Wyoming Trails

by Lauran Paine

  What had Blessing meant about Sarahlee? He wished he could do it over again; he’d pull him off the horse, beat him senseless. He turned, let the sun smash him across the face with its full force. He had to squint to see the cabin and the yard. The shiny barn danced in waves of heat. Looking at it, he suddenly recalled something. In that first wagonload from Tico he’d brought a jug of rye whiskey. He had buried it near the spring box in the cool, dark mud. Until this minute he’d completely forgotten it. His throat got moist thinking about it. He started toward the barn. If those thieving Indians hadn’t found it …

  If you ever want to know about Sarahlee Gordon, just ask me.

  He sat down near the spring box. The ground was damp and cool. He smoothed out the weeds and grass, pulled at them, held up a handful of tall grass, and peered at the heads. They were cured, dropping and shriveled, reminding him of what Otto had said. For the first time he understood fully what drought was. It made him forget the whiskey for the moment, feel hollow and fearful because drought was something he could not combat. Like the siege of cholera they’d had at the Reb prison he’d helped liberate. The smell had been awful; it rose up out of the ground, clung to the trees and lay in the grass. A man can’t fight things like that. Cholera or drought.

  Due north were the purple mountains. They looked cool, well-watered. Why couldn’t they drive the cattle up there, if the feed gave out down below? They’d have to cross Blessing range, of course. He dropped the grass. He’d like to cross Blessing range, maybe meet Amos there—kill him, maybe.

  He stood up with a curse. He stood there with the horses far out behind him, the huge clouds drifting overhead, the lift and roll of Wyoming flowing outward and forever all around him. Why didn’t she come back, dammit! Her paw was sick—well, so was her husband sick! Sick and tired of waiting, of yearning. He looked at the dark earth and remembered why he’d walked there, bent down, and hooked taloned fingers into the moist soil, and pulled it away. A horse blew its nose off to his left somewhere and he whirled. It was the animal Mary had ridden over; she’d tied it among the scrub oaks. He stared at it with the cool jug in his hands, then looked down, began to worry the plug out of the crock.

  When he went to the cabin later, Mary looked different to him. He couldn’t define it and didn’t dwell upon it, but it remained a fact he was conscious of. The cabin smelled good, his coffee pot was boiling on the stove, and Mary looked around at him but her face was blank. Without a word she filled one of the graniteware cups and placed it on the table, then she opened the oven and brought out a laden dish, set it beside the cup.

  He sat down and ate. Mary stayed over by the stove. She was cleaning up. When he finished, he went back outdoors, smoked his pipe, and except for that one thin little persistent thought the world seemed like a good place.

  Mary came outside and started across the yard. Shan watched her. There wasn’t an ounce of bouncy fat on her anywhere. She walked very erect, very proud; it made him smile. A proud Indian. A proud bitch Indian. Pint-sized squaw. The thoughts hurt, though; he let them die. She wasn’t a squaw, she was a girl—a lovely girl. No, she was a kid. That made him feel better, more mellow as though he looked down from a pinnacle of wisdom and years, recognized her as a youngster. He even forgot Amos Blessing.

  “Hey, Mary, where are you going?”

  She stopped and turned. Sideways her stomach was as flat as an iron skillet. Up higher—no, the illusion was spoiled; she wasn’t a child. “Get watern,” she said.

  He smiled and arose, walked lazily down where she was, took the bucket from her hand, and started toward the spring. “I’ll help you,” he said. “Come along.”

  The spring box was made of logs. It had been one of the first things he and Otto had built together. It was mossy around it, cool and muddy. He stooped, filled the bucket, and held it out to her. She set it down and stood in front of him, looking up into his face. He was aware of some wild scent. It took a moment for him to realize it came from her. It smelled like crushed mint leaves with maybe pine needles blended into it. No, not mint, sweet grass and pine needles, that’s what it was.

  “Mary, you’ve got perfume on.”

  She shook her head, signifying that she did not understand.

  “Scent … perfume.” He took the bucket up roughly and started briskly across the yard. She walked beside him. He put the bucket down just inside the doorway, took her arm, and started across the yard where two shaggy pine trees stood, out a ways. There he scooped up some needles, crushed them in his fist, and smelled them.

  “Sure, I thought that’s what it was … pine scent and sweet grass. It smells good.” He held out his fingers. She touched her nose to his palm, wrinkled it, and smiled at him, then she lowered her head so he could see the red mark down the part of her hair. “Oh, that’s how you wear it,” he said. “Even squaws like to smell good.”

  Her face grew instantly blank, all animation left it, and she moved away from him, crossed the yard to the washstand outside the cabin, and stood there in the shade, looking out where the horses were.

  He walked over near her. “Hey, Mary … I forgot you learned so much English. I’m sorry, honest.”

  “Injun squaw,” she said without turning to face him. “Damned stinking Injun squaw!”

  He was shocked speechless; a moment later he burst into laughter. “Say,” he said gleefully, “you’re learning more’n Missus Muller’s teaching you, Mary. You’ve got to quit hanging around where Otto and I’re working.” He thought of the consequences if she said something like that around the Mullers or Sarahlee and the mirth went out of him. He turned her by the shoulders and used his fingers to emphasize what he told her. “Listen, Mary, don’t ever say ‘damned’ or ‘stinking’ around other people, especially around a white woman … understand?”

  The black eyes clung to his face. “Why you come up here?” She asked solemnly, and it was so far from what he was trying to explain that he drew up and stared.

  “Oh, you mean today … you mean why did I come up here today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, to look after the horses … sort of see how things were … do a little thinking.”

  “To pray?” The black eyes were soft now, soft and understanding.

  “Pray? Hell no, kid, I don’t pray. Why should I pray? I got this.” He swung his arm in a large sweep. “I got all I want …” The vision of Sarahlee, of Amos Blessing standing between them, leaped up out of nowhere. He dropped the arm. “Come on, we’ve got to get back. Go get your horse.”

  They rode down through the slanting afternoon light in complete silence, and Mary seemed contented that it was to be that way. While they were still a mile or so north of the witness tree, Shan heard faint shouts and the lowing of driven cattle. He reined up. The sound swelled from the west. A billowing dust cloud and a large herd of cattle moved inexorably toward them.

  Shan frowned, watching. Turn-out time. That part he understood, but if those cattle kept on the way they were headed, they’d roll over his land. He watched a solitary rider lope out ahead, on the point of the herd. Without thinking of Mary, he whirled Otto’s big bay and roweled him into a long lope. Mary followed after him. When he knew the point rider had seen him, he drew up and waited.

  When the cowboy halted, he was smiling through a layer of dust and sweat. “Howdy,” he said genially, eyes sweeping past Shan to the Indian girl. They widened a trifle before they went back to Shan’s face.

  “Where are you taking those cattle?”

  “Turning ’em out,” the rider said.

  “I can see that, but where are you turning them out?”

  “Oh,” the cowboy said carelessly, “east of the stage road somewhere. Why?”

  “Because I own east of the road and I’ve got my own cattle to think about feeding.”

  “You own it?” the rider said, surprised and interested.

&
nbsp; “Yes. There’s a cabin and a new barn a mile north from here. That’s my place. I own from there south to the juniper tree near Otto Muller’s place.”

  “Oh,” the cowboy said. “Well, we didn’t know anyone’d taken up that land.” He gazed speculatively at Shan. “I did hear something last winter … something about a soldier taking up land in here somewhere.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Well, that makes a difference then.”

  “I’ve got to save that grass.”

  “Sure, mister. Well, I guess I’d better point ’em north then. We didn’t know.” He grinned again. “My name’s Ash O’Brien. My paw’s Will O’Brien. I’m right glad to know you.”

  Shan shook the hand and dropped it. “I’m Ryan Shanley. Folks call me Shan.”

  “Proud to know you, Shan. Well, I’d better head ’em away. See you in town sometime.”

  Shan watched him ride away, turn the lead cattle, and when two other riders swirled up out of the dust, Shan could make out their faintly inquiring shouts. He watched the three men come together, sit there motioning and talking for a moment, then all three of them turned and looked down where he was. He reined back toward the road and saw Mary behind him. Until then he’d forgotten her completely.

  He rode back as far as the road and headed southward. Something urged him to look back. The three cowboys were rocking back and forth in their saddles like they were laughing. He watched a moment and a slow burn crept into his face. He guessed what they were laughing about, a little Indian girl following a big white man around away out here. Squawman …!

  Chapter Eleven

  When they rode into the yard, Otto was sitting in the shade by the barn, oiling harness. He nodded without speaking and continued to work until Mary had put up her horse and gone toward the house, then he knocked out his pipe and leaned over the hitch rail where the dark, oil straps hung.

  “Shan, did you tell Mary to go up to your place today?”

  Shan finished hanging up Otto’s saddle before he replied. “No, I thought at first Missus Muller sent her with that food.”

  Otto rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand and looked troubled. “I figured it was something like that. No, Georgia didn’t say anything to her. She just took that horse and skinned out of here.”

  An uncomfortable idea was forming in Shan’s mind. “What would make her do a thing like that?”

  “You,” Otto said bluntly. “I know you think Mary’d be handy for Sarahlee around the place, but, son, I expect you ought to get rid of her.”

  “You think she’s sweet on me?”

  “That’s exactly what I think. Why hasn’t she run away? Why’s she always staring at you? Why’d she run after you today? Now, for my part, I know it’s none of my business and all. But I got a little more savvy of these things than you have, I think, and even if I’m wrong, it won’t hurt any. I expect Sarahlee’d rather do her own sewing and whatnot anyway, so before something comes of this, why don’t you just get rid of her?”

  Shan leaned on the rail beside Otto, dwarfing him. “Does Missus Muller think that, too?” he asked.

  “She doesn’t know Mary slipped off today. I just said I let her have a horse to go for a ride. I wasn’t sure until I saw you two coming down the road together, you see. I had suspicions … have had ’em for some time now … but, anyway, what’s the sense of worrying Georgia? She thinks a lot of that little squaw.”

  Shan winced. “Well, I didn’t have anything to do with her coming up there today,” he said.

  “If I thought that,” Otto said, “I’d also think you were the biggest damned fool in the world. Sarahlee’s really something fit for a man to look at, but that little squaw …”

  “But getting rid of her …”

  Otto jerked off the rail abruptly. “I almost forgot,” he said. “I got a letter for you.” He fished inside his shirt and drew out the envelope. “It’s from Sarahlee.” Shan took it. “One of the O’Brien boys was going by and left it.”

  “I met an O’Brien up by my place,” Shan said, looking at the envelope. “They had a big drive, and when I told them I needed my grass this year, they turned north.” He tore the envelope and pulled out the letter. His hands were shaking.

  “She’s coming, Otto.”

  “When?”

  “Let’s see. Four days from now. Four more days.”

  Otto wiped his hands on his trousers. “Come on, Georgia’ll want to know this. Besides, it’s about time for a little celebration.”

  They celebrated well and good, all through supper and afterward, until Otto’s wife went off to bed and Mary disappeared upstairs somewhere. When Otto staggered off after his wife, he gave Shan’s shoulder a resoundingly affectionate slap as he rolled past.

  Shan sat in the soft light until after midnight, alternated between feeling good, and sorry for himself, and sweating in anticipation. Then he retired.

  The next three days were torture. Twice Shan rode to the cabin to clean things up. The third time he heard someone coming and went outside. It was the Blessing brothers. Shan had left his pistol hanging inside. The Blessings stopped in the yard as they’d done before and measured him with their eyes.

  “Howdy, soldier boy. Looks like you’re fixin’ the place up for a weddin’.”

  “Maybe you fellers didn’t understand me when I said not to ride across here anymore … to use the road.”

  “Sure,” Amos said, “we understood you, only we’re in the habit of crossin’ through here. You got anything to say to that?”

  Shan wasn’t angry, just annoyed. “Well,” he said, “if that’s the way you want it, why I expect you might as well climb down off that horse.”

  Art Blessing drew his pistol in a slow, lazy way and lay it barrel first across the saddle horn. “The last time you made that kind of talk,” he said, “your squaw came ridin’ up and saved you from gettin’ hurt. She ain’t around now … or is she? You got her inside?”

  Shan made no answer and his face was brick-red. Wrath was boiling in him.

  “Sure he has,” Amos said. “Let’s let it ride, Art. We’ll catch him alone one of these times. Let’s go.”

  Art holstered his gun in the same contemptuous way. “All right. Maybe worryin’ about the next time’ll soften him up a little. What d’you think, soldier boy … squawman?”

  Shan said nothing. They exchanged cold glances for a moment, then the Blessings rode off. Shan watched them with contempt for himself, anger over his carelessness in being caught unarmed, making him bitter. When he rode back to the Mullers’ place that night, ate supper, and went outside for a pipe, Otto trailed after him. They sat in the cool dusk with the scent from the barn coming down to them.

  “What’s bothering you, boy? You didn’t say two words all through supper.”

  Shan told him about the Blessings. Went further back and told of his earlier meeting with them, what Amos had hinted about Sarahlee.

  Otto sucked on his pipe for a moment, eyes like small, wet pebbles. “I see,” he said. “Well, I expect it’s time to tell you something, Shan.”

  “Huh?”

  “I got a confession to make to you.”

  “Otto, there wasn’t another letter, was there? She’s still coming tomorrow, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, as far as I know she’s coming tomorrow, all right. It isn’t that, son. You recollect that little piece of cloth I gave you with the bone button on it?”

  “I’ve got it in my pocket. What about it?”

  “Well, when we were rebuilding the barn, I was poking around and found that thing snagged on a nail out by the corral.”

  Shan was holding the button and its scrap of cloth in his hand. “What about it, Otto?”

  “You can’t figure it out, can you? Shan, it wasn’t Indians set fire to that barn. Indians don’t wear blue work shi
rts with bone buttons.”

  Shan’s fist closed slowly around the relic. He looked squarely into Otto’s face.

  “You’ve met your neighbors, Shan. Which ones wear blue shirts with bone buttons, O’Briens or Blessings?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “I’m older’n you, Shan. I know the different kinds of men there are. When you saw that ruined barn and those Indians poking around, you went sort of crazy. You didn’t even stop to think three Indians with carbines were greater odds than an ordinary man’d go up against with just one pistol. After you’d killed the Indians … if you’d found out it was the Blessings set that fire, you’d have gone after them the same way. They’d have killed you deader than you killed those Indians. They would have been expecting you, for they knew damned well who set that fire and how you’d feel if you had any idea it was them. That’s why I kept it from you until you’d had time to calm down a little.”

  “You don’t think I’ll go after them now, Otto?”

  Otto knocked out his pipe against the horny palm of his hand. “It’s too late, Shan. You’ve got a new and better barn to start with. You’ve got a wife now, too. You wouldn’t want to make her a widow … never see her again. And, Shan, what’s past is past.”

  “If you feel that way, why did you tell this at all?”

  “Because, like I’ve always thought, someday you and the Blessings were going to lock horns. I’ve tried to make you understand that they are dangerous men … killers. You never paid much attention to that. Now you will … now you’ll know how low they’ll stoop and what they’ll do to you if they ever get the chance. After this you’ll watch out, and if it ever comes to shooting, you’ll get behind the biggest rock and shoot first.”

  Shan retired with the knowledge of the Blessings’ treachery eating away at his mind. The longer he lay there, the further he was from sleep and the more he relived all that backbreaking labor he and Otto had been forced to do over again. The killing of the Southern Cheyennes pricked his conscience. No wonder they hadn’t fired back. They hadn’t wanted to fight, hadn’t any idea why the big, crazy white man lit into them like a madman.