Kiowa White Moon

by Jeanie P Johnson

  I left the room, and I realized I was trembling. I was trying to make sense of Bertha’s assumptions that someone had shot Clinton with a gun. I wondered what she knew that she wasn’t telling. I tried to remember if I had heard a gun shot earlier, before I entered the cave.

  Only who would be shooting guns in the area? Besides, Clinton had his gun with him. If someone had been shooting at him, he would have shot back. We didn’t have any close neighbors, and I didn’t think any other Indians had been with Muraco, so where did that shot come from, that Bertha claimed she heard?

  If Clinton told how he really got shot by an Indian, and that I knew that Indian, no telling what may happen, I thought. However, I would deny anything, if he tried to make anyone believe I knew the Indian. I would just say he must be delirious. After all, he wouldn’t be able to prove anything. It would be his word against mine.

  I thought how I had helped Muraco survive, so I wasn’t that worried about Clinton dying. I was just worried about what he would do, once he was fully healed.

  I thought, as soon as everything calmed down, I would go back to the cave and remove any evidence which would indicate I had taken care of someone there.

  I came in with the bottle of whisky. I told Darie to go rip up some more sheets to use for bandages, and then I went to work removing the one I had put on Clinton’s wound, so I could douse it with the whisky. When I did that, Clinton gasped, and his eyes shot open.

  “What are you trying to do, kill me?” he groaned, as his eyes caught mine.

  “If only it were possible,” I said under my breath.

  “I heard you talking to that heathen. You knew him, didn’t you? He wanted to leave me there to die and take you with him!”

  “You must have been dreaming,” I muttered. “There was no one in that cave but the two of us. I didn’t even see the Indian that shot you. Even so, had an Indian been there, and suggested that, I would have jumped at the offer.” I gave him a scalding glare. “Anything would be better than being here with you!”

  Clinton narrowed his eyes.

  “You are hiding something, but I suppose I should thank you for not leaving me, the way he suggested.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You are lucky I took pity on you, which is less than I can say for what you were attempting to do with me!” I hissed.

  “What is he talking about?” Bertha wanted to know.

  Clinton had almost been whispering his words, as I tended his wound. Darie handed me more bandages.

  “He is just mumbling unintelligible ramblings,” I told her. “I don’t know what he is talking about. He is just in pain. Maybe you should leave me to tend to him, so he will calm down.”

  Bertha leaned over Clinton and pushed his hair back from his forehead.

  “Don’t you die on us,” she whispered. “I’ll be right in the next room.”

  She kissed his cheek and then left the parlor, and Darie followed.

  Emmet and Nigel had left to finish their chores, as soon as we laid Clinton down, since we had used a lot of time bringing Clinton to the house.

  When the room was empty, I gave Clinton an accusing stare.

  “We need to get something straight, here,” I said forcefully, acting braver than I felt. “I could have left you to die in that cave and pretend like I didn’t know anything about what happened to you. Days later, someone would have found you in the cave, and thought you had been ambushed by the Indians. Only I didn’t do that. I am saving your ugly hide, so if you want me to continue to make sure you survive, you need to promise me a couple of things.”

  Clinton raised his eyebrows, and I knew he was listening.

  “First of all, you need to get it through your head that I will never marry you! After that stunt in the cave, it is a sure thing you will by no means persuade me to. Secondly, you don’t say a thing about that Indian, or I will tell my father why that Indian shot you. He was saving me from you! You are worse than a wild Indian!”

  “I wouldn’t have hurt you,” he said quietly. “It was that you were being so uppity, and acting like I wasn’t worthy enough to even ask you to marry me. Your father had already offered you to me. I thought you would see reason.”

  “My father had no right to offer me to you, especially since he did not consult me about it. I don’t want to marry you. I don’t want to marry anyone. It had nothing to do with you, in the beginning, but now it does! I would not marry you, if you were my last best hope. So now that we understand each other, you keep your hands off of me!”

  “Well, I don’t mind the way your hands have been touching me,” he half-smiled.

  “Maybe I should have your mother take over, then,” I suggested.

  “She probably wouldn’t know what to do. I’d end up dying, if she took over.”

  “Then consider me your last best hope, and forget about what you got stuck in your head. Come spring, I’m going back to Missouri.”

  “What? You’re not going to go looking for your Indian friend?” he taunted.

  “As far as you are concerned, I do not have an Indian friend. Like you, I took pity on him when he was wounded, and that is all there was to it. He was just paying me back the favor, when he saw I was in danger of being raped by you!”

  “I never would have raped you. I would have coaxed you into it.”

  He tried to chuckle, but it seemed to hurt him, so he stopped.

  “Same thing!” I accused. “You wanted to force me to become your wife anyway you could manage it, and that makes it even worse.”

  “You’ll come around eventually,” he smiled. “After all, you did take pity on me. That must mean something.”

  “Only that I am human, and my Christian upbringing would not let me allow anyone to die, if I could help it. Not even a wild Indian,” I added bitterly.

  “Maybe I am not worthy of you,” he murmured. “You seem like a guardian angel.”

  “Once you start to heal, I don’t plan on having anything else to do with you,” I told him.

  I didn’t care how good-looking he was, or what he had in mind to try to persuade me. After my experience in the cave, I could never trust him again.

  Once his bandage was snug, I turned and left the room.

  “You can go in and sit with him,” I told Bertha, who looked at me anxiously. “When father comes in, he and Emmet can take him to his room. I’ll look in on him later tonight to see how he is doing.”

  Her eyes darted at me, and there was a strange expression on her face, but when I looked again, she had ducked her head, so I turned and went out the front door.

  “I’ll be back later,” I called to Darie, on my way out.

  Then I headed out across the meadow, toward the cave, to take care of anything that had been left there. It probably would be wise not to go out to that cave again. I knew that Muraco would not come to the house, because that would be too dangerous for him, but he may come back to the cave looking for me.

  As much as I missed Muraco, I knew I could never go with him. I couldn’t live as an Indian, and my only hope was to return to Missouri, and make the best of it, living with my aunt and uncle.

  My arms were full of the discarded bandages, the tin bowl and canteens, along with other things that had been left in the cave, such as empty canning jars, and eating utensils, when I ran headlong into Emmet.

  “I thought I would find you here,” he told me.

  He was frowning at me, as he glanced at what I held in my arms.

  “Might as well tell me what really happened here,” he insisted.

  “I can’t,” I said stubbornly. “If I did, you would tell father. Then father might do something rash. You might do something rash. I have everything under control, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

  “What is ‘everything’ you think you have under control?” he demanded.

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with you, or anyone else! It is my business, so there is no need to talk about it.”

  Emmet stepped cl
oser to me, baring my way, and glared down at me.

  “Listen here, Connie, I know there was something going on here, long before Clinton got shot with that arrow, and you had better tell me what it was!”

  “Well, I won’t!” I returned, not backing down. “Nothing you can do can force me to tell you.”

  “You are getting yourself up to your eyebrows in something you think you can handle, but I don’t think you can. If you could, none of this would have happened in the first place, would it?”

  “I can’t stop people from trying to do whatever they please,” I told him. “I am not at fault, regardless of what you may think.”

  “I didn’t say you were at fault. I just need to know what is going on. What was Clinton and you doing in that cave anyway?”

  “I told you. He followed me there. I was trying to get him to leave. You know how I feel about him, and before I could get him to leave, he got shot. That is all there was to it!”

  “Then what is all that stuff you have in your arms? That didn’t come from just being with Buttercup when she had her calf. You are keeping something from me, and father. And I think it has something to do with Clinton getting shot with an Indian’s arrow, when Indians do not raid this time of year. You were here when Clinton got shot, and the Indians didn’t take you, like they usually do with white women?”

  “I told you they didn’t see me, and I didn’t see them. You will just have to keep guessing,” I shrugged. “I’m not telling you a thing. Believe me, Emmet, it is better that you don’t know.”

  “How is anyone going to watch out for you, if you keep doing things behind our backs?” he asked. “You are so dad-blasted stubborn; you are going to end up getting yourself into trouble. If I ever find out what has been going on, you better be prepared to deal with me,” he threatened.

  “Which is why you will never find out,” I insisted.

  “Give me that plunder, and go back to the house. I’ll take care of it for you.”

  He roughly took the bundle from my arms, and I realized how much Emmet really must love me. He was willing to back me, even when he didn’t know what was going on. I wished I could tell him the truth, but if I did, he would probably try to kill Clinton, and it would be better if everything was just all put behind me. Only I knew I could never forget what had happened in that cave.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Darie had finished preparing the meal, and was setting the table. We were all getting prepared to eat supper. Bertha came from the parlor. That strange expression was still on her face, and I was trying to figure out what it meant. She didn’t look as worried as she had in the beginning, so I assumed Clinton was doing better.

  I had not gone in to see him, after I returned from the cave. There wasn’t much more I could do for him anyway, and the less time I spent around him, the better I would feel.

  “Where’s father?” Darie asked. “He is usually here by this time of evening. He knows when we eat supper.”

  “After we eat, he can help us take Clinton upstairs,” I stated, glancing out the front window. “He probably got involved with his gold panning. The stream hasn’t been as generous as it used to be, so maybe he is working a little longer, in order to expand his find.”

  Bertha raised her eyebrows. “You mean there isn’t any gold in the stream?” she asked, sounding a little shocked.

  “Oh, I suppose there is still some there, but it is getting harder to find,” I told her.

  “If we wait for him, everything is going to get cold,” Darie frowned, changing the subject. “Do you think he would get upset if we started without him?”

  “He’s never missed supper before,” Emmet mumbled. “I’ll go outside and see if I can see him up the trail.”

  I heard the front door slam as Emmet left the house.

  “Actually, he didn’t come in for lunch,” Nigel said, “But maybe he came in while we were out tending to Clinton.”

  “Did he come back?” I asked Bertha, and she shook her head no.

  “He’s missed lunch before, when he got involved. Maybe he took something with him to eat while he was working. He has done that before, too,” Nigel pointed out.

  “I suppose so. If he doesn’t come in soon, we will have to start without him,” I stated.

  Emmet came back into the house, and tossed his hat on one of the hooks. His face looked concerned. “I didn’t see him, so we might as well eat, and if he isn’t here by the time we are finished, I’ll go out to look for him.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Nigel offered.

  We all sat down to eat, but everyone seemed nervous, because this was the first-time father had not come back in time to share supper with us, and I had mentioned Indians.

  “I wonder what’s keeping him?” Bertha murmured. She did not seem as concerned as the rest of us were, but maybe she didn’t think it was that much out of the ordinary, I decided. I think she was more worried about Clinton, than she was about father being late.

  When he had not returned, by the end of the meal, Emmet and Nigel left to go look for him, while Darie and I cleaned up the supper, setting a plate of food aside for father. Bertha headed back towards the parlor to sit with Clinton. We had not expected her to help us clean up, since she barely turned a finger, unless she was trying to impress our father.

  “I hope the Indians didn’t get him,” Darie muttered, as we washed the dishes.

  I watched the water dripping from the plates as Darie lifted them out of the sink and placed them on the drain board. Absently, I started drying them, and putting them away.

  “There would be no reason for the Indians to harm him,” I insisted. I was thinking that Muraco was the only Indian out there, and he had no reason to harm father. He had merely come looking for me, and he had tried to save me, so what would be the purpose of harming my father? I was wondering if he had not come alone, after all. Perhaps his friends may have done something to father, unbeknown to him. After all, Bertha claimed she had heard a gun shot.

  The thought of Muraco wanting me to go with him, crossed my mind. He had said something about knowing I was in danger, and this made me curious. Could he see into the future, or had he been there all along, following me around without me knowing it? I was torn, because there was such a strong draw between us, but I could see no way we could ever be together.

  If father actually found out, he would disown me, and try to kill Muraco. He would force me to marry Clinton, for sure, and I certainly did not want that to happen. I resolved that my plan to go back to Missouri was my best choice. Eventually, I would forget those dark impressive eyes, and commanding features Muraco possessed.

  We had finished cleaning the kitchen, and Darie got out the butter-churn, in order to churn some butter, while I read to her. We often took turns churning the butter, while the other one read, to help pass the time, because it took so long for the cream to turn to butter. I borrowed one of Bertha’s magazines to read. They were not recent magazines, but the articles were still interesting to us, since we seldom had the opportunity to read much of anything of that sort.

  The Magazines came from France, and were all about the latest fashion, which actually dated back a few years, since these were not recent issues. They also had other articles that probably only interested women. I wondered where Bertha had gotten them, but I really didn’t care. They were rather tattered, and Bertha had told me to be gentle with them. She dearly treasured her magazines.

  We were shocked to read articles about how in Europe, a century earlier, it was considered a natural practice for a woman to have public gatherings, where friends, both male and female, were invited to her morning toilet, as she was dressed and fawned over, by her maid, while the onlookers, discussed the events of the day, and gossiped with one another.

  I was thinking that the French and also the English had no morals back then. It was bad enough that we had Hurdy-Gurdy Girls, that entertained men, the way Clinton’s mother once had. It was one more reason, why I would never
consent to marry Clinton, because no telling what he might expect me to do. Considering the way he had handled me in the cave, I did not believe he was anywhere close to being a gentleman.

  It was dusk by the time Emmet and Nigel came bursting through the front door. The butter had already been made and put in a bowl and then stored in the cellar, where it was cool.

  Emmet’s face was ashen, and Nigel was literally shaking, when they entered. I jumped to my feet and rushed towards them.

  “Whatever is wrong? Where is father?” I demanded.

  “He’s…he’s dead, Connie. We found him face-down in the stream, and he had been shot!”

  “Shot?” I yelped. “Are you sure? Was it an arrow? If it was a gun, we would have heard the noise, don’t you think?”

  The vague memory of Bertha asking if Clinton had been shot, nudged at me. She had mentioned hearing a shot, I remembered.

  “It was a single shot, from what I could tell. He was quite a way up the stream in heavy timber, so maybe the noise was muffled. I don’t remember hearing anything that sounded like a shot, did you, Darie?”

  “I was doing washing in the back. I thought I heard something, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Just a popping sound a long way off. I hadn’t thought about it being a gun shot.”

  “What time was that?” Emmet wanted to know.

  By this time, Bertha had come out of the parlor, into the kitchen and wanted to know where father was. When Emmet told her, she collapsed on the floor in a faint.

  Dari and I helped her up and put her in a chair, then managed to revive her.

  “Who would ever shoot him?” she kept asking, repeatedly.

  She didn’t bother to ask if he had been shot by an arrow, like her son, or by a gun. Somehow she seemed to know it had been a gun, or she would have asked if the Indians had shot him, the same way they had shot Clinton. After all, that had been my first thought. This troubled me even more. She had suspected that Clinton had been shot with a gun, and since she learned he had been shot with an arrow, you would think she would have assumed that Indians not only shot Clinton, but our father as well.