Cut Hand

by Mark Wildyr

  I puzzled over this casual attitude toward Otter. Normally, tribesmen did not permit others of mating age near their wives unchaperoned, and Otter was now a man according to their lights. He experienced his Vision Quest this past year and earned his man’s name, River Otter, although he remained Otter to most. I concluded finally that the boy was yet a little brother to Lone Eagle, but the day was coming when he would pose a threat to my jealous, virile spouse.

  THE SUMMER and early fall were uneventful except for the burning of the countryside to refresh the land and encourage new growth next spring. If Wakinyan’s lightning bolts failed to accomplish this, the tribesmen set “cold fires” to burn out the brush and fallen wood that caused hot ones.

  When James and his troop rode into the meadow shortly after the burn, Lone Eagle materialized almost before the officer dismounted. My husband sat close by my side at the eating table while we conferred. Once his point was made, Lone Eagle moved away slightly but watched us through hawkish eyes, especially when James gifted me with a copy of Hawthorne’s latest work called Twice Told Tales.

  The news my military friend brought was not encouraging. There were clashes between settlers and Indians north of Fort Ramson, one so severe the soldiers intervened with a field piece. Settlers were clamoring for the removal of the tribes to reservations like the colonial “praying towns” of old so that missionaries could convert them.

  Information from back east was by necessity somewhat dated. The country was still in the grip of the Depression of 1837 with no end in sight. The slave issue virtually paralyzed the country. Pro-slavery rioters at Alston, Illinois, killed Elijah Lovejoy, a prominent abolitionist publisher, and smashed his printing press. The number of Supreme Court justices had been raised from seven to nine. As one of his last acts, Andy Jackson recognized the Republic of Texas. Somebody named John Deere produced a steel-bladed plow in Illinois. Michigan was admitted as the twenty-sixth state just this last year.

  James remained over, sleeping on the east side in Lone Eagle’s old bed. My young husband was noisy in the exercise of his marital duties that night. Doubtless the countryside knew when he achieved orgasm. James was duly warned to keep his distance, to say nothing of the platoon of dragoons sleeping in our meadow.

  TATANKA APPEARED on the trace in season that year, but he was considerably more skittish. The bison had been hunted relentlessly all during the annual migration. The camp compiled ample stores, but the men worked harder to accomplish the harvest. The kill was spread over a great distance, so the women’s task was no easier. Long Wind performed well, as usual, and I brought down two cows. This year I tried the raw liver the Indians considered a great delicacy and decided to do without such tasties in the future. I wondered if Cut Hand would cover Morning Mist with the same fervor he had flanked me after such hunts. I spoke into Lone Eagle’s ear until he was inflamed into a little thrumming of his own!

  So far, this was the best year since my divorce from Cut Hand, but clear skies to the west sometimes usher in storm clouds from the east. Tibo Jaquez de Velasquez arrived hard on the heels of the buffalo hunt. Yanube scouts warned me of the wagon passing on the south side of the river within sight of the village. Therefore it was no surprise when it turned north and splashed across the thin-running Yanube at the Mead. As the team pulled into the lea, I observed a man of middle years at the reins and a straight-backed youth with a proud seat aboard a fine-looking, long-necked mount. They were obviously father and son—or perhaps grandson—bearing a striking resemblance, one to the other. Hawk-eyed and eagle-nosed, they brought with them an aura of Old World dignity. The two resembled the People more than they did me, but there was a difference. Of Latin blood and temperament, I decided ere the first of them dismounted.

  “Señor,” the older man called from his wagon. “May we rest our bones in your meadow and partake of water from your ria—your creek?”

  “Certainly,” I called as Lone Eagle and Otter walked up to the porch from wherever they had been.

  “Gracias.” The man climbed down from his wagon, a contraption considerably greater than a buckboard but less than a Conestoga. As his feet hit the ground, he shrugged as if throwing off the weariness of lengthy travel. The man left the watering of his team to his younger image and strode with firm step toward the stoop.

  “May I introduce myself?” he said in strongly accented English. “I am Don Tibo Jaquez de Velasquez, late of Chihuahua, Mexico. And that”—he tossed a glance over his shoulder at the young man—“is my grandson, Carlos.”

  Carlos went about his business with a grace that was unusual for a man of seventeen or eighteen winters. The grandfather, who appeared older at close inspection than at first glance, mounted the steps and offered a strong, leathery hand. He removed a broad, flat-brimmed hat embellished with a heavy band of what appeared to be silver set with a blue-green stone holding brilliant golden flecks. Turquoise, I judged.

  “Do I have the honor of addressing Mr. William Joseph Strobaw?” Jaquez continued.

  “That you do, sir. And this is Lone Eagle and River Otter, two warriors of the Yanube tribe. They are conversant in English.”

  The courtly man took the time and effort to move to each and deliver his greetings.

  “Will you take refreshment?” I asked. “A meal, perhaps?”

  “Thank you. Victuals would be welcome. We have been at a strong move since leaving Fort Ramson. If it would not be too much trouble,” he added.

  “Not at all,” I responded. With my eye for masculine beauty, I found my attention on young Carlos. Slender as a willow whip—but with good shoulders—he stood, legs spread, holding his gelding in loose rein, allowing the animal to drink. His gaze was centered on Otter with an intensity that could only be described as smoldering. His dark, expressive eyes moved slowly up and down my young friend’s body. That one, I was certain, would have picked a doll in the stead of an arrow had some grandmother tested him as a child. Curious, I glanced at Otter. The boy obviously noticed the attention paid him. His color was high. He dropped his glance before that piercing gaze.

  “Otter,” I said, occasioning a start from the youngster, “would you see what we have to feed our guests?”

  The boy almost bolted for the door of the house.

  “Carlos,” Jaquez called. “Fill a canteen with fresh water and bring me some, por favor.”

  “Sí, mi abuelo,” the youth responded.

  My guest and I appropriated the two chairs on the porch of the cabin and settled in for some talk. Lone Eagle took a seat on the steps, well within earshot. He stared at Carlos with mildly disguised hostility.

  “And where are you bound, sir?” I asked, engaging the man in talk, else I would have laughed at my mate’s jealousy, even though it seemed misplaced. Otter should have been his concern.

  “To Fort Yanube. We will winter there and then proceed on to the Oregon Territory.”

  “You are somewhat north of the usual route, are you not?”

  “That is true. However, I had a delivery to make at Ramson. Some uniforms I contracted with the army to transport.” He paused before adding, “And then I was given a message to deliver—to you and an individual called Cut Hand, I believe it is.”

  “Cut Hand is the misco of the Yanube. You passed his village on the way here to the Mead. And what is this message, sir?”

  “I had the privilege of making the acquaintance of a mountain man by the name of Rumquiller back in St. Jo. Splitlip Rumquiller, he was called. You know of him?”

  “I traveled to this territory with him back in ’32. How is the old coot?”

  “Alas, my message is not good news. Mr. Rumquiller succumbed to injuries he suffered when a wheel collapsed on his wagon. It was loaded with heavy equipment, and he ended up beneath some of it. He tarried for several days. As we were acquaintances—friends, even—I remained nearby until the end. When he knew he was going to meet his Maker, he asked that I inform you of his circumstances should I travel to this part of th
e country.” Jaquez paused to inscribe a cross on his forehead and torso. “Indeed, it was to discharge this request that I accepted the contract for delivery of the uniforms to Fort Ramson.”

  “That was uncommonly kind of you, Mr. Jaquez.”

  “Not at all. Split and I did business from time to time, and he handed over his purse to ensure I would not forget to convey his respects and inform you of his demise. I am pleased that obligation is now fulfilled.”

  We spoke awhile longer, exchanging tales of our mutual friend. I was grateful for the reminiscing as the news hit me hard, leaving my bowels queasy and my nerves inflamed. I settled down some as talk turned to news from the Southwest. Don Tibo confirmed what Carcajou told me—the Americans did not enter the war when Texas declared its independence. After the rebels suffered the rout at the Alamo, they redeemed themselves at the battle of San Jacinto, capturing the Mexican president, Antonio Santa Anna, and winning their freedom without the direct intervention of the Yankees.

  As soon as we finished our meal of antelope jerky, beans, and tubers, I asked Otter to go inform Cut of Splitlip’s fate. Carlos connived to accompany the boy to the village, but his senior held him close.

  The two Jaquez—man and boy—remained overnight, sleeping in our western fronting room. I rejected Lone Eagle for the first time that night, fearing noise of our lovemaking would inflame young Carlos and send him rushing into the darkness in search of Otter. Our friend had opted to desert us and sleep in the bachelors’ tipi in the village that night.

  Cut Hand made his appearance before the wagon departed the Mead to hear of Split’s death for himself. We both stood in the grip of sadness as the Jaquez men clattered off to the west on the way to Fort Yanube. Otter did not show up until the wagon was well out of sight.

  WHEN TALK turned to the move to winter quarters, Lone Eagle made it clear he expected us to accompany the band. Even though I refused, he traded for buffalo skins and brought them home for me to construct a proper tipi. When he found them stored in the barn, he lost his temper and came close to trying to thrash me but settled for an earnest round of cursing, first in argot and then in English.

  Even though it was a busy time for him, I looked up Cut Hand for a conversation. “Am I so impossible to live with?” I opened. “I couldn’t make it work with you, and now I’m wrecking it with Lone Eagle. Am I so impossible?”

  “Yes,” he answered calmly. “You are totally impossible and outrageous. Impossible because you are a man in your own right and exercise your will as a man. Outrageous because you are the greatest fuck a man can have but refuse to act the part of a proper wife. You are also the wisest and best of friends.”

  “So I am destined to end up someone’s boon companion.”

  “There is something you should know, Billy. Lone Eagle has told everyone he will be with us on the move this year. To keep him here would cost him much, perhaps more than he is willing to pay. And,” he added, “he’s been showing interest in a girl.” My shoulders sagged. “I am sorry, but this is information you should have before making your decision.”

  So I acquiesced to my husband’s demands and wintered with the Yanube, but once committed to the idea, I made the best of it. Huddling beneath thick buffalo blankets on frigid nights was conducive to good carnal relations. I came to understand why so many Yanube babies were born in August and September. If the men spread their women as often as Lone Eagle did me, then it was inevitable. I wondered what the People thought of his roaring orgasms, but no one ever gave a clue by word or glance.

  The one part of village life I could not countenance was working side by side with the women to boil our clothing or prepare our meals. Morning Mist walked the camp to gossip on the days I washed clothes. She never spoke to me but talked around me, making waggish remarks that were difficult to ignore. To give them heed would be even worse. Another woman could pull her hair and punch her belly, but I was not free to indulge such satisfaction, nor did I wish to. All I wanted was to have this long, dreary, cold, blustery season behind me. Thank God I brought South with us. While the dog was bothersome, he was also protection against the unwelcome presence of Morning Mist.

  If I suffered, Lone Eagle prospered. He was as proud as that feral stallion we once stalked because he had prevailed upon Teacher to accompany him to winter camp. Not even Cut Hand had been able to accomplish that feat. He only began to wilt as the thaw came upon us. But to me it seemed as if an entire twelve-month passed before we started the trek back to the Yanube.

  Chapter 19

  I AM certain Lone Eagle came near to demanding we live in the village for the remainder of the year, but he made no determined fuss when I returned to Teacher’s Mead. I saw to the livestock we’d brought back and made certain the dogs had survived the winter, fed them, and put them on guard. Then I built two good fires so the house was warm and a meal simmered in the fireplace by the time Lone Eagle arrived home.

  “Where’s Otter?” I asked, aware that sometimes he did not appear until the second night.

  “I told him to stay away,” my lord and master answered breezily.

  “You did what?” I rounded on him with a ladle in my grip. A cold hand grasped my heart as I realized my earlier fears had come to pass.

  Surprised, Lone Eagle stuttered. “He… he’s too old to hang around like he does! Have you looked at him lately? He’s a man!”

  “This is his home!” I snarled. “Go get him.”

  “I will not. People will talk. His pipe’s too big.”

  “Go tell him to come home,” I said in a deadly voice.

  “You act like he’s putting it to you!” my husband complained.

  “You know better. He doesn’t think of me that way, and I don’t do it with anyone but you.”

  “You better not,” he said lamely. “But I will think about it and give you my decision tomorrow.”

  “Decision my bum! This is the boy’s home. You can’t deny it to him!”

  “He can sleep in the bachelors’ tent… tonight.”

  Lone Eagle’s sulky tone promised no vow to go for Otter on the morrow, but half a pledge was better than none. Our row did not dampen his enthusiasm that night. He thrummed me deliciously. As irksome as he was at times, Lone Eagle was a magnificent stud.

  When Otter returned home the next night, I took another look at the boy. The youth was eighteen now, with all the attributes of a young man. His britches were filled out, and the soft buckskin of his winter shirt stretched across broad shoulders. The sight gave me pause. I remembered young Carlos Jaquez and his obvious list for Otter.

  All the men in my life were uncommon in looks. Cut Hand, the most striking, possessed a classical handsomeness that caused people to tarry for the simple pleasure of observing him. James possessed a man’s body with an adolescent’s fetching features. Lone Eagle was handsome in a darker, leaner way, what my sainted ma called devilishly handsome, Lucifer at his most seductive. Carcajou, although never a lover, was a heavier kind of masculine beauty. Otter’s comeliness was classical like Cut’s, dangerous like Lone Eagle’s, and stolid like Carcajou’s. I hoped he would find a young woman worthy of his seemliness.

  SPRING BROUGHT the first serious trouble since the Pipe Stem raid five years earlier. When we heard shots from the direction of the village, Lone Eagle and Otter grabbed their weapons and headed out the door. Their horses were at hand, still tethered to the front porch from a short hunting foray, so they were well away while I delayed to close up the place. My key was in the lock when a lead ball smashed into the stone at my side, splintering me with rock fragments. I scrambled back through the door and slammed it shut. A bullet smacked into it where I stood but a moment earlier. Opening my front drawing window, I peered through the gun slot.

  Three men stepped out of the trees at the end of the meadow and stood conferring for a moment, their eyes fixed on the guard dog at their front. As they moved to advance on the house, South brought one of them to his knees. Without hesitation, another
of the villains shot my protector. Furious, I fired, dropping one attacker. Before I could pick up another rifle, House and East hit the other two. I grabbed a pistol and ran out the door, shooting one man in the chest as he was about to knife a dog. The other lay flat on his face, begging for mercy. East gave him a chewing before I bothered to call her off.

  Rifle shots echoed over the east hillock as I checked the fallen dog. Our faithful friend was gone, shot in the head. Leaving East and House snarling atop the one man still alive, I turned to the fallen men and received a surprise. One was Indian; the other was white. The prisoner also turned out to be white. Fretting over the continuing sound of gunfire from the direction of the village, I calmly knocked the man in the head, removed all weapons from the area, and left the dogs to guard him while I threw a halter on Long and took off bareback.

  I abandoned the trail, which skirted the thin forest off to the east, and took to the trees. Slowing as I detected movement ahead, I grew cautious until I came upon Lone Eagle and Otter abandoning their mounts. I slid off Long’s back and joined my two friends. Afoot, we cautiously approached the sound of battle. As we topped the rise, the cause became clear.

  A force of whites, Indians, and mustees had attacked the village, trying for furs and horses. The fools did not realize these people were not prolific trappers. I raised my rifle, vaguely aware that Lone Eagle and Otter had done the same. We fired simultaneously, as if in a volley.

  With us behind them and Cut’s larger force in front, the raiders took real losses before fleeing to the north. Declining to chase the scum, we rushed down into the village, despairing of the loss of friends. Fortunately, however, the tiospaye’s scouts had discovered the gang before the attack, so the Yanube’s losses were held to two, virtually a miracle given an attack by a score of gunmen. Even so, that was a tremendous loss for a small band. I hoped Stone Knife was in the vicinity to finish off the filthy pimps!