The Wounded Yankee

by Gilbert, Morris

  “My pa used to keep dogs, and they’d make a lot of racket sometimes. He’d toss them one of these and say, ‘Hush, puppy’!”

  Her face broke into a smile, making him uncomfortably aware of her rich beauty. His one firm determination was to have nothing to do with the woman. He dropped his head and continued eating. Choiya saw the change pass over him, and wondered.

  When the meal was over, she rose and began to clean the dishes, including Zack’s. He said nothing, just walked over to the babies and squatted down, staring at them carefully. Choiya watched him, curious. She knew he had taken the white baby against his will, that he had no real obligation. His actions seemed strange to her, for she sensed he was trying to get away from people. Fox had come back for his pony, and had spoken to her, telling her of the white man’s desire to be a hermit—to have nothing to do with anyone. Among the men of her race, she knew of no one who would do such a thing. Nor would they have taken her and her baby, she reflected, not without expecting her to be their woman in every way.

  She finished cleaning up, and walked over to where he was still studying the babies. Impulsively she reached down and picked up Samuel. “Hold him,” she said, thrusting the child at him as he stood up.

  Startled, he protested, “I might hurt him!” He saw the little fist wave in the air, and added, “He’s so tiny!”

  “He’s tougher than you think,” she said with humor in her eyes.

  Zack held the baby awkwardly, looking into the blue eyes. The child hiccupped, then smiled. “Look at that!” Zack exclaimed. “He’s smiling at me!”

  Amused at his reaction, Choiya asked, “Haven’t you ever held a baby?”

  “No.” Zack was examining the tiny hand. “Look at this—fingernails, Choiya—just like a real person’s!”

  Surprised at his use of her name for the first time, she realized he had not even noticed. “He is a real person,” she said. “Like nobody else in this world.”

  He raised his head, saying thoughtfully, “Why—that’s right, isn’t it? We’re all different.” He looked at the child again. “Wonder what he’ll be like when he grows up.”

  “Probably like you.” His head jerked up and his jaw dropped. She added, “Many boys grow up to be like their fathers.”

  “I’m not his father!” Zack protested.

  “I think you’ll have to be,” Choiya said quietly, considering him carefully. “Who else will be a father to him?”

  He shook his head. “I’m trying to find his people. They’ll want him.”

  “I talked with the white woman many times before she died,” Choiya said. “She told me there was no one to take the boy. That was why she always prayed to her God to send a man—and at the end I think she believed you were sent by God to be Samuel’s father.”

  Zack’s face grew taut. He shook his head, and handed her the baby. “That can’t be,” he muttered. “I’ll find somebody—I’m only a hermit.”

  Nothing more was said, but Choiya knew the thought troubled him. That night he read the journal again, as he had many times before, and then thumbed through the black Bible, seeking for an answer.

  Finally he sighed, closed the Bible, and put it back. He was about to go up to the loft when Choiya said, “Somebody has been stealing.” When he looked at her curiously, she added, “For the last two nights I have heard him. He waits until the middle of the night, then comes and takes food.”

  “Probably an animal sneaking around. A skunk maybe.”

  “Can a skunk open the catch of the meat cabinet?” she demanded. “I checked the food. One of the rabbits was gone yesterday—and last night he took two potatoes.”

  “Don’t like the sound of that. I’ll try to catch him tonight.” He looked at her. “You think it could be an Indian?”

  “No. He’s too clumsy. If it were one of my people, I would have never heard a sound.”

  “All right. I’ll wait until dark and slip out through the window.” He took his pistol from a peg, checked the loads, then cleaned his knife and slipped it into the sheath. When it was fully dark, he let himself out into the blackness. He could hear the hobbled horses and mules moving around the house, stamping and blowing from time to time. He slid down behind several sacks of feed, and made himself as comfortable as possible. Two hours went by, and he grew stiff from the cold. Another half hour, and he was about ready to give it up when he heard a faint sound in the yard to his left.

  He gathered his feet under him, drew the gun from his belt and waited. Someone was moving around the house and had turned into the shed. Choiya was right, he thought. Whoever it is, he’s too clumsy to be an Indian. With bated breath, he waited. Suddenly a shadow fell between him and the night sky, cutting off the faint stars. It was a fairly tall person.

  The prowler went straight to the meat locker. Zack waited until the door squeaked, then stood up quietly. Lifting the gun he said, “All right—hold it right there!”

  A startled cry rang out, and the intruder wheeled and started to plunge away. Zack fired a warning shot and said, “I’ll put the next one in your head.” Then he called out, “Choiya! Bring a light!”

  She must have been waiting, because immediately the lamp flickered on. She walked outside and came into the shed.

  “Let’s have a look at you,” Zack said to the prowler. “Choiya, hold the light on him.”

  He peered at the figure and exclaimed, “Why, it’s just a boy!”

  He lowered the gun, and moved closer. “Son, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Choiya saw a thin white face, and knew there was no danger in this one. “Bring him inside,” she said.

  “Move along, boy,” Zack commanded.

  Inside, the boy turned to face them, and a streak of pity ran through Zack. He walked across the room, hung the pistol on the peg, then came back and studied the boy. “What’s your name, son?” he asked quietly.

  “Buck Smith.” The boy was an inch or so taller than Zack, but thin as a rail. His arms, like broomsticks, stuck out of a ragged coat much too small for him. His tousled blond hair and large brown eyes protruding from a gaunt face evoked only sympathy. He was scared but trying not to show it.

  “Why didn’t you come and ask for something to eat instead of stealing it?”

  The boy shrugged his thin shoulders. He blinked against the light, and Zack said, “Put that light down and let’s have some hot food.”

  Smith’s head jerked and he muttered, “I don’t want nothin’. Just let me go.”

  Hawk woke up and started crying, and Zack said to Choiya, “Tend to Hawk and I’ll fix some grub. Buck, you sit down there.”

  The boy had no choice. He sat down and watched his captors like a wild animal. The woman was sitting on the only bed in the room, with her back to him as she nursed the baby; and the man, he decided, was nobody to fool with. In a few minutes the coffee pot was simmering and the left-over fish had been reheated. His stomach gave a sudden twist as the smell reached him.

  “Eat that—and then we’ll talk,” Zack said, putting the food on the table. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat there watching as the boy ate. “I’m Zack Winslow, in case you want to know.”

  The boy shrugged. Even as the boy bolted the food down, his eyes wandered to the door, seeking an escape. When he stuffed the fish into his mouth, Zack said, “You’re going to choke on those fish bones if you’re not careful, Buck.”

  Finally the boy pushed the plate back and asked sullenly, “Can I go now?”

  “No.” Winslow’s face was mild, but there was no give in his manner. “If I let you go, there’s no place closer than Virginia City for you. Where’d you come from, anyway? You a runaway?”

  Smith clamped his lips shut and stared at Zack defiantly. “I ain’t done nothin’.”

  “You stole my food,” Zack said. “I could have you jailed just for that.”

  “Go on and do it then! I don’t care!”

  Choiya rose from the bed and came to stand behind Zack
. She held the baby and regarded the boy steadily. He looked back at her uncertainly, then dropped his head.

  “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Fifteen, I guess.” He shrugged, and said, “I dunno.” He took another drink of the hot coffee. “The law ain’t after me—but a man named Richards is. He took me to raise from an orphanage, and I run off from him.” His brown eyes flamed with anger. “I ain’t no slave—and I ain’t goin’ back to that—!” He broke off, then loosed a rough curse and glared at the two across from him, daring them to challenge.

  “You’ve got no people?” Zack asked. When the boy shook his head, Winslow nodded. “Well, you can stay here tonight. Where’ve you been sleeping?”

  “In the woods. I got a bedroll. Tried to make a lean-to, but it blew down.”

  “You were out there during the snow?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t have a gun?”

  “No.”

  “Must have been pretty tough,” Zack suggested.

  “Not as bad as staying with ol’ man Richards!”

  Zack went over and got a blanket. “Come on up in the loft. We can talk about it tomorrow.” He tossed the blanket up, then pulled himself into the loft with a single athletic leap.

  The boy stared, then turned to Choiya. “Ma’am—I can’t do that!”

  “Here, push the table over under the hole.” He did and she put a chair on it. “Now you can climb up.”

  He clumsily mounted the table, then the chair. Before jumping up, he said, “Ma’am . . . ?”

  “Yes?”

  “I—I’m sorry I took that grub.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but pulled himself into the loft.

  “That’s your blanket, Buck,” Zack said, adding, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to turn you over to the law.”

  The boy thought once of getting down, pulling the gun off the wall, and making his escape. But the good food, warmth, and weariness overtook him and he succumbed to sleep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A TRIP TO TOWN

  After breakfast, Zack hitched the team and drove out with Buck beside him. He called out to Choiya, “Be back by dark, I expect.” He’d never done that. Why did he feel compelled to do so?—and why did she give him a grave nod and answer, “All right”?

  Zack mused over the change in her as they left the yard. By now the sun had come up, warming the chilled earth, but winter was only playing possum. Zack made little attempt to talk to the boy, knowing it would only stiffen his resistance. At the creek they paused to water the horses, and Zack remarked idly, “This creek reminds me of the one we crossed at Shiloh—only that one was red by the time we were out of it.”

  “You fought in the war?” Buck asked.

  “One year.” Zack sat slackly in the seat, thinking back, and said softly, “There was a young fellow in our company, couldn’t have been a day older than you, Buck. Name was Cotton Sykes. Fine boy, always ready to help with whatever needed doing.”

  Buck waited for him to go on, but finally saw that Winslow was finished. “What happened to him?”

  A frown crossed Zack’s face, and he shook his head. “He went down at Malvern Hill. We thought the fight was over, and we were cheering—and then one Reb took a shot. Caught Cotton in the belly.” He thought back to that time, and said softly, “Took him almost two days to die.”

  “What you gonna do with me?” he asked.

  “Try to find you a place. Got to be some farmer or somebody who needs a good hand.”

  Buck said bitterly, “If there’s a place, then I sure ain’t found it. I been put out with three families, and all three of ’em tried to work me to death. I ain’t gonna stand for it no more, Mr. Winslow!”

  “I guess you can call me Zack.” The team picked up its pace as he slapped them with the lines, and he said, “Not all folks are mean, Buck.”

  The boy wasn’t convinced. “Why don’t you live in town then, if people are so nice? Why you livin’ way out on the edge of no place?”

  The boy’s question stung, and Zack had no answer. He merely shook his head. “You’re too young to be on your own. Couple of years and you can do as you please.”

  That ended the conversation, and when they got to Virginia City Zack drove straight to Pfouts’ store. “I got to talk to a fellow, Buck. You come on in and let’s get you some clothes.”

  Buck climbed out of the wagon slowly, reluctance in every line of his thin face, but he said nothing.

  “Well, Zack—how are you?” Parris greeted as they entered.

  “Fine.” Zack turned and said, “This is Buck Smith. Needs some duds.”

  “Of course.” Pfouts did not appear to notice the boy’s rags. He led him to a stack of shirts and breeches, and soon had an outfit picked out, including boots and socks. “Go in the back room and try these on, son,” the storekeeper said.

  While the boy was gone, Zack quickly sketched the situation for Pfouts, and ended by saying, “I got no intentions of putting the boy into a bind, Parris—but he’s too young to be on his own. It’s a miracle he didn’t die out in the mountains.”

  Pfouts nodded, his brow creased. “You’re right, Zack—but aside from having him locked up for burglary, I don’t think there’s a lot you can do. He’s too young to take care of himself, maybe, but he’s too old to just do otherwise.”

  “He reminds me so much of a kid in my outfit.” Zack paused. “I tried to look out for him, but he took a minie ball. I still have bad dreams about him—thinking that somehow I should have done a better job of looking after him.”

  To Pfouts, this was an interesting side of Winslow. The young man was very hard, despite his youthful appearance and innocent face. But what he had just said let the merchant know that some of Zack’s adamant proclamations were more on the surface than within. “We’ll have a try, Zack. Let me look around this morning—see what I can turn up.”

  “It’ll have to be real, Parris,” Zack warned. “Buck’s pretty well had it with people who want him just for what they can get in the way of work.”

  “I’ll think of that.”

  Just then Buck emerged, and Zack exclaimed, “Now lookee here! Clothes do make the man, don’t they, Parris?”

  Buck’s emaciated form was somewhat disguised by the new clothing. He looked less like a beggar—except for his hair. “Let’s get a haircut,” Zack suggested. “Then I have a few more errands. Meet you for lunch at The Rainbow, Parris.”

  “Right.”

  “What do I do with these old clothes?” Buck asked.

  “Stuff them in the wagon. They’ll do for fishing.” As they went toward the barber shop, Zack rambled on about how good the fishing had been.

  “Yes, sir?” the barber said, getting out of his chair at the sight of Zack. “A haircut?”

  “Get in the chair, Buck. If this barber does a good job on you, I’ll let him try his hand on me.”

  He sat down and read a two-month-old paper while the barber cut Buck’s hair. The war news was not good. Lee and the Army of the Northern Virginia had invaded the North, meeting McClellan’s Army of the Potomac in the bloodiest battle of the war. The paper said that out of 87,000 troops under McClellan, 12,400 were casualties. Once again, though heavily outnumbered, Lee had made a fool out of the Northern general. Zack put the paper down, wondering if French and the rest of his friends had made it. The bloody war depressed him, and the barber had to speak to him twice before he realized that Buck was out of the chair. He gave a start, saying, “Why, you look pretty good!” then got in the chair.

  After his own haircut, Zack paid the barber, and left with the newly groomed boy. The two strolled down the streets. “I’ve got to find something to read,” Zack said, stalling for time while Pfouts looked for a place for Buck. “Let’s amble around and see if we can find somebody with books to sell.” Books were not the hottest item in Virginia City, but they discovered a store that sold just about everything. A tall sad-faced Texan waited on them. “Yep, I got books. Scho
olteacher got this far, then went broke. I bought all he had.” He shook his head. “They didn’t help him a whole lot, did they? He went broke in spite of all his education.”

  Zack had always been a reader, so he spent the next two hours browsing through the books. Finally he bought about twenty, all well bound. He’d never heard of most of them, but the nights were long at the cabin and he figured when he got rid of Choiya and the babies, he’d have time to read. Buck had been drawn to some cheap paperback novels about Indian fighters and gunmen of the West. “Probably all lies,” Zack had grinned, but added, “Guess they’ll do to pass the time.” He paid for them, and put the package into the wagon.

  “Let’s see if Pfouts is at the Rainbow,” Zack suggested.

  Parris sat alone at a table, and waved them over. His face did not bear good tidings.

  They finished their meal, and Zack sent Buck on an errand down the street in order to have a word alone with Pfouts. “You didn’t have any luck, did you, Parris?”

  “Not much,” he admitted. “Manning needs a stable boy, but he’s pretty much of a drunk. The mill’s pretty dangerous work for a boy.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I’ve only one idea left, Zack—a couple named Mize. They’re pretty low-down. Emmet’s a bum, but not vicious, just lazy. They got three kids, and I figure one more wouldn’t hurt. I think Mize would take the boy—if I paid him a little on the side.”

  “I’ll do the paying if it comes to that, Parris.” Zack thought about it, and finally said, “I’ll take the boy there and check it out.”

  “Don’t expect much,” Pfouts warned. “They’re not the best, but can’t blame the kids for that. Some of us try to help with clothes and things.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Over the Oriental Saloon—just about the worst spot you can think of. Emmet does some shilling for Clyde Foster who owns the place, I guess.”

  “Here comes Buck. I’ll let you know what I decide.”

  “See you in church,” Pfouts said as usual.

  “You go to his church, Zack?” Buck asked.

  “Well, no, but if I went to any, I’d choose his.”