Deborah Camp (2 page)

Wearily, she pushed to her feet and prepared a pan of warm water, selected a hunk of lye soap and a square of chamois, and set to scrubbing him.

He wasn’t the first man she’d washed, but there was something different about him, and she had to ruminate a while before the answer came to her. He was white. That was it. The first white man she’d bathed. While men were men, there were differences among breeds.

For instance, body hair. This man had plenty of it. The Crows she’d washed had little. In fact, she had trouble cleansing the arrow wound because of the springy, brown hair swirling on this man’s chest. Stands Tall hadn’t had a single hair on his wide, smooth chest, and few on his privates. She peeked between the man’s thighs and shook her head. Hairy. And above his truncheon? A bird’s nest of sable growth!

Her artful fingers plucked bits of grass from the
damp hair on his head. When it was dry, she figured it would be gingery brown. Waving over his head, it had been cut at his collar line. A beardless man, he must have cultivated a well-groomed appearance. His lashes were gold-tipped ash, plentiful and dusting his cheekbones. He had a handsome nose. In a country of bulbous, many-times busted, jutting prows, his was straight, bold, sculpted at the tip. And his mouth—generously proportioned with a curvy upper lip, which was bleeding. Must have bit it when she’d sent the arrow through him, she thought, wiping off the crimson stain. She stared wonderingly at his straight, white teeth, a sight she hadn’t seen in many years, except in her own mouth.

“Why, you’re handsome,” she whispered, awed. “Once I get you back with the living, you’ll be the prettiest man in these parts.”

So she set to washing him again, this time with a purpose in mind. She wanted to see him in all his glory. I might even scrape off his whisker stubble to see what kind of jawline he has, she thought. Can tell a lot about the character of a man by the set of his jaw. That’s what Grizzly Gus had told her.
Jaw and eyes
, Grizzly Gus had said.
That’s where a man’s innards show
.

By the time the fire in the hearth had nearly played itself out, she had bathed him, shaved him, brushed his silky hair, and wrapped him in a sheet of wool and a blanket of rabbit fur.

“Rabbits.” She forced herself up, suddenly bone-tired and hungry, and fetched the rabbits from outside. Before long the aroma of roasted game filled the homey hovel. Orange flames threw bright light across the walls and lit his face. A good face, she thought. Firm jawline. A high forehead. Faint lines at the corners of his eyes. She wished she’d noticed the color of his eyes before.

Her mouth watering, she feasted on the rabbit, glancing now and then at the man. He wouldn’t
eat, even if she could arouse him from the dreamless land, which she doubted. Tomorrow she’d force water down his throat, maybe some broth. For the next few days, he’d teeter on the brink of death. If he fell back into the living, she’d feed him. If not …

She dozed, sitting at the table, the remains of the rabbit congealing in the tin plate. The man’s roar brought her head up and clamped her fingers around her knife handle. He sat up, eyes wide and full of fight.

“Where … what …?” He sobbed, his throat muscles convulsing.

Pity claimed her and she reached out a gentle hand, her fingertips brushing the top of his shoulder. She knew that look … recognized the horror in his face.

“It’s all right, mister. You’re safe.” She patted his shoulder again, trying to chase the fear from him.

“Who are … you?” His voice wavered, fading in and out like an echo. His gaze lifted to her hair and he frowned, but the fright diminished in his greenish-gold eyes.

“Copper Headed Woman. I’m called Copper nowadays.” She eased from the chair and around him to tuck her hands beneath his arms. “Help me, mister. Give a shove, huh? Let’s get you into this soft, warm bed. Can’t have you sprawled in the middle of my floor for days on end.”

To her amazement, he planted the foot of his good leg and gave a prolonged grunt as he used what little strength he had left to push up from the rock-hewn floor. His strength depleted, he became a dead weight. She fell back with him, but she twisted her body enough so that they fell side by side, instead of him landing on top of her. Panting, she waited until she could breathe normally, then lifted his splinted leg onto the bed, followed by the other. Jerking, tugging, and yanking, she got
all of him onto the bed and then tucked animal skins around him to make a warm cocoon.

“And what’s your name, mister?” she asked, knowing she’d get no answer for a spell. “And what was your business out there on the edge of nowhere with winter hard afoot? And where’s your clothes, your tack, your weapons?” She shook her head, her mind whirling around the possibilities. One thing she knew for sure, he had been plugged by Gros Ventre. The band of Seven Scalps. The arrow markings told her that. But why had they wounded him, then left him? Gros Ventre were as mean as rabid dogs. They took scalps and maimed the bodies of their enemies.

She moved stiffly to throw the rest of the rabbit, bones and all, out to Sentry and Patrol, then she undressed before the fire. Her skin glowed pink and brown and honey colored. She slipped a thin dress of gauzy cotton over her head and worked it down her body. Wearily, she climbed the ladder to the top bunk and rolled into it with a labored sigh. Pain pinched her back and she curled onto her side, pressing her spine to the wall. She closed her eyes and listened to the man’s uneven breathing until sleep came to claim her.

Hoofbeats.

She stopped what she’d been doing to listen. Having been up only long enough to relieve herself, dress, and build a cooking fire, she knew it could only be first light outside. The hoofbeats were unhurried and unhidden. Company, not an enemy.

Moving to the door, she lifted the crossbar and reached for her tomahawk, which she held behind her as she opened the door with her free hand. Company or no, one didn’t take chances. But when she saw the mound of fur sitting atop a swaybacked mule, she replaced the weapon on its nail.

“What say you, old man?” she greeted with a warm smile.

“I say you dragged something heavy home with you,” he returned, squinting at her from beneath a handsome raccoon hat. “Big game or a stray you happened upon?”

“A stray, as if you didn’t know.” She laughed with him, for if it happened in this territory, Grizzly Gus got wind of it. “You fed your belly yet this day?”

“Nothing but water from the Elk River, so cold it froze my tongue.” He winked. “But good. Aaah! Mighty good. You got a hankering to feed me, girl?”

“Not a hankering, but if you can climb off that nasty nag, I’ll set you a place at my breakfast table. I’m having fried bread and hot molasses.”

He answered by throwing a leg over his notcheared mount and sliding down its skinny side to the ground. The skins hanging from him lent twice his girth. Tough as a turtle’s shell, he had lived in the wilds since his girl-chasing days, he’d told her. Called himself a deserter because he’d run off from military school to seek the beauty of the mountains. He’d taken four wives—all Indians—and outlived each. His children were scattered, being raised by tribes. He visited them when he could, but his visits were less frequent as his years moved past the half-century mark and his aches increased past the occasional. Pitching side to side, he walked like he had stumps for legs.

“Your stray still breathing?”

“Barely,” she answered, going back to the skillet of hot grease suspended over the fire. “But my heart fills with hope for him. Look at him and tell me if you’ve spied him before.” She dropped a spoonful of batter into the sizzling grease, then glanced at Grizzly Gus, who was bent over the man. “Well, can you name him?”

“Haven’t made his acquaintance,” Gus said, his
voice nasally, his diction courtly. “Three days ago he was riding with four others. Saw the remains of their camp at the springs.”

“Which?”

“The one near Flat Butte.”

She nodded. “See them or track them?”

“Both. Saw their camp and tracked them to a few miles from Seven Scalp’s village.”

“He was shot with this.” She tossed the broken end of the arrow to him. “Leg was busted, too.”

“Atsina,” he noted. “Big bellies, or Gros Ventre as the French call them.”

“You think him and his friends stayed with Seven Scalp’s people?”

“Don’t think so. Heard there was a group of four white men stealing Injun horses. Seven Scalp’s look-outs captured them.”

“Four,” she repeated, mulling over his story. “Where are they now?”

“Dead, most likely, or wishing to be.”

“He must have gotten away or broke off with them before the raid.”

“Doubt he got away, unless he’s a powerful smart greenhorn.”

“He’s not smart. Found him bootless, weaponless, and horseless.”

“Several horsemen came back looking for him. They followed your trail halfway here, then veered off south.”

She nodded. “I figured they would follow.”

“Better watch your back, girl.”

“I always do. They won’t bother me, though. I don’t figure he’s worth their trouble.”

“Thought you were through taking in strays.”

“I couldn’t leave him.” She concentrated on the fry bread, using a wooden spatula she’d carved last week to lift the brown mounds from the popping grease. She felt the old man studying her and frowned. “What you staring at, old-timer?”

“These months have toughened your skin, but
not your heart. That organ’s soft as summer butter.”

“If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be sharing these vittles. I’d have sent your nosey self off with a bullet burning in your flabby behind.”

He guffawed, throwing back his head and braying like a jackass. Whipping the raccoon hat from his head, he shook out his white, wavy, shoulder-length hair.

“Besides, I know what it’s like to be out there on your lonesome. I remember …” She shook aside those ills. “Come sit at my table, Grizzly Gus.” She set the table and poured the steaming coffee.

As always, they ate in silence, only their eating sounds filling the space between them. Gus wolfed down four rounds of bread, all soppy with molasses. She had two. When he finished, he bit off a chew from a tobacco twist and stretched his feet toward the fireplace.

“How you feeling, girl?”

“Good. How are your creaking joints?”

“Tolerable. Bagged a wolf yesterday.” His blue eyes shone with delight. “Silver one. Make a mighty pretty hide. I could trade it for a whole store of supplies.”

She chewed on her lower lip, wanting to barter. Silver! She’d been hunting for a silvery skin for months, and the old man damn well knew it. So she kept quiet, refusing to ask.

“You want one of them silver-white hides, don’t you?”

“You know I do.” She folded her arms and wiped all expression from her face so he wouldn’t read the lusting in her heart.

“Watch out, girl. You look downright Injun when you jut out your jaw like that and fold them arms over your chest.” He chuckled when she changed her position. “That’s better. What you got to trade, girl?”

“Nothing you need.”

“Don’t be so hasty.” His gaze slid to the dressed rabbits soaking in a bucket of water. “Could use a fine pair of rabbit mitts and muffs.”

“That’s not enough for a silver wolf skin.”

“Wouldn’t mind a pair of them knee-high moccasins you’re so good at stitching up.” He lifted one foot to display the thin sole of his shoe. “Mine are right sorry.”

She considered the trade and shrugged one shoulder. “Done.” Happiness arced through her like a rainbow. “I must see this hide first.”

“I’ll bring it on my next visit.” He launched himself from the chair. “Probably be two or three days. I figure you’ll need an extra pair of hands by then.” He sent a sidelong glance to the lower bunk. “Either to get him on his feet or to bury him.”

“I’ll pull him through. My potions are strong.”

“They don’t call you a witch for nothing, ’tis true.” Slinging on his coon hat, he made for the door. “I’ll be getting out of your way now, girl. Might nose around and see what became of those horse thieves. See if anybody knows from whence they hailed.”

She slapped his back fondly. The skins he wore were thick, turning away the bitter cold. “I’ll be on the lookout for you, old man. Keep your eyes peeled. Sounds like there are an assortment of varmints creeping about this season.”

“Deserters and runaway slaves, mostly,” he said, lumbering outside and gathering the rope reins of his scoop-backed mule. He grunted as he hauled himself into the saddle, then aimed his squinty eyes at the purple peaks visible above the treetops. “Damn foolish, this war amongst the same tribe. Rebs and Yanks, but brothers all the same. Like a bunch of Injuns fighting over hunting grounds.”

“Watch your tongue, old-timer. Remember I was counted as Crow more years than I was white.”

He chuckled. “They might have counted you, but it was a futile endeavor, girl. With that flaming hair of yours and that pale, freckled skin, you would never be mistook for a breed.” He touched his furry cap. “I’ll be saying my adieus. Stay healthy.”

“Same to you, Grizzly Gus.” She watched him go, the mule rocking him like a big baby in the creaking saddle, his white hair blowing about his massive shoulders. Each time she bid him farewell, she prayed she would see his weathered face again, for he had been her salvation and she dearly loved him.

The dogs sniffed around her feet, wanting affection. The horses and mule paced in the corral, wanting full bellies. Before she saw to them all, she ducked inside for her rawhide gloves and leather poncho. Stretching the gloves over her small-boned hands, she stood over the man. Mighty handsome, she thought, as daylight revealed his face. Was some golden-haired blueblood watching the highway for sight of him? Was he Reb or Yank, deserter or adventurer?

Answers would wait, but not her hungry stock. Later, she’d pound roots to dust and add special herbs. She’d say words over the mixture and ask for his mercy. For him, she’d make strong medicine.

P
ierre Sartain brought news of the man.