by R. Kent
Sahara’s small hand reached over, picking up already cut strips and cubes to set them on the smoking racks.
“I had a dog. A blue dog like this one.” The pup had tired of wrestling with the string of sinew and curled up against my thigh. I reined in my vehemence, but it was seething under my skin.
“Now you. Tell me about you.” I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to frighten her off.
For a few minutes, Sahara and I worked seamlessly, side by side.
After her silence stretched too long, I said, “Do you want to go home?” I stared into her eyes. She was very pretty with the firelight dancing over her face. Wisps of hair brushed her cheek. I restrained from my stray thought to tuck them behind her ear. “I’ll trade for your stagecoach fare if you want to go.”
“Home? I have no home.” She was fiery when she raised her voice. “It was my mother’s idea to send me away. It was her idea to ship me off as an ordered bride. That’s fancy language for selling me.” Sahara scrunched her face, pressing the heels of her hands into her closed eyes. “And I fell for it.”
Was she saying no one wanted her? Was she saying she had nothing to offer? No hunting, no work, no skills? I glowered at the meat. This kill wouldn’t be enough to feed an idle mouth through the sparse winter months.
Sahara sucked a breath through her nose and exhaled in a long sigh. Her body rounded around her work. “I thought it was a romantic idea,” she said. “I had it all planned out. I would marry a cattle baron. Become a baroness and ride my fine, prized stable of horses across the range. All of which my husband would own.” Sahara rubbed her forehead on her sleeve. “Now all I am is a silly girl living in a sod hut.”
“Hogan,” I corrected her. “And you don’t know how to ride fine horses.” I kept my fingers busy. What was she saying? Did she plan to do nothing to earn her way? I spread the thicker cubes and strips on the hide for salting. I didn’t have the time or money to keep a pampered pet.
Sahara sniffled. She pressed the back of her wrist to her eye. “I’m not crying. Smoke got in my eye.”
I dragged one of the salt sacks over, liberally tossing granules onto the meat. The girl could learn some skills. I rolled the cubes around and flipped the strips. “You can go from here,” I said. “You can find the wealth you seek.”
Of a sudden, it occurred to me that I no longer really wanted Sahara to leave. I needed her here. I needed her to help out, but I needed her here. Still, I wanted her to be happy. I didn’t even know why I wished for her happiness. She had been thrust upon me.
I was tired. And I was angry. Maybe I was angry because I was tired. Maybe. Maybe I was angry at having to live in the wrong body struggling to be me. Angry for hiding and keeping secrets. Angry at who I am and who I’m not. Angry because I felt alone.
I was angry because I was scared.
“What is this?” Sahara held a copper .53-caliber ball pinched between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s an odd thing to find inside an animal.”
I sloshed tepid water over my hands and forearms from a wooden bucket. Sahara living here wasn’t going to work. What about winter? What happened when I needed to live in the hogan? What about TwoFeathers visiting? No. Sahara had to go. I bundled a load of salted meat into my arms and left the hogan for the dug cellar hole, making sure to slam the door. Hard.
The night was pitch-black. Even the tiny pinpricks of stars hadn’t come out to wink. Too much effort? Did they want to ride in on prize ponies too?
I felt my way into the dug cavern, to the floor at the back where the supply of deer was laid. That meat was older. I’d move that forward to stack the elk behind. It was work but it had to be done.
The door of the hogan opened with a creak. Sahara probably had to relieve herself. I couldn’t do that for her.
My holster caught as I twisted in close confinement. The narrow space beckoned me to drop my gun. Instead, I untied the latigo that held it more solidly above my knee, then wiggled sideways. Lifting and shifting piles of meat was challenging. My arm kept hooking on the flouncing butt of my revolver.
Outside, the night air had a bitter chill to it. A shiver ran the length of my spine. I tied my gun back down.
Firelight came from the open door of the hogan. Shadows moved within the dwelling.
Shod horses were hitched at the side of the log structure, next to Charlie Horse. I heard their impatient pawing.
A loose front shoe clinked. One of the mounts blew through its nose then shook its head, rattling the heavy hardware of a bridle.
I slipped around their haunches. Their saddlebags hung limp. No overnight provisions. The riders had not planned to be eating and sleeping under the cold night’s sky.
One of the animals nuzzled at my hide shirt. It was my sorrel, now owned by Justice. I stroked his face and touched my forehead to his.
The blacksmith had no reason to pay me a visit. Any business he had with me could have waited until daylight. So the sorrel had been hired out. And whoever did the hiring knew exactly where they were headed.
“Where’s Austin, little lady?”
That gruff voice was familiar.
“I don’t know. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to wait outdoors for his return,” Sahara said.
“Nope. It’s you we came to see. It’s okay with us he’s not here. I’m sure you’ll let him know we visited.”
“I don’t think she’ll tell him everything of our visit.” The man had a nasal snicker.
“Seth. Jeb. Something you wanted?” I leaned inside the door’s frame, pulling my makings from a pocket.
“Austin, we was just looking for you,” Jeb said. The stench of his rotting breath wafted my way.
I shook crushed tobacco leaves onto a paper, rolled it, and licked at the edge.
“Yeah, that’s right. We were looking for a claim out here. Heard there was yellow found over to the dry arroyo. Well, we figured you’d be good about offerin’ supper to a couple of hungry neighbors passin’ by,” Seth said.
I shoved the finished smoke to my lips and purposefully searched the pocket in front of my six-gun for a match. The motion drew their eyes.
My hammer loop was out of the way. The handgun was popped slightly, loosened for a quick draw. These two understood this unspoken language.
I struck a sulfur-tipped match on the log wall. The tiny head flared. I sucked the rolled wad of tobacco to life. “Sahara, do you think you can find them a plate of supper?” I didn’t mind polite guests.
Jeb looked around anxiously as if, of a sudden, he didn’t know where he was.
Seth stared at Sahara, licking his lips as she walked past in her simple dress and bare feet.
“Then…they’ll be on their way.” I slammed the door against the chill of the early November night.
The puppy doddered over to sniff at Jeb’s boot.
“Sahara. That’s a mighty pretty name.” Jeb ripped his hat from his head, holding it to his chest. At least he attempted to look like he had manners. Though it wasn’t working for him. Neither was the knee-length canvas overcoat covering his gun completely. He kicked at my pup.
The pup squeaked and ran behind my heels, curling up against the wall.
Seth tore his winter coat off and lunged into the chair at the table. There was only one chair. A split-log bench offered seating on the other side.
Following suit, Jeb shed his coat, exposing the massive, holstered hogleg that hung too low over his thick knee. It had no tie down. He adjusted the swinging firearm when he climbed onto the bench, careful not to have his actions mistaken.
Sahara brought them steaming, heaped plates of the mixed meat stew that had been simmering since breakfast. My mouth watered. My stomach grumbled.
Seth caught her by the skirt. “Have some with us, little lady.”
“No, thank you.” Sahara yanked her dress from his hand and retreated to tending the strips of elk by the fireplace. She pressed her knuckle beneath her petite nose. And I agreed that the air inside ha
d grown rancid.
“How ’bout you, Austin? Hungry? Looks mighty fine. Wish I had me a wife that cooked like this.” Seth held his knife up, tipped with a generous hunk of meat. “Well?” He smiled, showing his yellowed teeth.
“Already ate,” I lied, hoping they couldn’t hear my stomach protesting.
“I see that she can satiate a man’s other needs too,” Seth said as his eyes strayed to my crotch. He bobbed his thin, peaked brows up and down.
I had forgone my trouser prop with all the riding today. A moment of self-consciousness made me feel less of a man—
“Now that’s what we came to see you about,” Seth said. He slapped another chunk between his feral teeth, chewing with an open mouth. “We were thinking you’d let us borrow your wife. Seein’ how we’re…partners and all.” He talked with his mouth full.
Jeb perked his head out of his plate. “Yeah. The whore in town is getting old. And she ain’t near as pretty as what you got.” He pointed at Sahara with the tip of his hunting knife.
There was one thing I knew about Jeb. He could use a knife. Firelight glinted off his unusually polished blade.
Sahara balled her hands into fists. I caught her by the wrist.
“Are you going to let them speak about me like that?”
Seth interrupted, “We’ll bed down right here tonight. Won’t take up much of your time ’t all, Austin. You go about your business while we conduct ours with this Sahara.”
Seth obliterated the name, sounding it out like the desert. Sahara had wanted it enunciated with the accent on the second syllable. Highborn. Sahara wanted to be seen as highborn. And the grating of her name clawed at my innards.
“It’s a shame you traveled this far for nothing. Renting those poor old nags and all. Sahara’s my wife. You can’t have another man’s wife. Not in the territory.”
“She’s bought. Anything’s paid for is a whore.” Jeb roared. “And we done the paying.”
Seth motioned to Jeb. Even with Jeb’s anger, Seth held some sort of control over him.
“What my ’sociate is trying to explain to you is that we own shares in your property, so to say. We have rights to use part of that claim. Besides, you look more spent than I’ve seen you before. You won’t be up to beddin’ her tonight.
“Jeb and I figured when we went in that you had the place to keep her. We was figuring on cutting McKade out from the start. He didn’t put no money in. We don’t owe him nothin’. And we wouldn’t have to share her around if she warn’t in town. Which means you can use her most of the time. But we expect to be gettin’ a little of what’s ours anytime we want. No bother to you, of course.” He swallowed a hunk of barely chewed meat. I watched the lump struggle down his throat.
“Then she don’t have to move into town like Mr. McKade says. Not far’s we’d be concerned.” Seth stabbed his knife into the wooden tabletop, punctuating his intentions. “You keep her from McKade for us. And we’ll stay peaceable with you.”
Jeb leaned forward onto his elbows, bathing his blade with his thick tongue the way a cat washed its paws.
“Gentlemen.” I stood from leaning on the wall. “Thanks for bringing your proposition to me. But I don’t see it your way. And since you’ve had your fill of my supper, you’ll be leaving.”
“No. I guess you don’t see it our way. You will. We’re staying.”
Jeb’s weighty skinning knife flipped past my ear. But his throw was only the distraction.
Seth yanked his Colt Navy revolver.
My shot had already gotten off.
Distraction didn’t work on me. Their game had been obvious from the way Jeb was particular about slathering that honed knife clean. It was akin to a gunslinger keeping his nails manicured, the calluses filed from his trigger finger, and his gun well oiled.
The echoing crack, the yip from the pup, and the smell of burnt powder brought to mind Pa’s three rules on gun handling.
Never pull a gun unless you intend to pull the trigger. Otherwise it’s a very thin threat.
Never wound. A wounded bear comes back enraged. Shoot to kill.
Never count on getting a second shot. You could still be killed if your first shot wasn’t clean.
But I’m not a killer.
I’d do it my way and take responsibility for whatever comes. That’s what being a man is about.
Jeb scratched gunmetal against dry, neglected leather. He was slow to pull the massive hogleg from its sheath.
I fired again from the waist. My gun spit a blazing metal shard from its barrel. Jeb’s hand jerked upward. The Colt Dragoon spilled from his grasp as he cradled a bloody appendage to his chest.
Sahara jerked the hunting knife from the log wall. Screaming like a scalded cat, she threw it at Jeb with all her might. The bone handle knocked him in the forehead, just above his left eye. Sahara’s aim was true, but she knew nothing of knife throwing.
“Get out,” I growled.
The two fled into the dark. Galloping hooves attested to their further departure.
I holstered my Smith and Wesson.
Sahara’s face was flushed. “Did you learn to use a gun from the Indians?” she barked with accusing anger.
“Navajo. No. The Dineh had few guns. No handguns. Only single-shot hunting rifles, if any.”
She wrung her hands together. “What did they mean they bought me?” Harsh realization contorted her face. “You mean, you didn’t send for me?” She pressed her fingers to her mouth.
“I didn’t order a bride. I don’t know who’s money paid your passage. What I do know? McKade’s hired guns think they have a claim to you.”
“Stay the night,” she said, collecting the filthy plates. She fed the tailings to the pup. Sahara turned from me, but I could see her stiff shoulders and the rigid set to her jaw soften. “Stay here. With me. Please.”
“I think it’s best if I don’t.” I liked her. The way she threw that knife? She was feisty and brash. She was beautiful. I wanted to stay. But me liking on her didn’t change the truth of my situation. It was best for both of us that I didn’t stay in the hogan with her.
“I don’t believe you’re a real man.”
I emptied the two spent rounds from my gun and reloaded.
“If you are a man, take me.”
“What?” I slammed the Smith and Wesson into its leather.
“Take me,” Sahara repeated. “It’s your right. You are my husband. You’re the man. So take me.” She had her hands on her hips. Her face had turned dark shades of red. “Those men would have taken me.”
“Those men. Is that what you want? Men like that?”
I busied myself collecting the fallen hoglegs, the knife, heavy coats, and a hat. I tossed the armload onto the table then righted the chair and bench. “A man treats a woman properly. With kindness and respect.”
“You don’t even look at me.”
There was a splatter of human blood on the floor. I looked at that. I remembered times gone by when I caused more than a speck of it. Sahara could never love me if she knew the truths about me. There were too many truths.
“Have you…” Sahara placed her hand on my arm. “Have you ever been with a woman?”
“I’ll stay.” I cut her query short. “But I’ll stay here,” I pointed to the front of the stone fireplace, “on the floor. To tend to the meat.”
In the dark, I heard her toss and turn, and huff and puff. I almost felt sorry for the straw pallet as she punched it with her fists.
My eyes grew heavy sometime in the night.
His eyes were as hard as steel. They all huddled beneath his rifle. There was a man on the ridge—the White atop a massive beast. Steel glinted from his leg, below where the butt of his rifle perched. McKade. Jack McKade. Indians rained down, whooping from hell itself. My world was bathed in a bloody slaughter. My six-shooters spit fire and a golden-haired man slammed backward. Blood popped from twin holes in his chest.
I startled awake. Her soothing touch stroked
my sweaty forehead. She was quietly humming a familiar tune. The one my White pa had played on his harmonica. “Foolish Pioneers.”
In the dim light of the dying coals, I staggered to my feet in a sleepy haze then lurched to the door. I needed to get out. Needed fresh air and big spaces. Needed the swift legs of a fast horse.
I needed Charlie Horse.
I scrambled out the door. Stumbling in my haste.
Dawn was taking its first breath over the butte in the distance.
Charlie Horse?
Charlie Horse was gone.
Chapter Seven
Hoofprints told of Seth and Jeb stealing off with my horse.
They wouldn’t have gotten far. Charlie Horse was ornery about going someplace he didn’t care to, with folks he didn’t care much for. There was one place he would go every time he’d get loose. Charlie Horse liked to visit a small wild band that roamed the base of the butte, out past the arroyo. I’d bet I’d track him to there. If I was doubly lucky, I’d gather a stray, broke horse also.
Cattle drives lost a fair amount of stock on their push. At the end of a drive, leftover usin’ horses from the remuda were sold or turned loose. Some of these gentled animals joined the wild mare bands or formed bachelor bands on the periphery of brood herds.
I needed a second broke horse if Sahara was going to stay. And it certainly looked like the girl was taking root.
Beneath the overhang, I stomped around attempting to get my brain in order. I milked the cow, turning her and the calf into a small fenced paddock after. I tossed scrub feed to the little wild mare in the breaking pen that had dropped a foal out of season. Back in the cavernous shelter, I rummaged through scant supplies, deciding what to take. The copper band bracelet with its center turquoise stone and a pouch full of coins fell from the wrappings of a heavy, bulky bundle.
A twin revolver to my Smith and Wesson nestled in a scrunch of cured rabbit skins. It had been a gift from a trapper I had worked for this past winter. At the urging from a wave of nostalgia, I flipped open the furs to run my fingertips along the barrel, pushing the cylinder to check its smooth, oiled action. I spun the revolver around my left trigger finger. The gun responded too easily in my off hand. But I nearly dropped it from a lack of practice.