Buck Mason crested the hill. While the Indians watched his approach, I reached for my glasses. The Indian with the lance drove it into my arm, pinning my forearm to the earth. I jerked back, leaving a goodly piece of meat behind, but I had my spectacles.
At the same moment, Buck called out something in Lakota, repeating it as he drew near. Once close, he instructed, “Stand up, Ned.”
I slowly pulled myself upright. The Indian with the lance charged forward again but only waved his blade. Buck hissed, “Don’t move.” He walked his horse closer until I could clutch the saddle blanket.
The mounted Indian addressed Buck in English. “You ride with women and dogs. What does that make you?”
Buck shrugged. “A better man than you are.”
“Deader man, maybe.” One of the other Indians motioned toward the prairie.
Lill sang out, “Hellooooo!”
Buck swiveled and groaned through gritted teeth. “Damn.”
Lill came forward, speaking gaily as if she were being introduced at a debutante’s ball, but an octave too high. “Hello, hello, hello, how.”
Buck barked, “Stay back!”
The mounted man grinned. “You are a sad man. We do you a favor to end it now.”
Buck made a motion with his heel and his horse stepped backwards, as well trained as a circus performer. Lill had a smile frozen on to her face. “What do we do?” she whispered, still smiling.
Buck smiled like an animal baring its teeth, whispering back. “Not do—don’t. Don’t talk. Don’t shoot. Neither a horse nor an Indian. If you do, they will kill us.”
Lill lost her grin momentarily. Then smiled woodenly again.
Lill’s arrival had plunged a horrifying situation into one so terrifying as to be intolerable. The pressure of my lungs and the throbbing of my arm and head were bringing some moisture to my straining eyes. I straightened my back the best I could, however, and put on what I hoped was a proud and fearless expression. The Indian gestured to the west, shouting in a mix of Lakota and English, then pointed at Lill and me. “This ugly woman and boy are not worth even one toothless old woman of the people we have lost, but it is a start. We will take them. Tell your army what we are owed will be paid.”
“I’ll take the message, but not without these two. If you try to stop us”—Buck pointed toward them nonchalantly with his pistol—“we’ll take at least three of you with us.”
The Indian considered Buck. “Do you fear death?”
Buck smiled. “Kill me if you like.”
The Indian stood silent for a time. “I will let you go”—he smiled—“because I am a kind man.” He said something more to his men, and they turned their horses and trotted away. He called over his shoulder, “Tell your army that a kind man is one to be feared when he sees his people brushed away like dirt.” The horsemen kept up a quick trot and soon disappeared into a rift. For some time we watched the spot. When there was no sign of return, Lill jumped from her horse.
“Ned, oh, Ned, you’re bleeding!” I looked at my shirt and thought how curious that, both times I had pursued her, I’d ended up ruining a shirt with my own blood. Except for the gash in my arm, the other wounds were surface abrasions. Buck took Lill’s kerchief and wound it tightly around the deep cut. “You must treasure those glasses, Ned.”
I nodded. “Long way to get another pair.” I caught a movement in my peripheral vision. Beyond Lill and Buck a rifle barrel slid from behind an outcropping of eroded sandstone. I pulled the pistol from my holster and shot as the Indian and Buck fired as well. There was an explosion of dust between Lill and me and a ping of metal against metal as the Sioux’s rifle was knocked out of his hand by the bullet’s impact. The Indian leapt onto his horse and fled the way of his compatriots.
We whirled again as a thunder of hooves approached from the opposite direction.
Chin, galloping as though she’d circumnavigated the globe and only just noticed I wasn’t on, barreled over the hill.
CHAPTER 6
My dear Lill,
I raise my glass to the song that is you, to your beauty, to your grace that spurs a man to be more than he thought possible. For this is certainly the case with me. What little that I have done that may be called heroic was a mere reflection of the strength I see in you. You are a light in my life, a dream in waking hours, a dream I wish forever to dream. And so I ask you to be my wife.
I’d entertained myself with daydreams of the sort. Lill hanging on my arm, telling of my daring exploits, her eyes shining. The men of the fort clapping me on my back, shouting, “Goddamn, Ned!” Even Buck Mason giving me my due.
To tell the truth, I hadn’t been so sure I’d done anything at all. It was only after Buck lifted Lill from the path of the engine of Chin, and I’d pitched to one side as the big horse skidded to a stop, that Buck whistled.
“You saved our necks, Ned. Goddamn, you did.”
I stared at him, trying to figure what he was talking about and how I was going to kill him for holding Lill in his arms for far longer than safety required.
Lill stammered, “Thank God you were here.” She gazed into Buck’s face while she said it. I didn’t realize she was referring to me.
Buck put her down and shook my hand heartily. “Never seen shooting like that. If you hadn’t pipped that Indian’s gun, I’d be a goner for sure. You saved my life. Hell, you saved us all.”
I was eating off the topmost canopy.
Back at the fort, the dudes ambled out of their tents to hear the news. Avelina told them a gilded-lily version of events, which included not six but ten Indians, three of them lying dead in the dust by story’s end.
Lill leaned on my arm, she kissed my cheek. “Ned’s my champion.”
I squeezed her hand. “Lill, I have something to ask you. We need to talk.”
Lill gave me a small hug. “I must go now, but ask me tonight. There’s to be a pitch-in in your honor!”
“Really?”
“I’m baking my special biscuits and expect the favor of your arm.”
Buck inclined his head. “Ready?”
I frowned and Lill explained. “Buck is going to escort me home. My poor parents are likely swooning.”
While I was thankful I wasn’t going to have to face Mrs. Martine and her sharp white fear, I didn’t like the idea of Buck escorting my girl. Lill smiled. “I won’t be long.” She pointed playfully to my shirt. “Don’t forget to change.”
This was going to be a problem. I didn’t have another shirt. I was certainly the most ragtag hero that ever came down the pike: crooked gun, obstreperous horse, stained shirt. I looked at Lill. “I left the wagon at your place.”
Buck inclined his head. “Allow me, if you will, to pick up the wagon for you. The least I can do for the man who saved my life.”
I smiled, but not much. He was too helpful. He grinned back as if he knew what I was thinking.
I didn’t have much time to worry. Avelina rebound my arm and commenced tailoring one of Tilfert’s shirts so I would have something to wear at the fete that night. Watching her cut great swaths of linen from Tilfert’s enormous raiment I observed, “You’re cutting off more than you’re leaving in.”
“I sure as hell am leaving a lot more than I would’ve two months ago.”
“You think?”
“Oh, sure, don’ you, Tilf?”
Tilfert strode over and lifted me slightly from the floor. “Half again heavier, at least. Lessen you got rocks in yer pockets.”
Avelina grinned. “A course he got rocks in his pockets; proved that today, didn’t he?”
Tilfert roared with laughter. I blushed and hoped they were right. Tonight I would ask for Lill’s hand and would need all the rocks I could get. Leaving Avelina stitching the trimmed shirt, I retired to my corner, sat on my bed, took pad to lap, licked my pencil, and began to write.
It took hours to produce a few lines. I agonized over each word, erasing with a ball of gum rubber until the paper thinned.
Avelina finished my shirt. The sun dipped low. Tilfert stuck his head through the curtain and cautioned it was time to go and they would meet me there.
I nodded and waved him off. Another ten minutes and I’d finished my proposal of marriage to Lill Martine. I was pleased with the effort. Poetic without being effusive, elaborate but not too long. It was as perfect as this imperfect man could make it. And now I was late. I pulled on the now beautifully fitted shirt, brushed down my pants, buffed my tired shoes, and headed out.
Captain Ellmore’s house was lit, illuminating the crowd inside. I could see Lill’s mother, looking amazingly animate within the yellow windows, Mrs. Ellmore in a pastel dress, and Tilfert, scratching his beard and looking uncomfortable in the social situation. Piano music issued from the parlor; the pulse of conversation murmured out into the cricket choir night. I smoothed my hands over my hair and walked circuitously toward the house in order to sidestep mud in the path.
Between the captain’s quarters and the enlisted men’s bunk I heard surreptitious noises. Initially I thought it was another Indian attack: the Sioux returned, whispering and readying their knives. Then I heard a small giggle. Sighs and murmurs. I edged closer and heard Buck Mason’s husky voice. He had some woman in that dark alley, likely a Pawnee. The scouts were notorious for taking their pleasures with Indians. I peered around the corner. He had the girl backed up against the bunkhouse. It was so dark the only thing I could see was the white of her blouse, his hands dark against it. They kissed. The woman pushed him. “Mr. Mason, how dare you presume?”
I stumbled back, horrified. It was Lill and, truth be told, it sounded to me like she knew very well how he dared. I blazed with fury. That was my girl Buck was fondling. After I’d saved his skin, he was pressing it against the woman who would be my wife. Trust, indeed!
I stumbled away and slumped against the mess wall. What should I do? There was only one thing to do. I ran back to the cabin, retrieved my gun, and strode back to the dark alley, trying to keep my fury ascendent over the sorrow that was lifting like the tide.
The alley was quiet now, Buck and Lill gone I refused to think where. I walked the length of the alley with my pistol drawn and shaking in my hand. Out the other side, a group of newly arrived Easterners smoked cigars in the moonlight.
They looked up but didn’t blink at the gun in my hand. Perhaps they thought all Nebraskans walked around ready to slay someone. A fellow with a ten gallon hat gestured with his cigar, drawing red lines in the dark. “Say, are you Bayard?”
I nodded and one of them reached out, requiring me to holster my pistol before pumping each of their hands in turn.
“All we’ve heard since we came in is your story. What an adventure, eh? Keep shooting a dozen Injuns a day and the West will be civilized in no time.” They waited for me to elaborate, but I stood mute.
The tale from their mouths was preposterous; I was preposterous. Buck crowing over my valor was something else entirely. The shot that hit that Indian’s rifle could just as well have been his, and he was sure quick to deflect that honor. I’d been involved in a swap and not even known it. Buck took my girl and was giving me some sort of false heroism in trade.
I wilted with the realization, then squared my jaw. Well, I wasn’t going for it. Lill Martine was my girl. And it was just as damn likely that I was the one that saved our skins as it was him. Buck Mason could go to hell, and I was pleased to help him. I fingered my pistol.
The men on the porch glanced at each other, almost as disgusted with me as I was. To break the silence one reported, “They’re looking for you in there.”
Inside, Lill rushed forward. “Here you are! My paladin!” She gave me a verbena-scented hug and scolded, “I’ve been waiting an hour, shame for making me worry.” She pointed. “What am I to do with you? A pistol in the parlor? My goodness, your manners.”
I put my hand to my gun as Buck strode forward and put out his hand. “Ned.”
My hand tightened on the pistol’s burled handle. I would shoot Buck through the absurd fringe on his buckskin jacket. In this country a man who shot another for taking his woman would as likely be given a shot of whiskey as a jail term. I hated Buck as deeply as I wished him dead, as deeply as I had loved Lill an hour ago, as deeply as I loved her now.
But I couldn’t shoot him. I wavered only a moment, then left Buck’s hand hanging in the air as I unbuckled my holster. I hung the gun on a hook by the door. And then I had a drink.
By the time I’d downed my second whiskey, it was coming clear what had happened. Lill misunderstood. Lill thought I was leaving her behind, sweeping aside her dreams for my own, Omar abandoning India. What else was she to do but make the best of it? In her eyes I had forsaken her. Her dalliance with Buck, if it was that, was heartbreak camouflaged. And she had protested, I reminded myself, even if she did so with a trill in her voice.
I had to make her understand that I would never leave her behind. I would tell her, if she didn’t come to Connecticut with me, I simply would not go. I would give up every dream I had to make her mine, for she was the biggest dream I had. As I drank, I grew more and more assured that when I pledged my troth—being clear, damn it, this time—the world would once more take on the rosy light that held sway a mere hour ago.
Another two drinks, more toasts to the sure shot, and I wanted the party over. I had my own piece to say, and if everyone would just be quiet I could say it. But someone handed me more whiskey and sang false praises yet again. Heroism never felt so bad. I could take no more. It was time for me to take charge, take what I wanted, to demand Lill’s hand. I stood, shouted, but my voice was lost in the din of the room. I climbed onto a chair and was yet ignored. So I threw my glass, and the sharp ring of breaking crystal finally silenced the crowd.
“I want toast!” I wobbled on my perch.
Buck took my elbow. “Ned, you want to make a toast?” I pulled my arm away in great disdain and almost fell over. I righted myself, lifted my hand, but I had thrown my glass. Someone poured quickly and handed me another drink. I thanked the man, though he wormed and waggled so I could hardly target his offering. I shouted, “Lill, where are you?”
Lill made her way through the crowd to stand in front of the table. I lifted the glass. “Nightingale among sparrows! Beautiful Lill!”
I bent and lifted her hand to my lips. What did I want to say? I couldn’t find the words I had labored so hard to arrange. Lill gazed at me expectantly. The room’s velocity increased. I sweated profusely. This was my chance. It was imperative I say something.
Lill asked, “Ned?”
I wished I hadn’t climbed onto the table; the floor was far, far away. Lill’s face glowed in the kerosene light. Speak, speak, speak, I berated myself in a panic. I could hardly remember what I was doing. Who was I? Then I remembered. A young man named Ned.
I recited the limerick.
CHAPTER 7
Dear Lill,
It pains me to send the proposal to you I wrote on the day of the party, having planned to read it to you in person. Yet I hope you will read it and, in spite of what happened, give it consideration. What I did at the party is an error I would give my life to rescind, as well as being a complete riddle to me why my besotted tongue would have said it at all.
Ned
My dear Lill,
An angel like you can surely find it in yourself to take pity on a drunken fool.
Dearest India,
You are my life. The days devoid of your song are unendurable. Find it in your heart to allow me respite.
Lill,
Please forgive me!
Dear Ned,
I am perplexed and saddened that you so completely misread our relationship. I did love you as a brother, but that is all. I will now forgive you as a sister forgives a brother for an unkind taunt. I will not forget our time together, will treasure our sweet notes, but now is the time to let it go. I will see you at Avelina’s wedding to give you my fond farewell and best wishes for your futu
re as a Yale scholar. Until that time, it is best that you desist from contact.
Sincerely, Lill
Dear Mr. Bayard,
My husband and I will not have you intrude on our daughter’s life any longer and will accept no further correspondence.
Mrs. Martine
Dear Brill,
I am lost. My nerve, my spirit, my health have all failed. This may be the last you hear of me. If ever you get the chance, tell my mother what became of Edward Turrentine Bayard III.
I tossed and moaned, my head whirling and whingeing, unable to hold anything down. My breath was short. I felt feverish.
“Get a doctor!” I wheezed, when Avelina bent over the bed to check on me.
“You don’ need no doctor, yer jes’ a little outta fix.”
I moaned and she hissed.
“You ain’t hot and anybody who put it away like you did is going to be pukey.”
“I need to be bled.”
“Pfft. Bled. That’s what’ll kill you. If blood was bad for you, skellytons would be dancin’ around.”
I poked myself in my chest. “I have been sick my whole life. I know what it is and I know when I need a doctor.”
“Well, well, Lord Turpentine. The doctor’s been in, and it’s his eddicated opinion that you caught pickled liver, so lay back and shut up. Soon as the whiskey’s out of your system, you kin eat. Soon as you eat, you’ll feel better.”
“My chest, my asthma.”
“Seems to me you got breath aplenty for complaining, and if you don’t quit I’m putting you out, Ned—I can’t take it no more.”
She looked like she meant it, so I was quiet. The trouble was, with quiet came time to think, and when I thought, I was back in that room with the whiskey and the hushed crowd and the dreaded poem.
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