by Karen Kay
To her it was all such silliness.
No, after her experience in the mountains—with her life hanging upon the goodwill of one Indian boy—she would never be able to think of the Indians with any degree of hostility. In truth, when she thought of the boy now, she experienced only a feeling of affinity…and a slight nagging sense of guilt…
Reaching into her pocket, Carolyn took out the arrowhead and set it down on the table. As she did so, the table—its entire structure—collapsed beneath her fingertips. Both mother and daughter shot up from their chairs, each attempting a rescue. Carolyn had noticed the table’s weak leg. Now she grabbed hold of it and quickly replaced it. She made a hand motion toward it, too, as if to say, “There’s the cause of the problem.”
Her mother nodded, and with the table back together and upright, both women reseated themselves. However, neither of them made mention of the incident.
Carolyn gazed back at the arrowhead, and an idea struck her at once. “Maybe I could sell this—it is, after all, very old,” she said. “Maybe this could be a sort of means out of our financial dilemma.” Carolyn leaned back in her chair. With her attention centered inward, she said, “Yes, I think that’s it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it long ago. I’m going to sell it.”
“There are so many of them in the country, dear, that I don’t think you need bother. I hardly think they are valuable.” Carolyn’s mother patted her hand again and stood. “But you do as you think best.”
Carolyn smiled. “You don’t mind if I slip into town today, do you?”
Margaret Simon smiled lovingly back at her daughter. “Go on. Maybe you can pick something up for me at the general store while you’re there.”
“I’d be happy to,” agreed Carolyn, arising. However, she was not to exit so easily. Her foot caught in the hem of her skirt, causing her to trip as she came up onto her feet. It sent her off balance, and she fell into the table.
That the table fell again to the floor, this time with a crash loud enough to be heard into the next room, should have been cause for comment.
Not in this household.
Without so much as a single remark between them, both Carolyn and her mother lifted up the table, and Carolyn, settling her chair next to it, said, “Although perhaps I should stay. You could probably use a hand with the ironing, couldn’t you? Here let me—”
“No!” Her mother almost shouted the word, while Carolyn’s chair took another plunge toward the floor. “I’ll be fine, child, just fine. Why don’t you go change your clothes and hurry on into town if that’s what you think is the best thing to do.”
Carolyn nodded. “All right, Mother, I will,” she said and, spinning around, walked to the door which separated the kitchen from the living room.
She opened the door, grimacing as the doorknob fell off into her hand. Turning back toward her mother, she said, “I’m sorry. Sometimes, I don’t know my own strength. I’ll fix it tomorrow.”
“It’s fine, child, it’s fine. Just set it down on the floor, and I’ll have one of the hired hands look at it.”
“But, Mother, I could fix it if I—”
“Not to worry, Carolyn. It’s no problem. You have your own things to attend to.”
Carolyn smiled. “All right. I’ll see you at suppertime, then.”
“Yes,” agreed her mother, and it wasn’t until Carolyn had left the kitchen completely that Margaret Simon, casting a quick glance upward—as though to the heavens—was able to breathe deeply.
That she crossed herself as well, might not even bear repeating.
Chapter Four
Carolyn stepped a slippered foot down from the buckboard and, coming around to the front of her rig, threw her horse’s reins over the stable’s hitching post.
Drat! Pulling on her short, black gloves, she noticed that her hands were shaking. Sliding her palms down her sides, as though to straighten her dress, she took several deep breaths in an effort to calm herself. But, the good Lord help her, even that no longer gave her peace of mind.
She knew the reason for her nervousness, of course. Though necessity might dictate that she do this thing, it was a little like consorting with the enemy, wasn’t it?
Briefly, she wondered if she might be required to confront one of the two First National Bank’s presidents, Nate Stormy or Leonard Blacken. It would be a test of congeniality, if she were, for she neither admired nor respected either of the two gentlemen.
In truth, they irritated her. Though the two made great shows at boasting of their integrity and honesty, it was a well known fact that they had obtained their “fortunes” by cleverly cheating the government and the Indians out of treaty provisions.
Nevertheless, whether a result of bribery or outright fraud, both men had gained positions of power within the territory. As a matter of record, Leonard Blacken, calling himself a “prince,” was often seen parading about town in a Concord coach, which was drawn by white horses, complete with a gold harness.
And she wondered, why did men such as these need her parents’ small stake to line their coffers?
Carolyn had no ready answer for this, and deciding to stop dwelling on it, she resigned herself to the necessary action. If helping her parents meant enlisting the aid of these scoundrels, then this once, she would do it.
That was why Carolyn had donned her Sunday best for this occasion. A black, silk dress, which felt like heaven next to her skin, Carolyn’s “best” was adorned with black beading on the polonaise and pleated flounces, which fell to the floor. A small, black silk bonnet and a black, paisley shawl completed the outfit.
Lifting her skirt, she turned and came face-to-face with the livery man.
“Will you be long, miss?” he asked as he approached, reaching out to take the leather reins from her.
“No,” said Carolyn. “No more than an hour or so.”
The man nodded and, unhitching the horse from the buggy, led the animal toward the stable. But he must not have been terribly observant, for he banged into the stable’s entrance and slammed backward, landing on his rump.
“Are you all right?” Carolyn asked, hurrying over to him and, lending him a hand, helped him to his feet.
“I’m fine, miss. You go on about your duties.”
“All right,” she said, “if you’re sure.”
The young man nodded, and turning away, Carolyn glanced down the street, at the storefronts that bordered either side. The one with the words, “First National Bank,” held her attention.
Without realizing it, she jutted her chin in the air, as though to give maximum effect to her five-foot, three-inch stature. True, her hands still shook and her knees still wobbled, but she assured herself that she could do this thing. She would simply walk into the bank, show the president her treasure, get her money—hopefully—and leave.
Carolyn reached into her pocket and touched the smooth emblem she carried. She traced the outline of the small, golden cross with her forefinger. As she fingered the object, she was amazed that it should feel so warm. Gold was usually cold, wasn’t it?
She took the cross out of her pocket but found she could not hold on to it. She dropped it to the ground.
Ouch! What was wrong with the thing? It was burning up. She stuck her fingers in her mouth.
Bending down, she reached out tentatively and placed one finger on it. No, it was cool now.
How very, very odd. It had been as hot as an ember only a moment ago.
Picking up the cross once more, she glanced at it curiously. How could it have become so hot so quickly?
It was puzzling. And so engrossed was she in attempting to make sense of it, she barely noticed the man to her right, standing on a ladder. Nor did she see that he had lost his balance and had fallen headlong into a puddle of water.
She did hear the crash, however. With a quick glance over her shoulder, Carolyn registered the commotion but not the cause. Her mind was on other things.
With the cross held firmly i
n her palm, she stared dazedly at it. What was it about this thing? Just to look at it made her uncomfortable.
Maybe that was why she so rarely took it out of its hiding place—and why the last time she had uncovered it had been when Betsy Smith had come to stay overnight. Carolyn had intended to show it to Betsy but had not been able to do it.
No sooner had Carolyn removed the cross from its hiding place, than Betsy had tripped over a rug. The simple slip would have meant nothing except that the stumble had caused Betsy to fall into the fireplace. The next thing Carolyn knew, Betsy’s dress had caught fire. And in less time than it takes to think about it, Betsy had howled and run around in circles, causing the fire to grow. Truth be told, it had taken Carolyn and her parents several heart-stopping minutes to bring the situation under control.
Betsy had been saved, but there was nothing Carolyn could do to avert Betsy’s indignation—perhaps rightly so. Despite the fact that it had been the middle of the night, Betsy had left Carolyn’s home at once, and Carolyn had never seen her again except, of course, in passing.
Indeed, Carolyn had never glanced at the cross again either. Until now, there had been no reason.
It couldn’t be that the cross itself had anything to do with all these accidents, could it?
No, of course not.
And though a little voice inside her kept repeating the word “cursed,” Carolyn ignored it. It was too fantastic to be real.
Glancing up and down the street, Carolyn stepped into the road. But despite the precaution, she was so lost in thought, she did not notice the buggy heading straight toward her. The driver of the rig, however, stood up to shout at her, except he did not manage to utter a word. His rig ran under a low sign, knocking the poor gentleman senseless.
It was interesting, Carolyn thought. Was there a pattern at work here? If so, what was it?
She thought back to another time; one other instance when she had decided to show the cross to someone—her father.
She had taken the object out of its hiding place, had sought him out, intending to tell him about it. In truth, she had been no more than a few feet from him when the ladder he had been climbing tipped off balance. The ladder fell, taking her father with it, and both ladder and man crashed to the earth.
Odd, how her family’s ill luck had seemed to start right there. Carolyn fingered the ties of her bonnet, her concentration lost in the past. It was strange, she thought. So many accidents.
“Cu-ursed.” The boy’s word echoed once more in her mind.
Nonsense. Such things were nothing but silly superstitions.
Carolyn took a few more steps across the road and, glancing up, noticed that she was standing right outside The First National Bank. Tipping her head to read the sign, she sighed, resigning herself to the task at hand.
It will all be over in a few minutes, she told herself. Climbing the few steps that led into the bank, she concentrated on her pure, stouthearted purpose.
Carolyn reached out a gloved hand to open the door leading into the bank, and pulled. It would not open.
She tugged a little harder. Still, nothing happened. She pulled on it once more, again, then three more times. But it was useless. The door simply would not open.
“Excuse me.” She stopped a man who was walking by her. “Would you be so kind as to open this door for me?” she asked. “I think it’s stuck.”
The man tipped his hat and stepped forward. “My pleasure, miss.”
Turning the doorknob, he tugged—to no avail. He pulled a little harder—still nothing. Next, he strained, he twisted, then he lent himself leverage by putting a boot to the side of the building, and he pulled once again—hard. Carolyn, seeing this, thought to help him by stepping in back of him, and, taking a hold of his waist, yanked on him. One pull, another.
Of course, someone on the other side of the door opened it, and the door swung open—too easily. And given the amount of effort both she and the gentleman were putting into their venture, there was little wonder that the two of them fell backward, off the sidewalk, and into a pile of hay, which had luckily been tossed next to the hitching post.
The gentleman, God bless his soul, did his best to avoid landing on her. But it put him into an awkward position.
However, he righted himself quickly enough and was the first to rise to his feet; then he bent slightly to lend her a hand. Dusting himself off, he gave her a slight bow, tipped his hat to her, and said, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, “Happy to be of service.”
“Thank you,” was all Carolyn could think to utter, giving herself a good dusting. She was polite enough, however, to give the man her most winning smile.
“Oh, please!” Carolyn called to the other gentleman, the one on the other side of the door, the one who had opened it only a few moments before. “Please don’t close that door.”
“As you say, miss,” the unidentified man responded, and he held the entryway open.
However, a smart wind whipped up, and Carolyn, sensing that the door was about to slam closed, stepped quickly through the opening.
“Thank you,” she said, and took the few necessary steps to bring her to a teller.
“I wish to see the president of the bank, please,” she said.
“Certainly,” replied the man behind the cage. “Might I tell him who is calling and what this is regarding?”
“Yes,” said Carolyn. “My name is Carolyn White. My parents are the Simons, who own a stake on the west side of town. I am adopted,” she added when the man looked confused. “If you please, sir, I wish to ask the man in charge to appraise a piece of jewelry that I have.”
“Jewelry?” asked the teller.
“Yes,” said Carolyn. “Gold.”
“I see,” said the small man, puffing a dark blue curtain over his cage. “One moment, please.”
Carolyn inclined her head. “Thank you.”
It took no more than a few minutes before she was ushered into a room near the back of the bank.
“Mister Waters, sir,” said the teller. “This is the young lady I was telling you about. A Miss White.”
The banker stood. “Yes. Yes. Hello, miss,” the banker said. “Won’t you have a seat?”
Charmed that she would not have to confront either Mr. Stormy or Mr. Blacken, Carolyn swept forward and offered the man her gloved hand. “Carolyn,” she said, smiling and taking the profferred seat.
“Now,” said the banker, “what can I do for you?”
Carolyn cleared her throat. Darn, she thought. Sunlight filtered in from a window directly behind the man, making it difficult for her to see the banker’s face.
This was not agreeable to her, however, since she wanted to get a good look at this man, if only to assure herself that he was the sort of gentleman who would keep his word. But there was little she could do.
She could not very well ask the man to stand and endure her inspection. “Sir,” she began, “I have come here for an appraisal of a particular piece of jewelry in my possession. It is rare and old and is made of solid gold, I believe.”
“Ah,” said the man. “And do you have the object with you?” he asked.
“Yes, indeed, I do,” Carolyn replied, reaching into her pocket to take out the cross. Only she could not do it. Once more, the metal glowed too hot to touch. “A moment, please.”
“Certainly.”
Carolyn tried again to take hold of it. Drat, she could not put so much as a finger on the thing without it burning her. Ever resourceful, Carolyn took a hanky out of her purse and, using it like a potholder, pulled the object from her pocket. Proudly, she held it out to the banker.
As she did so, and as he caught sight of it, she heard the man draw in a breath, as well he should, she thought.
The cross sparkled from the light overhead. To her delight, Carolyn witnessed that the banker’s eyes glowed—almost more than the cross itself.
This was good. Surely he would purchase it from her.
&n
bsp; With hope rising ever higher within her, she watched as, greedily, the banker reached across his desk for the treasure. But alas, he never did grasp it. Without warning, as soon as the man’s fingers made contact with the metal, a gale of wind whipped in from the window behind him.
Unfortunately, there was glass and an encasement holding both objects in place. Both flew wide, flying into the room, and before Carolyn could react, an edge of the encasement hit the banker in the head.
He slumped over in his chair.
“Mister Waters? Sir?” Shocked, Carolyn stood up and bent over the desk. “He’s out cold,” she said to herself, glancing up to stare at the window.
And there, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of it, a small tuft of wind, spinning furiously, making a path toward the open prairie.
A whirlwind? Here?
And that’s when it happened. Cursed…The young Indian lad’s word came back to haunt her.
So many accidents, so much damage. You don’t suppose…
Holding the cross in her hand and staring down at it, Carolyn at last came face-to-face with a stark reality.
First, her father; then Betsy Smith, and now the banker. The Indian boy had been right. The cross was cursed.
Not only that, she thought as, like a domino effect, piece after piece of the puzzle suddenly fit together. She was cursed; her family was cursed. Anyone or anything connected with the cross was cursed.
Why had she not realized it before?
She was the reason her family was having so much bad luck…
Chapter Five
The wind howled around a corner of the mountains, creating miniature tornados. Tornados which, as soon as they set down upon the land, became bearded, grubby white men. These men carried upon them not weapons but instruments, which A-luu-te Itt-áchkáat did not recognize. Were these the tools of farming…or of gold mining?
The sun caught his eye, almost blinding him. But only for a moment. Quickly it changed, turning into another substance…that of gold. Bright, shiny gold.
And the white men’s eyes rolled in their heads, while his people, his proud Absarokee people, cowered in fear.
