by Mark Henry
Monroe ignored the offered hand and turned to face Rainwater. “The boss man saved your hide just now, to be sure, boy. But have a care. Even he ain’t everwhere all the time.” The big man cleaned his knife on the front of his thigh, then drew the gleaming blade through the air in front of his own grizzled throat. “You’re a dead Injun and don’t even know it. Next fire, when everyone’s busy watchin’ their own hides, you should be right careful. Folks can’t be expected to watch over you all the time.” He turned back to his can of tomatoes.
Rainwater started to walk away and Taggart put out his hand. “Leave the money.” The stench that surrounded him stirred when he spoke and made the young Indian cough.
He smiled and gave the smelly, pink-faced man a nod. “I’d planned to.”
* * *
“That was a close one,” Rainwater said when they were across the grove and clear of Big Ox. He stuck a hand out at Corporal Bandy Rollins. “Daniel Rainwater of the Flathead Nation. This is my cousin, Joseph.” Joseph shook the corporal’s hand.
“I’m Bandy Rollins, Company G, 25th Infantry. The Army sent us over from Spokane. Most of us is camped over at Avery, but we been assigned to help you boys fight fires.” He cast his eyes around the clearing. “Though it looks like you done got ’em licked.”
Daniel chuckled and glanced at his cousin. “We got it done here, but there’s always another one over the next mountain. You ever fought fires before?”
“Can’t say as I have, but I’m one heck of a learner. An All Army baseball player I am. People says I’m bull-strong, racehorse-agile, and hound-dog-smart. I reckon me and my men can pick up quick enough on what needs to be done.”
“You a baseball player, huh?” Daniel slapped the black trooper on his broad back. “I saw a baseball game once over in Kallispell. Looked like it would be fun enough.”
“From what I just saw, you boys should take up the game so you could stay outta trouble. You liable to get in dutch playin’ cards with the likes of those yayhoos.” Rollins shook his massive head and clucked to himself. “Yes, sir, boys, consortin’ with those kind of men will get you kilt for certain. You best show ol’ Bandy where you want us to camp. I’ll look after you and teach you how to play baseball to boot. No, sir, ain’t nobody gonna hurt you with somebody as bull-strong, racehorse-agile, and hound-dog-smart as Corporal Bandy Rollins around.”
CHAPTER 5
Doc Bruner’s modest whitewashed house doubled as his office. It was exceptionally nice for a loosely knit community like Taft, which got its name when William Howard Taft came through on a campaign tour and chastised the people at the then-unnamed railroad stop for their riotous and wicked ways. The wayward souls didn’t repent, but they did name the town after their pious president.
An independent sort who enjoyed the rough-and-tumble life in a wild town like Taft, Bruner was the only doctor between Wallace and Missoula. Accustomed to living alone since his wife quit him for a life in the big city, he had the unkempt look of a bachelor who didn’t have a woman to tell him it was time for a haircut, and the relaxed demeanor of a man that wasn’t looking to find a woman—or a barber.
Except for the occasional whiff of antiseptic that chased back the smell of baking bread, the doctor’s house had a homey feel. It made Blake feel drowsy on such a hot afternoon. He wondered how much of the massacre little Shad Donahue had seen when they’d brought him out of the coach. Blake knew what he’d be like if he’d seen his own mother butchered like the Donahue woman. The thought of it brought a tightness to his chest that threatened to crush him, and he forced himself to think on something else. He couldn’t blame the boy; he’d probably go silent himself in such a situation.
A paddle fan, with great, spade-shaped blades of woven palm leaves, twisted in slow, whumping revolutions on the high ceiling. Blake slouched in a padded-leather chair across from his mother and the Donahue boy, and marveled at how cool a little breeze made the room. Doc Bruner sat a few feet away in a chair that matched Blake’s. He shook his head at the progress Maggie had made in such a short time.
At first, Shad did nothing to even acknowledge the fact that there was anyone else in the room. He sat cross-legged on the floor and pushed his wooden horse back and forth on the dark hardwood along the edge of a braided-rag throw rug. Without speaking, Maggie knelt down beside him and took the leather pouch from around her neck. She began to hum a soft tune, her chest rising and falling as she breathed deeply. Ignoring the child, she continued her humming while she used a finger to sort through the soft leather bag. When she found what she wanted, she nodded, leaned back against the couch, and pushed her feet straight out in front of her, then smoothed her dress down around her thighs to make a sort of table on her lap. She dropped the pouch in the cradle of cloth and held up a small bone flute, no more than four inches long.
Blake remembered the tiny instrument from his childhood. The sight of it brought back a thousand tender memories of time spent with his mother. For a moment, he thought he could smell the pinnons and cedar smoke of his Arizona youth.
Maggie pressed the bleached white pipe to her lips and let her humming turn into a flute song that trailed softly upward, toward the whispering ceiling fan. It was a light but mournful tune. Happy and sad at the same time, it tugged at the heart and the mind all at once. Maggie had played the same tune after Blake’s baby sister had died, then again when she’d prepared to celebrate his father’s homecoming after a long absence. It had fit the occasion—both times.
Shad ignored her for a time, rolled his toy horse, and stared at the wooden floor—then, slowly, he began to hum the tune along with her. His fragile voice started softly, but rose gradually to match Maggie’s flute song. He moved the horse more in rhythm with her playing. Then, in a flash of fluid movement that made Blake catch his breath, the boy crawled across the dark wooden floor and climbed into her lap.
Maggie’s dark eyes gleamed, but her face remained stoically calm. She played on for a few more minutes, and the lonely little boy put his arms around her neck and buried his face against her soft breast. Blake had done the same thing, countless times, when he was a child in need of comfort. Gently laying the flute on the rug beside her, Maggie wrapped her arms around the boy, pressed him to her, and patted him softly on the back. The flute music gone, she resumed her humming.
“Will Mama come for me?” The boy leaned away from Maggie enough to look up at her.
“No, child, she had to go away.”
“The bad men took her away, didn’t they?” Shad began to whimper softly. “They killed Mr. Fritz, and made Mama and Angie cry. Then they took them away. Angie made me hide in the coach seat even though Mr. Fritz wanted her to hide there.”
Blake knew better than to break the spell by speaking, and was relieved when his mother asked the questions that weighed heavy on his mind.
“Did you see the men who made your mama cry?” Maggie’s voice was a soft and comforting blanket that enveloped everyone in the room. She used both thumbs to clear away the tears from the young boy’s cheeks. Then she wet her finger on the tip of her tongue and rubbed away a bit of dirt from his chin. Blake recalled struggling during many such spit baths, and supposed all boys had to undergo such indignities from their mothers. Shad didn’t seem to mind having someone mother him, and endured the cleaning quietly.
“I couldn’t see very good,” he finally said. “There was only one little crack in the wood. One of the men was bald-headed. I heard the other men call him Feet or something like that. He’s the one that hurt Angie. I saw another man too. He wore a big black cover on his eye like he was blinded. He hurt Mama and dragged her off when Feet gave him permission.” The boy coughed to clear a hoarse throat. “The one-eyed man was . . .”
Shad stared at Maggie’s face for a moment, then reached out and touched her cheek. He was silent long enough to make Blake’s stomach knot in anticipation. Maggie remained relaxed.
Blake’s gaze wandered to the ceiling. He counted the revo
lutions of the paddle fan above him, and got to eighteen before the boy spoke again.
“I mean the one with a patch over his eye . . .”
The boy paused again, but Maggie didn’t prod him.
“He was . . . like you.” Shad touched her face.
“An Indian?” Maggie’s eyes opened wide in genuine interest. “I see. Well, you’re safe with us now so you don’t need to worry about him.”
Shad shook his head and looked over his shoulder at Blake and Doc Bruner. He slowly blinked wide blue eyes as if seeing his surroundings for the first time.
“That’s my son.” Maggie kept her arms around the boy and used her chin to point to Blake. “He’s an Indian too. He’s a good man and wants to help us find the men who hurt your mama.”
“Can he bring Mama back?”
“No, child, he can’t.” Blake could see his mother looking up at him as she pulled the little boy even closer. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she blinked them away while she tried to comfort him.
An hour later, Shad slept on the couch, still whimpering softly with each breath, sometimes cooing the tune Maggie had played on her flute.
“The boy sounds like he could identify at least one of the men, maybe two,” Blake whispered.
Maggie looked past the linen curtains on the parlor widow.
“If the kidnappers know that, he is in danger. We have to keep him someplace safe. I want to stay with him. He should have someone to mother him now, and I need to do something so I don’t worry so much about you and your father.”
Blake fell into thought for a moment, tapping his hat against his thigh. He didn’t doubt his mother’s ability to care for the boy—or herself for that matter. But that didn’t stop him from worrying. Especially since he knew many people in the area shared General Sherman’s view when he said he’d seen a good Indian once—a dead Indian. Tom Ledbetter, for instance—to him, an Indian was responsible for any sin or depravity committed by any other Indian. His own people had shared the same logic in the past . . . a lot of people had.
“Come on outta there, squaw, afore we have to come in and get you.” A gruff voice crashed through the open front window like a jagged stone and punctuated Blake’s worry. Murmured grumbles and demands, too muffled to understand, followed.
The sun drooped low on the horizon, and the streets in front of Doc Bruner’s house danced with long orange shadows in the smoke and dust. Blake peered around the edge of the window frame to see a small band of thugs gathering beyond the doctor’s sun-bleached rail fence. Some carried clubs. At least one held a pickax. No guns were visible, but Blake had no doubt pistols hid themselves in greasy waistbands.
He turned to his mother. “I think we should try to slip out the back way.”
Doc Bruner stepped in from the hallway that led to his office and shook his head. His steady whisper of a voice engendered trust and soothed almost as well as Maggie’s. The double-barreled coach gun in his hands helped too.
“There are two more out back to be certain you don’t go that way.” Bruner peered at Maggie over the top of his wire reading glasses, then at Shad, who still slept on the couch. “Both of you might as well just stay here. I can watch out for them, son. Most of those folks aren’t from around here. They don’t look very friendly, but I doubt they’d make a move on a doctor’s office.” He folded the glasses and tucked them into the pocket of his white shirt before focusing his attention on Blake. “Taft is well known around these parts for its abundance of the demon rum. I imagine these men are here fighting the fires and wandered into town for a good drunk. Tommy Ledbetter’s with them, though, and that troubles me. I’m sure he’s fired ’em up about your Indian mother.”
Blake took a deep breath and checked the rounds in his sidearm. He slipped the old Remington back into his holster and studied his mother’s passive face. She seemed completely relaxed. The way she always looked when she had walked with him in the deserts near their home back in Arizona and spoke to him of the earth. He struggled to remain calm and feel the way Maggie looked.
“Your grandfather used to say it is better to face a cougar than run from it,” Maggie said. “Walk toward it, and the cat will often turn away. If you run, it will always give chase and strike you down from behind.” Maggie rested an open hand on Blake’s chest and looked up at him. “You must get to your father. Tell him what the boy said—especially the part about the Indian with the eye patch—but I don’t think we need to sneak out like mice. I only count eight people. If we face them now, we can put an end to this.”
Blake cast a worried glance at the doctor. “If this goes bad, keep the boy in here and try to get a message to my father about what he told us. If we can convince them to disperse, bring the boy out to us.”
Maggie patted his arm. “It will be fine. You are so much like your father. I’ve seen him face many men such as these.”
* * *
Tom Ledbetter wheeled his tall dun and loped away without so much as a backward glance as Blake pushed open the door. Eight dour men milled around at the edge of the street and glared at Blake and Maggie through bloodshot eyes. Doc Bruner had been right. The group looked like men who’d come to fight the forest fires that had charred the mountains around them for miles. With many of the blazes now under control, the brigades were getting some time off for visits to nearby towns to wet dry throats at the local saloons and spend some of their twenty-five cents an hour on some of the fiery women of western Montana. Though they were soot-covered, bleary-eyed, and exhausted from their labors, Ledbetter had done a good job of working them into a frenzy, no doubt describing the massacre scene in graphic detail. Aggravated by the lack of women, they didn’t need much to set them off. They were middle-aged men, and some of them had probably lost relatives to hostile Indians. It had been an easy job for Ledbetter to fan their latent hatred into a terrific burn.
Blake knew these men itched for a fight. Smoldered inside for it. Sodden with whiskey after their backbreaking labor against the fires, most were no doubt frustrated by the fact that Taft and all of western Montana, for that matter, were going through not only a dry summer, but a drought of sporting women as well.
With thousands of firefighters, loggers, and miners to choose from, there just weren’t enough women to go around. The sports found they could be a little fussier than normal, and the ugliest, smelliest would-be customers shared the dregs from what was an otherwise unsavory cup to begin with.
“Tell us who done it,” a grizzle-faced man with a bobbing goiter shouted from the back of the group—as if Maggie had been a party to the murders.
“You men go on about your business,” Blake warned, keeping his hand close to, but not touching, the butt of his revolver. “We want no quarrel with you.”
“Well, you got it anyhow, son,” a self-appointed leader said matter-of-factly from the front row. He was a tall, cadaverous fellow, mangy and raw from his firefighting, skinny as a fence picket, except for an alcoholic bulge at his belly that made him look as if he’d swallowed a chamber pot. The charred brim of his gray slouch hat hung across his face like an angry brow. “You got a quarrel if you want it or not unless you stand aside from that there squaw.” Chamber Pot held a hickory pick handle loosely in his bony, blackened hand.
“We gotta set an example for justice,” the Goiter bobbed enthusiastically in the back.
The man in the burned hat patted the pick handle against an open hand and sneered. “You ain’t got nothin’ against justice, have you, Sheriff?”
“It’s Marshal,” Blake corrected, knowing as he did that the words weren’t going to make any difference. “What you’re up to’s got nothing to do with justice.”
“First I thought you was a greaser with a badge, but you got an Injun look about you too, now that I think on it.” Chamber Pot took a step forward, followed by the other men. “It’s no wonder you take up with the squaw.”
Blake felt his mother move a step away from him, giving both of them room to maneu
ver. Once he drew his pistol, there was bound to be bloodshed. Were it not for the fact his mother stood beside him, he would have welcomed it with men of this caliber. He had confidence in his abilities, but one stray bullet could spell disaster.
“Why, bless me if it ain’t Maggie Sundown!” A drawling voice punched through the hazy smoke in front of an approaching rider. The southwest sun made a statuesque silhouette of him and his horse against the golden haze. Blake couldn’t make out his face, but the stranger had used his mother’s maiden name and there was no mistaking that booming Texas voice. It had the disconcerting effect of a cannon shot over the crowd, but just hearing it brought Blake’s anxiety level down a notch.
Long shadows rode along the dusty ground in front of Clay Madsen and his muscular bay gelding. When he came out of the sun, it was easier to see the high-crowned silver-belly hat canted rakishly to the left. A drooping mustache as dark as his bay’s tail and a neatly trimmed goatee framed his smiling mouth.
“Blake, my boy, how the blazes are you?” Madsen bellowed. He ignored the gathered mob as he trotted his jigging horse through the middle of them, dismounted, and handed the reins to a dismayed man in faded overalls standing beside Chamber Pot.
“Looks like you’re havin’ a party and forgot to invite me.” With his back to the grumbling drunks, he winked at Blake and extended his left hand, keeping both their gun sides free. After a hearty, pump-handle handshake, Clay turned to a flustered Maggie. He gathered her up with both arms and kissed her on the lips with a loud smack.
“It’s been too long, Maggie my darlin’,” he said, putting her down to straighten her crumpled dress. “Where is that mean little man you married? From the looks of things, these boys are having a bit of luck that he’s not anywhere near these parts.” The big Texan gave a swaggering smirk as he looked over the situation.
