Yellowstone Memories

by Spinola, Jennifer Rogers

  “We made it,” Wyatt said, gasping for breath. “They’ll never catch up with us now.”

  “Not on foot, they won’t.” Jewel glanced back over her shoulder. “I just hope we can make it back to the ranch before they figure out a way to the nearest town and find appropriate mounts.”

  “They’ll be too busy with the gold to worry about us, won’t they?” Wyatt shivered, clutching his elbow close to his throbbing side. “In any case, we ought to call for the sheriff and turn them all in.”

  Jewel turned slightly, her expression icy. “And you’re sure you’re not going to turn me in to the sheriff, Mr. Kelly? Tell me now so I can dump you off into the snow. Because I still have my doubts.”

  “Of course not. You know I wouldn’t, or you’d have left me back there with Kirby Crowder.”

  “That was a clever speech then, that you gave to Jean-François. You really checked up on me in Cody?”

  “I did. And I think you should turn yourself in.”

  “What?” Jewel whirled around.

  A branch smacked Wyatt in the face, and he saw floating lights.

  “Turn myself in? You must be joking, Mr. Kelly. Mr. Boulé said it himself—they’ll hang me.”

  “Not if you tell them the truth.” Wyatt scrubbed the snow off his face and wrapped his arms awkwardly around her as he slid sideways. “It’s impossible for you to have killed your husband, you know. Besides, we heard Jean-François’s confession.”

  “What makes you say it’s impossible?”

  “You were in Yellowstone National Park that entire week, serving as a paid scout for a group of botanists and soldiers in southwestern Montana.” Wyatt sniffled from the cold. “After all, not everyone can speak both French and Arapaho with such dexterity, along with a fine understanding of Crow and Sioux—or navigate the mountains and rivers of Montana. So very similar to the terrain of Idaho.”

  Jewel gasped. “How did you know about that?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that all the way over here from Pierre’s place.” Wyatt groaned in pain as Bétee bumped over a snowy ridge, dropping to a trot over a frozen stream. “I saw an article about the expedition in the courthouse in Cody, and the more I consider it, the more that description of the pretty young guide sounds exactly like you.”

  Jewel said nothing, just pulled the reins tighter.

  “The article is accurately dated, you know. None of the members of the expedition would have trouble identifying you if you came forward.” Wyatt sniffled. “Fact is, if you played your cards right, you could countersue your husband’s relatives for slander, demand monetary reparations and your due pension as Mr. Moreau’s widow, and swear out your own warrant for the arrest of Jean-François Boulé. After all, he killed your husband and attempted to murder you. I think if we reconstruct the crime scene and his shaky alibis, we could prove it.”

  Wyatt coughed; his throat throbbed from smoke and cold. “Besides, you couldn’t swing the stovepipe that they say ended your husband’s all-too-short life.”

  “I’m certain I could.”

  Jewel’s loose hair fluttered in the wind, thick and wild, like a flock of gleaming crows. Wyatt wrapped a strand around his finger and brought it to his lips, feeling something akin to delirium.

  “Doubtful. With all due respect.” Wyatt leaned against her shoulder and shook his head. “Not with enough force to kill a man like Jean-François did—and I could prove that scientifically, by demonstrating fulcrums and velocity and borrowing the expertise of a good physician. Although,” he lifted his eyebrows, “I’m sure you could do some serious damage if you wanted to.”

  “Thank you.” Jewel clucked to Bétee and urged her through a clearing, looking up at the clouds as if to check for any letup in the snow.

  Wyatt groaned, clutching his wounded side. He sneezed again, and Jewel turned. “You’re sick already, aren’t you?”

  “Probably. And Samson’s missing.” He reached into his pocket and wiped his nose on a bandanna, shivering. His knees knocking against Bétee’s furry side.

  And before he could stop himself, his frozen knees and elbows gave way. He slumped sideways and sort of dripped off the horse, landing in a pitiful heap in the snow. Snowflakes sifting down through the pines and tickling his closed lashes.

  Jewel called a sharp halt to her pony and hastily dismounted, falling to her knees beside Wyatt on the pine-needle-carpeted floor. Not much snow had fallen there; sweet scents of spruce and earth welled up in Wyatt’s nostrils like heady perfume.

  “Mr. Kelly.” Jewel gently shook his shoulder. “Please get up. We’re almost home. But if Mr. Crowder finds us here, he’ll kill us immediately.”

  Wyatt groaned and rolled his head back and forth, too tired and sore to raise his neck off the ground. For a moment the thought of Kirby Crowder’s gunshot sounded preferable to this horrible aching cold. The sharp wind and throbbing ache of his side.

  “I can’t leave you here.” Jewel took his face in her hands. “Come. I’ll help you up.”

  Wyatt blinked up at her, trying to juxtapose the two images: a black-haired brave raising the spear to kill his father, and an Arapaho girl lifting him, bleeding, off the frozen ground with compassionate hands. Life seemed to have reversed itself, leaving his head spinning, floating, as if under water.

  “Why do you care what happens to me?” Wyatt raised himself up on one shoulder, clutching his bleeding side. “The gold’s gone, you know. Our deal is done.”

  “Says who?” Jewel combed his red hair back from his forehead with tender fingers. “I never said I was your partner only for the gold.”

  “You mean …” Wyatt’s eyes stretched open, and his tongue seemed to stick in his mouth. No woman had ever cared for him, so far as he knew. Not bumbling Wyatt Kelly with his plain face and halting speech. Not him.

  “I mean I said yes to you,” Jewel whispered. “To you. Don’t you understand?”

  Wyatt’s heart beat fast, loud, as he reached for her.

  Jewel tugged him up off the ground and helped him onto his knees then massaged his frozen shoulders until he felt warmth again. “You can do this.” She spoke close to his ear, her voice deliriously sweet. “We’re a team, Mr. Kelly. Partners. We share everything.” She cupped his stubbly cheek in her hand. “You’re not as alone as you think you are, you know. Perhaps you never have been.”

  Wyatt, you knothead. He tried to sit up, despising his own foolishness. Why, if he had saved a bit of gold, he might have had something to offer her—right here, on his knees—and beg her to stay at the ranch.

  “I threw all the gold away,” he croaked, letting her rub his cold hands in her warm ones. “I should have saved some of it for us. I could have—”

  “Shh.” Jewel pressed a finger to his lips. “Forget the gold.”

  “I could have filled my pockets before I threw that saddlebag away, and none of the men would have known the difference.” He pressed shaky fingers to his temples. “Then I could have sent out a hundred men to find Samson and bring him home. I blundered that one, too, didn’t I?” He reached out and rubbed a thumb across her smooth cheek, feeling his throat tighten and burn. “Why, I could have … could have …”

  “Listen to me.” Jewel spoke over the sound of the wind in the pines. “There’s a good side to every mistake, Mr. Kelly. An excess of anything corrupts the soul, doesn’t it? Take poor Mr. Crowder as an example. A year from now he’ll be up to his neck in debt, with ten men at any given time ready to slit his throat over card games or liquor or property—and all the gold in the world wouldn’t solve his problems.”

  “You’re just saying that because I’m half frozen and you want to keep me alive.” Wyatt let her pull him to his feet, his arm draped over her shoulder for support.

  “Perhaps.” Jewel led him forward, arm around his waist, and he heard her smile. “Is it working?”

  Wyatt licked his chapped and split lower lip. “Maybe. Keep trying.”

  “You’ve no gold now
to buy the Cheyenne land with. You can start over, Mr. Kelly. Free from revenge. No regrets.”

  Wyatt groaned. “No, but now Kirby has enough gold to do it. The sorry snake.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “And it’s my fault. It was a fool idea to begin with.”

  “Don’t think about that now. Just hold on. We’ll be home soon.” Jewel eased him up onto Bétee’s back, tucking the shawl tight around his shoulders. She slid on in front of him and pulled at the reins.

  “But …” Wyatt thought hard, trying not to focus on his throbbing side as Bétee jolted down the rocky side of a creek. “I think there may be a way out of Kirby buying the land.”

  “How, if there are coal deposits?”

  “The national park.” Wyatt nodded. “That’s it. There are also several rare species of wildlife and botanicals on the land; I think I can convince them to make it a nature preserve run by the Cheyenne. So long as they’ll agree to work jointly with Yellowstone and comply with basic park regulations.”

  “With a lifted restriction on hunting, of course. Unless you want them to starve.”

  “Of course not. I think I can write up something so convincing that even Kirby Crowder and his gold won’t do much good. Just give me a few days with some books, park regulations, and a local survey of wildlife and plants, and I’ll convince them that it would be a great ecological disaster to sell the land or open a mine on it. You’ll see.”

  Jewel actually smiled. “Why, Mr. Kelly—I’m surprised at you. You’re going soft on me.”

  Wyatt scowled. “Well, keep it to yourself, will you?”

  He gazed out through the white woods, feeling stabs of pain pulse through his side, and felt his mind drift far away—to a snow-crusted plain at the edge of the prairie. A row of rough wooden crosses that made a sob catch in his throat.

  The warm tears that burned his eyes felt good—healing—and he didn’t try to blink them back.

  They were gone, but he would always remember.

  Always.

  Until the day he died, he’d be a brother. The lone survivor.

  His father’s son, remembering the feel of those burly arms around his neck in a tight embrace. For he, too, carried his father’s blood.

  And that would never, ever change.

  Jewel turned suddenly. “You know you still have a handful of gold nuggets, don’t you? The ones you stuffed in your pocket there at the outhouse.”

  Wyatt’s emotion-hard face suddenly melted into a look of joy as he scrambled for his pocket with freezing fingers. “By George,” he murmured, fingering out a handful of nuggets. “You’re right.”

  “You can buy a new horse with it.” Jewel spoke gently. “I know how you’ll miss Samson. He’s been your favorite ever since I’ve worked at your uncle’s ranch.”

  Wyatt dipped his head, glad the gloomy darkness hid the watery sheen of his eyes. “It’d be impossible for him to survive out here alone all night, wouldn’t it?” His voice came low and mournful. “Not with wildcats and mountain lions. The cold and coyotes.” He sniffled, trying to keep from blubbering. “As old as he is now. He’s not as strong as the young horses, but I always thought he was fine.” Wyatt scrubbed his face with his palm and said no more.

  “Never mind.” Jewel spoke gently. “I’m sure one of the local ranchers will find him and turn him in.”

  “There’s nothing around here for miles, and you know it.” Wyatt wiped a palm across his nose. “He’s a good horse, but I don’t think he could find his way back to the ranch in this snow—not at his age. He’ll be so lost he couldn’t find his own tail.”

  “Perhaps he’ll hole up for the night, and we can look for him tomorrow.”

  “You know a hungry mountain lion won’t let him live that long—if we’re even able to get out tomorrow in the snow. He’s got arthritis. It’d be a miracle if he’s still alive now.” Wyatt sighed.

  “Well, doesn’t that God of yours do miracles?”

  “Not to fellows like me, probably.” He sniffled in the cold. “I promised Samson his oats,” he said, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I’ve never failed him yet. I might do a lot of things wrong, Miss Moreau, but I keep my word, and I … I …” He wanted to say “love that fool horse,” but the words stuck in his throat.

  “You’re a good English teacher. Isn’t that what you were going to say?” Jewel spoke quickly.

  “Me? Naw.”

  “On the contrary. In fact, I think you might make a fine lawyer. I can teach you Arapaho, if you like, and French—and you could consider legal cases and question witnesses from all over the state of Wyoming. Or all over the West, if you like. You could be a Yellowstone legal specialist.” Jewel brushed snow from her long hair. “In fact, your uncle has quite a few connections in the academic world, does he not? You could go to law school. You’ve certainly got enough gold in your pocket to give you a good start.”

  “Law school.” Wyatt whispered the words as if hearing them for the first time. They were magic; they rolled over his tongue. Hanging in a shiny haze like the yellow lights of the ranch, visible over the next ridge. “Law school, you say?”

  “There’s a shortage of lawyers in the West, Mr. Kelly. You’d be in high demand.”

  “Law school,” Wyatt repeated, his voice thin and husky. “And you’d … teach me languages? That is, of course, if you’d consider me.” He swallowed hard, and his mouth felt dry at the thought of Jewel bending over the table, pointing out verbs. Her slender hands guiding his as he formed the unfamiliar letters with his pen. “My Arapaho pronunciation may be a bit garbled, but I’m sure I could learn with time. And … tutoring of course.”

  “Lots of tutoring.” Jewel’s voice took on a lush tone. Soft, like the sleek side of a wildcat. “And it would be a pleasure to teach you. But how do I know you’re not feigning your Arapaho language deficiencies, Mr. Kelly? The same way I did?”

  “You can’t know.”

  Jewel chuckled softly, sounding like sleigh bells. “Well, I’m determined to find out.”

  Wyatt blinked back snowflakes. He was delirious, warm and light-headed and cold at the same time.

  “And your father would be proud of you, Mr. Kelly, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “For what?”

  “For everything you are, Mr. Kelly, and everything you will be. I’m sure of that.”

  Bétee slowed to a trot at the entrance to the ranch, her hooves kicking up snow in the fading twilight. Black sky curved over navy blue of snowfall, fresh and smooth on the hillsides like smoothly spread sugar. Wyatt blinked through the snowflakes at the bright front door, where his uncle stood holding out the lantern. A worried look pasted across his face.

  And Samson waited obediently at the stable door, his sleek face turned toward Wyatt. Saddle empty and reins dragging. Neighing impatiently for his oats.

  FINDING YESTERDAY

  Dedication

  To the late Dr. Gayle Price, my friend and English professor

  who taught me so much about life, writing,

  and the Lord. I miss you dearly.

  Chapter 1

  1937

  Don’t look now, but I saw somethin’ you didn’t.” Frankie grinned, dumping his mud-caked boots in a pile and wiping a filthy sleeve across his forehead.

  Justin looked up from scrubbing mud between his fingers, the sunlight pouring behind the Camp Fremont Civilian Conservation Corps barracks blinding him. “What’d you see? That bull moose that showed up over by the bridge?”

  “Naw. Better.” Frankie bobbed his eyebrows. “Girls. I saw ‘em.”

  “Here? At the camp?”

  “Sure thing. Two gals, and they say the redhead’s a real dish. Word is they’re over visitin’ ol’ Bruno Hodges. Lucky stiff.”

  Justin rolled his eyes and peeled off his dirty work shirt, which reeked of sweat and loamy mountain soil. The pungent, sulfurlike stench from geothermal mud hung in the nearby rivers, the air, even his hair, messy as it was. The CCC barber had whacked it
off short when he showed up in Pinedale, Wyoming, a year and a half ago, but now it hung over his forehead, thick and shaggy. Not slicked back like the movie stars.

  “Tommy Wills said one of them dolls is a looker. Swell, huh? Course after this long out in the sticks even the old broads start to look good. Know what I mean?” Frankie elbowed Justin in the ribs. “Man, I can’t wait to get back to Ohio!”

  I can’t wait till you get back either, pal. Justin dug a clothespin out of his pocket and shook out his freshly washed CCC bandanna, securing it to the rusty piece of wire that served as a clothesline. After dozens of washings in hard water and ruthless army-issued soap, its crisp navy had faded to an unappealing moldy blue-gray.

  Laundry aside, President Roosevelt’s New Deal ideas were pretty good, Justin thought as he stuck the clothespin in his teeth. At least the CCC, anyway. Shipping hundreds of jobless guys out of the cities and into state parks to do construction and rebuilding might sound a bit nuts, but it worked. They got a paycheck sent back to their folks, and good, honest, hard work to keep them off the streets and out of crime.

  And the parks got fixed to boot. Which worked especially well with the drought and dust storms hitting the prairies hard.

  The army ran the camps, which served double duty in the event they ever needed recruits—what with the regimented formations and work groups, the morning calisthenics and uniforms. Thousands of guys, all ready to march off to the front with pickaxes, shovels, and bags of pine saplings in their hands.

  “Well, I’ll go back to Columbus as soon as I can get a real job of course,” Frankie jabbered on. “This place is the pits! It’s not worth the pay, puttin’ up with all them mosquitoes and cold an’ whatnot. Out in the crummy sticks, gettin’ covered with mud!” Frankie waved brown-and-red-streaked arms for emphasis.

  “I think it’s swell.” Justin straightened his bandanna to catch the breeze. “One of the best things to ever happen to me. All the fresh air and work. I’d stay here forever if they’d let me.”