Naked in the Winter Wind

by Dani Haviland

  However, we were still careful not to talk about Sarah, me, and our involvement with the future. If Wallace knew about it, he wasn’t letting on. My gut feeling, though, was that he knew and was playing the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ card, just in case.

  I had memorized the short list of supplies we needed. I was hoping we would be able to get at least half of the items. We had little in the way of money, but did have some goods to barter. That didn’t always make a difference. The war had left many commodities in short supply or completely non-existent. We were better off than most—we still had a few goats and chickens, and seed for the crops we would be putting in soon. We were rich in men, but made sure Wallace kept a low profile. Julian was older, smaller, and less likely to be drafted. Involuntary conscription into military service for either side of the conflict was still a frightening possibility for a strong young man.

  Julian brought the buckboard wagon right up to the front steps. My legs weren’t very long to begin with—just long enough to reach the ground—but now my belly was in the way of lifting my foot high enough to climb into the wagon unaided. Wallace was aware of my dilemma, so had built an easy access step on the passenger side for me. The rope and wood step was a convenient addition and swung out of the way when we were riding. When the babies came, maybe Ian could build a little swing for the babies using the same design.

  Shoot, what am I thinking? He’ll never come back. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of that uncomfortable feeling of abandonment that has snuck in. Again. As always, unwanted and unbidden. Pregnant and abandoned.

  The ride took three hours. It would have only been two and a half, but I had to keep stopping for potty breaks. Julian was the perfect gentleman, helping me up and down from the wagon seat, and turning his back as I headed into the scrub to pee. I still couldn’t figure out how I could pee more than I could drink. I was appreciative of the fact that he didn’t complain about having to stop all the time. He knew I was self-conscious about it, and would never think to add to my discomfort.

  We finally arrived in Gibsonville about noon. I went to the general store to see if I could find some gray or other neutral tone fabric to make jackets and trousers for Julian and Wallace. When Julian found out that I wanted the fabric so the two of them would have clothing that was not obviously modified British uniforms, he gave me a couple of coins to take care of the purchase.

  I was able to buy a bolt of a light brown—kind of tan—heavy wool. It reminded me of the fabric used for Carhartt coveralls. Strange how that memory came: I saw the fabric, then the name label, and then the blocky style and design of those coats and coveralls just appeared in my head. I wondered if Levi Strauss had come along with his heavy cotton canvas jeans with the riveted seams yet. Nah—that was a California Gold Rush era design. Still, I’d remember to ask if brass rivets were available. Maybe a relative of Levi would see the pants I planned on making and would pass the information down the line to his grandson. I wouldn’t be changing history. After all, I wasn’t taking out a patent or anything.

  I was able to get most of the items on my unscripted list without having to trade any of Sarah’s sweet soaps. The one item I couldn’t get was baking soda. When I asked for it, the man didn’t know what I was talking about. I even told him that it might be in an orange box with a drawing of a strongman’s arm and heavy hammer on it. Andrew, the storekeeper, must have thought I was crazy, but was very polite and told me he didn’t carry it at his store. He was definitely happy to get Julian’s silver coin for the goods, though. He even threw in some cinnamon bark in the deal. It was a small gesture for him, but meant so much to me.

  The promise of cinnamon rolls or coffee cake for breakfast made me hungry, and now my stomach was making low, growling noises. I reached into my bag and took out one of my little sandwiches. I had figured out how to make mayonnaise from egg, oil, and vinegar. It went together well with Sarah’s cheese and the sourdough bread I had baked earlier, and it also kept the sandwich from sticking to the roof of my mouth.

  The shopkeeper had loaded the wagon for me, and I was ready to leave, but Julian was nowhere to be found. I wandered around the almost-a-town looking for him, rather than asking if anyone had seen him. He was still trying to keep a low profile, so I didn’t want to draw any attention to the new resident in the area.

  Attention had found him, though. There was a gathering of angry men about hundred yards away, and Julian was right in the middle of it, trying to quell the fracas—or at least keep the crowd from turning into a lynch mob. His arms were out and to the side, figuratively protecting a good-looking young man from the grasping arms reaching out from the angry, fist-shaking crowd. Well, maybe it was literally, but I knew Julian was unarmed.

  He and his charge were standing in front of a colorful enclosed wagon. Two magnificent pale gray horses, their rear ends dappled black, were tied to the back of it with a coarse rope. The steeds weren’t hitched to it, but looked as if they belonged with it. They were Andalusian horses, rare in this century in any country other than Spain. Four Angora goats, apparently a part of the menagerie, were tied together on a long lead, idly grazing the sparse grass, ignoring the to-do around them.

  The carriage was basically brown—its natural wood color—with ornately carved trim. That alone was impressive, but it was also painted with stylized critters on the back and sides—dragons and butterflies, maybe. The outlandish green, blue, and yellow creatures were gathered around what appeared to be a big dish of apples.

  However, the gypsy/hippie-looking rig wasn’t the focus of the excitement. A short, ugly man was trying to work the crowd into frenzy. He was calling for the death of the petite, dark-haired young man—the apparent owner of the wagon and the exotic breeds of four-legged critters.

  Julian was doing a good job of holding his ground. He wasn’t very tall or physically intimidating—about the same size as the scared young man next to him—but he more than made up for it with his boldness. I guessed all the anger and frustration of being on virtual house arrest, having to hide out at the Pomeroys, was spewing forth—he was letting the crowd have it at top volume.

  “Just because a man comes into town with strange-looking animals and an unusual wagon, does not mean he is evil. Let him be on his way. These are obviously his goods, and no one here has a right to them.”

  The short, ugly man who appeared to be the leader of the mob stomped the ground angrily as he approached Julian, shaking the coiled whip in his hand.

  “How would you explain this then? It’s a whip like the one that scourged our Lord. And look at his wagon: it’s covered with images of demons feastin’ on human hearts. This fiend has come to ravage our families and animals! He’s even brought the Devil’s own familiars with him. We who read the Good Book know the goat is the symbol of the Evil one. And these aren’t real goats, the ones He made to give us milk and cheese: they’re freaks! And those stallions! They’re not real horses like we use for ridin’ or pullin’ a plow. They’re the spawn of Satan himself! None of us is safe while this follower of Satan is around. He must be hanged by the neck until dead, and then drawn and quartered to make sure he doesn’t come back in one piece to haunt us!”

  The whole time he was ranting at Julian, the enraged townsman was making broad, crowd-inciting movements with his arms and body, pointing to different people in the crowd with the whip clenched in his fist, urging them to agree with him. He reminded me of a little Hitler without the mustache and armbands.

  Julian held up his hands to try and quiet the horde so he could speak. They settled down enough to hear him. “What does the accused man have to say about all of this?” Julian asked the instigator, his voice an octave lower than normal, his face scowling at him.

  Short Ugly spoke out boldly as he shoved his way through the crowd to claim center stage, not in the least bit intimidated by Julian. “The man speaks in the tongue of the Devil. He won’t even talk to us in English! He is evil from the top of his black-haired head t
o the bottom of his snakeskin boots.”

  I looked down. Sure enough, the man had on snakeskin boots. Oh, boy. What we had here was a cowboy.

  “May I ask him a question, please,” I interrupted. I waddled forward and elbowed my very large pregnant form into the middle of the crowd. Stunned, everyone stopped babbling to hear what the big-bellied woman had to say. “¿Habla usted Español?” I asked the frightened newcomer.

  “Si, si, señora. ¿Es usted mi amiga?” he asked, a spark of hope showing in his dark brown eyes.

  “Si, momentito, por favor,” I replied, sharing with him a genuine smile of hope. I changed focus. “Julian, do you speak Spanish?”

  Julian, flustered and angry, literally had his back up against the visitor, protecting him from the encroaching crowd. “I can read it, but speak very little. Do you think we can help him?”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it,” I replied loudly and with self-assurance, locking eyes with the short, ugly tyrant to make sure he heard me.

  I leaned in and whispered to Julian, “I think I’m going to have to get creative, shall we say, on what I know. I know some of what’s going on here. I think it’s obvious to you and anyone else who hasn’t been taken in, that Short Ugly wants at least those two beautiful horses. Will you support me if I jump into the middle of this, or do you want to try to handle it by yourself?”

  Julian grinned. “Give it your best defense, dear. If they turn on us, I’ll just claim it was your ‘delicate’ condition,” he said and looked at my broad belly, “giving you delusions.”

  Everyone’s eyes followed me as I waddled up to the front of the group. They were quietly curious, but I wasn’t fooled. Docile sheep-type crowds could quickly change into a lynch mob under the right—or wrong—leader.

  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said, commanding their attention with both my booming voice and attitude. “I’m going to touch everyone here. If I tap you on the arm, you’re to go sit down in the tavern by the window. If I tap you on the head, you can stand outside the tavern and watch the proceedings, or go home—your choice. We’re going to find out what’s going on here Alaska-style.”

  I went through the crowd, tapping high and low. The slow, dim-witted looking people were ‘touched in the head.’ I was also gently head-thumping the ones who looked ready to turn violent. Those I tapped on the arm were going to be on the jury. The others were the audience.

  “Everyone inside,” I hollered. “Now, sir,” I said to Short Ugly, “Please untie the accused so we can get this trial a-movin’!”

  Short Ugly was rough as he grabbed the man’s wrists, and nearly sliced his captive’s thumb when he cut the rope. He pushed him through the tavern entryway, knocking him against the wall, and tried to kick his feet out from underneath him on the way in.

  “Untie his legs, too,” I ordered, hoping he heard my glaring omission of the word please. He grumbled, but did as he was told.

  All of the men and women gathered by the window or sat with hat in hand—if they had one—and waited for me to speak again. When everyone had settled down, I began. “All right, now what is your name,” I asked Short Ugly.

  “I’m Richard Short, owner of the property down by the creek. I found this man there, lettin’ his animals eat my grass and drink my water. As soon as I saw his wagon, I knew he was from the Devil.”

  I put up my hand to stop his dissertation. “Okay, I mean, all right; just give us the facts. Save your guesses for later.”

  I turned to face the crowd of townsfolk, all of them staring at me, slack-jawed in anticipation, waiting for my directions. “All right, everyone, what we are going to do is have a trial.”

  I felt like a female Perry Mason addressing the jury, getting their full attention before I even started with my opening statement. “This is how we’re going to do it. Mr. Short, you will tell us your side of the story, part of which you have already shared, and then I will ask you some questions. Then we will have others tell what they saw, and you and I will ask them questions—that is, if you have any. Does this sound fair to you?”

  “Well, I s’pose so, but what does that do?” he asked, obviously confused.

  “When we’re done, we’ll ask these twelve fine ladies and gentlemen who were selected as our jury by a touch to the arm, to confer amongst themselves. We’ll let them figure out if this man deserves to die just because he has a colorful wagon and beautiful animals.” I batted my eyelashes and smiled coyly, accentuating ‘just because’ to gain their sympathy. I was enjoying my role as Ms. Perry Mason, endearing myself to the men and women of the jury, even before the trial started.

  “And don’t forget, them demon animals was eatin’ my grass and drinkin’ my water, too,” he bellowed.

  “All right, shall we begin?” I asked rhetorically, totally ignoring the excitable man’s outburst.

  I wrung my hands and addressed my nemesis. “Mr. Short, have you ever driven any of your animals from your place to another site and had them drink by a creek not on your own property or eat the grass by the road?”

  “Well, yes, ma’am, but that was a long time ago. I had to get my critters to the place I just bought. There was no other way to get them there,” replied Mr. Short, nodding and looking around at his peers for validation.

  “So, in the past, you have done the same thing that this man has done?” I asked, sweeping imaginary dirt off of my skirt.

  “Yes, ma’am, but I was on my way to my own place,” he insisted, taking his excitement level down a notch or two. “This is different.”

  “Now, you were talking about the Bible earlier. Don’t you think the Lord, who has given us the water that flows and the grass that grows, don’t you think He’d want us to share with other travelers?”

  “Well, I guess so, but this man has devil animals, and he was goin’ all over the countryside, cursin’ people,” he exclaimed, rising from his seat, all wound up again.

  “Mr. Short, I would like to remind you that the Lord created both goats and horses. Many of us around here have these same animals, although maybe not with the same long hair or coloring. Therefore, I do not believe his animals are an issue here. Now, have you or anyone else received a curse from this man? And if so, what was it, and did anyone else hear it?”

  “Well, he said somethin’ that I didn’t understand, but I think it was a curse. Will Severson heard him, didn’t ya, Will?”

  A tall blond man stood up. “Ja, I heard ‘im say sumtim, den he starts vavin’ his arms, jumpin up und down. I dunt know if twer a curse, bit it was sumtim else to see.”

  “Just a moment, men,” I said. My Spanish-speaking defendant had figured out the gist of what was being said, and was waving at me. At least he understood the last part, when Mr. Severson imitated him.

  “Blah, blah, blah, serpiente, malo, muerte, blah, blah,” was what I heard—but it was enough.

  “Mr. Short, Mr. Severson: have you ever seen big snakes, like water moccasins, down by the creek?”

  “Ja, I kilt one right after dis devil man started screamin’. If I hadn’t, it vould ha’ kilt Herr Short!”

  “Do you think this man could possibly have been trying to tell Mr. Short that there was a snake and to be careful?”

  “Ja, Ja. Ohhh, so dat’s vat it vuz! Sorry, mein herr. And tank you fer lookin’ out fer us,” He bowed as he thanked the stranger. “Tank you verra much.”

  I drew a deep breath. “So here we have a man who doesn’t speak our language, who stops to water his animals, and warns a man about a deadly snake—actually, in a way, saving his life—and you want to repay him by hanging him? Come on now, folks—is this the way to treat a new member of our community?”

  I looked over at Julian and our new friend. Julian was waving a piece of paper at me. “Just a moment, please, people.” I strutted over to Julian as only a very pregnant woman could, maintaining my ‘I am in charge’ attitude.

  “This is a land grant,” he whispered. “His property is between here and Jody�
�s place. He’s going to be our new neighbor. He isn’t a transient—he was almost home when he stopped to water his animals.”

  “Wow,” I said softly. I got back to my center-stage position. I paused to make sure the murmurs of the crowds, both inside and out, came to a complete stop. I wanted their complete attention before I addressed my impromptu jury.

  “Fellow community members, it appears we have erred greatly. This man,” I looked down at the deed to find his name, “José Rojas, is your new neighbor. His property is right next to Mr. Pomeroy’s. I think we should all offer him an apology, ask his forgiveness, and welcome him into our community. Señor Rojas,” I extended my hand to José as he rose at his name, “Lo siento mucho.”

  Everyone came up to José to shake his hand and offer apologies. It seemed I’d won over the crowd without even asking for a vote. Everyone except Mr. Short, that is. He remained standing near the door, scowling, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He had just lost the two horses he had planned on getting through deceit. We’d have to watch out for him.

  **30 José’s Ranch

  Julian walked out of the three-tabled tavern with me on one side, José on the other. I grinned at my driver and said in a low voice, “In my time and place, a person is often listed with his last name first. That means you would be referred to as Hart Julian.”

  “I’m familiar with the way of listing names. We often do the same now. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “What is the nickname for Richard?”

  “Well, there’s Rick, Rich, Dick and…” Julian paused. “Yes, I get it—Short Dick. Evie, you are such an uncouth person at times,” he scolded, paused, and then grinned as he finished, saying, “but always entertaining.”

  “Maybe there is something to names after all. He did seem to have a complex, didn’t he?” I asked sheepishly.

  “That he did,” said Julian, smiling at our little shared joke.

  The three of us arrived at José’s brilliantly adorned wagon, its style reminiscent of a gypsy’s mobile home. His horses and goats were all well fed and rested. They had eaten and drunk their fill, and were idling, swishing flies with ears and tails, enjoying a bit of early spring sunlight. I walked over to the mural on the side of the wagon. I pointed to the bowl that Richard Short had said was full of hearts. “¿Cuales son estos?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t butchering the Spanish language too badly.