Medicine Wheel

by Ron Schwab

“He’s scared to death of snakes.”

  “Even dead ones?”

  “He wasn’t sure it was dead . . . and wasn’t about to get close enough to find out.”

  “It gives me a lot of comfort having that cowardly bastard guarding the place at night.” She hesitated. “I want to talk to my lawyer.”

  “I sent Deputy Stewart over to the Locke offices to tell Cam there was an incident here. I’m sure he’ll be here soon. In the meantime, why don’t you come up front and have some breakfast. Saturday’s flapjack day at Charlie’s Chuck Wagon, and somebody should be over with the jail meals soon. While we’re up front, I’ll have Deputy Stewart get rid of the snake and clean up your cell. Do you want a new cell?”

  “No, it’s more or less home now, and I like the privacy back here.”

  Nodding at her blood-spattered clothes, he said, “And you’ll need a change of garb.”

  “I think I’m due a bath, Sheriff.”

  “No argument. I’ll have the deputy get the tub out and heat up some water. You’ll have your bath after breakfast and after we talk to Cam.”

  Sheriff Mallery escorted her down the hallway and past the two occupants of the front cells, one of whom clung to the bars and seemed to look on her with awe. He raised his hand and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. “Snake killer,” he said. She guessed the whiskery, bleary-eyed man could hardly wait to race to the nearest tavern to tell his wild tale of the incident.

  The sheriff pulled out an old library table for Kirsten and slid a straight-back chair up to it, motioning her to be seated. She noted that Dagenhart stood sullenly and silently in the corner of the office.

  The door opened, and a parade of people marched in. George Stewart, the fuzzy-cheeked deputy with the cherubic face entered first. George was probably twenty-five, but he looked sixteen, Kirsten thought. She liked him. He was consistently kind and respectful—the opposite of Dagenhart. He was followed closely by Myles Locke, who stood nearly a half foot taller than the young deputy and, as she would have expected, was dressed impeccably in a dark pin-striped suit.

  Bringing up the rear was Charlie Archer with a big basket containing the prisoners’ breakfasts. Charlie evidently had some kind of contract with the county for jail meals, and she had to admit the occupants were well fed.

  “Leave Mrs. Brannon’s plate on the table here, Charlie,” the sheriff said.

  “Yes, sir.” The lean, middle-aged man with the shiny scalp was a former army cook. He was businesslike and efficient, and in a few moments Kirsten looked upon a plate of huge pancakes with several small sausages and a steaming cup of coffee. “And here’s a pitcher of hot maple syrup, ma’am,” he said, setting the little glass container on the table. ”Now, I expect you to clean your plate.” He smiled broadly.

  She returned the smile, thinking she must look like she’d been working in a slaughter house during the night. But the old soldier seemed unfazed.

  “George will help you feed the others,” the sheriff said. Then, turning to the young deputy, he directed, ”After he’s had breakfast, you can let Higgins out. He was just sleeping off a drunken night. There won’t be any charges.”

  The deputy and Archer disappeared into the jail complex. Myles Locke pulled up a chair across the table from Kirsten who was attacking the hotcakes like she was devouring her last meal. The sheriff took a seat at his desk about five paces away from the table, and Dagenhart remained standing in the corner of the office, glaring angrily at her, but she was undisturbed and just ignored him.

  “I should explain,” Myles said, “Cam caught a train to Topeka last night. He’s going to attend a lecture by the young lawyer we spoke about.”

  “Is he going to speak to her about my case?”

  “Possibly. Mostly he would just like to hear her speak and evaluate the lady’s skills and demeanor when she speaks in front of an audience.” He hesitated. “Do you wish to speak with me alone?”

  She pondered the question. “No, I think not. I just want somebody who’s on my side to hear about what happened here last night.” She finished her breakfast, pushing the empty plate aside, and picked up the coffee cup.

  Myles wrinkled his brow and his intent gray eyes met hers, telling her she had his attention. “You’ve obviously experienced something unusual, but you appear unharmed.”

  “I murdered a rattlesnake.”

  Myles gave her a small smile, but otherwise displayed no surprise. “And have you been formally charged with the serpent’s murder?”

  Sheriff Mallery interrupted. “Enough of this ‘murder’ talk. It’s not funny. Mrs. Brannon, you wanted to see your lawyer. He’s here, and we’re not giving you the whole morning to have your conversation.”

  Kirsten shrugged, and the jail complex door opened. Charlie Archer appeared and quickly cleared her plate and empty cup and was on his way. Kirsten proceeded to tell Myles Locke her story. His face was impassive as she spoke, as if he had heard the story many times. Unflappable, Kirsten thought. Yes, that was the word—unflappable. His presence immediately calmed any anxiety or nervousness. He reminded her of someone. Of course, it was Thad, who had not yet attained this level of self-possession, but in thirty years he would likely be his father.

  “You say a person, presumably a man, had been outside your cell window before?”

  “Yes. Every night since I got here.”

  “And did you say anything to the sheriff about this?”

  “No, but the first night I told the deputy.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He laughed and said I was imagining things. I didn’t bother complaining after that.”

  The sheriff interrupted and, glaring at Dagenhart, asked, “Is that true . . . she told you somebody was outside her window?”

  The deputy cast his eyes from side to side, as if seeking an escape. “Uh, yeah. Like I said, I thought she was just hearing stuff . . . it being her first night and all.”

  “Why didn’t you say something to me?”

  “Just didn’t think it was important, and she never said anything after that.”

  Kirsten enjoyed watching the deputy squirm but didn’t think the matter was worth more fuss.

  “Sam,” Myles said, “may I make a suggestion? You obviously can do what you want, but Cam told me someone had been following my client for several days before she was taken into custody. As I understand it, he asked you if a deputy had been assigned to do this and you assured him that was not the case. It seems to me that if it’s the same man, he is being quite persistent, and he’s a definite threat to Miss Cavelle’s life. My first concern is for the safety of my client, but it seems to me it wouldn’t reflect well on the sheriff’s office for a prisoner to be harmed while in your custody. I think it would be prudent to have a second man on duty at night and to post him at the back of the building within sight of Miss Cavelle’s window.”

  They would not dare decline Myles Locke’s “suggestion,” she thought. He was not technically making a demand, she gathered, but the deal was good as sealed. Cam would have accomplished the same goal, but he would have bruised some feelings, probably ripped Dagenhart’s ass to verbal shreds. She noticed the sheriff hadn’t corrected him, either, on his references to “Miss Cavelle.” She appreciated what she considered a show of respect for her, and the gentle rubbing of the sheriff’s nose in a cow pie.

  “She’ll have two guards,” the sheriff said.

  Myles turned back to Kirsten. ”Is there anything else we need to discuss?”

  “No, thanks so much for coming over.”

  “My pleasure. Cam will return on tomorrow afternoon’s train, but if you need to talk me in the meantime, I’m sure the sheriff will send somebody to fetch me.”

  “What I’d really like right now is a bath and a change of clothes and a long nap.”

  The sheriff stood up. “George should about have things cleaned up back there. We’ll take care of the bath shortly.” He tossed a glance at Dagenhart. “Gid,
get the hell out of here, and be back after supper.”

  32

  THE NEMESIS ROCKED in his chair, sweating profusely and breathing heavily as a result of his nearly mile race from the county jail. The bitch had totally unnerved him when she spoke so calmly and deliberately to him through her cell window. She was far different from any woman he had ever encountered, frighteningly so. No wonder Max had been unable to manage her. His fate had been settled the moment he met the she-devil.

  And Aldo. What had she done to Aldo? He knew the rattlesnake’s life was ultimately at risk when he released it through the barred window, and that after the snake had accomplished its mission, it would likely be captured and killed. But he had not known he was sending his old friend into the devil’s den.

  He smelled the stale sweat and tobacco and began to regroup and recover his composure as he sensed that Father had taken his place on the settee. “I lost Aldo tonight, Father, and I learned that the woman is someone to be feared. She will never submit quietly to her end.”

  “She is only a woman. She is no one for you to fear. Where did you lose Aldo?”

  “At the jail. I dropped him in her cell. And then it was quiet for a long time before she came to the window and spoke and threatened to scream if I did not leave. I was a coward. I did not want to be found there, so I ran until I nearly collapsed.”

  “There is no shame in running. Only a fool would wait to be caught.”

  Father’s reassurance calmed the Nemesis. “Somehow she escaped the snake. I will learn what happened tomorrow. But what do I do now? She will be waiting for me, and she may alert others to watch for me. I thought of myself as the hunter, but I am wondering now if I am becoming the hunted.”

  “You are making too much of this woman. She is not a witch or a goddess or some supernatural being. She is a woman . . . a stronger adversary than most, perhaps, but still just a woman. But now is a time for calm. You must not panic. No matter how much the force calls you to take action, you must wait. Let the law run its course. If she hangs, justice will be done even if it is not at your hands. Patience.”

  Of course, Father was right. It was too risky for the Nemesis to try again just now. He must subdue the inner demons who called him to do his work. He must wait.

  Summer 1874

  33

  SERENA LAY ON her bed, staring at the rough, plastered ceiling of the second floor bedroom of the recently constructed Belmont home. School would be starting at the institution in two weeks. She would need to depart in a few days if she was going to get settled in for the next school session. But what about Thad?

  She had another assignation planned with him tomorrow afternoon. Decisions had to be made—and soon. And their clandestine trysts were coming to an end no matter what choices were made. Her father was more than suspicious. He had become more confrontational and often angry about her rides or runs into the Flint Hills. “You’re not carrying your share of the load around here,” he had declared more than once. And she supposed he was right.

  She sat up and reached over and opened the drawer of the small clothes chest next to the bed. She rummaged beneath her underthings and withdrew the tintypes. She had eight of them, two of each of the poses photographed at the medicine wheel. Serena studied them thoughtfully. She did not know much about such things, and she carried a strong bias in her heart, but she suspected these met high artistic standards. The tintypes flattered her greatly, she thought, but she could not object to that. Thad, of course, his sandy hair even lighter in the photograph, was his handsome, robust self, and it seemed his eyes were reaching into the depths of her soul. His lips were closed in a small bemused smile.

  She couldn’t help but smile back at the face. His image made her hunger for him. Their appetites for each other had been insatiable these past weeks, and whenever they met now, they had to make love almost before they said “hello.”

  There was a soft tapping at her door. “Who is it?”

  “Mama.”

  Serena hesitated, glanced again at the tintypes. It was time.

  “Come in, Mama.”

  Rachael Belmont entered the room, glanced at the tintypes spread out on the bed next to her daughter, but said nothing.

  “Would you close the door, Mama? I would like to talk.”

  Rachael closed the door and took a seat near the bedside in the room’s only chair. She still said nothing.

  Serena handed her a set of tintypes, and Rachael shuffled through them slowly and then repeated her perusal, evidently studying the images more seriously. She looked at her daughter quizzically. “They are extraordinary. The photographs of you are breathtaking. May I be so bold as to ask for one?”

  Serena smiled sadly. ”You may have one of each, Mama. I have another set.”

  Rachael held up the tintype of Thad. “I gather this is the young man you’ve been meeting?”

  Of course, she knew, probably had been aware very early on. “Yes. He’s the one who took the tintypes.”

  “That’s obvious. The photographer is in love with his subject . . . and she with him.”

  “You can really see that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Mama.”

  “About what?”

  “School starts soon. I should leave within a week at the latest for the new term.”

  “But?”

  “I don’t want to leave him. I love him, and he loves me. He’s already hinted at a life together. He’ll ask me to marry him if I mention leaving for school. I’ve been avoiding the topic. Tell me what to do, Mama.”

  “I would never tell you what to do about something like this,” Rachael said sternly. “But I will be on your side no matter what decision you make. You just have to ask yourself what you really want to do with your life. You also have a right not to make a decision just yet. Many times we force decisions upon ourselves before we are prepared to make them. Are you prepared to make this one? I know you have other dreams. How important are they now? We can change our dreams.”

  “I want to go to school. I want to be a lawyer. But I want to be with Thad, too.”

  “What does he want to do?”

  “He wants to be a veterinary surgeon and a rancher.”

  “Would he be willing to do something else? Would he be happy living in Washington?”

  “He would not be happy in Washington.”

  “Would you be happy living here?”

  She hesitated. “I love the Flint Hills. But could I do the things here I want to do with my life? And, Mama, I can’t forget, in the eyes of society, I’m a Negro. You and Papa have made lives here, and I guess most white folks have treated you alright. But you have your own community. What about a Negro woman married to a white man? And would folks come to a lawyer who’s both colored and a woman? I want to be somebody, Mama . . . somebody folks respect and look up to. I don’t know. Right now I’m confused. I’m not even sure what I want to do with my life.”

  Rachael said, “Our lives are one choice after another. You come to one fork in the road and you pick a path, and your entire life story will be different. It will happen again and again, and after each of those forks we never get to know where the other path might have led us. We just have to use our best judgments and make the most of our choices. And don’t ever look back.”

  Serena’s tears began to trickle down her cheeks, and Rachael rose and sat down on the bed, took her in her arms and held her close while she sobbed.

  34

  SERENA’S BUCKSKIN MARE was already tethered at the base of the bluff when Thad arrived. He tied Cato and snatched a poncho from his saddle bags and headed up the trail. A deep rumbling came from the southwest, and flashes of lightening lit up an ominous darkening sky in that direction. An hour from now, it would be pouring buckets, a welcome reprieve from a nasty dry spell but a hostile intruder on his afternoon rendezvous with Serena.

  As Thad came over the lip of the mesa, he spotted Serena pacing nervously at the hub. He
raced over, took her in his arms, and instantly noted her unresponsiveness. He stepped back. “Are you okay?”

  “I have to spit it out now, Thad. I’m leaving in two days. I’m going back to school . . . to Washington.”

  Her words struck him like a horse’s kick in the gut, and he was hit by a wave of panic. “But you can’t. What about us? Serena, marry me. Tomorrow if you want. Just stay. I love you. I want to make a life with you. You’ve said you love me. You still do, don’t you?”

  She turned away from him. “I want to go to school. I want an education. I cannot . . . will not . . . make a commitment now. You go ahead with medical school. I’ll come back next summer. We can talk then . . . see how things are between us. We don’t have to make decisions now.”

  He thought her words sounded rehearsed, and he moved to her and turned her toward him, and with the palm of his hand gently lifted her face, so she had to meet his eyes. He saw something akin to fear in her tear-filled eyes. “Tell me you don’t love me,” he said. “Just tell me that, if you can.”

  She kissed him softly on the lips and pulled away. She took a lingering look at the medicine wheel and then darted like a frightened doe for the trail.

  Thad started after her. “Serena. Wait. We need to talk.” Then he thought better of it.

  He sat in a daze on the hub, watching the storm move in. The thunder and lightning roared and cracked above the bluff, and soon the rain came in torrents, mingling with the tears on his cheeks. But he barely noticed and didn’t care.

  Spring 1885

  35

  CAMERON LOCKE STEPPED quietly into the vestibule of the small Methodist Church that was nestled in the tidy, middle-class neighborhood crowding the western boundary of the Kansas capital city. He peered through the open doorway and surveyed the sanctuary before entering. The pews were perhaps one-fourth filled, he guessed—twenty-five or thirty people, more women than men. Seated near the pulpit were an older man with a clerical collar and a petite, young woman with skin tinged the color of burnt sienna. He assumed this was Serena Belmont.