Cut Hand

by Mark Wildyr

  The fronting room on the east side was a shambles. The two bunks lay in splinters. The long table I used as a trading counter leaned drunkenly on three legs. Bursting through the door to my living quarters, I found Morning Mist hewing at my bed while the two girl-women who accompanied her the other day worried over the kitchen table. Seizing the closest women by the hair, I slung them forcefully through the doorway. I spun as Morning Mist rushed me with her hatchet. It fell harmlessly from her nerveless grasp as I twisted her arm savagely. Shrieking as only an enraged Indian woman can, she spewed threats and imprecations as I tossed her bodily from the porch. The others made the mistake of fleeing across East’s guard area. One lost half her garment before escaping.

  I took the wounded dog from Otter and examined the animal’s injuries. “Find Cut Hand,” I snapped.

  The irony of it! The beast survived wolves, soldiers, and marauding warriors, only to fall to the spite of a jealous woman!

  Cut arrived to comfort the injured beast before going to the barn for our supply of sawn wood. I joined him after tending our faithful friend, and we set to work. Before Han, darkness, led in Hanhepi, nighttime, much of the damage was mended, although my dressing mirror was smashed beyond repair.

  “She is the spawn of Unk!” I snarled, playing loose with one of the creation myths. “She should be cast into the water like her mother!” Recalling my incredibly naïve remark before their marriage, I snorted sourly. “Sisters!”

  Cut giggled then, actually giggled. “The sisters from hell!”

  “I’m glad you find it funny!” I roared. “How did she get in, anyway?”

  “She stole my key to the stock lock. It won’t happen again, Billy.”

  “How do you know? How do you know she won’t shoot the other dogs and poor South, if he survives?”

  “Because I beat her. I beat her in public and declared in front of everyone I would divorce her if she did not stop behaving like a fool.”

  “Beat her? Damnation, Cut, that would just make me more determined.”

  “She is not you, my love. I meant my words, and she knows it.”

  But Morning Mist was not so easily tamed. She made life so miserable that Cut, figurative hat in hand, asked again to spend one night in the house with her… meaning in my bed, of course. Stubbornly, I refused until I realized he was rent between two people who should love and support him. My lack of cooperation was not helping. As distasteful as it was, I finally agreed.

  When evening came, Otter and Lone Eagle hung around the west end of the house pitching the iron with me, a game where a heavy object is tossed at a hole in the ground. Imagining what was happening in my bed at that very moment distracted me, allowing the boys to beat me handily. When Cut and Morning Mist came out of the house, I hid in the barn to avoid her smug face. Out of sight of the others, I retched sour bile. As Cut and I had once discussed, love carries heavy penalties.

  MORNING MIST and I were taking a horrible toll on Cut Hand. He grew haggard, not from sexual exertion but from constant tension. I made certain none was present in my home. It worked for a while. He began spending more time at the Mead. But when others came for him at awkward hours, we recognized he was the leader of the tiospaye in all but name, and to take his rightful place among them, he needed to live in their midst.

  Finding some excuse to banish Otter and Lone Eagle from the house, I wept for three days, a very unmanly thing to do, but then I wasn’t a man. I was a creature, half man, half woman, and thoroughly rotten! Never insensitive to my moods, Cut returned and remained with me for five days, undermining my determination. But my decision was firmly resolved, although I did not act upon it for some time, being human enough to hope the situation would change.

  Then Cut’s father took a turn for the worse. When I went to his side, Yellow Puma’s pain-filled eyes read the hurt in mine and released me from my promise.

  As preparations began for the fall move, I informed Cut that Otter was driving the wagon to the new encampment. He lifted an arched eyebrow.

  “I’m staying here,” I announced.

  He came to me before the move for a night of tender love, something I would remember for the rest of my days.

  As he left the next morning, Cut paused at the door. His look was penetrating, sad. “Goodbye, wife. I’m sorry. I tried to make it work.”

  After he was out of sight, I drove our stock into the band’s herd and went to help the People where I could. When the last horse crossed the broad, shallow Yanube, my eyes teared again.

  I waited at the Mead for a week to be certain Otter delivered my letter to Cut Hand. I had entrusted the missive to the youngster with instructions to hand it over upon arrival at the new winter camp. I remembered every painful word of that hateful page:

  My Love. I promised not to leave without telling you first. Otter will have handed you this letter ere I depart the Mead, so that pledge is honored, no matter how cowardly. I had not the mettle otherwise. But you understood before ever you read this.

  I considered a stand-away, a separation, but concluded it would resolve nothing. I do not leave because I no longer love you, rather out of deep feelings for the man who has been my one, my only, my greatest love! It is my wanch, my misfortune, Morning Mist and I cannot abide one another. Consequently, we are killing you and squandering the goodwill of a fine people. That is not only foolish, it is unforgivable. Morning Mist cannot leave, so I must.

  Therefore, I have placed a pair of your moccasins outside the door, divorcing you in accordance with custom. You are released from your vows and responsibilities, as I consider myself released from mine. The Mead, of course, is yours.

  I hold no bitterness, Cut Hand. I will always remember you as the most magnificent and honorable man I have ever known. Take care of your people for they are mine, as well. Love. Billy.

  I departed my home at Teacher’s Mead despondent and in pain in the fall of 1835. Time and history were passing me by. As I later learned, a crazed man named Richard Lawrence made an attempt on the life of Andrew Jackson the prior January, but both shots misfired. Doubtless there would be attacks on other presidents, but none would ever succeed. This warning would serve to strengthen the security around our chief executive until it was impenetrable.

  I took only three rifles, my shotgun, pistols, and personal possessions with me… and the hoard of gold and silver coins, of course. The northers held off, so the trip took only two days, but it seemed I traveled a hundred years. I rented a stall at the Yawktown Livery for Long, a box at the bank for my gold, and a room at the Rainbow for my carcass.

  One night in that room was sufficient to goose-pucker my flesh. The noise on the street below my second-floor window disturbed me more than was called for. Living in the wilderness taught me to listen with a constant ear, since rustling grass or breaking twigs might herald the Angel of Death. Men laughing and talking and spitting right below the window constituted a cacophony, and the clop of a hoof brought me bolt upright in my unaccustomed bed. Strange, I had not experienced this during my previous short visits.

  Missing my own bathing room more than anything else, I visited the establishment’s privy reserved for gents and then sought out the local bathhouse. A shave and hot bath revived me, and breakfast in the Rainbow’s dining room gave me courage to face the day and worry over what to do with myself. One phase of my life was ended. Another was yet to reveal itself. What was I qualified to do? Hire out as a scout for the government? Become a professional hunter?

  The former was out of the question. I would never put myself in the position of running down my friends, as a scout could conceivably be required to do. Professional hunter resonated better and would have the advantage of keeping me out of town for a good part of my time. Of course, I could settle a piece of ground and farm. That is what I was raised to do, but the task of building another homestead seemed oppressive at the moment.

  Reviewing my station, I found it acceptable. None of the gold in my possession had been tou
ched, and doubtless far exceeded the value of the remaining silver and my account at the bank. When I checked on the latter, I was pleasantly surprised to find it considerably buffered by the proceeds of financing Caleb Brown’s fur purchases as a factor for the Astor organization.

  To reconnect with American civilization, I visited the Jewish tailor to purchase clothing made a cut above my usual habit. Abandoning my signature red garments for the drab of small-town society was surprisingly difficult. I felt absolutely common. The sturdy boots from the local cobbler chafed feet long accustomed to the soft comfort of moccasins. Further, they made a resounding clump against the boardwalk, robbing me of any ability to move about quietly. Apparently that was in accordance with the usual custom, for the local citizenry seemed inordinately taken aback at another’s silent approach. Silence equated with stealth, and stealth with chicanery.

  A visit to Caleb Brown brought an invitation to dine with the merchant. I accepted gratefully. Filling my day was already presenting a problem. Discerning circumstances were different from previous visits. Mr. Brown probed as to my intent. I shared my plans to the extent they existed.

  Later that evening, I dropped by the inn’s saloon for a dram of spirits prior to retiring. Halfway through my libation, Captain Jamieson and the Lieutenants Morrow and Smith appeared at my elbow and offered a drink.

  It would have been a more pleasant evening without the presence of Smith. Within the hour, he proved a dour earwig of the worst sort, concurring with anything the captain said and withholding judgment until learning the bend of Jamieson’s twig in the wind… except on the subject of the “tribesmen,” as he termed them, depersonalizing an entire people and reducing them from a society to a mere meaningless term. He was harshly outspoken on that subject as he got deeper into his cups, raising the suspicion he was a pot valiant, a poltroon of the worst sort who drew his courage from John Barleycorn, or more ominously, from behind ranks of armed troopers. Frankly, he was bigoted about the red man, and as such was dangerous. Even the captain felt moved to caution him over some of his comments, although I gleaned Jamieson himself feared the Indians more than was reasonable.

  Smith reluctantly ended the roundhouse by complaining that his duty as adjutant compelled his return to the post. Jamieson decided to accompany him, but Morrow remained for another drink.

  The atmosphere altered with the departure of the other officers. James Morrow visibly relaxed and initiated a timid conversation, inquiring about Cut Hand and things of more personal interest. As we talked, I observed this attractive military officer. In the company of others, he was stiff and stolid. When alone with me, he was affable and pleasant. In this, he was not unlike my friends among the Yanube. He had a finely drawn face, somewhat narrower than my… than Cut Hand’s. The blond hair went well with his tanned features. He’d lost the “mother’s milk” look, leaving him a handsome, virile young man.

  As I finished my drink and declared it time to retire, he seemed reluctant to end the evening. Perhaps it was more comfortable here than on the post. In the lobby he offered his hand, which I took in the American manner. On impulse, I stated I would not be averse to a final drink in my quarters. Lieutenant Morrow accepted readily.

  Once in the room, he grew unaccountably flustered, and I knew my instinct was correct. Even so, I had no idea how to advantage the situation, even though I was attracted in that vague way Carcajou affected me. This young lieutenant was no Plains warrior, but his build was trim and firm and demanding of my interest. He had leaned out since last spring. His uniform no longer hugged him so tightly. I was suddenly desirous of seeing him naked again. Unbidden, my pipe stirred.

  As we sipped generous drinks, I decided upon a course of action. Walking to the door, I paused before deliberately turning the key in the lock. He swallowed hard as he stood in anticipation, his excitement clearly evident. Cut’s image flashed before me, almost costing me the will to continue, but Morrow’s eager, frightened features motivated me.

  His hungry eyes followed every move as I undressed. With a soft moan, he tore off his uniform and rushed to me. His kisses did not stir the blood, and this disturbed me, for I never sought assignations merely for sexual release, except with that long-ago doxy.

  When he eagerly took his kisses elsewhere, I forgot such nonsense. Lt. James Morrow had done this before. He was good at it. I cautioned him to go slowly, but he worked at me as if this were a thing he enjoyed, just as I had taken pleasure in doing it for Cut in my past life. With that thought came a brief pang of regret. Once the moment was over, I was perplexed. Did he expect reciprocity? Morrow came up off me and buried his head in my neck.

  “Was that all right? It… it has been a long time. I was afraid I had forgotten how to do it properly.”

  “That was good,” I proclaimed, floundering in unfamiliar waters. I knew nothing better than to speak my mind. “I’m not certain what happens next.”

  “Can we stay this way for a while? And later maybe you can….”

  “Maybe I can what?”

  He made no reply.

  “Lieutenant…. James, speak plainly. That’s the only way I know how to deal.” Then I understood. “What is it? Do you want me to flank you?” A tremor shook him, and I was sorry for my vulgarity. “Damnation, man! Why didn’t you say so?”

  Later, as I rolled off of him, he whispered his thanks.

  “No need to thank me. I enjoyed it as much as you did.”

  “Did you? I never knew if it was about pleasure or power.”

  We lay with the lamp on low wick while he spoke of how he first came to lie with a man, his father’s Ganymede, a sixteen-year-old serving boy, when James was but twelve.

  “He was Portuguese…. Eduardo. He came into my bath once with hot water and stayed to watch me. His eyes, they were huge and brown. When he looked at me, I got excited. I could see he was too. After… well, you know, he got scared and ran out of the bath.” James shifted his weight and continued living in the past.

  “The next day I went up in the hayloft, where he kissed me on the lips. I didn’t even know you did that. Damnation, I didn’t know any of it. But I did by the time I came down from that loft. I knew it all.”

  “How long did this go on?”

  “For two years, until we were caught. My father beat Eduardo and sent him away. He put me in a boarding school.”

  James had been tossed from the boiling pot into the fire pit. His roommate shared him with two friends, and on occasion, all three had him at one sitting. Then he was accepted at the military academy, where they promised to make a man of him. Since that time, the constantly terrified James abstained from carnal encounters, not only with his own kind but also with women, and indeed, with himself.

  With James’s departure from my room in the wee hours came recriminations. I had sullied the manhood of a southern gentleman! Nonsense! James was ready and eager for the leap. Had I not serviced his needs, he likely would have erred with someone who would take advantage of his station. I snorted aloud. In some quarters that was called… what was that newfangled word? Rationalization.

  Suddenly, I achieved an erection that had nothing to do with James Morrow as I recalled the feel of Cut against me, the warmth of his living body, the generosity of his soul, the beauty of his mind. Unmanly tears flooded my eyes. Loneliness overwhelmed me. I prayed to my formidable God that Cut Hand and the tiospaye were well. My heart hardened into pig iron as I imagined him lying in Morning Mist’s arms. Despondent to the point where the derringer on the table beside my bed appeared seductive, I turned away and came to the odd conclusion I had betrayed him tonight. Maybe I was a closet Catholic who, once taking the vows, can never lay them aside.

  In the cold light of day, I shrugged off those feelings, of course, and continued to see James. Despite the newly discovered confirmation I was a common sodomite, I grew truly fond of him and looked forward to inspecting his naked body, sunburned at head and arms, blue-veined white everywhere else. He gradually progress
ed from shy to proud of my inspection, and each time expressed his thanks following our copulation. I finally came to understand his gratitude was for not treating him with derision post coitus as others had.

  AS JAMES Morrow became a regular fixture in my life, I was reintroduced to the fear Americans engender in sodomites, something of a shock when laid against the more accepting attitude of the People. Nonetheless, I cottoned to the danger before disgracing myself in the eyes of the Yawktown community.

  When the weather finally began to turn with the coming of the Goose Moon, I gathered articles needed for my new life as a hunter, but when I purchased a buckboard, I acknowledged the past four months had been nothing but flam. The items that went into my boodle were things I would require at Teacher’s Mead. James knew I planned to leave on a hunt with the thaw, but I have no idea when he recognized I was returning home; possibly when he saw the wagon.

  The night before my departure, a few friends hosted me a frolic at the Rainbow House. Brown, Crozier, Kranzmeier… they were all there. Major Wallston and Captain Jamieson came by for a brief while. Then James and I discreetly retired to my room. He appeared reluctant to do much except hold on to me tightly. At length he raised his head, the blue of his eyes faintly visible.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were going back?”

  “I do not know when I made the decision. I drifted into it. I would have told you tonight.”

  “You’re going back to him?” I had long since confessed Cut Hand to James.

  “No.” I laid a finger across his full lower lip. “That part of my life is over. He belongs to his wife now. There’s no place for me except as friend and counselor.”

  “How can you stand to be around him?”