“You don’t much like the cavalry, do you Caspion?”
That day at the hide exchange he’d heard rumors of Duke Alexis and the coming great hunt—how Sheridan and Custer had already requisitioned extra horses, expecting to ruin a good number running the buffalo for sport, all for the pleasure of the high and mighty Prince. Caspion grimaced at the callous waste, marking an old grudge.
“The cavalry is a fine thing, Alice. The eyes and ears of the army. But in giving a high account of themselves they tend to stretch the longbow a mite. For the hard march and the close fight they are no go. Not that they lack the stomach for killing, mind you. They’ll gladly play their blades against men fleeing a battle…the enemy or their own. And they’ll not blink an eye in slaughtering a village of peaceful Indians to punish a few wild renegades. In the winter of sixty-eight, I’m ashamed to say, I served as scout on a punitive raid. Hard on the heels of the ‘Solomon Avengers.’ Out to bring justice for the savage butchery of pioneer families. And what I witnessed, the vengeance played out on the women and children, I’d not repeat for the devil’s listening.” Anticipating her question, he shook his head. “No, Alice. Before such deeds I stand mute.”
Meeting his firm resistance, she dealt a card kept hidden till now.
“There’s another who shares your animosity for the cavalry…”
This drew his interest.
“Bill Hickok,” she slyly noted. “I watched him gun his way out of Hagan’s Saloon recently. He was hit several times, but left three troopers dead and others wounded. Like yourself, he narrowly escaped…which is one thing more the two of you have in common. Besides my immodest attentions.”
Caspion ignored the last, but envisioned the shoot-out well enough.
“If Bill’s the reptile I know him for”—he watched her closely, gauging the effect of his words—“I wager he drew first and struck without warning.” Though she didn’t acknowledge, he’d guessed the truth. “Hickok kills like we sip wine, Alice…to warm his blood. I don’t mourn the troopers. But he shot down an old Cheyenne in cold blood a couple years back. A Chief named Whistler. Scores of hunters and innocent settlers lost their scalps in result. Whistler was a peace chief…had just rode up to ask for coffee. Bill answered with hot lead. If he survives his wounds and surfaces again hereabouts…well, if you entertain that snake, Alice, keep your derringer handy.”
“Why, Caspion, I find Bill quite charming. I do believe you’re a bit jealous.” She relished his deadly gaze directed towards an imagined rival and felt delicious warmth as he admitted as much.
“Possible…and most likely.” His eyes softened. “My apologies, Alice. A woman such as yourself cannot abide a covetous male. But jealous, yes. It’s your beauty and the pleasure of…though others may have you, I’d hate to stand second to any.”
“You flatter me, Caspion.”
“To our time together,” he raised his glass, “and to the heart’s desire.” Her glass met his and they drank the last of the champagne.
“One question more, Caspion, and I’ll satisfy your desire double.”
“Fire away.”
“Since the war, have you always hunted?”
“When I first came west, I worked a spell for the rail-rogues, as we called ’em. Earned stale bread, bitter beans, a mean portion of earthly labor and meager dreamless sleep. But I’ve long since joined the great slaughter down those very rails to my pelf. Yeah, we cleared the road of Johnny Reb…likely we’ll relieve the land’s long burden of the Indian and the buff. If God is just, I’ll die as bloody as I have lived.”
“I see you’re a man of notable conscience. A fool’s burden in this world.”
“Yes, my lady. Worst of the lot. For I help destroy what I love most.”
Finished, their eyes met; silently waiting.
“Show me to your room, Caspion,” she whispered, her lips moist and beckoning. “Take me…my flesh for your pleasure. And suffer no guilt, for we both know the terms and are agreed.”
When they entered the room, Boon was pacing the floor, whimpering. Caspion lit the lamp and excused himself to take the pup outside. She listened by the door until he descended the stairs then rushed to the bureau, found the letter and quickly read. His words stirred her mind, rich as revelation, but the mystery she’d sought to unclothe only deepened. Every new detail, each advancing step found him further removed, attracting her more. Whatever carried him swept her along, following towards what? She placed the letter back in the drawer then gazed at the robe. What dreams? she wondered as she unbuttoned her collar and let down her hair. She touched a hand to her breast and grew hopeful; perhaps the answer lay elsewhere and not in words.
She finished undressing and eased to the robe, closed her eyes and rolled from side to side, absorbing its deep caress as it warmed her skin like tiny flames. A rampant urge infused her thighs; she clutched the robe and dreamed him there. Hearing footsteps on the landing, she calmed herself and lay facing the door, expectant.
The shaded lamp that vaguely defined most objects in the room cast woman and robe in luminous suspension. Engrossed by the reclining vision before him, Caspion set the pup to the floor and slowly undressed, filled by the animal power that had possessed him nightly since the dream he’d first attributed to whiskey—horns and hooves that tore the earth, the bullish loins of the beast that raged in the distance and lately lunged through his sleep hunting the sharp female scent carried on the wind. And again each night, the rutting dream.
She watched him closely, feasting on his taut muscled length, veins pulsing with male heat, flesh rising as he advanced. She rolled to her stomach and came to her knees, tossed back her hair and gazed at him with wild creature eyes. He mounted her like the bull aching to breed, her flesh pressed hard by steeled desire—his phallus stabbing like a blade as he entered her with a bloodlust inflamed by her ready shameless need. She arched in vain to absorb him, uttering deep primal moans. He grasped her crimson mane, his hot breath chilling her neck, his thrusting weight forcing her to the robe as she pitched in spasms of pleasure and pain. And now the violence she longed for bore within, her dark will vanquished, utterly slain, enthralled. She was wholly his.
But Eros turned deadly…Caspion’s hands changed to claws tearing at her flesh, his arms now blackened wings shrouding her hair, and his knifing phallus a vulture’s gross head raping the slain beauty’s corpse. His nostrils caught the stench of death. A wave of nausea gelded him. Horrified at the ghastly vision, he withdrew and stood before the bed. In the glimmering light ringlets of her damp hair flowed like blood.
“Alice,” he whispered, and again: “Alice,” anxious lest she wouldn’t move.
Weakened in the languor of bliss, bewildered by its interruption, she slowly drew up her legs and turned. “What?” she asked; “Why did you stop?”
“The robe,” he answered, his face ashen; then shook his head and simply repeated: “The robe.”
She looked down at the robe a brief moment, clasped her knees and laughed.
“So, the sacred robe rejects the whore! Is that it?”
“What…?” he asked numbly, unsure of her mood or meaning.
“Did you have a vision of a virtuous maiden?” Which was her own fear, an image glimpsed in the throes of passion. “Admit it, Caspion,” she lashed out; “Spared by the warriors you now hunt for a pure one!” A shocked silence followed, for her accusation betrayed her. His eyes flashed to the bureau and then to her.
“You read my letter, Alice,” his voice cold at her invasion; “Words meant for my brother.”
She had never seen a man more naked and exposed, yet so formidable—felt his gaze harden and could not bear his judgment. She lowered her eyes out of shame, but answered with sharp defiance: “I gave myself to you, Caspion…gave myself!” she cried, then gathered up her clothes, clutched them to her breasts and fled before she hopelessly succumbed to the evidence of her tears.
Caspion hurled the robe from the bed and kicked it across th
e floor. He lay in a deep funk, sleepless through the night—felt a taint in his soul, every sentiment fouled and debased; yet he wanted her still. At dawn he slept. That afternoon, before sealing the letter, he glanced through the words as all rang hollow in faint echo of before. Like the room itself…a faint echo, lifeless now…a ticking metronome of silence. Boon lay on the cast-off robe, sleeping through a timeless winter. Everything seemed dead; each step carried a dark weight. Caspion reached for his guitar, sought life in its touch; he sat and played in a slow sustained rhythm, searching for anything to fill the emptiness and take him far away.
From the hallway she heard him playing softly to himself; she leaned her ear to the door—having found the heart of him, she longed to linger. Yet her will was pleased to cast him off; or so she told herself. Boon sniffed her presence and awakened, trotted over to paw at the threshold. Caspion turned; but Alice had quietly drifted on.
Saturday night at Hagan’s Saloon found a lively mix of celebrants. The blizzard passed, leaving the sun-glazed prairie rippled with pristine white drifts, calm and peaceful beneath the infinite star-frost reflecting in a moonless sky. Haunted by this frigid beauty many embraced the close warmth of riotous companionship and strong drink; readily preferred the hazards of liquor, cards, and women to the harsher whims of nature. Bull-whackers, teamsters, hunters fresh off the range, troopers, duded-up gamblers, and a just-arrived dandy ogling Molly’s passel of frisky girls—all thrown together with no law present to defuse the rash justice sought by impugned honor, ruffled feathers, victims of sleight-of-hand and trickery, or in any way impede the anxious flux and anarchic desires of these rough-faced men and powdered women.
McKay and his skinners occupied a table convenient to the bar. Hans leaned to the nearby wall, nursing his drink, towering above the crowd, his eyes fixed on the red-haired beauty across the way. Alice wore a black velvet dress with silk mauve collar and cuffs. Tending the officers, she carried herself with the imperious elegance usually conferred by pedigree. As there are officers of brevet rank, she was indeed a brevet lady.
Caspion entered like a cold breath quickly absorbed. Even the smoke was little disturbed as it swirled about the lamps, fanned by the vibrant chorus and general gaiety. With his rifle barely visible aside his long coat, he stood a moment, perplexed, searching for a semblance of his old self. He heard McKay’s blustery welcome and stepped forth but refused the whiskey challenge as he downed a shot with perfunctory haste, which neither warmed or cheered him, only burned his throat and soured his stomach. He walked the length of the bar, glancing to Molly’s girls—Marianne, Joleen, Carmen, Caroline—hoping one might catch his eye and revive him. Nothing stirred. Even the piano’s bouncing rhythm fell flat to his ear like the weary cadence of a grueling march. A sustained fatigue; predictable, leaden. He fought the one temptation left him, refused to look her way, though she pulled his heart like a magnet as he moved aimlessly through the crowd in that awkward waltz, pivoting past one then another. Lost in the numbing haze he felt someone tap his shoulder, turned and saw Hans and his big smile.
Caspion shook his hand and joined him, leaning against the wall.
“You look vorn down,” Hans offered.
“Could be I am.”
“You not vis Alice?”
“No Hans, not with Alice,” he answered absently.
“Zen she is free tonight?”
“Free for a price…as always.”
“Zink she go vis me?”
“Most likely, Hans. You’re rich for a fortnight.” He affected disinterest, but his eyes were riveted. She stood next to the seated officers, never more beautiful…like the baleful Nix luminous in the blackened depths. Was that her purpose? To tempt, violate, then torture? He damned the robe and cursed himself, but not her. No, despite the letter, he could not forget that she gave herself to him.
Hans finished off his glass in one gulp and set it down, determined.
“I talk vis her now,” he vowed. And before his courage waned, the strapping youth made his way towards the jewel of his eye. Caspion watched, working his jaw with keen urgency, jealousy and desire overridden by unease. He carefully readied his rifle, not at all comfortable with the lay of things.
Alice was immediately drawn by the uncanny stature of the young man before her.
Hans doffed his new beaver hat and bowed slightly.
“Excuse me, Lay-ty Alice,” he said. “Remember? Hans Mustrieg. I give you ride from ze depot.” Alice smiled…he was more handsome than she remembered. A friend of Caspion’s. And the card game was quite boring.
“How nice we meet again, Hans,” she replied with a flirtatious tilt of her head.
Major Cambridge turned, incensed at the intrusion.
“Beat it, Hun!” he barked; “Before we box you up and send you back to Germany!”
“Is free country, army man.” Hans didn’t blink. “Ze lay-ty is free to choose.”
“Look clown, are you daft? She’s with us. This is our game. Now shove off!”
“Ze lay-ty is free to choose.” True to his German character, Hans was stubborn.
Kicking back his chair, Major Cambridge stood and gave a violent shove. Hans budged a mere half-step then advanced, looming over his opponent, all sign of good-humor gone from his face. Alice stood aside, enjoying the duel; loved men most when their blood was up. Silence rippled through the crowd, heads turned; nearby patrons backed away as a half-dozen troopers edged closer.
The one unwritten law of the lawless frontier was that each man pursued his own affairs, and when any two squared off, no third was to interfere. No doubt Hans could have felled the major with a single blow, but when a hard-faced trooper standing in line of view raised his holster flap to grasp his revolver, Caspion sprung past three tables and slammed the man’s gun-hand with the butt of his rifle while snapping the barrel across his neck, sending the man sprawling to the floor, stunned. One reason Caspion preferred a rifle: it was still an effective weapon even as you weighed the lethal option. He leveled it on the men massed before him—hammer back, bullet chambered.
“Any man-jack of you so much as wiggle a finger,” he warned, “I’ll let my Henry finish this parley.”
“This ain’t your play, hunter,” Cambridge growled; typical of the army, blind to past experience.
“Maybe I don’t care for the hand being dealt.” Caspion fixed his eyes on his grouped adversary, yet glimpsed Alice in close periphery.
And he was certainly no Hickok in her estimation; Hickok would have already killed three and been out the door. Heedless as ever, thought Alice. Sizing up the situation, she saw no chance for miraculous acrobatics. A lone rifleman and the tall youth who she now found so attractive and who didn’t even pack a gun, only a big skinning knife sheathed in his belt, both effectively surrounded by a score of troopers itching to avenge the humiliation suffered but weeks before—and she knew they would not be deterred, could smell their bloodlust. The tension fed her own yearning; this was her element; at any instant blood would flow. But she wouldn’t have Caspion dying before her; though the notion crossed her mind that she could embrace him forever as she fell on his corpse and wept—a conceit of foolish romance, for who could love the dead? Or even hate for long? She’d hated the man she killed; but loved or loathed, the dead were soon forgot, and she didn’t wish to forget the man who’d tapped her soul.
Amidst the hush came the rustle of her dress, then admiring gasps at view of her upper thigh—the sight affected a general paralysis, all instantly transfixed as she drew forth her derringer. With a steady hand she pressed the barrel to Caspion’s temple and cocked the hammer.
“I am sincerely sick of you and your rude manners,” she stated evenly. “I resent your attempt to destroy my good relations with these men. This is my business, Caspion, not yours.” As her pistol urged him to the door, she addressed the others without averting her aim or object. “Now gentlemen, if you will please excuse me while I show this man out. Our discussion will awai
t my return.” No longer intent on the instigating quarrel, all eyes focused on Alice and the surprising resolution being staged.
Caspion stepped back slowly, his lone warrant was his rifle leveled and ready, his mind blank. He offered no resistance, well aware that her deadly will exceeded even her beauty and passion, yet wanted her still. While all irrevocably fell away—friends, familiar scenes, Alice—dead to he who was deadened.
She backed him through the door, and not till they were safely out did she release the pistol’s firm embrace.
“You’re no Hickok, Caspion,” she declared.
“If any harm comes to that boy…”
“Don’t fret.” She waved the pistol with a knowing smile. “Hans will be well taken care of.” The insinuation was not lost on him.
“What manner of woman are you, Alice?” he glared.
“The woman I want to be,” she answered, cool and succinct.
Through the fog of her breath she watched him turn and cross the street. Saw her love delivered and admitted it even as she asked herself: Did he love in turn? And would he ever understand? She found no answer in the silence of his leaving. Who knew what a man loved—a woman’s breasts, her thighs, his plowing weight upon her? She only knew her own heart and that sending him away was the one selfless act of her life.
Strengthened by that certainty, Alice returned inside and briskly walked to the waiting men. She raised the derringer once more and with it lifted the ridiculous mutton-chopped chin. “And now Major Cambridge,” the ice of loathing forming each word, “I am quite weary of your attentions as well. Gentlemen…Lady Alice calls the game. From now on you must suffer the mercies of Lady Luck without me.” Then offering her arm to Hans, her voice fairly cooed in irony: “Would you kindly assist a lady through this crush of dangerous men, across a dark and empty street…and add the warmth of your presence to her cold and lonely room.”
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 10
