A Gown of Spanish Lace

by Janette Oke

  “I can do it,” Ariana was quick to inform him.

  He looked at the stove and then back to her. He nodded in agreement and turned to go.

  “But—” Ariana’s voice stopped him.

  “Somethin’ else?” he asked as he turned to her.

  Ariana looked nervously from the young man to the door and back again.

  “Could you…could you…knock…before coming in next time?” she asked timidly, and her chin lifted just a bit to bolster her courage.

  It took a moment for the meaning of the words to register. Then his face flushed.

  “Miss,” he said, his hand raising unconsciously to tip back his Stetson, “I’ll be knockin’ every time.”

  Then he was gone.

  As much as she longed to linger in the warm, soapy water, Ariana hurried with her bath. It didn’t seem quite safe to remain in the tub in spite of his promise to announce his coming.

  She yearned to wash her filthy garments but had nothing to change into. She thought of wrapping herself in the coarse blanket while her clothing dried, but under the circumstances it didn’t seem like a good idea.

  Reluctantly she put on the same skirt and shirtwaist that she had laid aside. They smelled of woodsmoke and room dust. She was glad the weather hadn’t been such to cause perspiration odor as well.

  Then she set about washing her hair. It felt so good to give her scalp a good scrubbing. The shampoo lived up to its boast. As her dark brown curls began to dry, they did feel silky again, and they did have a delightful scent—even in the dust and dirt of the dank cabin.

  When he came with her evening meal, her hair still had not dried completely and hung about her shoulders like a soft mantle. He could smell the perfume of it as he set the tin plate on the bare table. He moved quickly away.

  “Yer done with the tub?” he asked, for something to say.

  “Yes—thank you,” she responded.

  He was surprised that she had dipped out most of the water. The slop pail was full, as were the basins and big pot he had brought. As far as her circumstances allowed, she was independent. He liked that, though he really couldn’t have said why. He set about finishing emptying the bath water while she toyed with her supper.

  He was carrying out the tub and its last bit of water when she spoke again. “Is that…is that someone else’s tub?”

  He looked at her, wondering just what she was asking.

  “No,” he said curtly.

  “Then…do you mind…bringing it back in?” she asked him.

  He stopped short. Surely she wasn’t going to bathe again—so soon.

  “It’ll get very cold if it’s left out…out in the elements,” she explained. “When it’s cold it cools the water too quickly.”

  He understood then and nodded his assent.

  He brought the tub back into the room. He had to kick some clutter aside in order to make room for it against one wall of the cabin. He swore beneath his breath, ending his words with “filthy place.”

  “If I had some sort of broom I could sweep it out,” she offered from where she sat.

  He felt embarrassed that she had overheard him.

  When he reached the door he hesitated. “Anything else?” he asked.

  It was almost a smile she gave him—though it was checked and guarded. “You’ve been most helpful,” she said quietly. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

  Her words made him squirm with discomfort. A prisoner—voicing thanks.

  He nodded and turned quickly to go. He could stand no more—niceness or womanliness or whatever it was. But he promised himself that the next time he came to the cabin, he’d bring his stub of a broom and sweep out the place.

  “I bin thinkin’,” said Sam, throwing a card on the pile between him and the boss. “Haven’t we still got us a trunk ’round here somewheres with woman clothes?”

  Will looked up and squinted his dark eyes at his card partner. “Why ya askin’?”

  “Jest thinkin’,” Sam replied and studied the cards in his hand.

  Will took a long drink from the bottle at his elbow.

  “Been thinkin’,” Sam went on slowly, “thet there little gal be in the same batch of clothes ever since we brung her in.”

  “So—?” responded the big man. “I ain’t changed mine neither.”

  “Well—you an’ me is a little different,” Sam followed slowly. Then he added, “We wear ’em ’til they fall off—or crawl away.” He chuckled softly at his own joke.

  They played on in silence for several minutes. Sam waited. Would Will refuse to give consent—or even consideration to his casual remark?

  “Ya think those clothes would fit her?” Will finally asked when Sam had about given up.

  Sam shrugged. “No idee,” he responded, “but guess ya could mention ’em to the Kid an’ see iffen he wants a look at ’em.”

  The big man nodded. “Ya can dig ’em up and show ’im,” he said.

  The dim glow of the kerosene lamp did not give away the sparkle in Sam’s eyes.

  Chapter Nine

  Early Trouble

  “Where’d ya git this stuff?” Laramie asked Sam as the two of them ran rough hands over the soft garments.

  Sam said nothing—just watched the young man sort idly through the clothes. What was he to say—and just how much?

  “Yer pa thought the gal might be able to use something. Git herself cleaned up,” Sam said instead.

  “Where’d it come from?” Laramie insisted.

  “Been here a long time,” Sam answered.

  “Some raid?” asked Laramie. He lifted another calico gown and laid it aside. Then his eyes opened wide and he reached again into the trunk. “This here’s a baby—somethin’,” he said, disbelief in his voice.

  Sam nodded. He looked off into the distance, thinking back in time. He hadn’t expected the trunk of laid-aside things to affect him so deeply.

  “Sam!” prompted Laramie. “What are these clothes?” He lifted up the tiny soft nightgown and stared at the smallness of it in his man-sized hand.

  Sam spit into the dust on the floor.

  “Well, boy,” he said when he could trust his voice. “Yers, I reckon.”

  Laramie stared. “Mine?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You mean—?” Laramie turned back to the trunk of feminine attire. “You mean—this was my ma’s trunk?”

  Sam nodded again.

  “You mean she—? Did she live here? Was—?”

  Sam raised a hand. “Look, Kid,” he said and his eyes had grown dark, “I’ve said all I intend to say. This was yer ma’s trunk of things. That was yer baby do-dad. I—yer pa thought this here gal might use some of the”—Sam reached down a hand and lifted one of the garments and let it fall back into the trunk again—“fancies—an’ thet’s thet an’ thet’s all I’m gonna say.”

  He lifted himself awkwardly from his kneeling position on the floor and turned to stalk away.

  “Ya do what ya wanna do,” he flung back over his shoulder with a wave of his hand, indicating that he had washed his hands of the whole business.

  Laramie lingered over the trunk, staring at the tiny garments—his. And the other soft, feminine things—his mother’s. Nothing—nothing in his life had ever given him cause to think about the fact that he’d had a mother. A mother. What had she been like? Who was she, anyway? How had she come to connect up with his father? The items in the trunk looked totally foreign to the world he knew.

  He again lifted the small baby garment and looked at it long and hard. His. Made undoubtedly by the hands of his mother.

  Laramie couldn’t have said why, but after carefully returning the clothing to the trunk, he kept out the one small soft item and tucked it inside his shirt.

  The next morning he had Sam help him take the trunk to the south cabin. “Thought there might be somethin’ in here ya could use,” was his only explanation.

  As the trunk lid was lifted back to expose the contents, he s
aw the girl’s eyes light up. It gave him strange, unexpected pleasure.

  “I wonder…” mused Ariana as she went through the trunk, carefully lifting out item by item and examining them.

  What she found was clothing that had belonged to a woman about her size—but they had been worn during a previous time. Styles had changed a bit, but she couldn’t fault the material. Whoever had claimed ownership had been a woman of some means. Ariana could tell that by the soft cottons and fine linens.

  They were not party clothes, not silks and satins—they were sensible, everyday, workable clothes, though of the best fabrics available. Ariana’s puzzled frown deepened with each garment she drew out. “Who was she?” she kept asking herself.

  Then another question brought a new frown. What had happened to this woman? Had she also been brought to the camp as a prisoner? Why was her clothing left behind? What had become of this woman of mystery?

  Ariana had no answer to any of her questions.

  She came upon a blanket, folded neatly as though making a division of the contents of the trunk. She lifted it and saw carefully folded baby garments comprising the bottom layer. She could tell at a glance they were not new items, but carefully laundered and folded.

  She stared, openmouthed. Did Sam and…and that other man know the trunk held baby items as well? Who was this woman? This woman who obviously had prepared garments to welcome a baby. Had the baby arrived? What had become of the woman and her infant?

  There was a great mystery hidden here somewhere.

  Ariana left the folded baby things and let the blanket fall back into position. She did not wish to intrude further on the privacy of this unknown woman—but thankfully she would wear some of the fine garments her unknown benefactor had left behind.

  Laramie pulled his horse up in the shadow of the tall spruce and slipped silently to the ground. He left his mount ground-tied and moved stealthily through the trees. It would be impossible to hide his tracks in the snow—but he knew the area well. No outsider ever came to the hidden springs, and his own gang members were presently more interested in staying by the warm fire than venturing out.

  He was in no danger. But the party he had plans to meet had to be a bit more cautious. He would not be welcomed should he be spotted by any of the other members of the camp, or by the sentry on duty. For that reason, Laramie hoped they would not be seen.

  He was early—had planned it that way. He would just find a comfortable, hidden spot and wait.

  He chose his place of concealment carefully, brushed the snow from the stump with the brim of his Stetson, and took a seat. He had no sooner settled himself than he heard a soft chuckle.

  “You make noise like moose,” came the soft, familiar voice.

  Laramie whipped around. White Eagle stood a few feet away, grinning, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Yer here,” said Laramie, rising to his feet again.

  White Eagle, the amused look still on his face, made no comment but crossed to where Laramie now stood.

  “We meet here—no?”

  It was Laramie’s turn to smile. He reached out, and the two young men shook hands firmly.

  “Yes, we were to meet here,” he agreed. “It’s been a long time,” he continued, placing a hand on the young Indian’s shoulder.

  “Long,” agreed White Eagle. He nodded his head to the stump Laramie had vacated and eased himself to the ground. Laramie returned to his seat.

  For some minutes the two friends sat silently, their eyes traveling out over the expanse of the valley beneath them. White Eagle broke the stillness. “You call,” he said simply, and Laramie understood his implied question.

  He removed his hat and ran a finger through shaggy, heavy hair. “Yeah,” Laramie admitted. “I had to talk to someone.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Not…not really trouble. Jest…”

  Laramie stopped and White Eagle waited for him to go on. It was some time before Laramie continued.

  “My pa brought this here girl to the camp,” he said, feeling that the spoken words sounded pretty silly.

  White Eagle nodded solemnly. “Trouble!” he said softly.

  “Well—no trouble yet,” Laramie hurried to explain. “I mean she’s just a…a young…not a troublemaker or anything like thet. She’s off in a cabin all alone. The fellas don’t even know she’s there.”

  White Eagle waited.

  “Pa gave me the…the chore of…of guardin’ her,” went on Laramie.

  “Nice—chore,” White Eagle said, his eyes glinting with amusement.

  “No—it’s not,” quickly cut in Laramie. “She’s…she’s…it’s not a nice job—at all.”

  “She mean squaw?” asked the Indian.

  “No,” Laramie said quickly. “Nothin’ like thet. She’s young an’ she’s scared an’ I have no idea what she’s there for. I mean—I don’t know what Pa plans. I asked—an’ he got mad. Wouldn’t say nothin’. Jest says I gotta guard her.”

  White Eagle shrugged his shoulders and spread his palms upright as if to say that there was nothing he could do to help the situation.

  “It’s jest…well, I mean…you’ve lived in camp—with women—all yer life. I…I don’t know a thing about women. What…what am I supposed to…how am I supposed to…?”

  White Eagle smiled. Yes, he knew about women. Elderly ones who, because of their years and wisdom, were the mothers of the tribe, wives of hunters who tanned the hides of the game the men brought in and tended the cooking pots. Younger women, eyes soft with love for their newborn papooses, maidens who modestly lowered their eyes when the young braves walked by, and then stole covert glances beneath long, dark lashes. Even the frolicking, playful little ones—on their way to “becoming.” He knew about life surrounded by women.

  “But,” he went on to explain, “I have visited the white man’s fort—a few times. The women there are different—very different—from the Indian women in my camp.”

  He shrugged again. “I know nothing—of white squaws,” he said, and spread his hands again.

  “But—”

  White Eagle shrugged again. “Not same,” he said as though that was final.

  Laramie was agitated. White Eagle stared at him, looking both surprised and confused. Finally he asked, “Why such little bit of woman trouble so much?”

  Laramie couldn’t answer the question.

  “What you do for her?” White Eagle asked, his tone indicating he was genuinely trying to help his friend.

  “I jest…jest bring her wood an’ water an’ food an’—”

  “Why she not get own wood and water?” questioned White Eagle.

  “She’s our prisoner,” responded Laramie.

  White Eagle nodded. Then he frowned. “White man not make prisoner work?” he asked.

  “She’s locked up,” said Laramie.

  White Eagle nodded again.

  “So you not like…chore?” asked the young brave.

  Laramie stood to his feet and began to pace. He reached up to push his hat back a trace. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t like it. She shouldn’t be there. Shouldn’t be in the camp. It’s gonna mean trouble. I can feel it in my bones.”

  “Maybe she…escape,” observed the Indian with a knowing look.

  “She’d never make it. She’d die—or be killed—or taken,” declared Laramie. He continued to pace, his jaw set firmly, his blue eyes darkening.

  “You…not want that?”

  Laramie whirled around to face the young brave. He did not even offer an answer. Of course he did not want that.

  “So…you not like…care for…but you want…keep,” White Eagle continued, as though carefully sorting through Laramie’s problem.

  Laramie did speak then. “I don’t want to keep—I jest want to—”

  He broke off. How could he explain to the Pawnee what he was feeling? That it was all wrong to take another captive. That his father had broken some moral code in bringing the young girl i
nto camp. That he knew, deep down inside, that this was totally against everything that a real man should stand for.

  “I want her…back…where she belongs,” he stumbled on awkwardly. “Only…I have no way to get her there…so…so I have to do my best to take care of her and I don’t—”

  “You got trouble,” agreed the young Indian again. “Plenty trouble.”

  Laramie stopped his walking and stared out over the valley. Down below he could see the ramshackle buildings of the camp. From the high vantage point the crude shacks looked fairly organized, almost attractive. In the far distance he could see the rising smoke of a campfire. By the way the small column drifted, he guessed it to be an Indian hunting party who sat around its warmth.

  “Yer men?” he asked White Eagle, nodding his head eastward.

  “Three,” said White Eagle in reply.

  “Hope they got something,” mused Laramie.

  White Eagle nodded. “They did. Snow deep. Stop to roast meat for strength on home trail.”

  “I think I’ll do a little huntin’,” said Laramie. “We could do with some fresh meat.”

  The young Indian brave stood to his feet, his movements catlike with grace and strength.

  He did not brush the snow from his leather garments but pulled down a branch of the spruce and brushed it back and forth across the ground where he had reclined, removing all trace that he had been there. At its release, the branch sprang back into position.

  “Fresh meat,” he echoed Laramie. “Make strong. If girl ever…escape…she need eat. Be strong.”

  The two young men looked at each other. A silent message passed between them. Even as the idea crossed Laramie’s mind, he discarded it as preposterous.

  “You make signal,” said White Eagle, and Laramie understood the brief words as a promise that he would be there. He nodded.

  Before his very eyes the young brave seemed to melt into the shadows of the forest.

  “You should get some fresh air,” said Laramie after he had knocked, then brought in the plate of food to his charge the next morning.

  Ariana glanced at the heavy wooden door.