Gypsy Moon

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “That might have been fine for Johnny Rebs, but not for buffalo. Myself, I prefer to ride in close and count my coup with a pistol. But that’s not for someone new at this game. You’ll want the best you can get. The new Hawken’s shorter barrel and larger bore can drop one of those great furry beasts at two hundred yards. And believe me, you won’t want to get much closer once you see the size of them. Besides, if those ragged hunks of cloud off to the west turn into a prairie storm, a percussion rifle’s going to be a lot more use to you than an old Kentucky flintlock. Go get the Hawken, Major Krantz.”

  With a huff of annoyance, Winston climbed down from his horse and headed back for the new rifle. He’d never been much of a hunter, and the thought of going out on a strange horse with an unfamiliar weapon was sorely trying. But an order was an order, and Custer was his superior.

  Moments later, Winston Krantz was back in the saddle, Hawken in hand. Colonel Custer gave the signal and the entire troop headed out at a smart clip. Even Krantz couldn’t deny a certain feeling of exhilaration now that they were on their way.

  The troop hadn’t ridden many miles before they came over a small rise; suddenly, the brown-and-tan range turned black. Before them stretched a herd of buffalo, a sea of dark, dusty shapes, their great humps like waves moving restlessly all the way to the horizon.

  “Hellfire and damnation!” Winston Krantz cried. “I never saw anything like it!”

  “Quiet!” Custer cautioned in a harsh whisper. He passed the same word back through the ranks, then motioned for his men to follow.

  “They don’t even seem to see us,” Krantz observed in a monotone.

  “They won’t spook as long as we stay downwind. Buffalo are stupid beasts. I’ve shot a dozen or more in a small group while the others just grazed on, watching their mates fall dead around them. As long as they don’t pick up our scent, they won’t budge from their feeding.”

  When Custer had his men in position, halved into two troops by horse color, he gave the signal to fire. The great, hulking beasts dropped like flies—a shot, a bellow, a thud, then a cloud of dust and it was over. To Winston Krantz, it seemed almost too easy to be sport. But the roar of his rifle, the smell of blood, and the confidence brought on by man’s superiority to beast soon warmed him to the hunt.

  Suddenly Custer yelled, “Okay, boys, let’s go get ’em!”

  Having given the raw recruits and Winston Krantz their chance, Custer and his veteran buffalo hunters whipped out their pistols and galloped at breakneck speed into the midst of the herd. The earth shook as the buffalo herd stampeded. Krantz watched, amazed, as Custer and his men rode close enough to reach out and touch the charging beasts, firing at deadly point-blank range. Custer himself dropped three… four, and was riding down a fifth large bull. Krantz watched, transfixed by the man’s daring.

  Custer was almost up close enough now to put a bullet in the animal’s brain. He gave a war whoop and took aim with his revolver. But the next moment, the buffalo veered directly into Custis Lee’s path. The horse reared, and Custer’s pistol—cocked and ready for the kill—exploded, sending a bullet through his mount’s head. Winston Krantz felt his breath stop for an instant as the dying horse pitched and Colonel Custer flew through the air. Hitting the hard-packed earth with a thud, he sprang immediately to his feet, gun still in hand. He came up eye to eye with the startled bull buffalo. Only a few feet separated man from beast.

  Except for the thunder of the retreating herd, silence reigned. Then the bull gave a low, dangerous-sounding snort. Custer stood his ground but held his fire. Krantz wondered if the man was paralyzed with fear or simply knocked senseless from his fall. The buffalo pawed the earth and seemed about ready to charge his former pursuer. Then suddenly the huge beast swung away and galloped off after the rest of the herd. A great cheer went up from the ranks. Custer let the noble animal depart without firing a shot, then ambled back toward the others.

  “Damned if I ever saw anything so brave, Colonel!” Krantz said.

  Custer gave him a weak smile and a wink. “Don’t tell the others, but I hope I never see anything like it again! And if the truth be known, it was about one part brave and nine parts scared shitless!” He grinned a bit sheepishly. “That, of course, is strictly between you and me, Major.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Krantz answered, glancing about to make sure no one else had heard.

  “I think I’ll call it a day now. The boys have had their fun, don’t you think, Major? Time for the tongue count.”

  “I hate to sound like a complete novice, Colonel, but what on earth are you talking about?” Winston Krantz squirmed with discomfort at having to admit his ignorance.

  “Simple,” Custer answered. “Those carcasses are too heavy to haul all the way back to the fort. They’ll be butchered on the spot. Then, to total up our kill, the men will cut out the tongues and bring them back to see which side won. Besides, the tongue of a buffalo is the tastiest part.”

  Winston Krantz held back any comment, afraid of what he might say. But the thought of eating buffalo tongue dispersed any appetite he’d worked up during the hunt.

  An orderly came running, leading Custer’s spare hunter, Dandy. The colonel mounted and sat watching as his men butchered the buffalo. His horse neighed impatiently and Custer patted its neck.

  “Damn fine horse I lost,” he muttered to Krantz.

  The two men hung their heads in an unofficial moment of mourning for Custis Lee before heading back toward Fort Leavenworth.

  That night, the mess tent was decked out with battle flags for the festive occasion. Long tables, set with bottles of wine, seated officers and men alike. Krantz and Custer’s troop had won the tongue count, so they were feted by the soldiers of the opposing force. Much kidding and telling of tall tales was the order of the evening as the meal passed down the ranks: steaming platters of hump stew; soup made of buffalo bones and marrow and seasoned with milkweed buds, rose hips, and prickly pear; broiled ribs; and, of course, the piece de resistance—smoked tongue.

  “Sweet and tender as veal, eh, Krantz?” Custer asked jovially.

  Winston had to agree that it wasn’t half-bad, although he passed on the raw liver, which some of the men actually fought over. A brash young lieutenant named Lance Delacorte won the largest portion. Winston looked away as the man devoured it with relish.

  Well into the evening, when the meal was over and both the talk and the wine were almost exhausted, Winston Krantz felt a kind of warm glow steal over him. It had been a strange day and a stranger night, but all in all this was a good life—a man’s life.

  He looked across the table at George Armstrong Custer and smiled his approval of the man. Suddenly he wanted to say something to let his superior know he respected him as an officer and liked him as a friend. A man needed a friend in this wild country.

  “You certainly handled yourself well today, Colonel.”

  “You’ve got to, if you want to stay alive out here, Krantz. If one thing’s not out to get your hide, something else will be. That’s the first lesson you learn out west: be ready for anything! Right, men?”

  The other officers voiced their full agreement.

  “I see your point, Colonel. It’s a far cry from humdrum duty, teaching at West Point, or even riding into bloody battles as we did during the war. At least then all we had to fight were the Rebs. Out here you’ve got beasts, redskins, and, so I hear, even Gypsies,” Krantz finished in a whisper.

  Custer gave a great laugh. “They’re here all right, but not to do battle. I don’t think those Romanies have a word in their language for fight. I sent a troop of six men to their camp when they first got to these parts. I told my horse soldiers to rout them out, even if they had to use their guns to do it.”

  “They’re still here, though, sir. What happened?”

  Custer leaned back from the table and patted his full belly in a pleased manner as he continued, “Picture this, Major. My men ride up o
n the camp and all the Gypsies are singing and dancing around the campfire—those lovely, dusky women in their bright skirts, their faces reflecting the flames as if they were chiseled in bronze and copper. My men were struck dumb at first. When they did get around to issuing my orders, the Gypsies ignored them—acted as if they weren’t even there. They went right on laughing, singing, and dancing. Finally, one of my men fired a warning shot to get their attention. He got attention, but not the kind he’d expected. One of the young women came to him, disarmed him, and led him into the dance. Four days later, I went myself to see what the hell the Gypsies had done with my men. I figured I’d find them all dead. But no! There those happy fools were—all six of them—drinking brown ale, dancing, singing, carrying on like no decent soldiers I ever saw before. I was damn mad, I can tell you! But a day and a night in that Gypsy camp and I was tempted myself to stay the rest of my life.”

  “Colonel, you don’t mean…” Winston Krantz could hardly believe such a thing of the man he’d witnessed staring down a bull buffalo.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Krantz.” Custer laughed, guessing what the major must be imagining. “I know my duty. I rounded up my soldiers and hauled them back to camp. But I had a damn fine time doing it!”

  “And you allowed the Gypsies to stay?”

  “I hadn’t much choice. They refused to hear my orders. Even that Prince Mateo, who’s certainly nobody’s fool, turned deaf on me when I told him to vacate. They live by their own rules. As long as I don’t get any complaints, I’ll leave them be. But the minute I hear of any trouble, out they go. You can count on it!”

  “Well, that’s reassuring,” Krantz said.

  Custer threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Major Krantz, why don’t you ease up a bit? This isn’t Boston, or even Kentucky. We live by a different code out here. As for the Gypsies, I think you’ll change your mind about them once you see them perform.”

  “That good, are they?” Krantz asked, not quite convinced that anything could change his mind about a dirty, thieving bunch of vagabonds.

  “You’ll see. They say a Gypsy Rom can put on an entertaining show with no more than a dog, two fleas, and a fly. When you see that fellow, Mateo, and his matched stallions, I’d be willing to bet your staid Bostonian eyes will bug right out. You’ll probably be haggling with him to buy one of his horses as soon as he finishes his act. But you might as well save your breath. I think he’d sell his own mother—the old queen—before he’d part with one of those beauties.”

  “I want to see his new woman!” Lieutenant Delacorte put in with an unmistakable gleam in his gray eyes.

  “Ha! You’d better not let your wife hear you say that, Lance!” Custer laughed. “But I’m with you. I’m anxious to see this unusual lady he’s added to his act as well. I’ve heard she’s a blonde Gypsy, with skin as light as yours or mine, Krantz.”

  “Do tell?”

  Custer nodded and smiled a bit wickedly. “Mind you, I have nothing against dusky ladies. I’ve been forced to accept the hospitality of more than one Indian chief with an accomplished daughter. But the thought of one of those fiery Gypsy women with fair skin is somehow exciting, don’t you agree, gentlemen?”

  “I’ll drink to that, sir!” Delacorte answered, raising his mug.

  Winnie Krantz had no idea whether he agreed or disagreed. He’d never seen a Gypsy as far as he knew. And as for golden-haired women, he already had two in his life—Charlotte and her mother. That was enough to occupy any man’s thoughts and senses. He’d leave the Gypsies to Custer and young Delacorte, although Krantz had to confess he was curious to see their show when it came to camp in a couple of weeks. He would bide his time and reserve final judgment until then.

  He pounded his chest with his fist to dislodge a belch, and in so doing felt Jemima Buckland’s letter inside his shirt. A new warmth crept into him and he had a sudden urge to reread it.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me?” he said, rising. Several others had already left for their bunks. The party was breaking up.

  As Winston Krantz sauntered across the parade ground, he thought about Charlotte Buckland. He wondered where she was… how she was… and if he’d ever see her again. Suddenly he felt a deep sadness that she had refused to become his wife. Maybe it was the wine, or it could have been the moonlight. Whatever the cause, he felt a pressing need tonight for a woman—no, a wife, he corrected himself.

  How nice it would have been to trudge home to Charlotte Buckland’s waiting caresses. He sighed and staggered slightly as he made for his bunk.

  Chapter 12

  During the next few days, as Charlotte and Mateo worked closely together perfecting their act for the performance at Fort Leavenworth, she came to view him through different eyes. Indeed, Mateo was a different man when surrounded by his mighty black stallions. He was even more masterful and all-powerful—a god in the forty-two-foot ring that was his professional domain.

  The memory of their one night of tumultuous love-making remained with Charlotte, waking and sleeping. But she found it difficult to equate this magnificently self-assured master of the horses with the tortured soul whose moon madness had claimed them both. Once that night was past, Mateo had never spoken of what had happened. He even seemed not to remember that he had taken her to him during those dark, stormy hours by the light of the full moon. But often when she turned toward him quickly, she would catch him gazing at her with a look of love and wonder in his dark eyes.

  Charlotte stood at the edge of the outdoor ring now, watching as Mateo, poised on the Black Devil’s back, prepared to execute a new maneuver. He was a marvel. As he initiated his move, she thought once more that he must surely have invisible wings.

  “Hi-yiah!” he whooped, and somersaulted over the horse’s hind quarters.

  Charlotte applauded. “You’re more than ready for the show. I only hope I don’t disappoint you.”

  For the barest instant, an intimate look passed over Mateo’s dark features. It appeared and was gone so quickly that Charlotte couldn’t be sure she had seen his change of expression at all. But if indeed she hadn’t imagined it, she knew in that moment that Mateo did remember their night together, that he both gloried in the thought of having loved her and hated himself for having caused her pain.

  She longed to tell him that she forgave him, although there was nothing to forgive… that she would love him, no matter what. But there was no need. He knew without hearing her words. Still, speaking these truths aloud would have helped her a great deal. She desperately needed to have this thing between them—this dark shadow—lifted.

  “I have come up with a name for you, Charlotte,” Mateo announced, striding toward her, hands on hips. It was a problem they had both been pondering. Certainly she couldn’t use her true name in the ring. “We will call you the Golden One. And I have directed Tamara to alter your costume accordingly. No scarlet, only gold. You will shine like the setting sun as you ride. You will blind their staring eyes with your radiance even as you warm their hearts. What do you think?”

  Charlotte smiled and a twinkle lighted her eyes. “I like that, Mateo. Yes! The Golden One. And will the ringmaster claim that I, too, have performed before the crowned heads of Europe?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Would we tell such a lie to the unsuspecting gajosl No!” He came toward her and brushed back a stray lock of hair from her cheek in an intimate but casual gesture. “We will tell them,” he whispered, his dark eyes dancing with merriment, “that you come of the Gypsy stock of Ireland, and that a leprechaun king once took you for his own. His gift to you was your skill with the horses, and to honor him, you wear his gold.”

  “Blarney,” Charlotte whispered back, laughing softly. “They will love it!”

  “They will love you, Golden One.” He was leaning down to her, his lips parted, his face serious. “Even as I do.”

  Mateo’s kiss, as light as a butterfly’s wing on her lips, came as a
shock to Charlotte. This was the first time, since the night of the full moon almost two weeks past, that Mateo had failed to remain cool and distant with her. She hardly knew how to react.

  Drawing away, Charlotte said, “Mateo, please. There are things that need to be sorted out. Do you know what happened between us in your tent? Do you remember anything of that night?”

  Mateo’s smile vanished. He looked away from Charlotte, far off toward the distant horizon. “I know. I remember. I experienced anger and fear. Not my own, but that of someone else. And I felt a desire so strong, so uncontrollable, that it could not be denied. It is a dreadful anguish passed down through the ages. You should not have been there, Charlotte. You might have spared yourself by staying away. I couldn’t save you from the terrible passion, even though I experienced your pain as if it were my own.”

  “Then you’re saying that night meant nothing?” His words twisted like a dagger in her breast. Charlotte felt faint and knew that tears were brimming in her eyes. “It was simply an urge you couldn’t control and I just happened to be the willing victim of your lust?”

  “No, Charlotte!” He grasped her arms in a gesture of desperation. “That’s not what I mean at all. You know I’ve wanted you, loved you, from the beginning. But do you think that if I had been in my right mind I would have forced you in such a way? Never! I am a man of appetite, but not cruelty. What I’m trying to tell you is that I don’t know what that night meant to either of us. For me, it was as if my body were only the tool of some long-dead ancestor whose lust is too powerful to die. Somehow, the full moon allows this ghostly passion to revive itself in my body. That night, it was almost as if I lay there, helpless and tormented, watching a stranger take the woman I love. That is, until the last few minutes…” His voice trailed off.

  Charlotte was confused, disappointed. She couldn’t understand. Mateo had held her and loved her, no other. How could he say these things to her and expect her to accept them?