by Cotton Smith
That elderly woman had been startled by his approaching, then frightened by what she thought she saw with him. Ghosts. Of her family. She had thought he was a spirit, too, and had come to hasten her death. The experience had been very unsettling to Lockhart and had helped convince him that it was time to leave the tribe, that they would never view him as just a warrior again, but only as one of the Tunkasila, one of the Grandfathers. A spirit helper. Wakan.
For a moment, he thought about leaving her and walking on.
Two couples passed the alley, without a glance in their direction. He hesitated, but felt compelled to see if she was all right. As he neared, she sensed his closeness and straightened herself, watching him come closer. She held out her right hand and pointed toward him. Her bony finger shook.
“Have you come to take me to my ancestors?”
The dialect was definitely Sioux, but not Oglala. Hunkpapa, he was certain now. The Lakotan language was the same among all the Sioux, as the white men called them; the Oglala, Hunkpapa, Miniconjou, Brule, and Sans Arc were all part of the same great family. Their speaking, though, had different accents, like listening to a Minnesotan talking to an Alabaman.
“The Grandfathers are with you,” she whispered as her hand shook.
Gently, he took her hand and tried to reassure her. “Unci, I come to help you.”
His Lakotan was simple and he hoped she understood it. Unci was the word for “grandmother,” a term of endearment.
“Aiiee, South Wind sings this day. You have come. From the south. Hokay hey. It is a good day to die.” Fat tears rolled from her weary eyes and down her bony cheeks.
He swallowed to push back the bile that wanted to be freed. The old woman in the Oglala camp had said she saw spirits with him. She, too, had said something about the wind from the south being strong. South was regarded as the direction of death, and spirits traveled along the Ghost Road to the south. But the Oglala also believed ghosts could appear whenever they wanted and talk with the living; they could heal or they could harm.
It didn’t matter what she thought she saw, he told himself. She needed help.
Kneeling beside her, Lockhart put his arms around her and began to sing. It was a cradle song he had heard long ago in the Indian camp. The words and melody slipped easily from his mouth as if he had been rehearsing it.
She nestled against his chest and shut her eyes. Her crying ceased.
After singing the song four times, he asked, in Lakotan, if she was hungry or thirsty, if she had a place to sleep.
Without looking up, she said, “You are the one who rides with the Grandfathers. I have heard of you. You are Oglala. A great warrior of many coups. One against many. They sing songs about the spirits riding with you in battle. At the summer gatherings, they sing these songs. I have heard them.” She stopped and turned her eyes toward him. “Have you come to hear my death song?”
He couldn’t think of anything to say. It appeared she was not sick, only weak from hunger and a lack of sleep.
Finally, he repeated what he had told the old woman in camp. “No. I come because you are my mother, my sister, my grandmother.”
She whimpered, bit her cracked, lower lip and said her name was Falling Leaf. A garbled story of unbelievable hardship followed. She and several others had slipped away from the reservation months ago. Soldiers had followed and had finally caught up with them, killing all of the escaping band, except her. She had played dead until they had ridden away. After they were gone, she had found the revolver next to a dead warrior and taken it with her. A handful of cartridges, too. A wounded horse left behind took her for miles and miles, before giving out. She walked the rest of the way and thought she had been in Denver for three days. Her empty parfleche had carried what food she had—and had gathered from the other dead Indians after the massacre. When it was empty, she had placed the gun and bullets there. She said two of the dead were her brother and his wife.
Without being asked, she opened the parfleche for him to see her gun. It was a French Le Faucheux pinfire revolver, a wheelgun, one of the first to take metallic cartridges. He wondered if it would even fire, how old the bullets were, and thanked her for showing him.
She must eat—and be given a place to rest. His only real option was the Black Horse Hotel. It was a block away, in the other direction. He told her what he was going to do, then lifted her into his arms and stood. She began to weep once more and squeezed the parfleche with both hands, holding the gun in the bag as if it were a small child.
He walked through the front doors of the hotel, holding her in his arms, and told the assistant manager in charge for the day that he wanted a room.
Aaron Whitaker cocked his heads sideways, unbelieving. “What’ll my boss say? She’s an Injun squaw. She can’t be here.” He raked a hand through dark, greasy hair. “Besides, half the rooms are being redecorated.”
Holding his anger in check, Lockhart explained the woman was important to him personally, and that the hotel would be taking her on as a boarder for awhile.
“Well, I guess it’s your hotel, Mr. Lockhart. Reckon ya can do what ya want with it,” Whitaker continued, “but ya know thar’ll be folks…ah, who won’t wanna stay hyar…on account o’ her. No offense, Mr. Lockhart.”
The last statement was carefully framed and took courage to say, Lockhart realized, and nodded his agreement.
The assistant manager seemed more surprised at his gentleness with the old woman than the Indian’s presence itself. Lockhart spoke soothingly to her in a language the young man didn’t know, some kind of Indian words he assumed. His face was wrapped in bewilderment; he alternated between looking at the old woman and looking at Lockhart.
“Ah…Room 24’s empty,” Whitaker said and swallowed. “An’…ah, the rooms on either side are closed—for fixin’.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
With a sudden sense of urgency, Whitaker led the way to an unused room on the second floor. He hoped no guest would see them. His mind was whirring with questions and concerns. What would the hotel manager say? Would he be fired for this? What about Mr. Crawford? What would he think?
Lockhart carefully laid the old woman in a large, planked bed with a quilted spread and blankets. When he tried to take away the parfleche, she cried out and he stopped. With the bag and its gun laying against her body, she grabbed for his hand and held it. Realizing her fear, he sat down on the edge of the bed, holding the wrinkled hand, patting her shoulder and talking softly to her.
“Go get her some warm broth. Cool water, too. And a glass of whiskey.” Lockhart motioned with his head for Whitaker to leave. “Oh, and some vinegar, if you can find some.”
As the hotel employee turned, the unexpected sounds of a lullaby, or something like that, in words foreign to him, reached him. They came from this strange businessman with the gunfighter reputation. Lockhart’s voice was low; the song, sweet and relaxing. Whitaker wanted to stay and listen, but knew he needed to act quickly.
Minutes later, the businessman was holding a water glass for her to drink; it was laced with two spoonfuls of vinegar. Crawfish thought apple cider vinegar was a wonderful medicine, drinking a small amount daily in water; he said it was good for the heart and gave him energy. Of course, he also used it to keep away dandruff, for aching muscles, to heal sores and sunburn, and even under his arms to stop the smell of sweat. Lockhart figured it wouldn’t hurt to give some to Falling Leaf.
After alternating sips of water and giving her spoonfuls of broth, he let her hold the bowl and gave her a taste of the whiskey. She grunted and took another; her smile revealed many missing teeth. He laid the whiskey glass on the bedside table, next to the unlit lamp and the water glass, then handed her a piece of fresh cornbread. She took small bites and began to spoon the broth by herself.
Finally satisfied, she held out the nearly emptied bowl for Lockhart to take. He accepted it and handed her the glass of water, laced with a tablespoon of vinegar, which she finished at his urg
ing; then she finished the glass of whiskey. With a deep sigh, she laid back in the bed and was asleep in seconds.
Lockhart backed away, glancing at the drawn window curtains to see that they would keep the light from disturbing her. He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. Whitaker stood, waiting, his hands clasped together at his waist.
“I’ll be back to check on her,” Lockhart said.
“What if someone asks about her?”
“Why would they? Unless you say something.”
Whitaker’s eyes widened. “W-why, why, I wouldn’t say anything…but…”
“I’ll tell Craw…Mr. Crawford—and Mr. Damian.”
“Of course…ah, Mr. Lockhart, sir?”
Lockhart turned, half-expecting more resistance.
“What if she dun wake up—while you’re a’gone—an’ gits all upset?” Whitaker asked, swallowing his concern. “What’ll I do…sir?”
“Don’t worry about it. She won’t. I told her I was leaving and would be back—and to wait in the room. For me.”
“Is thar a word…or somethin’…I could say to, ah, to make her know she were safe, ya know, hyar?” Whitaker asked seriously.
“Sure. That’s smart. Ah, say to her…ko-LAH. Ko-LAH. That means ‘friend.’ Ko-LAH,” Lockhart said and added, “You can also say…blo-KAH glee. He will come back. Blo-KAH glee.”
Whitaker repeated both phrases over and over to himself.
“If you think she’s hungry, bring her some more broth, or cornbread. You might try coffee with lots of sugar, too.”
CHAPTER SIX
Crawfish was standing in his front doorway as Lockhart rounded the far corner of the upscale neighborhood. Lockhart guessed his old friend was simply welcoming the morning as he often did. Or he was tending to the freshly planted row of lilies of the valley and honeysuckle that adorned most of the front of the house.
Seeing him approach, Crawfish waved his walking stick enthusiastically and yelled, “Good Morning, Vin! A glorious day, eh!”
“Got any coffee?” Lockhart yelled back. “I came for a good hot cup of coffee.”
Crawfish laughed and bit his lower lip. “Coffee? You bet. The best you’ve ever tasted. Just starting breakfast, too. Sean’s in the kitchen. Cracking eggs.” Crawfish motioned with his hand toward the unseen Irish lad.
Lockhart pushed his hat back on his head and walked faster. “So, you’ve already got him working, I see.”
Crawfish laughed again and turned his head toward the inside of the house. “Hey, Sean, we’ve got one more for breakfast. What did I tell you? Vin’s here.”
“Ay, an’ a grand meal he be havin’,” came the cheery reply.
Lockhart and Crawfish shook hands on the older man’s doorstep and Crawfish advised him that Sean Kavanagh seemed smart and eager to learn, that he didn’t think the boy could read or write, however. He said the boy had told him that he had spent the last four years with the two hoodlums who tried to kill Lockhart last night. Shoving his glasses back into place on his nose, the red-haired entrepreneur said he thought the boy was confused and understandably so.
“You know, his world got torn up real bad last night,” Crawfish said. “The two men he had depended upon for everything, who were supposedly taking care of him…well, one you killed and the other’s not likely to make it either.”
Lockhart pulled his hat brim, returning it to a lowered position. “They didn’t give me much choice.”
“I know that. So does he,” Crawfish said, talking faster now. “Doesn’t really help though. If you get my meaning. I think the boy is trying to figure out if he should hate you— or embrace you as his savior.”
“Sounds like you’re trying to tell me that the boy might try to kill me, too.”
“Well, if someone killed Stone-Dreamer—when you were a lad that age—how would you have felt?”
“What do you mean, a lad that age? If someone hurts that old man, I’m going after him. Wherever he goes.”
“Including the U. S. Army?”
“Including Grant. Sheridan. Sherman. Custer. The whole damn bunch.” Lockhart’s eyes flashed his irritation at the thought.
Crawfish put one hand on Lockhart’s shoulder and leaned on his staff with the other. “Well, now, you understand what Sean’s going through. Just give the boy some time. Some room.”
“He can have all of both that he wants.”
As the two men entered the house, Lockhart told Crawfish about Falling Leaf.
“Mercy-taters, are you certain she isn’t hurt?” Crawfish’s hands flew up with the question as they stepped into the living room. “Maybe we’d better go get the doc.”
“Do you really think Doc Wright’d treat an Indian?” Lockhart said, dodging his friend’s hands. “Nobody in town would ever let him forget it.”
“Well, I…I’ll look at her,” Crawfish said. “I know a thing or two about medicine. Of course, that’s it.” He spun around as if intending to go to the hotel.
“Right now, she’s sleeping, Crawfish,” Lockhart said. “That’ll do her more good than anything. She’s eaten and had some water—and a little whiskey.”
“Good. Good. After breakfast, we’ll go. Before church,” Crawfish declared, studied his friend and asked, “There’s more. Something’s bothering you…more than her health. Isn’t there.” It wasn’t a question.
Half-grinning, half-grimacing, Lockhart explained the old woman said she saw spirits around him and identified him as the “one who rides with the Grandfathers.” She had heard him sung about at summer gatherings and thought he had come to quicken her death.
“I’m sorry, Vin.” Crawfish crossed his arms and looked down. “You know, people. Especially folks in bad shape…they’ll see things. Things that aren’t there. She didn’t expect to see you, or anyone, to come and help her. It would be natural, I think, to see you as something special.”
“I understand that, old friend,” Lockhart said, “but she reminded me…of another time. A time I want to forget.”
Crawfish shook his head in agreement. “Understand that, Vin. Sometimes, we can’t run away from the past. Just have to deal with it.” He tried to smile. “Candles-and-catechism! You know, there’d be a lot of folks who’d like the idea of being, well, resurrected. That’s what Jesus did, remember?”
Lockhart’s expression sank into a tight mouth line. “That is not a thing to say, my friend.”
“Come into the kitchen—and let’s get you some of Sean’s great coffee,” Crawfish said, deciding his friend didn’t want to discuss the matter further. He headed across the living room toward the kitchen.
Nodding agreement, Lockhart followed him through the living room cluttered with papers of all kinds. Yesterday’s newspaper was spread upon the heavy oak table. Under it was a copy of Harper’s New Monthly magazine and on the floor next to one of the chairs was a crumpled copy of a DeWitt Ten Cent Romance booklet, barely covering several medical journals, a historical pamphlet of some kind and a Chicago magazine featuring fine restaurants. Last year’s important book, Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, by Mary Baker Eddy, lay nearby with a sock for a bookmark.
Lockhart tossed his hat on the dark green, overstuffed chair as they passed. It was the only piece of furniture not covered with newspapers, magazines, pamphlets or other papers. He guessed most of the reading materials were related to Crawfish’s current interest in establishing a new bank or the completion of the hotel restaurant. The man’s day always started with coffee and the newspaper, and usually anything else worthy of reading that he had gathered the day before.
“Good morning, Sean. How are you doing?” Lockhart said as they entered the small kitchen, making no attempt to shake his hand.
The Irish teenager was wearing a clean shirt and pants; they looked familiar and were likely clothes Crawfish had given him from his closet. They were a bit large for him in the shoulders and waist, but not bad. Certainly far better than the dirty rags he had been
wearing. His footwear was also new—to him. A pair of black boots that Crawfish rarely wore. From the looks of his scrubbed face, the businessman had encouraged the boy to take a bath as well. A huge porcelain bathtub was one of Crawfish’s early purchases; it had been shipped all the way from Chicago.
Another was the fancy, wrought-iron stove that was occupying the boy at the moment.
“Fine I be, sir. An’ thank ye for askin’.” Sean Kavanagh nodded his head and returned to tending to the bacon now sizzling in the large, black frying pan.
A few minutes later, the three sat at a round table with plates heaped with fried eggs, fat slices of bacon, and wedges of pan-fried potatoes. A separate plate held a half-dozen warm biscuits. At Crawfish’s plate was also a glass of water, mixed with some vinegar. His customary morning ritual.
Lockhart added two spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee while Crawfish praised the boy for his cooking skills. Sean blushed and eyed Lockhart out of the corner of his eyes.
“Before we eat, Sean, it is our custom—Vin and mine— to say thanks to the good Lord,” Crawfish said. “Are you familiar…with saying grace?” He didn’t wait for a response, but folded his hands and recited, “‘God is great. God is good. Him we thank for daily food. By his hand we all are fed, by his love, we all are led.’ Amen.”
Lockhart’s voice mirrored Crawfish’s; his hands grasped together; his eyes, closed.
Sean watched them both. Surprised.
As soon as the prayer was finished, Lockhart cut away a small piece of bacon, rose and took it in his fingers and went to the back door. The Irish lad watched him as the well-dressed businessman whispered something, motioned in seven directions and tossed the meat into the yard, and returned.
“First food to Wakantanka,” Crawfish explained and shifted the walking stick leaning against his chair to a different position. “Like I told you, Vin was raised by Indians. Oglala Sioux to be exact. They believe in honoring God by giving him the first bite of each meal.” He scratched his unshaven chin. “He motions in seven directions, that’s also to…ah, recognize the four Winds, Mother Earth, Father Sky—and the Eagle who soars to the Great Spirit, taking messages to him. Well, that’s pretty close, I think. Right, Vin?”