Nothing beyond polite conversation took place between Joanna and him as far as vocal communication was concerned. But for those who more closely observed, Bertha in particular, the silent signals of deeper thoughts were blatantly evident. It was inevitable that these thoughts and questions would come to surface between the two young people.
When the harvesting was finished, Clint spent more time with his horses, figuring that Rowdy and the other horses were getting fat and lazy while he had been working in the fields. Joanna walked out to the corral one afternoon when she saw him saddling the buckskin. “Where are you off to?” she asked.
“Nowhere in particular,” he replied, “just thought I’d ride a little of the rust offa Rowdy.” He smiled and shrugged. “I reckon all of ’em need a little exercise.”
“If you’ll saddle that little mare, I’ll ride with you,” she said. “I’m not ready to start supper yet, and I’d enjoy a ride.” She paused, smiling. “Unless you don’t care for any company.”
“No, ma’am,” he replied, “I’d be glad to have your company.”
“Good . . . I’ll just go tell Aunt Bertha I’m going.” She turned and went to the house while he went into the barn to get her saddle.
“You take your time, honey,” her aunt said, a satisfied smile traced along her closed lips. She took a step toward the bedroom door to sneak a peak at her niece as Joanna fretted over her appearance in the mirror.
Why were you born so damn plain? Joanna asked herself as she pinched her cheeks and smoothed her hair. Would it have been asking too much for a little less forehead and a little more chin? She traced her fingertip along the one scar that remained after her abduction by the three Sioux warriors. Aunt Bertha had told her that it was hardly noticeable, but to Joanna it stood out like a brand. Seeing it always reminded her of the circumstances under which it was received. It’s the best I can do, she decided, turning her head first one way and then another in an effort to check her hair.
“You young folks enjoy your ride,” Bertha said as Joanna started for the door. “Take your time. I don’t need any help fixing supper.” Joanna responded with an embarrassed smile, almost colliding with her uncle coming in from the barn.
“Where are they going?” Frederick asked Bertha after Joanna went out.
“Just going for a ride.”
Aware of the smug look of mischief upon his wife’s face, he took a long look after his niece before closing the door. “I don’t know about this,” Frederick fretted. “Joanna’s a married woman.”
“Bull feathers,” Bertha replied. “If she’s married, where’s her husband? I never thought Robert Becker was good enough for Joanna, anyway. I’m not surprised he ran away at the first sign of trouble.” Thinking of Clint then, she said, “Besides, I like that boy. I think they make a good pair.”
They started out, following the wagon track that led to the third house in the line of families that came out together from Omaha. Leaving the road at the corner of Frederick’s property, they continued on, following the river. As he looked across the Yellowstone, it was apparent to Clint why all the settlement was on this side of the river, for high rolling hills began at the very bluffs on the far side and extended as far as the eye could see. It was in his nature to want to explore the endless stretch of prairie and badlands on the other side. Maybe at a later time, he thought. After about an hour, they came upon a little island at a bend in the river. With several large willow trees and separated from the riverbank by only a dozen yards of shallow water, it looked to be a pleasant place to rest while the horses drank. He cast a questioning glance in Joanna’s direction, and she, understanding, nodded.
“Probably oughta let the horses drink,” he said, and guided Rowdy down into the water. She followed him across to the island and they dismounted.
“What a lovely little island,” she said, walking among the willows. “I should have brought along a picnic basket.” She found a grass-covered hummock and sat down to enjoy the late-August sun, knowing there would not be many warm days left to enjoy before the winds began to chill. She watched Clint as he led the horses up from the water and dropped their reins, standing by them while they began to graze on the lush grass. She felt safe and comfortable, remembering the days when they were always looking over their shoulders wondering if Sioux warriors were in pursuit. After a few moments, he walked over to stand by her.
“I expect we’d best turn back, before your aunt starts to worry about you,” he said.
“She knows I’m all right as long as I’m with you,” Joanna answered. “It’s so nice here. Let’s stay for a little while longer.” There were thoughts running through her mind that she told herself she should not be thinking, thoughts that he might even be appalled to know. In truth, he had never exhibited particular interest in her as a woman, a fact she couldn’t help but attribute to her plain features and her soiled past. He might have the same feelings that Robert had about women who had been with Indians.
“This is a right peaceful spot,” he said, and sat down in the grass beside her.
They talked for a while about the land, and her father’s plans to farm it with her uncle. He talked about the possibility of raising cattle and horses on the endless grasslands and the talks with her uncle of rumors that the railroad would soon come this far. After a lull in the conversation occurred, she asked the question to which she was most interested in gaining an answer.
“Are you thinking about staying here to raise your horses?”
He hesitated before answering. “Well, to tell you the truth, I hadn’t planned to when we first got here.”
“But now?” she pressed, sensing a change in his attitude.
“Well, now I ain’t so sure,” he allowed awkwardly. “This is nice country, as good a place as any, I reckon.” He found his words getting all tangled up in his mouth before he could spit them out. “I mean if there was some way to know if I should stay or not . . .” He couldn’t express the uncertainty he felt.
She decided to take a chance. “You mean whether or not I want you to stay?”
His face registered the helplessness he felt, reluctant to admit that she had exposed his hidden thoughts. “I’ve got no right to—” he started, but she interrupted.
“Because I do,” she said softly. “I want you to stay.” The look on his face told her that he was not repelled by her, but quite the opposite. Smiling as she looked into his eyes, she took his hand in hers, held it for a moment, then guided it around her waist. Leaning into him, she kissed him. This time it was no light kiss, and it left him with no doubt of the intent behind the caress.
He took her in his arms, passionately returning her kiss, shutting out all feelings of guilt, overcome by the moment, and hardly believing it was happening. With both parties knowing where it would lead, and anxious to arrive, he laid her back on the warm bed of grass, where she eagerly answered his urgent needs.
When they had reached passion’s promise, they lay back together, she in his arms, content to stay there forever with her head resting upon his shoulder. The thought struck her at that moment that this was the first time she had really felt such passion, realizing that Robert had never taken her to such heights. For a brief moment, she allowed thoughts of guilt to creep into her mind, but immediately rejected them, hoping to banish them forever. She had honored her marriage vows. Robert had discarded her and left her to her shame. Now, like a candle suddenly lit in a dark cave, she saw new promise where before there was none, and she realized the honesty of it. Clint knew of her shame, and accepted her without baggage from the past. It occurred to her then that she was in love, and maybe for the first time.
They remained there, she with her head on his shoulder, for some time until Rowdy became impatient and strolled over to rub his muzzle on Clint’s stomach. “I guess he’s tellin’ me it’s time to get goin’ back,” Clint said. He sat up and watched for a moment while Joanna, slightly embarrassed now, recovered her clothing. He realized then that th
ere was something he must tell her, reluctant though he might be.
Sensing a seriousness come over him, she paused to look him in the eye. “If you’re about to tell me this was all a big mistake, I don’t wanna hear it,” she scolded.
“Joanna, I’ve gotta tell you somethin’ I shoulda told you from the first.”
Not waiting to let him finish, she reproached him. “Now that we’ve had our roll in the grass, you remember there was an Indian there before you.”
“No,” he quickly replied. “That ain’t it at all. I don’t fault you for that. Hell, it wasn’t your doin’.”
“Then what?” she demanded. “You just remember you’ve got a little wife waiting for you back in Wyoming? Well, guess what, I’ve got a husband somewhere, too. You’re not the only one with a guilty conscience.”
“No, dammit,” he exclaimed, getting more than a little annoyed with her accusations. “Just shut up a minute and let me finish.”
She realized then that her insecurities had again taken control of her emotions because of a dread of rejection and fear that she had been used to simply give him physical relief. When she indicated that she was calmly awaiting what he felt he had to say, he revealed that which he had been reluctant to tell. “I’m an escaped convict from the Wyoming Territorial Prison,” he started out bluntly. Almost staggered by his statement, she nevertheless showed no alarm and heard him out as he told her his story and how he happened to be on his way to Montana when he came upon her.
Although still astonished by his confession, she was not horrified by the time he had explained everything. “You mean you were sent to prison, really, because of compassion for a horse?” she asked.
“Well, it wasn’t just any horse,” he quickly responded. “It was an Appaloosa gelding that trusted me, and I couldn’t let that horse take the abuse he was gettin’ from the judge’s foreman.”
“And that’s the only crime you’ve committed? They sent you to prison for that?”
“It was until a few weeks ago when I stole the horse I escaped prison on,” he said.
“But six years,” she wondered. “Isn’t that a long time for just setting one horse free?”
“I reckon not, if it’s a judge’s horse.”
It was a dilemma, and one that had taken her completely by surprise. She wasn’t quite sure what to think about it. She trusted her instincts that told her he was a decent man who had been dealt a cruel hand by fate. She thought of the man who had come to her rescue, risking his life repeatedly to save her and her father. She remembered the firm but gentle hand that had seen her safely home to find her mother dead and her husband gone—the vigilant guide that saw her and her father safely to this country. This was not the work of a common horse thief. These were traits found in decent, honest men. She decided that she accepted his story completely, and knowing he anxiously awaited her verdict, she told him as much.
“What happened here today was supposed to happen,” Joanna told a relieved young man. “It will be our secret until we have time to think about what should happen next.” She gazed at the imprint in the soft grass where they had lain, then looked around her at the fragile willows. “This place will always be our special place,” she whispered. She was certain then of what she wanted to happen, but decided to be careful about mentioning marriage and family until she really knew the seriousness of his intentions. As for him, he was still in somewhat of a mystified daze, still finding it hard to believe it had happened.
“Where’s Clint?” Bertha asked when Joanna hurried into the kitchen.
“Putting the horses away,” Joanna answered. “I thought I’d better help you with supper.”
“Did you have a nice ride?” Bertha asked, taking note of the flush in her niece’s cheeks while rolling out biscuits on the table.
“Yes, it was quite pleasant.”
Bertha’s tiny, tight-lipped smile appeared and she said, “Looks like it put a little rosy in your cheeks.”
“Really?” Joanna responded. “The wind, I guess.”
“Probably,” Bertha said as she continued rolling out her dough. “Maybe you might wanna change your skirt, though, and tomorrow when I do the wash, we’ll see if we can get some of those grass stains off of the back of it.”
Joanna flushed scarlet and twisted around trying to see the back of her skirt. “I don’t know how that happened,” she said, trying to convince a grinning Aunt Bertha. “I think I did that this morning when I gathered the eggs.”
“Most likely,” her aunt agreed, thoroughly enjoying her niece’s discomfort. “Hurry and change and you can set the table.”
At supper that night, no one observed the frequent glances between Joanna and Clint, with the exception of Bertha, who very seldom missed anything. As for Clint, he felt a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders, having confessed his dark secret to Joanna and knowing she believed in his innocence. Supper was especially enjoyable on this occasion.
Chapter 11
“What’ll it be, mister?” Malcolm Gordy asked the wiry stranger with the drooping mustache. The owner of Gordy’s Saloon made a symbolic gesture of wiping the rough bar with his dirty rag.
Zach Clayton took a moment to look around the empty room before walking over to the bar. “What have you got that won’t kill a man?” he asked.
“I don’t serve nothin’ but the best whiskey I can get,” Gordy replied defensively.
“Well, I’ll take a chance on one shot of it.”
Gordy looked his customer over while he poured Clayton’s drink. When he set the bottle down on the bar, Clayton eyed the shot glass carefully. “I figure if I’m payin’ for a shot,” he said, “I’d expect to get a full shot. How about fillin’ that glass the rest of the way?”
“That is a full shot around here,” Gordy grumbled while filling the glass.
“Much obliged,” Clayton said, and tossed the whiskey down his throat. The fiery liquid scalded his throat, leaving him with tears in his eyes and speechless for a few seconds. When he could talk again, he rasped, “If that’s the best you can get, I won’t complain about a half-full glass next time . . . Damn!”
Gordy grinned, satisfied with a small measure of revenge. “I ain’t seen you in these parts before,” he said.
“Last time I was up this way there was nothin’ but a few tents here,” Zach said. He opened his coat to display his badge. “I’m a deputy marshal, and I’m looking for a man that mighta come through here a week or so ago. He was travelin’ with another man and a woman.” When Gordy failed to respond, he added, “Young feller.”
Gordy knew exactly whom he was referring to, but he was not in the habit of helping the law. Many of his customers were men on the other side of the law. He gave this some extra thought, however, because of the recent demise of two of his regulars. Johnny and Red had been friends of his, and their deaths cost him money. He wouldn’t mind seeing the man who killed them pay for the deed. “I seen him,” Gordy said after a lengthy pause. “He was in here for a drink, but I don’t know where he come from or where he went.”
Clayton had a feeling the bartender knew more than he was telling, but he thanked him and went on his way. He rode comfortably, not asking for more than a leisurely walk from the chestnut roan he rode. There had been changes since last he was in this part of the territory with a cluster of tents and shacks that was almost enough to be called a town. When he came upon a trading post that he remembered, close by the bank of the river, he decided to stop.
Hitching his horse at the rail out front, he took a look around before going inside. When he had been there two years before, there had been stacks of hides—buffalo, beaver, deer—piled high at the side of the building. Now there were only a few skins in a stack no more than waist high. The thing that surprised him most was the sight of a couple of plows resting against the building.
Inside, the trading post looked more like a dry goods store with tools, harnesses, and bolts of calico in addition to the regular stock o
f cartridges, skinning knives, and traps—all evidence of civilization approaching. Before asking about Clint Conner, he made conversation with the clerk, a young man who, it turned out, was the son-in-law of the proprietor Clayton had remembered.
“Yes, sir,” the clerk responded to Clayton’s remark about the changes. “The business in hides is way down from what it used to be, but we’ve got more settlers moving in every month, so we’re selling more dry goods. The army had some surveyors in here just a month ago. They’re thinking about establishing a fort here. We might have us a town before you know it.”
“You might be right,” Clayton replied. He then identified himself as a deputy marshal and described Clint Conner. “I’ve got a real important message for him,” he said in case the clerk might be hesitant to inform on him. “I’m just hopin’ he’s still around here somewhere. You see him lately?”
“Matter of fact, I have,” the clerk replied. “He came in yesterday with Frederick Steiner’s boy, John, to buy some sugar and flour. I knew I hadn’t seen him before. He said he was just visiting for a spell.”
“Well, ol’ Clint will be tickled to see me,” Clayton said. “Maybe you can tell me how to get out to . . . Steiner did you say?”
“Yes, sir, Frederick Steiner—just stay on the road by the river about three miles. It’ll be the second house after you cross Wolf Creek.”
“These folks, the Steiners, you know them pretty well?” Clayton asked.
“Yes, sir. They’re fine people, said they were German. They’re farming a few hundred acres by the river. There was three families that came out here together, and they’ve been trading with me right regular.”
“Appreciate it,” Clayton said, and bid the clerk good day.
He pulled the roan to a stop at the head of a wagon track that led from the road up to the second house after crossing the creek. Reaching up to the wide brim of his hat, he pulled it down snug on his head, a habit he performed unconsciously when he was about to accost a fugitive. Nudging the roan then, he rode up to the plain frame house and dismounted. He was met at the edge of the porch by Frederick Steiner.
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