Shortgrass Song (69 page)

The wind kept shifting in the trees around the old buffalo camp. Tess couldn't keep out of the smoke. She had beans and bacon cooking in a skillet, sourdough biscuits in a Dutch oven. She had stacked a lot of bones that day. The snakebite had swollen some and kept her off her feet a day or two, but hardly left a scar. Caleb was away, freighting a load of bones to Wichita Palls. It was almost dark. She planned to eat her supper and go straight to the tent to sleep. When the smoke came around on her again, she simply closed her eyes and held her breath. She was too tired to keep shuffling in a circle around the fire. When she opened her eyes again, she saw movement in the bushes near the old skull-marked graves. A runty little man materialized. She found a burst of energy and sprinted for the Studebaker wagon. Grabbing Caleb's Winchester, she thumbed the hammer back and swung the barrel around on the intruder.

“Whoa, lady,” Shorty said, raising his hands. “I don't mean you no harm.”

“What are you doin' here?”

“My horse throwed me about five miles south. I was wonderin' if you'd seen him.”

“No, I ain't seen no horses.”

“He's a little bay mustang, wearin' an old beat-up slick-fork saddle and a…”

“I said I ain't seen no horses. Now, git!” Tess shouldered the rifle and found the little man in the sights.

She felt a weight strike her on the shoulders. The rifle pulled against her trigger finger and fired. The ground rushed at her, illuminated briefly by the muzzle blast. A hand pushed the side of her face into the dirt. She tried to scream, but another hand, foul smelling, covered her mouth.

“Hold your tongue, woman, or I'll break your neck.”

She recognized his voice and felt sick.

Shorty came running. “Damn it, Angus, you almost had her shoot me!”

Angus ignored him. He eased his hand from her mouth. While sitting on her, he turned her onto her back and pinned her arms. “Happy anniversary,” he said. He wheezed with laughter and looked at Shorty. “I'll be damned if it wasn't October when her folks paid me to marry her. Eight years ago.” He turned his horrible face back on Tess. “What day was it, honey?”

She choked with fear as she spoke. “You better get out of here. My husband is comin' back.”

“If you've got a husband, why are you markin' your bones with your maiden name?” he wheezed with cruel joy.

“We ain't church married yet.”

“Check it out, Shorty.” He tightened his thighs on her.

“Some cowboys are comin' back with him,” she said, gasping. “And some bone buyers. You better git.”

“One bedroll in the tent,” Shorty shouted. “Eats for one on the fire.”

“You ain't got nobody comin',” Angus said. He looked up at Shorty. “Keep a watch out just in case.” He looked toward the tent. “Get up,” he ordered, rising over her and pulling her up by her wrists.

Tess made a sudden lunge and snapped at his knuckles, but he was too strong and kept his hand beyond her teeth. He slapped her and began dragging her to the tent. She kicked and screamed. He hit her again. Tess writhed. She wasn't going to go willingly, but Mackland felt very little put out at dragging her.

Shorty knelt by the fire and stirred the beans. The tent shook, and he heard Angus hit her again. He lifted the lid on the Dutch oven to check the biscuits. He used the brim of his hat to grab the hot skillet handle and pull it from the fire. He helped himself to Tess's supper. He was pretty sure she wouldn't have the stomach for it after Angus got through with her.

When Angus came out of the tent, Shorty had another batch of beans cooking for him. He had water boiling for coffee.

“I spared you a biscuit,” Shorty said.

Mackland sat across from the fire so he could watch the tent. He brooded. He despised her for stacking bones. He had his own view of dignity, a twisted and pitiless way of gauging people. Tess ranked low. She would get what she deserved for getting in his way after eight years.

Shorty handed Mackland a cup of coffee and glanced toward the tent. “Them beans are ready,” he said. He looked at the tent again, a little more lingeringly.

Mackland took the coffee. “Go ahead,” he said, barely loud enough to be heard. “Take your turn with her. I'm just gonna sell her to Kicking Dog anyway.”

EIGHTY-THREE

The empty Murphy wagons barely encumbered Caleb's oxen. He had to walk at a brisk pace to keep up with the train. He had invested a lot of bone money in the six-yoke team and the three big freight wagons, but the investment would soon pay off. Now he could haul several tons of bones a week, instead of just half a ton. He could haul them faster than Tess could stack them. He was thinking of hiring someone to help her.

The quick pace kept him warm in the crisp morning air. He figured four or five more trips to Wichita Falls would earn Tess plenty of money to start her farm. By then he would be needing to get into the Sacramento Mountains where he would tell Marisol and his children to enjoy their last winter in Peñascosa. He would be practically broke when he arrived, but he would feel good knowing he had turned Tess onto a better path.

For the first time in his life he felt he was doing something Pete would have looked up to him for. He was helping someone worse off than himself. Sometimes he felt so bad off himself, adrift and homeless in the world, that he couldn't imagine how low Tess felt on her worst day. At least he could play a few songs to lift his spirits. Tess had nothing.

He was sure that what he was doing for Tess was right, but it was hard work. And it was causing him problems. She was dropping hints. Without saying it in so many words, he knew she wanted him to stay with her on her farm near Seymour.

Caleb made it a point to mention Marisol every so often, but Tess tended to ignore her existence. As he jogged along beside the bull train, he suddenly figured out where he had gone wrong. He had received aid and kindness from many individuals in his life, and it now felt good to be returning it to someone. But his mistake was that he had chosen a woman to help. He would never be free of her. Women had a way of clinging.

“Get over!” he shouted at the lead yoke. He trotted to the head of the team and tapped the leaders with a long stick. He looked beyond the oxen, to see where he was on the bone-market trail he had blazed weeks before and saw a rider coming.

Seagrass Gibson came galloping up to the bone wagons, his horse covered with sweat.

“It's Tess,” he said. “She's gone. So is your horse and a lot of food and stuff out of the wagon.”

“Gone where?” Caleb asked.

“I don't know. I found some tracks leadin' into the river. Three riders. But … Aw, I ain't no kind of tracker. I never found where they came out.”

Caleb stopped. The oxen lumbered past him.

“I'm sorry,” Seagrass said. “I told you I'd look after her. I just … I couldn't be with her all the time.”

“It ain't your fault. I'll find her.”

“I'll help you,” Seagrass said. “I got some of the boys out lookin' right now.”

“Good. Help me set these bulls loose, and we'll go get some fresh horses.”

You did right, he thought. It would have been a sin to leave her in that whorehouse. A sin? What do you know about sins? You ain't no preacher. You can't quote the Bible. Maybe messing with other people's lives is as big a sin as leaving them in a whorehouse. Where has it gotten her? Where is Tess now? Wherever she is, it's your fault.

EIGHTY-FOUR

The bandanna dropped from Long Fingers's hand, and the hooves thundered away, churning up sod as they left the starting line. It was a fine time of the year to race.

His long gray hair touched the ground as he stooped to pick up the bandanna. The course was three miles. The racers wouldn't be back for a few minutes. The chief turned away from the horses to behold his people—the old ones clinging to the old ways, and their rotting deerskin clothes—the young ones wearing the dress of white people. They were all smiling.

It had been a pretty good year. Things would continue well unless the whites succeeded in getting the reservation. He had heard talk of some white people called boomers who wanted to get the Cheyenne and Arapaho land. Thinking of it, he smiled.
Boomers
was a funny-sounding name for a tribe. There were many tribes among the whites. It was wrong to think of them as one people.

The quality of his stock was improving. His people were getting good prices for their best horses. He was glad the white agents let them keep horses. Some of the youngest braves, who had never known battle, considered breaking horses the best way to prove themselves.

Long Fingers was no young brave, but he needed ways to prove himself, too. The young men didn't remember his glory on the battlefields. They had their own ideas about which directions the tribe should be taking. Some of them wanted to break ties with the whites and guard the borders of the reservation to keep them out. The chief spoke against it, but with no more battles to fight or hunts to lead, he sometimes found himself wondering how he would maintain their respect in his old age.

He was still quick and strong, but there were others who were quicker and stronger. They would have to take over someday soon, but they were not quite ready.

Red Hawk was almost ready. In the year of the Red River war, he had gotten into trouble with some Comanche and Cheyenne and had been sent away to prison in a place called Florida. There, and later at the Carlisle School in Pennsylvania, he had learned to speak the English as if he were a white man—even to read and write it. Now he was a captain of the Indian Police and an interpreter at the fort. He knew white men, he had learned patience, and he possessed leadership qualities beyond his years.

But if Red Hawk was going to lead the people down the path Long Fingers was marking for them, they would have to remember Long Fingers as a great chief. What would leave them with such a memory? He was constantly looking for ways.

His eyesight was not what it had once been, but it was strong enough to see the pretty, smiling faces of the Arapaho women—the most beautiful women on earth—and clear enough to catch the movement behind them. He saw two men loping toward the racetrack from his village. He recognized one of the riders. He had been expecting him all day.

Caleb Holcomb and Seagrass Gibson arrived about the same time the racehorses completed the circle. The winner was a glossy chestnut stallion whose jockey crossed the line whooping a victory cry, both hands in the air, shirtsleeves flapping. The gamblers settled their wagers as Caleb jumped down from his tired horse and shook the chief's hand.

“I know why you come here,” Long Fingers said. “You would not sell that horse you call Powder River.”

His eyes brightened. “What do you know about my horse?”

“Who is that man?” The old chief pointed at Seagrass.

“This is Cole Gibson. He's a good man.”

Seagrass tipped his hat and took in the old leader's getup: headband, shirt, pants, suspenders, and moccasins.

“Do you know who has your horse?”

“No,” Caleb said. “I was hopin' you would. I'm lookin' for a woman too. Her name's Tess Wiley.”

A few of the young warriors had come near to listen. They knew Caleb, liked his music. But he had no instruments with him today.

Long Fingers raised his gray eyebrows. “I did not know the woman was yours.”

“She ain't mine, exactly. I'm just lookin' after her. Where is she? Is she all right?”

“She is alive.”

“Where?”

“Do you remember the Comanchero called Black Beard? The whites called him Angus. He has your horse and the woman.”

The visions of Mackland's violent work came back to Caleb. He remembered the horrible Christmas Eve on the Cimarron, the slain Hutchinson family, the blizzard, the wolves, and the bitter cold. He remembered the Denison poker game. Tess was in the most unspeakable kind of trouble, and he couldn't figure out whether or not it was his fault. Doing good things came natural to some people, like Buster, or Pete, but Caleb's good deeds always seemed to turn sour.

“Angus Mackland?” Cole said. “I thought he went to Mexico years ago.”

“He has come back from the south. The little ugly one is with him, Man-of-Many-Tongues. And Kicking Dog is with them.”

“Kicking Dog?”

“Yes.” The chief pointed north. “He comes back here from the Sioux lands. I would not let him stay in our village. He wanted to buy a horse, so I sold him that one you gave to me in the spring.” He smiled. “The one that sits down when it hears guns shooting.”

“Well, where are they now?” Caleb asked. “They stole that woman. I've got to get her back.”

“Kicking Dog went to the Washita. Red Hawk took some boys to watch him. One of them came here yesterday to tell me that Black Beard and Man-of-Many-Tongues comes with the woman and your horse. Now they are with Kicking Dog. I have been waiting for you.”

“Where is this place they're at?” Caleb asked. “What's it like?”

“A cabin on the Washita. Many years ago Black Beard met the Comanche there to bring them guns and whiskey. It is falling down now. The top of the cabin is gone, but they are staying in it anyway.”

“Will you tell us how to get there?”

“I will take you. I have horses ready. We will be there before the night comes.” The old chief could hardly wait to get started. He was always looking for ways to win glory in the eyes of his people.

EIGHTY-FIVE

They led their mounts under the rim of the Washita's bank: Caleb, Seagrass Gibson, Long Fingers, Red Hawk, and a young Arapaho brave named Tommy White Fox. Red Hawk paused now and then, climbed a few steps up the bank, stretched his neck like a wild turkey to peer over the rim. He led the party around a bend to the north and motioned for the rescuers to crawl up next to him at the top of the bank.