by Cotton Smith
Lockhart nodded agreement as he returned to the table and sat.
“Now, Sean, you may be wondering about these plates— and utensils,” Crawfish continued. “I keep ’em to remind me of how poor we once were. These old tin plates and such were what we had in our gold camp. Yessir, the very same ones.”
“They be lookin’ jus’ fine, I be thinkin’.”
“Well, thank you, son. Thank you.” Crawfish downed a glass of water and vinegar and placed a forkful of eggs into his mouth and began to chew them vigorously.
Sean ate with gusto, shoving food into his mouth so fast that even Lockhart stopped to watch him.
“Slow down, boy,” Lockhart cautioned. “It’s not going anywhere.” He took a sip of coffee and decided it needed more sugar.
With a mouthful of eggs and bacon, Sean apologized. “Ay, ’tis sorry I be. ’Tis fine food.”
“Try some of this jam. Gooseberry. Made it myself. Mighty good on that biscuit.” Crawfish pointed at the half-filled jar.
Immediately, the boy took the jar, spooned out a large swarm of sweetness and plopped it on the half biscuit he held in his other hand.
Both men watched him for a moment; then Crawfish asked Lockhart if he remembered what they had to eat at their first meal together. Lockhart smiled and recounted that there were beans, steak and sourdough bread dipped in sorghum molasses. He nodded his head to emphasize his liking for the latter.
Crawfish laughed. “Say, Newton, is that right? Did we eat that good?” He winced. “Holy catfish! That’s the first time ol’ Newton’s been…around for a long time, isn’t it? Kinda missed the old boy.” He laughed again and the left side of his mouth twitched slightly and was still.
Lockhart chuckled and added some jam to his own biscuit.
“Tell Sean…about Falling Leaf.”
“Not much to tell,” Lockhart replied as he finished spreading the jam.
Without waiting, Crawfish explained the situation with the Indian woman at the hotel without mentioning her initial reaction about ghosts being around him.
Sean glanced at Lockhart, then at Crawfish, finally getting up the nerve to ask, “Do ye be knowin’ her?”
“I took the liberty of telling Sean about your days with the Oglala,” Crawfish quickly added. “Some of it, anyway.”
Lockhart nodded. “No. I’ve never seen her before.” He took a bite of his biscuit.
“Does the red man be carin’ of his elders…like…like ye be doin’?” Sean asked.
“More than that really,” Lockart answered as he swallowed. “The older man, or woman, was considered to be, uh, all wise. They are the ones listened to at councils.”
“Indian women, be they…looked to…for decisions?”
“They were in our village. One was even a shirtwearer. I heard of other women honored in that way, too. A few were warriors, although I only saw one. At a summer gathering.”
“What be a shirtwearer?”
Lockhart thought for a second, then explained that a “shirtwearer” was like being on the town council, one of the camp’s chosen leaders. Only nobody gave anyone orders. Most things were known because of tradition, passed down among families. He explained that it was tradition that a husband never spoke directly to his mother-in-law, and that relatives of a boy were responsible for most of his actual raising, not his parents. However, shirtwearers were expected to do one duty particularly well, that of praying for the tribe’s well-being.
“Does not be soundin’ much like the red devils I be hearin’ about.”
“Well, I’m afraid most of those stories are true—or close to it.” Lockhart stared at the remaining biscuit in his hand. “White men have been taking away their land almost since the day the two races met.” He took a deep breath. “It isn’t going to end good…for the Indian.”
Crawfish quickly asked, “What could we bring to Falling Leaf to eat? What would she like?”
Cocking his head to the side, Lockhart said, “She’d really favor buffalo fat—and we don’t have any of that, so we’ll just offer her whatever’s available. She’ll tend toward greasier things, I suppose. She had soup earlier—and some cornbread. Most anything will be fine, when you come right down to it. She’ll have a real hankering for sweet stuff. Coffee with lots of sugar.” He smiled. “Like me.” He took another bite of the biscuit and washed it down with coffee.
“Say, we’ve still got some venison. Out in the cooling shed. How about that?” Crawfish asked.
“Sure. We could roast it and add some tallow grease. And some sugar,” Lockhart replied. “You know what would be good—with that?”
Crawfish looked at Sean, smiled and leaned forward.
“Apples. We can add some apples to the venison.”
“That’s easy enough. Sean and I can get working on that later today.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, Crawfish,” Lockhart said. “But she’s my concern, not yours. Or Sean’s.”
Crawfish grinned and scratched his chin with his fork. “Well, let’s see. Half that hotel is mine, so I reckon she’s half my concern, too. Don’t you think?”
Lockhart chuckled and drank the rest of his coffee. “Don’t ever get in an argument with Crawfish, Sean. You aren’t going to win it.”
The boy looked like he wanted to say something, but decided it wasn’t the time or place.
“Say, what if she gets upset when you’re not there?” Crawfish asked and reached for his own coffee mug.
Lockhart explained what he had told the assistant manager and soon the conversation wound down with Sean spellbound by the two men who had just entered his life.
After breakfast, the threesome carried their dishes into the kitchen and Crawfish showed Sean how he wanted them cleaned and washed. First, the boy went outside to pump water into a large basin. A stone well and pump were in excellent condition. Crawfish had taken the pump completely apart, cleaned and oiled each piece and reconstructed it. That was a month after he bought the residence.
As Lockhart and Crawfish watched the boy, the eccentric older man said he was planning on going to hear Dr. Hugo Milens preach at the Methodist church this morning and asked Lockhart if he wanted to go, too.
“I don’t understand your fascination for this man, Crawfish,” Lockhart said, frowning. “Do you believe he can talk to the spirits, bring them to you?” He cocked his head to the side. “You didn’t believe me when I told you that Stone-Dreamer could do such things.”
Crawfish pointed at the counter with his walking stick for Sean to set the filled basin and began placing the used plates into the water. He took a large bar of soap, and with a knife, removed a small handful of crumbles and flakes, then swished them around in the water to create a base of suds.
“Well, you know me, Vin,” the red-faced man replied, pushing his glasses back on his nose, and reciting quickly as he usually did when excited about something. “I like learning new things. Books-and-bookmarks! I liked learning about your Indian ways, didn’t I? Just figure it would be fun to hear him. Like to sit in on one of his seances, too. Now that would be something!” The side of his face twitched as it did on occasion. He wanted to mention Lockhart and the ghost story, but didn’t think his friend would like bringing it up.
“Anything in the Rocky Mountain News about the army? Up north?” Lockhart changed the subject and headed for the parlor where one entire wall was lined with books, magazines and newspapers. Crawfish rarely threw anything away, especially reading material.
Most parlors in finer homes were used exclusively to entertain guests and little else. In Crawfish’s house, it was a combination study and project area. In one corner, three large canning jars each contained a singular green plant. Lockhart didn’t know what they were; Crawfish was constantly growing things and transplanting them in his vast backyard. His huge garden supplied many of the vegetables for the hotel restaurant.
In another corner were several glasses of beer, each mixed with something. Orange juice. Berry jui
ce. Even tobacco juice. Crawfish was trying various combinations of beer.
Next to it was a wooden frame that eventually would become a hitching rack for outside the saloon. It was his intent to construct a rack that would hold more horses; this one had three long poles set vertically a few inches apart on support posts. Work had not proceeded further since Lockhart observed that the problem with getting more horses at a rack wouldn’t be solved by tying them at different levels.
A rolltop desk in the corner was also crammed with papers of various kinds. Above the desk was a framed daguerreotype of a young man and woman in traditional wedding pose. Crawfish and his late Almina. Even the wooden armchair in front of the desk held a stack of documents. In the other corner, a potbellied stove rested from its labors.
“Naw. Just a rehash of what we’ve been reading.” Crawfish knew his friend had no intention of either going to church or talking more about the mesmerist. “They’re supposedly closing in on the Indians from three directions. I’m betting they don’t even find any.” He patted the top of the chair with his staff.
Lockhart stopped and thought for a moment. “They might. The Greasy Grass is a good hunting ground. Ah, around the Little Bighorn. Or Rosebud Creek.”
“Naw, you know it’s all just politics. A big show to look like the army’s doing something,” Crawfish replied and added, “Maybe no Indians will even go there. If they did, they’d hear that bunch coming for miles—and skedaddle.” His statement wasn’t as positive as he wanted it to be.
Lockhart stared at Crawfish, but didn’t respond. The older man’s face twitched again.
“You know what they’re saying about Custer, though,” Crawfish offered, wincing slightly.
“They say a lot of things about him.” Lockhart knew his friend was continuing to refer to politics; it was another of Crawfish’s interests. So far, though, his only direct involvement had been taking an active role in the election of the mayor.
“Well, politics and pickles, they’re saying Custer’s going to be nominated for president. Democrat,” Crawfish said, studying his friend for reaction. “The Democratic convention’s going to be in St. Louis, you know. End of June. Starts on the twenty-seventh.”
Lockhart nodded. The corner of his mouth indicated he had no idea of when such a gathering was taking place, or where, or who was running. Nor did he care.
Crawfish wasn’t finished with the subject, adding that the key to Custer’s ascension would be a major, and timely, victory up north against the Sioux and Cheyenne. The news would be relayed by telegraph to St. Louis and dramatically announced on the convention floor. He thought it was a definite possibility since the three contenders weren’t all that popular. Samuel Tilden from New York, Thomas Hendricks from Indiana, and former Union general Winfield Scott Hancock from Pennsylvania were the candidates.
Lockhart picked up the nearest newspaper, then put it down again almost as quickly. His thoughts were visible only in the thinness of his mouth. “That all assumes he has a victory,” he said, tapping the returned sheets with his fist. “He’s got to find them first.”
“True. True. Of course, that’s only a rumor,” Crawfish volunteered. “Politics and rumors are always bedfellows.”
“Yeah, guess so.”
“People like to vote for war heroes, you know. Like ol’ General Grant. Custer’s that, too.”
Lockhart shoved both hands into his pockets, as if to hide them from the anger that wanted to make them fists again. “Do you get to be a war hero by wiping out a peaceful Indian village with a sneak attack in the middle of winter?”
Crawfish knew his friend was referring to Custer’s “Battle of the Washita” eight years ago. The army announced it was a major victory against “bloodthirsty savages.” Sort of like the difference of opinion about Chivington’s “Battle of Sand Creek” years earlier. Lockhart and a few others thought it was an unprovoked attack on a peaceful Cheyenne and Arapaho encampment; the news media hailed it as a major victory for progress. Some called it “Chivington’s massacre,” for the white leader, John Chivington.
Glancing back at Sean, who was nearly finished with drying the dishes, Crawfish stepped into the main room. “Sean’s going with me. To church.” He tilted his head back and forth. “Then we’ll check in on Falling Leaf; then I told him that we’d look in on his friend. The gut-shot one.”
Lockhart pursed his lips, then licked them. “All right.”
“He’s at Doc’s place. Remember? I can ask him about Falling Leaf.”
“We already talked about that,” Lockhart said. “I would like you to see if she needs any doctoring.”
“I’m thinking a good dose of cod-liver oil wouldn’t hurt. Or, maybe, some of that what-ails-you tonic I bought from Hoag’s Drug Store.”
Lockhart shook his head. “Better wait until I’m there to do something like that. She might not understand.”
“Oh, pickles-and-beets, of course I wouldn’t do that without you, Vin.”
Lockhart’s eyes narrowed. “On the other subject. You know if that Irishman makes it, he’ll be tried for attempted robbery and murder.”
“I know that.”
“Does Sean?”
Crawfish glanced toward the kitchen again. “Don’t know. I’ll ask him.”
“No. I’ll do it. I’m the one who shot his…friends.” Lockhart crossed his arms. “Then I’m going back to check on Falling Leaf.” He glanced away, then looked back at Crawfish. “Then I’m going for a ride. Been thinking about getting into…the horse business.”
“Horses, eh?” Crawfish’s mouth crawled into a wide grin. “You looking for a partner?”
“Know of a good one?” Lockhart matched his friend’s smile.
For once, Lockhart was the talkative one, explaining the idea that had been forming in his mind. It was as if the concept had just been waiting to pounce when his mouth was open. Lockhart thought he would buy an existing ranch operation and begin focusing entirely on horses. He wanted one or two really fine stallions to build a strong bloodline. He didn’t care if the ranch had been used for cattle or even if it was a farm. He wanted good water, good grass, and an iron-clad deed. He acknowledged the latter had been learned from Crawfish.
“You know that Indian relative of yours, what’s his name? Yeah, Touches-Horses,” Crawfish said, looking away. “He’d be a good one to have join you, being so good at training horse flesh.” The eccentric businessman grinned. “Wonder if that little Indian gal would want to come?”
Lockhart studied his friend’s face as the crow’s-feet around Crawfish’s eyes jumped and fattened in the aftermath of his observation.
“You old crow bait,” Lockhart snapped. “You said that with a straight face!”
Waving his arms in reaction to his remark, Crawfish yelled and waved the silver-topped staff. “Jumping pothooks! How was I supposed to know you planned on doing that all along? Huh? Tell me.”
Their conversation continued a little longer with Crawfish suggesting three small ranches he thought worth checking into. Lockhart had already planned on visiting two of them, but appreciated hearing about a third. The Broken R was nestled in a fat basin not far from town. An older couple worked the land and used it for raising milk cows and a little farming. Mostly hay, Crawfish thought. He knew there was a nice pond on the land, but didn’t know how many acres they actually owned.
Sean’s appearance stopped the exchange. “Mr. Crawford, sir, the dishes they be done. Sparklin’ clean, I’d say. What chores do ye be having next?”
“Well, Sean, no more chores today.” Crawfish grinned. “You an’ me, we’ll try a little churchin’, like I said earlier. Do you sing, Sean?”
“Sing?” Sean wasn’t sure if he was being teased or not. “A bird I not be, Mr. Crawford, sir.”
“Oh, I see.” Crawfish shook his head. “Well, there’s singing in church and I thought you might like that. No matter, though, we can just listen. My Almina used to sing real fine. Never got the hang of it
myself.”
Sean glanced at Lockhart, who shifted his weight from his right to left leg, obviously impatient to leave. The boy’s gaze settled momentarily on the slight bulge in Lockhart’s coat. An indication of his shoulder-holstered gun. Sean was certain he had never been around anyone so good with a gun, so calm in the middle of a fight, so difficult to read. How did this man feel about him?
Finally, his attention returned to Crawfish as he outlined the rest of their day. After church, they would visit Sean’s wounded friend, Lightning Murphy, then make sure Falling Leaf hadn’t been disturbed, and ultimately end up at the Silver Queen and relieve J. R. Parks. Sunday was a big day with the miners especially, trying to make the most of it before returning to the backbreaking drudgery of a new workweek.
Shaking his head, Crawfish realized his friend was going to make certain the boy understood the situation with the wounded Irish hoodlum.
“Eh, Vin, will you be joining us at the Queen later?” Crawfish asked quickly, trying to catch Lockhart’s eyes by waving his walking stick. “Or will you be with Falling Leaf?”
“Depends,” Lockhart said and looked at the boy. “Sean, you understand if this Murphy fellow survives—and that isn’t likely—he’s going to be tried for attempted robbery and murder. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Me be believin’ Big Mike an’ Lightnin’ not be intendin’ to hurt ye. Just be want’un to scare ye.” Sean’s gaze found Crawfish first and could go no further. “Just be want’un to scare ye…sir.”
“I see. Let’s look at the facts. Three of you hide in the dark. You wait there. Your friends think they have an easy mark, a businessman walking alone. They tell you to get ready with your knife. Your friend Murphy tries to shoot me.” Lockhart’s face was tanned granite and his blue eyes burned the boy’s face. “And the only reason he doesn’t hit me is because I don’t do what he expects. Neither does your other friend who also tries to shoot me.” His chin lowered and his voice became deep. “Scare me, Sean? Come on. They intended to leave me dead or dying. Relieved of my wallet. And my dreams.” He cocked his head to the side as he often did. It was a mannerism learned from Stone-Dreamer.
