by Janet Fox
Papa nodded, eyes shut.
The mare snorted. When I urged her forward she took tentative steps. I heard the creak as the wagon began to move.
A harsh cry echoed through the woods. “Stop!” Papa shouted. “Stop!”
I ran to him. The wagon impaled him; metal and wood ripped open his legs with every tiny movement. If we tried to save him, we risked killing him.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry. So sorry.”
“You—can’t . . .” He was panting.
“All right, it’s going to be all right.” Tears had started down my cheeks again, and I looked at him, pale and helpless and breathing hard from the pain. I sat down, exhausted.
The wind moved the treetops; clouds scudded across the sky, with ribbons of blue alternating with gray. Sunlight exploded and then vanished. Occasional drops of rain spat and stopped. The stream rushed by as the mare breathed and snorted; Tom stood next to the horse’s head, comforting her. My eyes met Tom’s. I shook my head. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Get help,” I heard Papa say. I turned and looked at him, then reached over and stroked his cheek. “You need to get help,” he said, his eyes open and clear.
“All right, Papa. Tom’ll stay with you.”
“No!” His eyes flashed, and he made an effort to lift his hand. “You can’t go alone.”
“Fine. Then I’ll stay here with you. Tom can go.” I looked at Tom.
“Okay,” he said. He began to pull the harness off the horse. “You’ve got to help me rig a set of reins.”
I worked the remaining leather into a rough bridle, watching Tom’s face. He was beginning to tremble. He didn’t look right. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t know. Think I might’ve injured something else.” He was breathing hard, and his eyes were sunken and glassy.
I froze as the realization sank in. “You can’t go by yourself.”
Our eyes met. “No. I don’t think I’d make it.”
I leaned my head against the mare’s shoulder. She reminded me how much I missed Ghost. Lovely Ghost. The mare turned, nudging me with her nose. I knew what I had to do, but wasn’t sure I could.
I went back to the wagon and hauled two pieces of wood to lean over it as a shelter for Papa. I took crackers, jerky, and cheese from the wreckage and made two piles. I placed one pile in a canvas sample bag and took the other pile to Papa. He lay quiet, his eyes closed. I put the food and a large kettle of water where he could reach them. Then I touched his pale and sunken cheek again. “Daddy?” The name I’d called him when I was very small.
He opened his eyes. “Be all right. Get help.”
I touched his cheek once more, and then touched the cameo that held the bandage tight. Mama would have to take care of him. I looked at my hands, and saw Mama’s hands, her long fingers. I was Mama and she was me. Take care of him for me, Mama. He loved you. He failed you. He didn’t understand. But I do, and I beg you to help him now.
Tom groaned. He was trying to pull Bill’s body away from the wagon. He looked up. “Bears. They’re carrion eaters,” he said. “Might come back, find your father.”
I bent and took one of Bill’s arms while Tom took the other. I’m sorry. I tried not to look at Bill’s face. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, over and over, as we dragged him as far away as we could. We laid him in the grass, and I could look only at Bill’s feet, one leg scissored outward at the knee. I straightened it gently before leaving him.
“Can you get up?” I asked Tom, pointing to the mare. He seemed to be growing weaker. He nodded and dragged himself onto the mare’s bare back. I climbed up behind him, riding astride, with my skirt hiked up, exposing torn stockings.
I wheeled the mare, urging her forward. Then I glanced over my shoulder at the wreckage, knowing what I had to do, feeling my heart break as I left Papa behind.
Chapter THIRTY - NINE
July 26, 1904
The wolf scents us afar and the mournful cadence of his howl adds to our sense of solitude. The roar of the mountain lion awakens the sleeping echoes of the adjacent cliffs and we hear the elk whistling in every direction.
—The Valley of the Upper Yellowstone, the explorations
of Charles W. Cook, David E. Folsom, and
William Peterson, 1869
I STEADIED TOM YET AGAIN, AS HE SWAYED IN FRONT OF ME. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, his head nodding, so I took it slow. We’d ridden for two hours. On a sound horse, under different circumstances, it might not have taken so long. But with Tom and the mare both hurt, I couldn’t make better time. Though we were making steady progress, we were still miles from Canyon. It was mid-afternoon and I tried to quell my rising panic. If we couldn’t move faster, I didn’t see how Papa could be rescued before tomorrow.
The bear loomed in my thoughts.
Ahead through the trees I saw a plume of white; steam from a hot spring, as I made it out to be. I rode for it, thinking that the hot water might soothe the mare’s weeping flank.
But when I came through the clearing I saw that it was not steam but smoke. A campfire! I urged the horse forward again, my heart pounding. Here might be the help we needed.
I saw them, six or seven men, lounging around a fire, their horses picketed nearby. I urged the mare forward, shouting as I gave her my heel.
“Help, please! There’s been an accident! My father’s trapped! Please!”
The men started, several of them leaping up and pulling out rifles.
“No, no! We need help!”
They leveled their guns. Why would they think I was dangerous? This was ridiculous. Weren’t they just on some hunting trip or other?
Then I saw. The man at the center of the group, a slender, dark-haired man with a lean, weathered face walked toward me as I rode into the clearing, and our eyes met.
His eyes were as blue as the Morning Glory Spring.
I reined in the mare, feeling my heart catch. I knew those eyes. They made me angry. I had to put those feelings aside; in front of me, Tom swayed again, and as I clutched his waist, he moaned.
“Better get him down,” the blue-eyed man said, nodding toward Tom.
“I . . .” I began, “I need your help.” I didn’t care that he was a robber; I didn’t care that he’d once tried to take Mama’s cameo. He had a camp and men and medicine.
“Nat,” said another man, “you think that’s a good idea? Maybe it’s a trap.”
Nat Baker. He looked at me, glancing at my torn and bloody clothes and taking in my desperate expression. “Not likely.” He hesitated for a minute, and I could feel him weighing a decision. “Where’s this accident?”
“About three miles north.” I told him what had happened, describing Papa’s state, making sure he understood about the grizzly. He listened carefully, never taking his blue eyes off me.
When I’d finished, Nat smiled a little. “Gus,” he said over his shoulder, “get this kid off and look after him. The rest of you, saddle up.” Relief flooded me, and Nat disappeared back into the camp.
Gus approached the mare and slid Tom, moaning, off her back. He half carried Tom to a blanket already spread on the ground near the fire.
I stood at the mare’s head. One of the men brought a bucket of water for her and I took the opportunity to examine her wound. It was superficial and she wasn’t lame. I rubbed her nose, thankful, then pulled away to find Nat. I had to urge him to hurry.
My eyes swept the camp as I looked for him. It was not a permanent encampment, but they had plenty of gear—cooking fires and pots, bedrolls, even a few makeshift chairs and tables.
I turned the other way, looking across the clearing, and my heart stood still.
Kula stepped from the large tent at the far end of the cluster.
“What . . .”
If she was surprised, Kula didn’t show it. She walked up to me, facing me straight on, the slightest smile on her lips. She was wearing men’s clothing, borrowed from someone bigger. She went to Tom and bent over h
im, adjusting his blanket, brushing the hair from his forehead with a tender hand. I was so stunned to see her there that I felt no jealousy at all.
“Kula! Girl!” Nat’s voice broke through my shock. “You’re going with us.”
When Kula glanced up at Nat, I knew. I saw the exchange as that between father and daughter and I remembered what she’d told me about needing to see her pa.
I stated the obvious. “Your pa.”
Kula straightened and shrugged.
I turned to Nat Baker. He was watching me with those eyes like the sea, piercing my soul. I had the same uncanny feeling as I had the first time we met, when he robbed the coach. He looked at me with a glint of recognition; he shook his head, and his soft smile spoke of mingled joy and sadness. I asked, staring straight into those blue eyes, “Have we met somewhere before? I mean, other than the stagecoach. Do you know me from someplace else?”
He whispered, “I knew your ma.”
I looked back at Kula, feeling dizzy. Nat knew Mama. Even though I’d heard my uncle and remembered the story, I was not ready to accept what Nat Baker seemed to be telling me. “What?”
“Your pa and uncle had it all wrong,” said Kula. “They kept asking, searching, everyone around these parts knew. It was a joke. The Pinkertons, they aren’t exactly—what’s that word?” She turned to Nat.
“Subtle,” he said.
“That’s it. Looking for a boy.” Kula narrowed her eyes. “I hate them. Those stupid detectives with their assumptions and their gall. Them and your pa. Your pa took her away from me. I never had her, like you did. Never. Never knew her, never had her with me all those times when I needed a mother. And I look like what I am. Look at me! Poor, lucky, lucky me. Little native girl. And you, with all your fine stuff, pining away, whining about how terrible it is to be engaged to a rich man. To have everything you want on a platter! Hah! I couldn’t feel sorry. I wasn’t about to tell you anything.” She was on a tear, pacing back and forth.
“Kula,” said Nat in a low voice. “No need to be unkind.”
“Well?” Kula spat at him.
“I’ve given you the best I could, girl.” He regarded her narrowly, as a father would.
She stopped pacing and frowned, dipping her head, but said nothing more.
I put my hand to my forehead, feeling the denial grow into a splitting ache. “What are you talking about?” I whispered, although I already knew exactly what they meant.
“That half brother of yours?” Kula said slowly, looking at me as if I were stupid. “He ain’t a brother.”
I looked at Kula, at the dark braid that snaked down her back like Mama’s, at her eyes, dark like Mama’s, and the full understanding of Kula’s words bloomed. That niggling recognition. The next thing I knew I was sitting, inelegantly splayed in the grass, at the feet of the patient mare.
Nat bent down and gripped my arms in his hands, standing me up on my feet, though I leaned back against the mare for support.
“You,” I said, and I wasn’t sure whether I meant Nat, or Kula, or Mama.
Nat and Kula stood close together, regarding me as if from a great distance.
“You do favor her,” Nat said. Kula tilted her head back at this, chin thrust forward.
“She . . .” I started. She’d loved him, this Nat. She’d wanted to come back to him. Back to Kula. I had to tell them.
Nat waved his hand, looking away. “Kula’s sorted it all out. From all the things you said, from those Pinkerton fellows and what your uncle made known.” He paused, then said, almost wistful, “We know your ma’s gone.”
I wanted him to stop, right there. I put my hand up, held it up, and all I heard for a long minute was the caw of crows and the scattering of songbirds in the trees. The pines sighed with a small zephyr. “But she loved you.” Oh, she so loved you. Her loss made her crazy. She was on her way back here when the sea stole her from me. From them.
Nat stared at me, blue eyes like still, still water.
I went on. “She loved you more than anyone else. You and her.” I nodded at Kula.
“What?” Nat’s voice was low.
I dropped my head. “More than she loved me, I think.” Though even as I said it I knew I was wrong. Because Mama had devoted herself to me and stayed by my side until I was old enough to understand.
“No.” Kula shifted, arching her back in a prideful stance. “That’s not true. She went back to you.”
“Only because she was caught,” I said, fast. I ran now, a deer in the woods, a doe running straight. “Let me tell you. There was never a moment when she didn’t think about you. About you both. I know because Mama . . .” I hesitated, reflecting. Mama, at her oils. Mama, on the Cliff Walk, staring west, over the water. Mama, always sad about things. Mama, despised by the other people in our class and not caring a thing about it. Mama, not really looking at Papa, even when he looked at her so sadly it broke my heart. Now it all made sense. “My mama—our mama”—and here I looked squarely at Kula—“was never really happy. All that time. All that growing-up time she spent with me. And yes, she did stay in Newport for me. But her mind was here. Now I know why.”
“Why?” Kula’s voice was sharp, and Nat put his hand on her arm.
“Enough,” he said, his voice tender.
“It’s all right. I wish she’d been able to get back, I wish it for her. Because her heart was here, with you.” I looked at Kula. “And you.” I nodded at Nat. “Yes, she’s gone. But it must have been an accident. Because she never would have given you up. She was ready to leave me because she thought I could handle life on my own now. She was ready to do whatever it took to get back here to you both.”
Kula bit her lip and Nat turned away, fully away, facing the sun that split the trees with golden light.
“It’s not the end,” I said, insistent now, firm, even though I trembled like the shiver of water in a breeze. “She loved you.” And I meant both of them. “If she wasn’t dead, she’d be here looking for you. Staying with you.” I was sure because I’d been right all along, even when I hadn’t seen clearly. What I’d said to Kitty; what I’d known the first time I met Tom Rowland. What Mama knew. Nothing mattered more than love.
Kula rubbed her eyes hard, looking at her foot that dug in the dirt.
Nat said, “Well. Well.” He dropped his head, shook it a little.
“So, please now,” I begged. “Since you know, he can’t harm this. He can’t hurt you. It wasn’t his fault. He loved her, too, and it wasn’t his fault. But could you please, please help my pa?”
Chapter FORTY
July 26, 1904
She had expected reaction, but it did not come . . . All that she was about to do seemed to her still perfectly natural and right. Petty scruples, conventional hesitations, the refusal of life’s great moments—these are what are wrong, these are what disgrace!
—Lady Rose’s Daughter, a novel by Mrs. Humphry Ward, 1903
NAT’S MEN WERE USED TO A FAST GETAWAY; AT LEAST that was my thought as I saw how quickly they were geared up and ready to go. I sat in the saddle they had fitted for me, wearing the trousers I’d borrowed, and leaned my head against the mare’s neck, resting, wanting solace. I looked over at Tom. Gus was wrapping his chest in a tight bandage.
A minute later Kula trotted up bareback on a small pinto.
Nat said, “Let’s go.”
I turned and looked back at Tom, who raised his hand in a weary farewell.
I led Kula, Nat, and a group of Nat’s men back through the woods toward Papa. The sun sank through the clouds, and low ribbons of light played in the pines. We rode in silence; I was aware of Nat’s blue eyes on me and of Kula’s dark eyes on him. We’d ridden two miles when Nat pulled up right alongside me.
His voice was soft. “I guess this came as something of a shock.”
“Yes.” I paused. “Well, no. I mean, Kula, yes.” I thought about Mama. “I guess all my life I knew she was sad. Missing something. A piece of her was missing.”
I saw again in my mind’s eye: Mama, her hair flying, eyes staring at, but not seeing, a painting that exploded with pain. All those times she went walking alone. Those times she’d looked at me as if she wanted to cry. She’d been trying to get back here, even if only in her dreams.
“It was an accident, my meeting her,” Nat said. “I was part of a gang, just a party to it. Back then, we robbed trains. Easy targets. We were in eastern Montana then. When we first took her and the others, it was for hostages. One of the other guys wanted us to have what he called insurance. I was pretty young. So was your ma. We spent time together. I tried to protect her. I couldn’t help it, I fell in love, and she fell in love with me. Then I couldn’t let her go.” He laughed in an embarrassed way. “She was the love of my life. But she was torn. I know she thought about you, all the time.” He was quiet. “Thank God she left me Kula.”
I kicked the mare to pick up the pace. In another mile I saw the wreckage two hundred yards below the road, at the bottom of the slope, and made to push the mare again. My papa was down there. He was all I had left. I had to help him. My hands moved up on the mare’s neck to urge her forward.
“Hold up,” said Nat, and he reached over and grabbed my arm. I followed his gaze up and across the meadow, to its far side. The grizzly was back, and it found the dead gelding. I closed my eyes. Then the fear in me rose up: my father.
“We’re going to have to wait until he’s had his fill,” murmured Nat. “Back off, boys.”
We pulled back into the shadows of the woods, so that we could just make out the bear in the distance.
“Why don’t you shoot him?” I began to feel frantic. “My father’s down there. What if he goes after him? For pity’s sake, shoot the bear!”
Nat looked at me. “No.”
“But, why? Just shoot the bear!” Panic filled me now, bile in my throat.
“Because it’s a bad shot, too far to be sure. Because we’d spook him and he’d charge us, and then we’d have a bigger problem. Because he ain’t eatin’ your pa. Because once we’re done here, he can have the horse. Because this is his place.”
