Stryker's Woman

by Chuck Tyrell

  Three days it took for the arrow’s poison to wear off. The leeches, round and plump and purple, came off the third day. Will seemed to spend a lot of time with Walks, who by the same token didn’t seem to mind. Stryker had a good bear hide to roll up in on cold nights, so it didn’t matter to him that Will disappeared in the dark.

  Stryker concentrated on movement, and each day his body responded more. His walks went to half a mile and back, always with an Indian boy watching, and then to a mile. As the problem was a poison, Stryker’s muscles did not atrophy. It was merely a matter of getting his muscles to follow his mind.

  Day four. Stryker woke with the dawn. The camp was just beginning to stir. Gewagan left camp a couple of days before, accompanied by half a dozen warriors. To Stryker, it looked like a hunting party. That said, hunting parties sometimes ended up fighting.

  A shout went up from one of the boys watching the ponies. People seemed to come out of the ‘chuck holes. By the time Gewagan and his hunters rode in, deer draped across the withers of their horses, more Indians had gathered than Stryker thought had lived in the village.

  The din was deafening. Children shouted. Women lifted ululating cries. The shaman shook his rattles and danced. Old men dragged drums from the teepees and beat a victory rhythm.

  Gewagan and his hunters brought five deer. Enough to feed the village for two days, maybe three at the most. If a man had to hunt day and night to feed family and maybe relatives, that left precious little time for other pursuits. War, for instance.

  The box elder staff felt familiar in Stryker’s hands. In the village, he used it as if for support. When no one was watching, he rehearsed the moves he’d learned sparring with Cat. Cat. Wherever was Cat? He wondered if the Cheyenne people had humbled her. Born of high European stock, Cat sometimes had a hard time coming down to the level of ordinary men. She fit with the army officer corps, as they thought themselves a class above, but ordinary men—those who drove cattle and ran the stores and drove the stagecoaches—were not her worry and she could be standoffish to them. Now she was a captive of Lean Bear. Did he take her down a notch or two?

  Even though his head was full of Cat de Merode, Stryker noticed when Gewagan turned attention his way. The warrior’s eyes seemed to glitter beneath beetling brows. He strode across the camp to where Stryker leaned on his staff.

  “Ha. White man. Your lance has no blade.”

  “It helps me walk.”

  Gewagan’s brows rose, as much from play-acting as from astonishment. “Cannot walk without lance?”

  “Can. But the lance makes it easier.”

  Gewagan looked Stryker up and down. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow we enter the circle. Maybe you die.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Ha!” Gewagan turned his back on Stryker and strode back to his pack of warrior-hunters.

  One more day. Deep down inside, Stryker’s left shoulder ached. Something about the nasty combination of crushed spiders and red ants mixed with deer bile kept the arrow wound aching. Mostly, his muscles answered the intention of his mind, but the wound, even after four days, refused yet to heal over. There was nothing he could do about it now. He trotted his mile course again, rested, did some Savate moves that looked like stretches, then trotted the mile again. Always he was conscious of Gewagan’s eyes on him. Always he acted as if he ignored them. Always the circle of pain deep inside throbbed. He ignored it and hoped that Gewagan did not know.

  Walks brought him broiled deer liver and venison stew in the evening.

  “Where’s Will,” he asked.

  Walks shrugged. “Not here.”

  “Where?”

  She shrugged again and walked away, leaving Stryker to finish the stew by himself.

  Night fell. Will still didn’t show up. Stryker rolled up in his bear hide and tried to sleep, but his mind kept drawing pictures of Gewagan. Showing Stryker time and again how the warrior moved with grace and skill, how he held a knife in one hand and a war hatchet in the other, and how Stryker would have to use his stave if he wanted to best Gewagan.

  Still, he slept. But when his eyes opened in the gray of dawn, no one in the village moved. Perhaps the feasting on fresh deer innards and stew had made the Indians logy. Carefully, he crawled from the warm bear hide. Some distance away, a pony nickered. Stryker made out the shadow of a boy on watch. It would not do to have the ponies stolen.

  Stryker assumed he’d been seen, so he started at once with Savate stretching movements. Then he shadow boxed, striking imaginary targets, first with a combination of hand blows, followed by a kick. He toned down the kick speed so anyone watching would not understand the true force of that Savate move.

  Gewagan came from Walks’ teepee. Walks followed with a stew pot.

  “Ho. White man!” Gewagan called. “You eat. When sun rise half, we fight. In circle, we fight. Come. Eat.”

  Stryker folded his arms and shook his head.

  Walks slowed, and looked to Gewagan for guidance.

  “Eat, white man. Eat and fight.”

  Stryker did not move, but his pose said he refused food from Walks and Gewagan.

  “Eat.”

  Another headshake. “No.”

  Gewagan came to stand toe to toe with Stryker. “Eat,” he said.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “First we fight in the circle, then I will eat. First we fight, then eat together.”

  “Dead man, no eat.”

  “If I win, you will not be dead, and we can eat together. Gewagan is not my enemy, but he challenged me, so I must fight. I do not wish to fight, but I will. Gewagan challenged me, so we fight. Then we eat.”

  Gewagan stared into Stryker’s unblinking eyes. Then he gave a short nod. “So. We do. Gewagan say, it is so. No fight this day. Fight day after.” He turned and walked back to the teepee. Walks followed. They entered.

  Stryker sat down on his bear hide. Too soon, he would have to fight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Unlike many of the places called “fort,” Fort Hall actually had walls. Four square and some fifteen feet high, with blockhouses at the corners. At Fort Hall, the Oregon and California Trails split, one headed northwest toward Oregon City, the other turning southwest toward Sutter’s Mill. ”This here one’s not yet ten years old. Don’t have the friendliness of the old one.”

  They could hear the fort before they could see it. And when they came to the edge of the tree line, Cat pulled up her bay horse without thinking. The fort stood on a broad expanse of grass-covered prairie land. The square fort stood white and proud above the river, and teepees clustered here and there across the grass-carpeted open space.

  A line of wagons parked against the south wall of Fort Hall, and two other groups of prairie schooners gathered in circles around communal cooking fires. And people—there were people everywhere. The sheer bustle of the place sent shivers down Cat’s spine. “I wonder if there is such a thing as a bath in that place?” she said, a wistful look on her face.

  “Bath? You’d catch your death, taking a bath,” Swayback said.

  “I would enjoy a hot bath. And perhaps some rose water.”

  “High falutin’ woman.” But there was a hint of pride in Swayback’s words, too. After all, who but a high-bred lady would think of rose water while riding down the banks of the Snake River?

  Cat’s hair had grown out since hacked off by Raven Wing, and now hung nearly to her shoulders. Dressed as she was in buckskin, a casual glance would place her in a teepee.

  I’ll see if there’s not someone here I know so we don’t have to camp alone. Two people at a single fire’d tempt some to try to rob us, not that we’ve got anything to rob.” Swayback gigged his dapple gray out onto the prairie grass.

  “A bath would be very nice,” Cat said again.

  Swayback reined in his horse and looked back at Cat. He took his slouch hat off and ran fingers through his thinning hair. He sighed. “Bath, eh? Well, I’ll see what I can d
o.”

  Cat’s smile doubled the effect of the autumn sun. “Oh, Mr. John. Thank you so much. Merci beaucoup.”

  The gate to the compound was open and no one guarded it. Wagons, horses, people, and dogs flowed in and out in a perpetual stream. Swayback and Cat joined the inbound stream and were soon within the fort walls.

  Along the east wall of the stockade, amidst a line of commercial operations, Swayback noticed a striped sign that read BARBER.

  “Let’s go see about getting you a bath,” he said, and reined the gray at the sign. He stepped down from the gray and tied it to the hitching rail in front of the barbershop. He disappeared inside.

  Cat sat her black-point bay and waited. A minute later, Swayback came out of the shop. “Come on,” he said. “You can bathe while I get a shave, and maybe a haircut.

  “Oh, yes!” Cat fairly leaped from the bay pony. She threw her arms around Swayback’s neck. She didn’t care who was watching. “You are such a good man, John Williams.”

  Swayback stuttered and turned red. “M ... M ... Ma’am. Inside. They got hot baths.”

  Inside, there was one barber chair and a line of chairs for waiting customers against the wall. Signs on the wall read, Hot Bath, 10¢, Cold Bath, 5¢, Bath With Soap, 15¢.

  The barber did not look up from stropping a razor. “What’ll it be?” he said.

  “Bath and shave,” Swayback said. “A hot bath for the lady. Shave for me.”

  “Haircut?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Soap or no?”

  Swayback looked at Cat.

  She nodded.

  “Soap, please,” Swayback said.

  “Towel’s on a rack just outside the barrel,” the barber said. “Help yourself.”

  Cat didn’t know where to go, but she felt reticent to ask. She looked at Swayback, who nodded at the door. She took the little plate that held the thin bar of soap and went to bathe.

  “Now, let’s have that shave.”

  “Sure ya don’t want a haircut?”

  “We’ll see.” Swayback sat in the chair. But just as he leaned back and closed his eyes, a man burst into the shop.

  “What’s the hurry, Bert?” the barber said.

  “You hear the news?”

  “Ain’t heard nothing.”

  “Gold at Bodie.”

  “Gold?”

  “Big bunch a gold.”

  “So?”

  “Folks’re headed for Bodie. You wanna go?”

  “Doing OK right here. But thanks for askin’.”

  “Your loss, my gain.”

  The barber laughed. “You hope.”

  The door slammed shut as the man left.

  “Imagine that. Gold in Bodie.”

  “Answer me a question,” Swayback said. “Where at’s Bodie?”

  “Seems I heard it’s over on the mountain, far side of the lake they call Tahoe.” The barber lathered Swayback’s cheeks and started removing a substantial crop of whiskers.

  Swayback sat back and enjoyed someone else taking the whiskers from his face. “Y’all had Injun trouble lately?”

  “Nah. Onlyest ones you see around Fort Hall is them what’s looking for some kind of handout. A little whiskey, maybe, and some food. Sometimes they’ve got stuff to trade.”

  “Used to trade somewhat. Plews and such.”

  “Fur trapper, are ye?”

  “Was.”

  “Now whatcha do?”

  “Wonder if any a the people out there need a guide to Californy or maybe Oregon?”

  “Could be. You oughta ask around. Hold still now. Wouldn’t wanna cut your throat by accident.”

  The barber was just patting Swayback’s cheeks with bay rum when Cat barged back into the main shop.”

  “Short bath,” Swayback said.

  “I washed. The water was hot. Now I am clean once more. It is enough.”

  The barber stepped back, wiping his hands on his apron. “Bath’s fifteen cents, shave ten. That’ll be two bits, mister, unless you want a haircut now.”

  Swayback dug a poke from his possibles bag.

  “Don’t take raw gold,” the barber said.

  “Nah. Got a coin or two in here,” Swayback said. He fished around until he had two dimes and a half-dime. “Here ya go.” He held the coins out.

  “Thankee. Come again when you’re at Fort Hall.”

  A pair of men in canvas trousers and muslin shirts tromped in. “Haircut’n shave,” the bigger one said.

  “An’ you, sir?” said the barber.

  “Same thing.”

  “Which of you’s first?”

  The bigger of the two plonked himself in the chair. “Me.”

  As Swayback and Cat left the barber shop, one of the men said, “That vein of gold they found in Bodie, down south, it’s big, I hear. Mighty big.”

  “Need clothes?” Swayback said to Cat.

  “Whatever for?”

  “You don’t look much like a princess.”

  “I am not. The Absaroka said I am a dog. I need no clothes.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m going to the suttler’s.”

  “Suttler?”

  “That’s where I can buy what we’ll need on the trail.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “You got anywhere you want to go?”

  I want to find Matt Stryker. “No.”

  “I’m figgerin’ on going south. Hear there’s a big gold strike in Bodie. Where there’s gold, a man can make a pile doing just about anything.”

  “Pile?”

  “Much money.”

  Cat nodded as if she understood. “May I travel with you, Mr. John?”

  Swayback gave Cat a long deliberate look. “And what would you do without me?”

  Cat’s lips turned up in a tiny smile. “Perhaps I would remove my clothes and sleep with the dogs. Sam could be my protector.”

  “Oh yeah. Sam.”

  By the time Swayback was ready to hit the trail toward Bodie, he’d spent a good deal of his laid-away money on things he thought he and Cat would need on the trail south. They rode away from Fort Hall with the equipment Swayback bought packed on a big Missouri mule that followed placidly along behind his horse.

  They followed the California Trail, sort of. “Don’t like too many folks around,” Swayback said. So while they used the trail to set their direction, at times they rode as much as ten miles to one side of the trail or the other.

  Fall deepened, and aspen leaves began to turn golden. The air at dawn carried the bite of frost, and grass began to go from green to brown. They now had blankets and canvas for ground cloths, and could rig a shelter if they needed to.

  “Look,” Swayback said, pointing at a lightning-struck oak. “See those scratches on the trunk? Bears climb that tree. Regular, looks like. Wonder why?”

  As they rode closer, the bear claw marks centered on a hole in the oak’s trunk.

  “Aha. That claw pattern tells me there’s honey in there,” Swayback said. “If they’s anything in this wide world I hanker for, it’s honey. Oh, my. They ain’t no such thing as eating too much honey.

  “Is it a sweet tooth that you have, Mr. John?”

  “That I do. And I’m gonna play like I’m a bear, and see what I can find.” Swayback sidled his dapple gray up to the tree and climbed out on a large limb. He could not reach the hole in the trunk, so he climbed higher, branch by branch.

  He peered into the hole. “Aha. A gold mine. A virtual gold mine.”

  Swayback drooled. He reached into the hole and came back with a handful of honeycomb. “Just the right time of year. Gets cold and the bees get sluggish. Maybe they hibernate, like bears.”

  “Don’t take it all,” Cat called. “Bees need to live, just like us.”

  “Never you mind. I can’t reach near all the honey.” Swayback sat astride a limb with his back against the trunk of the old oak and started licking and sucking the rich golden honey from its waxy comb. “Golly Jehoshaphat. Hone
y’s the bestest thing in God’s whole creation.” Finally, he crushed the honeycomb into a ball of beeswax. He licked the last few drops of honey from the wax and tossed it to Cat. “Never know when beeswax’ll come in handy. May have to make a candle some time.”

  Already Swayback had his arm in the hollow trunk up to his shoulder, searching for honeycomb. “Got it,” he hollered. “By damn, I got it!”

  The chunk of honeycomb Swayback pulled from the bowels of the old oak was indeed heavy laden. He called down to Cat. “Hey, want some?”

  “No thank you. My teeth are not sweet. They are for biting and grinding. They are for use other than sucking sweets.”

  Swayback’s smile showed his ecstasy. “Zat right?” He slurped at the honey dripping from the bottom of the comb. “Sure is good. Almighty good, I’d say.” He sat again on the big limb that let him lean back against the trunk, and attacked the honeycomb.

  For some minutes, Swayback chattered at Cat, making light of her refusal to eat any honey. Then he fell silent, and his big hands collapsed to the limb upon which he sat. He leaned his head back against the trunk and closed his eyes.

  Cat decided he was taking it easy after his sticky-sweet treat. But when the sun passed overhead, Swayback had not moved. Nor would he, for Swayback John Williams was dead.

  ~*~

  On the fifth day, Stryker was up at dawn, not knowing when Gewagan would call for the fight to begin. The arrow penetration wound in his shoulder itched and had begun to scab over. The moment his eyes opened, Stryker stood up, allowing the bite of the frosty air to clear his mind of sleep. He stretched his muscles and set off on his two-mile trot, one out and one back.

  Smoke issued from teepee tops when he returned, but he paid no special attention. Nor did he look at the boy guarding the ponies. He concentrated. And in his mind he saw Gewagan, mapped his moves, what he thought, how he regarded his enemies. Even though it was all imagination, to Stryker it was much better than doing nothing to prepare for the circle.

  He’d once met a Chinaman who called himself Shoo Lee. He, too, used hands and feet to fight, and he never lost. Because Stryker never looked down on another man, no matter what his tribe or where he came from, he and Shoo Lee became friends of sorts. That was before Shoo Lee killed a man with his fists and got sentenced to ten years in Yuma Prison.