They carried bucket after bucket of water to pour over the ashes that had been scooped into a wooden trough. The potash water dripped into a bucket through small holes in the ash trough, and when Sadie pronounced it ready, she poured it over the grease that Summer had been rendering in the iron kettle over an open fire.
When the soap mixture boiled to pudding thickness, they strained it into a large flat pan and added salt to harden it. The soap had a strong lye smell, but when used in the wash pot, the clothes would come out clean, and after being rinsed and dried in the sun, they would be sweet-smelling.
They worked silently, each wrapped in her own thoughts. The only sound that broke their silence was Sadie’s scolding of Mary. She wanted the child to stay in the house. Summer was puzzled, at first, but decided Sadie was fearful of her being near the boiling pot. Mary cried and fussed. Finally, in desperation, Sadie wrapped a spoonful of sugar in a cloth, tied it securely, and gave it to the child to suck on.
“I shouldn’t do it,” she grumbled. “I shouldn’t let her think she’ll get a sugar-tit every time she throws a spell.”
They had finished the soap-making and were cleaning up, when John Austin called out that someone was coming. Both girls looked toward the creek and the trail to the Keep, and seeing no one, swung around to face the trail leading north to Hamilton: that also was empty. To the south were the hills, covered with thick brush and trees. The two riders had come from that direction and were rounding the end of the corral and almost in the yard before they were seen.
A man with a black beard, wearing a flat-crowned, Mexican-type hat, was leading a brown and white pinto pony that carried an Indian with long, straight black hair, a red band wrapped around his forehead, his hands bound behind his back and a rope about his neck. He was slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest.
Summer watched them approach, her mind numb. Sadie moved to stand in the doorway leading to the kitchen, but Summer stood rooted to the spot and steeled herself to meet the strangers.
The man rode his horse up to within a few feet of her.
“Howdy. Hot, ain’t it?” He took off his hat and wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. His eyes moved restlessly over the corrals, the shed, swept the entire area before coming back and boldly eyeing her. He grinned, showing stubs of teeth through his black beard. “I’d be obliged for a cool drink.”
Summer nodded toward the bucket. “Help yourself.”
He wrapped the pony’s lead rope and the rope looped about the Indian’s neck to his saddlehorn and eased himself out of the saddle. He glanced at Sadie, then his eyes came back to Summer. Water ran down his beard and onto his shirt as he drank, and Summer made a mental note to scrub out the dipper before it was used again.
“Mr. McLean here?” The man moved back toward his horse. His eyes roved the yard and outbuildings again.
Summer shook her head. “No.” Somehow she knew he was referring to Travis.
“Suppose ta meet up with him back that a ways. Thought he could of come here, seein’ as ta what’s here.” He grinned, and his eyes switched from one girl to the other.
The look angered Summer.
“That man needs water, too.” She indicated the sagging Indian. The edge of her voice sharpened even more. “You’re not leaving without giving him water?”
He spat between his feet. “He don’t need no water. ’Paches go days without none.”
Fury boiled up within Summer, and she took a step toward the water bucket. Her eyes met those of the bearded man, and she read the threat in them. She glanced at the Indian, noticing that the flesh had sunk in between the cheekbones and jaws, and the rope about his neck was so tight that his mouth was open as he sucked air into his lungs. He was watching her with dull, lifeless eyes.
A commotion behind her drew her attention. Sadie was blocking the doorway, preventing John Austin from coming out.
“Can I see the Indian, Summer?” He tried to dart beneath Sadie’s arm, but she drew him back.
“Stay inside, John Austin,” Summer ordered sharply. Anger stiffened her back and she dipped the dipper in the water pail and went toward the Indian, who leaned toward her with open mouth.
The black-bearded man moved fast, and the dipper went flying from her hand.
“Hold on. Ain’t nobody a givin’ that ’Pache no water.”
“He needs water badly, and he shall have it!” Summer’s heart pounded heavily. She picked up the dipper and returned to the bench, refilled it, and started toward the Indian again.
“Got grit, ain’t ya?” The man grabbed her close to his foul-smelling body, his hand coming around her to cup and squeeze her breast. “Ain’t nothin’ I like more’n a spunky woman.”
Summer swung the dipper at his leering face. The blow was light and the water spilled over him. He laughed and fastened his hand in the front of her dress, holding her away from him. Summer’s knees shook and she went rigid with terror.
It all happened in a moment.
“Let go! Let my sister go!” John Austin shouted, and threw himself in between Summer and the man, his fists pounding. The man laughed again, loudly, and with one sweep of his arm sent the boy rolling in the dust.
Rage and fear mixed in Summer. Her fingers formed talons and reached for his eyes, missed, and raked his face.
“You . . . bitch!” he snarled and slapped her with an open palm. Her head jarred, and only the hold he had on the front of her dress kept her from going to her knees. She vaguely heard the sound of hoof beats. Then, close to her, a young, excited voice.
“Get away! Leave her be!” Pud jumped from his horse and threw himself at the man, who easily shoved him to the ground while still holding Summer. Pud bounced up and launched himself again at the burly figure, flaying him with his fists.
“Keep away, boy. I don’t aim to tell ya again.” He flung Pud from him a second time. The boy went staggering before falling heavily.
Bouncing up, Pud lowered his head and charged. With a vicious oath, the man loosened his hold on Summer’s dress, drew his gun, and fired.
Summer screamed.
Pud’s footsteps faltered and he sank to the ground. There was another shot, and the man staggered back against his horse, his eyes seeking, his mouth open in surprise, a blossom of bright blood covering his chest. Sadie stood in the doorway, both hands holding the six-gun, waiting. . . . The man tried to raise his arm, but the gun slipped between his fingers as he began to vomit blood and collapsed in a heap between his horse’s legs.
The frightened horse shied, the rope about the Indian’s neck pulled taut and jerked him from the pinto.
Summer ran to Pud. He lay deathly still, and his blood poured out onto the ground. Instantly, Sadie was beside him, tearing open his shirt and stuffing the cloth from her skirt into the gaping wound to stop the bleeding.
“Summer! The Indian!” John Austin’s screams reached her consciousness.
The frightened horse was backing away, dragging the Indian by the rope looped about his neck. He was choking to death! She ran to the horse, but he turned as if to bolt. Desperately, she grabbed one of the trailing reins and pulled up, hard, turning the animal around. Frantically, she sought to unwind the rope from the saddlehorn.
The Apache was almost unconscious by the time she loosened the rope. She fell on her knees beside him and worked, frenziedly, crying in her frantic effort to pull the rope through the slip knot so he could breathe. He was bucking and thrashing and she placed her knee on his chest to hold him while her fingers pulled at the heavy rope. At last, it came free, and he lay there sucking in great gulps of air. His eyes had rolled back in his head, and his swollen lips were pulled back over his teeth while his tongue protruded.
“Bring water! Wet his tongue,” she commanded John Austin. “Don’t let but a trickle go down his throat, or he’ll choke.”
She hurried to where Sadie bent over Pud.
“Is it bad? Oh, God! Tell me it isn’t bad!”
“I don
’t know. I’m a feared of taking out this wadding. Somebody’s comin’. Hurry! Hurry!” she shouted.
Summer only had time to register the sound of the rapidly nearing horses when Bulldog and Raccoon yanked their mounts to a halt and leaped to the ground. The old cowboy’s eyes took in the scene at a glance, pausing momentarily at the crumbled heap that was the dead man. Seeing the danger was over, he knelt beside Sadie.
“Here, now, let me see.”
Is he . . . ? Is he . . . ?” Summer whispered on a sobbing breath.
Bulldog gently moved the wad of Sadie’s skirt and the wound rapidly filled. He pressed it back and got to his feet.
“Ya done good, Sadie. Ya done real good, girl. Summer, get some cloth to plug the hole and we’ll get him onto a bed.” He glanced at the dead man. “Who shot him?”
“Sadie,” Summer sobbed. “If Sadie hadn’t a shot him, I don’t know what he would have done.”
“Yer a good woman, Sadie. Yer a good, strong woman.” A compliment from Bulldog was something to be treasured, but Sadie disregarded it. Her small, pert features were tight, her eyes cold.
“T’was no more than killin’ a . . . varmit!”
Summer gazed down at the boy and swallowed hard. A stray breeze ruffled his sandy blond hair, blood from his wound stained the ground where he lay.
“Will he . . . ?” She could hardly bring herself to say the words.
“Ain’t nobody a knowin’ that,” Bulldog said abruptly. “Move gal, we ain’t got no time for jawin’.”
Pud was moved, with the least amount of jarring possible, to the bunk in the kitchen. The wound in his side was cleaned, and a quantity of whiskey poured into it before clean bandages were wrapped tightly around his body. The bullet had gone into his side and out his back, miraculously missing ribs and vital organs. He remained unconscious, but Bulldog, who seemed to be an authority on gunshot wounds, said that was due to shock and loss of blood. They were to keep him covered, and as soon as possible give him several spoonfuls of honey.
Summer felt a tremendous amount of guilt. Her agony of regret was eased somewhat by Slater when he came. After hearing her tell the story over and over, he finally convinced her that she had no way of knowing the outcome of her effort to help the Indian.
“I blame myself, sweetheart, for not having a man down here. You’ll not be left alone again.”
Evening came before Pud finally opened his eyes. Jack was sitting beside him.
“Miss Summer . . . ?” he whispered.
“Jist fine. Everybody’s jist fine,” Jack answered, his voice soft, sure.
“Did he . . . hurt her?” he asked anxiously. “Did . . . he?”
“No, boy. She’s fine.
“I ort to of . . . had a gun.”
“Wouldn’t of helped, son. You did good. Real good. Saved Miss Summer.”
“What . . . where is . . . he?”
“Dead. Sadie killed him with that old six-gun they keep for firing a signal.”
“Sadie done . . . good.” “Yup. She shore did.”
Pud’s eyelids fell and the grip of his hands on the covers relaxed. Jack touched his head; it was slightly moist. He leaned back in his chair and breathed a sigh of relief. Now, barring a fever, he believed the kid would be all right.
John Austin was fascinated by the Indian. He had hardly left his side. The man was so weak from starvation and thirst that he hadn’t stirred from where he sat leaning against the house. At first, he drank sparingly and ate very little. The boy couldn’t understand his lack of appetite, and brought more and more food to tempt his new friend.
“His stomach is so shrunk up he can’t take up but a little bit at a time, boy,” Bulldog explained. “If’n he filled it up too fast, he’d throw it up.”
John Austin sat beside the Apache. He studied everything about him, from his moccasins and fringed leggings to the rag wrapped about his head. After a while, he tried to engage him in conversation, but the Indian ignored him. Finally, he got a stick and drew pictures in the dirt. The Indian was interested, and although the expression on his face didn’t change, he watched, and when the boy looked up and smiled, he nodded.
The afternoon passed. The Apache seemed to get his strength back. He stood up several times and flexed his muscles, walked a few steps, but always returned to the spot beside the house and sat down. His pony and the dead man’s horse had been turned into the corral. The dead man’s body was taken out behind the outbuildings and buried.
When evening came, Slater came and sat down, cross-legged, beside the Indian, and talked to him in the Apache tongue.
“I am the one your people call Tall Man.”
The Indian looked at him without a flicker of surprise. “I know of you, Tall Man. I am Bermaga.”
“You are welcome here. Stay until you are strong.” John Austin’s eyes went from one man to the other. Slater was talking Indian-talk! He had to know how to speak like that. His cunning little mind plotted a course. He wouldn’t bother Slater now, but later . . .
“I will stay, then go soon,” Bermaga said in his guttural tone. “My people are in the hills. The white man take our young men, our women. I look for my sister.” The flat black eyes made no change. His face might have been hewn from wood.
“Have many of your people been stolen?”
“Two warriors, one woman, since one moon pass.”
“These men are my enemies. I do not want them on my land. I watch. I guard our women.”
“I do not know how we come here.” He bent his head and spread his hair, showing a clot of blood. “I come on pony.” He touched his stomach with his hand.
Slater nodded his head thoughtfully. “I will tell my people to give you safe passage back into the hills. Stay, my brother, until you are strong, but when you go, I will send gifts of food to your people, and you must take the horse of the man who did this thing to you.”
The Apache’s eyes turned toward the corral and the handsome animal standing beside his pony, then swung back to Slater. He held his gaze and nodded.
“Your woman, the one with eyes like the mountain flowers. I owe her my life.”
“She only wants your friendship and that of your people,” Slater said gravely.
Again the Indian nodded, and looked off into the distant hills.
For over a week, Pud lay in Sadie’s bed. For the first few nights, someone sat beside him. Jack had come to stay in the shed until the bunkhouse could be built, and he and the two women took turns by the bedside. Summer insisted on Sadie and Mary taking her bed, and she took the extra bunk in the loft with John Austin. Both women spoiled and coddled Pud shamelessly. Sadie busied herself making puddings and chicken broth for him, and Summer read to him during her spare moments. The boy loved every minute of it, and Jack vowed he was playing possum, deliberately staying abed.
The fact that Slater assured them a tighter guard had been put around the house raised Sadie’s spirits. That and the fact that the men considered her somewhat of a heroine, applauding her bravery and teasing her about being afraid to get her riled. She went about almost as cheerful as she had before Travis’s visit, and it played on her mind to tell, now, about his threats, but for some reason she held back.
Slater worked hard during the day. His mind was easier about the women, now that Jack, Bulldog or old Raccoon spent their days at the “little place.” At night, no matter how tired he was, he rode over to spend an hour alone with Summer. They would walk down by the cottonwood tree, and as soon as they were out of sight of the house she would go into his arms.
“My God, you are sweet,” he murmured. “You are a thing of beauty, my summertime girl.”
She was filled with love for him, and passion, and when his lips touched hers she drew hungrily on them in return. Strength seemed to ebb from her limbs and her heart careened when he whispered passionately:
“I love you . . . I love you. I would say more convincing words if I knew them. You are my life . . . my soul. . . .”
She did not need to reply. She offered him herself, and although his strength was ten times hers, he handled her gently, stroking and kissing her until she felt half-unconscious.
In the weeks that followed, when they felt they would burst with the terrible pressure of wanting each other, they would hide away and come together in the final act of love. Each time, it was as if they died just a little and were reborn together. Summer was wildly excited about the love she shared with Slater, but yet, at the same time, a new peace was born within her. She had given Slater her love unashamedly from the depths of her heart, and now life without him would be intolerable.
It didn’t take long for the days to roll into weeks. The Fourth of July came and went without a celebration, due to Pud’s slow recovery and the men working sixteen hours a day.
It was the first part of August, a hot afternoon, when Jack rode in to tell the girls that a troop of soldiers had come into the valley and were on their way to the ranch.
Sadie and Summer were in the midst of grinding corn. It had been through the grinder once, but needed to go through once again to be right for bread. Corn-grinding was one of their hardest jobs, and they both wanted to get finished with it. The cornmill was fixed to a post under a shade tree and had two cranks on it. The mill would hold about a peck of corn, and during the grinding the air was full of chaff that stuck to their damp skin. They were not in the mood to greet visitors and told Jack so.
Summer looked down at her arms covered with the fine corn powder.
“They’re not coming here?” Her voice was almost a wail of despair.
“Not fer a spell anyhow.” Jack’s face broke into a grin at their sudden panic.
“Jack, you are the beatenest man I ever did see!” Sadie scolded. “Why in the world didn’t you come and let us know sooner?”
“ ’Cause I didn’t know sooner, that’s why.” He threw his leg over the saddlehorn and watched with amused eyes. “But don’t get in no twitch. They’ll bivouac down thar a ways, but I ’spect the captain and Jesse will come to supper if’n they have an invite.”
Dorothy Garlock Page 15