Ollie sat down on the cot and put her hands on her fleshy knees, arms straight, and looked her straight in the eyes. “First off you calm down right now.”
Melody started to shake her head, but the movement brought a lightning bolt of pain and tears to her eyes. “Mr. Van De Veer, Van, is still here. Why? You’re not telling me everything. I have to know what happened. What’s going on? Why is he down in the ravine? It’s Maji. She’s hurt and down in the ravine. She likes the ravine. She likes the water.”
“Shhhh, I tell you she’s fine. She’s right outside. You sit back, take a breath, and I’ll tell you what we know and what we think happened.”
“Think? You think?” Melody said, working very hard not to scream.
Ollie nodded, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. “We think, Van and me, we think a couple of skunks tried to steal your mare. You didn’t fall or get bucked off. They roped Maji and tried to hobble her.”
Kit lurched forward. Ollie firmly eased her back and gave her a warning look. Melody tucked her lower lip between her teeth to keep from throwing up and willed herself to be patient.
“Van’s horse, Ranger, came to Maji’s rescue, don’t exactly know how, but Maji broke free of the hobble, but you were left out cold on the ground. One fella got away, the other fella, and this is why Van is goin’ down to the ravine, the other fella got his just desserts, compliments of those brave horses. The other skunk, the one that got away, he come back to get the mare. He didn’t much care how he done it. He tied me up good and proper. He was gonna take you and Maji. Van told me he was smart enough to realize he’d have his hands full gettin’ that mare to go anywhere without you comin’ along, so he flung you on the mare’s back. You remember any of that? Do you remember being on Maji’s back last night?”
Melody closed her eyes. Yes, she remembered now. Mr. Blue Eyes, he’d helped her down. She asked Maji to stand. Yes, she remembered the awful, nauseating pain of finding herself flopped over a horse’s back and the humiliation of being absolutely helpless, unable to move and barely able to breathe.
Ollie took a breath.
Melody, hand over her mouth, hiccupped, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“In the struggle to get the gun away from the bastard, the skunk came close to takin’ Van’s head off. I seen where the bullet hit the dust. He’s lucky to be alive,” Ollie said, her brown eyes wide. “It’s sheer providence Van was here. He clocked the bastard good and proper. Which reminds me, I’m gonna go check on the cull, see he’s not come loose from the ropes. I hope he makes a move; I’m itching to give him a good whack with my skillet.”
Melody slumped down, her eyes squeezed shut. The cretins who’d threatened her at the feed store, they’d followed her, watched her. What a damn fool she’d been to go haring off in the dark. She could’ve lost Maji for good, or worse, injured her.
“Go home,” she told herself. “Go home and grow up.”
Ollie patted her good shoulder. “You have something to eat, a few sips of coffee and you’ll feel better. Rest awhile. Food and coffee will put the starch back in you.”
Melody nodded, easier to agree than present her doubts. “I have to go home. But not yet. Not like this. Not like this.”
∙•∙
Legs encased in ripped and dirt-covered trousers, coat shredded across his back revealing deep gashes, bare-headed, his black hair wet with blood and caked with mud, a man, or what was left of him, lay face down in the ravine. Down the hill, the ground scrubbed bare by horse’s hooves, held evidence of the sight of the battle—this was where he’d found Kit.
The buzzards circled overhead. They’d already started to rip the flesh from the brows and jaw of the carcass. Van threw his rain slicker over the remains and piled rocks around the edges to keep the big birds away, or at least make it harder for them to get at it.
Ranger’s sprain didn’t bother him this morning as far as Van could tell. Instead of going back to camp, he decided to ride into town. Sunday morning, gone were the vendors and street hawkers, hookers, gamblers, and drunks. The stores were shuttered and closed, no tinkling pianos, no hurdy-gurdies dueling over who could make the most racket. The gentle chime of a church bell echoed up and down the river.
The sheriff’s office at the east end of town sat vacant, shades pulled down over the window and door. A notice tacked up to the side of the door directed citizens to the sheriff’s residence, two blocks south, in case of emergency.
The shack nestled up against the cliff-face did not inspire confidence. It needed a coat of paint, and the porch roof looked about to collapse, the two porch posts rotten and riddled with bugs. Van stepped up and over a loose board and knocked on the weathered door. Silence. He raised his hand, made a fist, and pounded.
“Yeah, yeah, hold yer water!” The door jerked open. A big man in red, moth-eaten long johns with salt and pepper hair spiking out at the sides and on the crown, nearly opaque blue eyes blazing, snarled and asked, “What the hell is it? Can’t a man sleep in this town? Go away. Unless there’s a body that isn’t breathin’, I ain’t interested. Come to think of it; if it’s dead, it’ll keep.” And he started to shut the door.
Van suppressed the urge to grin and slapped his hand on the door to keep it from closing in his face. He understood grumpy men. His father and their family friend, Sheriff Rafe Bollo, were grumpy men. Maybe you had to be grumpy to be a sheriff; maybe it was a requirement. Or maybe it was the horrible occupation. Whatever it was, the sheriff’s surly response didn’t faze Van and wouldn’t deter him from his mission. “I know where there’s a dead body, sir. And I have a body that’s breathin’ but out cold. Caught’em horse stealin’.”
His eyes squeezed shut, the Sheriff scrubbed his thinning hair with both hands. “Wait. Shut the hell up. I can’t think. I’m still asleep. I ain’t had but six hours sleep in the last three days. You come in. Have a seat. I’ll get my pants on.” He turned and padded down the hall barefoot to a room at the end. He left the door open. “I can hear you. Talk to me, son. What the hell happened when and where?”
Van couldn’t sit—none of the furniture looked reliable, the sofa cushions were threadbare, springs exposed. The one chair in the room sagged in the seat. He didn’t dare sit in it, he’d get trapped. Left with only one option, he paced in a circle before the front door, hat in his hand. “Two men jumped a young woman to steal her horse. A dapple-gray mare. You might’ve seen this young woman and her horse. I understand she put on a trick riding show the other day. She and the other members of her party are camped up on the hill.”
“I know the outfit,” the sheriff said, emerging from his room, buttoning his shirt. “What’s your name and what’s your business?”
Van opened his mouth, shut it; he needed a second to think. “Ah, Hoyt Van De Veer, most folks call me Van. My home’s near Baker City. I don’t have any business here. I’m just passin’ through. Last night I wanted to camp away from town, so I went up the hill.”
The sheriff narrowed his eyes and tipped his head to the side. “Ah,” he said, tucking in his shirt. He held out his hand to Van. “The name’s John Rutland, folks call me Sheriff Rutland.”
Van released his breath and shook the man’s callused hand. The sheriff gripped it hard and asked him directly. “So, Baker City? Who’s the sheriff now?”
Meeting that direct gaze, Van replied without blinking or smirking, “Phelps, Roy Phelps. Rafe Bollo retired two years ago. Phelps ran against Thad Mathews. Mathews didn’t stand a chance.”
The sheriff grinned, gave his hand another quick jerk, and let it go. “Ah, yeah, right. I remember Bollo. He’s a good man.”
“The best,” Van said.
“I’ll get my horse, and I’ll meet you at the office. You can give me details on the way up the hill.”
∙•∙
They weren’t the only ones going up the hill. Three men, well, actually two boys and half a man, the boys leading two teams of big footed, shaggy-coated draft horses an
d the half-man riding one of the horses, emerged from the corrals at the west end of town.
“Hey, Miller,” the sheriff called out to the short fella riding. Van had never seen a man so short. At first glance, he’d thought him a toddler of maybe three or four wearing a big ole’ Stetson hat.
“Sheriff, good day to you, sir,” replied the man in a perfectly normal, manly voice.
The two boys, in their teens, red hair and freckle-faced, brought their teams to a stand and respectfully nodded to the sheriff.
“There’s been some trouble at your camp, Jerry,” said the sheriff.
The little man scrambled to his feet and stood on the back of the sturdy horse. “Ollie? Is she all right?”
“She’s fine, sir,” Van said, bringing his horse around close enough to extend his hand out to the man. “The names Hoyt Van De Veer, Van, to my friends. I spent the night up at your camp. Your wife is fine. Kit, the girl, she’s roughed up a bit, ribs and shoulder, but she’s okay.”
“What the hell happened?” Jerry asked the sheriff, looking past Van and ignoring his hand.
“Horse thieves,” said Van, and offered his hand again. Jerry eyed him, hesitated, then took the hand and gave it a firm but quick shake.
“Black hair, black clothes, and the other one, beard, mustache, smells sour?” Jerry asked Van.
Van nodded. “Sounds about right.”
“You know’em, Jerry?” the sheriff asked. “You seen ’em before?”
Jerry plopped back down on the horses back. “If it’s the same fellas, they cornered Kit behind the feed store right after our show. They wanted to buy the mare. Kit refused. That horse is her life. Wouldn’t sell her for the world. They didn’t want to take no for an answer and got rough with her. The boys and I stepped in and finished them off for her. We drug them down to the river to cool off. Didn’t see ’em after that.”
“Well, they tried to steal the mare last night. Things didn’t go as planned,” Van said and turned Ranger around to go up the hill.
The sheriff set his hat more firmly on his head and dug his heels into the sides of his mount. “Van’s gonna show me where they ambushed the girl. You and your boys go on up to your camp, Jerry. I know you’re worried about your Mrs. I’ll be up to talk to the girl and Ollie.”
The sheriff leaned over to speak to Van, his voice low. “The Millers come through Pendleton a couple of times a year. I’ve known them for, must be four years now. They’re good people. Worried about them last fall getting tangled up with the Circus International Payasos gang.”
Van glanced up the hill. Ollie, one hand shading her eyes, waved at them. “Yeah, I heard about that. I know the Pinkerton man who brought them down,” he said, managing to maintain a straight face, waving his hat at Ollie. To shade his lying eyes, he set his hat low over his brow.
The sheriff went on to say, “Don’t know much about the Indian girl. This is the first year I’ve seen her. She put on a good show. Damn fine horsewoman. So, you say she’s busted up some?”
“Yeah. She spooked my horse. I was leading him up the hill. He followed the mare and the girl down the hill into the ravine. Ollie assured me the girl would bring my horse back. Suspecting she’d stolen my horse, I stayed put. Ollie invited me to sit and have some of her stew.
“When the two horses came back into camp, the mare rider-less, we thought the girl had gotten thrown. The mare had a rope bridle and rope burns on her hind fetlocks. Ollie said Kit never, ever, used a bit or a saddle on the mare. And the rope burns on the mare’s fetlocks said someone tried to hobble her. My horse, Ranger, had blood on his nose, and a sprain. I didn’t know what he’d gotten up to, whatever, animal or human, he put up a good fight.
“The mare led me back down the hill to the girl…to Kit. I didn’t see anyone else; it was dark by then. She had a dislocated shoulder and some cracked ribs, the kind of injuries you’d get if you get bucked off a horse in the dark.”
They started up the ravine. “How and when did this other fella show up?” the sheriff asked.
“We got Kit settled in. Ollie killed her campfire. I bedded down near Kit’s wagon. I woke up with a gun barrel stuck up my nose. The fella was a might put out my horse had killed his brother. He wanted the mare. He’d already put Kit over the mare’s back thinking, and rightly so, the mare would give him a hard time unless he took her with him. I had no idea what he’d done to Ollie. I grabbed the gun barrel and took him off balance, and then I hit him a couple of times as hard as I could.”
The sheriff shook his head. He clicked his tongue in his cheek. “Wonder how an Indian girl comes to have a valuable animal like that? Makes a body curious don’t it?”
Van hadn’t thought about that angle. But yes, it did. “The bond between them is strong. She’s had her for a while. You don’t create that kind of trust overnight. I’d say they’ve been a team for years. But together where? You don’t suppose she’s escaped from the reservation?”
The sheriff tipped his head. “That’s a distinct possibility.”
Chapter Six
At the ravine, Van pointed out the scarred and scraped earth and stripped grass where he’d found Kit.
The body lay where Van had left him. The sheriff lifted the rain slicker, nudged the body over on its side, and squatted down to get a better look. “I think I know this fella, seen his face on a wanted poster. Donald Kramer, younger brother to Lyle. Lyle’s a fancy dresser, all black right down to his boots and hat. The flyer says they cheat at cards and they’re wanted for cattle rustling in Wasco County. I think there’s a reward,” he said to Van, his bushy salt and pepper brows arched.
Nodding, Van offered no comment about the reward. If there were one, he’d give it to Kit. He shook his head to dislodge the problem of the reward and save it for later. “The other one, Lyle, I guess, if that’s his name, he’s up at camp. I left him tied to a wagon wheel. I hope he’s still there. I left Mrs. Miller in charge.”
They started up the hill, and the sheriff asked, “The girl, she’s in good enough shape to answer questions?”
∙•∙
“I’ll fix your hair, shall I?” Ollie asked, entering Melody’s wagon huffing and in a hurry.
“Why?” Melody asked, backing away from the hairbrush in Ollie’s hand.
“Well, Jerry says the sheriff’s gonna talk to you. And Van will be with him.”
“So? My hair doesn’t need brushing to answer questions.”
“It most certainly does. There’s grass in the rat’s nest on your head. Now, I’ll braid it nice and get it off your neck.” She’d already started, her strokes smooth and sure.
Eyes watering, Melody sucked in her breath when Ollie gave her hair a yank to release a particularly difficult knot. “Take it easy; I’ve got a bump back there.”
Ollie sucked in her breath. “Sorry, so you have. I’ll be careful.”
“I don’t care what I look like. And I doubt the sheriff will notice; he’s got more important things to think about than how I look.”
Ollie sputtered and shoved her head to the side. “A’course you care. And let me tell you, all men notice a pretty girl. And you are a pretty girl. Van is a mighty good lookin’ specimen. He’s on the up and up too. Good men are scarce as hen’s teeth. A woman has to latch on quick when she sees a good one or some other female’ll get‘em.”
“I don’t want a man. And really, what use would I be to a man? What would I do with him? It’s silly. It would be like shopping for a new hat or a saddle when you don’t really need one. Just something else to carry around with you, a bother. I don’t understand the…the, whatever it is, the thing…” Melody said.
Ollie stopped braiding her hair and got down to look her straight in the eye. “Here’s what I think, little girl, you don’t know what you want, is what I think. You’ve gone and busted yourself, and now you don’t know who or what you are. You been lookin’ for you for a whole year now and you still ain’t found you.”
Ollie swept up
a hank of Melody’s hair at the top of her head and began to fold and fold and smooth and fold from the crown of her head clear down her back. “I’m thinkin’ this Van fella’s got you all flummoxed, twitchy and itchy. That’s a sure sign. I heard you. You called him beautiful when you was out of your head.”
“I was out of my head. I can’t be held accountable for what I said. Are you done?” Melody swatted away Ollie’s quick fingers.
“Fine, I’m done with your hair,” she said, tucking in the braided crown at the top of her head. “But I’m not done with this conversation. I’ll leave it for now.”
Ollie’s laughter didn’t help. She’d hit home on a couple of points. No, Melody didn’t know who or what she was. Trick riding, performing, she’d thought would define her, or at least she’d thought it would until she’d faced up to the fact she didn’t have the big star factor in her.
One thing she did know, taking a man would not help, it would complicate and confuse. Never mind Mr. Beautiful turned her stomach into a bucket full of frogs. And yes, she knew her hair was a tangled mess. But she couldn’t very well fix it herself, not with a busted shoulder. And yes, because he was out there and might come in here and see her, she really did care what she looked like, but she wished she didn’t.
Shoot, she had the worse luck. Why couldn’t he have seen her doing her act and come by afterward to tell her how wonderful she was, and ask her to walk out with him? She could’ve shown him her horse and talked to him about her dreams. They could’ve talked about his dreams. Shoot.
Well, the sheriff would haul the horse thieves away, and Mr. Beautiful could be on his way, thank goodness. His good deeds were done, appreciated, but he had no more excuse to hang around.
∙•∙
The horse thief, slumped against the Kit’s wagon, now sported a big red knot above his left eye, a knot Van certainly had not inflicted. Ollie came around the end of the wagon, her hands on her rounded hips. “He called me a fat sow and said he was sorry he didn’t kill me, so I hit’em with my skillet.”
Gathering on Dance Hall Road Page 4