Directly north where the Cimarron arches into Kansas, the main body of the gang had turned southeast, following the river’s flow back into Indian Territory. But three had continued on, likely headed for Dodge City. And one had thrown a shoe.
The Man Hunter followed.
All that day into the night, riding through the sharp wind and rain, a tattered lodge-skin shrouding head and shoulders, Caspion huddled over Hesta cradled on the saddle. Shielded from the elements, she slept dry and warm, lulled by Two-Jacks’ gentle gait. Though she awakened now and then with a hungry coo, she abided all without a fuss—Moneva’s Little Red Bird, a good Cheyenne child. On past midnight the rain let up; the clouds parted briefly as the moon peered through like a mother shedding warmth on a sleeping infant. Caspion halted Two-Jacks and held breathless and still.
Just ahead, nimbused in the pale light, an antelope turned its gaze to him; a female blessed with a swollen udder, waiting peacefully, watching while he raised his rifle and fired. Violence shattered the hallowed moment, waking Hesta with a start. The moon withdrew and the veiled hiatus closed. In the dripping silence the antelope lay dead. Caspion knelt and raised the hindquarters to his knee and held Hesta to a nipple. Seeking the mother scent of the Wokaihi, the child eagerly gave suck as warm milk flowed from its tender flesh. In the antelope’s limp form, its slender grace and length, its lingering warmth and lifeless eye, Caspion saw Moneva…and looked away.
XXXV. As The Heart Bids
Alice heard someone on the stairs. She put aside her writing and listened: the approaching footfalls too hushed for anyone wearing boots. Certainly not Hans, though she expected him soon; and Hickok was too arrogant to tread softly to her door. Nor was it a woman, for the strides were long and manly. The knock, polite and brief, sounded a bit hesitant. Opening the door, she was astonished to see Caspion holding a bundled child; his left hand wrapped in a bloody rag, wound still draining. He said nothing; she motioned him to enter.
His hair had grown long and except for his blue eyes, mustache, and stubble beard he looked as Indian as the child. As silent and inscrutable as any she could imagine. Two sleepless days and the strain, sorrow, and the killing urge marked him; his eyes steeled to a razor’s edge, beautifully hypnotic and deadly. She had never wanted a man more—an attraction so visceral and compelling that but for the child she would have named her desire. Yet she sensed no inclination on his part; though his eyes were intent, riveting, they seemed focused to another realm. And it cut her pride, his indifference; even the journalist, an effete of opposite persuasion, had fawned to her—the sensual dynamo that beckoned all men, bold and meek. But Caspion looked beyond, not to that exquisite surface of flaming hair and ivory flesh presented with such art and cunning to draw the eye and wanton gaze to which she was long accustomed, as if it were her due, like collecting tribute. Now he looked within and sought a tenderness kept hidden, even from herself, drawing it forth as he handed her the sleeping child.
“My daughter, Hesta,” he said; “I must leave her with you.” Alice, overwhelmed by his quiet insistence, could not refuse—accepted without protest. Before the primal and guileless, she felt utterly weak, compromised, visited by a rare self-doubt.
“You trust your daughter…to a whore?” she asked.
“Not a whore, Alice. You’re the woman you want to be”—echoing her own words, like a quick slap, so abrupt that she awakened to its truth. “I have to go,” he said; “Care for her…if you would, please. When you can, take her to my brother and his wife. They live north, near Lebanon. Hans will know. Tell them…her mother was killed. Tell them…” He glanced out the window, jaws taunt, flexing; she read his murderous gaze and knew. “I have business to attend across the way,” he said, turning to leave, then paused at the door. “She’s a good child, Alice. Hesta…it means heart in Cheyenne. Her mother…let Hesta know one day that…her mother loved her. That she died to save her. Mo-ne-va”—he declared emphatically—“She must never forget her mother’s name. Mo-ne-va.”
She gave a silent nod in promise; the door closed. Not three minutes had passed since his coming. Alice carried the sleeping child to the bed and in laying her down she awakened—eyes as deeply blue and startling as her father’s. “Hesta…?” Alice smiled, delighted, answering to their wonder; not at all maternal but she did appreciate beauty. The child’s beauty reflected the father. And as promised she would one day tell of the mother, what little she knew, lay aside her jealousy and tell of Moneva’s modest charm and beauty as spoken of by Hans. But of the father she would share a great deal, for his beauty she loved above all she had known. She watched him now, crossing Front Street: slow, deliberate, fluid as his shadow; she would tell of what happened on that day as would others. For many witnessed.
Among the score of horses tied front of the saloon, Caspion examined a trio of hard-ridden mounts; the back hoof of the center Dun revealed the tell-tale sign—a missing shoe. He stepped to the boardwalk—poised, balanced, rifle at his side, hat tipped low. He nudged the door and entered.
In the lull between seasons Dodge City swarmed with idle hunters, teamsters, out-of-work railroaders, and sundry hangers-on—many slaking their thirst in the Long Branch that day. Talk was rife of the thirty-wagon train then organizing for the long pull south to be in position for the summer hunt; their destination, an abandoned trading post in the Texas Panhandle known as Adobe Walls. The stalwart hunter Billy Dixon, fresh from a winter scout along the Palo Duro, claimed that vast herds still grazed over the harsh plains of the Llano. Both Charlie Wrath and Charlie Myers were pulling up stakes and moving their businesses along to supply the hunters—thus giving substance to the venture. And Hanrahan vowed to freight the whiskey and pitch a saloon. The circus set to roll any day now; all planning to take the hunt, lock stock ’n barrel, smack dab into the heart of Indian Territory. So damn the Army! And if they met with hostiles—Damn the Injuns! Damn the bleeding hearts! They had the firepower and number to blast their way through.
Caspion took several steps and stood, casting his eyes from table to table in a slow methodical search. And it was not his appearance that drew their stares so much as his manner. Obvious he hunted men. A ripple of silence fell over that rough assemblage as his gaze rounded the room. Cards folded, tongues held, and breath bated—all eyes turned to the back bar where three dark figures stood in bawdy indifference, slapping down silver and tossing off drinks, laughing loudly at some private joke. Hickok had emerged from an upstairs boudoir, curious of the hush below. He leaned to the banister to size up the scene, deciding whether to let the play evolve.
Presently, the youngest of the three summoned the barkeep and displayed the contents of a soiled handkerchief. His sidekicks nearly bent double with laughter as the barkeep grimaced and withdrew, wisely to the far end. And it was not the “Sioux-van-ear” that moved him, for he had seen plenty and worse, but the one beyond who shed an aura of violence. Caspion advanced a few more paces to sharpen the focus. Itchy palmed his grisly token and stuffed it in his pocket, then glanced to the mirror and froze.
“Remember me?” the apparition spoke. Itchy turned so abrupt that he spilled his drink. “You’re a long way from Arkansas, boy.”
“A-ain’t none yer bidness…whar ah be, Mister,” he managed in answer.
Caspion’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in your pocket, Willy?”
Named and accused; but flanked by his partners, he steadied.
“Ya ain’t never gonna know. These here’s my pals…Fuke an’ Jester.”
Caspion cracked a hard smile. “That makes three of a kind, Willy. Care to try your luck?” Voice as cold as his blue-ice stare; rifle relaxed, hanging at his side. Itchy pawed his face; Fuke rolled his quid and edged his thumb to a hammer; while Jester, his teeth extruding from sunken flesh, flexed his wrist and leered to kill. Itchy went for his gun. Caspion snapped the lever and fired from the hip. Amid the blast and smoke the shotgun triggered in mid-air, and like three string puppets they pitched and fe
ll, gut-shot, sprawled in blood and spittoon juice spilled across the floor. Dying painful, dying slow.
Caspion kicked their weapons away and in a voice as even as the barrel leveled on his stilled onlookers asked: “Any of you friends of these?” None answered; simply shook their heads and turned as the smoke cleared. Judged a fair fight from any view. None too concerned as Caspion knelt to retrieve the soiled kerchief. Then he drew his knife and sliced an ear from each; and each writhed in answer. Before those gathered could react beyond a shocked curse or two, he was out the door and gone. Even Hickok held at bay, for once baffled, in awe of another’s violence.
Alice had stayed at the window, watching; she heard three quick shots echoed by a single blast and waited, anxious, digging at the paint with her nails until she saw him exit and ride out—slow, deliberate, deadly—indifferent as a shadow to each trailing eye. Hickok emerged and watched him leave; then went to notify the undertaker.
Alice closed the curtain and turned to Hesta. The child sang to her now as she carefully unwrapped the black robe, caressing the rich soft nap, curious of the mystery within: beheld the baby-board, its marvelous structure and design; admired the soft furs and skins; then found the madstone, polished by many handlings—she cupped it in her palm like a raw jewel. In the tiny fist she found the rattler’s tail and shook it for the child’s amusement—perplexed by her immediate silence. Alice eased her from the baby-board and held her in her arms and felt an ache and warmth suffuse her body, like it was him she held, that part in need, the helpless struggling soul of him. Hesta, the heart of him. A being so irresistibly sweet and tender that Alice actually let her beauty and care take precedence to her own.
She removed the soiled clothing and wiped her clean, wrapped her in a soft towel and prepared to bathe her. Grown so quickly attached, so possessively jealous, she was loath to share even this chore with her cleaning girl, Gretchen, who she shooed away the minute she arrived, would brook no advice. Instead she sent her to fetch Josephine, the laundress, who lived on the ground floor by the kitchen—a buxom German with a two-year-old about to wean and available milk. Josephine happily consented to nurse the child. Meanwhile, Gretchen was sent out once more to purchase a cradle and garments needed to keep the baby dry and clean. Once her helpmates had gone, Alice laid Hesta to the new cradle and gently rocked it, humming softly till she slept. And she was hovering there still, late that evening, when Hans walked in.
With Caspion known to many, he’d heard of the shoot-out upon first reaching town. And blood-vengeance could mean only one thing. So Hans was none too surprised by the presence of the baby. One glance at the Indian paraphernalia along the wall named the source. What surprised him was Alice; while pleased that she would put aside her selfish nature to care for the child, he was not warm to her notion of keeping it. Already she was convinced that the child’s best interest lay with her, not some nameless settlement far to the north. Much as he loved her and wished to see her happy, Hans was adamant, the child belonged with the family.
“Ze fa’zer’s vish…is vhat vill be.” End of argument.
She bristled an instant then took a more subtle tact; she would persuade him with passion, seduce him to her view. She drew him to their bed, undressed and laid before him, tempting with all her wiles. He took her hard, punishing her with his strength, for he was angry, inflamed by her flesh and his weakness before it. And she loved his stern manner and yielded with sly guttural moans, certain of conquest. But when they’d finished he was as firmly opposed, if a trifle pliant.
“Is too vet from rain. Vill go in von veek,” he said.
Having gained a delay, she pushed further, for she had not exhausted her various charms. Nestling to him and stoking his flesh, she whispered sweetly in conspiratorial enticement, promising to take his name and let him make her an honest woman.
“I’ll marry you if you let me keep it,” she urged; “It can have your name as well.”
Hans turned a cold shoulder, rolled over and went to sleep.
Alice lay awake fuming, utterly beside herself—scorned in her own bed. Gazing into the darkness, her anger flashed murderous; there was a deadliness in her that could surface if she were thwarted, turn on whoever stood opposed. For one dark instant she thought of the poison used to silence the pesky hound, then cast it out with a shudder: What am I thinking? She could not do without Hans, to mount and be mounted by his wondrous mass, his exquisite strength and form; she coveted him, his flesh and his good and generous heart. But she would have her way.
Over the next week she began dreaming of a more respectable life. Whenever he was near, she would talk of leaving her current trade, of turning her hand to the training and tutoring of young girls, of opening a finishing school…say, in Denver. Hans listened but would not bite—nor could he bring himself to take the child from her. So the week passed in stalemate; then another as inertia set in, which suited her just fine. She could wait while the dynamo bent him steadily to her will. And she may have succeeded in her ploy had not another force come into play.
Alone with Hesta, a warm afternoon in early May, she arranged tulips in a vase by the window; Hans was at the depot, checking on freight. She heard another at the door, a bold knock, and knew before she answered who it would be. Hickok stood hat in hand, silent and waiting.
“You’ve been paid in full,” she scowled, preparing to slam the door.
He checked it with his arm. “Paid in full…and I aim to oblige.”
“Damn you! Not now,” she hissed, “there’s a sleeping child. Hans is expected.” But she mistook his meaning.
“No, Alice,” he replied, “nothing like that.” Not his usual brash self. “Best let me in.” Somewhat somber, somewhat polite. She stepped back as he entered and closed the door. In deference to the child he kept his voice low.
“Now hear me out and hear me good,” he began. “I just got a wire from the Pinkerton office in Kansas City. Agents are on their way. They want me to detain a certain woman. ‘A whore’ by their phrase. That fey journalist of yours, what’s his name…has written quite a tale about a glorious redhead, The Demimonde of Dodge. It’s stirred up a real hornet’s nest back East. Sicced the hounds on the trail. And they have a scent. Seems an ambitious young actress of ripe charm and beauty was courted and wed a few years back by a powerful old gent…a Senator, they say. But his sweet princess turned belladonna…killed him on their wedding night. Planted a neat one right between his eyes. Mayhaps he didn’t please her,” he noted with raised brow. “All happened in mid-summer of seventy-one. A week before you arrived in Hays.”
“So…,” she raised her chin, proud, cool, expectant, “am I under arrest?”
“Alice, it’s none of my concern. If some old fool gets plugged in bed by his child-bride, I could give a hoot less. But whoever killed the bastard, when they catch up with her, I guarantee they’ll stretch her pretty neck.” He traced his finger lightly down her throat. “Now that would be a crying shame.”
Both looked to the door, hearing Hans return. The instant he walked in his face reddened, his shoulders set to seize the intruder. Hickok raised his open palms, backing away. “I mean no trouble,” he warned. Alice quickly interceded.
“Please, Hans,” she said, touching him, “Bill came as a friend. To warn me.”
“Varn you?” he scoffed; “I varn him!”—jabbing a finger in accusation. Hickok drew back, wary of his reach.
“No, Hans, listen to me,” she pleaded. “I’m wanted for murder.”
“Vhat?” he answered faintly, rage disarmed. “Is not so…”
But she nodded: “I killed my husband”—making no appeal, for once guileless, void of deception. She raised her eyes to his, standing by her lonely truth. Born to a harbor girl who left her orphaned at age eleven, the scrappy waif was taken in by an old madam who offered her a choice: “You can be my scullion maid, or I can turn you into a lady…of sorts.” Possessed of spry genius and tenacious beauty, she choose the latter and soon ap
prenticed as a “hot-corn girl,” then groomed at “Seven Sisters’ Row,” till by age eighteen she’d fought her way to the footlights of Broadway. And at each transition she had to recreate herself and change name, identity, and manner as required, initially to survive, and later as it pleased…to beguile, enthrall and entertain…to succeed.
“He was like a snowy-haired knight,” she began, “a gracious king. Soft-spoken, regal, kind. You see, my mother died a consumptive when I was quite young. After that, I had no family, no one to trust. And Madam Ruth, who took me in, showed no more kindness than a keeper. But this man, I trusted like a father. He arrived in a splendid carriage with driver, footman, and matched pacers. After the wedding we drove to his estate. North in Connecticut. It was a child’s dream of a castle…with tall towers and servants, manicured lawns, flowers and trees. But once alone he had no interest in passion, he refused my lips…and he was none too old for ardor”—she paused now, tentative, as her eyes moistened—“I had no idea he was…a de Sade. That he wanted me, my flesh, to humiliate, to inflict pain…a pain that gave no pleasure. He desired my utter submission and demanded that I beg, like the lowest of the low…like ‘a gutter wench.’ So I did. I submitted to his cruelty. And when freed I killed him…while he slept. Muffled the shot with his feather pillow.”
Her lips pressed tight at her bitter confession; Hans wiped a tear from her cheek, readily convinced. They glanced to Hickok and awaited his judgment. Even given her considerable wiles, the scenario played true enough.
Caspion & the White Buffalo Page 38
