Buffalo Summer

by Nadia Nichols

  Nine p.m., and the six of them were sharing a table at the restaurant. The band was playing a nonstop barrage of country-western tunes, the dance floor was full, the air was blue with cigarette smoke, the food was great, and Caleb was working on his second beer when he made a decision. Jessie was right. What did he have to lose? “Let’s dance,” he said to Pony.

  She rose from her chair without hesitating and took his hand. He led her onto the cramped space and forgot all about his vow to keep his distance. He touched her and forgot everything but the smooth, firm warmth of her hand in his, the curve of her slender waist, the way her other hand rested lightly on his shoulder, the graceful way she moved and the liquid darkness of her eyes when she raised them to his. He felt himself falling into something so deep that he couldn’t save himself even if he wanted to, and he didn’t. He drew her closer and she came into his arms as if she belonged there.

  One song followed another, and three songs later the band took a break. Caleb reluctantly led her back to the table and ordered another beer. The boys were playing video games against the far wall, returning to the table for more coins or another soda. He leaned his elbows on the table, drew his beer close and said, “I’m glad you came.”

  She was drinking a ginger ale, and a faint smile curved her lips. “Me, too.”

  “I guess we should be getting back to the motel pretty soon. We have to be out at that ranch early. We’ll probably get home pretty late tomorrow night. We’ll have to drive straight through, no scenic stops, and hopefully no flat tires or mechanical problems.” He lifted his beer for a swallow and set it down. They gazed at each other. Caleb’s fingers tightened on his glass.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “I look at you and I can’t help but wonder why you aren’t already married and mothering a bunch of your own children.”

  Her smile instantly faded and her eyes revealed shock at his words. The band was returning to the stage at the back of the room, picking up their instruments. “I’ll go get the boys,” she said, rising from her chair and heading for the far wall. Caleb moaned aloud as he reached for his wallet. Three beers and he was throwing all caution to the wind, asking the question that had tormented him since that day up on the mountain. Why wasn’t she married, with a passel of full-blooded Crow children? Why?

  She loved Pete. She must love him, that’s why she got so upset every time he showed up at the ranch. She wanted to marry Pete, but maybe he didn’t want children. Or maybe he didn’t love her. No. Such a thought was ludicrous. Of course he loved her and wanted to marry her. Any man would. How could they not?

  Caleb lifted his beer and finished it. The band jumped into another lively two-step and he glanced around for Pony, wondering if she’d ever dance with him again. Hell, wondering if she’d ever speak to him again. It seemed that every time he tried to tell her how he felt, he said the wrong thing. Perhaps he needed to rethink his strategy. Maybe he should just demonstrate how he felt. Maybe he should just march across the room and ask her to dance one last dance, and while they were close he would kiss her. Maybe then she’d know that he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

  His eyes swept the room, caught sight of her and froze. She was standing near the video games, surrounded by three men. The boys stood in an uneasy huddle to one side, watching, as one of the men reached for her. He saw her shake her head and move protectively toward the boys, but another man blocked her retreat even as the first man’s hand closed around her arm.

  A flash of white-hot anger exploded through Caleb and he jumped up, knocking his chair back. The band played on, people kept dancing as he approached the three men. All of the feelings that had been simmering in him since that incident with the drunk in Livingston had boiled to the surface by the time he reached the three yahoos. He pulled the man’s hand off Pony’s arm and stepped between them.

  “Pony, take the boys and go to the truck,” he said, turning to the man.

  “Mind your own business,” the man snarled, stepping closer. “This is my joint, and I decide who gets served. We don’t cater to Indians here.”

  Caleb punched the man square on the nose, feeling the shock of the blow travel all the way to his shoulder. A second man raised his arm to hit Caleb, but Caleb caught the arm and slammed his attacker head-first into a video machine. Instantly he rounded on the man who had blocked her, grabbing him by the shirt-front, picking him up bodily as if he were weightless and hurling him backward, knocking over a table and sending chairs and people flying.

  A woman screamed.

  The band was still playing, but people had stopped dancing to watch.

  Caleb’s rage was so intense that when the third man tried to defend his friends, Caleb turned and knocked him down with a tight, vicious jab. Then, as he reached down and seized the first man who was struggling to his feet, a blinding pain exploded in his head. Bright lights flashed and his vision faded. His knees buckled as hands grabbed him, pulled him up and held him fast. A fist snapped his head back. Another to his stomach doubled him over and left him struggling to breathe. He rocked back under a seemingly endless barrage of blows and then, suddenly, the hands that were pinning his arms let go and he staggered back against the wall, sliding down into a sitting position and fighting his way back to consciousness.

  “All right,” an authoritative voice said. “I guess that’s enough. You boys are having way too much of a good time here. Lucky thing I happened along, huh, Roy? You start this fracas?”

  “No, Sheriff, he did. All I did was ask the little lady for a dance and he went berserk and punched me. Look at all this blood. I think my nose is broken!”

  “That’s not true,” Caleb heard Jimmy shout, his young voice strident. “He said we had to leave right away. He said Indians weren’t welcome here, then he grabbed her by the arm.”

  “Yeah,” Martin said. “He said bad things happen to Indians in this town.”

  “Sheriff, on my honor, I didn’t do anything. I swear that’s the truth. If it weren’t for Len and Boyd, that man probably would’ve torn me to pieces. Look at my face! What’s my father going to say about this?”

  “Roy,” the sheriff said, “quit your whining. You and your friends get on out of here. Go jump in the river and cool off.”

  Caleb’s breath returned, and his eyes came into blurry focus in time to see a heavily jowled man wearing a tan-colored Stetson and a matching tan uniform reach down to haul him to his feet. “You, my unfamiliar and unfortunate friend, are hereby under arrest for disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, and being stupid enough to give the mayor’s son a bloody nose,” the sheriff said, snapping a pair of handcuffs around Caleb’s wrists. “Come with me real peaceful-like and let’s get this ugly episode over with.”

  Caleb looked around for Pony and spotted her pressed against the wall with the boys flanking her protectively. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping blood from his mouth and wondering if his eye was going to swell completely shut. “You boys take Pony back to the motel and stay put.” He pulled the keys to the Suburban out of his jeans pocket and handed them to Pony. “I’ll call you to come pick me up.”

  “Come on, come on,” the sheriff said, taking him by the upper arm. “I ain’t got all night!”

  PONY WATCHED THE SHERIFF lead Caleb McCutcheon out the door and closed her trembling fingers tightly around the keys he had handed her. Her heart was racing and she was dry-mouthed with fear. She had no intention of waiting at the motel room for him to call. “Come on, boys. Let’s go.” They exited the eatery in time to see Caleb being pushed none too gently into the back seat of the cruiser. “Officer, please,” she pleaded. “This man did nothing wrong. He was only trying to protect us.”

  “Maybe so,” the sheriff said. “But it wouldn’t look right if I let the man who messed up Roy’s pretty face walk off without so much as a reprimand. Lady, do what your friend said and take those boys back to the motel. Better yet, for your sake and theirs, get ’em the hell
out of town.” The sheriff opened his door and climbed into the cruiser. He started the vehicle, pulled away from the curb with a loud chirp of tires and within moments had sped from view.

  Pony’s fists clenched and the keys bit into her palm. She watched as the car disappeared and tried to quell the panic that flooded through her. “Okay,” she said. “I’m going to find the police station and wait right there until Mr. McCutcheon’s released.”

  “We’re coming, too,” Martin said.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy said. “We’re not going to wait at the motel.”

  “Oh, yes, you are, with the door locked,” she said.

  “You heard what that sheriff said,” Jimmy protested. “Mr. McCutcheon beat up the mayor’s son. Who knows what they might do to him?”

  “They won’t do anything,” Pony said, turning to walk briskly back toward the motel. “He did nothing wrong.”

  “Really?” Dan said, falling in beside her. “Then why was he arrested? He wasn’t drunk. All he did was try to rescue you from those jerks, and he got coldcocked with a beer bottle. The mayor’s son and his two friends should have been the ones who got busted, not Mr. McCutcheon.”

  “He beat up the wrong people in the wrong town,” Pony replied grimly.

  The boys followed in silence, and when they reached the motel she pointed at their room. “Inside, lock the door, and wait for me.”

  “No.” All four boys squared off and glared at her, and Jimmy said, “He tried to protect you, and now we want to do the same for him. Besides, who knows what might happen to us if you leave us here alone?”

  Pony hesitated. “All right. But you’re staying in the truck. You hear me? You’re not coming inside the station. This isn’t a safe place for us to be. You keep the doors locked, and if something happens while I’m inside, use the cell phone to call for help.”

  “Who would we call?” Jimmy said. “The sheriff?”

  “Steven,” Pony said. She climbed into the driver’s seat, reached a piece of paper and a pen from the center console, and scribbled her brother’s phone number on it. “You call him if anything goes wrong,” she said, handing the scrap of paper to Jimmy.

  CALEB SAT on the edge of the stained mattress in the holding cell and cradled his aching head in his hands. He was half-convinced that this was a nightmare and any moment he would wake up in his old log cabin. He would open his eyes and hear the wind blow through the aspen and pine, hear the timeless rush of water over the smooth river stones. Any moment…

  “Hey, mister. Mister! Snap out of it. I need you to fill out this form.”

  The sheriff was thrusting a clipboard through a slot in the bars. He stood up and took it awkwardly, wrists still cuffed together. “Don’t you want to fingerprint me?” he asked, feeling angrier by the moment. “Do a strip search?”

  “Oh, don’t you worry,” the sheriff said. “You’ll be getting the full treatment. You picked on three of the wrong people, and you’re traveling with the very worst kind of people. I’ll let you in on a well-known fact. A couple years ago, the mayor’s youngest son was killed when the car he was driving was hit head-on by a truckload of drunk Indians. That poor boy was on his way home from a Bible-study meeting. So you see, any time Roy gets around an Indian, a red flag just naturally goes up, and the mayor…well, the mayor’s never gotten over losing Jonathan.”

  Caleb tried to think past the throbbing in his head. “I’m sorry about that, but what happened to the mayor’s son has nothing to do with that young woman and those four boys.”

  “I’m just tellin’ you how it is in this town,” the sheriff informed him.

  “I want to call my lawyer.”

  “All in due time.”

  “I want to call my lawyer now. That’s my right.”

  “Fill out the form, and I’ll see you get to make that call.”

  Caleb flung the clipboard back at the sheriff. “Bring me a phone and take these damn handcuffs off.”

  The sheriff sighed and shook his head. “Lordy! I can see you’re going to be difficult, and I was kind of hoping for a peaceful night.”

  PONY PARKED behind the cruiser and cut the engine. She left the key in the ignition and retrieved the cell phone from the center console, making sure it was on. “Do you know how to use this?” she asked, handing the phone to the nearest boy.

  “Gee, I don’t know,” Jimmy said with feigned ignorance. “What is it, anyway?”

  She glanced at the other boys. “You stay put and keep the doors locked until you see us come out.”

  Pony had no idea what she would do when she went into the station. Police procedure was not something she was familiar with. Probably they would want money for bail. Not a large amount, because a fistfight in a redneck bar wasn’t a criminal act or even worthy of mention in the local paper. But no doubt they would want something. She pushed open the door and went inside the small station house. It was nothing more than an office with a couple of desks, phones, file cabinets stacked to the ceiling, lots of clutter on the desks and a stale, dirty smell that she didn’t like at all. The sheriff was sitting at the biggest desk, and he looked up when she entered. The desk lamp caught the shine of sweat on his jowls. “Oh, my,” he said when he recognized her. “I suppose you came to rescue your white knight.”

  “Is Mr. McCutcheon ready to go?”

  “Ready? Little lady, at the rate he’s going he’ll be here all night. Why don’t you just trot back to the motel room and cool your little heels. He’ll be in your bed again soon enough.”

  Pony felt a hot flush of anger. She remembered her grandmother’s words and recited them silently in her head as she looked at the sheriff. “I would like to speak to him now,” she said.

  “Oh, you would, would you? Well now, that’s special. That’s really special.” He heaved up from his chair and reached for the keys hung beside the door that led out back. He opened the door and glanced at her. “Well, come on, little lady, if you want to speak.”

  Pony crossed the room and followed him into the back hall, which led past a small bathroom—door ajar and toilet seat up—to the holding cell just beyond. Caleb was sitting on the edge of the bunk and when he saw her he rose to his full height and closed his hands around the bars. His lip was split, his face was covered with drying blood, and one of his eyes was nearly swollen shut. “Pony,” he said, visibly dismayed to see her. “I told you to wait at the motel.”

  “I wanted to wait here with you. It shouldn’t take long.” She glanced at the sheriff. “What’s holding things up?”

  The sheriff scratched the back of his neck. “He is.” He nodded at Caleb. “But it’s just as well. The mayor’s on his way. He’s real anxious to meet the man who beat up his son over dancing rights to a—”

  “Good,” Caleb interrupted, his voice rough with anger. “I have a few words to say to him about his son’s poor manners.”

  “Please, Mr. McCutcheon,” Pony said. “Fill out the paperwork.”

  “I have the right to call my lawyer first.”

  She leaned forward and closed her own hands around his, staring intently into his eyes. “Just fill out the paperwork so we can leave this place,” she pleaded.

  He leaned up against the bars and twined his fingers around hers. “Pony,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Go back outside, get into the Suburban, get the boys and drive like hell for Montana. And for the love of God, call your brother for me, would you? We could be in a really bad situation.”

  “All right, all right, quit your whispering,” the sheriff said. “Now come on, little lady. You can see he’s just fine, all he needs to do is cooperate.”

  Pony rounded on the sheriff. “You listen to me,” she said in a chilly, venomous voice that left no doubt about the outrage she felt. “This man is rich, and he is famous, and what you are doing with him here tonight will make the front page of newspapers all across the country. You had better be certain that you are following the letter of the law, Sheriff, or you may find
yourself in jail, too!”

  The sheriff stared at her for a few startled moments and then burst out laughing. “All right, enough’s enough. Out. Out! Shoooo, you little Injun! Oh lord, don’t you make me laugh! Rich and famous! The letter of the law! Such highfalutin ideas from such a pretty little thing!”

  Pony was propelled into the front room and herded toward the door. “I mean it!” she cried out, twisting out of his grasp and whirling to face him. “His name is Caleb McCutcheon. He was a famous baseball player for the Chicago White Sox. He has a lot of money and he owns one of the biggest ranches in Montana. He’s a powerful man, and he’s here in your town to buy buffalo from—”

  “Me,” a man’s baritone voice spoke from behind her. She spun around. A thin, tall, acerbic-looking man with snow-white hair, a big handlebar mustache and thick scowling eyebrows glared at her from cold dark eyes. “If his name is Caleb McCutcheon and he’s a rancher from Montana, he’s here to buy buffalo from me.”

  “And you are…?” Pony said.

  “David DeVier,” he said. “I’m the mayor of this town.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll see fit to release Mr. McCutcheon from jail,” Pony said. “He did nothing wrong.”

  DeVier regarded her with the kind of cold contempt that Pony had felt before, but he nodded and shifted his attention to the sheriff. “Turn him loose,” he said, then spun and left the station, followed by the three burly men who had accompanied him.

  BACK AT THE MOTEL, the boys had finally fallen asleep. Caleb drew water for a hot bath and retrieved a phone number from his wallet. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed the call, hearing a familiar man’s voice that brought back memories of another lifetime when his world had revolved around a game called baseball.

  “Bob,” he said into the receiver. “Sorry to wake you, I know what time it is in New York City. But I need your help. I’m in kind of a bad situation here.”