Wishing she had worn more appropriate clothing for horseback, and more specifically for riding astride, she smoothed her skirt as best she could and allowed the big roan to carry them. The party of three moved in a westerly direction. No one spoke as they watched the day unfold before them.
The morning sun felt warm and inviting on Belle’s back as they rode in silence. A wooded area along the river’s bank stretched far inland, and when they came to a clearing, she could feel Jake press the stallion’s belly with his knees. The big roan stopped on command.
Jake scanned the open area for a few moments, concentrating on the woods beyond, apparently looking for any sign of movement. He must have felt confident because they entered the clearing.
The gentle squeak of leather upon leather as the saddles moved against the two men’s buckskin breeches made a comforting sound, almost to the point of lulling one to sleep with the rocking motion of the animal’s easy gait. The horses breathed heavily from time to time while ropes creaked against the trunks. Mockingbirds chattered some distance away.
The trio reached a second wooded area, and Belle could see the river again. “Are we going in a circle?” she asked.
“No,” Jake said, his voice quiet yet abrupt.
Furious that he wouldn’t answer her question in more detail, Belle decided to ask the man named Owens. “Mr. O…” was all she could say before Jake swiveled around and clamped his hand over her mouth. He covered her nose too, shutting off sound and breathing.
She fought his hand until she saw bright colors move to the left of her vision. Indians! Real Indians in full regalia.
Jake relaxed his grip when Belle stiffened and held her breath. She stopped struggling and viewed the procession in awe. The mounted Indians wore beautiful costumes, with gorgeous feathers of all colors and sizes on their heads and ankles, even on their horses, as varied and colorful as the Indians themselves. Paints, roans, bays, buckskins, palominos, and a few breeds and colors Belle had never seen before paraded single file not far from her.
The men wore dark buckskin breeches that barely covered their most private parts. In place of shirts, they wore breastplates that rattled.
Are those made of bones and animal teeth?
The women wore light doeskin dresses, a cream color like fresh-churned butter, with brilliant strips interwoven in the dresses and moccasins.
Are they beaded?
From this distance, she saw women petite and pretty and men long and lean. Braves were masculine, yet elegant, their bronzed bodies and black braids shining in the sunlight. Women and men rode with poise and presence.
How could these people be regarded as savages?
Jake removed his hand from Belle’s mouth and eased out of the saddle with a lithe grace that belied his size. He held the horses’ muzzles so they wouldn’t whinny to the Indian ponies. Owens did the same with his gray. Silence was wonderful, but at that moment, it meant the difference between life and death.
When the procession rounded the bend of the river to the north, Belle, Jake, and Owens moved again, this time to the south.
“Comanche,” Jake whispered, “but not from around here.”
When the trio neared the settlement, the men talked in normal tones again.
“Mrs. Strong,” Owens said, “to answer your question, the river takes a lot of bends and turns along here, so you will see wooded areas intermingled with prairie land. It may look like you’re going in circles, but you’re not. When we get into Horseshoe Bend just ahead, I’ll show you a roughed-out map of the territory, if you like, and you’ll be able to put it into perspective.”
He cleared his throat before continuing and looked straight ahead. “I sure hope your husband is waiting for you. A fine lady like yourself shouldn’t be left alone out here. We don’t have many womenfolk in this raw land yet.”
Later, Jake rose from the saddle, his stirrups creaking as they held his full weight. He moved his right arm in a wide arc over his head to signal someone.
Belle peered around Jake’s muscular frame and focused on a lone figure high atop a bluff, the steep rock formation interspersed with tufts of grass. The man stood in front of a stand of blackjack trees and would not have been spotted if one had not known where to look. He seemed to meld into the trees before he stepped forward and motioned them in.
Jake eased back down onto the saddle, and the party moved on. No one spoke, and as Belle looked toward the sentry’s position, she could no longer see him. He had disappeared into the timber. No movement, no shadow, no sound.
Will I ever get used to this silence?
The men startled her when they began to converse. They joked and laughed, and Jake turned his head a little to include her.
“Why the change?” Belle asked. “Why may we speak now and not before?”
“Well, ma’am,” drawled Jake, “that sentry up there just told us that we’re free of Indians clear on in to the settlement. We could have bumped into those red devils any second along the way back there.”
“Oh,” she said. “How far are we now from the settlement?” Her body needed a rest from this unexpected mode of travel. She had planned to ride in leisure on a wagon seat, padded with her own hand-made quilts. Yes, sitting on quilts next to my husband was the way I thought I would travel to my new home. Continuing to look behind them from time to time, she kept hoping to see Michael’s wagon in the distance.
“We should be there soon. It’s only about five more miles,” Jake said, his drawl absent.
Owens rode closer to them. “Why didn’t you stop and visit with your Comanche friends back there, Jake?”
“Because those are probably Quohadie Tejas, the Antelope Eaters. All the Comanche bands could be coming in for their annual sun dance. Must be in our area this year.”
Owens looked toward Belle. “What did you think of the Indians, ma’am?”
“Which ones?”
Both men laughed at her.
“Well, I didn’t really see the Indians who fired upon us,” she said. “And just how did you know what tribe they were?”
Trader Jake turned around to look at her. “There were plenty of signs, ma’am, but mostly I could smell them.” He wrinkled his nose.
“Now it’s my turn to laugh,” she said. “After the way you smell, how could you smell Indians?”
Jake tugged on the reins, and the big roan came to an abrupt halt.
Belle wondered if she had gone too far this time when the big man looked her full in the face. She felt like he was studying her, seeing her full lips she was self-conscious of, and her dainty nose she didn’t think was large enough for her face.
When he looked into her eyes, she tried to turn away, but his eyes held hers, as if he were seeing deep into her soul. His eyes finally released hers, and his gaze moved upward to her auburn hair. A few stray tendrils sneaked out from under her green hat and tickled her neck. Impulsively, she reached up to straighten her hair, and Jake turned back around.
“The Tonkawas are from farther down the coast and are primarily fishermen,” Owens said. “But when they raid, they’re known as the People-Eaters.”
Astonished, Belle stared at him. “We don’t have cannibals in this country,” she said. “You’re fooling me because I’m new here.”
“No, ma’am. He’s telling you true,” Jake said over his shoulder.
Belle didn’t know whether to believe them or not and decided to ask someone else later. Maybe Michael will know. Where is he anyway? Have the Tonkawas attacked him? She shuddered, then looked behind them again. Still no sign of her husband. A sigh of relief escaped her lips since no Indians followed them.
They had ridden for some time since seeing the sentry when tinkly sounds broke the silence. Jake reined in his horse and cocked his head to one side for a moment.
Belle listened intently to identify the sounds and recognized a piano. Being played badly.
All of a sudden, Jake’s broad shoulders tensed, and his weathered jacket l
ooked as if it might split from the strain, the muscles in his back hard and sinewy. He brushed against Belle’s tender nipples through her dress. In that instant when she started to move away from his touch, he leaned forward and slapped the roan with the long reins. The horse bolted.
Belle’s reflex was immediate due to years of riding experience. She reached for the muscular form in front of her and clasped her hands around the man’s torso. The horse raced ahead, and Belle turned her head to one side to keep from bumping her chin on Jake’s pulsing back. The scent of buckskin and sweat overpowered the earlier smells so offensive to her. Holding on tight until he brought the horse to an abrupt halt in front of a small hotel, she released her grip and jerked away from the trader.
He jumped down out of the saddle and looked at her with a boyish grin, displaying evenly-spaced teeth. His eyes glittered with enthusiasm.
Although furious with him, Belle could not suppress the excitement she felt from the spontaneous ride. She had to admit his enthusiasm and vibrant grin captivated her, but she hated the impropriety. To hide her mixed feelings, she let her temper flare.
“How dare you do such a thing,” she yelled. “You could have killed me.”
“You were never in danger. I recognize a horsewoman.” He offered to help her dismount.
“Go away!” She waved him aside.
He gave her a cold stare, then turned his back on her and stalked off.
Looking around and seeing only a few wooden buildings, Belle had to bite her lower lip to keep from crying because she had hoped for a larger settlement. To hide her displeasure, she forced a smile when Owens came to her side and helped her alight from the big roan which stood patiently, still blowing from his run. Belle thought this horse a remarkable animal, having carried two riders a considerable distance, yet still had the stamina to race. Memories of favorite horses surfaced, reminding her how she enjoyed watching them compete back home in South Carolina. She loved fine horseflesh as well as any man. Reaching under the roan’s belly, she loosened the cinch so he could breathe easier, then stroked his lathered withers and crooned to him.
The horse turned his head to look at her when she caressed his velvet nose and blinked when she kissed him on the forehead.
“Shore wish I was a horse,” a man said, standing near her elbow. “She could shore kiss me.”
Murmurs of agreement came from the small crowd that formed around the newcomer. A startled Belle looked from face to face. So intent on making the horse comfortable, she had not heard the men approach.
Where did they all come from? Belle searched for Michael in their midst but saw no one who resembled him. She heard fragments of conversation from the strange assortment of men who stared at her.
“Purty hair,” a gruff, but not unkind, voice said.
“Eyes greener than grass,” another man said, his voice dreamy.
A couple of men asked in unison, “Who is she?”
“A real lady. No dance-hall gal,” someone volunteered.
“Whose woman is she, you reckon?”
“Too pretty for any man,” one said, firm conviction in his voice.
“Ain’t that a funny-lookin’ feather?” one asked, but no one laughed. They appeared to be in awe of the beautiful girl, barely old enough to be considered a woman.
Belle finally found her voice. “Does anyone here know a Michael Strong?”
At first there were whispers, and then a hush fell over the men.
Belle repeated her question but could not suppress the apprehension in her voice this time.
An elderly, bewhiskered gent pushed to the front of the crowd. He removed his misshapen hat and held it in his hands, nervously rolling the stained brim that appeared to have seen years of sweat and dust.
“Ma’am,” he said, almost whispering. He looked down at his scuffed boots and never looked back up.
“What is it?” Belle said in a tender voice because she needed to know about Michael. Although she wanted to know right now, she was afraid to put demands on the soft-spoken man.
He must have something to tell me but is uneasy about doing so. He’s the only person I’ve met that seems to know anything at all about my husband.
“He’s over at Doc’s place,” the old gent said. “Slave boy brung ’im in yestiddy.” He cleared his throat and added, “Been shot.”
“Oh, my Lord,” whispered Belle as she closed her eyes for a quick, silent prayer. When she opened her eyes, Owens was the only man around. The piano started playing again, and Belle realized where the other men had gone. Now she knew where they had all come from earlier, but it didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered except seeing Michael.
With southern hospitality, Owens escorted her across the dirt street to the only two-story building on the east side. They went up the outside stairs to the doctor’s office.
Belle gasped when she saw the still form lying on the examining table and ran to look down into a strange man’s face. It was Michael, she decided after a moment, but he had changed so much. His sandy hair looked thinner, and he had let it grow long. With his clean-shaven face replaced by a full beard, he looked like a different person. Instead of the color of river sand, his beard had come in much darker and redder, almost the color of her own hair. He looked weak and tired. He did not open his eyes.
“Michael,” she whispered. “Michael, wake up.”
The doctor appeared, introduced himself, and told her Michael had gone into a coma.
“What does that mean?” she asked, her voice hesitant. Her body shook from fear.
Owens brought a ladder-back chair for her and placed it near Michael. She eased into it and studied her new husband, wondering if the wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead had always been there. She couldn’t remember him looking this way. He seemed so much older than when she last saw him.
“It means,” the doctor was saying, “that he is very ill after having his lights shot out.” The doctor paused. “I’m sorry. He suffered a severe gunshot wound, and the bullet went through his lung. His breathing is labored, and he’s lost a lot of blood. I removed the bullet, but the rest of his treatment has to come from The Almighty.”
“Isn’t there anything else you can do?” Owens wanted to know.
“Nope, we just have to wait and see. No one knows how long that wait will be. It could take days. You might as well find a place to stay.”
“Let me take you to the hotel so you can rest a bit, Mrs. Strong,” Owens said, his demeanor gentle. “I’ll see to your belongings, then I’ll try to find out the whole story, and we’ll talk after you’ve rested.”
Belle tried to protest but felt so dusty and weary. Perhaps freshening up and resting was a good idea. How sweet and kind Owens is, but he doesn’t smile. We are strangers who met only hours ago, yet I feel close to him. I feel that I’ve known him forever. Her thoughts went again to Michael, and she hoped that he would improve by the time she returned. Maybe then, he would wake.
Chapter Two
A soft and gentle breeze caressed Belle’s bare leg on the hotel bed. She shifted the rough, woolen coverlet and tucked it under her knee. Still drowsy from her nap, she pressed her body deeper into the hard bedding made from corn shucks and feathers, stuffed inside a covering of coarsely-woven canvas, the kind usually used for tents and wagon covers. She slept between clean muslin sheets and dreamed of her mother and a time not long ago, yet far away from Texas.
****
“Belle, please come in here and sit a spell,” Elizabeth called from her bedroom.
Wishing she could cry but knowing she must remain strong, Belle Cooper put on a faint smile and greeted her dying mother.
Elizabeth looked pale, compared to the bright colors in the quilts and coverlets in her room. The fabrics brought back memories of a more pleasant time for both women.
“Mother,” Belle said, “do you recall trying to get enough blue calico to applique stars on my second quilt and the mess I made the first time I tried
to cut out my own pattern for Pot of Flowers? You laughed and told me to just give it a new name rather than hurt my feelings.”
“Afterward, we corrected it,” Elizabeth said. “Yes, I remember it well, although that was a long time ago. It was cheerful. Lots of whimsy.”
“Blossoms larger than their containers.”
“I remember those times and plenty more. I love having a daughter and a friend all rolled into one. Not all mothers are so fortunate.” She mustered a smile.
The two had laughed and loved while appliqueing, even reverse applique. And when the time came to assemble quilts and coverlets, they had also shared sore fingers from quilting too many hours at one sitting. They found it difficult to put their needles down, even after quilting all day, because they had so much fun—something they could always do together.
Together, but never again. Never do things together. Belle remembered what the doctor told her in confidence the day before. Her mother’s condition had worsened in the week’s interval between doctor’s home visits, and she had a short time to live.
Belle winced when she helped her mother sit up in bed to make her more comfortable. Wishing she could ease her mother’s pain and knowing that was impossible was almost more than a daughter could bear.
Studying her mother’s lined face, Belle thought what a pretty woman she still was. Even though age and hard work had taken their toll, Elizabeth was still comely, except for the pain in her eyes. Elizabeth. The name suited her well. She was quiet yet forceful, dainty yet strong, reserved yet able to take off her apron and dance a jig around the kitchen table. How everyone used to giggle, then burst into laughter at times like that. The name Elizabeth seemed to say all the things Belle’s mother lived for.
Lived for. Belle choked back tears. Elizabeth’s time was short, yet she never complained. Her eyes didn’t twinkle anymore, and she couldn’t walk, but her spirit never faltered.
“Belle, we have to talk. You must give the man an answer to his proposal,” Elizabeth said, her tone matter-of-fact.
“Mother, please don’t be in such a hurry.”
“My dear daughter, I am in a hurry. I shan’t be here much longer, and I must know that you will be cared for. I cannot rest in peace until I know this.”
River Bend Page 2