Return of the Spirit Rider (Leisure Historical Fiction)

by Cotton Smith

  So was the idea that certain stones sang to certain men and women worthy to hear them. And the concept of spirit helpers that came to a warrior in a vision, helpers that would come to the warrior’s aid or help make him battle worthy. Or the understanding that a man’s words reached God while smoking a special pipe. Or that the eagle alone could fly to Wakantanka. Or that the wolf would act as a messenger with the underground people. Or that the meadowlark spoke the Oglala language.

  When he prayed, it was definitely a mixture of Indian and white ways and words. Always though, he ended with a sprinkle of tobacco as a tribute to the spirits. Always.

  Lockhart lifted his legs and wiggled his toes. He would feel better after washing and shaving. Sleep was out of the question. He stood and watched a timid shadow flinch as sunlight crept closer to the windowsill. He rolled his shoulders and remembered that Sean Kavanagh had gone home with Crawfish to sleep; his partner had insisted since he had an extra bedroom. Three to be exact.

  Maybe he would join them for breakfast at Crawfish’s house. It was a fine, gabled home in one of the better residential areas of the town. His home and a silver-adorned carriage with matching black horses were the older man’s early purchases after they struck it rich. A fancy stove and bathtub soon followed.

  Lockhart hadn’t purchased a permanent residence. Yet. It wasn’t something he wanted. Crawfish had invited him to live at his house—or certainly he could stay at the hotel. Lockhart liked time alone. Silence was holy, to his old Indian friends. That’s when a man was closest to the Great Spirit. He felt the same way. The boarding house suited his needs. So would the hotel. However, living there would place him in a position of managing it, even without the title or the responsibility. He didn’t want that. He would be bored quickly by the repetition. In his heart, he was an Oglala warrior, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

  A look outside told him the day was going to be a handsome one. He decided to walk to his friend’s house. As he stepped to the cracked mirror above his dresser, he let his mind return to last summer. He had returned to the tribe briefly, riding with Touches-Horses after rescuing him from Virgil “Vinegar” Farrell. The man and his gang had captured Indians and were forcing them to train horses for sale to the army. Warriors from Black Fire’s band had come to the Silver Queen to ask him to save his friend. It had been a shock to see his past again. His first reaction had been angry denial.

  Five other warriors were saved as well; none from Black Fire’s tribe however. Afterward, he had told his adoptive father, Stone-Dreamer, that he had heard the stones sing. At least, he thought he had. There had been a faint murmur in his pocket, where he kept the small pebble earring that now hung from his watch chain. When he reached for it, the pebble slipped from his grasp and he bent over to catch it. A bullet missed him. In the ensuing gunfight, he shot Farrell and his right-hand killer, Valentine. His own wounds were treated by Touches-Horses and, later, healed by Stone-Dreamer. The old holy man had been visibly pleased to hear his story of the stone.

  His thoughts immediately fled to an even earlier time, just after he had received his spirit-guide vision of the fearless mountain lion.

  “Father, I have seen beyond. Will you teach me the songs of the stone?”

  “My son, I cannot teach you this. They are powerful songs.”

  “I know, my father. I know the inyan are the most ancient of people. I know they are very wise. I am ready to hear the songs of the stones.”

  “The stones will decide when you are ready. If ever. The songs of the stones come only to a few. The stones choose. Not the man.”

  The memory splintered and faded. He wandered across the room to the cracked mirror above his ornately carved dresser. On its top were an old family Bible, a daguerreotype of his parents on their wedding day, and a small box containing his mother’s pin, which he wore only on special occasions. They were the only things remaining from his early childhood, before the Indians found him beside a sod hut; his parents and sister were dead from cholera.

  Resting among the earlier mementos were two small cardinal feathers. One was male and crimson; the other, female and cinnamon. Morning Bird gave them to him when he left the village. It was “remembrance magic,” she said with a tearful smile. She called the cardinals “spirits of the morning” because she often saw them on morning walks alone, and with Lockhart. She was drawn to their mating for life— and the male cardinal’s fierce protection of his mate and his territory from other cardinals—and the female cardinal’s caring ways, singing in her nest. She was named after them, by her parents.

  He didn’t need feathers though, or anything, to remind him of her love, but there was something about them that fascinated him. Every time he saw them, their last moment together came to him, more intense than the last.

  After pouring water into a white basin from a matching pitcher, he washed and shaved. Today, he chose a herringbone suit, made for him by Louis Knowles, the tailor. A maroon vest contrasted with the gray of the suit; his silk cravat was striped in shades of gray and black. For a moment he thought about not carrying a gun, but last night’s violence was a grim reminder that Denver was a long way from being safe. He buckled the shoulder holster in place, and walked over to the bedside table where his revolver still lay.

  A check of the loads satisfied him and he shoved the weapon into the leather. His suit coat covered the weapon nicely. He retrieved his watch from the bedside table, checked the time once more, closed the lid and slid the timepiece into his vest pocket and attached the chain to the inside of the other pocket.

  “Wonder if Crawfish will have coffee on?” he asked himself. “Probably. And he’ll have young Sean reading the newspaper. Or working in his garden.” He chuckled.

  As he left the room, he grabbed a wide-brimmed Stetson. It was gray. After a stop at the outhouse in the back, he walked back into the Denver House. The sun was still playing hide-and-seek with the land.

  “Well, good morning, Mr. Lockhart. You’re certainly about at an early hour,” Mrs. Arbuckle called as he entered the back door, adjacent to the kitchen where she was working.

  Touching his hand to his hat brim, he paused in the doorway. “How are you, Mrs. Arbuckle? You’re up early yourself— and working hard I see.”

  Turning from the large bowl on the counter, her smile invited him to come into the small kitchen. “I’ve got to, if I’m going to get yo’all fed—before church. That new spiritualist, Dr. Hugo Milens, is preaching this morning. You know, a doctor of Egyptology. At the Methodist church, he will be.” Her wide face was slightly reddened from the heat of the stove.

  “I won’t be at the breakfast table this morning, Mrs. Arbuckle,” he volunteered. “I have a meeting across town. With my partner. You know…Mr. Crawford.” He almost said Crawfish and he knew the woman was quite formal in ways and wouldn’t appreciate a nickname like that. Any nickname, for that manner.

  She stiffened and the smile left her face for an instant, before reappearing in a more stilted manner. “We will miss you, of course.” She swallowed and added, “I…We…always enjoy your observations about our fair city. Will you be joining us for Sunday dinner? Chicken and dumplings, I plan. One of your favorites, I believe.”

  “That sounds good, but I’d better say no. I have business outside of town.” He continued out the door, before she could ask him about the story she had heard from another boarder about trouble outside of the Black Horse Hotel last night.

  Outside, he walked along the cobblestoned walkway that led to the street. It was a good day to stroll over to Crawfish’s, he told himself once more. Lockhart hoped the older man would be up and have coffee made. At least that. Then he remembered Crawfish had bought a cow and was keeping the animal in his backyard. Along with a small chicken coop. His neighbors weren’t too happy about the gathering, but the former prospector, now businessman, didn’t care. He could have fresh milk and fresh eggs whenever he wanted. The eccentric ex-professor was always fascinated with new thi
ngs, new ideas, new adventures. That’s why the bank was high on his mind right now. That and the chandelier coming from Chicago. And a wine cellar at the restaurant. In another year, it would be something else.

  In a way, Lockhart envied Crawfish’s enthusiasm for life. It was a wonderful trait, one that his former brother-in-law also shared. That thought returned him to an idea that had been nurturing itself in his mind. A horse ranch. Especially if Touches-Horses would join him in the venture. It would keep him from the awfulness of the reservation. Maybe Stone-Dreamer would join them. Would the army leave them alone? Why would the army have to know? Morning Bird…

  When he was honest with himself, the daily chores of owning a saloon and a hotel, as well as their other properties, didn’t grab him in the way it did Crawfish. Oh, he liked the wealth they brought, but something was missing. Maybe he could find it in raising horses. Good horses. The market for them was strong and growing. Why not? What would Crawfish say? He would be welcome to join him in the enterprise. Of course.

  Would he? Or maybe Lockhart should sell his share of their other businesses back to him. To raise the money needed for the ranch.

  He chuckled. “Maybe I’ll be the first man to borrow money from the new bank.” He shook his head and walked on.

  Then he stopped.

  At his feet, a spider crept across the walk. Slowly. Purposefully.

  “Well, well, my little friend. Are you related to the great Inktomi?” He leaned over to watch the spider and was surprised at his own words.

  Inktomi, the Spider, was the subject of many Oglala creation myths. He was the son of Rock and the Winged, and the older brother of Iya, the Giant who carried the cold from the north. Stone-Dreamer enjoyed telling the stories as much as he had enjoyed hearing them as a boy.

  Inktomi, the trickster, playing tricks on man and animals, while often the prank ended up on himself. Inktomi, the transformer, responsible for giving shape to animals and naming them, as well as transforming himself into any shape. However, he preferred becoming a coyote or a handsome warrior. Inktomi, the creator, who gave man culture, time, space and language. Inktomi, the enticer, who led man out of his subterranean world and onto the earth, then made it so man couldn’t find his way back. Inktomi, the de-priver, who deprived the wasicun from having any form, after they had asked for and been granted invisibility. He made it so they had to assume the shape of something else whenever they wanted to communicate—with anything.

  Lockhart stood, transfixed on the tiny object below him, lost again in yesterday. He grinned and mumbled, “I remember a story—from Bear-Heart—about Inktomi carrying his huge penis around in a box!” He laughed out loud. “Oh, and the time Inktomi roasted his own butt!” He leaned over again and slapped both hands on his thighs, seeing the brawny Bear-Heart telling Spider stories and laughing so hard at them himself that tears ran from his eyes. “Oh yes, Inktomi juggled his own eyes—and threw them up so high, they got hung up in a tree branch—and he was blind.”

  He shook his head, amazed at the continuing stream of Indian memories that had engulfed his mind. A walk with Morning Bird one early evening when they had come across a spider and she had sung to it. Her words haunted his soul.

  He walked on, being careful not to disturb the spider. He wondered, though, if the tribe still held Spider sings and, if they would continue doing so on the reservation. Would they even be allowed to do so? Did Morning Bird sing such songs? Did she ever think of him as he did her?

  His easy journey took him along the edge of the commercial district. None of the merchants were open for business. Too early, he surmised, then remembered it was Sunday. In the distance, he could see the city hall, a proud structure of only a few years. He walked past the closed Overland Stage Line office and soon strolled past the Rocky Mountain News office. He could barely hear the muted celebrations in the sporting district and wondered if the Silver Queen was busy.

  Rounding the corner, he saw Mattie Bacon and her father, leaving his store, Bacon’s General Store. Lockhart froze. He and Mattie had been very close, maybe in love, for several months. Even making love just before he left town to find his Indian brother-in-law. That was a year ago. Things had not been the same when he returned. It was his feelings that had changed. Not hers.

  He had not been able to bring himself to tell her that seeing his dead wife’s younger sister had triggered something inside him that wasn’t supposed to be there.

  Three years younger than her sister, Morning Bird was beautiful.

  She looked so much like Young Evening, he had been startled by her appearance when he and Touches-Horses entered the village. Their time together was brief, so brief, as everyone in the village wanted to see him. Yet her countenance lingered in his mind like a spring mist.

  When he finally returned to Denver, he avoided seeing Mattie for several days and when she finally cornered him at the Black Horse Hotel, he told her that they shouldn’t see each other anymore, that her initial concerns were right: he was a gunfighter, a killer of men, and that they would never be able to have a normal life together. It wasn’t a lie; it was just an exaggeration. He didn’t think of himself as a gunfighter; he was a businessman who chooses to defend himself if attacked. He could do nothing about the rumors that floated around from saloon to saloon. Crawfish told him that those rumors kept the riffraff from their saloon— and troublemaking to a minimum.

  He took a deep breath and continued walking down the boardwalk. He knew she had seen him almost immediately.

  “Good morning, Ms. Bacon. Mr. Bacon.” He removed his hat as he advanced.

  Albert Bacon’s face couldn’t hide his emotions any better than his daughter’s eyes could avoid their instant look of longing before blinking it away. Albert, on the other hand, was afraid; his every expression and movement telegraphed that fear. He mumbled a greeting and took his daughter’s arm to keep her moving.

  Mattie Bacon didn’t move. Her cinnamon hair was rolled into its usual tight bun and her dress was soft and simple. Her blue eyes gave away her conflicted thoughts before she spoke.

  “Good morning to you…Mr. Lockhart. I’m surprised to see you up and out so early—and on a Sunday morning. Are you headed for worship services?” Her smile was a half one, more taunting than friendly, as her mind brought back Lockhart’s rejection.

  Lockhart slowed, gazed at Albert Bacon and couldn’t resist saying, “There’s no need to be fearful, Mr. Bacon. I’ve given up hurting store owners and their beautiful daughters.” He glanced at Mattie. “Mattie, you make the morning even brighter. I’m sure every man in church will feel better. Just seeing you.”

  “Your flattery is excessive, Mr. Lockhart,” she said, “but thank you for the kindness intended.” She studied his face for answers to her own confused emotions.

  It was a handsome face. Rough-hewned, perhaps, with unreadable eyes that cut apart everything they viewed. A warm tingling passed through her body. She was drawn to him in a disturbing way she couldn’t explain, except possibly to another woman. In spite of what he was, of what he had said. It just made him more dangerous, more inviting.

  “I only speak the truth.” With that, he returned his hat to his head, pulled on the brim and continued walking past them.

  Father and daughter stopped after a few steps and turned to watch Lockhart, both drawn to him in a different way. Whistling sounds of “Garryowen” reached them.

  “That’s terrible. Whistling a drinking song—in public. On Sunday,” Albert Bacon declared.

  “Be careful, Father. He might hear you,” Mattie said. “Come on. I told Mrs. Hostal I would meet with her before church. She wants me to sing at her daughter’s wedding.”

  “Oh, how nice.” Albert Bacon glanced one last time in Lockhart’s direction and gladly hurried down the street with her hand on his arm.

  As they reached the alley and the end of one sidewalk section, she glanced back. Lockhart was barely in sight. Her sigh was mistaken by her father as an indication that
she was displeased with the composition of the space between the sidewalks.

  Quickly assuring her there was no mud, he added, “I’m so glad you broke up with Lockhart. He’s a bad man, Matilda. A very bad man.”

  He didn’t see her grimace.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Strolling down the street past a double row of buildings, Lockhart tried to concentrate on his surroundings; he wasn’t going to let seeing Mattie Bacon add to his clouded thoughts. He just wasn’t. It was better this way, he assured himself. She needed to find a respectable man, someone gentle.

  Morning Bird again flooded his mind.

  “And what do you need, Panther-Strikes?” he muttered aloud and answered, “That’s the problem. You don’t know. Or do you?”

  He was two steps past the alley and onto the boardwalk again when his mind registered on a huddled shape there. An old woman! Yes, it was. An elderly Indian woman.

  He spun on his heels and retreated to the opening between the buildings.

  She was asleep. Her long, gray hair spread about her shoulders and partly covered her wrinkled face. Held tightly in her hands was an apparently empty buckskin pipe bag with half the beading torn free. Moving closer, he saw the butt of a revolver clearing the top of the bag. He hadn’t seen the woman before, of that he was certain. Her filthy dress was definitely Sioux, although the beadwork was of an old style and was hanging loose in several places. A trade blanket lay at her feet, tightly rolled and unused. At her neck was a wide choker of beads and stone.

  He wasn’t sure what Sioux tribe she was from, but thought it was Hunkpapa. At least, the design of the beadwork and choker reminded him of their styling. Seeing her, curled into a miserable sleep, jolted him back to the agonizing days of his recovery from the great battle with the Crow raiding party. On the way to a stream near their encampment to clean his healing body, he had come upon an elderly woman. She had been sleeping, too.