Nan Ryan

by Written in the Stars

  The silent room erupted into dozens of spirited conversations. Chair legs scraped over the wooden planked floor. Thirsty miners and gamblers crowded up to the bar, ready to tell of seeing a tall, mean Indian in their little mining town. Without turning, the Kid lifted a muscular arm and snapped his fingers for the barkeep to start pouring.

  After more than an hour of buying rounds and asking questions and listening to stories, the Kid knew little more than before. Many of those present had seen the Indian, but none was sure of his tribe. Since the redskin was this far north, they doubted he was a Ute. The best guess would be that he was Arapaho or Cheyenne. But then he could be Paiute. Or maybe even Shoshoni.

  “When he left, I saw him aheadin’ north, pardner.” A grizzled old sourdough tugged on the Kid’s shirt sleeve. “My guess’d be they was aheadin’ for Wyoming’s Wind River Indian Reservation.”

  His arm around a big-bosomed woman with powdered cheeks and wide painted lips, the Kid tossed off one last whiskey and told Davey and Danny Leatherwood to go on across the street and engage a couple of rooms at the LuLu City Hotel. They’d spend the night in town, then get back on the trail early in the morning, ride on up to Wyoming.

  “Sure thing, boss.” Davey nodded. “You coming?”

  “Later,” said the Kid, and turned his full attention on the smiling, curvaceous woman clinging possessively to his shirtfront. To her he said, “Well what about it, darlin’? Think you can show me a good time?”

  The broad-bottomed blonde giggled and led him up the stairs, casting triumphant glances at the other six women employed at the Glory Hole. Upstairs the blonde eagerly wiggled out of her gaudy red satin outfit while the Kid undressed and got into bed.

  Wondering how she had managed to get so lucky, the blonde was giggling happily when she came to the bed, sat down on its edge, and said, “Handsome, I’m gonna make you a happy man.”

  “You’d better, blondie,” said the Kid. “I get downright nasty when a woman displeases me.”

  The blonde displeased him.

  She tried very hard to make him happy. She made an all-out attempt to pleasure the big, good-looking stranger. But the more she tried, the more nasty-tempered he became.

  “What is it? What’s wrong, cowboy?” she asked, lying stretched out beside him, walking her short, plump fingers through the thick hair of his chest.

  “You’re what’s wrong,” the Kid said. He pushed her away and sat up.

  “No, wait.” She came up on her knees and threw her arms around his neck. “Give me another chance.” She tried to kiss him on the mouth.

  He evasively turned his head. He tore her arms from his neck and shoved them behind her back, clasping her wrists together in one of his hands.

  “Put your clothes on and get out of here right now,” he said, his eyes cold. “I want that slim, dark-haired girl. What’s her name?”

  “No. No, you don’t want her. I’ll show you a much better time than Lonnie. Come on, big boy, let me stay.”

  “You’re leaving,” he said, and threw her off the bed.

  “Ohh!” she moaned when she hit the floor. Dazed, her ribs hurting, she lay there for a moment, unable to get up.

  The Kid rose from the bed. He stood above her. “Get up and get out,” he ordered.

  Hurt and angry, the blonde scrambled to her feet and was going for his face when the Kid backhanded her with a force so strong it turned her completely around, staggering her. The naked blonde lunged anxiously for the door. The Kid came after her. With the full weight of his big body, he pressed the blonde’s face against the heavy door. He kept her pinned there for several minutes, rhythmically slamming her against it, enjoying the sounds of her groans and curses.

  “I want that pretty brunette,” he said above her ear. “I’m tired of your giggles. I’m tired of you. If you don’t want to get hurt, dress quickly and get out. And send me Lonnie. It’s Lonnie I want, not you.”

  He stepped back then, freeing her at last.

  She whirled around. Sniffling and eyeing him nervously, the blonde wiggled hurriedly into her discarded red satin gown. She was furious when she left the Kid sprawled naked on a rumpled pink bed and came stomping back down the stairs. Her lip rouge smeared, her nose shiny, blond hair askew, she marched over to a laughing woman in green satin seated on a gambler’s knee.

  “Lonnie, the Kid wants you to come up,” said the miffed blonde, inclining her head.

  “I knew you weren’t enough woman for him,” Lonnie taunted laughingly, and was off the poker player’s knee quick as a wink.

  Smoothing her green satin skirts, she hurried up the stairs to the big, bearded stranger.

  The Kid liked Lonnie. She was slim, pale-skinned, and smart and had long dark hair that fell down around her face to tickle him pleasantly. She wasted no time proving that she could love him more satisfactorily than the banished blonde.

  Midnight found the Kid still with Lonnie. Naked, he was propped up on a mound of pink pillows shoved against the bed’s pink headboard. Idly he twirled a small square piece of red beaded leather in his fingers. The beaded square was identical to three others he’d found along the trail.

  His green eyes riveted to the shiny red beads, he told the naked, lolling Lonnie all the things he carefully kept hidden from the people who knew him—or thought they knew him.

  “I was even a husband once. Left after her daddy cut her off of the money.” He stared intently at the red, intricately beaded leather square. “Hell, the old bastard should have been glad to get his homely daughter married but—”

  The Kid told how he’d met his wife when he signed on as a drover at her daddy’s half-million-acre spread down in West Texas. He had patiently courted the skinny, sallow-looking girl over her father’s objections. He’d had no trouble persuading little Betty Lou to elope. After the marriage he’d moved into the sprawling headquarters ranch house with his bride, and there he’d stayed for two long, miserable years! Working as hard as the lowliest hired hand, making love to the skinny, whining Betty Lou every night, determined to produce an heir to her ailing old daddy’s fortune.

  Shaking his head, the Kid said, “She never got pregnant, but her daddy finally died. Trouble was, the vindictive old bastard had quietly cut his daughter right out of the will the minute he heard we’d gotten married.” The Kid laughed bitterly.

  He left Texas immediately, he told the attentive Lonnie, drifted up into New Mexico, and got into a little trouble there. Flat broke, he’d held up a stage with a couple of clumsy Mexicans. They were caught, he got away with the money, but the law was after him for a year. He moved around, never staying in one place long. Lived with a variety of women, found and lost several jobs. Never had any luck until he hooked up with Colonel Buck Buchannan’s Wild West Show.

  “Right from the start, I knew this was my chance,” the Kid said, rubbing a calloused thumb over the shiny red beads. “The Colonel took to me immediately, so I made up a past for myself that would suit him—the last survivor of a fine old Virginia family. Convinced him I’m educated, intelligent, dependable, honest, and completely trustworthy.”

  “And none of it was true?” Lonnie asked.

  The kid threw back his head and laughed. “Honey, I’ve never been to Virginia. And mine was not your typical fine old family. My daddy was a …” He paused. “Never mind all that. I may not be educated, dependable, and trustworthy, but I’m smart and good-looking.” He flashed a smile at Lonnie. “The Colonel’s granddaughter doesn’t stand a chance. By the time I find her, she’ll be ready to fall right into my waiting arms.”

  Lonnie giggled and clapped her hands. “Good for you.”

  “Yes, good for me.” The Kid laid the red beaded square on the night table. “I may never be big rich, but I’ll have a beautiful woman for my wife.” His green eyes danced, and he absently rubbed his bare belly. “And soon as I take over the wild west show, I’ll get rid of half the hangers-on and deadwood the softhearted old Colonel keeps on the payrol
l. I’ll make the show turn a tidy profit, and it’ll all belong to me.” He reached for Lonnie.

  Still giggling, Lonnie lifted a hand to toy with the thick mat of hair covering his broad, bare chest. “You’re ambitious. I like that in a man.”

  “Know what I like in a woman?”

  “Tell me,” she said, smiling.

  He lifted a hand, traced her full, parted lips with his little finger. “A wet, wide mouth like yours.”

  The Kid pulled her close and whispered into her left ear. Told her just what he’d like her to do with that wide, wet mouth.

  Lonnie laughed.

  Then wasted no time in pleasing him.

  Chapter 29

  “I will never forget,” said Golden Star, “the speech our mighty chief made back in ’fifty-nine when the white man opened Lander Road across our hunting grounds.”

  The old Indian woman took another long swig from her ice-cold bottle of Coca-Cola, her papery-thin eyelids lowering with a combination of pleasure and thoughtful-ness.

  Golden Star loved the taste of sweet, fizzing Coca-Cola more than any child did. If she had a chilled bottle of frothy soda pop in her gnarled right hand, she was content. And when she was content, she liked to talk of the days gone by, to tell anyone who would listen of the things she felt should be remembered about her beloved Shoshoni people.

  It was the morning after Diane had impulsively gone to Starkeeper’s lodge. Had loved, then left him. Golden Star was ignorant of their nighttime tryst, knew nothing of the young woman’s inner turmoil. She’d been fast asleep when, deep in the night, Starkeeper had angrily thrust Diane back inside her darkened lodge.

  Golden Star hadn’t awakened. She hadn’t seen Diane slip into her side of the tipi, strip off her soiled white dress, and anxiously bathe away all traces of Starkeeper. She hadn’t heard the choking sobs, smothered into her pillow, that Diane couldn’t control. Was totally unaware that the pale young woman had not slept a wink all night.

  “Yes, I can still recall every word of the speech Chief Washakie made that long-ago day,” said Golden Star. She took the last drink of her Coca-Cola, swished it around in her mouth, and swallowed. “Would you like to hear a part of his speech, Pale One?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” Diane lied. She gave Golden Star a weak smile. “Tell me what he said.”

  Golden Star turned up her empty soda pop bottle, hoping that maybe a couple of drops remained. None did. She made a face, set the empty bottle aside, and leaned back against her lazy board.

  “It was a beautiful day, but Chief Washakie looked unhappy, greatly troubled. He stood before us all and said, ‘I am not only your chief but an old man and your leader. It therefore becomes my duty to advise you. I know how hard it is for youth to listen to the voice of age. The old blood creeps like a snail, but the young blood leaps like a torrent. Once I was young, my sons, and thought as you do now. Then my people were strong, and my voice was ever for war.… You must not fight the whites. I not only advise against it, but forbid it.’”

  Golden Star was silent.

  Diane stared at the aged Indian woman. “Golden Star, you amaze me. You’ve remembered your chief’s exact words all these years?”

  “I don’t believe you understand, Pale One. Chief Washakie is like a god to his people. We all—”

  “Is? You mean the chief is still alive?”

  “He is not much older than I,” Golden Star said. Then her black eyes suddenly twinkled, and she asked, “Would you like to meet the chief?”

  “Yes,” said Diane truthfully, “I would.”

  “I will have Starkeeper summoned to take you there this afternoon,” said Golden Star.

  Diane’s face drained of what little color was there. “Oh, no, I—I didn’t mean today … please.” She shook her head violently. “Perhaps another time.”

  “What is wrong? You have better things to do today?”

  “No. No, I … it’s just … I washed my white blouse and skirt this morning. They aren’t dry, and the purple one is—”

  An arthritic hand reached out, clamped over Diane’s forearm. “Help me up, Pale One. I will find you something to wear.”

  Diane managed a smile and again shook her head. “Golden Star, one of your dresses would barely cover my … it wouldn’t …” Her words trailed away.

  “Help me up,” the Indian woman repeated. “I have kept a dress that belonged to Starkeeper’s mother, Daughter-of-the-Stars. She was about your height and slender, just like you.”

  Diane eased Golden Star up but protested. “I couldn’t wear something that means so much to you.”

  Golden Star paid no attention. She ambled over to a wooden chest beside her fur pallet, motioned Diane over to lift the heavy lid. From the cedar-lined chest Golden Star drew a carefully wrapped garment. She peeled away the protective tissue paper and held up a soft doeskin dress of pale yellow. The yoke was decorated with beads of blue; the skirt was trimmed with fringe.

  Golden Star lovingly fingered the blue beads. “The color of beads chosen to decorate a garment has sp-spspe-ci—”

  “Specific?”

  “Yes! That is the word I hunt. Specific. The color of beads has specific meaning.”

  Admiring the pretty, perfectly preserved dress, Diane nodded.

  “Sky blue—like these on my daughter’s dress—can represent a body of water in which the sky is reflected. They can also mean the sky itself. Or the distant mountains as they turn to blue at night.” She smiled and added, “Or all of these things.”

  “The dress is beautiful,” said Diane. “Far too beautiful for me to—”

  Golden Star forcefully shoved the dress at her. “You will wear it! If you are to visit our chief, you must go dressed properly.” She scowled, her black eyes flashing. “Our people are just like yours, Pale One. We wear our finest clothing to call on a respected leader!”

  Trapped, Diane said, “Golden Star, I really hate for you to ask Starkeeper to—”

  Golden Star waved a dismissive hand in the air. “It is no bother. Starkeeper will be glad to take you there.”

  He wasn’t, but his grandmother never knew.

  When, at precisely two o’clock, Starkeeper ducked in out of the bright sunlight into Golden Star’s lodge, Diane’s breath caught in her throat. He was all Indian in soft fringed leggings and matching shirt. His hair was dressed in neat braids with the front forelock fashioned into the shiny pompadour favored by the Shoshoni. A lone eagle feather was the beautifully braided hair’s only decoration.

  After he greeted his aged grandmother, Starkeeper’s dark gaze turned on Diane. She saw his firm jaw clench, saw the fury flash in his eyes. She could read his thoughts. He deeply resented seeing her in his mother’s dress. She wasn’t worthy of wearing it. Her cheeks burned as vivid images of last night’s intimacy rose to torture and shame her.

  Starkeeper nodded almost imperceptibly to Diane. She felt his pointed coldness like a chill wind blowing through her.

  “Grandson, remove the eagle feather from your hair,” requested Golden Star. “I want to show it to the Pale One.” The old woman never noticed his slight grimace as he took the feather from his hair. Golden Star held the eagle feather out to Diane, “You see these lines of red beads going around the quill? They depict the number of battles in which the warrior who owns the feather took part.”

  Diane could only nod and smile, afraid to try to speak, afraid new tears would come.

  “This feather belonged to Starkeeper’s father, the brave Chief Red Fox.” Golden Star handed it back to her tall grandson.

  Replacing it in his silver-streaked black hair, Starkeeper said impatiently, “It’s time we go. Better wear a hat, Grandmother. The afternoon sun is fierce.”

  The old woman smiled like one who knows a delicious secret and laid an arthritic hand on his chest. “I need no hat, Starkeeper. I am not going.”

  “Not going?” Starkeeper and Diane said the words in unison.

  That child’s merry
laugh bubbled from old Golden Star’s lips. “I can visit the chief anytime. I feel like a nap. You two go on without me.”

  They had no choice.

  So it was a sullen, uncommunicative Starkeeper who reluctantly escorted an equally withdrawn Diane to Chief Washakie’s cabin down beside the Little Wind River. On the twenty-minute walk neither spoke a word.

  When Chief Washakie stepped into the front door of his cabin, Diane and Starkeeper smiled warmly. Raised to respect their elders, both put aside, for the length of the visit, the hostility that existed between them.

  Diane was surprised to meet a still-vigorous, proud old man with a cascade of silvery hair falling to his shoulders. He seemed delighted by their visit, shook Diane’s hand warmly when she was introduced, and hugged Starkeeper tightly, telling Starkeeper how good it was to see him again.

  Inside, the walls of the chief’s spotlessly clean cabin were covered with pictures of himself painted on oilskins. He beamed with pride when Diane asked him to tell her what each one meant. His thick shoulders straightened as the old Shoshoni chieftain pointed out pictures showing scenes of his hunts, his many buffalo chases, his triumphs as a young warrior.

  Concluding, he grinned sheepishly and said, “I must sound like a foolish old man to you, Pale One.” Before she could answer, he turned to Starkeeper. “Been long time since pretty young woman come see me.” He laughed then, and they laughed with him. Starkeeper’s easy smile remained in place when Washakie asked, “You come for my blessing to marry? You have it!” The silver head went up and down. “I like Pale One already.”

  “I like her, too,” said Starkeeper, his voice calm, revealing no trace of sarcasm, “but we’re just friends, nothing more.”

  “Too bad,” said Washakie. “Thought maybe you two—”

  “Show the pale one your special saddle,” Starkeeper smoothly interjected.