The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (23 page)

“A piano?” asked Miss Eliza Hested, who had never visited the Amidon house. “A piano out here on the prairie?”

“A nice home for pack rats is what it is,” Missus told her.

“I shall ask Mr. Amidon to sell it to me if he doesn’t want it. We’ll have the next Sunday services at our place. Do you agree, Anna? I told you I could play the piano, and now you shall hear for yourself.”

Tom offered to move the instrument, but they refused, declaring the two of them were strong enough for the job. That was foolish of them, for Tom is an elgible bachelor and would make a fine husband for either.

Emmie Lou was wrong to say Colorado is not a good place for women, because both the lady homesteaders thrive here. They say they like the fresh air and freedom from convention. Miss Figg wears the bloomer costume when about her work, and Miss Hested, it has been observed, dresses in men’s trousers! So I believe Colorado is a fine place for a certain kind of woman, but I am not sure what kind that is, or whether I am one.

I must record that Johnnie walks and says many important words, among them Mama and Papa. The other day, he looked at Carrie’s dear picture and announced, “Pret’ lade.” Now, is he not the dearest boy? His sister or brother does not have his sweet disposition, and gives me much discomfort. My back aches so at the end of the day, even though Luke helps me with the heavy work. Colorado Territory may do for a particular woman, but I think I can safely relate that it is good for no pregnant woman. Well, I believe I can stand it for another three months or so, when Baby should arrive.

Now, here are some remarks about Husband. His hard work and knowledge of agriculture have won the respect of all neighbors. He is often consulted on things agrarian, though none has copied his unusual method of plowing in circles. He is the best papa, taking Boykins to Mingo whenever he goes in the wagon.

Luke does not often solicit my opinion, but when he does, he listens with care, giving my remarks the same weight as if they came from a man. He does not want to know my opinion unless it is asked for, however, so I have learnt not to offer it. Luke seldom points out ways for me to improve, as he did when first married. At times, I believe he finds me to be a thrifty and efficient manager of the household, but at others, he has too much on his mind to take notice.

Luke is partial to my rhubarb pie, calling it better, even, than his mama’s. Is this not the basis for a happy marriage?

September 18, 1867. Prairie Home.

Here is the story as Tom tells it.

He accompanied Mr. Bondurant into Mingo on Tuesday last. Immediately they reached the town, Mr. Bondurant was accosted by Fayette Garfield.

“They say you’ve living man and wife with a filthy savage,” Mr. Garfield bellowed so all could hear.

The taunt made Mr. Bondurant very angry, but, respecting Mr. Garfield’s piteous circumstances, he ignored it.

“Hey, you, Bondurant. Can’t you hear me? You’re no better than a dog. You’re laying with an Indian squaw.”

“Go to hell, Garfield. I have went here for a purpose, and it ain’t to argue with a fool.” Mr. Bondurant turned away, although his jaw was taut and his fists clenched. “I despise such as that,” he told Tom.

“Your damned black-headed bitch is a red nigger, and you’re a yellow nigger for fearing to fight me.”

Mr. Bondurant could not ignore further insult and struck Mr. Garfield a hearty blow, knocking him to the ground.

Mr. Garfield turned aside and vomited, for he was very drunk, whilst Mr. Bondurant stood over him, ready to strike again. One of Mr. Garfield’s confederates held Mr. Bondurant’s arm, however. “Leave be. “It ain’t a fair fight, him liquored up the way he is. Go along. We’ll take care of him.”

“Come, Ben. Garfield’s crazy,” Tom said, leading Mr. Bondurant down the street.

Mr. Garfield shouted threats and curses at their backs, but instead of following them, he withdrew with his friends to the stable.

Hoping to defuse the situation further by removing Mr. Bondurant from the scene, Tom took him into the saloon and bought him one or two glasses of whiskey. Mr. Garfield then rid himself of his restraining friends and quit the town, riding off at a tear. All were relieved, although Tom did not trust Mr. Garfield, fearing he would waylay Mr. Bondurant along the road. So Tom insisted on accompanying his friend home. They saw no signs of Mr. Garfield, however, and by the time they reached the Bondurant place, Tom concluded things between the two men would go no further.

“You best stay for dinner. Kitty’s a good cook—if it ain’t dog meat. I never cared shucks for dog,” Mr. Bondurant said.

Being assured by the remark that the bride would not serve canine stew, Tom did not need a second invitation, for, as I well know, he does not care much for batching.

“Now, where’s she got to? It’s usual for her to come and take my horse. There’s nothing like an Indian woman to care for a man.” As a cooking fire burned outside, they knew Kitty was not far away, although she did not answer Mr. Bondurant’s call.

He was not greatly alarmed at Kitty’s absence, for she often went into the fields to snare jackrabbits or gather grasses and herbs. Instead, it was Tom who felt something was amiss, and he insisted they search for her.

They found Kitty several rods beyond the barn, shot at close range. A hole as big as a fist had laid open her flesh, and her body was covered with other wounds. The killer, not satisfied with taking Kitty’s life, had removed the knife from her belt and thrust it again and again into her chest, until the ground was soaked in her blood. The knife lay beside Kitty, covered with gore and dirt. When the fiend had finished the foul mutilation, he had scrawled his explanation in the earth beside Kitty.

O, that I ever taught Mr. Bondurant to read! He was the one who spied the letters and took their meaning! He knelt on the earth beside Kitty and pointed to each word as he spoke it aloud. “An eye for an eye.”

“Now what for did he do that?” Mr. Bondurant said, his voice breaking. He was silent for a minute, collecting himself. Then he vowed, “I’ll follow him to hell if I got to.”

But first, the two men wrapped the young bride’s body in sweet-smelling grasses, then in a shroud made from a white buckskin that had been Mr. Bondurant’s wedding gift to Kitty. Tenderly, they placed her in a grave that they dug in the prairie at a place where Kitty often stood and looked out over the plains. Mr. Bondurant scattered what he called “Kitty’s pretties” over her, and the two men replaced the sod. Tom said a word of benediction, but instead of adding his own prayer, Mr. Bondurant once again pledged revenge.

“Kitty was a peaceful woman,” Tom told him. “This is no way to honor her memory. It’s not what she would want you to do.”

“You don’t understand Indians. It don’t matter what she wants. It’s what she expects. To the Indian way of thinking, vengeance ain’t up to the Lord. Kitty won’t never rest easy if I let Garfield get away. I aim not to forget it.” His voice broke as he added, “She was my pleasure piece. She warmed me.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“I’m obliged to you, Tom, but it’s ’tween me and him. Best you go about your business.”

As they argued, there came the sound of a horse in the distance, and, thinking Mr. Garfield was returning, the two sprang to their weapons.

Mr. Bondurant raised his rifle, but Tom urged caution. “You can’t see who it is. If it’s Garfield, you’ll have your chance.”

The men watched until they recognized the figure of the new Russian neighbor, Frog Legs Frank. Greatly agitated, he drew rein but did not dismount. Instead, he yelled something in his gibberish.

In the same manner in which he had treated me after Sallie’s abduction, Mr. Bondurant calmed the man. Then he patiently questioned him, forcing him to speak the little English he knew.

“Man … hurt … come” were the words he uttered.

“The Russians live on the Garfield place,” Tom said. “Maybe Garfield’s gone there. God knows what he’s done. This man has a wife, too.” They mounted up, then followed the Russian.

Frog Legs Frank did not lead them to the house, however, but turned along the river near Sallie’s rock garden. They rode a quarter of a mile beyond, following the streambed as it dropped into a gully. The bank rose at a sharp angle, until it became a cliff, and where it was steepest, Frog Legs Frank stopped and pointed. In the water just beyond lay the bodies of a horse and rider, and I hardly need record that the man was Mr. Garfield. The Russian had seen man and animal cartwheel over the edge of the precipice, but when questioned, he said he was too far away to tell if Garfield took his own life by spurring his horse or if, in his drunken fury, he forgot the cliff was there.

Mr. Garfield broke his neck in the accident. Still, he had not died instantly, but landed facedown in the water, where he drowned. Whether he was conscious as the waters closed over his face, only God knows. Mr. Bondurant chose to believe he was, and he said that Mr. Garfield had died in anguish.

Mr. Garfield’s death was for the best, all agree. We are of divided opinion, however, as to whether Mr. Bondurant would have had the right to kill Mr. Garfield if he had caught him. I am among those who say Mr. Bondurant has the same rights as any man, no matter what his wife’s race. Others believe that Mr. Bondurant himself was at fault for bringing an Indian into our midst. Among them is Mr. Osterwald, who insisted, “A white man for an Indian squaw ain’t a fair trade.”

As I have learnt, there are no crepe veils in Colorado Territory, as we have neither time nor desire here to observe the traditions of mourning. Most expressed sympathy at Kitty’s death. One or two took cakes to Mr. Bondurant. Now, as was the way with Sallie, we say no more about Kitty. Mr. Bondurant prefers it that way and is intent on removing all traces of his wife. He burned her belongings, saving only the finest example of Kitty’s beadwork, which he presented to me. Were it not for that piece, and the little top that Kitty herself gave to Johnnie, we would have no sign that she had ever been amongst us.

September 24, 1867. Prairie Home.

Now a word about our little farm. One would think I was not a farmer’s wife and a farmer’s daughter, so little do I tell of our progress in the fields. As for the harvest, it is not what we would have taken in on the Mississippi. In fact, except for potatoes, it is very poor, although we have done better than our neighbors. The credit is to the Fort Madison seed and to Husband, who knows more about farming than any man twice his age. The field that was plowed in circles did no worse than the others. Still, it did no better, and I believe Luke will not repeat the experiment, for he took much teasing on that score. (It did not come from me. I have learnt to keep my mouth shut about some things.)

In August, Luke talked of returning to Fort Madison following the harvest, but when I announced he would take two traveling companions (and perhaps return with three), he reconsidered. Being more fertile than our fields, I am glad, for this third pregnancy weighs heavily on me, and I was not anxious to walk to Iowa and back.

I did present the idea of spending the winter in Iowa, however. We would leave as soon as our harvest was over, allowing ample time to reach home before the early-winter arrival of Baby. When first the possibility occurred to me, I was quite overcome with excitement at the thought Carrie and I would be together for the births of both of our babes! But Luke would not hear of it. I renewed the idea twice more, but it angers Luke now, so I shall not bring it up again.

He says it is out of the question that we stay with my family in Fort Madison, for it would hurt his mama’s feelings. But he does not want to impose on Mother Spenser for the winter, either. Well, neither do I, so perhaps it is best we stay here.

I think Mr. Bondurant would be quite put out if I had the baby in Iowa, for he has hopes of officiating again. He keeps his feelings about Kitty inside, never mentioning her name and acting as much like his old self as is possible. Perhaps it is the Indian way of mourning. Once, when Luke referred to Kitty, Mr. Bondurant put up his hand to show the subject was unwelcome.

October 4, 1867. Prairie Home.

I awoke yesterday with pains gripping my belly, and, after thrashing about, I woke Luke, telling him my time had come and that he must go for Mr. Bondurant. Poor Luke has had no experience with such things (he was not here when Johnnie was born, of course, and I was not aware until after the fact that the second baby had slipped away). So he was in a great state, not knowing whether to do as I asked or to attempt to calm me. When I said that without Mr. Bondurant, he would have to do the honors himself, Husband left at once.

As fear of the unknown is greater than dread of a known event, no matter how painful, I was not greatly worried. If Johnnie’s birth was any indication, there was sufficient time for Luke to ride to the Bondurant place and return before the baby put in an appearance. So, between the pains, I built up the fire in the stove and filled the teakettle. I arranged the birth table just so, and even set out Johnnie’s breakfast, knowing Boykins would be hungry before the big event was over.

Of a sudden, however, the contractions worsened. I felt a great wrenching and cried out, waking the poor little fellow, who looked at me in alarm. When ’twas over, I rushed to his side to comfort him, taking down his top and favorite book. The pains had been coming about four minutes apart, but now their frequency increased to such an extent that one scarcely stopped before the next began. I was doubled over with the hurt, scaring both Self and Johnnie.

“Mama’s all right,” I whispered, hoping to ease Boykins’s fears, if not my own. I did not remember such searing pain as this before, but I told myself that was because two friends had been there to share it with me.

Then came a pushing so great, I knew the baby would be born before Luke’s return and that it must be delivered by me alone. Since I could not attend to myself while lying on the table, I snatched up the sheet and spread it across the floor, then lay upon it, groaning and straining. I heard a great sob and looked up, to see Johnnie, his eyes wide in terror as he watched his mother, but there was nothing I could do to calm him. I tried hard not to cry out, but I could not avoid it, for my body was torn apart. At length, came a great cramping and pushing, and in a moment, a tiny bundle of tissue emerged.