possible for infection still to show itself. He felt curious about the infection—how did she get the bacteria? Rut there was no way to know. Especially when she was handled by savages. Maclean might have gone through medical training, but in Richtarsch’s professional opinion you never knew about a savage. Not his fault, of course. Savages were genetically different, as proven by phrenology
“Well, you’re coming along nicely,” the doctor assured Mrs. Maclean. “Some question of infection in your calf, but you are a strong young woman—you can throw it off.”
“I intend to,” she said.
“What are you reading?” He spoke to her with deliberate cheerfulness.
“Moore,” she said. The Irish poet Thomas Moore was in vogue in the United States those days. “I’m so lucky that Mrs. Wockerly had this book.”
“Yes,” said Richtarsch sagely. It didn’t do to let the Americans think you were a dummkopf, which they usually did if you spoke with an accent. So he sang one line: “Believe me if all those endearing young charms.” Everyone knew the song based on Moore’s verse.
That seemed to please the patient. She said, “My favorite is,
“At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remember’d even in the sky.”
Richtarsch looked at her approvingly, shaking his head. He noticed the lines had something to do with a lost love, and wondered if she was thinking of her husband. Long gone, that one, Richtarsch thought. A barbarian—what can you expect? Richtarsch was worried about the effect Maclean’s abandonment might have on his patient.
She’s a whipcracker, though. He’d come across them before, these New England women with determination in their blood. Tough. Unstoppable. Admirable. Too bad they didn’t realize this aggressiveness was so unappealing in a woman. And this one was so schön. She’ll make some man a fine—he chuckled to himself—boss.
He stood up to go. “You’re a strong, healthy, and spirited young woman,” he said. “You’ll do well. I shall return to see you tomorrow. We’re keeping a close eye on that little infection.” He went to die outside door, apparently done with his visit to Dr. and Mrs. Wockerly.
“Thank you, Dr. Richtarsch. You’re good to sit with me. I miss having company.”
The German doctor smiled, executed a short, tight bow, and went out.
And when, Elaine thought, will my juggler come to me? She didn’t blame him—she understood. She just missed him. It was terrible how much she missed him. And maybe she didn’t really understand. She just wanted Adam.
Chapter 3
Smith heard a scraping noise, something on cloth. Heavy cloth—canvas! In Hindy’s dog tent.
And then a stifled squeak.
His stomach turned nauseatingly. He knew what it was. Rape. The son of a bitch was raping Hindy. That bastard Nelly Burns.
Smith flopped, hard. He was wrapped in a tarpaulin and bound and gagged and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do. Except flop around in the dark and kick and make noise and wake somebody up and …
Now he knew why that bastard put Hindy in a tent—and Smith had thought stupidly that Burns was acting decent to her.
Smith lurched as hard as he could toward the tent—maybe he could knock the goddamn thing down—and found himself looking into Calling Eagle’s eyes.
What remarkable eyes. Calling Eagle heard the sounds, too, and knew what they meant. Her eyes were deep and still and aware, accepting the pain of the world.
Calling Eagle! He meant Sings Wolf. Not his grandmother, his grandfather. But Sings Wolf was unsexed now, wrapped in the heavy tarpaulin from foot to mouth, almost nothing but eyes and hair showing. Smith congratulated himself yesterday for not once failing to call her by her new name, Sings Wolf. Then it occurred to him that he was nonetheless thinking of Sings Wolf as her.
But Smith wasn’t a damn bit interested in being accepting about this pain or any other. That son of a bitch was violating Hindy!
He gyrated around and kicked and banged his back against the ground—he got into a frenzy of kicking and banging—and it made no difference at all. Until he heard the tent flap move.
What he saw was the half-breed Nelly Burns looking at him down the barrel of a Navy .36. And holding his pants up with one hand. And smiling viciously.
“Lucky you didn’t stir anybody, Doctor. I’d blow your nose out through the back side of your skull.”
Smith lay still. Nelly Burns was a mad dog, and there was no sense getting bit.
Smith could hear Hindy mewling softly now.
Burns pulled his pants up and stuck his revolver into the waist. “I’m looking forward to seeing you die, though, you and Grandpa there. We’ll even do it legal, soon as Lieutenant Garber comes up. Don’t it make you feel better to die legal?”
The three scouts had made camp here expecting the main column to come up. But for some reason it hadn’t, only several more scouts. They’d gone back to find out why, leaving the three captors here with their prisoners.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you beg, Doctor, and shit your breechcloth, Doctor, and seeing the coyotes sniff your guts.” Burns cackled, shaking his head at Smith. His left eye opened oddly, giving him a know-it-all look.
Smith supposed it was just as well he was gagged. No sense getting shot for cussing Burns, or spitting on him.
The scout went and sat against a tree, the only tree for miles around on this plain. It was Burns’s watch. Soft sobbing came from the dog tent. Yes. Smith was better off gagged. No words, but when the time came, he would kill Nelly Burns.
Smith had picked up some facts from the scouts, and they all pleased him. This Garber was in command because Colonel Lewis was dead. The soldiers had attacked the people in some hills this side of the Smoky Hill River, and the Cheyennes had driven them off. Colonel Lewis, sure enough, had made good on his promise to annihilate the Cheyennes or die trying.
Smith was beginning to believe in a kind of mad destiny. It seemed to be the Cheyennes’ fate to win battles in spite of overwhelming odds. It looked like their destiny to get back home to Powder River country. Unbelievable, but he was coming to believe it.
Not that Smith would necessarily live to get home. This damn Burns was likely enough to kill him. Smith had known men like Burns all his life, border scum, men who felt loyalty to no community, no tribe, no nation, no nothing. Men who were worse than animals because they liked to torture and maim and kill. Men like Owen Mackenzie, who killed Smith’s father Mac and brother Thomas, men like Nelly Burns.
Of course, Burns liked to mock Smith with the fact that they were both half-breeds. Burns was half-Pawnee—he said his father had been a trader to the Pawnees. So Smith let himself indulge in the age-old Cheyenne hatred for Pawnees.
The other scouts weren’t bad men, the ones headed back to the main column or the two in the other dog tent. None of them was army. The army used old-hand frontiersmen to figure out where it was going on the plains and in the deserts and mountains. None of them
had much civilization. But only Burns was a mad dog.
If Burns didn’t kill Smith and Sings Wolf, Lieutenant Garber might well have them executed. Smith pondered the old preacher’s body back there. Since they hadn’t had a shovel, they hadn’t buried him, just covered him with rocks. If Hindy told the soldiers where her father was, Smith and Sings Wolf were dead. Hell, she didn’t have to tell them—the wagon sat there like a tombstone, marking the spot.
Maybe Garber would judge them guilty on the face of it anyway: Smith and Sings Wolf had stolen the draft animals and kidnapped Hindy. If she claimed she’d gone along willingly, they’d think her horrible experiences had warped her mind.
And maybe they had. Her father, the Reverend Ratz, had made a good start at it—maybe this rape had finished the job. Smith couldn’t hear Hindy now. He would have felt better if he could hear her crying, for silence was worse than her sobs. Maybe Hindy was ruined.
Elaine wrote in a slanted, efficient hand, not an ornate one like her sister Dora’s. Yet Elaine’s handwriting was attractive if the reader saw beauty in polished simplicity.
She was writing to her sister rather than her mother. She knew that Dora would inform Mother right away, and Elaine wanted Mother to know. But Elaine couldn’t name all the terms of life in this place to her mother. Now that, she realized, is an attitude Mother would not approve of. Nevertheless …
She dated her letter the first day of October, 1878, and pitched in. She picked up where her last letter left off—how the fight at Turkey Springs turned out OK, like violence among children, much declamation, little damage. She felt guilty for this misrepresentation, but it was literally true, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell Dora how she felt about it.
She voiced eloquently her admiration for the toughness of Rain, who bore a child alone and in desperate circumstances, and now was her sister. She mentioned lightly the superstition that so dominated the girl’s mind that she could believe a soldier who watched her bear the child was a spirit.
