by Kaki Warner
Thomas squinted into the dimness, but could see nothing until Jessup pushed in behind him, holding the lantern as high as the sloping roof would allow.
A bearded, terrified man cowered in the corner, an arm flung up to shield his eyes from the light. A leather pack sat on the floor beside him. A mound of bear hide lay against the far wall . . . the same hide Thomas had seen the man wear the one time he had gotten a good look at him stumbling through the trees.
“Where is she?” he shouted. “Where is the girl?”
“Don’t hurt me!” The man slid down the wall, both arms folded over his head, knees drawn up to shield his body. “I didn’t hurt her, I swear. Didn’t do nothing but get her out of the snow.”
Thomas stepped closer, teeth clenched. “Where is she? Tell me now, or I—”
“Thomas!”
He glanced over, saw Rafe lifting the edge of the bearskin coat.
“She’s here, but I think something’s wrong.”
Forgetting the cringing man, Thomas rushed over to the tiny form shivering on the ground. He put a hand on her cheek and a new fear thundered through him. She was hot with fever. “Katse’e?”
The dark brown eyes fluttered open, stared blankly past his shoulder. “Daddy?” It was little more than a sigh and ended in a hoarse cough.
With shaking hands, Thomas dropped the stinking pelt back over her and scooped both her and the bearskin into his arms.
“What about him?” Tait Rylander nodded toward the cowering man.
“I didn’t do nothing!” Tears slid down the man’s cold-reddened cheeks and disappeared into his beard. “Just wanted to get her out of the snow. Didn’t even know she was sick until I got her here. I never hurt her, I swear!”
Thomas barely spared him a glance. “Put him in a cell. The key ring is on a nail.”
Then he rushed out the door, his precious burden clasped to his chest.
Sixteen
Thomas would have preferred a Cheyenne medicine man, but since there was none within a two-day ride, he had to take Katse’e to the white doctor. The old man did well healing the wounds of the body, but did little for the spirit.
He was familiar with the medicine rooms at the back of Doctor Boyce’s house, so he took Katse’e through the side door, yelling for the doctor as he hurried down the hall.
A doorway opened behind him. “What the hell?”
“She has fever,” Thomas called back over his shoulder. “Where should I put her?”
“In the exam room. On the right.”
Thomas gently laid Katse’e on the high table, then folded back the fur. Her breathing was raspy, and even though they had just been out in the snow, her skin still felt hot, and she trembled like a reed in the wind.
Doctor Boyce hurried into the room. “Lord, what’s that smell?”
“Bear.” Thomas pulled the pelt from beneath Katse’e’s shivering body and slung it into the hall.
The white-haired man bent over the frail form on the table. Gently prying open Katse’e’s chattering teeth, he peered into her throat.
“You will heal her,” Thomas said.
“Or what?”
“Or I will put my knife in your neck.”
“Some sheriff you’ve turned out to be.” Grabbing a listening thing from a peg beside the table, the doctor stuck the ends into his ears. “Now stop yammering so I can hear.”
Thomas watched him move the metal disc on the end of the ear tubes all around her chest. He even rolled Katse’e onto her side and listened to her back.
“Well?” he asked, when the doctor had pulled the tubes from his ears.
“Influenza. Maybe pneumonia.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means she’s sick. Hopefully not mortally. I’ll give her something to bring her fever down. Cold sponge baths, if necessary. Other than that, most we can do is give her plenty of water and let her rest. This the one who was lost? Your blind daughter?” The doctor rummaged in a cabinet beside the table.
“Yes. Her name is Lillian. She has ten years.”
“Been blind all her life?”
“Three years. Fever.”
“Hear she’s a helluva singer.”
“She is.” A stinging spread behind Thomas’s eyes at the thought of never hearing that sweet voice again. Or her mean, complaining voice, either. Or seeing another gap-toothed grin. “Will she die?”
“Not if I can help it.” The doctor opened a brown bottle and stuck in a glass tube with a round, soft top. After sucking some of the liquid into the tube, he opened Katse’e’s mouth and squirted it against her cheek.
“What can I do?” Thomas asked.
“Get her some dry clothes. Her doll if she has one. And a book to read to her.”
Thomas gave him a questioning look.
“She may not be as asleep as she looks. If not, she’d probably take comfort in hearing your voice and knowing she’s not alone. You can read, can’t you?”
Thomas turned toward the door.
“Best get dry clothes for yourself, too. I don’t need two sick patients. And find someone to take over your sheriff duties temporarily. She’s liable to be sick for a while, and I can’t watch her all the time.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“How did you get that cut? And those bruises?”
Pru leaned gingerly back in her chair, trying not to jar her sore ribs. She smiled weakly at the young bespectacled solicitor seated across from her at the same interrogation table she had sat at several days ago. This man was friendlier, and had even smiled and extended his hand when he’d introduced himself as Peter Faraday. “I fell.”
His worried look said he didn’t believe her.
“I have had fewer falls lately,” she assured him with a wry smile. After she had started teaching the other prisoners to read and write, she had gained quite a few protectors. “Who sent you?” Pru didn’t think for a moment that the man who had questioned her last time had sent him.
“Reverend Brother Sampson.”
Wincing, she sat up. “He’s well? Is he still in jail?”
“He was released yesterday. The first thing he did was contact the legal aid group where I work.”
Tears threatened, but Pru blinked them back. “Thank the Lord he’s safe.”
“Now let’s do the same for you.” He plopped a case bulging with papers and folders atop the desk, then began rifling through it.
Hope surged. “You can help me? You can get me out of here?”
“Hopefully.” He shoved the spectacles higher up his nose. “Just waiting on the inquest.”
Seeing her look of confusion, he explained. “They found Mr. Marsh’s remains at the bottom of a gorge under a high railroad trestle not far from Indianapolis. The inquest is to determine if his death was accidental or the result of foul play. If the judge rules his death was an accident, you will no longer be a suspect and should be released forthwith.”
“And if they suspect foul play?”
His smile faded. “Then they’ll probably charge you with his murder, and hold you over for trial.”
“Trial? But I’m innocent!”
He lifted a staying hand. “Remain calm, Mrs. Redstone. Just hear what I have to say.”
Pru struggled to slow her breathing, but her mind kept spinning.
“We have three things in our favor,” Faraday explained. “One”—he held up a long, ink-stained finger—“I’ve seen the coroner’s report. All of Mr. Marsh’s injuries appear to be the result of his fall, not foul play. Two”—he held up a second finger—“you’re innocent. And three”—this time a sly smile along with the third finger—“the presiding judge is a staunch abolitionist.” He let his hand fall back to the desk. “We’ll get through this, Mrs. Redstone. Before you know it, you’ll be heading back to your family in Colo
rado. Just have faith.” He grinned. “And that’s a direct order from Reverend Sampson.”
COLORADO TERRITORY
Lillie awoke to the sound of a voice droning nearby, and a sharp smell like kerosene, only different. She ached all over, as if her joints had turned to rust. It even hurt to bend her fingers. Her head pounded terrible bad, and every time she sucked air in or out, it made a wet, rattling sound.
“Who there?” she croaked, then fell into a coughing fit that set fire in her throat.
She felt a warm presence beside her. “You are awake, Katse’e.”
Daddy. She smiled, then winced at the pull on her chapped lips. He didn’t sound mad at her. She hoped he wasn’t. It seemed that for a long time, her head had been filled with all sorts of strange voices and pictures and sounds that kept weaving around behind her eyes. But at least now, everything seemed better.
“Where am I? It smell funny.” This time, she didn’t cough so much after she spoke.
“You are at the house where the white doctor works. You have been sick, but now you will get better.”
Sick? All at once, as if gates had opened in her mind, everything came rushing back—Bitsy, the man, the stink, being lost and cold. She felt the warm tickle of tears run past her temples and into her hair. “Bitsy run off.”
“We found him. He is well. Like you, he went into the woods even though I told him—and you—not to.” He took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was nicer. “Here.” He put something soft into her hands. “Even Miss Minty was worried about you. We all were.”
Smiling, she hugged the doll close. “You not mad at me?”
“No, Katse’e.”
“Then how come you not come find me?”
“I tried, but when the man carried you to the mine, it took longer.”
“He stinky.”
“That was his bearskin coat.” There was a pause, then, “Did he hurt you, Katse’e?”
Lillie tried to remember, but mostly all that came to mind was the smell. “Only once. I hear you call out, but he put a hand over my mouth so I not able to answer. Then he grab me and carry me to a shack somewheres.”
“He did not hurt you?”
“He not mean. Only afraid. And not very smart. When I tell him you put him in jail, he started crying like a baby. I’m hungry. Feel like my po’ belly stuck to my backbones. Got anything to eat?”
“Yes, Katse’e.” She heard the smile in his voice. “Miss Winnie sent you soup.”
“No muffins? Even fo’ a po’ sick blind girl?”
“Later.”
* * *
“Later” stretched into a week. Then another two days in bed in her room at the Arlan house. Katse’e was not an easy child to tend when she was sick. But Thomas was grateful to do it. At least she was healing.
Once assured of that, he headed back to the sheriff’s office to relieve Rayford Jessup of his temporary duties.
The ex-marshal looked up from his book when Thomas walked in. The Texan read more than any man Thomas had ever known. “How’s she doing?” Jessup asked, closing the book.
“Complaining. How is Tombo Welks?”
“Complaining. You should either charge him with something or let him go. It’s been ten days.”
“Have you questioned him?”
“His story matches Lillie’s. He didn’t hurt her. But I did find this.” Reaching into a slot under the desk, Jessup pulled out a wanted poster. “Might be Tombo Welks. Might not.”
Thomas studied the drawing and the words printed beneath it. “Wanted for assault.” The paper had come from a town in Kansas.
“What are you going to do?” Jessup asked.
Thomas thought of all that Lillian had told him about the man, what he had said and done. During the time Katse’e was at the doctor’s house, Thomas had talked to Tombo Welks several times. A part of him wanted to punish the trapper for daring to touch his daughter, even though he did not harm her. But another part of him hesitated to add more burdens to a man hardly able to manage those he already carried. “He is not right.” Thomas motioned to his head.
“You mean he’s slow?” Jessup nodded. “But I think he acts more out of fear than meanness. People aren’t all that kind or forgiving when it comes to folks like him. Or anyone different.”
Like Indians. Jessup did not have to say that aloud. All his life, Thomas had seen the angry and frightened looks pointed his way.
But forgiving was something Thomas was less familiar with, even though he had heard Reverend Brother Sampson speak of it in his big white tipi. It was a hard thing for Thomas to accept or understand. But it was also hard for him to carry around so much anger. It seemed he had spent most of his life being angry about something. He was weary of it.
He frowned at the far wall and thought about what to do with Tombo Welks. Katse’e had suffered no harm at his hands. And in a way, Welks had helped him—if Thomas had not spotted the man’s big tracks, he might have missed Lillian’s small ones. Worse, if Tombo Welks had left Katse’e under that tree, she might not have survived until Thomas found her.
“I will not jail him.”
Jessup held up the wanted poster. “What about this? You going to turn him over to them? There’s a reward. Not a big one, but still . . .”
Thomas gave him a look that made Jessup grin. “Sorry. I forgot it’s about honor, not money, with you Cheyenne.”
Lifting the ring of keys from the peg behind the desk, Thomas went to the cells in back of the office.
Tombo Welks sat slumped on his cot, picking at his fingernail. When he saw Thomas unlock the cell door, he flattened against the wall, his eyes as wary as those of a kicked dog.
Thomas swung the door wide, then stepped back. “You are free, Tombo Welks.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. “You mean I can go?”
“You can go.”
“What about my coat?”
“It hangs outside. It stank too much to bring indoors. What did you cure it with?”
“Cure it?”
“Never mind. You will go now.”
“Go where?”
“Wherever you want, as long as you do not cause trouble.”
Tombo glanced from Thomas to Jessup, who watched from the doorway behind Thomas. “But I like it here. It has good food, and it’s warm. I don’t wanna go.”
“This place is for lawbreakers. You have broken no laws, so you cannot stay.”
The prisoner tugged at his beard and thought for a moment. “What if I broke a law? Just a little one. Could I stay then?”
Thomas looked at Jessup, but the Texan raised his hands and backed away.
“Can you sweep?” Thomas asked Tombo.
“Sweep what?”
“Floors. The boardwalk outside. Whatever I tell you to sweep.”
“Yeah. I’m a good sweeper. I used to sweep at a store back home in Kansas till I knocked over a shelf on accident and broke some bottles. The man who owned the store started hitting me, so I got mad and hit him back, then ran away.”
Thomas shared a look with Jessup, then turned back to Tombo. “You will not hit anyone here. If someone hits you, you will come and tell me and I will take care of it. Do you understand?”
“Okay.”
“If people say mean things, you will not get mad. You will come tell me that, too.”
“Okay.”
Thomas hesitated, wondering if he was doing the right thing. With the Cheyenne, the entire tribe watched over those touched by the Great Spirit. But whites seemed to toss them aside or fear them. “Then I will give you one nickel a day to sweep,” he finally said. “You will also bring in firewood for the stove, run errands as I need them, and do other chores when I tell you. You can sleep in your cell unless I need it for a real lawbreaker, and the hotel will bring you
two meals a day.”
“A nickel? Every day?”
Thomas nodded. “The broom is inside the front door. The firewood is behind the building. Go do your work.”
Grinning, Tombo Welks clumped out the front door.
“Ought to teach him to make coffee, too,” Jessup suggested. “Yours tastes like gunpowder laced with pine tar.”
“You teach him. I do not drink buffalo piss.”
“That must account for your cranky mornings.”
* * *
Tombo Welks was a hard worker, as long as he understood exactly what he was to do. The townspeople lost their wariness once Thomas convinced the man to shave off his beard and bathe occasionally. Several merchants even hired him to keep the boardwalks in front of their stores swept or free of snow, and when Thomas asked Cal Bagley, the owner of the mercantile, to donate a new set of clothes for Welks, he happily agreed. Not because he was a good man, which he was not, but because he was afraid of Thomas. Which was as it should be. Bagley had once insulted Prudence Lincoln, but after a talk with Declan Brodie—sheriff at the time—and a later visit from Thomas, he had quickly become the most agreeable store owner in town.
Katse’e continued to improve, and Bitsy and Harry continued to grow. Welks caused no trouble, spring bloomed across Mother Earth, and Thomas’s life slowly settled back into a routine that left him with too much time to think.
Then, just as the first robins hopped across the thawing ground, heralding the arrival of the late March Worm Moon, a letter arrived for Edwina Brodie and everything changed.
It was Sunday. From the church steps, where he usually sat during services, Thomas had watched the train pull into the depot at the edge of town. No one got off. After it had continued on through the canyon, he saw Kincaid load his wagon with crates, and packages, and the mail pouch, stop to give something to R.D. Brodie, who was riding by on horseback, then head back into town.
This Sunday, the usual families were to meet for dinner at the new Hardesty house. The Abrahams were helping, since Audra Hardesty was an even worse cook than Edwina Brodie. Or Josephine Jessup. Or Lucinda Rylander. Thomas often wondered how white men survived since their women did not cook or prepare their food. It was lucky for all of them that Winnie Abraham loved to cook and was good at it.
