The Rainbow's Foot

by Denise Dietz

  Tears washed the blue from her eyes as she remembered his words: “Cherokee Bill never says anything he doesn’t mean.” She remembered telling Tonna that Bill had promised he’d stay until the next full moon. She remembered telling Tonna a month was forever.

  It wasn’t.

  Cherokee Bill was gone, she had no idea where he’d gone, and she carried an outlaw’s child inside her body. A child tainted with an outlaw’s blood.

  Her gaze touched upon her carpetbag. Tonight she’d toss her books into the fireplace and burn what her husband called “romantic applesauce.”

  Seven

  A pinecone crackled. It sounded like the distant pop of a pistol. John McDonald quailed. According to the newspaper, he was lucky to be alive!

  From his chair he squinted at Dimity. She sat in her chair, facing the fireplace. On the floor between them was the hide of a cow, but it might as well have been a whole herd. Ignoring his presence, she embroidered a religious motto, her needle rising and falling in a mesmerizing rhythm of continuity.

  She was only two months from her birthing date and didn’t like to be stared at, so he reread the newspaper, which gave a summary of Cherokee Bill’s capture.

  The outlaw had been apprehended inside the home of a woman. The newspaper didn’t mention the woman’s name, or what she and Bill had been doing at the time, but McDonald could well imagine since the article gleefully hinted that Bill’s trousers were missing. Knocked unconscious by the woman’s cousin, Bill was transported to Fort Smith, Arkansas, and tried before Judge Roy Parker. Accused of many crimes, Bill had been convicted for the murder of one unarmed man in a post-office robbery.

  McDonald focused on his wife again. “Do you remember the outlaw who held us at gunpoint and stole your mare?”

  Startled, Dimity dropped her embroidery hoops, shut her eyes, and sagged against her chair’s cushion.

  Damn me for a fool, thought McDonald. Now I’ve gone and done it. She’s frightened out of her wits.

  Rising, he hastened to Dimity’s side but stopped short at the sight of her uplifted hands and splayed fingers.

  “Don’t,” she said. “I cannot tolerate the touch of a man.”

  “I’m not a man, I’m your husband,” McDonald blurted. Her pale-blue eyes narrowed, and he flinched, anticipating a scathing reply.

  “I vaguely recall an outlaw who stole our picnic lunch,” she said. “Is there something about him in your newspaper?”

  “Never mind, my dear, it’s not important.” McDonald stifled a sigh of relief as he scurried back to his chair.

  Dimity retrieved her tapestry and sat straight, her small feet planted together. “Read the story, John.”

  “I don’t want to upset you, Dimity.”

  “Do I look upset? Read the story.”

  A woman with child must be indulged, thought McDonald. How many times had he sent his ranch hands to Denver or Cripple Creek when Dimity pleaded for out-of-season fruits and vegetables? Usually she flung the food at the nearest wall and demanded some new dish. The hands were ready to wring her neck.

  She had burned her diptych then perversely decorated the master bedroom with a variety of gilded crosses and religious pictures, ordered from catalogues. Holding his wife beneath the bedcovers, McDonald sometimes felt the pain of Christ’s crucifixion settle upon his own limbs. Dimity would tease him to a peak of desire then turn away, hugging her belly. Last night she said his fingers made her skin burn and she’d rather be stung by red ants than endure his touch.

  “Is the outlaw dead, John?”

  “Huh?”

  “Have you lost your hearing as well as your eyesight?”

  “I haven’t lost my eyesight.” McDonald brought the newspaper closer to his face. He had recently purchased a pair of spectacles but vainly refused to wear them in front of Dimity. “It says here that Bill staged a prison break. He had a gun smuggled in and when the head jailer refused to unlock his cell door, Bill shot him. Then, with no hope of escape, Bill emptied his gun at the other guards. Now he awaits a new trial on those killings.”

  “A new trial? Whatever for?”

  McDonald shrugged. “Waste of time, if you ask me. You can only hang a man once.”

  “I hope they hang him twice.”

  “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you.”

  “I said I crave testicles, like the ones we served at Tonna’s wedding.”

  McDonald leapt to his feet. If he slaughtered a steer and roasted it through the night, Dimity could have balls for breakfast.

  *****

  Bundled in blankets and furs, Dimity shifted on the wagon’s hard seat.

  Next to Dimity sat the driver, handling the reins attached to four mules as if the leather straps were long-stemmed roses with razor-sharp thorns. A hardened trail hand, he wanted to bawl like a lost calf. Mac’s wife, her belly swollen with child, wouldn’t stop yammering.

  “God will punish you for your cruelty,” she said. “Stop bouncing this wagon, you horrible man. John, come here!”

  McDonald reined in his horse. Dimity was due to give birth in one month, and they were trying to reach her parents’ home in Abilene, Texas.

  She had tenaciously refused to give birth on the ranch. “Jane lost four,” she had cried. “The ranch is cursed and I shall die if I stay here.”

  He had suggested Cripple Creek or Denver, but she had insisted that the hooded figure of Death had knocked on her bedroom door and only her mother could defy Death.

  Not normally a superstitious man, McDonald recalled the trail drive and the killing of the calves. If Dimity believed Death was knocking, he had to get her off the ranch.

  It was March sixteenth. He had planned to leave earlier, but a February blizzard had made travel impossible.

  “John, get over here right now!”

  “What is it, dearest?”

  “This nasty man is making the wagon bounce. When will we arrive at Papa’s house?”

  “Soon. Perhaps a few more days.” McDonald glanced at the sky. He didn’t like the look of the swirling clouds and could practically smell snow. Damn! If he turned back, Dimity would die from pure stubbornness. If he forged ahead, they would all freeze or be buried alive in an avalanche.

  “I want to see my mama,” Dimity whimpered. “I want him.”

  Him? God?

  “Where is he?”

  Death, not God, thought McDonald. She had seen Death knocking. Was this going to be Jane all over again? He signaled the driver to halt, dismounted, scooped Dimity into his arms, and carried her toward the back of the canvas-covered wagon.

  Even as the first snowflakes began to fall, he could feel his wife’s heat and touch the wetness that soaked her skirts. “Tonna,” he called, trying to temper his voice with calm authority. “I believe Dimity’s time is at hand.”

  “No, John,” she protested, “that cannot be true.”

  “Don’t squirm so, dearest. Save your strength.”

  “Please, John, I shall hold it in. I cannot have this baby on the trail.”

  There are no doors on the trail, McDonald thought. No doors for Death to knock on.

  “Hush, my dear,” he said. “You’re fevered.”

  “Don’t tell me to hush. You have no right. It’s not your baby.”

  “I know,” he soothed. “A man is helpless in these situations. I wish I could share your pain, dearest. I wish I could have our baby for you.”

  After he had settled Dimity inside the wagon, McDonald looked up again. Not yet evening, the sky was gray-white, the same color as the weathered boards on his house. Why had God whitewashed the sky with snow?

  McDonald signaled his driver to tether the mules and shouted for Percy to collect wood. Then he unsaddled his horse, scooped up some kindling, and began to build a fire.

  *****

  The wagon’s canvas top protected the two women from the harsh elements. Tonna had neatly stacked the interior with blankets, furs and cured steer hides. She had even included a
soft patchwork quilt.

  “I’m cold, Tonna,” Dimity moaned. “I want to go home.”

  “It is too late for that now.”

  “Why are you angry at me?”

  “Because your foolishness has placed us all in danger, especially your baby.”

  “I don’t want this baby.”

  “You have no choice. If your husband had known your time was so close at hand, he would not have left the ranch.”

  “Why are you taking off my clothes?”

  “Your skirt and petticoats are wet.”

  “Yes. He makes me wet.”

  “Hush, Dimity. Do you want me to brush your hair while we wait?”

  “He loves my hair. He calls me Yellow Hair.”

  “Do not talk of one who no longer exists.”

  “I dreamed I saw Cherokee Bill on a wooden platform. He laughed. A man in a black hooded robe placed a noose around Bill’s neck. The man took off his hood and raised his face, only it wasn’t a face. It was a skull with bones, like you’d see on the ranch when a cow is lost and found many months later, only it was human. Cherokee Bill laughed at Death.”

  “Then death is waiting for your outlaw, Dimity, not you or your child.”

  “Cherokee Bill’s child.”

  “You do not know this. It could be the child of John McDonald.”

  “No, Tonna. The child is Bill’s. That’s why he laughed at Death.”

  “Lower your voice. Do you want your husband to hear?”

  Outside the wagon, John McDonald heard the agitated bray of a mule. Prodding the fire with a severed birch branch, he said, “The water’s near boiled, Percy, but we need more wood. I’ll fetch some.”

  “Take a gun, Mac. I could almost swear I glimpsed a mountain lion.”

  As if to prove his words true, the mules strained against their tethers.

  McDonald grabbed his rifle and walked into the forest. He halted at the foot of a small rise, where the trees had thinned. Atop the rise, he saw a cougar perched upon a jutting boulder. Four, perhaps five feet long, its tawny coat was sharply etched against the sky. McDonald’s breath caught in his throat.

  The cougar stared, unblinking.

  McDonald raised his rifle and sighted; it would be an easy shot.

  The cougar remained motionless.

  McDonald felt snow soak the collar of his sheepskin jacket. Why couldn’t he pull the trigger? Why didn’t the cougar pounce? McDonald’s eyes watered. With his head tilted toward the cat, snow blurred his vision, so he brushed the back of his gloved hand across his eyes and adjusted his Stetson’s brim.

  When he looked again, the cougar had vanished.

  McDonald lowered his rifle. He was inexplicably happy, positive Death wouldn’t arrive. Not for Dimity. Not for his child. Nothing would die tonight.

  *****

  Hours passed. John and Percy heated blankets and passed them to Tonna. The wagon’s interior smelled like damp wool, and the small space became thick with the smoke from two lanterns.

  Dimity thrashed from side to side. Perspiration streamed down her face. “Where is he? Why won’t he come?”

  “Hush!”

  “I meant the baby, Tonna.”

  “He will come when ready.”

  “I shall die and go to hell for my sins. Do you think Bill waits for me there?”

  “I do not believe in hell.”

  “Jesus de Christo, I am going to die!”

  “Your child, not death, has arrived. Spread your legs, Dimity.”

  “You sound like him, Tonna.”

  *****

  John McDonald heard the piercing cry of an infant.

  Tonna climbed out of the wagon. “You have a son,” she said. “He is lusty and fine.”

  “Dimity?”

  “She, too, has cheated death this night.”

  “Thank God.” He hugged Tonna. “Percy, did you hear?”

  “Yep. Guess I’ve got myself another McDonald to teach the ways of ranching, Mac.”

  “You damned tenderfoot! Who taught who? There’s whiskey in my saddlebag. We must drink to my son. Then we’ll catch some shut-eye, hitch up the mules, and head back to the ranch.”

  “What about Abilene?”

  “Texas be damned, begging your pardon, Tonna. Dimity has already fooled Death.”

  After they had finished the whiskey, Percy staggered to the wagon and peeked inside. Making an about-face, he said, “You know what, Mac? Your son was born on the trail between Colorado and Abilene, Texas.”

  “Damned if that ain’t true, my friend. Damned if Dimity didn’t birth him like an Indian squaw, begging your pardon, Tonna. Should we call him Little Mac? John McDonald Junior’s his name, but it’s too big a handle.”

  “Why not call him Cat? Colorado, Abilene, Texas. C-a-t.”

  McDonald felt a grin split his face. “Did I tell you ’bout the cougar, Percy? I didn’t shoot him and now I know why. My son’ll be called Cat.”

  Inside the wagon, Dimity overheard and decided she wouldn’t quibble. If she had her way, the child would be called Satan, but Cat would do. With a shudder, she buried her memories of a voice shouting, “Jesus de Christo, wildcat! Sheathe your claws!”

  *****

  By the third day, Dimity had resigned herself to the wagon’s discomfort. Soon she’d be home, safe inside her warm bedroom with its gilded crosses and pictures of her Lord.

  “You shall have a long rest, dearest,” John had said. “Then we’ll journey to Denver where you may buy new gowns and jewels, anything your heart desires.”

  “No, John. I’ve been lax of late in the running of our household, but I shall remedy that when we arrive home. And I want to give you another child right away. Another son.”

  Now Dimity glanced through the wagon opening, between the tied-back flaps. She saw snow, white as an outlaw’s evil smile, and heard Tonna call her name.

  “What do you want, Tonna?”

  “Your son is hungry.”

  “He is always hungry. Very well, I ache with milk. Put him to my breast.”

  Dimity gazed down at Cat. He appeared to have light eyes, a thin tapered nose, raven-colored hair and a dusky complexion. So had he looked as a babe, John had said.

  God works in mysterious ways, she thought. Jane’s four babies perished while this son of an outlaw thrives. John must never suspect Cat isn’t his, so I shall foster the little bastard. But not even God can make me love him.

  Eight

  Denver, Colorado

  While John McDonald and Black Percy commemorated Cat’s first birthday with a bottle of corn whiskey, and Dimity thanked God for a second son, Ned Lytton paced up and down the hallway of his father’s Denver home.

  Much to Ned’s relief, his wife’s screams were somewhat muted by the bedroom’s thick wooden door. My son is coming, he thought, wishing Johanna would suffer in silence. Even muffled, her caterwauling was grating to the ears.

  The door opened and Ned caught a glimpse of the tableau inside. Although barely past noon, several lamps and a dozen bayberry-scented candles had been lit. Logs smoldered in the fireplace, drenching the room with a smoky haze, marinating Johanna, who lay on the four-poster, her bloated belly covered by a sheet.

  Dr. Bronstein entered the hallway and closed the bedroom door behind him. “This birth is more difficult than the first one,” he said.

  “The baby’s not in any danger, is he?”

  “Not at the moment, but your wife—”

  “Is of little consequence. If it comes to a choice between Mrs. Lytton and my son, you must save my son. Do you understand?”

  Before the doctor could respond, a servant ran down the hall, skidding to a stop when she spied the men.

  “What is it, Annie?” Ned drew his gaze away from the doctor’s flushed face.

  “Master Reed, sir. He’s in the music room. I told him Mrs. Johanna was havin’ her baby, but he said—”

  “I can well imagine what he said. Offer Master Reed refreshments
and tell him I shall be down directly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Annie curtsied and fled.

  Ned draped one arm across Bronstein’s plump shoulders. “I have every confidence in your skill. When I hold my son, I shall double your fee.”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “Look, I know how much you doctors like money.”

  Ervin Bronstein translated “doctors like money” into Yidden hobn lieb gelt—Jews like money. Frightened, he reentered the bedroom. Suppose he lost both Johanna and the baby? Edward had requested his services. Edward was an old, trusted friend, but Ned hated Jews.

  Bronstein wiped his wet face with a clean towel then checked Johanna’s pulse. Poor lady. Ned Lytton was a putz.

  Johanna’s screams faded as Ned strolled down the hallway. He looked into the nursery, cluttered with toys and picture books, even though his daughter Kate was only thirteen months old. Nanny perched on a cushioned rocker, underneath a gilded cage. A silent canary perched inside the cage.

  Kate lay on her side, her sturdy body clothed in a yellow sack-like garment. At the tap-tap of her father’s boots, she tried to thrust her head between the crib posts. She had spiky black hair, and the clef in the chin was no larger than the crease in a linen napkin.

  Should he take her from the crib? Toss her in the air? Nanny wouldn’t approve. Nanny said Kate cried when he stopped playing with her, which made Ned feel soupy inside. A shame Kate wasn’t a boy. Yet if his firstborn had to be female, Katherine Johanna Lytton would do just fine. Ned put his thumbs in his ears and waggled his fingers. “Hee-haw, Katie.”

  He waited for her delighted gurgle, then continued down the hallway and stairs until he heard the Steinway. Rachmaninoff.

  His father’s music room had large leaded bay windows overlooking a landscape of Colorado blue-barked willow, gray poplar, white birch, dark-green firs and red dogwood. A roaring blaze in the fireplace negated the snowy scene outside the window. A tall man straddled the piano stool, his fingers suspended above the keyboard. Spying Ned, he began to play “Daisy Bell.”

  “Hello, Richard.” Ned reached into his father’s humidor and retrieved a Cuban cigar. “What brings you to Colorado? And what’s happening with the Klan?”