by Sara Dahmen
Her head snaps up and for the first time I see what she might be like if angered.
“You must not think I did this! These animals were left on the doorstep as you saw them. It was meant as an insult.”
My heart sinks. There a stigma, then, toward Widow Hawks. She seems kind and has not caused trouble since I have been in Flats Junction, and she seems assimilated enough that I did not think anyone minded her. No one has spoken out to me about her, but then I have not been in public with her. And perhaps I am so new that no one will tell me any truths.
We finish the burial in silence and go back inside. I know tonight I will not ask Widow Hawks any personal questions. Feeling exhaustion wash over me, wiping away any niggling worries, I decide to just go to bed.
Chapter 7
25 May 1881
It has been a month since the incident, but I find myself thinking about it often. There is a spookiness, an anger to the action, as well as cowardice. It is worse because the actions are not discussed around town. Do people know who perpetuates such crimes? Are they even aware of it? Or is it an understanding, unspoken and slightly condoned, that leaves people silent? Perhaps they do not want to know who is so cruel to their neighbor, though it is obviously someone who has some sort of knowledge about native preferences.
I tell Kate about the animals when I am at the general store. She frowns darkly when I give her the details, and then she mutters, “It is not the first time, nor the last, that the cowboys will play a mean trick on her. There are some in this town who want Widow Hawks gone.”
“Is it the cowboys, certainly? But why? She does not cause trouble.”
Kate gives a snort. “She doesn’t have to. She’s Indian. And she has done enough to warrant trouble. Were she to live her life in vindication, I still don’t think everyone would forgive her.”
I pause, wondering if I should ask the question, then decide I want to. I want to be a bit nosy. Perhaps my housemate would prefer I talk to her openly, but I feel that Kate is easier to speak to, and I wish to share confidences with her anyway.
“Kate, will you tell me? About Widow Hawks?”
She presses her lips together and looks at the bag of buttons we are sorting through. I wonder what it matters that she relays this story. She is always full of town news short of malicious gossip, and I find Kate to be a good source of information about anyone the doctor is treating, or anyone who has an ailment unspoken.
“Come back with me.”
I follow, dreading her coffee concoction. She pours the sludge into two mugs for us and I stir mine while she guzzles down the first half of hers. She sits next to me, one eye on the door through the half-opened curtain.
“Widow Hawks was the mistress of the town’s late banker, Percival Davies.”
I am struck silent at this declaration. It is not what I expect to hear, so I absently take a gulp of the coffee and wish immediately I had not. I sputter, but Kate thinks it is because I am so shocked. She nods shortly, peevishly.
“I know. Exactly. There was a tribe of Blackfoot who camped nearby in the western hills by their old buffalo jump during the summer months, before their movements were more restricted. He saw her walking with them. Let’s just say, he was . . . smitten.”
“He didn’t marry her?”
She gives an indignant laugh, as if she is invested in this dead man’s story.
“He was already married. To a woman who lived back East and refused to join her husband in the rough and tumble of the Territories. She was happy with the money he sent back but preferred her parlor in North Carolina.”
I digest this. “Widow Hawks chose him, then? I mean, it was a love match? He couldn’t keep her by force, I should think . . .” I know nothing of the natives, nothing of their way of life, only that a few short years ago, a great war had torn the Territories apart, and that the natives had experienced the loss of it. They had been subdued, and I could only expect they would have required some sort of retribution if one of their women had been taken without consent.
Kate tosses her head, and a few black tendrils escape. “No, she wanted to be with him, too, I guess. They did love one another; that was always obvious. So, she left her people and stayed with him in town. He was the banker, powerful and arrogant in his own way, and the catalyst for most big things happening here in Flats Junction. And regardless of the tongues wagging, and the anger of most of the men, he kept with her. They had two children. Eventually his wife died, and he was able to legally marry Widow Hawks. They were only wed a short time before he died.”
The story sputters to a halt. I bite my lip and try to picture the older woman I know as sure-footed, strongly silent, steely, and stately. She was once a lovestruck girl, brave enough to leave her people and resist the scorn of the townsfolk to stay with the man she loved. What kind of love is that, so resilient and true that it spans nations and manners of living? I cannot imagine it. It is not surprising to me now that she has such fluent English, that many of her habits are familiar to me and not savage. She was gentrified by her lover-husband and now straddles both worlds. Strangely, this rises my opinion of her.
“And the town? They grew used to her?”
“Oh some, like Doc Kinney. He was an outsider, too, when he and his aunt arrived. Driven out of Boston by those who hated the Irish, and unable to find a place that could support his work. He wanted to practice medicine, you know, regardless of his youth at the time. And old Davies took him under his wing, knowing the town needed a good doctor. The doc respects Widow Hawks from that time staying with them, and for what Percival did. And because he understands what it is to be an outcast.”
I am astounded at Kate’s astute read of the situation, and marvel at her practical approach to such a wild retelling. So, Doctor Kinney had left Boston because of his heritage. Did people really not trust him? Here? In Boston? I want to believe it’s not true. I want to trust him in the way I’ve never done with others of his profession. But it seems that same mistrust runs deep here as well.
“Thank you for telling me this story,” I murmur, as it is the only thing I can think to say. I think Kate is becoming a friend indeed, though I cannot truly tell whether the information she has given today will help me shape a picture of both of these characters with whom I interact daily. Still . . . it is research, isn’t it? It’s not gossip! It’s not much different from gleaning bits of knowledge from pamphlets, just as I did when Henry was sick. It’s just collecting wisdom.
“Well then.” She shrugs and stands, finishing her coffee. I guiltily stare into my cup. I have not touched mine since the first gulp. “Let’s finish up your shopping and get you back so your beau can walk you home.” She gives me a wink.
Ever since the first time Bern Masson walked me to Widow Hawks’ from the doctor’s, he has been by nightly. Sometimes on his horse, and sometimes walking, he strolls from door to door with me. Such a thing is noticed. Kate is shrewd, and she has started to tease me about having a sweetheart. She does not seem to recognize that I am not blushing about this, for I am not certain about having a suitor at my age and with my situation. But with Bern doting on me, Kate does as well, as if now that I am being courted, I am more fun to have around.
“That will be all, then, on the doc’s account?” she asks, writing in her ledger carefully. “The buttons, the pickled fish, and paper?”
I nod. She finishes wrapping the parcels and ties a string so that they are easily carried. As we turn to the door, the doctor himself walks in, and Horeb and Gilroy swing with delight at someone new to pester.
“It’s the old sawbones! Come to gather up your housekeeper, is it?” Horeb cackles.
“Sure is,” Gilroy agrees.
“And all merry today, is it? Get to chop off an arm or a leg?”
“What if I told you it was somethin’ else entirely?” The doctor turns on the two older men abruptly and wiggles his finger. “What if it’s an entirely new operation includin’ a lot of whiskey on the man, but aft
erwards he’s not much of a man. If you catch my meanin’.”
This seems to stun Horeb momentarily, but Gilroy looks nonplussed.
“Ain’t a thing.”
“You don’t mean that, Doc,” Horeb says uncomfortably. “You’re teasing is all.”
“Care to find out?”
“Ain’t.”
“I’m sure you’re dandy, Gil, but maybe Horeb here would like to see how well I wield a knife. I’m even better with it than the saw.”
Horeb crosses his hands low over his belt, half-hiding the manly parts Doctor Kinney is threatening.
“We all know you’re fine with anything sharp, Doc, no need to prove it again.”
“If you say so.” The doctor turns, and then notices us. His eyes are twinkling, and he doesn’t seem a bit uncomfortable that he’s had such a lewd discussion in front of women. “Mrs. Weber! Kate, hello. How are you?” he asks jovially. He has had a lighter load of patients now with the warming weather, and it puts him in good spirits.
“Just finishing up,” I comment, and take my packages, but he scoops them up and away from me before fixing his blue gaze on Kate.
“Will you be organizin’ the usual festivities for the Independence Day celebrations?” He looks at her directly and she gives him one of her rare, full smiles.
“Of course. I have not had a chance yet to fully ask Mrs. Weber for help, but with her assistance, I’m sure it will be the best to date.”
He glances at me briefly. “I’m sure then, too. The men have been buzzin’ about nothin’ else, though it’s more than a month away. Let me or Mrs. Weber know what you need, then, will you?”
“Yes, Pat. I will.”
As we walk out, I try to keep my eyes downward so Kate does not give me her sarcastic, arched brow at my shock. Kate called Doctor Kinney by his front name. No one else I have met calls him so familiarly. She must do it to continue to stun me, especially based on the conversation we just had.
“Did you have a nice visit?” the doctor asks conversationally. I glance up at him and nod, so he continues. “I’m glad you’re gettin’ on with Kate. She could use a good woman friend.”
“She’s been very kind to me, as most here are.”
“And you’re feelin’ alright these days?”
I give him a smile. “I am, thank you, Doctor. Most of the ills have passed.”
“Good. I’m surprised you’ve still been feelin’ them. You’ll let me know when you start to get too tired, though, won’t you?” His voice betrays his worry, as if my earlier omission leaves him uncertain of me, and I regret my silence once again. But how could I have known he would not reject me? So many employers would have been appalled. I am learning that he takes ideas of family and tolerance quite seriously, whether it’s blood or not. I am starting to think he sees me as a sisterly figure, and I do not mind that. It is comforting.
“I will. I promise,” I swear earnestly.
He walks slowly in deference to my condition, and I start to piece together Kate’s story with what I know of Flats Junction.
“Doctor, how long have you lived here? In Flats Junction?”
I ask this without looking to see if he is annoyed with my question, but he answers readily enough.
“Oh, let’s see. I arrived in ’74, I think it was. So it’s been about seven years now. Long enough to make a difference, but certainly not long enough for half of Flats Junction.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighs. “I’ve still got to prove my mettle, Mrs. Weber. Half the people here hesitate to call on me for anythin’. They weren’t impressed with me when I first came to town, and they certainly didn’t trust the doc before me to do much more than offer bad medicine or bleed them, and he was typically drunk when he did, so why should they trust any doctors?”
“But you truly wish to help them,” I say indignantly, remembering the files on each patient in his office. His details are meticulous and touch on more than just illness. Are the missing town names, such as Horeb’s or Gilroy’s, because they don’t trust him? Is it because he’s Irish, or because they don’t trust his profession? Or did he do something so awful early on that half the town won’t forgive him?
We arrive at his house, and he lets me go ahead of him as a gentleman will, hanging up his hat before shrugging into the conversation with a final shake of his head.
“Many here don’t think they need my help. And they don’t care about the science behind the work. To them, any new idea sounds more like some Indian snake oil, and folks around here certainly aren’t keen on Indian methods, no matter if they’d help or no.”
The evening meal is cold sandwiches and a fresh salad of new lettuce. My garden is a slow success. We eat in the backyard by pulling the kitchen bench out and spend the meal overlooking the land to the east without obstruction. The late afternoon shadows are a deep grey, but the sun’s rays last even longer now that it’s almost June. I lift my face to the light; it is a soft, pale gold, reflecting off the dusty prairie grasses. There is the low scissoring of insects as I look out at the green in the distance. One can smell the earth here, and hear the brushing of leaves and plants. I think about Widow Hawks, coming out from the trees that huddle near the old buffalo jump, and meeting Percival Davies. What was their first meeting like? Had they fallen in love instantly?
“Mrs. Weber,” the doctor breaks into my reverie. “Have you . . .” He stops short, gives a small sound, then alters his voice oddly. “Do you know that the color of your eyes is very unusual?”
I give him a little frown. What an odd thing to say. I recall my eyes as being generally brown, same as my hair, though a lighter shade. I say as much to him, but he gives a shake of his dark head, still looking at my face in the sun.
“They’re brown, aye, but then they give way to green and blue and grey. I could not name a color to them.”
“Well, and your eyes are blue,” I say stoutly. “In case you were wondering.”
He starts to laugh at this, loud enough that I wonder if Mrs. Molhurst will come to see the jest, but he quiets down and resumes eating. I look at him, thinking about how he must have known Widow Hawks and Percy Davies before and after their marriage, and how he says he will do anything for her. I admire his loyalty and his acceptance of them. I wonder if his aunt was the same. I suppose I will never know unless I ask. He must owe the widow and the former banker a great deal for the stake they gave him in Flats Junction.
“In any way, will you be helpin’ with the Independence Day plans?” he asks around a mouthful.
“Kate has not mentioned anything to me yet. She organizes it all?”
“Sure. Some years there are fireworks if a peddler comes through in time. But mostly it’s the cowboys racin’ and displayin’ their husbandry skills with the cows, all the womenfolk makin’ a good spread of vittles, and there is generally a bit of a fair with the games and all. Some of the Army boys from Fort Randall will ride in for the girls and the dancin’. We are not part of the union yet, out here, but we like to act as if our joinin’ were around the corner.”
I think of the grand and stately affairs of the Eastern cities, with people attending them in their Sunday finery, cannons blasting, bands playing, candy, and the sweet cold tang of lemonade. And at the end of the hot day, a walk along the seashore. This will be very different, but I look forward to showing the town my cooking skills, which have been progressing well as I become more attuned to the kitchen and the potbelly stove’s particularities. And Toot Warren of The Golden Nail is said to be quite a cook, plus she’s making lemonade. Maybe there will be a taste of the city after all.
“Is there a dish you’d like me to make?”
“Can you do a pie?” he asks.
I laugh. “With what fruit?”
“Ach, there’s a point. I suppose there’s no use in tryin’ to make somethin’ from nothin’. Well, then, do the cold chicken you made the other week. That was delicious. Pick up one at the Brinkley’s next time you�
�re out for milk and eggs. And whatever else Kate needs for the celebration.”
“Alright.” I give him a little smile and begin to clear our plates and wipe the table. The doctor joins me, as is his preference, and dries almost as fast as I wash.
“I’ve been thinkin’ of doin’ the herbal remedy for the Zalenski young’un,” he mentions off-handedly. He is speaking of a child we saw together yesterday, and I recall the mother, Anette, and her strained eyes under sleek blond hair. “It’s was a spring cold to be sure, but I don’t like the sound of the cough. You know what I mean?”
“You mentioned a poultice?”
“Aye. Nothin’ so fancy as you are used to in the cities, I know, but I’ll know if I need to be more aggressive in treatin’ the child if the onions and herbs don’t work.”
I nod. “Of course. Just tell me the specifics, and I can go over to their house while you’re on rounds in the morning.”
He grins. “Now see, that’s luck to have you here. You can do the medicinals some of the time.”
As I finish the suds, there is a knock on the door. The doctor turns from his drying to the front of the house.
“Right out!” he shouts through the hallway. Turning to me, he has a smile on his face, half teasing. “Your beau is here, m’lady.”
I swat at him with my apron, which he catches and tugs, pulling me along. My face is close to his, and the smirk leaves his mouth. Suddenly, he is serious, intense, and asks lowly, “You are sure you wish to walk with him?”
“What else should I do?” I ask quietly, as I release the apron so it hangs limply from his hand, and walk out of the kitchen. This exchange unnerves me, but I brush it aside and give Bern a small smile as he waits for me off the porch. He does not have his horse today.