Sweetwater

by Dorothy Garlock

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hmm …” Jenny put her forefinger to her cheek.

  “Hmm …” she murmured again. “There’s one thing I can do.”

  “Ma’am, there’s nothing you can do. The law has been approved by the Indian Bureau.”

  “In that case the Indian Bureau can give permission for the Shoshoni to leave the reservation under certain circumstances.”

  “Should that be the case, I, as agent, will decide on the certain circumstances.”

  “That may be, but if you prove to be unreasonable and a lawsuit becomes necessary, it would draw attention to the reservation. Which in my opinion would be a mighty good thing.”

  “You are treading on dangerous ground, Miss Gray.” The agent was so angry that his voice shook.

  “So are you, Mr. Havelshell. As you leave here, sir, keep two things in mind. First and foremost, keep your henchmen, including Linus, away from the school and the Stoney Creek ranch. Second, keep your hands and those of the thugs that work for you off Walt Whitaker’s son, Whit.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  Jenny smiled coyly and spoke softly. “Little old me? A prissy teacher from back East threaten the powerful Indian agent? How you talk, Mr. Havelshell.”

  He strode to the door with long purposeful steps and turned. “You keep in mind, Miss Gray, that I will not allow you to order the Indians on my reservation to do your bidding. I’m sending men out to put back the dam you ordered taken out.”

  “Nature sent the water this way. That is why Mr. Whitaker called this place Stoney Creek Ranch. You diverted the water to the Sweetwater River in order to inconvenience me.”

  “Yes, I did.” He smiled for the first time. It was more of a sneer than a smile. “I must be going.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Jenny felt as if her stomach was full of beetles. “You’ve overstayed your welcome.”

  Havelshell wanted to strangle her and yet she excited him, too. He had not been bested by many men and never a woman. He was reasonably sure that given time he could disabuse Miss Gray of the notion of staying at Stoney Creek. That is, unless McCall horned in. Fortunately, there were ways of taking care of him.

  The Murphy girl was another matter. His mind began to work rapidly. By the time they reached the buggy, two ideas had been born and both rejected. The third idea stuck and grew; he had an ace in the hole and its name was Hartog.

  Chapter Ten

  “Ike, tell me about Mr. Whitaker.”

  Jenny had found the whiskered old man helping Colleen get the screen doors off the rafters in the shed. He was a small, quick-moving man and, as Colleen described him, “pack-crammed with handiness and talk.”

  “Walt was as square a man as I ever knowed. Met up with ’em back in ’51. Both of us green as grass. He was smart. Had him a whole parcel of book learnin’. He hit gold on a small claim, sold out and come here. This here place was all he wanted. He was mighty proud of it. Had him a big herd oncet. Sold ’em and sent the money to one of them fellers to in-vest. Got along good with the Indians, he did. Never heared him put a bad name to a one of ’em.”

  “Do you know if he married Whit’s mother?”

  “He wed her the Shoshoni way. Walt never had no woman or wanted one till he set eyes on Rose. Don’t know what her Shoshoni name was. Walt called her his Rose. She never got strong after birthin’ the boy. Walt took a second wife to come take care of her and the boy. ’Course, that one wasn’t really a wife. It was a matter a her savin’ face.”

  “Did Mr. Whitaker father other children?”

  “Naw. Havelshell says he’s got plenty of ’em, but he ain’t. Whit’s the only one.”

  They carried the screen doors out of the shed and into the sunlight.

  “How old was Whit when his mother died?”

  Ike scratched his head. “Must’a been five or somethin’ like that. Near kilt Walt to lose his Rose. He carried her all the way back to her people for buryin’—it bein’ what she’d wanted. Must’a been fifteen mile and him not trottin’ like a colt no more.”

  “I’m trying to understand why Mr. Whitaker didn’t leave money and his property to his son.”

  “Walt thought the world and all of that boy. All the book learnin’ that boy knows, and it’s plenty, Walt learnt him. Walt knowed that if he left it to the boy, the money and the land would’a been et up by lawyers and land-grabbers a’fore the boy was grown. He fixed it so the boy would get schoolin’. I’m thinkin’ he fixed it with a college back East for the boy to go there when he’s learnt what you can teach him. Some feller at the Indian Bureau knows about it.”

  “Do you know if he had any relatives … brothers or sisters?”

  “Ain’t thinkin’ he did. Reckon they was wiped out in the War. Walt figured the onlyest way he could get a teacher to come and stay and give Whit the book learnin’ he needed was to give ’em Stoney Creek. It ain’t like the boy was hankerin’ for the land. Shoshonis think different from white folks ’bout land. They think no one can own land, not like a man owns a horse or a blanket or a gun. Land belongs to ever’body.”

  “What a beautiful thought!”

  “Yessiree. Walt fixed up the schoolhouse. He’d set his mind on his boy going to college. Got in a whole parcel a books and put ’em in a thingamajig with glass in front.”

  “There wasn’t a bookcase or a book in the house when we arrived. Whit said Havelshell took them. I should have asked him about it today.”

  “Ya shore done somethin’ to rile him. He had his dander up good. He come back here wagging his lip and lookin’ like a sore-back bull with a mouthful of larkspur. Hee … hee … hee.”

  “He even admitted putting in the dam and drying up the creek to make things difficult for me. I think it surprised him that it had been taken out. He’s sending men to put it back in.”

  “He say that?”

  “That and more. He’ll do everything he can to get me out of here.”

  “The elders didn’t like him dammin’ it in the first place. They ain’t wantin’ white men changin’ the way the water goes. Beaver can do it, cause it’s Mother’s wish. Mother is what they call the earth. I just might have’ta put a bug in their ear.”

  Colleen had been listening and saying nothing. “Now I know why folks hire gunmen. If’n I was rich I’d hire me a few to cut down that sidewinder.” She picked up one of the screens and carried it to the house.

  “The gal’s hurtin’. She ain’t meanin’ what she said.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Jenny watched as Colleen leaned the screen against the house and swung Beatrice up in her arms when the child ran to her. “Where did you sleep last night, Ike?”

  “I rolled up in my bedroll here in the bunkhouse.”

  “It isn’t much of a bunkhouse.”

  “Was when Walt was here. I’m thinkin’ Havelshell stripped it.”

  “Could you fix it so it would be livable. If so, I’d like to hire you. I’ll pay monthly wages.”

  “I ain’t knowin’ ’bout that. I ain’t much of a stayin’ kind of feller. I’ll be driftin’ in and out, missy.”

  “Do you know of someone I can hire?”

  “Not right offhand. Ya might ask McCall when he comes.”

  “I’ll do that. He said he’d be back in about a week. The week will be up tomorrow.”

  “His word is good. Colleen thinks a heap of him fer helpin’ bury her pa and bringin’ her and her granny here. Might be he’ll take to her. She’d make him a good woman.”

  “Yes, she would.” Jenny felt a little lonely. Was it the thought of losing Colleen or something else? “Ike, I’ve got to make a trip into Sweetwater one day soon. We need things they didn’t have at the Agency store. The man who brought us out here said it was twenty miles—”

  “—Horse-hockey. T’aint no sich. More like ten or twelve.”

  “It seemed an awfully long way. How far is it to Forest City.”

  “That’s a mite more. 1 ain�
�t knowin’ jist how much. McCall’ll know.” Ike took off his battered hat and scratched his head. “Ma’am, these fellers ain’t to be fooled with. They got a stake here. If’n ya warn’t a women, ya’d already be starin’ at the sky and seein’ nothin’.”

  “You mean if I were a man they would kill me?”

  “And blame it on the Shoshoni or a drifter and have a big to-do at the buryin’.”

  “Would they harm my sisters?”

  “I ain’t thinkin’ so. Folks’d get pretty riled up. Ma’am, if ya got menfolk what could come—”

  “I don’t. You said they. Who besides Mr. Havelshell wants Stoney Creek?”

  “I ain’t a knowin’ that. Havelshell heads the Sweetwater Cattle Company. That be all Stoney Creek is … a cattle ranch.”

  “If I don’t stay, he’ll buy the land at auction. Maybe someone would outbid him.”

  “Hee … hee … hee! Ain’t likely anybody’d get a chance.”

  The conversation with Ike lingered in Jenny’s mind for the rest of the afternoon as she worked in the schoolhouse.

  The day had not started off well for Alvin Havelshell.

  At daybreak a rider had arrived with a message. Stop here on your way to visit Arvella. The tone of the message irritated Alvin. It was a reminder that this was the day he was to do his duty by his wife.

  He had arrived at the house early. The man was sitting at the breakfast table when Alvin was ushered in by the rider who had brought the message. He looked up from the plate of ham and eggs and spoke without as much as a greeting.

  “I trust you’ve not spent yourself on that whore from the hotel and will have something left for your wife.”

  “The whore from the hotel helps me keep the juices flowing so I can do the … job.” Havelshell was unable to suppress his irritation. “A man’s got certain … needs. I’m sure you understand that.” He said the last as a young Chinese girl padded noiselessly from the room.

  “Don’t get lippy, Alvin. I’ve got a lot at stake here. There’s nothing wrong with Arvella except that she’s fat. Even the fattest cow can calve. I need an offspring from her. I need for folks to know that she’s pregnant. I need for her to deliver a live child.”

  “How could they tell if she’s pregnant?” Alvin muttered, then asked belligerently. “Is that all?”

  “No, it isn’t all. Stay the night out there. Do it as many times as you can, that is if she hasn’t missed her monthly flow.”

  Of course I’ll stay the night. Do you think I could screw that fat sow in the light of day?

  “Do you want to come along and oversee the job?” Alvin despised these conversations with his wife’s father.

  “I may find it necessary if she doesn’t catch soon.” The man spoke as if he was putting a stallion to a mare. “Oh, yes. Stop by and see the teacher. The womenfolk of that nester your man killed are staying with her. What have you done about McCall? I won’t have him nosing in.”

  “He’s made an enemy of Hartog. He’ll be taken care of.”

  “Make it an accident. Killings are something folks talk about. Go on.” He made a shooing motion with his hand. “Hold up your end of the bargain and we’ll get along fine.”

  Havelshell went back to his buggy in a seething rage. The puffed-up sonofabitch! Ordering him around like he was a hired hand! Go on. Screw my daughter as many times as you can. Hell. If he didn’t look at her he might be lucky and get it hard enough … once.

  How had he put himself into this situation—required to service that fat cow? He knew the answer without even thinking about it. He was a man who wanted, needed, wealth and position. He had thought that this was a good short cut. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Alvin left Stoney Creek in a state of frustration. Virginia Gray was a woman who aroused emotion in a man. Thinking about her on his way to the reservation, he experienced an increase in the beat of his heart. It was a pleasant feeling, reminding him of his youth and when he had had dreams of haughty girls who would swear undying love for him. He kept his mind focused on the slim auburn-haired woman, and enjoyed his reverie as the horse pulling his buggy trotted down the trail and into the clearing in front of the Indian store.

  Pud Harris, the rider who accompanied him, dismounted, tied his mount to the hitching rail and stood waiting for Alvin to step down from the buggy. Pud was a short, long-bodied man with thick brown hair and a mustache that bracketed his wide lips. He didn’t talk much. Alvin doubted he’d exchanged more than a dozen words with him. He was usually the one the old man sent to accompany him on these trips. Several times he had caught Harris looking at Arvella without the expression of revulsion she usually inspired in men. Maybe the cowboy wasn’t as revolted by her grossly fat body as other men were.

  It occurred to Alvin that he might get the cowboy to take his place in his wife’s bed some dark night. What stopped him was that he wasn’t sure how tight Pud was with the old man. He had about made up his mind to invite Harris in to supper when Linus came out of the store and leaned against a porch post.

  “I told you the last time I was here to keep the horseshit picked up,” he snarled at Linus. “It’s a foot deep along the trail.”

  “It ain’t that deep.”

  “It smells like it.”

  Alvin walked past him and into the store. It was gloomy; the only light coming in through the open door. For a moment he saw it through the eyes of Virginia Gray. It was dirty, sparsely stocked and smelled like sweaty feet. But hell, it was good enough for Indians.

  As usual the rooms in the living quarters were spotlessly clean. The oak table gleamed; the lamp chimneys sparkled. The scents of a delicious meal being prepared came from the kitchen.

  “Hello, Alvin.” The voice reached him as he hung his hat on the hatrack. He waited as long as possible before he turned to greet his wife.

  “Hello, Arvella.”

  She had prepared herself for his visit. The loose garment of soft, blue-sprigged fabric that covered her massive bulk hung from her shoulders to the floor. Her blond hair had been washed and puffed. Alvin’s eyes swept over her and away.

  “Dinner will be ready soon. If you want to wash up, there’s warm water in the pitcher in the bedroom.”

  “I think I’ll do that. It’s a long trip out from Sweetwater.” At the door, he turned back unable to hold back the question he asked. “Do you have news for me, Arvella?”

  “Not the news you want.”

  Alvin turned into the bedroom and closed the door. He glanced once at the stout bed on his way to the washstand. No doubt it had been spread with fresh clean linen for his visit. He closed his eyes briefly before looking at his reflection in the mirror that hung over the china washbowl. He saw a man with a sprinkling of gray in his dark hair and mustache. Hell, he was almost forty years old! He hadn’t much time left to make a big name for himself.

  Alvin indulged himself in a moment of self-pity. Not only had he the man and Arvella to contend with, but that damn Linus was like a millstone about his neck. Why couldn’t the goddamn kid clean himself up? If he weren’t so valuable a snoop, he’d put him on a train and hope that he’d end up in South America in the middle of a revolution.

  During dinner Alvin sat at one end of the table and Arvella at the other. Moonrock served a perfectly cooked meal of chicken with dumplings, green peas and raisin cream pie. The linen cloth on the table was edged with lace tatting. The gleaming silver service was correctly laid alongside the thin china plates. Alvin enjoyed the meal. It was far better than any he could get in Sweetwater. Cooking was one, possibly the only, talent Arvella possessed, and she had taught the Indian girl how to serve.

  After making a few futile attempts at conversation Alvin lapsed into silence. The only diversion other than eating was watching the young Shoshoni girl move from table to kitchen as she served the meal. Had she sprouted breasts since he was here last, or was he just now noticing?

  She was dressed in a neat, but faded dress, with a white apron tied about he
r slender waist. Her black hair was parted in the middle and hung over her shoulders in two braids. She kept her eyes down, never looking at Alvin or Arvella. She must be about fourteen now, Alvin mused. You couldn’t tell about Indian girls; they never seemed to be very young or very old.

  After the meal, Alvin sat at the desk and looked over the books. The entries were made in a neat hand: the number of cattle brought to the agency, the number turned over to the Indians, the number of pelts traded and for which goods. A note was made about the kind of fur and its condition. He paid special attention to what had been purchased by Miss Gray, and was startled at what Arvella charged her.

  His wife, he admitted begrudgingly, kept a set of books that would pass the Indian Bureau inspection, should the occasion arise.

  She sat in the large chair, her small, plump hands clasped over her belly, her small feet just touching the floor. Alvin could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head.

  “You’ve met the teacher the Bureau sent out.” Alvin spoke without turning around.

  “Yes. I listed what she bought and what I charged her.”

  “I see that. It was plenty.”

  “She didn’t complain.”

  “Did you invite her to have tea or coffee.”

  “No. She and Linus had a set-to.”

  “Yeah.” He stared down at the closed ledger. “What about?”

  “The Whitaker kid. He came in to trade.”

  “Was it trade day?”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t going to trade in front of … her.”

  “I suppose Linus stuck his bill in.”

  “He told the kid to get out. She pulled a gun on him.”

  “Linus backed down?”

  “You would have, too. She had the gun stuck in his privates.”

  Linus’s voice came from the kitchen. He was whining about something while he ate his meal. Why didn’t Arvella insist the kid eat in the bunkhouse with the other men?

  “Go to bed, Arvella. I’ll be there soon.” He turned off the lamp on the desk and stayed with his back turned until he heard the bedroom door close. Then he heaved a heavy sigh and got to his feet.