Waltzing With Tumbleweeds

by Dusty Richards

  “That ain’t no way to talk around a lady. Hush your cussing, Kyle.”

  “Go to hell, you two bit whiskey peddler. I’ll cuss who ever and whenever I want. Why she ain’t nothing but a slut.”

  In two steps, I had his lapels in my fists and jerked him to his tip toes. “Apologize to her this minute,” I raged through my teeth.

  “Apologize? Why she’s just a Tombstone sporting woman—”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when I drove a right uppercut to his chin. The blow set him on the ground. On his butt, his bowler hat spilled, he rubbed his jaw and acted disoriented.

  “Get up! I aim to finish this man to man,” I said putting up my dukes.

  “Don’t,” she asked quietly pulling on my sleeve. “Mr. Kyle is merely upset by the unfortunate delay.”

  “Hell—I mean—he ain’t got no call,” I stuttered unsure of my words.

  “He’s right,” she began, “I guess no one ever escapes their past.” Her words saddened me so much that I nearly set out a foot for Coyote Springs. How could such a beautiful woman have been what he…

  It was near dawn when Jim Severs and two of his men armed with rifles brought out the buckboard for us. Kyle must have caught a later train at St Johns; I never saw the whiskey drummer again. There are times to this day that I miss driving a stage; having those frisky horses four up. Mary and I ranch up here in Idaho. I guess I’ll never drive another. Stagecoach driving ain’t a good life for a man with a wife and family.

  Appeared in Creative Reading April ‘92

  Centennial Hell-abration

  Hotter than blazes and calendar wise, I figured it must be six days shy of the Fourth of July and the U. S. of A’s centennial celebration. My plans were to be in Fort Laramie for all the hurrah and fire works, but I still had two hundred miles of Sioux Indian country to cross.

  For two days, I’d been ducking dozens of Indian bands on the move. They acted like they were headed to all the points on a compass. That bothered me because they usually hunted buffalo in the Powder River country at this time of the year for their winter food supply. This vast region wedged between the Black Hills and the Rockies had the best hunting left.

  Nothing like the surplus of game that there had been twenty years before when the Crows still claimed it. In that period, they hardly ever had to move camp, the game was so plentiful. But the past few days, I’d only seen small remnant groups of buffalo. But the Indians, I had observed from hiding, seemed more interested in moving away than in gathering food.

  To avoid still another war party’s approach, I set my grey horse down a steep sided ravine, the two packhorses on his heels. When I heard the first cry for help, I reined up the grey and cocked my Sharps.

  A pregnant Sioux squaw lay on the side of the hill, I saw her motioning for me. Her warhorse lay dead, crumbled in a pile a few yards away. He showed several fresh wounds. Still hitched between travois poles, I decided, the animal must have fallen down the bank when he expired.

  The hair bristled on the back of my neck. The country crawled with hostiles. My fingers tightened on the stock of my .50 caliber Sharps. Suspicious of a trap, I searched around for signs of an enemy. She looked too much like a decoy to lure me off guard.

  The woman acted desperate for help. She kept shaking her head as if my concerns were unneeded and urgently waved for me to come help her. The two bloody stubs of her recent amputated fingers were obvious. They meant she was a widow. In her sorrow she’d cut them off and then drifted away from her band.

  When I dismounted I saw her face was bathed in an oily sweat. She indicated her bloated bare belly.

  The notion of what she expected of me, took me back for a moment. I’d gutted a million buffalo, wild game, once even ate a Pawnee buck’s liver, but when it came to birthing a baby, I felt awful anxious. That was what her jabbering in Sioux was all about.

  “Help me have my baby.”

  Filled with dread, I set aside the long gun. Then hoping I didn’t get sick and puke, I forced down the knot behind my tongue. Meekly I examined between her brown legs. She looked about to have the thing; the sight of a circle of black skull relieved me.

  “Strain!” I shouted at her. “Push girl.”

  She did. Then she gave a sharp scream with her efforts and his lubricated little face sloshed out. I cleared the membrane and mucous away. Before I could do any more, she pushed his shoulders and arms out into the world. To clear the little fellow’s hips took an extreme effort from both of us. Him slicker than snot didn’t help me either get him clear. But when he cried out loud, the little guy eased all my worries about him being alive.

  Probed on her elbows, Cut Finger smiled as I knotted the umbilical cord. She made a biting sign. I hesitated. My knife would cut it—but at her insistence, I bit the cord in two. Relieved, she laid back down on the brown grass.

  I handed her ‘Slick’ and she opened her blouse for him to nurse. A little pride swelled in me at our success. I hadn’t done much to help but the little guy was here and hungry.

  My work done, I wiped my sticky hands on the grass and started for the grey. Helping a poor defenseless squaw hadn’t hurt me, but I was anxious to put some distance between me and these hostiles. Those bucks might not believe how good a mid wife I’d become, besides my scalp still felt good on my head.

  “Wait,” she said in Sioux. “I have no one. The Long Knifes killed my man two days ago. That was his horse that died.”

  “Did they attack your camp?” I asked.

  “Yes and we killed all of them.”

  “A detail?” I asked, in disbelief. Indians might have killed a few soldiers wandering around, but she sounded like there were more than a few dead Blue Legs,

  She struggled to try and sit up. “Many Blue Pants dead.” She made a wide sweeping gesture to indicate the expanse of the dead ones. Her face fell. “So is my man.”

  I was in a pickle barrel full of brine. How could I leave her to fight off wolves with that new boy and all? Don’t no one ever think I ain’t as mean as any ex-army scout that ever forked a horse. By damn, old General Phil Sheridan will testify to this day to that fact.

  Indian squaws come tough. I figured she’d be ready to travel in twelve hours, but with all the bands passing that half day gave a greater chance of my being discovered. The next problem to solve; I needed to locate an extra horse for her and the baby to ride. That wouldn’t be easy to find either, the Sioux kept their horse stock close to camp.

  My grey nickered and I nearly fell over myself drawing my Army model Colt. A small fuzzy-brown mare with white saddle marks on her withers came down the draw toward my stock.

  When I glanced over at her, Cut Finger smiled like she had expected it. Then she laid back on the grassy slope. The baby asleep on top of her. Those bare-pointed nipples wet with his slobbers, shone in the sun.

  The needed horse had arrived. I tried not to be superstitious, but that mare’s arrival spooked me.

  Late that afternoon, Cut Finger bathed the boy with my canteen water and took a papoose board from her things in the packs on the dead horse.

  After we ate some ‘buff’ jerky together, she mounted the mouse colored horse, I took the lead and we headed south by starlight.

  July first, we hid from an approaching dust sign. A company of cavalry passed not a hundred yards from our hiding place. If I’d been a hostile, I could have shot the gold bars off that captain. A pair of lazy half breed scouts were leading him; they needed their butts kicked for not seeing me and the woman.

  All my hurrying had a purpose. The way I figured, this country of mine only had one, one hundred year birthday. I’d planned all winter to be in Fort Laramie for the whing-ding on Independence Day. When we struck the North Plat, I considered leaving Cut Finger, the boy and galloping on ahead. But she took so much pride in herself and that baby, I just couldn’t leave her.

  The night before we reached Fort Laramie, she bathed in the river and beat our deerskins clean in corn
meal A man should never abandon a prideful woman. A slovenly one ain’t worth nothing but it’s different about one with that much dignity.

  I crossed the last rise, dressed in my best buckskins. She’d dug out an elk tooth necklace to wear; the necklace probably worth a Spencer rifle. Her raven hair was done in tight braids and eagle feathers trailing; we were a fine looking outfit going into Fort Laramie.

  But as we approached, no one spoke to us or hardly looked our way; even the tame Injuns faded away instead of pestering and begging like they usually did. There was something out of place; I couldn’t imagine what was wrong.

  “Ain’t this July Third, 1876?” 1 asked the first sergeant I rode up to on the grounds. “Where’s the celebrating?”

  “You ain’t heard the news?”

  “What news?”

  “The hostiles wiped out the entire Seventh Cavalry including Colonel George Armstrong Custer and his entire command at the Little Bighorn.”

  I shook my head. “Not the entire Seventh?”

  “Every blood letting son. There won’t be much Centennial celebrating here, mister.”

  Grim faced, I agreed and rode on. For some reason I began whistling the “Garry Owens” tune. The past winter I’d stopped off and watched the Seventh Cavalry troopers drilling on Fort Abraham Lincoln’s parade ground. Their music always stuck with me.

  Cut Finger rode up, put her hand on my arm and nodded. She remembered. “Their song, those soldiers that died sang that too.”

  On Eagle’s Wings

  The eagle soared. His powerful wingspan carried him on the updraft as his sharp eyes searched the fir clad slopes and open meadows beginning to green with spring’s first grass. He swept down slope over the shaggy coated band of Indian ponies splashed in dun, red and bays. The herd ignored his flight as they eagerly cropped the new growth.

  A young paint colt struggled to his feet, frightened by the huge bird’s racing shadow. Awkward for a moment, the colt found his spring like legs and galloped around his pot bellied dam. Head high, his short mane unfurled, she listened as the youngster whined while he circled her. His voice mixed with the eagle’s piercing screams.

  Red Star, the Crow maiden, smiled at the eagle-horse activity as she waded from the icy stream. Beads of water glistened on her sleek tawny skin. She bent her head to the side to wring the moisture from her long black hair. Her heart beat fast from the cold bath, but the sun’s warmth had begun to warm her slender body as she stood on the bank and admired the eagle’s flight.

  She was grateful the great spirit of the sky had returned. This was a good omen. But she could not afford the luxury of viewing him for long. She must quickly dress and get to her day’s work. The grey snowy elk skin dress was almost finished. All she lacked were a few stitches and the trade beads to decorate the fringe. Why was the completion of this garment so important to her? She shook her head at the consuming obsession that had gripped her ever since the deep snows of winter when the dress’s completion had became so necessary to her.

  She stretched her arms to the sky. “Tell me, oh, great one, why do I toil so on a wedding gown when I have no man to marry?”

  Disappointed at his sharp reply, Red Star dropped her head. She did not understand his words. As she began to dress, she wondered why none of her past suitors had ever pleased her. Several powerful tribesmen who had brought horses to her father’s lodge, each time, Tall-Elk had accepted his daughter’s negative response to the men’s offer.

  Her mother, Laughing-Woman had grown concerned. Younger girls were already married. Laughing Woman had pointed this out not understanding her daughter’s hesitancy. Red Star recalled the words she had spoken at her mother’s insistence that she find a man. They had mysteriously spilled from her lips in anger.

  “My man will come for me on the back of an eagle.” This speech was never formed by his conscious thinking. She felt taken aback and inwardly she was shocked at the implication that a spirit had used her tongue to tell the future.

  “How long will you wait for this dream?” Laughing-Woman asked. “You will be past the age that men look for wives. And what if this eagle-rider does not come?”

  Unshaken from her own convictions, Red Star held to her own belief that this prophecy would come true. The return of the strong wind walker screaming above her in the clear air confirmed her deepest belief—her man would come on the eagle’s wings.

  As she pulled on her leggings, she turned her ear to listen to a distant sound. The fresh morning air carried a faint, unknown song. Was it a sign of his impending arrival? Or simply the eagle’s own anthem of return. She did not know. Dressed, she resigned herself to fate and ran lithely toward the camp. She passed the large Crow pony herd, which barely paused to eye her suspiciously.

  Filled with anticipation, she was anxious to recheck the stitches in the wedding gown in time for his arrival.

  “I must be ready,” she panted. She spoke aloud, surprised at the shortness of her breath. “One day he will come for me.

  High above the morning campfires smoke, the eagle used his powerful wings to go higher. His scope widening as he circled to gain altitude. To his keen ears, the soft clop of a pack train’s hooves drew his attention.

  A tall white man rode at the head of the column. In his four-point blanket jacket, he sat ramrod tall, well over six feet, crowned with a wide brimmed hat from a Philadelphia hatter’s mold. In the crook of his arm, an oily Spencer repeating rifle gleamed in the sun. His pale blue eyes studied the land as the powerful gray stallion beneath him cat-hopped up the trail.

  Under the well-trimmed blondish beard, his thin mouth was set in a straight line. A man of thirty winters, Karien McCollough was grateful the last one had passed. Too many nights, he had lain awake and listened to the wind’s attempt to tell him something that he could not decipher. Perhaps being back on the trail and trading with the friendly tribes, he could drive this nagging force from his thoughts.

  He twisted in the saddle to view Matthew Stone’s red stocking cap as his assistant brought up the rear of the train. “That’s a big eagle,” Karien shouted.

  Matthew raised his eyes for a view and nodded. “He’s telling them that we’re coming.”

  Rather than shout again, Karien hoisted his rifle aloft to indicate that he had heard the man.

  This marked their third season together on the trail. Matthew was an ox of a man. Karien found him good company, neither a drunkard nor windy to excess.

  As the trail wound skyward, Karien recalled the first time he had laid eyes on the former sea going Matthew who had been brawling with three post loafers at Fort Laramie. When they started with their knifes for the defiant Matthew, Karien had interceded by drawing his Colt and firing a shot at their feet.

  “I’m grateful to you sir,” Matthew had said. Rivulets of sweat mixed with the fort’s dust streaked his clean shaven face.

  “No need,” Karien said as he reloaded his Colt. He was satisfied that the fleeing ruffians did not wish to tangle with both of them.

  “Oh, indeed, sir. Allow me to buy you a mug of ale.”

  Karien was amused at the man’s offer. “I doubt the sutler has any ale. Probably some kind of hell water he calls whiskey. But I accept your offer.”

  “Good.” Matthew said as the two men introduced themselves and shook hands.

  “Matthew, those loafers will bear watching,” Karien said with a hard look back toward the lodges where the threesome had sulked off. “What brings a sea going man to this part of the Kansas Territory?”

  They started across the open grassland between Squaw Town and Fort Laramie’s Sutler post on the higher ground.

  “I look sea going, huh?” Matthew asked.

  “Pantaloons, knit shirt and stocking cap. Yes, you look fresh off a ship.”

  “Well, actually I’m looking for a new trade,” Matthew said, easily matching Karien’s long strides.

  “Can you ride a horse?” Karien asked, glancing over at the broad shouldered man.r />
  “I can ride him or carry him,” Matthew said.

  Karien smiled at the man’s words. There was little doubt this husky seaman could shoulder up an Indian pony. That day began their partnership trading with the friendly tribes.

  Karien halted the stallion at the crest to view the valley of the Crow’s camp. A cool breath of wind swept his face as he studied the wide depression. A cloud of smoke hung around the lodge pole clusters of the many tepees.

  This was the camp of Silver Bear. A messenger of the chief had brought word to Karien that his people would welcome his pack train in their camp. Karien raised his rifle as a signal to Matthew that he had located the village.

  The stallion screamed as he scented the unfamiliar mares. His challenge echoed a dozen times across the vastness as Karien sent him down the path. A sharp heel to the horse’s ribs urged him down the path. Confident the horse would not fall with him, Karien mused at how few men rode greater mounts. At Fort Lincoln, General George Custer with his stable full of expensive horses, had offered Karien an exorbitant price for Big Man. He’d respectfully declined the offer.

  Rotten snow remained in the shade as Karien crossed the forested benches, he lost sight of the village, then it came in full view again when the trail broke out of the pungent groves of fir.

  For some unknown reason this particular journey seemed destined since the onset, he had felt a pull of tension.

  The French called the feeling he experienced deja vu. He had never been in this valley before, yet each twist in the trail seemed a revelation of a past journey.

  The lightening scarred snag to his right... Karien blinked. Why did he possess such a deep-rooted memory of this route?

  Unmoved by superstitious things, he scoffed at tales of ghosts and the supernatural yarns, but a small amount of dread gathered in the pit of his stomach, this was more than a coincidence. For a split-second, he held a vision of a Crow maiden in a white elk skin dress. When he closed his eyes—she was gone.