The Wounded Yankee

by Gilbert, Morris

“I’m Bronwen Morgan, Mr. Winslow,” the woman said. “These are the Mize children—Lillian, Paul here, and that’s Alice.”

  “Hello, Lillian,” Zack said.

  The girl gaped at them, dumbfounded. She remembered the man and Buck’s visit to the Oriental.

  “How’d you get lost?” Zack went on.

  “Lost? We’re not lost, Mr. Winslow.”

  “But—what in the name of heaven are you doing here? There’s nothing here, Miss Morgan—no town or anything!”

  “You’re here,” the woman said quietly.

  Zack glanced at Choiya, who was studying the visitors with an unreadable expression.

  “How did you find this place?” Zack asked. “What do you want?”

  Bronwen took a deep breath. “God brought us here, Mr. Winslow,” she replied, watching the effect of her words. Unbelief flickered in his eyes, but she went on. “And I want you to let these children stay for a time.”

  Flabbergasted, he eyed her in stony silence. Finally he sighed in resignation. “All right—for now. You’re sure there’re no more in the wagon?”

  “No,” Bronwen answered. “This is all.”

  “Well, maybe you can go back into town for another load tomorrow,” Zack said sarcastically. “I’ll put the team up.” He stalked out, with Buck at his heels.

  Bronwen wanted to cry, hurt at his words. She looked at Choiya, who stood mutely watching as she held the baby. “I’m sorry for intruding,” Bron said, then turned to Lillian. “I’ll get the blankets.”

  The frigid air seemed to close around her heart as she moved toward the wagon. Her prayer felt dead. What about her dream? Could she have been wrong?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JUST FOR A FEW DAYS

  Bronwen entered the cabin with the blankets piled high in her arms, humiliated but determined. She looked at the Indian woman, who had moved to the window, and said, “My name is Bron. What is yours?”

  A slight hesitation, then a brief answer. “Choiya.”

  Bron noted the hard light in the woman’s eyes, but did not give any indication of it. “I know we’re going to crowd you, Choiya, but we’ll try to be as little trouble as possible. Do you think we might have that corner over there to make our beds?”

  “It’s not my house,” Choiya said, every word loaded with resentment.

  Bron smiled and nodded her head toward Lillian. “Let’s make some beds for the children.” When she had finished she called to Paul, “Come, you and Alice can sleep here,” pointing to a spot.

  Paul shook his head. “Not sleepy.” He was standing close to the fire with Alice beside him. Both had slept on the way from Black Pigeon’s camp and weren’t in the least bit tired. They gazed at Choiya with inquisitive eyes.

  Hawk began to kick, and Alice walked across the room. She looked up at Choiya and smiled, “Baby?” She reached out to touch Hawk’s face, and laughed when the baby caught her little finger. “Look, Lillian!” she cried. “See the baby?”

  Lillian was not fond of Indians, having heard nothing good about them from anyone, and she spoke sharply. “Alice, leave that baby alone.” Instantly she felt the weight of Choiya’s eyes, but met her gaze defiantly.

  The cabin door swung open, and Zack entered, followed closely by Buck. Both of them felt the tension in the room, and Zack nodded with satisfaction. He wasn’t going to make it easy. “Well, are you ladies getting acquainted?”

  Ignoring his question, Bron said, “Thank you for unhitching the team, Mr. Winslow. I don’t think I could have managed that.”

  Zack grunted and walked over to the fireplace. He poured himself a cup of coffee and gazed into the fire.

  The silence grew heavy. Finally Buck said, “I guess maybe you folks are hungry.”

  Bron smiled at him gratefully. “We ate in the Indian camp—but the children might be hungry.”

  “I reckon there’s plenty of that rabbit stew, ain’t there, Zack?” Buck asked. He took Zack’s nod, then said, “We’re a little shy on plates—but I reckon we can rig something.”

  He turned to the meager supply of plates and tableware and began setting them on the table. Bron, relieved at the break in silence, said, “Let me help you. What’s your name?”

  “Buck.”

  Bron extended her hand. “It’s Bronwen, I am.”

  She was very pretty, and he was rattled by her closeness. To cover his confusion, he said, “You don’t talk like folks around here.”

  “No, I come from Wales.”

  “Wales?” he asked. “Where’s that?”

  “Far over the sea, Buck. It’s part of Britain.” As they set the table, she sensed Zack’s cold indifference. He’s built himself a wall and is firmly behind it, she thought. Fear crept into her throat, but she forced it down, saying a quick prayer, then calling out, “Come, now, let’s try some of this fine stew.”

  Paul dashed to the table, but Alice didn’t want to leave the Indian baby, so Lillian had to pick up the four-year-old and put her on the chair. Buck served the stew, spooning out portions into every bowl, plate or cup, then joined them.

  Once more an awkward silence filled the cabin, and Bron asked, “Won’t you two join us?” When Zack shook his head and Choiya made no response, she said, “Well it’s grateful I am for this fine food! Let’s thank the good Lord for bringing us safely here.”

  She bowed her head and began to pray. The rest just gaped as she asked a simple blessing on the food. Lillian glanced at Buck, his surprise equaling hers. Their eyes met. Then he blushed and ducked his head. Zack seemed preoccupied with the fire, his face stony. Choiya glared with icy indifference.

  “Amen!” Bron finished, appearing oblivious to their reaction. She took a bite of stew and exclaimed in delight, “This is delicious!” Paul and Alice followed suit, both finally abandoning the spoons and turning the cups up to their lips.

  Lillian tasted it hesitantly. “Oh,” she said, “it’s better than what we had at the Indian camp.”

  “What was that?” Buck asked.

  “I don’t think I even want to say it,” she answered. She shot a quick glance at Choiya and added, “It was awful! Stew made out of puppies! I don’t see how they stand it—but I guess Indians will eat anything.”

  Zack grinned, noting the flush of anger in Choiya’s face, but Buck was embarrassed at the obvious slur and tried to cover it up. “Well, I ate an armadillo once—and I’d rather have puppy anytime.”

  “What’s an armadillo?” Bron asked. She, too, was uncomfortable by Lillian’s actions, but hoped she would change in time. After Buck’s description, Bron said, “I think I’d rather not try one of those, but I’ve heard that the French eat snails,” and she laughed—full, rich, deep laughter. “I suppose since all things are made by God, we should be willing to eat anything.”

  Bron ate little, but drank the strong coffee Buck offered her and tried to sort out the situation she had created, wondering if God was really leading her.

  After the meal was finished and the table cleared, Zack picked up Oliver Twist and sat down at the table. For the next hour, he kept his nose in the book, ignoring the activities around him. The arrival of the last “guests” had shattered the relative peace of his life, and he was resentful. To some degree he had adjusted to the others, and had accepted the fact that Choiya and Hawk were part of the price he had to pay for agreeing to care for Samuel. He had also decided to keep Buck—but to be invaded by a horde of uninvited children and another woman was too much! He was determined to have it out with her, but would wait until they could talk privately.

  Oliver Twist was no pleasure to him tonight, and he finally snapped the book shut, replaced it, and jumped up into the loft.

  Bron had busied herself with the children, washing off some of the travel grime from their faces while furtively watching Winslow. His stiff back and the stubborn cast of his face told her he’d get rid of them as soon as possible. But she said nothing to Lillian as they put the younger children to bed.

/>   Nervous at finding himself alone with three women, Buck scurried up the ladder he had made. “See you in the morning,” he said, pulling the ladder after him.

  “Good night, Buck.” Bron felt less secure with the only friendly voice gone.

  She didn’t want to retire yet, and was surprised and happy to see a Bible on top of the mantel. “I left my Bible in the wagon,” she said to Choiya. “I’d like to read a bit. Do you think he’d mind?”

  Choiya was nursing Samuel and didn’t care much what Bron wanted to do. She shrugged, “I told you—it’s not my house.”

  Bron read a chapter and then undressed and slipped in beside Lillian, aware of Choiya’s constant watchful eyes.

  The physical activity in the cabin ceased—but not the minds of the inhabitants. If their thoughts had taken form, both the lower cabin and the loft would have exploded from the weight.

  ZACK: Tomorrow I’ll have it out with her. She planned it pretty well—waiting until after dark to come in—knew I couldn’t send those kids on their way at night! She’s too bossy, that’s what! Good looking, though. I’ll give her that. Never saw such red hair and those green eyes are somethin’.

  But she’s got to go—all of them do. I wonder if Parris put her up to it? No, he wouldn’t do that. He told me she was a preacher . . . never heard of a woman preacher . . . but preacher or not—tomorrow they all go! By heaven, a hermit’s got some rights!

  BUCK: Zack sure is mad, by gosh! I don’t see why he has to be so mean. ’Course he’s set on bein’ a hermit, and it sure does make it hard with a bunch of kids around. Feel sorry for them—they could wind up in an orphanage, and that’d be the ruination of ’em! That gal, Lillian—she sure is a looker! Zack’ll send ’em all packin’ tomorrow!

  LILLIAN: Why did I ever listen to that lunatic woman preacher? I must be crazier than she is! Eating dog stew! . . . That man Winslow, he’s got a mean streak. He ain’t very big but he’s got a look about him I don’t like. . . . I got to get away from here. Harry all but asked me to marry with him, and maybe I can talk him into takin’ Paul and Alice. . . . That boy, Buck, he’s sort of cute, but too skinny and real bashful! He keeps looking at me when he don’t think I know it. I bet he’d help me get away if Bron won’t let me go. . . . I’ll just make up to him.

  CHOIYA: Why did they come here? It was her—the red-haired one. She is bold! No good woman of my people would do such a thing. . . . The younger one is not good . . . she won’t stay long. But the woman says God sent her here! Fah! She has no man. That is her trouble. She is beautiful, so men would say. Zack acts very angry, but I could see him looking at her. Why did they have to come? I hope he sends them away!

  BRONWEN: Well, Bronwen Morgan, it’s silly you are! What! Did you expect the man to kill a fatted calf for the troop you’ve brought into his home? He’s got “no” written in his eyes. . . . He’ll be talking to me soon enough, and I know well what his words will be! The boy, he is kind, but he has no say. He’s an intruder himself! And the Indian woman. She’d put a knife in me if she had the chance. . . . She’s a pretty thing, and it’s jealous she is, though he’s not her man. Or, maybe he is? All alone out here. Who knows what they are to each other? Hard it is, Lord, to see your hand in all this! But there it is—out of my hands. If he tells me to go, what’s to do but leave? He’s a hard man. But I ask you to change him—just enough, Lord, to let us stay for a time! Change his stubborn mind, O God!

  The winter wind crept down out of the hills and brushed against the cabin. It touched the panes of glass, then dropped down and fingered the chinks between the logs, seeking entrance, then finding none, moved away sullenly. The cabin was an intrusion in the wilderness. It was surrounded by trees and snow and furry denizens of the wild, and some of the unrest of the inhabitants inside seemed to communicate itself. A great horned owl swooped down, sinking steely talons into an unsuspecting white-footed mouse, then carrying the tiny victim off on downy wings, as if to get far away from man’s invasion of the fowl’s territory.

  ****

  Bron awoke with a start when the door closed, not knowing for one frightening instant where she was. Then memory flooded her mind, and she slipped out from under the blankets in the dark cabin and dressed. She could feel Choiya’s eyes—watching, watching, watching. Will she never stop?

  She went to the fireplace, poked the ashes up, then put two logs on. A thought came to her, and she went outside to the wagon, pulled a heavy wood box from under the seat, and staggered inside with it. Placing it beside the fireplace, she opened the box and began putting the items on the table. She was in the middle of fixing breakfast when Buck came down the ladder, his hair disheveled and his eyes at half mast. “Good morning, Buck,” she said. He nodded, then plunged out the door.

  When Zack came in, he took one look at the supplies, but made no remark.

  “I brought some things from Pfouts’ store,” Bron explained. “Is it all right if I go ahead and cook breakfast?”

  “Sure.” He looked less harried than he had the night before, but there was still a hard stubbornness in the line of his lips, giving a pugnacious set to his jaw. He picked up Oliver Twist again and read. Soon the cabin was filled with the delicious aroma of food, and when Buck reentered with a load of wood, he said to Bron, “Boy, that smells good!”

  “It’s about ready.”

  “Go get some of those boxes for seats, Buck,” Zack said. Paul and Alice were still asleep, but Lillian came to the table. Choiya didn’t move. Even when Zack said “Come and get it,” she refused, choosing rather to stare out the window.

  Bron tried to eat, but the sinking sensation in her stomach rebelled against the food. The others didn’t seem to have any problem and dived in, relishing the eggs, bacon, grits, bread and honey. Finally Zack sat back and sipped his coffee, thinking of the last time he’d seen Lillian; and since Bron had brought them to this place with her startling announcement, he’d wondered about her. “How’re your parents, Lillian?”

  The girl glanced nervously toward the sleeping children. “Ma run off, and Pa, he got killed.”

  Zack felt like a fool for bringing the subject up. “I—I hadn’t heard that. Sorry.”

  The problem was getting more complicated all the time. What will the children do? He felt trapped again. He got up and said hastily, “I guess I’ll go try to shoot something for the pot.” He grabbed his rifle, threw on a heavy coat, and left.

  In a flash Bron donned her coat and was out the door, racing across the snow, calling out, “Mr. Winslow!”

  Zack halted. In the sunlight she was even more beautiful, he thought. Somehow that fact cemented his stubbornness. He resented the creamy white of her cheeks, the brilliant green of her eyes, and the soft red curve of her mouth. Looks more like a dance-hall entertainer than a preacher.

  “Mr. Winslow,” she said, the words tumbling out, “I may have been wrong to bring the children here.”

  Surprised, he nodded, “I’d say you were. It’s dangerous in these hills.”

  “No more dangerous than in town—for Lillian, I mean.”

  Her meekness made him feel like a bully turning her down.

  “She’s going to go bad if something isn’t done,” she persisted.

  “That’s not my problem!”

  “I suppose not—but it’s mine.”

  “Don’t see how that could be. She’s no kin of yours—and you don’t have any authority over her.”

  “When we see someone in trouble, that makes us responsible.”

  “No, it doesn’t!”

  “Don’t you care at all about what will happen to her—and to Paul and Alice?”

  He shifted his feet. She was putting him in a bad position. “I used to think it was my job to help when I could—but you can’t take care of the whole human race!” He grimaced. “Sure looks like I’ve got a good start, though!”

  “Mr. Winslow—”

  “My name is Zacharias or Zack.”

  “And I’m Bron,” sh
e said, glad to be more informal. “If we don’t help each other, it’s no better than wild animals we are!”

  “You’re dead wrong! I’ve seen men stand up and shoot each other down until the ground was red with blood. And I’ve had people betray me—so you can’t expect me to go galloping to the rescue every time somebody gets in trouble.”

  “But—”

  “Why do you think I chose the backside of nowhere to live?” he demanded. “To get away from people. Haven’t you heard? I’m a hermit! Don’t people from Wales know what a hermit is?”

  “But you can’t cut yourself off from people.”

  He looked back at the house. “Well, it’s not real easy,” he said ironically. “But I aim to do it.”

  Bron saw that despite his boyish face, he was basically a headstrong man. She tried to think of something else that would change his mind—but nothing came. Her head dropped and she bit her lower lip as it started to tremble. She whispered, “I—I’ll go load the wagon.” She lifted her eyes to him, the pain evident, and turned.

  He hesitated, then grabbed her arm, pulling her around roughly. “Now just a blamed minute! You don’t have to go right now.”

  “I think it would be better.”

  Her vulnerability melted the chord of stubbornness, and to his horror he heard himself say, “Look, you can stay for a little while—a few days.”

  Her head shot up, tears of relief in her eyes. “You mean it?”

  Actually, he didn’t, but it was too late. Got to be a way to fix it, he told himself. His brow furrowed in a deep frown. “You come out here and I’m caught like a bear in a trap! You got to give a man a little slack! Can’t just point a thing like this at his head like a loaded gun!”

  “I know I didn’t do it well, Zacharias,” she said, and her lips curved upward in a tremulous smile. “God bless you!”

  “Now don’t drag God into this!” he snorted. “It’s just for a few days, you understand?” He scowled. “Just for a few days, you got that?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE