by Leon Loy
Far out on the prairie, yellow specks of light from the campfires of bone harvesters flickered in the dark. The hunters had moved south, but buffalo bones still lay strewn across the prairie. The sound of cattle bawling could be heard from the stock pens near the railroad tracks. The cattle drives from Texas were almost done for the year, though a late herd or two were expected to still arrive. Surplus cattle were held in the stock pens until enough rail cars could be sent to carry them east to the markets. Only a faint odor came from the pens and that due to the breeze coming from the north.
Above the sound of the cattle, music from the saloons and dance halls on Front Street drifted in on the light breeze. Dr. McCarty commented on it. “That will get loud a little later on. Doesn’t matter what night of the week it is. It’s not so bad here at the house. Where you’ll be sleeping, it may be a nuisance.”
The doctor offered Caleb a cigar, which he declined. Tobacco had been scarce on the trail and he’d given up the habit. There was no money for such a luxury.
“You and the missus have been traveling some distance, I take it,” Dr. McCarty said.
Caleb believed the doctor would probe to know more about him, and he felt obligated to tell him something. “We have been in the South,” he said. “Had some bad luck, and lost everything. Not that I had much to lose. I met Sparrow on the trail. Like I told you earlier, we were attacked by Comanche and that’s how I was wounded. Between the two of us, we dispatched a dozen braves. Though, I must admit, they were pretty drunk on stolen whiskey at the time.”
“That is quite a story. I’ve not treated anyone who was wounded by a Comanche arrow, or survived an attack of such insurmountable odds as you and Sparrow did.”
“I would find it hard to believe, myself, had it not happened to us,” Caleb said.
“And so, you have ended up here, in Babylon of the Plains.”
“Sparrow and I are hoping to get a new start here in Dodge City.”
“Well, there are no Comanche braves to worry about here. But our cemetery on Boot Hill is populated with a variety of nasty sorts who met a violent end. When I first arrived three years ago, there would be a fresh grave dug every month.”
“The town’s reputation has spread even in…the South.”
“Sparrow seems like a nice girl,” the doctor said. “Is she Comanche?”
“Her mother was Tonkawa. Her father was white. He was killed in the War back east when she was young.”
“You haven’t been together very long?”
“A little over a month,” Caleb said. He paused, thinking about what he should say next. “Sparrow has had a rough past, doctor. She was stolen from her home as a child by a band of Quahadi, and taken from them by bounty hunters. They sold her to a man who made her his slave. The evil bastard forced her to do things not mentionable. He sold her to a trader who was killed by the Comanche I’ve told you about. That’s when we met.”
He paused and then added, “Are you a religious man, Dr. McCarty?”
“Hmm. Religious,” the doctor said. “My wife would not think so. I’m not as regular in my attending of church services as she is. But if by religion you mean, a belief in God, I would say that I am somewhat religious. In my line of work, I have seen things that only God could have done. The human body, and how it heals itself, for instance. Only God could have designed that.”
He drew on his cigar, the red tip flashing brightly, and let the smoke curl out of his mouth. “And what about you, Caleb?”
“My folks are religious,” Caleb said. “My father is an elder in the Methodist Church in Little Rock. I didn’t put much stock in all of that when I was at home. In fact, I couldn’t wait to get away from it. Just recently, I have experienced some things that make me think about God again.”
“Your meeting Sparrow? You believe God had a hand in that?”
“Yes, doctor, I do. It had to have been God that brought us together in the way it happened—how He kept us alive, and….” He stopped short of revealing to the doctor the shooting incident in San Antonio, which made him a fugitive from the law in Texas. Nor did he tell him about his capture by rangers near the Llano Estacado, and how they let him go, providing he leave Texas. “I love Sparrow. But we haven’t had a chance to get properly married.”
Dr. McCarty puffed on his cigar, taking his time. “Do you want to marry this girl?”
“Very much,” Caleb replied.
“Sallie can fix you up with her parson if that is something you would be interested in,” said Dr. McCarty. “The woman lives for weddings, and we don’t have many of those around here. Most folks don’t bother.”
Sallie appeared at the door, and said, “Would you gentlemen like to step in the parlor for a second?”
As the men entered the parlor, Sallie invited them to have a seat, and left the room. A moment later she re-entered with Sparrow following behind her. The doctor’s wife stepped aside. “May I present Mrs. Sparrow Thomason.”
The men were struck silent. Caleb stopped breathing entirely. The pretty Indian girl he had come to love stood before him, transformed into a woman so beautiful that every part of him was stunned.
Sparrow thought his silence meant he did not approve, and she whirled around to leave. Caleb leapt from his chair and caught her by the wrist.
“Sparrow,” he said, turning her toward him. She held her head down and he pulled her chin up with his finger, forcing her to look into his eyes. “You are beautiful,” he said. “The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
She blushed, and her hazel eyes seemed to swim in the soft lamp light. “You like this Sparrow?” she asked.
“I like all your Sparrows,” he said, which made her smile.
Sallie grinned and sat beside her husband, pleased with herself.
Caleb took Sparrow’s hand and kneeling on one knee said, “Would you make me the happiest man in the world by becoming my wife?”
She looked confused and said, “But I am already your woman. I have told you this.”
“Yes, I know,” he said, “But here, a marriage begins with a ceremony in a church. That is the way white people get married.”
She didn’t fully understand, but trusted Caleb with all her heart. “Yes, I will be your white wife,” she said.
“Sallie, dear,” Dr. McCarty said. “I think you have a wedding to plan.” He glanced at his wife and noticed the look on her face. “What is it?” he asked.
She whispered in his ear, “Thomas, I thought they were already married.” He whispered back, “That was the Indian part of her. Now he’s going to marry the white part.”
3
Three days later, Caleb and Sparrow were married by the Presbyterian minister in Union Church, the only church building in town. Unknown to them, the minister had declined to perform the marriage at first when Sallie McCarty contacted him because Sparrow had Indian blood. But when Sallie threatened that she and the doctor would move their membership to the newly organized Methodist congregation, he changed his mind.
The newlyweds lived for two months in the room behind the drug store, during which time Caleb’s shoulder improved significantly. Before a month had passed, he had taken a job as a clerk for the Charles Rath and Company General Store on Front Street.
Four years ago, a saloon had been set up six miles west of Fort Dodge on the Arkansas River, near where the coming railroad would cross the deep ruts of the Santa Fe Trail. Charles Rath, a buffalo hunter, added a trading post to the saloon, which attracted rapid settlement. In two years, this array of tents, sod huts, and crude shanties became Dodge City.
After the railroad reached Dodge, the town grew from a dozen occupants to a thriving supply and shipping center of nearly a thousand residents. The population doubled during the summer and early autumn when cattle drives from Texas ended at the stock yards near the railroad.
Rath had for
ged a name for himself as a buffalo hunter, shipping entrepreneur, and frontier visionary. He predicted that not only was there money to be made in shipping buffalo hides and tongues east, but also that selling all kinds of merchandise to the hunters and settlers coming to the area might prove even more lucrative. The vast herds of buffalo were being slaughtered by the hundreds of thousands. It didn’t take a genius to figure that one day there would be no more herds to harvest as a source of revenue.
Rath spent much of the year traveling. He built a large general store in Fort Griffin and established a trading post in the Texas panhandle on Sweetwater Creek. With buffalo hunters moving south to follow the shifting herd, his Dodge City store now focused on providing a wide variety of goods to the influx of new citizens, as well as the flourishing cattle industry. It was said that anything you could buy in St. Louis, or Kansas City, could be bought in Dodge.
In his first month at Rath’s store, Caleb impressed the owner by devising a system to monitor inventory more accurately. With such a huge quantity of merchandise being shipped in and out, items frequently went missing and no one could account for them. Current employees of the store were suspects, but with poor records of what was actually missing, it had been nearly impossible to do anything about it. Caleb convinced Rath that keeping a daily count of all the items on the floor and in the store room would control these losses. It was a tedious and time-consuming task, but he was confident it would more than pay his salary in merchandise saved. He was put in charge of taking the inventory, which meant most of his shift took place after the store was closed.
By the first of the New Year, Caleb had earned enough money to pay back his debt to Dr. McCarty, and rent a two-room house at the end of Cedar Street. With help from some of the store employees, and an advance from Charles Rath, he built a modest stable for Sparrow’s pinto and his mare.
From the front door of their house, the town spread southeastward toward the Arkansas River. And from the back door of their little home, looking north, were low hills and beyond, miles of rolling prairie. New construction was evident everywhere, as citizens moved from tents and shanties to quickly built frame houses.
While Caleb was working late hours at Rath’s store, Sparrow spent her afternoons with Sallie McCarty, who began teaching her to read, along with understanding the society into which she was thrust. The young woman was an eager student, and adapted quickly to her new world.
The hardest part for Sparrow, however, was dealing with the treatment she got from local citizens, once they learned of her Tonkawa linage. With light make-up, Sparrow’s Indian features, her bronze skin and high cheekbones, could be partly masked. Peaceful Indians were no strangers to Dodge City, but they were not accepted into the larger society, and were expected to stay south of the railroad tracks. The saloons and dance halls on the south side of Front Street were populated with Dodge’s less desirables. Prostitutes, pimps, gamblers, and drunkards were less likely to be molested by Dodge’s lawmen across the dead line, the railroad tracks which divided the north and south sides of Front Street.
Early one evening in late October, a year after she and Caleb had settled in Dodge City, she was making her way from the McCartys’ home to Rath’s store on Front Street. Even though the evening was chilly, she had neglected to put a shawl around her shoulders, or a scarf over her head.
She walked past a couple of drovers lounging on the boardwalk, smoking. One of them was leaning on his elbows over a hitching rail, watching her closely as she passed by.
“Hey, senorita,” he said. When she ignored him, he started after her. “I’m talking to you. Stop.”
She started running toward Rath’s store. Behind her she could hear the clanking spurs of the two drovers as they gave chase. One of them caught her by the arm just as she reached the store. The store had already closed for business, and the door was locked, but she could see Caleb inside, ticking off his list.
The drover caught her by the elbow, and turned her around. “Hell, you ain’t a senorita at all,” he said, looking her over. “What are you, a Ind’n?”
She loosened her arm from his grip, and said firmly, “Leave me alone.”
“You are a Ind’n,” he said, eyes roving over her figure.
“She ain’t bad for a squaw,” his partner said. He was older than his friend, and walked with a stoop.
Sparrow tried to get Caleb’s attention through the window, but he had his back to her. The drover followed her eyes.
“You don’t need nothin’ in that store, darlin’. I got all you need right here,” he said, pulling her to him.
She shoved him with both hands, and he stumbled backward, losing his hat. His friend was a few steps behind and caught him before he fell. A small crowd stopped to watch.
“Why, you Ind’n bitch,” the drover said, reaching for her again. “I’ll teach you manners, by God. Grab her, Joe.”
His friend caught her from behind and held her arms to her side.
“I never kissed a Ind’n before,” the drover said, “but I got a taste for one right now.”
Sparrow screamed Caleb’s name, and he turned, just as the drover was making an attempt to kiss her. His face was nearly against hers when she spit in his eye. He slapped her with the back of his hand across the cheek, when the door opened.
The one named Joe never saw the ax handle that Caleb swung against the back of his head. He let go of Sparrow, and went to his knees. Caleb struck him again, the solid oak handle making a sharp pop against the man’s skull, and he fell on his face, unconscious.
Caleb caught Sparrow and spun her behind him.
“That’s my wife you’re groping,” he said to the drover. He lifted the ax handle to strike him, but a sharp pain in his shoulder caused him to wince, and drop his arm.
“Your wife?” the drover said. “She ain’t nothin’ but a filthy Ind’n whore.”
He turned and ran down the boardwalk, shoving bystanders out of his way. Sparrow caught Caleb by the arm before he could give chase.
“No, Caleb,” she said. “Let him go.”
“He put his hand on you,” Caleb said, looking her over. He could feel her trembling as he put his arm around her. Henry, a store employee who had followed him to the door, stood there with his mouth open.
“Sparrow, go inside and stay with Henry,” Caleb said.
“I am not hurt, Caleb,” Sparrow said, holding onto his arm. “Please, do not go after him.”
He looked into her eyes and saw the concern there, and she saw the fire in his. He pulled her hand away, and squeezed it. “Stay with Henry,” he repeated, turning in the direction the drover had fled.
The crowd on the boardwalk parted to let him pass. As he went by, a man said, “He went inside the Lone Star saloon, over the dead line.”
Caleb knew where to go. He motioned with his chin toward the unconscious drover. “I would be obliged if you could get him off the boardwalk, and away from the store.”
“I can fetch the Earps,” the man said. “They will be glad to get this one off the street. Those two drovers have been causing trouble all day. You might want to take a gun, mister.”
“That’s against the city ordinance,” Caleb said.
“They don’t pay any attention to that ordinance over the dead line.”
“All I need is this,” Caleb said, indicating the ax handle. He looked back to be sure Sparrow had gone inside the store. She and Henry were watching through the window.
He crossed the tracks to the south side of Front Street, covering the distance to the saloon in a matter of seconds. Yellow light from the saloon spilled onto the boardwalk and the noisy crowd inside could be heard before he walked through the door. Though Caleb had spent over three years gambling in saloons and halls across the South, he had not set foot inside a saloon since the shooting in San Antonio over a year ago. It was in the Iron Shoe Saloon that he ha
d wounded the drover who had drawn a gun and accused him of cheating in the poker game they had been playing. Caleb had pulled his double-shot derringer from his boot, and fired his first shot, wounding the drover. His second shot went wild, killing a cattleman who was standing nearby. Caleb narrowly missed being hung for that shooting, and since had sworn off gambling, and saloons.
The balmy warmth from the room and the familiar smell of liquor, sweat, and cigar smoke assailed his senses. A crowd of men were standing at the long bar, which ran down the right side of the Lone Star Saloon, and a dozen more were seated at tables. On a low stage at the end of the long room, a piano player and a man plucking a banjo were accompanying a woman who was attempting to sing over the noisy crowd. No one appeared to be paying them much attention.
Caleb stepped into the room, holding the ax handle down against his leg. A few men cast glances his way, but most were disinterested. Though he had only seen the man who attacked his wife briefly, he remembered he wore a wool collared coat, and striped trousers.
Suddenly, there was a stir in the crowd at the bar, and a man in striped trousers pushed his way toward the back of the room.
“You, stop!” Caleb shouted out, starting after him.
But the drover ran into a group of men who refused to give way, allowing Caleb time to catch up. He clutched the drover’s coat collar to spin him around, when the group of men started scrambling back.
“He’s heeled,” one of them said.
The drover turned on Caleb waving the muzzle of a Smith & Wesson revolver in his face. He pulled back the hammer, and said, “Leave me be.”
Like a flash, Caleb brought the ax handle up, striking the man’s arm. The gun discharged with a deafening boom, the bullet just missing Caleb’s ear, and putting a hole in the canvas navel of a reclining nude framed on the far wall. The singer on the stage shrieked, and everyone dived for the floor.