by Lauran Paine
He was standing there and for some reason his legs ached. The pain was back behind his belt, too. He wanted to reach out and touch her face, her shoulders, but he couldn’t, so he took her hands and held them and looked lost. She kissed her fingers and touched them against his mouth. He didn’t kiss them back, but what he felt was frank and open in his eyes and she understood.
“Ten days, Sarahlee?”
“Shan, darling,” she said quietly, firmly, “three weeks at the least … you know that.”
He bent forward impulsively and whispered in her ear. “Christ, Sarahlee … waiting’s going to drive me crazy.”
She looked straight ahead for a moment, then drew his head down. “Don’t say things like that, Shan, it’s blasphemy. Now be good and write to me and I’ll answer you. Good-bye.”
The three stood together and watched her board the stage in silence, and remained like that, a forlorn little group, until the coach swung wide around a far corner and disappeared easterly. Then Mrs. Muller touched her face with a handkerchief and Otto cleared his throat, knocked out the pipe that had gone cold, and said: “We’d better start back. It’s going to get dark before long.”
Shan’s buggy mare followed the Muller wagon out of Tico northward. He held the light lines in a listless hand and watched the off-center moon climb skyward. The roll of land slid rearward unnoticed and for once he didn’t even hear the coyotes.
When they got to the Muller place, put up the animals and went inside, Mrs. Muller made a meal for the three of them. It was a dolorous affair and each of them was glad when it was over so they could go to bed with their private thoughts, be alone in the private world of darkness and silence.
Otto hadn’t brought out the jug and Shan had been glad that he hadn’t. He lay there in the hush, feeling hot and more lonely than he’d ever felt in his life.
Chapter Eight
When Shan found Otto the following morning, he was standing in the barn doorway, looking up. There wasn’t a blemish in the sky; it was immaculately cloudless.
“It’s supposed to rain this time of year,” Otto said reproachfully.
Shan moved past, hooked hold of the loft ladder, and began the climb upward. “It will,” he said. “If not today or tomorrow, then later.” He forked down feed and didn’t hear Otto.
“Later may be damned well too late.”
Shan climbed back down, walked around the buggy mare, and patted her, then hunkered down near where Otto was milking. Beyond the doorway the yard was green, balmy, and sunlit. Mica in the earth shone like diamonds. He thought it was beautiful in spite of the soft ache inside him.
“Can’t afford a drought this year,” Otto said.
Shan was heeding nothing but missing Sarahlee. “Don’t worry, Otto, it’ll rain.”
Otto frowned down at the bucket and said no more. They went in to breakfast together as usual, but after the meal Shan hitched the mare to the buggy and headed for his ranch, letting the mare pick her own way and gait. Once he thought of what Otto had said and looked skyward, found nothing there but more beauty, lowered his gaze, and watched the land unfold on both sides of the rig. His thoughts went back to an image of Sarahlee, drawn by a magnet that was passion and longing, subtle, indefinable longing.
A half mile beyond the witness tree he smelled something burning. For several hundred yards he sniffed without comprehending, then something took hold of his heart and squeezed. He stood up and peered from under the buggy’s tasseled top but there was no smoke. He flicked the lines at the mare. She broke over into a nervous little trot, catching some of his uneasiness.
Then he saw it. His barn was in ruins. There was extruding blackness and char where it had been, little wisps of soiled smoke curling upward in the sparkling air. He roared an oath and lashed at the mare. She gave a mighty leap. He was flung off balance and fell back upon the seat, struggled to his feet, and lashed her again until the buggy was careening wildly, wheels spinning into solid silhouettes.
When he was closer, he saw three horses standing listlessly in his yard near the cabin. One had a saddle on its back with brass tacks studded into it. Shan drew and cocked his revolver. He was driving the rig like it was a chariot, standing up, the lines in one hand.
He swirled easterly in a slewing cloud of dust. Up ahead someone let out a yell. He saw two of them run out into the open away from his cabin. Both had carbines in their hands. At that distance all he could do was make out that they were men. Bending his knees to absorb the movement and vibration, he leveled his handgun and fired. One of the figures bounded into the air and lit, running. Another one ran up from nowhere and knelt. Shan was hauling back hard on the lines when that one fired. The bullet didn’t come close. He catapulted out of the buggy and shot once, standing still. The kneeling man fell sideways. From around in back of the cabin a figure emerged on horseback, bent far forward and riding hard. Shan fired and missed. The third figure also fled.
When the first rider burst into sight again, he was far over one side of his mount, the sun shining off his carbine held beneath his horse’s neck. For some reason he did not return Shan’s fire. He was very quickly out of pistol range.
Shan trotted forward with his gun dangling and his throat parched and feeling tight. He toed the crumpled figure over onto its back. It was a young buck Indian. Shan’s bullet had struck within two inches of the dead man’s heart, to the right a little. Standing there with sweat dripping from his chin, running down between his shoulder blades under his shirt, he heard the same cry again. It galvanized him to life. He ran to the cabin, pushed aside the door, noticed fleetingly how it had been forced, the hasp broken, found his carbine behind the stove, and hurried back outside. The dead Indian’s horse was tied under a scrub oak tree. He leaped upon it, jerked it around, and used the carbine butt to get speed.
The animal was large and fast. There was a small US branded along its neck. It responded to Shan’s urgings with every sinew. The wind whipping past drove water from the corners of its rider’s eyes but even so he was forced to ride a full two miles before he saw the two Indians.
They were watching him, sitting their horses close together. It took a moment for the enraged white man to comprehend; they thought he was their companion. He bent low to simulate a hard-riding buck Indian until he was close enough, then he slammed the big gelding back on its haunches, slid off, dropped to one knee, and fired the carbine. The foremost Indian threw up his hands and went backward off his horse. The surviving hostile turned to flee without making any attempt to shoot back.
Shan remounted the cavalry horse and pounded it forward again. It was almost immediately evident his horse was far stronger than the one ahead, that he would overtake the escaping Indian. Twice he threw the carbine up and twice he lowered it. The muzzle jerked too erratically to fire; there was slight chance of hitting the fleeing Indian while he was in motion.
Seeing the inevitable fast approaching over his shoulder, the remaining Indian yawed wide and made desperately for some trees. He was very close to them when Shan hauled back, set his mount in an earth-spewing slide and rolled off him. He knelt to aim, and the Indian swerved again just as he fired. He levered up another cartridge, fired, and watched the horse and rider go down in a wild tumble. The Indian’s gun flew out of his grasp, spun far out ahead of the crumpled horse. The Indian struck hard, didn’t move.
Shan stood up slowly, reloaded, grabbed the single rein of the war bridle on the cavalry horse, and began to walk forward. His anger was burned out. He was panting with exertion and wringing wet with sweat. By the time he was standing over the Indian a muscle in his neck was quivering.
It wasn’t a fighting buck; it was a young, inert squaw with a trickle of dark blood at one corner of her mouth. Perfectly straight, black, downward lashes hid her eyes. She wasn’t more than sixteen, seventeen years old. Her hairline was low, the hair swept severely back. It lay raven-black, s
hiny, around her shoulders. Her dress was chalk-white, heavily ornamented with beadwork, quillwork, and graceful fringe. One leg was exposed and it shocked Shan to see how much whiter it was above the knee than below. He moved his foot, used the boot to push the dress down. The sun was hot on his bare neck, hotter through the cloth over his shoulders and down his back. He felt terribly thirsty.
Bending, he leaned over the carbine. Finally he reached down and pulled her around so that she was facing upward. She wasn’t tall or heavily made; her body was compact, breasts the size of crab apples, fingers long and tapered. He thought she didn’t look like any Indian he had ever seen, and when she opened her eyes, he watched them widen, flood with fright at sight of his red, large face so close to hers. She didn’t move or make a sound.
He took a crumpled bandanna from a pocket, reached over without meeting her stare and daubed away the blood on her mouth. It was a pretty mouth. She might have lain like that an indefinite time, staring upward without moving, gripped with terror like a wild animal, but his legs began to ache from bending over the carbine so he took her by the arm and pulled her up. She was more than a foot smaller than he was. She made no attempt to turn away, to run, to fight. He held the carbine loosely in the crook of his arm, looked at her, and finally spoke.
“Who are you? Why did you burn my barn?”
She made no reply but he thought her dark glance showed a glint of understanding. The silence between them grew awkward. He drew the cavalry horse closer, motioned for her to mount. From the animal’s back she stared down at him from eyes as black as obsidian and just as inscrutable. He returned the look until he felt uncomfortable, then turned and began to trudge along leading the horse. He stopped briefly to look at her dead mount. The bullet had pierced its chest from one side to the other. Farther on, he stopped by the dead buck. That bullet had caught the Indian full in the throat. Shan picked up the gun, cut the shank that kept the dead man’s horse tethered to the corpse, and walked on leading both horses.
It grew still warmer. He finally took off his coat, handed it to the girl without speaking, and continued to lead both horses. He felt no desire to ride bareback any more. By the time they arrived back at his cabin, there were blue-tail flies walking over the first dead warrior. Shan systematically took the corpse’s knife, hatchet, carbine, even his leather pants and fancy moccasins, then he caught the loose horse, took all three to the shade of a scrub oak thicket, tied them there, and got a spade. The young squaw sat by the washstand, watching every move he made. He ignored her, dug the grave five feet from the corpse, and when he was satisfied with its depth, used his boot toe to roll the body into it. He filled the hole, stamped it, with sweat streaming off him, put the spade against the front of the cabin, and got a dipper full of water.
Out a ways the buggy mare was grazing placidly still harnessed to the rig. Having stripped to the waist for the digging, he now washed his upper body in cold water and felt new life flowing under his skin. Still ignoring the little squaw, he went past the broken door, got a fresh shirt, put it on, went back to the doorway, and gestured to the girl. When she was close, he pointed to the horse and buggy and started forward. She immediately fell in beside him and strode along without a sound. He growled at her after he’d caught the mare. She got up onto the seat beside him, and they drove to the barn.
The devastation sickened him all over again, but up close it was worse. His team had been tied inside. They smelled like roast beef. He stood around a long time just looking, kicking the curled hulk of his saddle, the tines of his handleless pitchfork, then he unhitched the mare, put her in a corral, and left her there. When he started back toward the cabin, the Indian girl followed him dutifully. He motioned her to walk beside him, not behind. By then his ferocity was ashes. The killings didn’t enter his mind but remorse over the burned barn made him feel whipped, defeated, spiritually exhausted.
It was cool in the cabin. The girl went over by the stove and stood perfectly still. One side of her mouth was swelling, making her appear to be sneering at him.
“You red bitch, I ought to kill you.”
She remained like stone, watching him. Beyond her, out through the door, he could see tendrils of wispy smoke rising, faint and burdened with the unpleasant odors. He sat down heavily at the table, all loose and limp, hands hanging like dead birds at his sides.
“Didn’t get a chance to fire the cabin, did you?” He turned away from the ruin outside and stared at her. “I thought redskins stole horses not burned them.” He saw the coffee pot where Sarahlee had left it. It alone stood as he remembered it; the rest of his possessions had been pawed over. He got up, picked up the switch broom, and held it out. “Here, clean this mess up, damn you.”
He went out of the cabin, slammed the door, and stood in the dazzling sunlight unsure what he must do next.
“Ho! Shan!”
He was drawing the pistol when he turned. It was Otto. He was riding in a long lope, reins in one hand, his rifle in the other. He was bareheaded and sitting very erect in the saddle. Shan let the pistol drop back into its holster. Otto rode up, stopped, and sat there, staring at the barn. Shan made a fierce gesture.
“Indians! I came up just as they were plundering the cabin. I killed them.” He pointed to fresh dark earth close by. “One’s buried right there. Another one’s out a ways.” The arm dropped down limply. “Look at my barn …”
Otto dismounted ponderously, squatted in the shade in front of his horse. “Well,” he said resignedly, “I expect we got to build that one over again.”
Shan dropped down beside him. “What’s the use? What’s the goddamn use, Otto. Look at it …”
“What kind of Indians, Shan?”
“Indians. Greasy-looking redskins. The last one … I shot her horse out from under her. I should have killed her, too.”
“Her?”
Shan jerked his head toward the cabin. “In there. I thought it was a buck.”
“You brought her back?” Otto asked, gazing steadily at Shan.
“Yes, I brought her back.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Shan repeated slowly. “Well, she was knocked out when the horse went down … I don’t know … I just brought her back.” He was silent a moment, then: “She can work it out. She can help Sarahlee work around the place. Look at that barn. If I hadn’t come up when I did, they’d have burned the cabin, too.”
Otto got up stiffly, massaged one knee. “Well, all right. We’ve got to rebuild it, only let’s not put the next one in the same place. Bad enough to have the first one burned down without having to move all that rubbish to build another one.”
“Otto, I can’t ask that of you. I just plain can’t.”
“You’ve got to have a barn, boy. You’ve got to have a place to store hay, keep your horses.” He looked down suddenly. “Where are your horses?”
“They burned the team. They were tied inside.”
“That’s what the smell is.”
“I got two of their damned Indian horses.”
“Any good?”
“I don’t know. They’re both big animals. One’s branded US on the neck. He’s well-broken.”
“To saddle,” Otto said. “Well, I expect we can break them to harness.” He dusted his britches off, straightened up. “All right, Shan, I’ll be over in the morning. We’ll start snaking trees down here again. Sooner we get started the better. We don’t have too much time. It’ll be an early turn out this year.” He mounted his horse, remembered something, and bent forward. “Go get the squaw, Shan. I want to see what kind of Indians they were.”
Shan went to the cabin and threw open the door. She was down on her knees, examining something. She looked up swiftly, then leaped up, her movement reminding him of a wild animal, a small deer poised to run. He motioned her outside. She walked ahead of him, stopped dead still when she saw Otto staring down at he
r from the back of his horse, rifle across his lap.
“Southern Cheyenne,” Otto said.
Shan looked down at the girl and shrugged. She looked even smaller, younger now, than she had an hour before.
“You can tell by their clothes. You say there were two bucks with her? They must have been traveling through, probably going west to visit kinsmen at some Northern Cheyenne get-together. It’d have to be something like that or they wouldn’t have a squaw along.” Otto gazed steadily at the girl. “Can you talk English?” he asked.
The girl was mute.
Shan said: “She doesn’t talk at all. Just stands still and stares at you.”
“Did you hit her there in the mouth?”
“That happened when her horse went down. I was aiming low, for her body, the horse was running. I guess he was in the air when I shot because the slug went right through him.”
Otto straightened in the saddle. “I’m not sure it’s wise to keep her,” he said. “If she’s got folks, they’ll come looking for her.”
Shan looked down. “I’d like to see a few more,” he said, then he looked up at Otto. “How would they know? The two bucks with her are dead. Who’d tell them what happened to her … where she is?”
“I expect that’s right, too,” Otto replied. “Didn’t she fight you or try to run away?”
“No. I put her on a horse and brought her back here. All the time I was burying the buck in the yard here, she just stood there, watching me.”
For the first time since riding up Otto looked amused. “You put her on a horse and led her back here … she riding and you walking?”
“I thought she was hurt,” Shan said.
“That probably surprised her. Indians don’t let squaws ride when they have to walk. They don’t think it’s manly to do that.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Shan said carelessly. “All I know is my barn’s burned down and I’m starting a private graveyard for troublemakers right here in my yard.”