Dancing Fawn

by Ginger Simpson

  He noticed her. “Do you feel like rustlin’ up some grub? If yer too tired, I kin do it.”

  “I’m fine. Making you something to eat is the least I can do to thank you for your help. If not for you, I’d still be stranded in the fort laundry.” She waggled a hand at him. “Help me down, and I’ll get started. What did you have in mind for dinner?”

  “Let me see what...” Uncle Pete’s voice faded. The tailgate clanked down and shimmied the wagon. He reappeared clutching a loaf of bread in one hand and in the other, the skillet holding a slab of salted pork and four eggs rolling about precariously. “This here fryin’ pan weighs a ton,” he complained as his gaze wandered to a clearing in the grass. “This looks a good place for a fire. Let me drop these fixin’s, and I’ll help ya down.”

  Fawn leaned forward and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Careful.”

  He groaned under her weight and turned his head to the side as her protruding belly grazed his face. “Whew, yer carrying a little bit a weight there, gal.”

  A blushing heat crept up her neck. When her feet touched solid ground, she took a deep breath.

  Uncle Pete watched her with wide eyes, as though he feared she might explode right in front of him. “You sure yer doin’ all right?”

  “I’m fine. You get the fire started, and I’ll whip us up some dinner.”

  * * *

  Smoothing her voluminous skirt, Fawn grumbled at the underskirts and extra fabric. Although she’d spent most of her life wearing similar attire, she longed for her doeskin dress. Unfortunately, the comfortable garment had been left behind, surely burned by Colonel Jamison by now. Luckily, she hadn’t sacrificed her comfortable moccasins.

  Fawn busied herself at the wagon sideboard until Uncle Pete had the fire ready. When she tried to squat by the cook fire, she toppled over backwards. “Guess this big belly of mine has affected my balance.” She giggled and kneeled instead, then pulled apart the salt pork and laid it in the heated skillet. Within a few minutes, the delightful smell of sizzling bacon wafted in the air. She pushed the crisp meat to the side of the pan and carefully cracked the eggs into the hot drippings, all the while dodging stinging grease splatters.

  * * *

  A cool breeze caught and carried the faint smell of wood smoke past Fawn’s face. She gazed at the waning flames near where she sat and yawned. She’d grown used to sleeping on the Jamison’s comfy bed, but as exhausted as she felt, spreading out on the stony ground sounded inviting. She laid her plate aside and released a loud breath, awed by the pallet of colors left stretched across the sky by the setting sun. The Lakota revered nature, and she fidgeted with eagerness to be back among them.

  Sitting for so long, her back throbbed. She leaned to the side, supported herself on one arm and curled her legs up under her dress. Uncle Pete sat across from her, picking his remaining teeth with a small sliver of wood.

  He tossed the toothpick aside and clutched his midsection. “Dinner was good, but I musta ate too much. My belly is burnin’. Probably shouldn’t have sopped up all that grease with my bread.”

  “I ate as much as you did, and I feel fine.”

  “You ain’t as old as me.”

  “Does that make a difference?”

  “You betcha. This ol’ body ain’t near as spry as it once was. I used to eat like a bear, but not anymore.”

  Picturing this white-haired, toothless old man as a virile, handsome youth wasn’t easy, but she assumed he must have been attractive to someone, sometime.

  She covered her mouth and stifled a yawn. “Guess I’d better get the dishes cleaned up before I fall asleep. I’m so excited about going home. God willing, tomorrow I’ll see my husband and friends again.” She cast a quick glance skyward and hoped the Lord heard her.

  Uncle Pete added another log to the fire. “There’s plenty of water on the wagon, and you’ll find the dishpan in the storage bin.”

  He helped her to her feet then stretched out in the grass, his arms folded beneath his head. “Think I’ll rest here a bit until I feel better.”

  Holes in his boot soles matched those in his grin. For a moment she pitied the old man.

  Fawn finished the dishes and turned just as Uncle Pete sat up and clutched his chest.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yeah, it’s just this gol-durned heartburn. I’ll take me a swig of water to wash out the fire. I’ll bed down out here, you sleep inside.” He struggled to his feet and dipped a ladle into the barrel suspended on the wagon’s side.

  Fawn hung the dishtowel on the wagon tongue to dry. With the skillet and eating utensils stashed away, and the wash pan back in its place, her tired body ached for rest. Her sleeping pallet beckoned. Uncle Pete crawled under wagon bed, dragging his bedroll with him, and in the blink of an eye, started to snore.

  Luckily, he had left the tailgate down for her. She heaved herself onto it and crawled inside, wondering if Little Elk would still consider she moved with the grace of a young deer. Her giggle sliced the silence.

  She spread her blanket atop a musty old featherbed she found stashed in the corner. How long it had been there, she had no idea. As long as she didn’t share a bed with critters, she’d handle the smell.

  Nature called, and although reluctant to venture out, she edged off the tailgate. In the flickering firelight she barely made out the silhouette of the horses grazing in the distance, and meandered toward them. Her bladder empty, before returning to bed, she glanced under the wagon to check on Uncle Pete. The old man still slept, snoring louder now in a sound reminiscent of buttons grating against a washboard—something she knew all too well.

  Fawn crawled back inside the wagon and collapsed onto her pallet. While waiting for sleep, she pictured the look on Little Elk’s face when he saw her again.

  * * *

  The sound of clanking harnesses woke Fawn. Disoriented, she stared up at the white canvas and tried to recall where she was. A big grin crossed her face as she remembered—before day’s end she would be home. She threw aside her covers and scooted to the end of the tailgate. Holding her belly, she dropped to the ground and padded around the wagon.

  Uncle Pete glanced up from hitching the horses. “Well, good morning, little lady. I was going to come wake you when I was through here.”

  “I saved you the trouble. How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Some better, but I still have that strange gnawin’ feelin’. I don’t have much appetite, but I did make a pot a Joe.” He pointed toward the fire. “There’s some bread left, or you can make some more eggs, if ‘n you’d like.”

  Fawn shook her head. “I’m not hungry either, but I will join you for a cup of coffee. I’m eager to get going.”

  She sauntered to the fire and picked up the metal cup Uncle Pete had left for her. The dark liquid streaming through the pot’s spout looked thick and strong. She curled her nose and considered dumping her cup into the grass. Instead she took a sip. Her first instinct was the best. When Uncle Peter wasn’t looking, she poured the coffee in the grass and used the toe of her moccasin to hide the evidence.

  * * *

  The wagon bumped along the rutted path on the hill overlooking a ribbon of fast-moving water. Uncle Pete followed the winding road and kept the river in sight since Fawn remembered no other landmarks to help find her way home.

  After listening to nothing but the squeaking wheels and the plodding of the horses’ hooves for quite a long time, Uncle Pete turned to her. “Nola tells me you’re married to a Injun. Is that true?”

  “Yes. His name is Little Elk.”

  “What possessed a fine young girl like you to choose some young buck to bed ya.”

  Such directness. Her cheeks flamed. “It’s not like that at all.”

  “That’s his babe in yer belly, ain’t it?”

  “Well...yes. But we married because we love each other.”

  “Love. Hmpf! Ain’t ever found me a woman worth lovin’. I thought I did once, but
she ran off with some card shark and took what little money I had with her.” He snapped the reins and stared straight ahead.

  “I’m sorry. But you know, Uncle Pete, you shouldn’t judge everyone by one person. Not all women are like that.”

  He gazed at her and shook his head. “Don’t matter none now. I’m too old and crippled to care. I just wanna strike a rich vein and live in comfort for the rest of my days. Course, I’d take care of Nola long as she needs me. I s’pect she’ll find some randy young man one of these days. She’s not a bad lookin’ gal.”

  “She’s very pretty and kind. I already miss her. She was the only reason I hated to leave the fort.”

  “We can always turn back,” he joked.

  “No way!” She shook her head. “I’m going home to my husband.”

  * * *

  Uncle Pete drained his canteen and tossed it over his shoulder. The empty container ricocheted off the wagon bonnet and landed on the plank floor. Since stopping for lunch, he fidgeted more and occasionally pulled his face into a grimace.

  He didn’t complain about feeling ill, but his pallor looked unusually gray and his Adam’s apple bobbed with constant swallowing. “Are you all right?” Concern prompted Fawn to ask. “I notice something appears to be bothering you.”

  * * *

  “It’s that blasted heartburn again.” He released the reins with one hand and patted the center of his chest. “I got a powerful pain right here.”

  “Can I get you some more water?”

  “Naw, I done drank a bucket full, and it didn’t help none.”

  “The reins dropped from his hands, and he grabbed his left arm. His face contorted in pain, and although his mouth widened enough to yell, not a sound escaped his lips. His eyes rolled back in his head as he tumbled into the wagon bed.

  Panic rose in her throat. She glanced down at his crumpled form. “Uncle Pete, Uncle Pete. Answer me,” she begged.

  He didn’t respond.

  She covered her mouth with the realization no one controlled the team. Torn between climbing into the back of the wagon to see to the fallen man or holding the horses in check, she went for the reins. First, she’d stop the team then help him.

  The leather straps hung across the wagon’s bow, but as Fawn reached for them, the wheels hit a deep rut; she fell flat of her fanny in the driver’s box and the reins disappeared. Out of reach, they trailed behind the horses.

  Her fate rested in the hands of Uncle Pete. She had to revive him. Her condition prevented her from retrieving the reins. Her mind spun. Finally, she swiveled, and trying to retain her balance, slid off the seat and onto the floor next to his unconscious body. She tapped him several times the cheek. “Uncle Pete! Wake up! You have to wake up!”

  He didn’t respond. Ghostly white replaced the color that drained from his face, and Fawn trembled with dread. She hunched over her pregnant stomach and listened for any sign of breathing. She heard nothing but slapping hoof beats, and fought to keep balance as the wagon bounced and swayed.

  Placing her hand against his chest, she prayed to feel a heart beat but didn’t. Uncle Pete was dead. Such a dear old soul, gone so quickly.

  Fawn’s heart raced, and she stifled a scream. If ever she needed to keep her composure, this was the time. “Take a deep breath. You have to be rational. Think! How can you stop the horses?”

  The same solution kept popping into her mind, but she couldn’t picture putting herself and her child in jeopardy by hanging from the wagon and stretching to reach the reins. But she’d have to try if she wanted to live.

  Fawn gripped the back of the wagon box and pulled herself upright and back onto the seat. She swung her legs around and sat for a moment to balance, grasping the boards until splinters bit into her fingers.

  Given their head, the horses had picked up their pace. “Whoa there, whoa fellas.” Fawn tried talking them to a halt.

  It didn’t work, nor did tugging on the brake.

  She tried to imagine how far down she’d have to lower herself. Eyeing the piece of wood connecting the wagon to the team, she wondered if she could hold onto the wagon box and step out onto the tongue. She shivered at the thought but had no other choice.

  The team drifted off the beaten path into the tall grass. The wagon bounced over the rough terrain, hitting ruts and rocks and jarring her teeth. Seeking safety from being tossed off the seat, Fawn slithered onto the floor of the wagon box and cradled her stomach from the jarring ride.

  Despite her happiness to be having a child, her swollen belly hampered her. She longed for the agility and balance pregnancy had stolen from her. Lord help her, how could she manage this feat? She grasped her chest to restrain her bouncing breasts and looked to heaven for guidance. Surely, God hadn’t brought her this far to die.

  She took another deep breath and pulled herself up onto her knees. Her knuckles whitened against the front of the box as she planned her next move. First, she’d straddle the wagon bow then see if her foot touched the tongue.

  Another bump sent her sprawling. Doubt clutched at her.

  Her eyes clouded with tears, and she bit her lip. No matter how much she tried to convince herself of her bravery and ability, the thundering hoofs, flying dirt, and jolting ride revealed her as a helpless coward.

  * * *

  Rocks peppered the untraveled terrain. The wagon bumped and jumped across the uneven ground, frightening the team and spurring them into a run. Fawn lay helpless, the rough ride pummeling her body against the warped planks. She stared at the sky. Had her time come to die? Surely not, after all she’d been through.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. She curled into a ball and cradled her stomach. “I so wanted to hold you in my arms, little one,” she whispered to her child. “I hope you know how much I love you.”

  She closed her eyes and waited for death.

  Over the pounding hooves, she heard a rumbling. Thunder? Her body bucked against the wagon floor. She steadied her head with both hands, opened her eyes and peered past the wagon cover at the cloudless sky. In the distance, mingled voices cried out to her. Perhaps the wind played tricks on her. But, she listened intently and truly believed the nearing noises were voices. Could God’s angels already be singing their welcome?

  But yelling and whooping grew louder. Could delirium be the cause?

  Somehow, Fawn managed to pull up and peer through the dust. The wagon tipped to the side as the wheels hit rocky ground, slamming her lip into rough wood. She tasted blood but held fast and stared into the distance.

  Five riders bore down on the wagon. Indians, painted for war and riding hard. Her relief lasted only a moment then turned to gripping panic. What if they weren’t Lakota? If they weren’t from Little Elk’s tribe, they wouldn’t recognize her. They’d only see a pregnant white woman.

  Suddenly, death in a wagon accident didn’t seem so bad. Unpleasant visions of what might happen to her at the hands of angry warriors flashed through her mind. She’d heard talk of scalping and torture, and remembered how her family died. Indians had every right to retaliate against the whites, but this couldn’t be the way she would meet her maker. It couldn’t be.

  She hugged the pitching floor board and cowered in fear as riders neared. The yelps grew louder, and she strained to hear something familiar—just one word of Lakota. Could she be that lucky?

  The team slowed then stopped. How soon before they discovered her? She saw no use in hiding, so with a deep breath, she pushed up from the floor and sat. Blood trickled from her lip, and she lifted her hem to wipe her mouth. Her heart seized. Three painted faces glared at her; none of them familiar.

  Her mind swirled with questions. What should she say? How would she convince them Little Elk was her husband? Would they even believe her if they understood? What then? Would her death be swift?

  She held up a trembling hand, a show of friendship if she remembered her signing. “Hemaca...” I am... How do I say Dancing Fawn? “Owaci ...” Dancing. Dancing... I can
’t remember Fawn. “Hemaca Dancing Fawn. Tawicu...” Wife... “Little Elk... Hemaca Dancing Fawn, Tawicu of Little Elk.” Fear erased the Lakota words she’d learned.

  Her shoulders sagged. What if they weren’t even Lakota? They wouldn’t understand anything she said.

  The three stared at her as if she were loco. One, in particular, showed such coldness in his eyes. He dismounted and walked toward her.

  She took a deep breath and sat taller. Perhaps if she tried being more friendly—asked his name. “Ah...Tku e’iciyapi hwo?”

  “Cikala Mato,” He snapped and pounded his chest.

  Her mouth gaped. He understood. Mato meant bear. His name was some sort of bear. Maybe he was from another Lakota tribe. Did he know English? “Your name is…”

  She waited, but he raised a brow and shrugged.

  “Little Bear is his name.” A familiar voice behind her translated. “And he is from Sitting Bull’s tribe.

  Fawn spun around. Her eyes widened. “Little Elk! Is it really you? Tell me I’m not dreaming, and you’re really here.”

  * * *

  He leapt from his horse onto the wagon wheel then stepped inside the box. His outstretched hand reached for hers and pulled her into his arms. “My Dancing Fawn, I have found you,” he whispered against her hair.

  Caring little about public displays, she locked her arms around his neck and held him as though he might vanish. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She gazed up at him. “I was so afraid I’d never see you again. Nola helped me escape. Then Uncle Pete died, the reins dropped to the ground, I tried to--”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh, there will be time for you to tell me everything.”