The Wounded Yankee

by Gilbert, Morris

ZACK’S CHOICE

  Buck backed away to admire his handiwork. “Looks a little rough, but it beats sleepin’ on the floor.”

  “Oh, Buck. What a great carpenter you are!” Bron put her mixing bowl down to examine the bunks he’d worked on the past two days. He had cut young trees four inches in diameter for the four uprights, and after slipping the bark, had firmly nailed the posts to the floor and to the joists of the ceiling, forming a rectangle two and a half feet wide and six feet long. He used smaller tree trunks for the framework, one a foot off the floor, the second three and a half feet, and the top one about six feet. One-half inch rope drawn tight and nailed into the ends, then woven and fastened to the sides for support completed it.

  Bron stepped on the lower frame, sat down on the middle bunk, then lay full length. “This is wonderful, Buck! How did you ever think of such a thing?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” he shrugged. “I saw one like it once in a bunkhouse.”

  “Nothing?” she said. “After sleeping on the floor, it’ll be like heaven.” She impulsively reached up and pulled his head down, giving him a resounding kiss on the cheek. “You just wait and see if I don’t fix you a pie the angels would swoon over!”

  His face turned crimson, and she realized she’d embarrassed him. “This will fit us all,” she said quickly. “Paul and Alice on the bottom, me in the middle, and Lillian on the top. Won’t hurt her to do a little climbing, will it now?”

  “There’s some straw in the shed,” he offered. “If we had some ticking or canvas, we could make mattresses.”

  “The very thing!” Bron said. “I’ll put that on my list.” She hurriedly jotted it down on a slip of paper. “Look,” she laughed, “the list is getting almost too long for the paper!”

  He nodded. They were standing by the table as she worked a mixture in a bowl. Lifting his eyes to the window, he said, “Sure has turned warm, ain’t it, Bron?” He didn’t intend to say that, but the sight of Choiya stirring a load of clothes over the large pot caught his eye. Nearby Sam and Hawk in leather carriers were hanging on nails driven into the large walnut tree. Looks kinda funny. Ain’t seen anything like that, he mused. Choiya had made carriers for both babies. The other children, Paul and Alice, were chasing each other around the tree, stopping often to talk to Sam and Hawk, trying to get them to laugh.

  Buck’s face grew sober as he watched, and unconsciously a frown drew two vertical lines between his eyes. Bron looked up, saw his expression, and asked, “What’s the matter with the Old Man now?” She had started calling him that on the second day of their stay, poking fun at his serious ways, he knew.

  He shifted uneasily, reluctant to speak his thoughts. He had never had anyone to share with. Nobody really cared. But Bron, he discovered, would listen intently, stopping what she was doing and looking directly into his eyes. It had silenced him at first, for he had learned to keep away from people, but soon he found himself talking to her more freely.

  “Been thinkin’ about this last week—sure has been funny, hasn’t it, Bron?”

  She laughed. “Funny? I don’t think Mr. Zacharias Winslow would agree.”

  “Well—” Buck said quickly, “He was just a little surprised, Bron.”

  “Right! And what man wouldn’t be, with a houseful of women and children dumped in his lap for a Christmas present!” She gave the mix a good swish, and poured it out in a deep iron pan.

  Buck watched as she put a lid on it, set it in the ashes, then wiped her hands on her apron. “I didn’t mean funny to laugh at,” he said. “I mean it’s been—sorta peculiar.”

  Bron lifted the lid on a large pot hanging over the fire, reached in with a spoon and got a sampling. She tasted it, turned and held the spoon out to him. “See if that’s salty enough.” He tasted it and nodded his approval. “We’ve been a houseful, right enough,” she said. “As different as we all are, it’s God’s mercy we’ve lived cooped up this long without pulling hair.”

  “Lillian don’t like it much,” he said off-handedly. “She likes it better in town.”

  Bron nodded, but her eyes were cool. “What she likes and what’s good for her may be different.”

  “She says she’s not gonna stay here, Bron.”

  “I know. She says the same to me.” Bron repressed an urge to hug the boy. “We may not have to worry about it. Zacharias said we could stay a few days—and I expect we’ve been here long enough to fit that.”

  “He gets short with us sometimes, Bron,” Buck said defensively, “but he’s a good man.”

  “I expect he is—but no man is good enough to put up with a houseful of strangers, is he?”

  “He didn’t mean what he said last night.” Zack had become angry when he discovered that Alice had torn several pages out of one of his books, and had muttered, barely under his breath, something about getting rid of the blasted nursery.

  “I think he did, Buck,” Bron said slowly. “He said last night that when we go to town tomorrow, he is going to make ‘other arrangements.’ Meaning us, of course.”

  Buck shook his head. “We’re making out all right. I don’t see why he has to be so stubborn about it.”

  “He’s been hurt somewhere along the way, Buck—very badly, and he’s made up his mind that nobody’s ever going to hurt him again. He’s like a man who’s put a NO TRESPASSING sign over his heart.”

  “But he’s been good to me!”

  Bron’s eyes widened. “Saying nothing against him, I was. He’s just going to get hurt more if he keeps on this way, Buck. We’ve all of us got to learn to trust people—even if they hurt us.”

  She had touched a sensitive nerve, for Buck was just as leery as Zack. “How do you do that, Bron?” he asked, puzzled. “It’s easy with you, but most people, if you don’t watch out, they’ll do you wrong.”

  “I can’t tell you that,” she answered. “But I’d rather be hurt once in a while than live in a dark hole and keep people away with a sharp stick!”

  Late in the afternoon Zack came in with three fat grouse. He didn’t say much, but that night after a delicious meal of roast grouse and corn bread, he said, “The weather’s clear. Guess tomorrow would be a good time to go into town.”

  Bron was cutting a piece of corn bread and her hand faltered. “All of us, Zacharias?”

  He stirred under the question. “I expect so,” he mumbled. He felt the weight of her gaze, and added, “Look here, this warm weather can’t last. Sooner or later we’re going to get snowed in, and there’s no way we can all survive if that happens.”

  “I can hunt more, Zack,” Buck offered.

  “Not in snow four feet deep, you won’t. And it’s more than a matter of food. Sometimes just two people get on each other’s nerves so bad they want to kill the other. Cabin fever, they call it.” He swung his arm around the cabin and demanded, “How in the name of common sense do you reckon this bunch would make out, stuck here in this one room for weeks?”

  No one said anything, and he added with a touch of desperation, “And what if one of the kids gets sick? He’d die, that’s what!”

  “Zack’s right,” Lillian broke in. “We can’t all stay here in this one room all winter. There’s got to be someplace in town where we can stay.”

  “Maybe we could build another room on the cabin,” Buck suggested. “You did this one by yourself, Zack, so with all of us helping, we could do it.”

  Bron said, “It’s not a matter of room, is it, Zacharias? You just can’t put up with us any longer. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

  The color rose in Zack’s face and he said angrily, “You always make it out to be my fault, don’t you?” He stood up. “All right, I’ll say it straight out. I didn’t leave civilization and come out here to start a social club, Bron. I came to be alone—and that’s about as plain as I can put it.”

  He walked over and stood staring into the fire defiantly. Alice came over and looked up into his face. “Why is Zack mad?”

  Bron rushed over and pick
ed her up. “He’s not mad at you, Alice. Just leave him alone for a bit.”

  The air was tense and both Zack and Buck retreated to the loft.

  Bron put the children to bed, praying silently. After a while Lillian whispered to her, “See? I told you it’d never work!” and climbed up into her bunk.

  Heavy of heart, Bron searched the Bible for answers, but nothing seemed to make sense. She read a psalm twice, and realized she hadn’t the faintest idea what it said. She tried to pray. That, too, seemed futile. Deep in thought, she was startled when Choiya spoke.

  “You will be better off somewhere else.”

  Bron looked at her. The Indian woman had not spoken to her once in the days they’d been there, but now there was a triumphant gleam in her dark eyes.

  “Why do you hate us so much, Choiya?”

  Something passed across the eyes of the Indian woman, but she only shook her head. “He does not like so many people around,” she said finally. “You are pretty. Many men will want you. These children”—she waved at the bunks—“they will not die. Someone will take them in.”

  Bron shook her head. “I feel that my God has told me I am to take care of them.”

  “I know about your God. My father was white. He sent me to a mission school for six years—the black robes. They taught me to read, and they taught me about Jesus and Mary.”

  Bron’s eyes widened in surprise. “I wondered why you spoke English so well. But why did you go back to your people?”

  Choiya’s eyes narrowed. “Because the men of the Cheyenne are more honorable than any white men, that is why! I could tell you things—things about how white men come to a young Indian girl, promising her things—but they are all liars!”

  “Not all white men are liars, Choiya. Nor are all Cheyenne braves truthful. You must have seen that both peoples have their good men as well as their bad.”

  Choiya shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t belong to either world. Many Cheyenne won’t have me because I am half white. And I found out very quickly that your people have no use for a half-breed squaw.”

  Bron got up and faced Choiya. She faulted herself for not trying harder to make a friend of the woman, but now it seemed too late. “I’m sorry you feel hatred toward us.” She thought she knew why, and said carefully, “I am no threat to you, Choiya—not in any way.”

  Choiya’s eyes mirrored disbelief and she lifted her chin. “It is better for everyone that you go.”

  Bron’s heart ached, her stomach churned. It was hopeless. She lay on her bunk and for the first time let the tears flow. “Lord, I tried my best. I’m sorry I failed you.”

  The next morning she prepared breakfast, then hurriedly packed all their belongings in the wagon. When Zack came out, he avoided Bron, but was surprised when Choiya came out of the house and said, “I would like to go with you.”

  Zack looked at her quizzically. He had not expected this and wondered what was in her mind. Women! What a bunch of unpredictable creatures! His face settled like granite. “We’ll have to take my wagon, then. Buck, let’s hitch up the mules.”

  Zack took the lead, with Bron directly behind. She turned to look at the cabin as the trail bent around a clump of tall trees. She felt a pang go through her, and once again the despair of failure robbed her face of its customary cheerfulness.

  They crossed Dancer Creek, then turned down the narrow trail leading through the thickets. Choiya sat silently beside Zack on the wagon seat. Buck had jumped in the back where the two babies lay on thick blankets.

  They pulled into Virginia City in late afternoon and stopped in front of Pfouts’ store. Zack got out stiffly, and turned to help Choiya. She stared at him, then took his hand and stepped to the ground. She had put on a soft doeskin skirt and a red cotton blouse under a fringed doeskin jacket. She took Hawk, and Buck picked up Samuel. “I’ll take him,” he said, stepping to the ground.

  Zack looked at Bron, who was sitting beside Lillian in the other wagon. He wanted to say something, but several men had already slowed down to watch. He turned abruptly and walked into the store. As soon as they were inside, he said, “Choiya, get what supplies we’ll need. Buck, you better help her.” Then he stomped to the back room, angry and uncomfortable.

  He threw the door open and Parris jumped up from his desk, his face shining with pleasure. “Zack! It’s good to see you!” Then he looked toward the door. “Is Bron outside?”

  Before Zack could answer, Pfouts headed for the door.

  “Wait a minute, Parris,” he called. “I need to talk to you.”

  One look at Zack’s face, and Parris stopped. “Is there trouble?”

  “Yes! there’s trouble. You’ve got to help me on this thing!”

  “You mean Bron and the children coming to your cabin?”

  “Yes—why in the name of heaven did she ever think of such a thing? Couldn’t you talk sense to her, Parris?”

  “She was gone before I had a chance.”

  “You’ve got a chance now!” Zack spat the words out. “Now listen, Parris, I’ll help with the kids—anything! I’ll pay the bills. Just find a place for them to live. You know it’s not right, an unmarried girl staying off in a cabin with a man all winter—and a preacher woman at that!”

  “Never gave it a thought, considering you already had one unmarried woman with you,” Parris said.

  Zack’s lips tightened. He gripped Pfouts’ shoulder. “Look, it just won’t work, Parris! We’ve got to find another way.”

  “I’ll talk to Bron right away,” he said and left.

  Zack pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow, then reluctantly walked back into the store. Around the corner he saw Choiya and Buck examining some yard goods and stopped. “I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  He walked rapidly out and headed for the first saloon, which happened to be the Silver Moon. It was almost empty, and a man behind the bar, wearing a black patch over his eye, called, “What’ll it be?”

  “Whiskey.” Zack hated the stuff, but his nerves were frayed. He downed that one, then another, and by the third one he began to feel the raw tension subside. The man with the patch introduced himself. “I’m Ned Ray. Own this place. Don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Name’s Zack Winslow.”

  A light touched the one-eyed Ray. “Oh, sure.” He poured another drink for Zack. “On the house.”

  Zack gulped that one too. He wanted to run—but where to? Ideas to settle the dilemma he’d gotten himself into fluttered through his mind. For an hour, he racked his brain, absent-mindedly drinking one swig after another as Ray kept filling his glass. The last glass he reached for eluded him, missing his hands by several inches. Why, I’m drunk! he thought with amazement. The saloon keeper was watching him, and Zack waved him over. “How much do I owe you?” he said, speaking very slowly, and enunciating every syllable, trying to prove he was not drunk.

  “Three dollars.”

  Zack carefully counted out the money and dropped it on the bar. “Got to—go,” he said and turned. The floor seemed tilted, but he steadied himself and cleared the door, the laughter of the men following him.

  He walked slowly and deliberately down the street, stepping off the sidewalk as if it were two feet high. He shook his head, trying to clear his brain for the journey to the other side. He raised his foot at least six inches too high on the other sidewalk, and fell headlong on the board planks. He stumbled to his feet, pretending he had merely twisted his ankle, and ignored the grins around him.

  Finally he got to the store and walked in to find himself the target of every eye. He lurched forward until he stood in front of them.

  Weaving from side to side, he mumbled, “Well—have you been—sayin’ what a dirty scoundrel ol’ Zack Winslow is, huh?”

  Parris was distressed, and walked over and grabbed his arm. “Zack, come into the office.”

  “No—I don’t need to go—to no offish—office!” He shook his head and pointed his right hand wi
th the missing finger at Bron. “You can’t make no saint out of a sinner like me,” he said loudly.

  “Look, his finger is gone!” Alice laughed. “What happened to your finger, Mister Zack?”

  “A bear bit it off!” he shouted at her, bringing a burst of tears. He stared at her as she ran to Bron, then grinned broadly. “Now, you know what—kinda man—I am, preacher woman! The scum of the earth—and you’re lookin’ at ’im!”

  He ranted and raved and finally yelled at Choiya, “Get the shtuff in the wagon!” Then he turned back to Bron. “Best day’s work I ever did—gettin’ rid of you and these kids!”

  He tottered out of the store, and Parris said, “He’s drunk, Bron. He doesn’t mean it.”

  “Yes, I think he does, Parris.” Her eyes flooded with tears despite her effort at control.

  “Go on back to the office. I’ll take care of the children.”

  “What’ll we do, Choiya?” Buck whispered.

  “Pick up the supplies and get him out of town,” she said crisply.

  Pfouts had been impressed with the woman when Buck introduced her, and now he was filled with admiration at the way she handled a tough situation.

  “I’ll help put everything in the wagon,” he offered, grabbing a bag, and with Buck it was all soon loaded. “I don’t reckon Zack’s used to hard liquor,” he said in defense. “It sort of sneaked up on him.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and turned to Buck. “He’s probably in one of the saloons.”

  “The Silver Moon. It’s the only one open this early,” Pfouts said quietly. “Shall I go get him?”

  “I’ll do it, Mr. Pfouts,” Buck said. “We need to get him out of town. Choiya, get the babies and drive the wagon. I’ll go find him.”

  Buck went straight to the Silver Moon, which was down the street. He reached the door and went inside, feeling strange about his mission.

  Zack was at the bar, drinking, and looked up as Buck entered.

  “Zack, we’re ready to go if you are.”

  “Whaszat?” He steadied himself, his eyes unfocused. “Oh, Buck, it’s you.” He put his arm around the boy and whispered, “You don’t wanna be seen with me. Not a reshpecktable character. Re-speck-able!” He pronounced the words slowly, then said ponderously, “I think you’ve had enough to drink, Buck. I gotta get you outta here!”