The Crossed Sabres (17 page)

Like the Indians, he was one with the land. The circling of three buzzards far off to his left sent a tiny message to his brain, as did the explosive burst of speed that propelled a large rabbit out of a thicket. Most men would have watched the rabbit, but Winslow watched the thicket, knowing that
something
had triggered the wild run of the animal. When a coyote came plunging after the rabbit, Winslow’s mind registered the fact, and his eyes moved on. Every movement of tree, bush, cloud of dust, or animal was within the realm
of his interest, and he was well aware of the three Indians who came from behind a low-lying hill before they appeared.

They stopped their horses and waited for him. Two of them were armed with bows and arrows; the other one carried a repeating Spencer.

Tom drew to a halt, lifted his hand upward, and spoke to them in their language. “Have my brothers had good hunting?”

The Indian with the rifle gave him a closer inspection. “How does the pony soldier know my speech?”

“I have spent many years in this country. Tall Antelope is my blood brother.”

This information brought a definite change in the three, and the one with the rifle nodded. “We hunt the antelope.” Then he spoke to his two companions, and the three of them wheeled their ponies and headed west without another word.

If I’d met them at another time—or if I didn’t speak Sioux, it might have had a different ending,
he thought. He moved on, storing the incident in his memory. Someday he might meet one of these three again, and he wanted to have this experience to call on. It was this careful attention to details that had enabled him to survive as long as he had, and he was aware that if he let his guard down for one brief moment, he could well become one of those bleached skeletons that dotted the land.

At four o’clock he saw what he was seeking, now just a dim smudge on the horizon. Soon it grew larger, becoming a barn and a house. He noted the horses penned in the corral and heard the sharp blows of hammers. He had asked Nick Owens how to find the place, and the businessman had given him instructions, but had not asked the question that was in his eyes:
Why are you looking for a mission?
Tom had said, “I told Miss Jamison I’d try to stop by. I know some of their Sioux language and a few of the chiefs in the area.” The answer had satisfied Owens to a point, and he’d expressed his thanks for any help Winslow could give the missionary.

He pulled his horse up to the watering trough, let him drink a little, then tied him to a post, and walked into the barn. Two men were busy putting up partitions, while Faith did the cleaning up. She was wearing an old dress, with her hair tied up in a bandanna. When she did glance up, she was startled, not recognizing him at first.

“I didn’t hear you ride up,” she smiled. “Are you on duty?”

“Not now. Came to see what I could do.”

“Well, these two know their business; they’re very good carpenters,” she said, turning to the men. They didn’t cease working, but had their eyes on Winslow. “I’ll go fix supper,” she said. “You two must be starved.”

“Could do with a bite,” one of them nodded, a tall, lanky man with red hair and bushy whiskers. “Just give us a call, sister.”

“Is that what they call you—sister?” Winslow asked as they left the barn and headed toward the house.

“They do call me that,” she nodded. “Sometimes they call me reverend. I think they get kind of confused. Guess I don’t know what I am exactly.”

As he followed her inside the house, he saw that she was indeed a tidy woman. The rooms were neat, and the air smelled clean, with a mixture of putty, soap, and disinfectant. He noted the small table and four chairs, the cook stove, and the new pipe, and through the door he could see a bed with a pink counterpane.

“You’ve been busy,” he observed. “It looks nice.”

“Nick Owens brought some men from the church,” she nodded. “They did most of it. Now, would you rather have bacon and eggs—or eggs and bacon?”

“Whichever’s the quickest.” He saw the woodbox was nearly empty, so he left to work on the pile of logs dumped to the side of the house. The wood was dry, and the dust smelled good as he bucksawed a log into short lengths, then picked up an axe and split the cylinders into quarters. When
he finished the log, he carried the sticks in and filled the woodbox.

“Would you go call the men?” she asked. “It’s all ready.”

The four of them dug right in. Not only had she made bacon and eggs but also sawmill gravy, biscuits, and a pot of pinto beans, which she had prepared earlier. When the men finally slowed down, she brought a deep dish to the table and removed the cover. “Peach cobbler!” the tall carpenter groaned. “If you’d told me about this, I wouldn’t have made such a hog of myself. Well, a man’s got to eat it or he ain’t no man atall!”

The shorter man had not said ten words, but he smiled when Faith gave him the remains of the cobbler as they left. “Don’t go to bed hungry, Roger,” she said.

Tom leaned back in the chair, sipping his coffee from time to time, apparently at ease. “Where’d you learn to cook?” he asked as she washed the dishes. He had offered to help, but she had refused.

“Oh, my mother taught me.” She finished the last dish, took off her apron, and moved to the window. “It’s so quiet out there!” she said finally. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“All right.”

The night was dark, for it was that time just before the moon and stars came out. As they wandered down the path, she spoke of her gratefulness for all the help she’d received, her lilting voice conveying the happiness she felt.

“I want to start having services of some kind,” she said. “But how would I get the Indians to come?”

He smiled. “They know you’re here, Faith.”

“But—I haven’t seen a single person except the men who’ve worked on the mission!”

“They’re looking you over. Trying to figure you out. They’re pretty careful.”

“Like you, Tom?” she asked. The question popped out impulsively.

He gave her a sudden glance, wondering about the question.
“Well, I guess so. I’ve lived with them so long, I guess I’m like them in some of their ways.”

She considered that, wanting to understand him. He was an enigma to her. “I guess you might as well know the worst thing about me, Tom.”

He was amused at her remark. “You drink on the sly?”

“Oh, worse than that!” she laughed.

When she said no more, he took her arm and pulled her around. “Well, don’t leave a man hanging! What’s the worst thing about you?”

“I meddle.”

“Well,” he grinned, “I guess that’s part of being a woman, isn’t it?”

“No, I mean I can’t let people run their own lives.” She grew more serious, and was acutely aware that he had not released her arm. Not only that, she was a young woman alone with one of the most attractive men she’d ever met—and she was telling him her faults!
You’ll run him off like a scared rabbit!
she thought, but plunged ahead.

“Tom, we haven’t known each other very long. But you were so kind to me on the trip here. And I’ve grown fond of Laurie.”

“She likes you too,” he said soberly. “I joined the army to have some kind of stability.” Then he asked, “Is that your meddling?”

“No.” She hesitated, debating whether she should forego the question that had been troubling her for days. Then she said quietly, “Laurie told me how angry you became when you saw Lieutenant Grayson. Why do you dislike him so much?” She could see that her query had hit a nerve, and said quickly, “Well, I told you I was prone to meddle. I have no right to ask—but Laurie said you changed so abruptly after you saw him. You became harsh, and it frightened her. I think that’s why I asked. If I’m nosy, it’s because I don’t know any other way to go about it.”

Winslow dropped his hand, and she thought he was going
to walk away angrily. Instead, he stared out over the desert, seeming to hear something. Then he brought his eyes back to her. It was so dark she could not see his face plainly, but his voice gave him away, for it was tense, not his easy, casual tone.

“It goes back a long way, Faith. I don’t think it’d do any good for me to talk about it.”

“All right, Tom.”

She moved away from him, and he followed her. They said nothing for a time; then he said with a trace of anxiety, “I hope you’re not angry.”

“Why, of course not!” This time it was she who reached out, touching his arm lightly. “I just hate to see you hurt . . .because when you’re affected, Laurie is, too.”

“In that, you’re right.” He let the silence run on. Finally he said slowly, “We had trouble once. I thought it was all gone, forgotten. But as soon as I saw him, it all came back, worse than ever.” He hesitated, then added, “Nothing ever dies.”

“I don’t believe that,” Faith countered. “I have a scar on my wrist. When I was ten years old I ripped it open on a barbed wire fence. It hurt worse than anything I’d ever known.” She held her wrist up and peered at it by the faint light of the moon that had risen. “See? It’s still there, the scar.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“That the pain is gone, Tom. Only the scar is there. I know I was hurt once, a long time ago. I still can
remember
the pain. But it has nothing to do with me now!”

They walked the rest of the way back to the house in silence. When they came to the door, Faith could see by the light of the lamp that his wound was still raw. His face was torn at its remembrance.

“I guess that’s true of a cut on the arm, Faith . . .but other kinds of hurts are different.”

“Tom . . .you have to learn how to forgive,” she whispered. “Unforgiveness is like a dreadful disease, eating away on your spirit. It makes you bitter and you forget how to love. And when that happens, you’re dead inside.”

Winslow listened to her, and for a moment, she felt he was going to speak, which was what she so badly wanted. If he would only
talk
about it, something might happen!

But he shook his head. “I know that’s the way you feel about it. My mother says the same. Fine people, my family, Christian to the bone. All my people have been Christians.” He struggled to put his thoughts into words, then finally gave up. “Whatever it takes to do that, Faith, I don’t have it in me. Thanks for the supper.”

He moved away so quickly she could not stop him; even if she ran after him, it would be hopeless. He was in a prison of his own making, and nothing she could say would change it.

He’ll have to be broken,
she thought, standing there alone in the darkness.
Whatever happened between the two men must have been terrible—and it’s still terrible, for it’s killing Tom!

She went inside and shut the door, locking it firmly, then read for an hour. She went to bed, despondent over the scene, and when she woke up the next morning, her first thought was of Tom.
He’s got to make things right with that officer!

She dressed, got a fire going, and made breakfast. But when she opened the door and stepped out on the porch, blind panic hit her—her front yard was lined with Indians!

“They came to say ‘welcome to the neighborhood.’

” Faith whirled at the voice. There stood Tom, leaning against the house, his rifle held carelessly in one hand. He nodded to one of the Indians. “This is Running Bear, chief in these parts.”

I must not be afraid!

Faith took a deep breath, smiled at the silent Indians, and said, “I am glad to see you all.”

Not a twitch in any of the bronze faces!

“Will you have something to eat?”

Tom said a few words in a guttural language, and when he finished, he laughed. “They say, ‘Thank you, yes.’ I hope you’ve got enough grub.” He saw the startled look on her
face, then said, “I’ll help with the cooking. After that you can preach at them a little bit. I’ll do my best to interpret.”

“Do they understand any English at all?”

“Yes, but most of them won’t admit it. Come on, let’s get to work.”

Three hours later, Faith dropped her weary frame onto a chair. Her hair hung over her brow, her legs were trembling. They had fed every one of the Indians, and then the chief had said, “You preach now!”

Winslow had almost laughed at her expression, but encouraged her. “They expect it, Faith. Do your best. I’ll try to get it across—but make it simple!”

She had spoken for only ten minutes, telling them she wanted to teach their children and to have a worship service. “Jesus Christ, the great Spirit who made all things, loves you and has sent me to tell you of His love....”

Now it was over, and she was astonished at how the effort had exhausted her. She turned to see Winslow watching her with an odd expression on his face.

“I don’t think I made one bit of sense!” she said, her face flushed. “They think I’m crazy, I expect.”

He got to his feet and came to stand beside her. “You did fine. You’ll get your school, all right. Indians are curious, and they’ll send the kids just so they can have an excuse to hang around. But you can’t feed the whole tribe.”

“Tom, how did you happen to be there? When they came, I mean?” He shook his head, and then she knew. “If you hadn’t been here, they might have—have done some bad things.”

“Well, I had a long talk with Running Bear. He’s only a subchief. I did the big chief a favor once, and now Running Bear knows if any of his people harm you or the mission, he’s in hot water. His chief is called Red Needle. I won’t ask you to guess why they call him that, but I can tell you he’s one fellow nobody likes to offend. So I think you’ll be all right.”

He moved toward the door, pulling his hat down, but her voice caught him. “Tom . . .thank you!”

He nodded. “Call on me if you need help, Faith.”

Then he was gone. She walked out on the porch to watch him until his horse disappeared around a tall butte. All day she worked steadily, thinking about Tom and Spence Grayson. Somehow there was a potent danger in that situation—and neither she nor anyone else could do anything to change it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Some Things a Man Can’t Do