The Last River

by Leon Loy

  On these early mornings, his thoughts often drifted back to one saloon in particular, the Iron Shoe Saloon in San Antonio, where five years earlier his life had taken a sudden turn. His accidental killing of the cattleman in that saloon, could have doomed him to a life of destruction, but instead, led him to Sparrow, and salvation.

  25

  She bent over and swept the small mound of dirt and dust from the floor into the dust pan. When she stood, a wave of nausea came over her, and she sat down in the cane-bottomed chair for a few minutes. The dizzy spells came more frequently these past few mornings.

  When the dizziness passed, she took the dust pan to the back door of the house, careful not to let the breeze from the windows stir its contents, and tossed the dirt into the yard. Most of it vanished in a dust cloud, swept away by the wind.

  It was her last chore for the day, even though it was not yet noon. Earlier, she had prepared bread and jam sandwiches to take to Caleb for his lunch. The distance to town would take less than an hour on the pinto. She would stay in town and work with Caleb at the store until they closed at six o’clock. It being Wednesday, they would have supper as usual at O’Loughlin’s restaurant, and then ride back home at twilight.

  Before changing into the dress she would wear to town, she stripped off her blouse, and washed at the basin on the back porch. The water in the pail was still cool and refreshing as she splashed it on her face. She rubbed soap into the washcloth and squeezed it over the back of her head, letting the soapy water run down her neck, and over her shoulders and breasts. Her nostrils flared from the fragrant soap Caleb had brought her.

  When her bath was over, she toweled off, but lingered on the back porch. The warm breeze felt good on her damp flesh. Her eyes roamed over the landscape. Everything she could see belonged to them. Caleb had purchased two sections of land northeast of Mobeetie. It was close to town, yet far enough away to offer them the privacy they treasured.

  “We will never have a neighbor so close we can see them from the house,” he had told her.

  The well had been dug about twenty paces from the back porch, and held water year-round. Beyond the well were the stables and corral for her pinto, the two mares, and two fine stallions Caleb had recently bought for breeding.

  The barn was framed and its roof shingled, but was only half finished. They were planning to add a dairy cow to their stock when it was completed.

  Her garden plot was next to the barn. Caleb had taught her how to plant, maintain, and harvest the garden, something her life with the nomadic Comanche had not included.

  Beyond the buildings stretched vast fields of bristle grass, bluestem, and sage. Further away, the course of Adobe Creek could be followed by the green canopy of cottonwood, hackberry, willow, and oak trees which bordered it on both sides. The tops of the trees trailed off in the distance, swallowed up by the sea of golden grass, which swirled silently in the blustery south breeze.

  She filled her lungs with fresh air, took one last look around, and went inside.

  Caleb had hired men to build the house with milled lumber freighted in from Dodge City. The house had four rooms downstairs, and two bedrooms on a second floor—much more room than they needed. Caleb told her it was because he expected their family to grow, now that they had settled down.

  Their house was more carefully built than any of the homes in town, though not as fine as the Wilson ranch house, six miles southeast of town, on Sweetwater Creek. She had accompanied Caleb to the ranch to deliver supplies last fall. It was a sprawling three-story home, built of quarried limestone blocks, and was furnished inside with expensive imported items.

  Even in Dodge City, she had not seen such finery. Caleb told her Mrs. Wilson came from a wealthy family in Europe, across the big ocean, and that the furniture had been shipped all the way from a place called Wales. Sparrow tried to envision such an ocean, even studied the map he brought home, but the markings on the paper made no impression on her. Caleb told her he had not seen the ocean either, but one day he would take her, and they could see it together.

  Before dressing, she decided to put her hair up the way Sallie McCarty had taught her, and maybe add a little color to her cheeks and lips. Not too much, or she would look like one of the dance hall girls in town. Viewing herself in the washstand mirror, she remembered fondly of the time Sallie had her stand before a mirror, years before, complimenting her natural beauty, and introducing her to make-up.

  She missed the McCartys, and Doc Holliday. There was no one in Mobeetie she had met who could take their place. The new ranches, which were springing up all over the county, were mostly populated with men. The few women who had moved into the area with their rancher husbands were so far in distance from one another as to make it difficult to establish relationships. There were a few officers’ wives at Fort Elliott, but they kept to themselves, and were strongly prejudiced against anyone with Indian blood.

  Hers was a solitary existence, for the most part. Caleb was very protective, and limited her exposure to the rough inhabitants of Mobeetie. She often worked with him in the store, but only ventured out when he was by her side. She did not feel lonely—being with Caleb was all the company her heart desired. And now, with the house, land, and horses, she kept busy and content in their isolation. This was, however, about to change.

  Turning sideways, she placed her palm on her belly. He didn’t know yet. She would tell him tonight at supper. They would be adding a new member to the household in about seven months. Becoming a mother frightened her a little, mostly because she had been carrying the news alone. She had wanted to be sure before telling Caleb.

  Suddenly aware that she was running late, she quickly slipped on her dress and descended the stairs, stopping in the kitchen to gather the towel-wrapped sandwiches. Before leaving the house, she found Caleb’s Winchester carbine behind the kitchen door and carried it with her to the stables. He insisted she keep it within reach at all times when he was gone, and to always take it with her when she rode. They would have to bring the wagon home soon; it would not be good for the baby to ride horseback for much longer.

  As she hauled the saddle off the stable gate to toss on the back of the pinto, a stir of dust blew into the air just beyond the stable wall. It was a breezy day, but something about that seemed odd.

  26

  “I’ll have a bottle of the laudanum, for the wife. It’s for her headaches,” the rancher said.

  Caleb set the laudanum on the counter with the rancher’s other items. “Not more than two tablespoons at a time,” he said. “And not more than twice a day.”

  The rancher nodded.

  “What about something for the children?” Caleb added, placing a jar of penny candy in front of the rancher.

  “Well, I don’t know,” the man said, eyeing the candy wishfully. “I done run my charges up as far as I can go this month.”

  Caleb opened the jar, scooped a cup of the brightly colored candy bits, and wrapped them in paper. “From Sparrow and me. No charge,” he said.

  A sparkle lit the rancher’s eyes, although otherwise his face remained expressionless. “The wife and I thank you, Caleb,” he said.

  Caleb began placing the rancher’s items into a crate. “How is Mrs. Littleton, Hank?” he said.

  “Oh, she’ll be alright, now the heat ain’t so bad. It’s the heat gives her them headaches. I’ll tell her you asked.”

  He took the crate and left the store. Caleb heard the board squeak as he walked across the boardwalk, and it reminded him that he was going to work on that after lunch.

  Caleb’s stomach growled and he checked his watch. It was nearly one o’clock. Sparrow was late bringing his lunch, and she was never late.

  A middle-aged man in a flannel shirt and a floppy hat entered the store, and hurried across the floor toward him. It was Francis Pulmer, a former buffalo hunter who sometimes ran supplies for Charles
Rath, and other times rode shotgun on the stagecoach from Dodge City to Mobeetie. When he wasn’t engaged in those occupations, he spent his time in saloons. Rarely had Caleb seen him when he wasn’t drunk, so he was surprised to notice a remarkably sober and serious look on the man’s face as he reached the counter.

  “What is it, Francis?” Caleb asked.

  Francis held out a crumpled envelope. “It’s a letter come from Dodge City on yesterday’s stage. I stuffed it in my pocket to bring it to you, and remembered it just a few minutes ago.”

  “It’s for me?” Caleb said, straightening out the envelope and tearing the end of it off. “You know what it says?”

  “I was told what was in it. You better read it for yourself. I’m sorry I didn’t get it over here before now. I drank a little too much yesterday, and forgot all about it.”

  Caleb was already reading the message. He felt the blood leave his face, and his breath caught in his chest as he read:

  Dear Caleb,

  It was reported in the Kansas City Star that Buck Hester has escaped from the State Prison in Lansing. His whereabouts are unknown. I discovered this news from a patient this morning. It is most probable that he will be apprehended soon and there will be no need for alarm, but I thought you would want to know.

  Yours Sincerely,

  T.L. McCarty

  “Francis, when did you get this?” asked Caleb.

  “When the stage left Dodge five days ago.”

  “That means that Buck Hester has been out as long as two weeks.” Caleb threw off his apron. “Francis, go find Zeke and tell him to watch the store. I’m going home to see about Sparrow.” Zeke lived in a backroom to the barber shop across the street, where he did some barbering part-time, along with working at the store.

  Caleb found his cartridge belt with the Schofield revolver hanging on a nail in the backroom, and buckled it on as he ran out the back door. The dappled mare was tethered under the shade of a cottonwood, his saddle hung over a rail. He threw the saddle over its back so suddenly, the mare side stepped a few paces, and whinnied.

  “Whoa, girl,” Caleb said, “Don’t go shy on me. We’ve got to get home.”

  It only took him a couple of minutes to secure the saddle to the mare. As he mounted, Zeke rushed through the back door of the store.

  “Francis told me about Buck Hester,” he said, excitedly. “You don’t think he’s found your place, do you?”

  “Zeke, I don’t know. But Sparrow’s late with my lunch, and that isn’t like her.”

  Without waiting to talk further, he dug his heels against the mare’s flanks, and galloped through the lot to the street.

  27

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement behind her, and the fine hairs on the base of her neck stood up. She dropped the saddle, and spun around. There was nothing to see but the yard to the house.

  Then, behind her, the pinto snorted nervously.

  “Hello, Ind’n girl,” he said, and it felt like she had fallen suddenly into an icy river—she shivered from head to toe.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  Slowly, she turned around. “You!” she said in a hoarse whisper.

  “That’s right. It’s me, Buck. I have come to take you away from that useless clerk. This time, for good.”

  His face was dark, the skin almost black, and he was thinner than she remembered. His beard gaped where the scar ran across his chin. She wondered how he had found her, and why he was free from prison.

  He read the question on her face. “Them wardens up in Lansing let me go, so’s I could come for you,” he said. His voice sounded different, almost like a child’s. “When I told them about you, they said, ‘Buck, it ain’t right we keep you locked up. You go and find that girl. She belongs to you, not that damn clerk.’”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said, her voice quivering. “They would not have let you go.”

  He laughed. “Well, here I am.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I still got friends in Dodge City. They told me where you was.” He took a step toward her. “It is meant to be, you see; me and you. Here, I’ll help you saddle that horse, and we can get on away from here.”

  The look in his eyes told her that his mind was not right. She backed away, noting that he was not armed. Caleb’s Winchester was leaning against the fence where she had put it, near the pinto. Buck stood between her and the carbine.

  “I been watching you since this morning,” he said. His eyes moved over her, hungrily. “You are more beautiful than I even remembered.”

  He took her by the wrists.

  “Wait. I have to tell you something,” she said urgently, stepping back. “I am with child.”

  The look on his face changed.

  “I am with child, Buck,” she repeated.

  Breaking into a wide grin, he said, “Well, that’s just fine. That’s damn fine. You’re having my baby.”

  “No, Buck,” she said, convinced that he had lost his senses. “It’s not your baby. It’s Caleb’s.”

  “It ain’t his!” he hissed, fire in his eyes. “Don’t say that to me. You are mine. Nobody else’s. That baby is yours and mine.”

  Realizing that she was only making him more irritated, Sparrow softened her voice, and spoke more slowly. “As I am with child, I have to be very careful, for the baby. You don’t want to upset the baby, do you, Buck?”

  He wrestled with this information, trying to register its meaning. He looked at her belly, and let go of her wrists. She thought he might try to touch her there, and she covered herself with her arms.

  “I don’t see nothing,” he said. “I mean, you ain’t big.”

  “It’s still early,” she said. Her mind raced. She knew Caleb would be missing his lunch, and she hoped he would sense something wrong, and leave the store to come see about her. She needed to stall Buck for as long as she could. It seemed like a very bad dream that she had to be doing this with him again.

  “I was on the way to see a doctor in town,” she added. “It is important for me to see the doctor, for the baby. Will you go with me, Buck, to the doctor?” There was no doctor in Mobeetie. She was counting on that fact being unknown to Buck.

  The confusion in his face lasted for only a moment, and then the cold steel returned to his eyes. “Your worthless clerk is in that town. I found out where he is. No, that baby will be alright. You don’t need a doctor.”

  She shifted her feet a few inches toward the fence, and the carbine. “He won’t see us. We can go straight to the doctor. Caleb will never know you are there.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “No. No. No. You and me have somewhere else to go.”

  “Where do you want to go, Buck?” she asked, trying her best to keep her voice steady, choking back the fear. She kept inching toward the fence, not taking her eyes off his.

  “I can find us a place down south,” he said. “It don’t matter where we go, as long as you go with me.”

  “I always wanted to go Mexico,” she said. “Can we go to Mexico?”

  “Mexico. Yes, that’s where I told Harold we would take you.” His face took on a pained appearance. “Harold is dead. You killed my brother Harold. Why did you kill Harold?”

  “Harold tried to take me from you, Buck,” she said. “Remember? He wanted to make me his girl.”

  “Yes, I know he did. I was going to kill him for it. But you did it first. You killed him.” He took a step toward her, and she lunged past him to reach the carbine. He caught her arm and spun her around, holding her from behind. She let out a partly stifled yelp.

  “That’s what you wanted? That rifle?” he said, following her eyes. “You would try to shoot me?”

  “No,” she gasped.

  He pressed her arm harder. “I broke out of prison for you,” he said. “You
said you would go with me.”

  “To the doctor in Mobeetie,” she said. “I said I would go with you there, first. Please take me there. For the baby.”

  Buck loosened his grip on her arm slightly, but still held on to her. He leaned his head against hers, and moaned. “You are making me crazy. For two years, you were all I thought about. Don’t you want to be with me?”

  Sparrow tried to pull her head away, but he nestled his face into her neck, rubbing against her. The foul smell of him brought back the painful memory of her captivity by him on the Cimarron. The despair she had felt then began now to resurface, making it hard for her to breathe.

  She became frantic, and fought against him fiercely, screaming now as loudly as she could. “Let go! Let me go!”

  “Nooooo,” he moaned, squeezing into her, tighter. “You are my girl.”

  Their feet entangled, and they fell in the dirt. She tried to roll away, but he clung to her. He pressed her beneath him, groping at her groin with one hand, the other holding her down.

  “I can’t wait no longer,” he crooned in her ear.

  Excited by the violent activity near it, the pinto snorted and strained against the rope that held it to the fence. It slammed against the fence rails, knocking the Winchester to the ground, only six feet from Sparrow’s head.

  Buck had her skirt pulled up to her thighs, but she fought him so violently that he had to use both hands to keep her pinned down.

  “Don’t fight me, girl,” he panted. “This is meant to be.”

  Just then, a stinging sensation ripped along the top of Buck’s head. At the same time he heard the flat peal of a gunshot from forty yards away. He looked toward the sound, and saw Caleb coming toward them, smoke drifting from the muzzle of his Schofield revolver.