Dorothy Garlock - [Wabash River] (25 page)

God help the Indians.

“I’ll tell you this straight out, Judge. I’ve got twenty-one wagons, fifty-two men, two women and three children. I’m not expecting to find trouble crossing the Indian Nations. My father was raised with the Shawnee and I speak the language of the Choctaw, the Cherokee, and the Creek. I’ll be crossing their land, not trying to take it from them or telling them how to live.”

The judge snorted. “It’s a known fact that someone has to tell them.”

“Known, no doubt, by the white man who’s stealing their land and who has broken every treaty they’ve signed.” John’s words were spit out angrily. “There are hundreds of miles through Oklahoma Territory and Texas flatlands that are called no-man’s land. The
strongest
rule there. Comanche and Chiricahua Apache roam that land. Both tribes can be meaner than a bunch of stirred-up hornets. But they are mild compared to the packs of renegades, deserters, outlaws, and, the most vicious of all, the bands of Confederate guerrillas who raid and rob and kill not just for profit but for pleasure.”

“Damn Rebels, all of them. Won’t admit they’ve been whipped and whipped good.”

“I’m coming through here day after tomorrow. You can follow me out if it suits you. If not, good luck.”

John slapped his hat on his head, then his long stride ate up the distance to the door. When he reached the sidewalk, the judge, huffing and puffing, was behind him.

“Tallman.”

John turned. “You don’t need my help, Judge. Your soldier boys will handle things. But I’ll tell you this for the sake of the lady with you—listen to your hunter, Buffer Simmons. If anyone can get a small party through, he can.”

“Sorry if you misunderstood me, Tallman. I’ll pull out tomorrow and meet you at Fort Gibson.”

“I’m not going to Fort Gibson. It’s out of my way.”

The judge yanked the cigar from his mouth. “The detachment assigned to me has been looking forward to visiting a frontier fort.”

“Then by all means let them
visit
the frontier fort. I’m in the freighting business; I don’t conduct tours. Time means money.”

“It would take but a few days.”

“I’m not going to Fort Gibson,” John insisted.

“Captain Quill said you usually stop for a few days at Fort Gibson.”

“I have on other trips. Zack may have assumed that was the route I would take, but not this time of year. I’m going across the territories along the fastest and safest route I know, which is to follow the Arkansas to the Canadian and take the Canadian west.”

“I can show you another way. It’s said to be—”

“—Look, Judge, this is the route I’m taking. I’ve got a hundred head of working stock to feed and water. They need to eat in order to work. In another month, the grass will go dormant and dry up in the hot Oklahoma sun. I’ve wasted a week waiting for you as it is.”

“All right, all right. If you won’t reconsider, I’m forced to go along.”

“No one is forcing you to join my train. For the record, I’d rather you didn’t—and you wouldn’t, if not for my cousin Zack.”

“We’ll be ready day after tomorrow.”

“Good night, Judge.”

The judge watched the frontiersman cross the street and enter the tonsorial parlor.
Impudent young pup!
He wondered how such an overbearing lout could possibly be related to the mild-mannered, gentlemanly Zachary Quill.

*  17  *

C
olin sat beside Trisha, determined not to leave her alone with Buffer Simmons. The boy had stayed near her all day. She had tried to send him and the young ones to the cook wagon for supper, but they had refused to go without her, despite being coaxed by the cook. Shy, and missing Addie, they clung to Trisha.

The cook was preparing to send the food down to them, when Buffer Simmons appeared with two small rabbits, dressed and ready for the spit.

At dusk a small campfire was built between the two tents. Dillon and Jane Ann watched with unconcealed excitement as Buffer hung the rabbits over the low blaze. He was wonderfully patient with the children and allowed them to take turns turning the spit so that the meat would cook evenly on all sides.

After eating the rabbits and drinking the buttermilk the cook had sent down, the younger children had fallen asleep, and Trisha had put them to bed.

Now Buffer poked the fire with a small stick without looking directly into the flame. His eyes circled the camp, always alert, watchful, being careful to stay in view of the men who sat around the fire at the cook wagon. He didn’t want Cleve Stark or Dal Rolly to come storming down and frighten Trisha into going into the tent. Buffer had intended to go to Van Buren today to make contact with the judge, but he delayed the trip when he learned that Trisha and the children would be here alone in camp, without Miss Addie or Tallman.

Since the younger ones had gone to bed, Buffer had been entertaining Colin, and he hoped Trisha, with yarns, a favorite pastime for men sitting around a fire. Some of the stories were true. Some were not.

“There was the time when I met up with this kid from Galveston. He was a ganglin’ boy, young as ya are, Colin. He was all legs an’ thumbs an’ elbows. I come on to him down on Red River. He was helpin’ a feller skin out a cow. ’Pears he was a-botchin’ up the job, or so the feller thought. He jist up and knocked the boy right on his ar—knocked him down.” Buffer glanced at Trisha. She was looking off into the distance, but she was listening. “Jist up an’ backhanded that kid an’ seemed to enjoy it. It jist went against the grain to see a man make a move like that against a boy.”

“What’d ya do?” Colin asked.

“Wal, I picked up the boy, saw he wasn’t hurt none and set him behind my saddle, climbed on my horse, an’ rode off.” Buffer threw the stick into the fire. Trisha’s golden eyes had turned toward him.

“Ya let that mean man get away with it?”

“ ’Twouldn’t’ve done no good to beat the stuffin’ outa him. Ain’t no way to beat the meanness outa a grown man. When I took the kid, he had to skin out that cow all by his own self. Me’n the boy wintered in the Wichita Mountains with a half-mad trapper named Claytrap Throddle. That crazy old man was the beatenest cook. He cooked coon meat, baked possum and sweet ’taters. The best I ever et.

“Well, that kid was wild as a steer and had about as much sense as a cow pile. Come spring, he stole some money from old Claytrap and lit a shuck. Last I heard he was robbin’ stages and stealin’ horses. Reckon I should’a let that cow skinner have a go at tryin’ to knock the meanness outa
him.
”

The firelight played on Buffer’s ruddy features beneath his shock of brown hair. It curled down onto his forehead and around his ears. It was impossible to tell his age because his thick beard almost completely covered his face. His teeth were even and white, which seemed to indicate that he was not yet forty.

Buffer waited, afraid that Trisha would go into the tent before Colin gave up and went to bed. Since morning the boy had been her shadow. Buffer watched the lad’s head nod. He was a tired little duffer, but he was trying to hold on, to do what he considered his duty, guarding Trisha.

She sat on the ground with her bare feet toward the fire, her back resting against Addie’s trunk. Buffer could scarcely keep his eyes off her. Tight black curls framed her face and cascaded about her shoulders. Since being in camp she had kept her hair skinned back and covered, but tonight she had thrown off the cloth and had dug her fingers into her hair to massage her scalp. Her lashes were so long that Buffer imagined they might tangle when she closed her golden eyes.

He glanced at Colin. The boy was asleep, his head resting against the stump of a tree. Now was the time Trisha would wake Colin and they would go to bed—if she was going to. A cruel, hard life had taught Buffer patience and how to weather disappointment. If he didn’t talk to her tonight, there would be other nights.

“Why ya lookin’ at me, brush-face?” Trisha’s voice came low, after a glance at the sleeping boy.

Buffer’s spirits rose. He decided that honesty was the best approach.

“Because you’re the prettiest thin’ ’round here to look at.”

“Horse-hockey! I’ve heard plenty o’ that bull.”

“I could’ve lied.”

“Heard plenty a lies too. Whad’dya look like under that mess on yore face?”

“I don’t rightly know. It’s been a long time since I had a clean face.” Buffer’s fingers automatically began to stroke his beard.

“More’n likely ya got a weak chin. That’s why yore hidin’ it. A man with a weak chin ain’t worth the dram of powder an’ lead it’d take ta shoot ’im.”

“Ya may be right. Have you known a man with a weak chin?”

“I’ve known ’em. Weak-chinned, weak ever’where ’cepts one place. There, they’s strong as a bull.” She lifted her chin and glared at him. “Ya hangin’ ’round thinkin’ to get under my skirt, brush-face?”

“I’d not be human if’n I’d not thought ’bout it. But hell, I ain’t no ruttin’ moose,” he said, snorting with disgust.

“Ya ain’t goin’ to do it, an’ that’s that. If I didn’t shoot ya, Colin would. If Colin didn’t, Mr. Tallman would. He told me I didn’t have to put up with no man I didn’t want.”

“Christ, Miss Trisha. I’ll kill a man who’d try to . . . dishonor ya.”

“Why’d ya do that for? I ain’t nothin’ but a nigger.”

“Don’t say that! Don’t ya say that no more! Yore as white as I am. Even if you wasn’t, it’d make no never mind. We be all the same under our skin.”

“Ya mean under a blanket—”

“I didn’t say that, dammit! I noticed ya first ’cause yore the prettiest thin’ I ever did see. Then yore bein’ pretty didn’t matter, ’cause I saw how ya was with Colin and the younguns, how ya stood up to that old Renshaw. That means more than pretty.” He poked at the fire angrily, and sparks floated upward.

After a long profound silence, Trisha said: “That don’t change nothin’ a’tall. Why’d ya stay here? Why didn’t ya go on?”

“I . . . I thought I’d get a chance to talk to ya. I’ve been wantin’ to since I saw ya in town. I . . . wanted to court ya then. Now, I’ve said it, an’ ya can laugh yore head off,” he finished angrily.

“Climb down off yore high horse. I ain’t laughin’. Ain’t wantin’ no brush-face courtin’ me, neither. ’Sides I ain’t much of a talker, an’ I reckon that’s what courtin’ is.”

“Humph! I ain’t seen a mouthier girl.”

“I ain’t no girl. I’m a woman.”

“Ya look like a
girl.
”

“I’ll be twenty years come July. That ain’t no girl. That’s too old for courtin’ where I come from.”

“Where’s that?”

“Orleans,” she said and then clamped her mouth shut.

“How long ya been with Miss Addie?”

“None o’ yore business.”

“I’ll ask Colin.”

“Ya do, an’ I’ll shoot yore blasted foot off!”

“It’d be just like ya to do it, too.” He picked up a stick and placed it on the dying fire.

“Are ya a
old
man?”

“What’a ya want to know for?”

“I’m a-tryin’ to talk to ya, brush-face. Ya don’t have to tell. I ain’t a-carin’ if’n yore old as these hills.”

“I’m twenty-five. Five years older’n ya are.”

“I ain’t a believin’ it.”

“I been on my own fer half my life. That’ll do two thin’s to a man. It’ll either make ya strong as a bull, or it’ll kill ya. And, missy, I ain’t
dead.
” He thumped his chest with his fist for emphasis.

“What’s got ya so all het up? Are ya mad ’cause ya ain’t dead?” Suddenly a high little giggle escaped her. She covered her mouth with her hand in an attempt to smother it.

Buffer was confused for a moment. Then he chuckled.

“Ya get my dander up quicker’n anybody I ever saw, and I wanna wring yore blasted neck.”

Trisha sobered. “Ya better not try it. I got me a stiletto that’ll cut yore liver out.” She lifted her skirt and gave him a brief view of the thin blade strapped to her calf.

“Christ on a horse! You’ll fall on that thin’ and cut yore leg off. It ort to be in a scabbard.”

“It’s a-doin’ fine where it is.”

Buffer drew his knife from the scabbard at his waist. He held it in his palm, then balanced it on his forefinger. He picked up his hat, flattened the crown, and tossed it into Trisha’s lap.

“Sail my hat out yonder away from the tents.”

Trisha spun the hat away from her as if it were a disk. Buffer drew back the knife. As soon as the hat was in the air he sent the blade flying as swift as an arrow. It pierced the hat and fell to the ground. When he brought the hat back to Trisha, the knife blade was still in the crown.

“Tarnation!” she exclaimed. “Ya ruint yore hat.”

“It needed another air hole.”

“Ya reckon I could learn that?”

“Shore ya could. Could get to be better’n me, an’ I’m good. Yore lighter an’ quicker—makes for a good knifethrower. I’ll show ya some tricks . . . someday.”

“Don’t be doin’ me no favors, brush-face.”

“Don’t ya worry none,
sour-mouth.
If’n ya can throw a knife, ya might save one of the younguns from getting snakebit.” He snarled, slammed his hat down on his head, and stomped off toward the place where he had thrown his bedroll.

He was smiling.

*  *  *

Addie lingered in the tub until the water cooled. She had soaped herself from head to foot with the sweet-smelling bar and had washed her hair. After drying herself and toweling her hair, she put on her nightdress and her dress over it. It was so bulky that she couldn’t button the bodice so she held it together with her hands when the boys came to empty the tub and take it away. Standing partially behind the door, she was relieved when she closed it behind them.

The warm water had relaxed and soothed her nerves enough that she felt prepared for what lay ahead when John returned. She had no fear of her new husband, but she dreaded the act he would commit upon her body. She would welcome him, she thought now as she worked with the towel to dry her hair. She owed the man a great deal. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t done it before. She only hoped to have it over quickly.

With the lamp turned to a faint glow, Addie sat beside the window and watched the activity on the street below. This was new to her. She was used to the quiet at the farm, and it seemed strange to see people walking about and to hear music coming from the saloons down the street.