by Cotton Smith
The salesman wiped his forehead with his coat sleeve, glanced at the others for help, then finally stuttered, “I-It isn’t the same. T-They just aren’t the same…as us. Yeah, that’s it. They just aren’t the same as us.”
“Thank God they aren’t.” Lockhart turned back toward the stairs.
Kane was already gone.
Lockhart looked back at the group murmuring among themselves. “Oh, you are most welcome to check out.” His voice was ominous, rich with disgust. He took three steps, paused once more and added, “Just don’t come back.”
“Come on, men, this is ridiculous,” the first businessman said, waving his arms to encourage support. “I’m not staying where people who aren’t real Americans are allowed. My God! I wouldn’t let ’em in my house—and I sure as hell don’t want ’em around me.”
Only the brown-suited salesman and the gentleman with the long sideburns agreed. They stood and joined the gray-haired businessman in a supporting, animated conversation. Another gentleman, seated beside the long-sideburned man, returned to his newspaper and cigar. A businessman in the far opposite corner stood for a moment, then sat down again and began looking at his Harper’s magazine as if nothing had occurred.
Seated across the lobby, against the northwest’s drapes, a tall man turned to his friend sitting beside him in an overstuffed chair. “I’m ready for a drink. How about you, Robert? Maybe some cards.”
“Sounds good.”
The two men stood without looking at the standing gentlemen who were reinforcing each other’s decision to check out. Lockhart was halfway up the steps, no longer paying attention to the lobby.
“Mr. Lockhart, my friend, Robert, and I are heading out for a drink—and some poker,” the taller man hollered. “We’ll be back.” He paused and yelled again, “You know a good place to get both?” His smile was wide.
Nodding, Lockhart stopped and turned toward them. “Glad to have you in our hotel, gentlemen.” He cocked his head to the side. “You might want to try the Silver Queen. Tell the bartender there that I said the first round’s on me.” He continued up the stairs.
As he approached Room 24, he heard talking inside. The voice was Crawfish’s. Gentle. Almost birdlike. He turned the brass doorknob, opened the door and stepped inside.
His gaze absorbed the entire room and he was both pleased and surprised. The disgusting exchange in the lobby was momentarily forgotten.
Sitting in a chair, shoved next to the bed, was Crawfish. He was holding a dark bottle in one hand; a tablespoon in the other. Standing behind him was Sean, holding a tray of food. In the bed, sitting up, was Falling Leaf with a smile on her face. On her right, resting on the quilted spread, was a piece of bluish gray galena, containing both gold and silver. Near it was the empty parfleche with her gun lying on top of it. Lockhart was surprised, and pleased, to see she had relinquished the weapon to them.
Lockhart recognized the rock from a bookshelf in Crawfish’s library. It was an early discovery in their prospecting days. He had held on to it for luck.
Folding his arms, Lockhart spoke first to the Indian woman in his best Lakotan, hoping she would understand him. Her immediate response was forceful, almost shrill.
“Cinks’, le niho’ kin hwo?”
The question, “Son, is that your voice,” made him wonder if she thought he was truly a relative, or if it was merely a term of endearment.
In her language, he said his name, both his Oglala warrior’s name and his Christian name.
“Nitu’wa kin slolwa’ys,” she responded.
To himself, he muttered her statement in English, “I know who you are,” and expected her to say he was the one who rides with the Grandfathers. He braced himself.
“Tase’ wanagi wan canpi’ na hohu’ iko’yake ka.”
He laughed at her statement that surely a ghost has neither flesh nor bones. He asked her how she felt and she replied that she felt much better, thanks to him—and to the red-haired shaman and his tunkan.
Nodding, Lockhart stepped closer to the bed. “Well, Crawfish, you old goat, she thinks you’re a wise shaman— with a holy stone. Thanks for coming.” He looked over at Sean. “You, too, Sean.”
“From the house, we be bringing some fine venison. Roasted brown an’ fine, it be,” Sean said and held the tray higher. “Crawfish hisself be the cook o’ it. Tasty, she be. A sweet taste, it has.” He examined the tray’s several bowls. “And a baked apple with brown sugar. Lots o’ it. Cut up into small slices, it be. Aye, an’ coffee with lots of sugar, too.”
Lockhart smiled. “I’m sure she’ll like it, Sean.”
“Sean helped me, Vin,” Crawfish said and held up the bottle. “Gave her a tablespoon of Dr. Kilmer’s Female Remedy. It’s a good tonic, I think. Supposed to purify the blood. Can’t hurt her, that’s for sure.” He grinned. “Gave her a few swallows of whiskey, too. She liked that.” He motioned toward the whiskey bottle on the nightstand, then glanced at the rock in her hand. “I remembered what your Indian friends say about stones. Thought it might be comforting to her. Remember it?”
“Yes, I sure do.”
“Lordy be, that was like another lifetime ago, wasn’t it?”
Lockhart walked to the side of the bed opposite Crawfish, took Falling Leaf’s extended hand in his own, patted it and felt her forehead with his free left hand.
“You have no fever. You look much better,” he said in her native language.
“Mawa’ ni oa’hihi.”
“Yes, I’m sure you can walk, but you need to rest here. Get strong. Eat much. Drink much.”
She laughed and asked, “Nitu’wa he’ci?”
“Who ever are you?” he repeated in English and answered in Lakotan, “I am your friend, your son, your brother. You know that.”
She thanked him and held up the rock for him to examine. He took it in both hands and turned it over several times, letting the window light reflect from its tiny indications of richness.
“Falling Leaf was awake when we came. About a half hour ago.” Crawfish stood and retreated to a nightstand, where he placed the medicine bottle and the spoon beside the whiskey bottle.
“Should me be giving herself the tray now?” Sean asked.
“Sure,” Crawfish and Lockhart replied in unison.
Lockhart explained what she was receiving to eat in her own tongue. Crawfish nodded, recognizing some of the words from their previous learning sessions.
Sean carefully laid the tray beside her on the bed and started to leave. Her feeble hand reached out and took hold of his wrist and held it. She looked at his face and said something he didn’t understand.
Sean shrugged; his eyes were a question.
“She said you remind her of her grandson. He is strong, brave and caring,” Lockhart said.
“Oh.” Sean leaned over and held his hand over hers. “Thank ye, ma’am. That be the nicest thing said about meself. In all me life.”
She studied the plate of meat and apple slices and tore a small piece from a wedge of venison. Words barely escaping from her slightly trembling mouth, she presented the morsel in all four directions, awkwardly leaned over to point it at the floor, then lifted the meat offering above her head, toward the ceiling. She paused and handed the dedicated meat piece toward Sean.
He stared at the offering, uncertain of what to do.
“She wants you to take it and offer it to God,” Lockhart said. “Remember what I did at breakfast?”
“Aye, that me do, but where should me be takin’ this meat?” Sean asked as he accepted the morsel, nodding at her and trying to smile.
“Go over to the window and toss it.”
“Aye.”
Lockhart, Crawfish and Falling Leaf watched the Irish boy move to the window, shove it open wider and toss the meat.
“Say thanks…to God,” Crawfish suggested. “Ah, Wakantanka.” He glanced at Lockhart. “She’ll know that word, right?”
Lockhart smiled and nodded.
�
�� ’Tis a thank you from Falling Leaf to Ye…Wakantanka.” Sean threw the morsel with a backhanded flip into the air and surveyed its downward spin. He stood beside the window for a moment before turning back to the room.
“Ah-man,” Falling Leaf said clearly.
“Aye, amen it be,” Sean repeated and looked at Lockhart.
“That’s probably the only English she knows.”
“Aye, Crawfish can be teachin’ her the words,” Sean said brightly.
Falling Leaf thanked him with her eyes as she began to eat. While she enjoyed the meal, the three shared their day, ending with Crawfish explaining they had been invited to Dr. Milens’s house for a seance to night. The strawberry-haired businessman was more excited about that than the news about Lockhart possibly finding a place to begin his horse ranch. Lockhart tried to hide his disappointment in that, but was outspoken in his lack of interest in attending the evening’s gathering.
“Why don’t you attend that—without me,” Lockhart said. “I’ve heard enough about ghosts to last me a long time.”
Crawfish’s eyebrows jumped in response. “You have to go, Vin. Dr. Milens said he wants six. It’s the perfect number.” He pushed on Lockhart’s arm. “Come on, man, you’ll get a kick out of it.”
Pursing his lips, Lockhart started to suggest that he take Sean instead, but realized that would be insensitive to say with the boy just losing two friends, and changed the subject. He shared that he thought Falling Leaf was Hunkpapa, one of the Sioux divisions, and told them about the confrontation in the lobby.
“I know Kane,” Crawfish declared, waving his hands. “Linens-and-lice, he’s a foolish one. He’s a talker, though. Everybody in town’ll know about this come nightfall.”
Lockhart rubbed his nose with the back of his thumb. “I warned him about that.” His lean face was dark and troubled. “I’ll pay for the empty rooms.”
“Sakes alive, don’t be silly, Vin,” Crawfish declared. “We’re in this together. All of it. I want you involved in the new bank—and, I hope, you’ll have me as your partner in this horse ranch.”
Mesmerized, Sean watched the two men discuss their business situation. Crawfish was interested in having an orchestra at the restaurant. The Irish boy didn’t know anyone with such wealth; they didn’t act like his two Irish friends said all rich men acted. Crawfish and Lockhart were nothing like they said, although people certainly deferred to them. Especially Lockhart. But Sean thought that was because of his reputation with a gun. The boy was coming to the conclusion that Lightning Murphy and Big Mike had lied to him. It was hard to accept. They were family. Sort of. At least the only family he could remember. And now, it was becoming clear they were no good. The two men standing in front of him were that. Good men.
He had been taught that it was all right to steal because others had more than they needed. Or deserved. He had been taught to watch out for himself, because no one really cared about anybody else. He had been taught to lie when he had to, because no one wanted to hear the truth. Without realizing it, he shook his head and glanced at the old woman who was now sipping her coffee.
She saw his gaze and said something he didn’t understand. He bit his lower lip and wanted to say something back. Something nice. All that came out was: “Me be hopin’ ye feel better, Falling Leaf.”
A smile was her answer.
He barely heard Crawfish ask Lockhart about the Irish thugs’ guns and if he thought they could be secured from the sheriff’s office. Lockhart said he would ask, but Sean shouldn’t since the authorities would be suspicious of his interest and start asking questions.
“Hay-for-the-taking, I almost forgot. We need to get the boy’s horses, Vin,” Crawfish said and explained the situation about the wagon and the Indian horse, ending with a question about keeping it.
“An Indian pony? Really?” Lockhart said and turned to the boy. “Assuming that’s where you found it, I think it belongs to you, Sean. You might have a good animal there. Worth something more than a stable mount.”
“Na, ’tis not likely. Not wantin’ anyone to ride it, it were. Mike, he be tyin’ it to the wagon back. It didna want to go with us.”
Lockhart walked over to the bed and talked quietly with Falling Leaf, telling her that they were leaving, but would be back later, and she was to stay in bed. With approval from him, Crawfish and Sean stepped closer and said their good-byes.
“Wica’sa wan lila ksa’pa kin he’ca,” she said, reaching out with her hand to touch Crawfish’s face.
Lockhart smiled. “She says you are a very wise man.”
Crawfish beamed. “Thank you, Falling Leaf.”
He wasn’t familiar with this Lakotan dialect, even though he knew some of Lockhart’s Indian language. He also learned a few words in Ute from their visit to a mining camp years before.
She nodded and reached over to Sean’s face. “Eda’a’ u ye.”
He looked over at Lockhart.
“She said, ‘Be sure to come,’” Lockhart interpreted.
Sean broke into a wide grin. “Aye, mum. Ye can be countin’ on it.”
As they left the room, Crawfish suggested it might be wise to move her to his house. It would be safer for her—and definitely less conspicuous. Surprising to him, Lockhart agreed and said they should move her after they returned with Sean’s horses. Crawfish reminded him that they had an appointment with Dr. Milens later. Lockhart’s frown was his only response.
At the bottom of the stairway, they stopped to talk with the young hotel clerk. Aaron Whitaker was clearly agitated and reported that Kane had checked out as well as three other men.
“Room 24 is locked,” Crawfish said quietly. “I want you to check on her in an hour or so. See that she is comfortable.”
“We’ll be back a little later, to move her out of the hotel,” Lockhart said. His gaze took in the lobby where only three men remained from earlier.
Whitaker’s face glistened with relief at the statement. “Oh…w-where?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Lockhart responded. “She’ll be well cared for. That’s all you need to know.”
“Of course, Mr. Lockhart. I was just…”
“I appreciate your concern.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Behind the treeline was a shallow pond. Nearby was a squatty bowl of land where buffalo once rolled. Sean stared at it and remembered thinking it looked like a grave when he and the two Irishmen first saw it. A brisk, spring wind had intimidated any clouds from the sky, making the moment seem more desolate than it was. The day had definitely turned cool. Sean shivered, then glanced at Crawfish and Lockhart beside him in Crawfish’s carriage, but neither seemed to notice that he was cold. Yet white frost-smoke encircled their faces.
Around them was mostly open and flat land, as far as a man could see, except for the long line of cottonwoods, blackjack and brush. From a narrow ravine on the far side of the pond, a skinny jackrabbit darted across the rock spoon that held the pond in place, narrowly missed the water, then scrambled away. They watched the small interruption as if it were the most important sight in the world.
“Aye, this be the place,” Sean said.
Neither man responded.
Their limited field of vision took in the closest part of a shallow sleeve of water cut into the flat rock. The glistening small pool was barely twenty yards ahead. A brownish green jewel for an instant, then just flat brown water. Sounds of animals drinking came softly to their ears as Lockhart jumped from the carriage, followed by Sean.
“You might as well wait here, Crawfish,” Lockhart said, walking farther to his left to take in the entire pond.
All breath was sucked from him as he saw a distinctive bay horse, a stallion, drinking, along with two wagon horses. He recognized the beautiful animal as a Cheyenne war horse. Paint medicine and battle records decorated its legs, chest and flanks. A small beaded pouch with a dangling eagle feather lay on its broad chest.
A rawhide thong was tied to the horse’s l
ower jaw and acted as the reins and the bit—and were the only guides for the rider to control the animal. A long rope was tied around its neck; the other end was tied to the back of the buckboard. Lockhart knew the rope’s original function: this was for a falling warrior to grab as he fell and the horse would stop. A doubled-over buffalo hide with its hair remaining was the saddle base. Over it was a doubled robe upon which the warrior sat. Twisted sinew straps became the stirrups. It was a simple rig but a traditional Cheyenne saddle.
Lockhart watched in admiration. There was something about the horse. A certain arrogance. The animal knew it was special. Lockhart smiled.
The two other horses had been left harnessed to the wagon and their long reins tied to a nearby tree branch. At least the Irish thugs had left the horses in a position to graze and drink.
The stallion’s head came up, its ears perking to locate some sound that the horse didn’t think should be there. Birds exploded from the tree as the great horse reared in defiance of the unseen enemy. The two other horses stutter-stepped and backed away from the water, bumping against each other.
“Easy now, boy. Easy,” Lockhart called to the stallion as he worked his way down to the animal. “You’re going to be fine. You’re coming with us.”
From the other side of the boulder, Sean’s syrupy reinforcement was equally reassuring to the agitated animal.
As if understanding, the horse became as suddenly quiet as it had been fiercely struggling. The great animal was alert and ready to explode. The horse’s head dropped slowly as its body shivered. The wagon horses’ ears stood at attention.
“It’s going to be fine, boy. Going to be fine.” Lockhart reached the horse and stroked its neck and back.
Sean stayed where he was, watching wide-eyed.