Silver Belles and Stetsons

by Caroline Clemmons

  With panic and dread in his heart, he remounted. Four hours to go before he rode into the sodbuster abode he called home. Would it be too late for Catherine? Somewhere between the vast plains of New Mexico and the mountainous vistas of Colorado, he realized he didn’t want to live in a world without her and the child. In such short time, how had it come to this? A year ago, hell, a week ago, he didn’t allow elusive thoughts of hope to enter his mind. He didn’t think about the possibilities of a future, other than arriving home when his stint with the army was done and wrangling horses and herding cattle again. The possibility of sharing his life with a woman didn’t occur to him. Nor did he think he had the mental strength to climb out of the cesspit he’d fallen into after losing his wife and child a decade ago.

  Catherine brought a semblance of peace to his troubled soul. She forced him to take a long, hard look at resiliency, determination and the strength to rise above your current situation and look to the future, however unpredictable. In an acorn shell, he felt alive again. He wasn’t just breathing, putting one foot in front of the other, but looking forward to seeing the sun come up tomorrow. The transformation astounded him.

  Head down against the chill night air, he urged Bandit forward. Hiamovi would be waiting at the ranch. He would know how to save her.

  Chapter Five

  An old man with long silver plaits draped over his shoulders emerged from the barn when Elam rode in. A blue bandana adorned Hiamovi’s forehead and weathered moccasins hugged his doeskin leggings. Ten years ago, the proud warrior of the Cheyenne tribe lived on the outskirts of the new settlement that had sprung up near the Arkansas headwaters. Elam had crossed his path several times when he went into town for supplies and stopped once or twice to make small-talk with the man. On his way home one day, he heard a noise in the back of the wagon. When he craned his neck to investigate, Hiamovi had climbed aboard; a blanket and an old metal cook pot his only possessions.

  After Belinda and his daughter died, Elam decided to join the army, get as far away from the haunting memories as possible. He left the ranch in Hiamovi’s hands, knowing he could trust him more than any white man he’d known. The ranch was the closest thing to the old Indian’s former way of life, before the white man came and took everything away from them that is.

  If Hiamovi was surprised to see him, he didn’t show it. Course, his creviced face was always impassive and staid. Elam imagined after everything he’d seen in his long life, nothing fazed him.

  Hiamovi walked to Bandit, stroked his muzzle and then peered over Elam’s shoulder when the baby let out a rowdy cry.

  Elam scrambled down from his horse. “Injured woman. I need your help.”

  Hiamovi shuffled after him, dropped to a knee and took in the scene. With gentle fingers, he untied the rag from her wound and made a dour face.

  Elam’s heart thudded. “I don’t like that look.”

  “Animal bite.”

  “Wolf…a pack of wolves attacked her. One got her in the arm before I-I could….”

  Hiamovi lifted one corner of the blanket, looked at Wolf-dog and clucked his tongue. Turning his focus back to the woman again, he plucked the baby from her chest and held the boy up to his face. “Hungry.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure he is. We need to place him at her—”

  The old man shook his head. “Milk gone.”

  “What? You mean she can’t breastfeed him anymore?”

  “Goats feed him.”

  Elam glanced to the corral where the old man kept his goats. “Right. Oh, thank God. She’s burning up with fever. Do something.”

  “Carry Kiowa woman into house.” He handed him the baby. “Child too. I get milk from goats and smoke leaves, peppergrass.”

  Hiamovi hobbled off and Elam called out to him. “She’s not Kiowa. I know you think she is; the tattoo on her forehead and all but….” When he realized he was talking to the clouds above, he rushed into the house, laid the boy on the bed and went back for Catherine. Garbled words escaped her lips when he eased her on to the mattress.

  Cloudy eyes opened for a brief moment but she couldn’t seem to focus on him or even turn her head to the wailing baby lying beside her.

  Torn between seeing to Wolf-dog and staying with Catherine, Elam paced a small area at the end of the bed. He knew the mutt meant the world to her but he couldn’t justify leaving her alone right now.

  Long minutes later, Hiamovi returned with a gourd of milk and the hollow stem from some unknown plant. As gently as before, he picked up the boy and positioned the filled stem to the corner of his mouth and released the liquid. After repeating the process several times, the contented child drifted into slumber again. The old man laid him down in the seat of a rocking chair near the bed and turned his attention to Catherine.

  He removed several long-eared leaves from his waistband and looked up at Elam. “Hot water, clean rag.”

  “All right. I’ll boil water and return with clean rags.” He didn’t want to ask, didn’t know if he could live with the answer, yet the anxiety he felt right now was unbearable. “Will she make it?”

  With a shrug, the old man delivered the words as if he was talking about the weather. “Maybe lose arm.”

  “No! Hell no, she can’t lose her arm.”

  “Better she lose life?”

  Elam’s heart sank and the room closed in on him. The same room that closed in on him the night he lost Belinda. Under his breath, he cursed God. Not again, don’t do this to me again. With a long sigh, he looked into Hiamovi’s eyes. “Are you telling me I must choose; her arm or her life?”

  “Bad blood now.” He pointed to the red streaks running up Catherine’s arms from the wound to her shoulder.

  “You mean the infection is spreading?”

  Hiamovi nodded.

  “The herbs you brought. Will they kill the infection, draw the poison out?”

  “Only spirits know now.”

  In a fog, Elam headed for the kitchen, boiled water, found a stash of cotton cloths in a cupboard and returned to the bedchamber. Hiamovi worked in efficient silence, his collected demeanor the only thing keeping Elam’s sanity in check.

  When he finished cleansing the wound, applying a poultice of wet leaves, and binding the wound again, he gave a short nod. “We wait for sun to show face again. Then you make choice.”

  Elam picked up the child, placed him at the foot of the bed, and pulled the chair closer to the mattress before he sank into the cushioned seat. The thought of cutting her arm off pitched him into despair. Waves of nausea roiled through his gut. Yet the thought of her dying was beyond thinkable. Don’t make me choose; please don’t make me choose.

  A hand met his shoulder. “I go now. See about dog.”

  Hours passed while Elam sat in the chair beside the bed. Hiamovi returned to feed the baby several times and to check on Catherine. Elam had no idea what the man’s silence meant and he wasn’t sure he’d get an answer from him if he prodded him for one. Perhaps he spoke the truth, the spirits would decide now if she lived or died.

  ***

  Catherine swam toward the light for the hundredth time with an eerie chant scrambling her brain. “E ya ha w...ye, he ye ye he ye...ho we...ye.

  Why can’t I reach that luminous orb, break away from the powerful force dragging me into the depths again and again. Pain wracked her body, nightmarish images her mind. Had sickness disabled her…an accident, or an event so horrific, she’d never reach that blissful, serene presence reaching out to her?

  What torture to open her eyes. Had someone stitched them shut? Try, Catherine, keep trying, you must swim toward the light.

  Thin streams of light fell through the window…the first rays of day she thought. Window? How long since she’d been in a room with a window? The soft comfort beneath her did not feel like pine boughs or the hard ground. A bed…she was in a bed? She couldn’t lift her head and the throbbing ache in her arm warned her that would be impossible as well.

  A shape
came into focus as the seconds passed, or a partial human shape. Broad shoulders, a thatch of thick, chestnut hair and a hat to be exact. What the white man called a cowboy hat.

  As if her mind had called him forth, the human jackknifed up. “Catherine, you’re-you’re awake. How do you feel? Are you in pain?”

  Yes. Like a wagon ran over me. Yes.

  “Catherine, can you hear me?”

  The words seemed to come from an arid dessert tunnel. “Elam, yes, I hear you.”

  He blew air through his lips, and she had to admit, he looked a fright. Dark circles ringed his eyes, bloodshot eyes. His shirt was rumpled, as if he hadn’t changed it in days and dark stubble shadowed his firm, chiseled jaw. “Thank God,” he said. “You were bitten by a wolf. Do you remember?”

  Horses screamed. Wolf-dog’s lips were curled back into a terminal snarl, and the baby wailed. “I remember.” Her arm moved in frantic motion across the bed to locate the baby. “My son, where is my son?”

  Elam’s hand came out to still hers. “Shush, he’s fine, doing fine. Hiamovi is feeding him in the kitchen.”

  “Hiamovi…feeding him?” She dropped her chin in an attempt to look at her chest. “I-I don’t understand.”

  “When an infection set in, you were no longer able to….”

  Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Oh, no.” Time passed while she collected her thoughts. “But what is he—”

  “Goat’s milk. Remember I told you about the goats?”

  Her eyes flew open. “He likes it, I mean, it’s agreeing with him?”

  “I’d say he likes it a lot. That little guy can eat, I know that.”

  Relief that her son was faring well washed over her. She took another downward glance at her prone body. A garment of some sort hugged her torso and arms. White, and soft, the cloying scents of sunshine and a soft breeze spiraled up her nose. In the recesses of her mind, she knew the name of the clothing. Night shift, night shirt? What had her mother called it? “What happened to my-my skirt, moccasins—?”

  Elam nodded to a rocking chair resting beneath the window. “Hiamovi cleaned them, but if you ask me how, I’ll have to plead ignorance.”

  “I am no longer familiar with the clothing I wore as a child.”

  He waved a dismissive hand against her frown. “Nothing has been taken away. It’s all there waiting for you when you get well.”

  She offered him a grateful smile.

  “You talked in your sleep, called out names.”

  A wave of nostalgia gripped her and then remembrance. “I dreamed of Jack. He was so real, so very real.”

  “Jack?”

  “Sweet, darling Jack, my brother. He tried to protect me when the Kiowa came.” She couldn’t stop the tears brimming in her eyes. “He was in my dream, calling out to me, motioning me to come to him.”

  “Then what happened?”

  She sighed. “You were there too, whispering my name, telling me not to die.” She felt her brow crinkle. “At least I think it was a dream.”

  “Makes me sound bossy, and no, it wasn’t a dream. I did tell you to hang on, begged you to stay with….”

  “With?”

  “We can talk about that later. What else did you dream about?”

  Another pause. “Snow…I dreamed of snow, giant flakes falling from the sky. They fell against the window in my room. The sun was shining and I watched them melt, each one different than the last.”

  “So you’ve seen snow before?”

  She nodded. “We lived in Dakota Territory when I was very young, before my father hounded my mother to travel to New Mexico. She said the Indians would do us in, tried to convince my father to stay in Dakota. After the Kiowa took me, I wondered for years if she had a premonition, knew what awaited us.”

  “The Kiowa have a special hatred for the white man.” He squeezed her hand. “But let’s talk about happier times. Tell me more about your childhood.”

  “At Christmas, my father went into the woods every year, cut down a tree and dragged it back to the house. One night, my mother tied several candles to the branches and Jack and I lay on the floor and waited until the candles melted down to almost nothing.”

  “That is a special memory.”

  A man with silver braids walked into the room and placed the baby on her torso. She smiled down at her son and then watched him remove the strips of cotton from her arm.

  Elam’s voice held impatience. “Well?”

  “Good. Your woman will live.”

  Your woman?

  The man turned to leave. “Wait,” she said. When he pivoted to face her again, a tear slid down her cheek. “Thank you for caring for my son, and me. I can never repay your kindness.”

  He looked down at the child. “You give him name now.”

  “Name him…why, yes. His name will be Nathan after my father, his middle name Jack. That’s what we’ll call him, Little Jack.”

  “Humph,” Hiamovi said with a firm nod. “Is good name for strong boy.”

  Elam piped in, “What do we call him when he grows up, Big Jack?”

  Catherine laughed and then realized how much it hurt her head to exert that effort.

  “You should sleep now.” Elam’s dark eyes held hers. “Hiamovi will take care of Little Jack.” He settled back in the chair. “And I’ll be right here all night.”

  As if remembering something monumental, the words flew from her mouth. “Wolf-dog?”

  “Curled up by the fire right now and I must warn you, he’s taken a shine to Hiamovi.”

  “There is a God,” she whispered and closed her heavy eyelids.

  Chapter Six

  The days slipped away. Catherine grew stronger and Little Jack thrived like the runaway thistle on the prairie. This morning, with her son in the rebozo, she left Elam’s bedroom and wandered through the rest of the abode. The rough-hewn walls and plank floorboards provided a sense of security against the elements. A hearth stood against a main wall in the cavernous room providing warmth for both the sitting area and rustic kitchen. The only signs a woman once resided here came from a vase of yellow, dried flowers resting on the mantle and a scrap of framed linen hanging near the cook stove. Catherine crossed the room for closer scrutiny. Over the image of a two-story house, the words, Worked by Belinda Barden in the twenty-first year of her age appeared.

  What had happened to Belinda? She recalled the pained expression on Elam’s face when she asked him if he’d ever helped deliver a child before. Lost in a haze of pain and anguish at the time, she didn’t press him when he said he’d tell her another time what happened to his wife and child. She suspected they died in childbirth but until Elam wanted to talk about it, that’s all it was…speculation.

  With a sigh, she walked to the door, opened it and stepped into the yard. No doubt she’d find Elam and Hiamovi in the barn tending the horses or perhaps they’d ridden out to check on the cattle. Confident she’d find the Arkansas River if she followed the crude map Elam drew last night, she left the yard and headed north.

  Wolf-dog had followed and nipped at her heels along the way. Strange behavior from the beast, she thought, while shooing him away for the third time. “What has come over you?” Plucking a small branch from the ground she tossed it onto the path before them. “Go get it, boy, and let me enjoy the walk.” With feigned interest, he loped ahead, grabbed the stick and returned. Unlike before, he didn’t drop the branch for her to toss again, but stood before her blocking the path. Hands on hip, she looked down on him. “I intend to enjoy the warmth of the sun this morning. I’ve waited a long time to feel the earth beneath my feet. Now, stand aside and stop trying to spoil my day.” With a whine the dog fell in beside her but kept his eyes on the terrain ahead. “Don’t worry, we won’t get lost.”

  She pulled the map from the top of her moccasin and studied it, and then thought about Elam’s warning when he gave it to her. “Do not go beyond the scrub brush and pine saplings growing wild beyond the shore. It’s rough terr
ain leading to the mountains, and if you’re not familiar with the area, you could get lost.”

  Minutes later, she stood on the bank of the river, realizing he meant to keep her from the dense forest of pines flanking the foothills of the mountains. Did he really think she’d be foolish enough to attempt that after the wolf attack?

  Her thoughts delved deeper into Elam. Did he know how her heart thudded whenever he entered the same room, know how her pulse raced? She hadn’t told him of her feelings and wondered how wise such a revelation would be. At times, she saw him watching her but she couldn’t begin to read his thoughts. Truth be told, she’d brought him nothing but trouble from the moment they’d met. What did he really think of white women who’d lived with heathens, had a child by one? What about the tattoo the Kiowa had marked on her forehead? She tried to imagine accompanying him into this town he spoke of. How would he react when people avoided her on the street, or turned away when she walked by? So many questions and so few answers.

  She removed the rebozo and laid it in the tall grass beside her. Little Jack seemed content at the moment. Would he remain so if she removed her moccasins and ventured into the water? Here, the current appeared shallow and mild, the path of boulders and rocks minimal. A cool October wind kicked in and whipped through her long hair. Perhaps she should dip a hand in first, test the temperature.

  Little Jack had slipped into peaceful slumber. If she intended to make use of the river, now would be the time. She rose from the ground, ventured toward the water and scanned the long, sandy bank.

  Her heart stopped…or at least paused long enough to make her lightheaded.

  Pony tracks and the imprint of moccasins lined the shore. Fresh tracks. Someone had used the stream not long ago. The moccasin prints looked familiar, the pony tracks from an unshod horse. No…no…no. She’d seen those prints before, would recognize them anywhere. Her words to Elam before the fight with Gomda stormed through her mind, ‘He favors his right leg, old battle wound.’ The footstep on the left was deeper, the track on the right turned in. There could be no doubt in her mind, the prints belonged to Gomda!