by Cotton Smith
“Good ’nuff. We kin talk ’bout your idea ov’r some eatin’. I like talkin’ hoss.”
Removing his hat as he entered, Lockhart followed Rhymer inside.
A hardy, rolltop desk with a matching chair was actually the central attraction of the main room in the three-room house. Even from where he stood, Lockhart could see scratch marks on the lower sides of the desk where, most likely, Rhymer’s spurs had repeatedly passed. Above the desk was a framed, hand-drawn map of the Broken R ranch land. Resting on the desktop was a Bible. It appeared to have been well read judging by its many dog-eared pages.
A table and chairs filled the far side; Lockhart noticed it was already set for three.
The lone treasure representing a sense of elegance was a purple vase with gold trim waiting discovery on a scratched end table. It stood next to a threadbare settee that had been the height of fashion years ago. A cheaply framed Currier & Ives print of a mountain scene dominated the north wall. In the corner set a pair of worn mule-eared boots with strappedon spurs.
On the adjoining wall was a daguerreotype of a young man and a woman in traditional wedding pose. The wedding day of Marsha and Harry Rhymer. A flicker of Morning Bird and him in such a pose passed through his mind.
“That’s a mighty handsome couple,” Lockhart said, motioning toward the picture.
Rhymer smiled and turned up the closest oil lamp to its fullest, letting the yellow light swagger through the room.
Without their noticing, Martha Rhymer entered from the kitchen. She brought cups of hot coffee for her husband and their guest.
Turning in reaction to something sensed, Lockhart saw her and said, “I’m Vin Lockhart, ma’am. And you must be the beautiful lady in that picture.”
“Oh my, that was a long time ago,” she proclaimed breathlessly. She recovered quickly from the surprising compliment and walked forward with the cups.
Lockhart took the offering, thanked her and said, “If I may say so, ma’am, you haven’t changed much at all. I’d know you anywhere.”
She looked at him without speaking; but with interest in her eyes. The light from the room’s lone lamp didn’t quite reach her face. Her pulled-back hair was mostly gray now with only hints of an earlier day’s auburn coloring. Around her face, laugh lines and crow’s-feet had taken control. She wore a prim gray dress that had never known fashion.
Harry Rhymer thanked her for his coffee with a wink. He asked when dinner would be ready and she said it was. She curtseyed slightly to Lockhart and retreated to the kitchen. Rhymer motioned for Lockhart to join him at the oilcloth-covered table in the other part of the room.
After sitting down, the Rhymers quickly said grace in union. Lockhart folded his hands and was silent.
When they were finished, he turned to her. “Mrs. Rhymer, there is a custom…in my family…before eating. It goes way back.”
She nodded with curiosity filling her face.
“My family…ah, gives the first bite of food to…ah, God…as a thank you,” he continued. “Would you mind if I took a small bite of meat outside—and left it?”
“What kinda religion be that?” Harry blurted.
“Where are your manners, Harry,” she said and laid her hand on the table. “Of course, Mr. Lockhart. You do your…grace…your way. We will wait.”
Nodding his head, Lockhart cut a small piece of meat from the platter with his knife. Taking it in his hand, he rose and left, walking through the front door.
“Never hear-tell the likes o’ that a’fer.” Harry watched him leave.
“Oh, I believe that is an old Methodist tradition, Harry,” she explained. “I remember my momma telling me about it. Back in Pennsylvania.”
“Kind of a waste o’ good food, seems to me.”
“Some might think our ways are strange.”
“Well, maybe. Leastwise, we don’t go ’round throwin’ out food.”
“Hush. He’s coming back,” Martha said and added loudly, “Did it go well, Mr. Lockhart?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for understanding.”
She smiled. “Religion is important to all of us. Whether it’s being a Methodist or a Presbyterian.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lockhart sat and she handed him a bowl of mashed potatoes.
During dinner, Martha’s eyes began to study Lockhart with a careful curiosity. He was uncomfortable, but polite. There was no conversation as they ate as most Western men and women did, in silence. Lockhart was eager to discuss the idea of purchasing the ranch, but felt it would be improper for him to bring up the subject.
After cleaning his plate with relish, Harry stood and sought a decanter of whiskey, hidden behind the coal shuttle propped against the wrought-iron stove. He declared it was all right to drink on Sunday because they had a guest as he disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two glasses. Quickly, he poured the brown liquid into them without waiting for Martha’s response.
Harry’s whiskey began to open up memories as they sat at the table. “Ya should’a seed this hyar valley the fust y’ars me an’ the missus t’war hyar.” He took another swig of whiskey. “We’uns got hit by a winter. Lawdy. Jes’ wouldn’t quit, that winter. Snow kept a’pilin’ up.” He cocked his head toward Lockhart and continued, “Our hosses was a’dyin’ left an’ ri’t. Didn’t haff room in the barn for most. No ’mount o’ pawin’ an’ bellerin’ could bust down through that ice an’ snow nohow. Me an’ the missus, we dun dug holes in that thar snow fer ’em whar we could, ya know. Down to the grass. Wouldn’t stay dug longer’n a few minutes. Then we dun grabbed heaps o’ hay…an’ drug it out to ’em. Busted ice in that thar stream back yonder fer waterin’. Chopped trees with leaves still a’hangin’…fer ’em to ait.”
Lockhart listened, assuming this story was to tell him why they wouldn’t sell at any price.
“Hellfire, ’cuse me, Martha…snowed sumthin’ awful. Night was godalmighty white sometimes…One blizzard on top o’ nuther’n. Herd kept a’driftin’. Won’t stop in no blizzard, ya know. Had to keep a’follerin’ ’em. Could only save fifty head. That t’ were it. Fifty head.’ Cludin’ the wild stuff even.”
“That must’ve been an awful time,” Lockhart said and sipped his drink.
“Dun lost my furstest herd dawg in that thar winter hell. Didna’ find ’im ’til spring-up. Froze stiff, he were. A’side some dead hosses. He was a good-un. Died a’tryin’ to herd ’em, he did. Yessir.”
Awkwardly, Lockhart tried to find a subject of interest to Martha. He didn’t feel he could bring up the possibility of buying the ranch until Harry said something about it. He asked about her favorite mountain flower. It was the only thing he could think of.
She blushed and said, “Wild roses. I’ve been trying to grow them myself.”
“Oh yes, I saw them. On the side of the house. Very pretty,” he said. “I like Indian paintbrush, too.”
She did, too. “And those pretty blue mountain poppies. I want to try them sometime, too, do you like them?”
He liked them as well, but then he remembered Young Evening was partial to the tiny blossoms and felt guilty. He blinked his eyes several times rapidly to clear that whisper away.
Harry’s new declaration did it for him.
“Ya wasn’t ’round hyar in ’68, were ya?” He painted a zigzag with his finger on the table. “Rain came like the Bible story. Hey, Cherry Creek itself, down in town, dun flooded. Way ov’r. The ol’ Rocky Mountain News building got washed away. Yessir, it did.” He drew another zigzag line. “An’ ya know what? Ol’ William Byers, he owns the News, ya know. Wal, he ups an’ buys the damn rival sheet…ah, The Commonwealth …an’ took its building.” He chuckled.
Lockhart shook his head in response, wondering if the old man would ever get to the subject of buying the ranch. Or was this the way Harry Rhymer dealt with a subject he wasn’t interested in pursuing? Why did he invite him to eat? Just for the company? That was possible.
Another swig brought yet anoth
er tale from the old man.
“Seems like jes’ yestiday, me an’ the missus was a’takin’ on Crow…an’ them Sioux. Painted red devils. Ri’t hyar, mind ya. Lost’d me a son to the Cheyenne.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You know I should be going.” Lockhart pushed his glass aside. “Dinner was wonderful, Mrs. Rhymer. Thank you.” He stood.
“Oh…that t’ weren’t whar I were a’trackin’, Vin. Jes’ that ya said ya was interested in buyin’ our place—an’ I was tryin’ to get back to that subject.” Harry waved his hands to demonstrate his maneuvering, saw his glass and drained it.
Martha looked like she had been burned. Her eyes shot open and her jaw flopped open. “W-What did you say? B-Buy our place? Oh my…oh my…”
Lockhart wasn’t certain what he should say, but tried anyway. “Mrs. Rhymer, I told your husband that I hoped to start a horse ranch. Raise really good mounts, like you two used to do. I’ve been looking at several ranches in this area. Hadn’t visited yours before.”
“We wouldn’t have anywhere to live.” Her declaration stopped his presentation.
“We only raise milk cows now. And some hay. No more horses. No more. Those in the pasture are old. Nobody wants them. Except Harry and me.” She tabbed her eye with the corner of her apron. “I have my flowers.”
Harry watched her without speaking, then turned to Lockhart. “Guess that settles it, Vin. Me an’ the missus will be stayin’ put.”
Lockhart studied the half-empty glass of whiskey before responding. “I understand. There are a lot of memories here, I’m sure.” He looked at Martha, who was examining something on her apron in her lap. “But I wouldn’t want you to leave. I could buy the place—and you would stay on. As partners. You would live here, just like you do now. Together, we can make this the best horse ranch around.” He glanced at Harry. “I’m going to need good help. An’ from what I hear, you were the best.”
Martha was the first to respond. “But where would you stay?”
“I’d stay in town. Where I am,” Lockhart said quietly. “Until I could build something for myself. Out here. You would stay in your beautiful house. Here. Forever.”
“Wal, I’ll be!” Harry blurted and looked around for the whiskey decanter. “Did I e’vr tell ya ’bout the time I broke a mustang stallion? He sired us a handful o’ fine mounts, yessuh he did. Jericho were his name. Jericho. From the Bible. It were Martha’s idée.”
CHAPTER TEN
Lockhart was still smiling as he reined up at the hitching rack in front of the Black Horse Hotel. Nothing was settled, of course, but the Rhymers seemed excited about selling to him and staying on to help build a horse ranch. The price he offered was more than fair, and would give them a good return on their longtime effort, while relieving them of the ongoing burden of making the land work for them. They promised to let him know for certain by the end of the week.
“It’s a good fit. For both of us, Panther-Strikes,” Lockhart mumbled to himself as he entered the hotel lobby. “I think Harry’s a horse man at heart.” He chuckled and remembered the older man’s comments about milk cows not being his favorite thing.
Talking with the Rhymers had helped crystallize the idea of a horse ranch for him. He would first make a swing north to find his former in-laws. Then together they would round up some wild mustangs and drive them back. He would purchase several good mares—and a stallion—to complete his initial stock. The Rhymers would remain on the ranch, living there and watching over the place. He would pay Harry foreman’s wages. His biggest concern would be talking Crawfish out of renaming it the “Silver R.” He chuckled to himself at the thought.
“I hope Touches-Horses likes the idea,” he muttered and turned his head to the side. “Stone Dreamer, too.” Unspoken was the thought of Morning Bird.
To be fair with the Rhymers, he had shared even this part of his dream, that of bringing three Indians to the ranch. Martha had reacted first and said, as Christians, they should not object. Harry said he was glad they weren’t Jews—or Irish—and she had chastised him for the observation.
Inside the hotel, several men loitered in the dark crimson-curtained lobby, reading newspapers, relaxing in leather club and overstuffed chairs, smoking and talking among themselves. Lockhart paid little attention to any of them as he moved across the floor toward the stairs.
At the registration counter, Aaron Whitaker tried to get his attention. The young man’s pale face was gripped with concern. Lockhart noticed him at the same time as a voice hailed him from the closest chair.
“Mr. Lockhart, I presume? May I have a word with you, sir?” An overweight gentleman in a too-tight, three-piece suit jumped from the overstuffed chair, dropping the newspaper in its seat. A large, leather valise remained beside the chair.
The man hurried toward Lockhart, who paused at the bottom of the staircase. Waiting.
With a nervous nod, the man introduced himself. “I’m Titus R. Kane, special representative of the Ives Linen Company.” He paused and held out his hand. “I sell luxury linens and towels to several of your town’s finest stores.”
“Good for you.” Lockhart shook his hand.
“Ah, I have a concern, sir,” Kane said, dropping his voice to little more than a whisper. “A grave concern, I fear.”
Lockhart turned slightly toward the man. “I’m sorry to hear that. How may I be of help?”
“It’s about one of your…ah, guests, sir.” Kane’s face was flushed. “It’s come to my attention, sir…and I’m certain it is an oversight only…that the hotel has a…person here…who is…ah, not an American.”
“Really?” Lockhart knew where this was headed and clenched his teeth to hold back the anger rising.
Kane’s shoulders rose and fell and his massive belly wiggled in response to the movement. “Ah, yes, I’m afraid so.” He leaned toward Lockhart and whispered, “There is a savage…in one of your rooms.”
“Only one?” Lockhart replied. “I would’ve sworn there were several. Some Texas boys, I believe. Here on business. They were in rare form Friday night.” He chuckled.
It helped to curb his annoyance at the man’s ignorant intolerance. He recalled Crawfish telling him that all intolerance was based on ignorance.
“Well, I’m sure they were…a little rowdy. That’s fine. We all enjoy an occasional night of…pleasure.” Kane shook his head and continued, “No sir, the guest I’m talking about…is an…Indian savage.”
Lockhart’s countenance shifted from being amused to being agitated. “An Indian savage, huh?”
“Yes sir. As I said, I’m sure you didn’t know it. I’m sure it was done without your knowledge—or the manager’s. I am, of course, concerned…about safety and…”
“Mr. Kane. The only thing you really need to be concerned about—is me,” Lockhart snarled. “I am an Oglala Sioux warrior. I am one of the Kit Foxes. We never run from a fight.” He folded his arms and was silent.
Swallowing to keep bile from entering his throat, Kane didn’t know how to react. Was this man with the dangerous reputation kidding him? What did he mean by saying that he was some kind of Indian warrior? He stared at Lockhart, trying to decide how to respond.
“Ah, sir…I am really serious…about this matter,” Kane finally blurted. “No hotel can…allow such, as you know.”
Lockhart’s eyes flashed heat and he turned to Aaron Whitaker, who jumped, startled by the sudden attention. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t watching and didn’t try.
“Mr. Kane is checking out. Now. Help him with his luggage, please,” Lockhart declared and spun back to the stunned salesman. “Don’t ever come back here, Mr. Kane.” His voice became low and coiled. “I don’t want to hear you told somebody about this. Any of it.”
Sweat exploded across Kane’s forehead. He gulped something that sounded like he would never do that, but couldn’t help glancing at the others in the lobby.
Lockhart started back up the stairs, hesitated and looked over at t
he quiet men seated there. It was obvious they had been discussing the same concern and were waiting for Kane’s report.
“Excuse me, Mr. Kane,” Lockhart said and stepped past the heavyset salesman to the open area.
“Gentlemen, if I may have your attention a moment, please.” He waited for their response.
“Thank you. Some of you may have heard there is an elderly Indian woman staying here.” His gaze caught the surprise in several eyes at the word, “elderly.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Lockhart, I did hear that,” one gray-haired businessman stated. “From Mr. Kane there.”
“And?”
“Oh, I figured he had it wrong. This is a very fine hotel.” He straightened his back, then touched his navy blue silk cravat. His wild eyebrows saluted.
Lockhart folded his arms. “No, Mr. Kane is right. There is an elderly Indian woman here. She’s tired and hungry.”
The businessman jumped to his feet. “My God, man! How could you have a red savage? Here?”
Seated next to him, a well-dressed man with long sideburns and thick glasses muttered, “Next thing you know they’ll be letting Jews, Irish—and coloreds—in here.”
The gray-haired businessman looked down at him and agreed. “Yeah, an’ the damn Italians.”
Lockhart’s eyes narrowed. “She needed help—and we are giving it.”
“B-But for how long?” another salesman asked. He was seated in the far southeast corner, wearing a brown suit and holding a matching bowler in his hand. His pronounced forehead was layered in a frown that sparkled with new perspiration.
“ ’Til she’s well.”
“B-But they’re…they’re not civilized!”
Lockhart smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not civilized, huh? Let’s see, what makes a group of people civilized?” His mind raced to Crawfish’s explanations. “They need a division of labor. Well-defined. Ah, they need a religion. A noble one. A true philosophy of life that honors others, respects truth, and the land around them. They must be willing to care for those in need.” He cocked his head to the side. “What else? Oh yeah, art. They need art. You know, original art. They need music. They must have a rich legend to share. Stories of honor. Courage. Their children must be loved—and taught worthy values. Guess what that describes, Kane? Or do you disagree with my definition?”
