by Hazel Rumney
He shook his head. “My belly is full. You cook good. I like a woman who can cook.”
Ih-tedda stared at Lenna sleeping in her arms. “My mother taught me well before I was taken.” He wiped the grease from around his mouth and rubbed it on his boots with his blue-veined hands. From his Blue Coat scout jacket, he pulled tobacco and papers, rolled a cigarette, and with a twig from the fire, lighted it, smoked to the four directions, and then handed it to Ih-tedda’s father, who smoked and returned it.
Old Cross Eyes crossed his arms and studied Ih-tedda and Lenna like they were a mare and filly he might buy or trade. “So, your divorced daughter, who cooks good, has left Geronimo? Her child is a girl? She is ready to take a new man?”
Ih-tedda’s father looked at her with raised brows, his signal for her to answer. “Yes, I left Geronimo before the Blue Coats changed their minds and killed everyone. Yes, the child is a girl. She has two harvests.”
“Did Geronimo beat you often?”
“No. Not much and not hard.”
“I think you must keep your tipi clean and as I know already, cook good.”
“I do.”
“What is your child’s name?”
“Lenna. Soon she will be off the cradleboard.”
“Hmmph. The child looks well-cared-for despite being in prison with you and Geronimo.”
Old Cross Eyes turned to Ih-tedda’s father. “I like your daughter. I see she already has a tipi set up near you. She has courage to leave the warrior Geronimo and come here with her child. She is divorced. Still, I offer you a good pony and a rifle for her. Every moon the Blue Coats give me eight dollars because I’m too old to scout anymore. Eight dollars every moon is enough for us to live on, if she doesn’t waste it. I’ll treat her with respect and we’ll stay in her tipi nearby to be close to you and serve you. Will you accept my offer, Father of Ih-tedda?”
Ih-tedda knew her father’s answer before he opened his mouth. He had not expected to get anything for her. Old Cross Eyes was smarter than he looked. Ih-tedda wanted to take Lenna and leave, go anywhere, do any work, do anything not to be tied to this old man with ugly eyes. Only her late moon time stopped her from leaving. She should not be alone in the mountains, even in the Season of Large Fruit, to birth a child. The risk was too high that it would die if she had no help. After the child was born, she would have two children to care for. She needed to stay near her mother.
As it was proper, her father thought for a while. He then crossed his arms and looked across the fire at Ih-tedda, and seeing nothing to discourage his answer, said, “I accept your generous offer. I give you Ih-tedda to be your woman.”
Up the ridge a wolf howled in the cold darkness and was answered by another. Ih-tedda kept her face a mask of indifference, but she wanted to howl, too.
Old Cross Eyes grinned. “Good. I have horses I have promised to sell in Tularosa. Ih-tedda, I will come to your tipi in three suns as the sun goes into the mountains and we will begin our life together.”
“I will welcome you in three days. Your evening meal will be ready.”
Old Cross Eyes nodded, “Ussen blesses me.”
Ih-tedda waited. The shadows outside were growing long, the light from the fading sun dimming. Her first meal for her new husband was ready, her acceptance complete of the inevitability of becoming the woman of Old Cross Eyes while expecting her second child by Geronimo. Old Cross Eyes had taken her just in time. She might fool him into believing the child was his and puff him up in his assumed virility to ensure he took good care of her. Ih-tedda smiled and shook her head. Men are so strong and powerful, but like saddled ponies, are so easy to guide—all, that is, except Geronimo.
A shadow by the door appeared with a throat-clearing cough.
“A tipi and your new woman are ready. Come and eat.” The door blanket raised and Old Cross Eyes stepped in to stand across the fire from her. He wore new canvas pants. His Blue Coat jacket looked freshly brushed and clean, and he held his ancient campaign hat between his hands.
“Woman, I have come. Will you take me?”
“I will take you. Come, sit by the fire and I will serve you the good things I have cooked for our first night together.”
He unbuttoned his coat and, pulling it off, handed it to her. She folded it and laid it at the top of their blanket. He stepped around the fire and with a groan caused by stiff, arthritic knees, eased down beside her. “Hmmph. I have found a good woman. It is warm in her lodge when the wind is cold and her lodge smells of fine food.” His eyes followed her every move as she filled his gourd with venison, berries, chilies, potatoes, and dried mescal slices that she had carefully steamed back to their original cooked sweetness. She handed the gourd to him and sat back to wait, but he shook his head and waved a hand toward her. “Woman, join me in your feast. I’ve thought about you every day since your father told me you were leaving Geronimo. Your mother taught you good cooking, and I can see Geronimo has trained you well as a wife. I’m a lucky man to have you. Come, eat with me.”
Ih-tedda filled her gourd, poured them both cups of coffee, and sat down beside him, demurely folding her legs under her fine, beaded buckskin shift. She had to admit Old Cross Eyes had manners. He made very little sound eating.
After they finished and she had cleared her cooking fire, he rolled a cigarette, lighted it from a fire twig, smoked to the four directions, and gave it to her, and she too smoked to the four directions. She returned the cigarette back to him. He took another draw and tossed what was left into the fire.
He looked at her with his rheumy old man eyes and smiled. “Now that you’re my woman, the People will want to call you a name so everyone knows you are mine. I think a good name for you is Katie, Katie Cross Eyes. Since I have given you my name, I think the People should just call me Old Boy. Do you agree?”
Yes. Everyone must know that by taking me, you no longer have ugly eyes. It is I, your woman, who will carry them with your name. “Yes, I agree. Call me Katie Cross Eyes. Old Boy is a good name.”
He took a swallow of hot coffee and nodded toward Lenna’s cradleboard. “Lenna sleeps peacefully. Good. Does she do this often?”
“She is a good child. She never cries. I think we left the prison camp before its cold, wet air could make her sick.”
“Good. I’m glad she’s healthy. Tell me again how many harvests has she?”
“Two. By the Season of Large Leaves she will be off the cradleboard. She can already walk, but she does not balance good enough to be on her own without me for support.”
“Hmmph. When she leaves the cradleboard, you will have much training for her. It’s important that she be taught Apache ways while she’s very young. Then she won’t forget when she’s grown.”
Katie looked at her hands in her lap. Every woman knows this, old man. Why do you tell me? “My man is wise. This I will do.”
Old Boy rolled another cigarette and lighted it for the pleasure of a smoke. He offered Katie a smoke, but she shook her head and looked away. “Too much smoke makes the inside of my nose sore.” Taking a long draw, he looked up and blew his smoke toward the top of the tipi.
“I’m not too old to make a child. I would like for us to have one. Will you give me a child?”
Katie looked at her hands in her lap, her heart thumping with relief. Ussen is good to me. I thank him. “I am your woman. It is proper for a woman to give her man children, and I will give you yours.”
He smiled and nodded before he took another draw and blew it out the side of his mouth. “I have a good woman. When can we begin? When Lenna is off the cradleboard, will you be ready to make another child?”
Katie stared at the fire as though deep in thought before she turned to Old Boy. “Geronimo did not lie with me after Lenna was born. He preferred his other wife, Zi-yeh, even when I was ready for him to come to me.”
The breeze in the treetops paused and on a near ridge, Coyote, the Trickster, yipped to his brothers.
“My moon time pas
sed just before we left the prison. I’m ready to make you a child. Will you come to me this night?”
A smile stretched across the face of Old Cross Eyes. “Truly, I’m a blessed man. I will come to you this night and many others. First, I must see about my horses. I will be back.”
Katie smiled and nodded. “I wait for you.” She knew Old Boy just wanted to find a place to make water. She checked Lenna, and then pulled off her beaded moccasins and buckskin shift, rolled them up, and laid them by his Blue Coat before sliding under their cold blankets trembling not from the cold, but worry that Old Boy might not be able to consummate their marriage or might somehow learn she already carried a child, feel cheated the child was not his, and treat her in a bad way.
By the time Old Boy returned, the fire had burned down, and glowing orange coals cast dim light in the tipi. He held his hands over the fire’s heat before he undressed and slid under the blanket with her. The shock of his cold body reminded her of the ice-rimmed creek where she had bathed early that morning. “You are cold. Lie close to me for a while. The blanket and I will warm you.”
“Katie Cross Eyes, you are very good to your man. Soon I’m warm enough to come to you.”
He held her in his arms for a while, neither of them moving. She noticed he had the same old man smell, only stronger, as Geronimo. He was gentle with her and she thought they had a good first night. It took him three or four days before he was ready to come to her again, and for this she thanked Ussen. After half a moon together, she told him her moon time was late and that she believed she carried their child and must wait for further intimacy until after it was born. Hearing this, Old Boy strutted around like a White Eye rooster, his chest out, saying to the young men that they should hope they were as much a man as he when they were his age.
Katie Cross Eyes had a son, born early, she said, in the Season of Large Fruit. She went to the agency to register the child as her son so they qualified for more rations as a family. The agent smiled at the little girl holding on to her long calico skirt and motioned Katie, carrying the baby on its cradleboard, to a chair across from his desk.
The agent verified she lived with the retired scout named Old Boy, that her name was Katie Cross Eyes, and that Geronimo was the father of her daughter. Then he said, “When was your son born?”
Katie looked him in the eye. It was a custom the White Eyes followed to show they spoke truth even if the Apaches believed it was rude to stare at someone. “My son was born in the Season of Large Fruit in the moon I think you name August.”
The agent made tracks on an agency paper with his little spear dipped in black water. He paused a moment, scratched at his chin, and said, “You were here seven months before the child was born. Are you certain the child is Old Boy’s and not Geronimo’s?”
Katie stared in his eyes and nodded. “I am certain Old Boy is the child’s father.”
The agent nodded. “And what will be the name of the child.”
She swallowed and again stared at the agent’s eyes. “My son’s name is Robert . . . Robert Cross Eyes.”
The agent made marks on the paper and then read the tracks back and asked if what they said was correct. Katie nodded. He laid the paper on the desk in front of her, pointed to a place near the bottom, and said, “Make your mark like when you draw rations.” She made her mark and he made his tracks beside it.
“Congratulations, Katie Cross Eyes. Your son is now officially on our records as Robert Cross Eyes and he will count in your family’s ration allotment.”
She smiled and nodded and walked out into the bright sunlight under a brilliant blue sky.
Robert was a bright child and did well at the agency school. When he was fifteen, the agent, a kind man who understood Apache culture, asked Katie if she would agree to let him send the boy to the advanced Indian school at Chilocco, Oklahoma. Katie told the agent she had to discuss it with Robert before she could agree. She knew feeble Old Boy would want whatever she wanted.
That afternoon as Katie prepared her evening meal, she thought back over the years. When sitting by the evening fire, Lenna and Robert heard Old Boy tell of his scouting days. Their eyes had grown big the first time they heard the story of how the feared and famous warrior Geronimo had stolen their mother, carried her off, and married her when she was Ih-tedda. Katie told them that Geronimo was Lenna’s father, but Old Boy was Robert’s father. Robert’s frown showed his disappointment that the famous Geronimo was not his father also, but a sharp look from Katie kept him from saying anything that showed any disrespect for Old Boy.
Katie smiled and shook her head, remembering how excited Lenna, who yearned to meet her father, had become when they let her go as a Mescalero representative to the Apache Village in the Indian Exhibit at the 1904 Saint Louis Exposition two years before. Geronimo would be there to represent the Chiricahuas. Lenna, a grown woman of fifteen, quiet and beautiful, was in high spirits when she returned from Saint Louis. She told Katie how thrilled she was to meet her father and he to see her. He was surprised when she told him Ih-tedda had given birth to a son the same year she returned to Mescalero. Unknown to Katie, Lenna, counting the months, told Robert when she returned that he might be Geronimo’s son but begged him not to say anything to Katie or Old Boy. Within a week he told Katie that Lenna had said Geronimo was his father and wanted to know if it was true. Katie, feeling her face flush with anger, swore Old Boy was Robert’s father and told the boy not to ask her about it again, but she saw the same outrage in his eyes she had often seen in an angry Geronimo’s years ago. It is a hard thing to lie to your child, but harder still to lie to a husband of fifteen years.
Katie and Robert ate their evening meal alone. She picked at her food, and then laid her fork down. “I spoke with Agent Carroll today and need to make a hard decision. Carroll says your mind is bright and that you should go to the advanced school at Chilocco in Oklahoma, and maybe later go on to the Carlisle School. He asked me to let him send you there. I told him I would speak with you first. Do you want to go to Chilocco?”
Robert, his eyes sparkling, nodded. “Yes. I want to go to Chilocco. I would learn much there, and I have looked at maps. Fort Sill, where Geronimo lives with the other Chiricahuas, is only about two hundred miles south of Chilocco, about half a day’s train ride. He goes as a famous man to be seen at national expositions and shows. He even rode his fine horse in the inaugural parade of President Theodore Roosevelt. I could visit Geronimo during a weekend by riding the train. Despite what you say, I believe he’s my father. I don’t look anything like Old Boy. I look like Lenna. I look like my sister, daughter of Geronimo. I feel the pull of his life force. Please, Mother, tell me if Geronimo is my father. I want to know. I have to know.”
Katie felt as if a knife had plunged into her heart. She bowed her head and shook it. Water lay at the corner of her eyes, but the dams held.
She knew Robert had seen the edge of her tears when he slapped the table so hard it rattled the tableware, and he shouted. “I knew it!”
Katie raised her face and stared at him with a look she knew would be burned forever in his memory and making his moment of truth feel hollow. “I have not told you it is true. You still do not know. Keep your opinions to yourself in this place. Do not shame Old Boy with your wishing.”
She watched him. Defeated once more, he slumped back in his chair staring at her, certain knowledge of his true father so near and yet so far away.
In August Robert told Katie and Old Boy goodbye and climbed on the wagon Agent Carroll drove to the train station in Tularosa, there to begin the long, meandering trip to Chilocco, Oklahoma.
A few weeks later, Katie stood at the door of Agent Carroll. Smiling, he motioned her in to a chair. “Hello, Katie. How’s your family? Robert liking Chilocco?”
She folded her hands across her belly and looked out the window. “My family is good. Old Boy still can walk with his stick and is strong for a very old man. Robert writes us nothing since he left.”
She looked him in the eye. “I need to correct an error in your records.”
Carroll raised his brows. “Oh? And what might that be?”
Her eyes stayed locked on his. “Robert Cross Eyes should be Robert Geronimo.”
He winced. “Is there anything else?”
She nodded. “Yes. Please send him tracks on paper that say your records now show he is Robert Geronimo.”
“I will, but . . .”
She stood. “That is all I have to say.”
W. Michael Farmer has published short stories in anthologies, and award-winning essays. His novels include: Killer of Witches, 2016 Will Rogers Medallion Award winner; Mariana’s Knight, 2017 New Mexico–Arizona Book Award winner for Historical Fiction; and Blood of the Devil, 2017 New Mexico–Arizona Book Award finalist for Adventure–Drama and Historical Fiction.
ACES AND EIGHTS
BY MICHAEL R. RITT
No one had struck it rich in Nuggettown for some time now. I always figured that the name must have been somebody’s idea of a joke. Nuggets weren’t exactly jumping out of the ground, and any resemblance between this place and something as civilized as an actual town was purely accidental.
The Lady Belle Mine was the only one in town that had produced any significant quantities of gold. The rest of the outfits were small claims, like the one belonging to me and Pete, using rockers and sluice boxes that barely showed enough color to keep the owner of the claim in grub and liquor money on a day-to-day basis.
To be fair, I guess that the town wasn’t all that bad. It was young and it was rough, but it had a future. There was talk of the Colorado Central Railroad building a spur line up the mountain to haul the ore from the Lady Belle. We had four saloons, a blacksmith, the assay office, a general store, and three eating houses. We also had a hotel being built, which, when finished, would be the biggest building in Nuggettown. We even had a Methodist circuit rider come through once a month to preach a sermon to the miners and sing hymns.