Buffalo Summer

by Nadia Nichols

  “What’s team penning?” Caleb said.

  “It’s…” She glanced up at him gratefully. “It’s something relatively new on the rodeo circuit. Popular. There are three riders on each team, and out of a herd of about thirty numbered cows, the riders have to cut three cows wearing three particular numbers and herd them into a pen before their time runs out. The team with the best time wins. It’s wild and fast, and Pete’s right. The boys would like it very much.”

  Caleb’s eyes held hers. “We can stay and watch Pete ride that colt, too.”

  She felt herself tense. “He’s the best Indian cowboy to ride on the national circuit. He has a good reputation.”

  “He’s a good man. I like Pete.”

  The intensity of his gaze made her turn away. She began to walk down the side street just to escape the unasked questions that she read in his eyes. She heard him following her, falling into step beside her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s none of my business.”

  She stopped abruptly and faced him, feeling the blood drain from her head. She wanted to tell him the truth. She wanted to sit with him and talk until everything had been said. She wanted him to know how it had been with her, and what part Pete had played in the darkest period of her past, and how every time she saw him those bitter memories came flooding back, but she didn’t know where to begin. Worse, she was afraid of how he might feel about her afterward. Perhaps he would never want to hold her hand again. Perhaps he would ask her to take the boys and leave the ranch if he knew….

  He watched her with a concerned expression as she struggled with her emotions and then he took her gently by the arm and led her into the shade of a tree and sat her down on a bench. “We won’t speak about this anymore,” he said. “You sit right here. I’m going to go get you something cool to drink.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine. I know you don’t like iced tea or coffee. How about lemonade?”

  She nodded and watched him walk down the sidewalk toward the long line of vendors’ carts. She felt a twist of anguish at the look she had seen in his eyes. He had sensed the dark secret between her and Pete and the knowledge had hurt him, but rather than turn away from her he was trying to help. She did not deserve such kindness. She was not worthy of it, yet she needed it so desperately that she kept her eyes fixed on the place where he’d vanished into the crowd and waited with bated breath until he reappeared.

  “Here,” he said, handing her a tall paper cup and sitting beside her. “Sip it slowly.”

  She took an obedient sip. It was ice-cold, tart and good. “My grandmother liked lemonade,” she said, studying him the way he studied her. “She said it was one of the few good things the white man invented.”

  Caleb thought about this for a moment and then grinned. “Well, obviously she’d never watched team penning.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AT TEN MINUTES past six Caleb was ready to call in the National Guard. The boys were missing. It was like Pony had said. Giving them such absolute freedom in an atmosphere teaming with temptation and one-hundred-dollar bills burning holes in their pockets had been sheer folly on his part. Who knew where they might be, or what trouble they might have gotten themselves into. At eleven minutes past six, he was pacing back and forth, silently cursing his stupidity while Pony stood, watching him with eyes that gave nothing away.

  He had no idea what she thought about him. She wouldn’t be far off the mark if she called him a fool, yet when he paused his pacing to look at her there wasn’t the slightest hint of reproach in her manner or her eyes. She simply was there, the way the Ferris wheel was there, the way the bright lights were there, and the milling crowds. She was frightening in that respect. He could never fathom what she was thinking or feeling…except when Pete Two Shirts was near.

  He stopped and looked at his watch. Twelve minutes past the hour. He lifted his eyes to hers. “They’re in some kind of trouble.”

  She shook her head so faintly that the movement was almost invisible. “They’ll come,” she said.

  “They’re late.”

  “They’re Indians.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” He closed the distance between them and stood before her, baffled.

  “They live on Indian time. It’s different from your time.”

  “But they have wristwatches, the same as I do. Why should their time be any different? I told them to meet us here at six and now it’s…” He glanced down at his wrist. “It’s fifteen minutes past the hour.”

  Pony’s eyes were calm. “That is nothing,” she said. “Be patient.”

  Five long minutes later he spotted them walking through the crowd. They were swaggering along, hands in pockets, wearing expressions that came the closest to being happy that he had ever seen. The relief that swept through Caleb effectively squelched the earlier irritation. “You boys look like you’ve been having way too much fun.”

  “We did all the rides except the stupid ones,” Jimmy said.

  “There’s a band, a live band,” Martin added, pushing his glasses up. “It’s down at the park by the river. And there’s a place there, a saloon called the Kickin’ Mule. It serves buffalo steaks and burgers. The menu was posted outside the door. People are dancing out front, right in the grass.”

  Caleb glanced at Pony. “The Kickin’ Mule. Sounds like my kind of place. We can eat a burger and do the Texas two-step at the same time.”

  “The Texas two-step?” Pony said.

  “It’s easy. I’ll teach you.” To the boys he said, “Lead the way,” and with Pony walking beside him in a companionable way that he was beginning to like very much, he followed.

  STEVEN YOUNG BEAR was sitting with his back against the rough bark of a big cottonwood growing near the river. It was nice here in the shade, and he could see the band playing on the banner-draped bandstand, the people below dancing, whooping and yipping and clapping their hands when they turned and stomped their feet. It was good music. A good band. He raised his plastic cup for a sip of soda and glanced at his friend, Pete Two Shirts.

  “Less than two hours until the rodeo.”

  Pete looked at him and grinned. “I’m ready.”

  “You’re crazy,” Steven corrected with an answering grin of his own.

  An hour ago, when Pete and Steven had first arrived at the fairgrounds, they had stopped to look at the horse Pete had drawn. The mustangs were kept in a common corral and driven out as they were needed. Twister had kept to himself, a young four-year-old, fresh off the range with the ways of a wild horse still deeply embedded in him. Pete pointed out how the colt missed nothing. He did not plunge his nose into the water bucket like a domestic horse would do. He lowered it carefully and only as far as he needed in order to keep his eyes clear to watch for danger. He lifted his dripping muzzle and stared right at Pete, and Steven had looked at his friend in mild surprise.

  “I think he knows you’re riding him tonight,” he said.

  Pete had rounded his shoulders, turned away from the colt and glanced at his friend. “A Crow’s wealth used to be measured in the number of horses he had. Hell, Steven, it wasn’t all that long ago. Twister’s past is all tangled up with our own history, and each of us came to the brink of extinction. It makes me feel kind of strange, looking at him that way. It makes me want to throw open that damn gate and give him back his freedom and his old ways.”

  The two men stood side by side and gazed at mustang over corral fence.

  “He’s pretty good-looking, huh?” Steven said.

  “Pretty mean,” Pete amended. “The Bureau of Land Management adoption program rejected him as untrainable, so he was sold off to a rodeo outfit. He’s only been on the circuit for a few short months, but he already has a killer reputation. Hates people. No one’s been able to ride him, and some have been attacked if the chase riders couldn’t intervene quick enough. One man got bitten by him last week. Damn horse broke the guy’s arm.”

  Steven shifted his g
aze to his friend’s face. “And tonight it’s your turn to ride him, or be killed or maimed.”

  “The crowds love that stuff.” Pete shrugged. “It’s dangerous as hell to use a horse that mean, but they use three chase ponies with him now, two to drive the crazy bastard away from the fallen rider, and the third to get the fallen rider to safety.”

  Steven knew that Pete, in spite of all the injuries he’d gotten over the years, was not afraid to ride the mustang. He’d never been afraid to ride a horse. Any horse. Steven shook his head.

  “Like I said, you really are crazy,” he concluded somberly. “And on that note, let me buy you your last supper.” He had taken Pete to a place down on the river that served up good burgers and had a live dance band playing out front. It was enjoyable just to sit in the shade and watch the people dancing. He raised his plastic cup for another sip of soda and froze as his eyes caught sight of his sister stepping onto the green with Caleb McCutcheon and the five boys. “Hey,” he said. “There’s Pony. Let’s go say hello.” He set his cup down and was getting to his feet when Pete grabbed his arm.

  “You go visit with her. I said hello earlier, and I need to keep focused.” While Steven watched, Pete poured the rest of his soda onto the ground, stood up in one lithe movement and tossed his cup in the nearest trash container. “I’ll go back to the fairgrounds, hang with the cowboys. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  Steven lingered for a moment after Pete left, watching as Caleb McCutcheon guided his sister and the boys to an outside table. He watched the tall rancher pull out a chair for Pony and saw the upward glance she flashed him as she sat. He observed the expression on McCutcheon’s face and instantly changed his mind about paying them a visit. Five boys were enough of a deterrent to the kind of chemistry he saw working at that table. The last thing Pony needed right now was her big brother joining the crowd.

  He’d catch up with her later to ask how things were going out at the Bow and Arrow, though from the looks of things they were going pretty well. It was high time that things went well for his sister. She deserved better than the deprived life she had meted out to herself. She deserved to have a wealthy rancher like Caleb McCutcheon pull out a chair for her and…

  Steven’s train of thought hit a wall and came to a crashing halt. Caleb McCutcheon and his sister? Could Pony be falling for a white man? Pony? One of the most traditional and stubborn-minded young women on the reservation?

  With a shake of his head and a faint smile, Steven Young Bear turned and followed after his crazy old friend, Pete.

  THEY ORDERED BUFFALO BURGERS and fries and sat outside at one of the tables, listening to the band and watching the dancers as the afternoon waned and the air cooled. “Is that the Texas two-step?” Pony asked, a little frown creasing the smooth skin between her eyebrows.

  “Yes.” Caleb had ordered a beer, and he took a swallow. “It’s pretty simple.”

  “Is that all there is to it?”

  “Well, you can add whatever you want, but that’s the basic step. Think you can manage it?”

  “She can do that dance easy,” Jimmy scoffed. “She has lots of trophies for dancing.”

  Caleb leaned back in his chair and gave Pony an appraising glance, but she dropped her eyes to her plate and picked up her burger. “What kind of dancing?”

  “She won top honors at the Crow Fair for five years in a row as best woman straight dancer,” Jimmy said, proprietary pride warming his young voice. “The Crow Fair is the biggest in the nation.”

  “She won the ladies’ buckskin dance, too,” Martin added. “She’d win everything hands down, but she wears her grandmother’s dresses, and they’re real plain. So the judges don’t want to look at her, but they have to because she’s the best dancer even though she doesn’t wear the best clothes.”

  “Yeah, the things she wears are way too old and drab,” Jimmy said. “She needs to get some new ones.”

  “I do not,” Pony said. “Those dresses are my great-grandmother’s,” she corrected. “And they are beautiful. They don’t need all those bright colors because they are real and they are beautiful. They are made of elk skin,” she said in an aside to Caleb. “My great-grandmother dyed porcupine quills and worked them into traditional designs. The trade beads she used are old glass from the 1800s. Both the dress and the moccasins are very valuable.”

  “But the judges like the bright colors,” Jimmy said stubbornly.

  “They like the flashy stuff,” Roon said, “but that doesn’t mean flashy is better.”

  “It’s better if you want to win,” Martin insisted. “My cousin dances. He does the fancy dance. That’s really fast and flashy.”

  “Yeah, but he never wins anything. It isn’t enough to be fast and flashy,” Joe said.

  “Well, maybe not, but it helps.” Martin pushed his glasses up and inhaled another fistful of French fries. “Anyhow, Pony can do that Texas two-step, no sweat, even if she isn’t wearing her great-grandmother’s dull old dress.”

  Caleb watched Pony with a faint smile. “Want to give it a try?” he said.

  Her eyes widened, as dark and beautiful as those of a startled doe. “Right now?” she said.

  He rose out of his chair and extended his hand to her. “There’s no time like the present.”

  She took his hand reluctantly and allowed herself to be led to the outskirts of the dancing, where they faced each other, and before he could lose his nerve, he drew her close, one hand around her waist, the other clasping her hand and holding it shoulder high. Her free hand rested lightly on his shoulder. “Just listen to the music and follow my lead,” he murmured, but his words were unnecessary because the rhythm of the dance seemed to move within her, and she followed him with a natural grace that he envied, doing the two-step as if she’d done it all her life.

  Too soon the song was over, and his hand tightened on hers. “One more?” he said. And please, he added a silent plea to the band, make it a long one….

  Being this close to her was intoxicating. He bent his head over hers and breathed the sweetness of her hair and skin. Eyes half-closed, he let the music and the lyrics release feelings that had been building within him ever since he first met this extraordinary woman.

  As the song ended he released her slowly. She dropped her eyes and turned away. They were walking back to their table when a man blocked their way. He was young, heavyset, and he’d had too much to drink. His face was flushed and his eyes were bright. He reached out for Pony’s arm and said to Caleb with a leer, “You don’t mind, do ya, big fella, if I steal a dance with your pretty little squaw?”

  For a moment Caleb just stood there, digesting with disbelief the words he’d just heard, and then a surge of anger propelled him forward. He knocked the man’s arm away and would have flattened him in the next moment if Pony hadn’t stepped between them and laid her hand as light as a feather upon his arm. “Caleb,” she said in a cautioning voice.

  “Hey, mister, all I wanted was a dance,” the man said in a wounded voice, backing up a few unsteady steps before diving into the crowd.

  “Come on.” Pony’s fingers tightened on his arm, and at length he turned and escorted her to the table. He could feel the bitter anger coursing through him as he pulled out her chair and seated her. “I’m sorry about that,” he said.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “He shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Pony said, shaking her head.

  “Yes, it does.” He glared out at the crowd but there was no sign of the drunk. “It matters a great deal.” The boys followed this exchange without comment. Perhaps they’d seen this kind of thing before. “You boys done eating?” he said. They nodded. “Good. Let’s blow this joint.” He picked up his beer and finished it, reached for his wallet and caught the waitress’s eye as she passed. Moments later they were leaving the Kickin’ Mule and walking back toward the fairgrounds, to where the rodeo was about to begin.

  “BULL RIDING,�
� Jimmy said, sitting on the very edge of the bleacher overlooking the arena. “That’s the toughest event of them all. Those critters are mean and they have big horns.”

  “Nah! Bareback bronc riding,” Dan said. “Remember the time that guy was killed by that bronc at Crow Fair? Horse tossed him off and kicked him in the head right in front of the judges. Boom! Dead. Just like that.”

  “Boys,” Pony said. “The team-penning demonstration is about to begin. Watch closely, because we’ll be doing this sort of thing with the buffalo before too long.”

  That got their attention. They looked down at the arena where a group of cattle milled warily about, being held at one end by two horsemen. At the other end of the arena a small pen had been erected. The gate was open and a chalk line had been drawn across the arena three-quarters of the way to the pen. “That’s the foul line,” Pony said, reading from the rodeo pamphlet she held. “No more than one cow can cross that line unless it’s one of the three that are being penned. The three riders have to pick out the three cows the judges tell them to. See the numbers painted on the cows? There are three cows with zeros, three with one’s, et cetera, and so if the judge says, ‘Seven,’ the riders have to find the three cows wearing the number seven, cut them out of the herd and drive them into the pen.”

  Martin heaved an exaggerated sigh. “What’s so difficult about that?” he said just as the third rider jogged her horse into the arena and the faceless announcer blared, “Three!” over the loudspeaker.

  “Yeeeehaaaawww!” The riders let out whoops that rocked the summer evening and there was instant pandemonium. The riders kicked their horses, the horses sprinted and spun, the cattle dashed and dodged, the riders’ voices screamed shrilly over it all, “Hey cow! Hey cow! Hey cow!” or “Chaw! Chaw! Chaw!” Dust rose, cattle bawled in panic, and then, miraculously, one cow with a big number three painted on its side was in the holding pen. Another was being cut out of the herd and hazed down the arena as the first rider kept the milling cattle away from the foul line and kept the first cow from rejoining the herd. The second number-three cow was penned, and finally, the third rider herded the third cow into the pen and the gate slammed shut.