by Win Blevins
She simply clumsied to the bottom of the little steps—what choice did she have? Standing there getting her composure back, she saw a shadowy figure behind the curtains in the window next door. Well, she was probably a neighborhood curiosity. Strange that she’d never seen the children playing out near her porch again.
She poked her way to the road on her crutches, now rather proud of the way she maneuvered. She was swift to heal, Dr. Richtarsch said, and remarkable at rehabilitation—“amazingly dedicated,” in his words.
The sheriff stayed in the road by the surrey while she crutched her way across the little patch of lawn, its grasses browned by the late-autumn cold. The surrey had been his idea. When she tired, she could sit in the little carriage and be driven back. She knew she might tire in a block, but suspected she would be good for a mile, perhaps farther. She thought she was sneaky strong.
When she got to the carriage, she beamed at Sheriff Masterson. Why not beam? She felt like a child on a lark. Her hair was ugly at shoulder length, but it was nicely brushed out. She was going out on the town, sort of. She wished her escort were Adam, but at least the sheriff was a good-looking man.
She nudged the thought of Adam out of her head—she was angry at him. Why had he been out of touch for nearly eight weeks? If he still wanted her, he’d have been in touch somehow, by telegraph, at least. She wondered whether Cheyenne culture taught casualness about marriage. When you can have three or four wives, how much difference can one make?
But she had no intention of doing what everyone hinted at—consider the facts available, and face them. As they put it. She would have her husband back. When she found a way to bear letting him see her crippled.
She grasped the saddle horn, handed Sheriff Masterson her crutches, and he set them in the surrey. She was grateful that he had been thoughtful enough to let her gimp her own way across, not supported by a man. Evidently he wasn’t going to fuss over her, and that would be splendid.
She reached out and gripped the sheriff by his shoulders. He gave her a mischievous grin, took her firmly by the waist, and—here came the dicey part—gave her a good hoist into the saddle.
First pleasant surprise: It didn’t hurt yet, or not more than a twinge. She held to the saddle horn. She got her left foot into the stirrup and her knee braced against the leaping horn. That was easy. Then she laid her stump over the higher horn, which supported her leg just above the knee.
She put some pressure against the horn—that would be her cross to bear. Whoa! It was going to hurt. She pushed away the sad memory of learning to ride under Adam’s tutelage and thought of exactly what exertions would be needed to ride the horse. Yes, she recalled, the pressure on the horns fluctuated with the motion of the horse’s back. It peaked when … Ow! She wouldn’t be able to do that today.
“Sheriff,” she said, “perhaps today if you’d just lead her. We could stay right in this street.” So much for a mile. So much for sneaky strong.
The sheriff nodded and smiled. Elaine noticed that he liked to look a lot and say little, and constantly made his own quiet judgments.
She took in her breath and gave a fair squeeze against the horns.
God! She nearly blacked out. She damn near fell off.
Sheriff Masterson quickly supported her by the waist with both hands. She used his forearms, forearms as thick as Smith’s on a much shorter man, and got her seat back.
She really thought she couldn’t do it.
She got her breath. So, if she couldn’t, she would just fall. She’d fallen off a horse before. She refused to be stymied by something as simple as pain.
She noticed Masterson’s face. He just watched her, his cool, gray eyes taking in everything, curious, interested, but without compassion. What an odd man, she thought, admirable in his way, but quite cold.
Of course, she supposed his interest in her was seduction. Certainly not passion. No, a detached and amused wondering if he could seduce her. She imagined this sort of man made some gesture in the direction of every half-suitable woman he met. Perhaps in her case he was also curious about her … handicap. She refused to contemplate the ugliness of that sort of interest.
In any case, she thought, he would make his effort, and with a certain style. It would do him no good. Right now she didn’t want warmth or even real friendship from a man, and certainly not morbid curiosity about her stump.
Fran had told her that Sheriff Masterson had shot and killed a man over a dance-hall girl. Elaine thought he could. He also had a reputation as an avid gambler, not calculating, but daring, full of bluffs and high spirits.
“If you’ll lead, please.”
He untied the reins from the surrey, looked back to her to check, and started slowly down the road.
She lurched and had to grip with her legs—Oh! She gasped for breath through the pain and choked back a cry. After a moment she wiped the tears from her eyes and forced herself to look ahead. She abandoned all pretense about sitting with style, and held on to the cantle and the saddle horn with all her might. The sheriff appeared not to have noticed her little upset, but she thought that was just his politeness, for he noticed everything. She was grateful.
They got to the intersection at Front Street. Sheriff Masterson looked out sharply for traffic, circled the horse slowly in the larger street, and headed back toward the Wockerley house. Elaine noticed that heads on Front Street turned toward the lady being led around by the sheriff.
No doubt most of those heads wondered who the lady was. No doubt some of them knew—the fool who went to the Injuns and paid a leg for her trouble. No doubt tongues would wag.
Well, considering that right now she felt as though she couldn’t attract flies, that was not unflattering. The tongues could do all the scandal-mongering they liked.
The sheriff stopped the horse by the surrey, tied the reins without a word, and lifted his hands to help her down. She slid to him gratefully. She’d have to be careful of this getting off the horse, or she would end up in his arms in a suggestive way. She preferred to be careful.
He handed her the crutches, she pegged across the lawn, and at the stoop he held the door for her. “Thank you for your courtesy, Sheriff,” she said with a smile, which took some effort.
Bat Masterson gave her that devil-may-care grin back, wheeled, and was off. To your gambling dens, Sheriff? To your sporting women? Too bad. He wasn’t an unattractive man.
In the hard-face moon, which the white men called November, the Human Beings hidden in Lost Chokecherry Valley got bad news, and then a great stroke of luck.
The bad news came by messenger from Morning Star. During the big blizzard near the end of October, his people were captured by soldiers and herded to Fort Robinson. Instead of joining Red Cloud’s people, they had become prisoners at the fort. No one knew what would happen. The soldiers talked of escorting them back south to Indian territory, but were waiting for instructions from Washington City. The people would not go back, said the messengers, no matter what the whites said or did. They preferred to fight and die at Fort Robinson, if necessary.
Little Wolf smoked his pipe in silence over this news. Smith guessed the Sweet Medicine chief found it too sad for comment. If the soldiers were adamant, and the people were adamant, the snow would turn red, and the earth beneath would be thawed by warm blood.
Smith thought how glad he was that his family was here, in Nebraska. True, they were not yet home—home to Powder River, home where he was raised, home to both his mothers. True, they were hungry and cold. But they weren’t penned up in some fort, waiting for some soldiers to tell them whether they could live.
The stroke of luck came shortly after the bad news. The scouts spotted a great, dark line coming from the north. Once they would have thought, buffalo. Now they thought, soldiers. The women began packing their few belongings. But then Raven saw the advancing line for what it was—elk. A huge, migrating herd of elk.
Raven directed everyone to the sand pass where the elk always used to cross. They wai
ted until the leaders got down into the gully and began to fire—arrows and spears only, no guns. Soon elk fell over the bodies of the beasts in front of them.
Little Wolf and other older men kept a close watch, for the situation was very dangerous. Maybe soldiers were chasing the herd. Maybe soldiers would spot the scavenger birds over the carrion. Little Wolf directed the women with packs of meat to go back toward the Lost Chokecherry Valley by a roundabout route to the north, misleading any trackers.
Though no longer a first-rate shot with an arrow, Smith downed two cows and a bull. His women hurried out to skin them, grinning irrepressibly. Bloodthirsty bitches, ain’t they? Smith commented teasingly to himself. Then he acted like a veho—he went to help them get the meat packed and get out of here. This place was likely to be trouble, one way or another. The soldiers would either come on them here or spot the carrion birds above the leavings and follow the people’s tracks back to the valley.
He was as glad as his women were for the elk. The meat would get them through the winter. Just as important for their spirits, he thought, were the elk teeth. Cheyenne women decorated their fancy dresses with elk teeth, but for a long time now his mother had been poor as a white woman. Smith would give the teeth from one animal to Lisette, from one to Rain, the poor creature, and from one to Hindy, her first elk teeth. And you’ll make a fine savage yet, girl, Smith thought.
Then came another miracle. As the people hurried off with the meat, snow began to fall, first gently, then thickly.
Damn, thought Smith profanely, Maheo is with us.
The snow would cover their tracks. Better yet, it would cover the carcasses and entrails and keep the carrion-eaters away. There would be no high-circling buzzards for the soldiers to see.
That night the Tsistsistas-Suhtaio feasted. Every fire had meat aplenty. Not buffalo, true, but the elk was fat for the coming winter, and some of the people wondered aloud if even buffalo was so good. Smith’s women roasted the guts first on sticks over the open fire, and then the ribs, the tongues cooking for later. Smith loved ribs—he liked the feeling of gnawing straight off a bone, stripping the last, clinging fragments with his teeth. It made him want to grunt mockingly, “I am animal. Good.”
After supper, and after Smith smoked a little kinnikinnick, Lisette came and sat beside him and put an arm around his waist and nuzzled his shoulder with her head. She could act familiar—she was his mother, and he didn’t have a sits-beside-him wife, not here. Besides, Lisette had always done what she wanted. He had heard tales about her sexual explorations when she was a young woman. He looked into her face. She was still damned attractive, fifty years old or not.
“You need a wife,” she said in English.
Smith laughed and put his arm around her teasingly.
She chuckled and said softly, “Rain needs a husband.” He was glad she’d chosen English. He didn’t want Rain to hear.
It had occurred to him. Rain was the widow of his mother Annemarie’s brother Red Hand, she had no family living, the union would be suitable in every way, and he had a responsibility to her. Besides, she was lovely.
He had also made up his mind about it. “I have considered,” he said to his mother, “and decided against it.”
That was enough. Even Cheyenne mothers listened when their grown sons spoke like that. She stayed leaning against him, though. Smith luxuriated in his full belly and the closeness of his mother.
The next morning he took Lisette aside and said, “My family is now fed for the winter. All the people are fed.” Since they didn’t have to hunt, he went on, but could stay hidden in the valley, the danger from soldiers would be slight.
He thought with a sneaky smile of what he had decided to do. A couple of hundred miles’ ride, or more, but so what? It was crazy, but he loved it. He said, “I am going to Dodge City.” He didn’t add, “To see Elaine.”
Early in the big hard-face moon, which the whites called December, and which Dr. Adam Smith Maclean called by either name, according to circumstance and mood, a scout rode down Front Street leading an extra mount, both cavalry horses. Past the Alamo he came, a saloon popular with Texas cow-boys, past the Opera House Saloon, and past the Lady Gay Dance Hall. All three entertainment palaces were empty now that the cattle-drive season was over. He turned onto a side street and tied his horses opposite the porch of a self-consciously proper house. He went up to the porch door and rapped firmly. He appeared to be looking in the big windows that fronted the porch.
The plump young woman in the house next door, Sue Loveday, eyed the scout with raging curiosity—her life was knowing what went on in the neighborhood—and quickly made a shrewd guess about who this immensely tall scout was. She smiled to herself. Had her children been home to see, they would have seen on their mother’s face, with the emotional perceptiveness children have, a fluid wash of delight and malice.
Sue reached for her shawl. There was no time to lose. The poor man.
Through the front door she waddled hurriedly, but once outside she affected the air of a woman out for a stroll on a delightful Indian-summer afternoon. She saw out of the corner of her eye that the scout now had his nose to a window, his hands blinkering his eyes. The poor man.
She slowed her walk carelessly. When he turned away from the window, she started, as though she hadn’t seen him until that moment. Then she stopped and spread the look of the uninvolved but sincerely concerned across her round face. “Oh!” she cried. “Dr. Maclean?”
“Yes, madam,” Smith said politely. He wondered where in hell Elaine’s belongings were. Certainly not on that bare porch. He had no attention to spare to wonder what sort of creature he faced.
“Oh, Dr. Maclean, you must be looking for your wife.”
“Yes, madam.”
“I think you’d best ask Sheriff Masterson. Two days ago I saw him help her move her things. I can’t think where she might be living.” In fact, the woman knew very well that she was at Mrs. Yancey’s boardinghouse, but Sue Loveday didn’t hand out information freely—she traded it in a delicious little game of sharp glances, vocal nuances, and expressively bitten lips.
Smith nodded gravely. Ask the sheriff. Smith was badly scared. Maybe Elaine had finished her traction and was gone back east in her splint. Gone back east for good.
Now he looked at the woman before him, her face a vivid melange of feelings he couldn’t add up. What was he to her that her eyes should be so bright, her face so florid? What was Elaine to her? Had she gotten to know Elaine—they were next-door neighbors—and come to care about her? What was she not saying? He had a strong notion that the truth was not in this woman, and he acted on that notion.
“Thank you, madam,” he said, giving the word a hoity-toity stress on the second syllable. He touched his hat brim and turned away to untie his mount.
Sue gaped at him. The man certainly didn’t show any curiosity! And about his own wife! If they were really married! A white woman to an Indian!
Sue stood there for a moment, miffed, trying to think of something more to say, something to keep the exchange going. But she was trapped by her desire to appear simply helpful, and of course not really involved.
Smith rode off toward the sheriff’s office.
“Sheriff,” said Elaine, “I’m afraid I have to stop.”
This ride was the first when they’d ventured beyond the town streets. She’d felt up to more effort, and she intended to miss no opportunity.
But now she was tired. Maybe to herself she could even say “exhausted.”
She reached out to Bat Masterson, who had come around to help her dismount. She slid off the sidesaddle half into his arms, and instead of lowering her to the road, he slid one arm behind her legs and carried her to the surrey. A little embarrassing, but very convenient, and they weren’t in public. She appreciated Bat Masterson, he of the thick, strong arms, good looks, and attentive politeness. He lifted her straight in the seat.
Dr. Richtarsch had given her the peg leg the coffi
n maker had fashioned for her, from a good piece of hardwood shipped all the way from Missouri. She could start trying the leg a little each day in a couple of weeks, he said. A fine Christmas present, then—her first steps without crutches.
The sheriff clucked to the horses, turned them in a wide arc off the road, and pointed them back toward town. The motion of the surrey jolted her, and she realized how exhausted she was—she’d exerted herself with her legs today, and now they were trembling from the effort.
She looked around at the woolen blanket the sheriff had laid on the back seat, in case it got cold, he said. But the afternoon was sunny and warm, a lovely day to be out riding.
She was tired beyond tired. Maybe she could take a little nap on the way back to town. She shouldn’t, but then she was doing so much she shouldn’t. She shouldn’t have moved into a boardinghouse where she was the lone woman. But what was she to do when she couldn’t afford to stay with the Wockerleys, and Dr. Wockerley wanted to be rid of her anyway? She shouldn’t be spending time alone with the sheriff. But he was the only friend she had, and she was very lonely. Besides, she needed to get started riding, and no woman would be strong enough to help her get mounted and dismounted.
Of course, the hens of Dodge City would say what they wanted about her consorting with a man like the sheriff. But she was married, and meant to stay that way.
She reached into the back for the folded blanket and laid it on the sheriff’s shoulder. The shoulder would make what she was going to do seem less intimate. With one shy glance up at the sheriff’s face, she laid her head on the blanket.
In two or three minutes her fatigue, the warm sun, and the motion of the buggy carried her off to sleep.
“You the sheriff?”
“Unnershuriff.”
“I’m Adam Maclean,” said Smith. “I’m looking for my wife.”
The fellow was taking his ease leaning against the front wall of the office. It was that nice a day, for December.
He gave Smith a flat look. Smith supposed he didn’t like Smith’s tone much, or the fact that he stayed on his mount. If a white man spoke to the undersheriff from horseback, he was powerful and got the bended knee. If an Indian did it, scout or not, he was insolent.
