The Rainbow's Foot

by Denise Dietz

  “Don’t reckon I favor killing babies, Mac,” Percy said, watching a hobbled cow bawl at the top of her lungs.

  “I don’t either, but I figure we’ve got near eighty miles of wasteland to the Pecos River. By the time we get there, the herd’ll be loco with thirst and we’ll lose hundreds with the stampeding for water.”

  “It’s not the same, Mac. At the Pecos it’s not us doing the killing. Mebbe if we pace the critters, tie some calves to our saddles—”

  “How many drives you been on, son?”

  “Son? You’re only ten years older’n me, and a different color to boot. You know damn well I ain’t been on no drives.”

  “We can’t bind the critters to our saddles. We’ll need all our wits to keep the herd away from poisoned alkali water trapped in potholes. So far we’ve driven the dogies nice and easy, but when thirst hits . . .” McDonald shrugged.

  “Reckon that’s true.” Percy untied his bandanna and wiped the sweat from his brow. “But I’ve a feeling in my bones the calf killings are gonna haunt us.”

  They drove as far as the headwaters of the Middle Concho without further difficulty, then began to travel through miles of desolation. At first McDonald, Percy, and the hired hands tried to pace the restless herd. But the thirsty animals wouldn’t bed down; it was easier to keep going. They lost about three hundred head when the cattle smelled water and stampeded at the river.

  Upon reaching Fort Sumner, they discovered a ready market and sold half their herd to general contractors. The government was desperate for beef to feed the nearly starving Navajo Indians who had been crowded into a new reservation.

  Restless, with money burning holes in their pockets, McDonald and Percy continued on to Colorado. Discovery of gold in the Rocky Mountains had opened a new cattle market. The mines created a demand far greater than the local supply. After selecting several head for breeding purposes, they sold the last of their herd. Whereupon McDonald established a new ranch in Divide, found a Denver bride, and settled down to launch an empire.

  Poor Jane. Quiet, shadowy Jane. After three stillborn babies, she had died birthing the fourth, also stillborn. Percy never said the words out loud, but McDonald knew he remembered the slaughtered calves.

  Percy’s wife Tonna had miscarried twice.

  McDonald had no quarrel with a vengeful God, but he reckoned the debt had been resolved, the road to redemption paved with four tiny headstones. Jane had died. He had married Dimity, who was ripe as a mare in season. Why couldn’t she conceive?

  “Jesus, Joseph and Mary!”

  “What’s wrong?” McDonald was startled from his ruminations by the fear in Dimity’s voice. He had been staring at the mountains. Now he turned toward his wife — and saw the Winchester rifle pointed at his chest.

  Holding John and Dimity at gunpoint, a desperado mounted on a huge black stallion stole their picnic basket, along with Dimity’s golden mare.

  “Cherokee Bill thanks you kindly, ma’am,” he said.

  As he tipped his hat and galloped away, Dimity stamped her small booted foot. Furious beyond words, she gestured toward John’s sheathed rifle.

  “No, my dear.” McDonald removed his Stetson and ran gloved fingers through his silver hair. “I’d rather be a live husband than a dead hero.”

  “If I had a gun, he’d be stretched out at our feet, shot through the heart.”

  Dismounting, McDonald grasped his wife by the elbows and stared into her pale-blue eyes. “Do you know who that was?”

  “A greasy Indian who had the nerve to steal my mare. And our lunch. Fried chicken and homemade biscuits and fresh strawberry preserves. Two bottles of wine and oatmeal cook—”

  “You’re right, Dimity. Cherokee Bill’s Injun. He’s also Mexican, Negro and half white, and he’s one mean son of a bitch.”

  “John!” Shaking off her husband’s grip, she covered her ears. “No need to cuss.”

  “At age fourteen, Cherokee Bill killed his brother-in-law.”

  She lowered her hands. “Why’d he do that?”

  “Hellfire, Dimity, I don’t know. After the first killing, he became a skilled, consummate outlaw. He’s robbed banks and trains. There’s a reward for his capture, dead or alive. I’ve seen the posters.”

  “Jesus, Joseph and Mary!” Color stained her pale cheeks. “Would you have kept your gun by your side if that horrible outlaw had taken me?”

  “No. I’d have fought if you were threatened.” McDonald stifled a sigh. A few short years ago, arrogance and pride would have overruled sensibility. But pride had given way to prudence. Arrogance had become practical wisdom. What was the use of risking his life, perhaps losing his life, when he needed a son and heir?

  In an effort to console Dimity, he patted her shoulder. “Come, ride with me atop Riesgoso. We can still have our picnic.”

  “The outlaw stole our food!”

  McDonald mounted, swung her up into the saddle, spurred his palomino toward the trees.

  “No,” she protested. “I am not in the mood.”

  You are never in the mood, he thought, circling her waist, pressing her rump closer to the bulge in his trousers. He had promised himself that today he’d plant a seed, and he wouldn’t allow a mere desperado to thwart him.

  Dimity tensed. “Turn back, John. Cherokee Bill might be nearby.”

  “Leading a stolen horse? That’s a hanging offense. He’s far away.”

  “Then why do I feel his eyes watching us? Oh, I feel faint.”

  As Dimity slumped against him, McDonald tightened his arm, but there was no passion in his grip. She’s young and she’s had a bad scare, he justified, swallowing his frustration. With his free hand, he reined Riesgoso, turned him eastward, and again spurred the stallion’s flanks. Like a bat out of hell, Riesgoso galloped toward the ranch.

  *****

  The pillow felt lumpy.

  Dimity shifted her head. She wondered how many geese had sacrificed their feathers for the mattress beneath her body. She believed in sacrifice. Yes, self-sacrifice was a divine virtue. Didn’t she let her husband paw her night after night for the purpose of conception?

  And hadn’t she faced that horrible outlaw without flinching? She should be decorated with a medal for valor, only her badge of honor would be in the form of an emerald broach, and the outlaw, captured by the law, handcuffed, repentant, should be forced to pin the broach on her gown, above her breast. How could he pin the broach if he was handcuffed? He’d be inefficient. He’d be heavy-handed—

  He might accidentally touch her breast.

  “I wouldn’t flinch if he touched my breast,” she told her pillow.

  Less than an hour ago, John had carried her into the house. Tonna had bathed her body with a cool cloth, and helped her change into a diaphanous robe. Now the Navajo servant was preparing clear broth and strawberry muffins.

  Thank God she’d bamboozled John with her bogus swoon. She ran her hand over her flat stomach. Eventually she’d have to fill it. John wanted sons. He didn’t care if her pretty breasts sagged like the udders on one of his smelly cows.

  She knew the act of making love was unpleasant. Hadn’t her mother told her so? Tonna had made up some Indian story about feeling the rush of a waterfall, but the closest Dimity had come to waterfalls was the sweat that poured from her husband’s body.

  And yet she’d felt moisture accrue between her thighs when she stared up at that horrible outlaw. Why had she wanted to remove his feathered hat and run her fingers through his long hair? Why had she wanted to place her lips upon his clean-shaven face? Why had she wanted to caress his doeskin breeches? And why, for the slightest instant, no longer than a heartbeat, had she wanted him to pull the trigger on the rifle aimed toward her husband’s chest?

  She quickly crossed herself then stared at the diptych atop her chest of drawers. The pair of painted panels, hinged together, showed Jesus in one scene and a winged man-angel in the other. The face on the man-angel looked like Cherokee Bill.
r />   Rising from the bed, she walked closer.

  Silly goose! The man in her diptych had a beard. His hair was short. He wore an ankle-length gown. He held a long staff with a cross on top.

  As she stared, the staff became a rifle. She mentally shaved the beard and clothed the body in doeskin. There! Her outlaw! The eyes and mouth were the same. How could she have made those disparaging remarks? Greasy Indian and such? Cherokee Bill was God’s angel. He probably robbed people for a good reason, just like brave Robin Hood.

  She pictured Bill atop her bed, his dark skin pressed against her white sheets, his dark head pressed against her white bosom. With a gasp, she tore her gaze away from the bed and walked toward the window. Her cheeks felt scorched and her legs felt weak. Crossing herself again, her fingers lightly teased her breasts.

  Late afternoon sunshine shone through the window’s glass, then splintered like a prism across Dimity’s translucent robe, outlining her swollen nipples, the darkened suggestion between her thighs, and her fluttering fingers.

  *****

  Through his spyglass, Cherokee Bill stared at the gal behind the window.

  He had a weakness for yellow-haired women and — what the hell was she doing? Her fingers had moved from her breasts to her — Jesus de Christo!

  Bill fell back upon the straw with a muffled groan as he tried to control his reaction. He had made it safely through the yard, circling the cackling geese, hiding in shadows. He had entered the barn and climbed the loft ladder. The ranch throbbed with the sound of stomping boots. Now his one-eyed snake throbbed, too.

  He was plumb loco to have attempted this stunt in broad daylight, but he wanted to see the woman again. She had glowered at him with anger, but he’d read something in her eyes, a signal that made any danger worth his effort. He couldn’t be wrong. He had never been wrong before. So he’d wait until midnight, climb the trellis, enter her bedroom through a window, and steal her away from her husband.

  Bill sneezed. Shit, he was getting careless. Women would be the death of him. Brushing the scratchy hay from his face, he knelt alongside the loft’s square opening. He had a sixth sense and could smell danger, but right now all he smelled was polished leather and fresh dung. He heard the horses snorting, their hooves striking the stalls. All else was silent. Silence had never betrayed anyone.

  The most difficult part would be getting out with the woman. He couldn’t climb down the wall while holding her, especially if she put up any kind of resistance. Bill lifted the spyglass to his eye again.

  McDonald’s house was a rambling two-story structure of whitewashed wood with a front porch. Bill could situate its living room and kitchen by the chimneys. He had been inside similar homes many times. The first floor would include a parlor and dining room. The bedrooms would be upstairs.

  Tonight, under cover of darkness, he would carry sweet Yellow Hair down the staircase, through the kitchen, out the back door. If discovered, he’d drop her and reach for his gun. His horse was tethered a mile away, hidden by a copse of scrubby brush.

  Bill only hoped the fried chicken he’d stolen would appease any dogs.

  *****

  Dimity couldn’t sleep. Hunger gnawed at her tummy. Having continued to feign illness, she had refused supper.

  John had joined her around nine o’clock. He had fumbled at her nightie, but she had moaned his attempts away. Jesus, Joseph and Mary, how could she endure his body with its grizzled chest hair, his breath scented with Tonna’s fried onions? Her husband’s muscles were still hard from years of ranching, but he smelled old.

  She had accepted John’s marriage proposal because her parents disapproved — they said he was too old. From the way he talked, she had envisioned a fine plantation with scores of servants, so she added a dozen gowns to her trousseau. Now her pretty gowns hung inside a cedar-scented wardrobe, their folds settling into permanent creases of disuse. She had imagined herself a member of Denver society. She had pictured an enormous ballroom with musicians playing violins while she and John led the first waltz. How could she have been so wrong? Denver was miles from Divide.

  The closest town was Cripple Creek. John had once hitched up the buckboard and driven her there for a shopping expedition. Walking down Bennett Avenue, she’d bumped into a beautiful woman who wore an expensive gown and a darling bonnet. Dimity had introduced herself, then gushed about her marriage and the ranch; had practically invited the woman to tea. Later John said her new friend was Pearl de Vere, Madam of the Old Homestead parlor house and a “denizen of the Tenderloin.”

  Oh, how that Pearl person must have laughed. Dimity still blushed at the memory.

  So far, their biggest party had been the wedding for her Indian maid, Tonna. There had been guitar music and wild, disorderly dancing. No violins. No waltzes. The bride and groom had shared sliced testicles, cut from a steer that roasted over a deep pit. Testicles! She couldn’t even say that awful word out loud.

  John had promised to take her to Denver. But just like the picnic, he had postponed the trip numerous times. Too much snow. Spring run-off. Steers rounded up and branded. Cows birthing. Horses birthing. John waiting for his young wife to birth, too. Dimity shuddered.

  At sixteen her life was over. Soon she’d look like the fat housemaid Rosita, whose face bore a striking resemblance to John’s wrinkled hound Starr, named for Belle Starr. Dimity scowled. Belle Starr — thief, rustler, concubine of criminals.

  Belting her robe, Dimity tiptoed from the bedroom. She glanced over her shoulder. John slept on his back, snoring.

  She walked down the silent hallway and scowled as she gazed into the room that would be the nursery. A rocking horse had been carved by Black Percy. Shelves held picture books and dolls from Dimity’s own childhood. Schoolbooks included a Latin primer. She recalled a quote by an old dead man named Homer. It was her tutor’s favorite. He had used it over and over until she had memorized it. Eheu fugaces labuntur anni. Alas, the fleeting years slip by.

  “Damn!” Dimity covered her ears, even though she herself had uttered the cuss word.

  She descended the staircase, taking care not to step on the board that creaked, and entered the parlor.

  Starr and her mate, Blue Duck, growled.

  “Hush!” Dimity wanted to kick the hounds but they shifted positions and went back to sleep, snoring like their master upstairs.

  Moonlight shone through the window, illuminating the decanters on the sideboard. Without further hesitation, Dimity poured herself a tumbler-full of ruby wine. She drank, wrinkled her nose at the taste, then drank some more.

  Strolling toward the window, she admired the full moon.

  Soon the moon would sliver, carved thin like a birthday cake.

  Soon she’d be seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, thirty.

  As the moon grew round again, so would her belly when it was overburdened with child. Full moon, full belly, full moon, full belly — she really ought to pay the kitchen a visit. All that wine on an empty stomach was making her dizzy and warm.

  She dabbed at the perspiration between her breasts with the hem of her robe. She returned to the sideboard and replenished her glass. Staggering toward a blue velvet settee, she sat in an unladylike position, her breasts thrust forward, her legs spread. She gulped down the wine, sighed, closed her eyes. Rather than Romeo or Sir Galahad or brave Robin, she conjured up an image of Cherokee Bill. She pictured him bare but for a loincloth, and allowed the familiar ache to move from her legs to her breasts as she envisioned his hands stroking.

  Starr and Blue Duck growled.

  “Quiet!” Dimity admonished, and the trained dogs obeyed her harsh command.

  Opening her eyes, she saw a figure standing just inside the arched entranceway. Diluted moonlight revealed doeskin breeches and a feathered hat. Dimity smiled. Her images had never been so real before. Why didn’t he walk over to the settee and kneel, as Robin Hood often did?

  She placed her empty glass on a small table, lurched upright, opened her arms
wide.

  “Had a devil of a time finding you, Yellow Hair,” said the apparition, his teeth white in his sun-bronzed face. “I thought for certain your husband would wake and then a step squealed like a stuck pig.”

  “Oh, my brave outlaw, kneel and be knighted.”

  “Sí, the night will hide us. Let me carry you into the night.” Walking forward, Cherokee Bill sniffed and grinned. “Damned if you don’t smell like a boozy whore.”

  With a gasp, Dimity placed her hands over her ears. Damned? Whore? Her heroes never cussed. This apparition was real. Opening her mouth to scream, she felt the outlaw’s hand cover her face.

  She struggled wildly but merely lost her slippers. One slipper landed near Blue Duck, who gathered it in with his paw and began gnawing its sole. Why didn’t Blue Duck bark? Because she had told him to be quiet!

  “Settle down, pretty owl.” Still holding his hand across her face, Cherokee Bill circled her waist with his other arm, lifted her easily off her feet, and walked backwards toward the front door.

  Dimity’s stomach rebelled. She tasted sour wine and swallowed. Tears blurred her vision.

  She was on the verge of vomiting into Cherokee Bill’s hand when he swept her up into his arms, pried her lips apart with his tongue, and kissed her — drawing all the breath from her body. Then he carried her outside, into the night, and for the first time in her life, Dimity fainted.

  *****

  The mattress bounced, the bed swerved, and Dimity’s lashes fluttered.

  John smells like fried chicken, she thought, huddling closer to her husband.

  “I’m hungry,” she said, her eyes still shut.

  At her words, the jouncy motion stopped. She felt John lean sideways. A bottle’s goosey neck clinked against her teeth. Opening her mouth like a baby bird, she swallowed warm wine.

  “Feel better, pretty owl?”

  “Yes, thank you. I was thirsty.”

  “I’ve a powerful thirst, too,” John said. “But not for wine. Let me get rid of this bottle.”