As October came to an end, everything was done—except for firewood. “I completely forgot!” he said out loud.
The sound of his own voice startled him. It sounded raspy with disuse, and he smiled, speaking again as he went to hitch up the team. “Guess I better start talking to you two. You got more sense than most people, anyway.”
He cut down several tall oaks, dragged them into the yard and spent three days bucksawing them into lengths and splitting them into chunks. He was stacking them against the side of the cabin where he could get them when the snow came, when a rider came out of the woods. Zack dropped the log and moved over quickly to where his rifle was leaning against the cabin wall.
It was Fox. The Indian rode up to the cabin, halted his pony, and raised his hand in a gesture of peace. “Winslow,” he grunted, then waited.
“Hello, Fox,” Zack said. “Get down and have something to eat.”
Fox dismounted and the two went inside and ate cold venison. Fox ate a great deal of it, then went after Zack’s biscuits piled high with jam from Pfouts’ store. He drank the coffee thirstily and asked, “Whiskey?” and when Zack said, “Don’t have any,” he belched loudly, and stood to his feet.
“You come,” he said. “Woman in trouble.”
“Woman?” Zack repeated. “What woman, Fox?”
“White squaw. She maybe dead now.”
“A white woman?” Zack got to his feet, trying to figure out what the Indian was saying. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Plenty sick. You come.”
“Why, I’m no doctor! You better go to Virginia City.”
“No. You come. I promise woman I find white man. I go now.”
Zack hurried outside, his mind racing, but the more he asked, the clearer it was that Fox had done all he intended. He latched the door, threw the saddle on Ornery, and followed the Indian out of the yard and down beside the creek. As they went along, Fox opened up and told him more of the story.
“Woman drive wagon. Young men find her, come and tell Black Pigeon. We go with them.” Fox shook his head and there was a flash of something in his dark eyes. “Man in wagon dead. We bury him, take wagon to camp. Woman very sick—has baby.”
“A baby?”
“New baby—maybe week.” Fox shook his head and continued. “Medicine man say his medicine no good—white squaw too sick now. She beg us go get white man. She dead now, I think.”
“Let’s hurry!” Zack said, pushing Ornery to a fast gallop. In two hours they pulled into the Arapaho camp.
Black Pigeon came out of a tepee. “Plenty quick! Woman gone almost.”
Zack ducked his head and entered the tepee. The darkness blinded him, but as he became adjusted to the gloom, an Indian woman spoke and guided him to the left. He could barely see a figure on a raised platform. He leaned down and by the flickering fire in the center of the tepee, he saw a woman. At first he thought she was dead. Her eyes were closed, her face sunken with illness, giving her a skull-like appearance. Beside her was a bundle, and pulling the cover back, Zack saw a baby’s face.
“Ma’am?” Zack whispered. “Ma’am, are you awake?”
The eyes opened slowly, and a flicker of life came into them as she made out his face. She moved her dry lips, but he couldn’t make out her words. “Could you speak a little louder?” he asked, and leaned his head a few inches from her lips.
“Thank—God!” she whispered sibilantly. “Take—my baby!” He waited, and there was a rattle in her chest as she struggled to speak. “God sent—you—to save—my Samuel!”
She reached out a skeleton hand, and he took it. She gripped it and half rose up in a burst of strength. “Promise me—take care of my baby! Promise!”
Zack felt a touch of fear, but he nodded, saying, “Yes, ma’am, I’ll see to your boy. I promise.”
The dim eyes searched his face, and her head fell back. “Me and Pete—we got no people—to take him. Swear to God—you’ll raise him right!”
“I—I’ll do my best—”
“No! You got to make vow—to God!” The eyes begged and the lips trembled as she pleaded. “You’re the only one—I can ask. Please—! Swear to God!”
Zack swallowed, trying to think of a way to assure the woman. Her eyes were pools of sorrow, and her hand plucked at his arm pitifully. He set his teeth and nodded. “I swear to God I’ll see to the boy, ma’am!”
The eyes fluttered shut, and a tremor passed through the emaciated body. She lay there, a smile slowly touching her thin lips. She whispered so quietly he had to lean forward to catch her words. She said, “Thank you, Lord Jesus—for sending a man—to care for—my son!”
Then she expelled a long breath, and settled into the finality of death. The Indian woman spoke a word in her language, and he moved aside as she took his place.
The fire was gutting noisily in its bed of stones, and above the crackle rose the cry of the baby. The Indian woman picked up the child. She said something that Zack didn’t understand, but he knew she was asking him what to do with the baby.
He shook his head and walked stiff-legged out of the tepee. Fox and several other men were there, along with Black Pigeon. “Squaw die?” Fox asked.
“Yes.”
“Too bad,” Fox nodded. He studied the face of Winslow, then offered, “Maybe we bury woman beside her man?”
Zack stared at him, unable to think clearly; then he nodded. “It would be kind. I’ll bring a stone for the grave. The boy may want to come back.”
Zack could see the snow lurking over the mountaintops, and he knew the woman must be buried right away. Three hours later Zack stood over the grave next to another mound. Fox and the other Indians who had come along to help with the digging stood back, watching him. He stared at the raw mound. What should he do? Pray? Finally he took off his hat. He had no faith, but the woman had, he knew, so he bowed his head. “God, this was a good woman, I reckon. She asked me to take care of her boy—so you take care of her, and I’ll do my best to take care of her baby.”
He clapped the derby on his head, and they rode back to the camp. On the way he said, “Fox, I need to talk to Black Pigeon.”
Fox nodded and as soon as they returned, he led him to a tepee somewhat larger than the others and called for Black Pigeon. When he appeared, Zack said, “I have an offer for you, Chief.”
Black Pigeon glanced at Fox, said something in his own language and went back inside. Zack and Fox followed. The chief sat down and began to puff on a pipe, listening as Fox interpreted for Zack.
“Chief, I promised the woman before she died that I’d take care of her baby. But I live alone. I’m a hermit, you see.”
Black Pigeon shook his head and asked a question, which Fox translated. “Him say—what is ‘hermit’?”
“Man that lives alone. Doesn’t have anything to do with other people.”
When Fox repeated this, both Indians stared at him, and then the chief nodded, so Zack continued. “Well, I can’t take care of a baby. Don’t know anything about babies—except that they’ve got to be nursed.”
A smile touched the chief’s lips, and he nodded and said through Fox, “You not be hermit now.”
Zack was nettled at the words, and hurriedly said, “You’ve got to give me a hand. Don’t you have a mother here who can feed the baby?”
“No,” said Fox at once. “Have bad year for babies. Most die, and three squaws with babies go south—no like cold.”
Despair began to grip him. Then he rose to his feet, remembering a comment Pfouts had made: “Someday we’ll have lots of families around. Only a handful of women here now—except for dance-hall girls.”
Fox broke into Zack’s thoughts. “Chief say he maybe help.”
“Help? How? Don’t reckon he can nurse a young’un.”
A glint of humor flashed in Fox’s eyes, and the chief grinned when he understood the words. Black Pigeon spoke and Fox explained. “One woman here—Cheyenne squaw. We take in raid. She not true Cheyenne.
Her father, he white. When we capture she soon have baby. We kill her man—bring her and she have baby.”
“Why, she can take care of the baby, then!”
The muscles in Fox’s face twitched. “No. She no stay with us. Too big trouble.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
Fox grimaced. “Too much white, too much Cheyenne—too much pretty woman.” He lifted his chin in hostility. “We fight all time with Cheyennes. And we no want white blood. But”—he made a sour face—“young braves, they no care if she Cheyenne or white. They fight over her. One brave already killed. Woman laugh at them—they fight anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“You take woman. No more fights.”
Zack blinked. “Why, that’s crazy, Fox! I’m not taking any half-breed woman and her kid with me.”
“Then you go now!” Fox snapped. With eyes fixed on Zack, he related the situation to Black Pigeon. The chief nodded, “You go now. Take woman or not.”
They got me whipped! Zack thought. These two heathen know I need the woman—and they’re using me to fix their problem. Feeling trapped, he sighed, “All right. I’ll take her—but she’s got to know it’s a matter of business—with pay. She can stay until the baby is weaned. Then she’ll have to go. I’ll take her wherever she wants. That’s the only deal I’ll make. Tell her that.”
“You tell,” Fox said. “She talk your tongue. Come, we go see.” He stopped at the flap of the tepee and looked back with a sly glance. “Her name—Choiya. In your tongue mean cactus.”
They walked down a line of tepees and stopped at the end. Fox called, “Choiya!”
Startled at the tall, well-formed beauty appearing before him, Zack stared. She had full lips, wide and red with health, olive skin smooth as silk over high cheekbones. Her eyes were wide and well shaped, dark and mysterious. Her hair was black, but not coarse like that of most Indian women. She listened as Fox spoke to her rapidly, then fixed her eyes on the white man.
Zack had never felt so awkward, and for some reason took off his hat as he said, “Guess Fox told you what’s going on. I have this baby to care for, you see, but I don’t know how to do it—unless you’ll help me.” He waited for her to reply, but she continued to watch him, warily. He rushed on. “It’s a job. I mean, I’ll pay you for taking care of him until he’s—until he’s old enough to make it on his own. Then I’ll take you anywhere you say.” His face flushed, and he added quickly, “You don’t have to be afraid that I’ll bother you. Just a nursemaid is all I’m looking for.”
He clamped his lips shut, feeling foolish as Fox grinned, but it was Choiya who studied him. Her attitude was different, he noted, for while most Indian woman were meek, she stood regarding him fearlessly. There was, he thought, deep anger reflected in her eyes, no doubt from the brutal tragedy she had faced.
Finally she spoke. “I have a baby.”
“Bring him along,” Zack said, relieved at her obvious consent.
When she disappeared into the tepee, he asked, “Can you lend me a horse, Fox?”
“Yes.”
Fox put a halter on a little black pony. “I come get sometime,” he said, then took Zack to the wagon that had been brought to the edge of camp. Inside, Zack found a Bible with some family names, several letters, and a diary written in a woman’s hand. He put these in his bedroll, and turned to see the woman coming, carrying a baby in one arm. He walked to the tent to pick up his new little charge, and the Indian woman handed him the bundled-up baby.
With some awkwardness, he mounted Ornery, then settled in the saddle. He stared at the Indians who had gathered in a crowd to watch their departure. “You did me in, didn’t you, Fox?”
Fox nodded. “This time white man get bad deal—Indian good.”
“You ready?” Zack turned to Choiya.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she faced the crowd, said something in their language—then spit at them.
A rumble of anger erupted. Alarmed, Zack said, “Come on!” and they galloped away.
When they were well beyond the camp, he turned to Choiya. “What’d you say to them?”
She looked at him steadily. “I told them they were even more dung heaps than white men.”
Zack swallowed, and stared at her. She returned his gaze—with vehement hatred.
CHAPTER FOUR
“HE’S LIKE ALL OTHER MEN!”
Zack felt the first touch of snow on his cheeks before they reached the cabin, but by the time he turned Ornery into the yard the flakes were slanting lines, driven by a gusty north wind. He slipped out of the saddle, the baby cradled in his arm, and turned to help the woman. However, she was off as soon as he, and watched him with derision.
“Hold the baby while I tie the horses.” He looped the reins around the trunk of a tall poplar, then stepped to the door. Throwing it open, she entered, carrying both infants. With his back to the door, he motioned to the bed, saying, “Guess you can put them there while I get a fire going.”
The coals were still glowing, so he fed them with small wood, then larger, until soon the fire crackled, sending showers of sparks up the chimney. As he finished, he heard one of the babies crying, and turned to see the woman pick up the white child. “Anything wrong?” he asked.
“He is hungry.”
Zack made for the door, saying quickly, “I’ll put the horses in the shed.” He fled the cabin, taking more time than usual with the animals. He had built a shed roof slanting down off the east side of the cabin to shelter the firewood, He tied both horses securely, grained them, and checked their water supply.
The snow was falling fast, leaving strips of white on the dead leaves. He had heard that snow could be four or five feet deep in a severe winter. But it was still late October, so it couldn’t be that bad until later. He picked up a huge armload of wood, staggered around to the front, and stepped inside. Choiya was standing beside the fireplace, and he walked over and dropped the logs in a wood box in the corner.
“What’s your baby’s name?” he asked, brushing the bark off his coat sleeves.
“Hawk.”
He nodded and smiled slightly. “Nice name.” She stood with her back to the wall, her dark eyes expressionless, her lips pressed firmly together. She was wearing a fringed doeskin dress, soft leather moccasins that came up over her ankles, and a short, fringed jacket with white buttons. Her hair was pulled back from her forehead, braided and reaching almost to her waist.
He could see she had no intention of answering, so he said, “I’m going to bunk up in the loft. Don’t have enough covers, but if you can make out with the babies tonight, I’ll pick up more blankets tomorrow at Virginia City.” He waited for her response, but she made none—just kept her eyes fixed on him. It made Zack nervous. “Guess you’re getting hungry. I got a quarter of an elk hanging outside, some bread and a few beans. We’ll have to make out till I get groceries.”
She did not so much as nod, so he went outside to get the meat from a small cabinet he had built under the shed for storing food. “Snowing harder,” he said, placing the meat on the table. He took out his knife and sliced off a large steak, then nodded toward the fire. “There’s a frying pan.”
“You hired me to take care of the baby, not to be your cook.” Her voice was short and terse.
Zack looked up in astonishment at her good English. But her expression was filled with resentment, her eyes smoldering with anger. He wanted to force her to cook, but knew she would rebel. He knew as well she realized this. Slowly he cut another steak, then moved toward the fire. “That’s right,” he said, and put the frying pan on the grill tossing the steaks into it. As they began to sizzle, he spooned some coffee into the pot and set it over the fire, then put some bread on the table. There was only one cup, so he found a used jelly jar. That and two tin plates and a couple of forks was the extent of his supply.
He ignored the woman, squatted in front of the fire and poked the steaks with a fork from time to time, turning them twi
ce. When they were done, he rose and put one steak on each plate, then tossed the skillet down on the hearth. Taking out his handkerchief, he wrapped it around the handle of the coffeepot, filled the cup and the jar, put the pot back, and sat down at the table.
Choiya watched, still keeping her distance. He took out his sheath knife, cut his steak into bite-sized portions, cut a few slices of bread, and tossed the knife on the table beside her plate. He began to eat hungrily, ignoring her completely. She did not move. When he finished, he rose, put his plate beside the frying pan, refilled his coffee cup and set it on the table. He reached into the saddlebags and drew out the things from the wagon.
Still ignoring Choiya, he began to examine each item by the light of the fire. The front page of the Bible stated that Peter Thomas Rogers, of Nashville, Tennessee, had been married to Emma Perkins, of Franklin, Tennessee, in Nashville on May 20, 1857. Under this in wavy spider-like lines were the words: “Born to Peter Rogers and his wife Emma, a son, Samuel Taylor Rogers—October 23, 1862.” Another note, “May God bless you both,” was signed Hannah Pierson Rogers, Memphis, Tennessee.
Zack scanned the pages. Sometimes a verse would be underlined. Often a star was placed beside a passage, and frequently a note written in a fine hand: “God has quickened this promise to me this day.”
He put the Bible aside and got the kerosene lamp from the mantel. Choiya still watched him, her arms folded adamantly over her chest. He began reading the letters, two from Hannah Rogers, one from a man named Dixon, and the last simply signed “Kate.” He didn’t even look up when one of the children cried and Choiya walked over and sat on the bed. Zack read the letters quickly, searching for an address. He wanted to get the child to some of his people if possible. The woman had said, “Pete and me don’t have any people,” but surely someone would want the boy!
The Wounded Yankee Page 4