Dorothy Garlock (10 page)

“That ugly, little old warty thin’?” Jo Bell screeched. “He wasn’t like my Papa. My Papa was handsome.”

It clearly required all Willa’s self-restraint to refrain from grabbing the girl and shaking her.

“Papa Igor was beautiful on the inside—where it counts,” she replied softly. “He was intelligent, compassionate . . . loving. There was not a better father in the whole world.”

Jo Bell burst into tears and climbed into the wagon.

By telling herself the girl was grieving, Willa tried not to let Jo Bell’s words hurt. Absently Willa lifted an iron pot from the campfire. Jo Bell was going to be a handful. Poor Charlie. It wasn’t his fault that his sister was a selfish little
chit. A burning ache seared Willa’s throat when she thought of the nights Gil Frank had spent laughing and talking to his daughter while Charlie sat alone with Buddy. Charlie would not desert the sister who held him in such contempt. But what would become of them if Mrs. Eastwood refused to put up with her?

She hung the kettle on a hook beneath the wagon.

Jo Bell was still crying.

Willa sighed. She would stay and tolerate the girl . . . for Charlie’s sake.

*  *  *

The station manager suggested to Willa that she and Jo Bell stay inside the wagon until Abel Coyle and George Fuller rode out and crossed the river. The girl lay on the bunk with her eyes closed, but Willa made good use of the time. Charlie had said she was to use what she wanted from Starr’s trunk because it was unlikely they would see her again.

The dress Willa had worn every day since she had joined the Franks was badly in need of washing. Having been taught to be fastidious with her person and her clothing, she felt uncomfortable being unclean. She had washed the dress only one time. More than a week ago, feeling reasonably sure of some privacy, she had bathed in the creek, washed her clothing and put them on wet until she could get back to the wagon. She had hung them up and they had dried overnight.

As far as she knew, Jo Bell had not bathed and had washed her face and hands only after being told to do so.

As the hours slipped away, Willa ripped the ruffles and lace from several dresses. She filled in the neckline of one of them and added a white collar. With the material from the ruffles she made a sash for a better fit at the waist. Out of a
floppy straw hat she made a poke bonnet by removing the faded satin flowers and adding streamers to the brim which she tied under her chin.

“What’re you doin’?” Jo Bell sat up on the bunk. Her eyes were swollen, her face streaked with tears.

“Making over these dresses,” Willa said calmly.

“They ain’t yours. Starr’ll be back.”

“Charlie said she left with a teamster headed for Canada. If she returns, I’ll pay her for the dresses.”

“With what? You ain’t got nothin’ but that old dog.”

“That old dog may have saved you from that man today.”

“Well poop-de-do! I ain’t seen the man yet I can’t wrap round my little finger.”

“The men out here are a different breed. They take what they want—if they can. We’re fortunate to have Charlie and Buddy with us.”

“Men are the same the world over. Papa said so. He said they mostly wanted
one
thing, and if I’d give it to ’em they’d buy me fine silk dresses or anything else I want. He said they’d keep me like a pretty doll and show me off.”

“I’m sure your father believed that,” Willa said kindly. “Things have changed now. He’s gone and can’t protect you. You have to depend on Charlie and . . . Buddy.”

“And . . . and yore g-glad he’s . . . d-dead—” Sobs bubbled from Jo Bell’s lips.

“How can you say that? I’m not glad. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Yore not. Ya didn’t even c-cry.”

“That doesn’t mean I wasn’t sorry.”

“I don’t want ya in
my
wagon—”

“I’m sorry about that too. Nevertheless, I’m staying until you get to your uncle’s ranch.”

“I don’t want ya to stay and I ain’t goin’ to no old ranch. I’ll make Charlie take me to a town. I’ll get a job in a dance hall till I find me a rich man.”

“I promised Charlie I would stay and I will.”

“Charlie ain’t boss. I’m sixteen. He ain’t but fifteen.”

Willa made no reply. She knew that it was useless to try to reason with the girl.

“What’ll you do when we get to Uncle Oliver’s? Ya ain’t kinfolk. He won’t want
you
hangin’ around.”

“Your uncle is dead, Jo Bell. His wife, Mrs. Eastwood, lives on the ranch.”

“Uncle Oliver is dead? Papa didn’t tell me.”

“Maybe your father didn’t know.”

“He did so. Papa knew e-everything—” Her words ended in a wail and she threw herself back down on the bunk.

Later, when Charlie came to tell them the men had left the station, Willa was wearing the pink dress she had made over. Her hair had been brushed and coiled at the nape of her neck, and although she still wore Jo Bell’s moccasins, she felt she looked presentable. The weight of the Derringer in her pocket was reassuring.

“Jo Bell, do you want to go with me to the outhouse?”

“I guess so.”

The girl’s mouth was drawn down at the corners. She looked like a pouty child as she followed along behind Willa to the small building in back of the station. Almost new, the outhouse had been built for the convenience of the stage passengers. It was a luxury to be able to sit down instead of squatting in the bushes, even though the odor was overpowering. Men didn’t seem to notice such things, but a woman would insist on a layer of lime every so often. These thoughts passed through Willa’s mind as she waited outside the door for Jo Bell.

“Come on in ’n’ have a bite to eat,” Mr. Byers called from the doorway of the station as they approached it. “It ain’t much. I got to be cookin’ up a mess for tonight. The stage comes in about sundown.”

“I’ll be glad to help you with that,” Willa said as she stepped into the long, dim room.

“Don’t ya be sayin’ that too loud, ma’am. I jist might hear ya. Come and sit down.”

“We need to wash.”

He indicated the shelf on the wall just around the corner from the door. There was a tin wash basin, a bucket of water, a slab of soap and a roller towel that looked as if it had been hanging there a week. Willa ladled water into the basin and handed Jo Bell the soap before the girl could move away without washing.

Smith Bowman was sitting at the table with a mug of coffee between his hands. His face was gaunt. Small cuts on his chin were proof that his hands had not been quite steady when he had shaved. His hair was wet, but combed. His eyes passed over Willa and went to Jo Bell.

A feeling of apprehension stirred restlessly in Willa as she observed the green-eyed man looking at the girl. His eyes flicked to hers, and suddenly she was so nervous that she felt as if her heart would choke her. Why would a young, strong man want to drink himself into oblivion? Did he have a wife and children waiting for him at home? And what had made her act so impulsively as to throw the water on him? She usually just walked away from an unpleasant situation. A queer little shock went through her when she thought about how much she had changed in just a few weeks.

“Have a seat, ladies.” Mr. Byers placed two graniteware plates on the table. “Baking powder biscuits, butter and honey. We’ve got fresh buttermilk, too.”

“I hate buttermilk.” Jo Bell’s voice was pouty and her lips turned down at the corners.

“I’d like some, please. But let me help—”

“—Sit right there, ma’am. I’ll get it. Miss,” he said to Jo Bell, “would ya like a cup of tea?”

“Black tea or green tea?”

“Green is all we get here.”

“I’ll take it if it’s got sugar in it.” Jo Bell sat with her elbows on the table, her chin on her laced fingers, and spoke as if she were doing the man a favor by accepting the tea.

Willa decided she couldn’t do anything about Jo Bell’s manners and refused to be embarrassed. The girl was impossibly rude. Charlie cast Mr. Byers an apologetic look. The station keeper seemed to be unaffected by Jo Bell’s rudeness. He placed the biscuits, a crock of butter and a jar of honey on the table.

“Help yoreselves, folks. There’s plenty a what I got. The buttermilk is in the cellar.”

As soon as he left the room, Charlie glared across the table at his sister. “Where’s yore manners? Mr. Byers don’t have to get ya anythin’. He’s tryin’ to be nice.”

“Shut up,” Jo Bell hissed. “Stop tellin’ me what to do.”

Willa’s eyes went automatically to Smith to see how he was taking this exchange between brother and sister. His head was turned, and she could see his profile. He was younger than she had at first thought. His face, darkened by sun and wind, was still, remote, lonely. It was the face of a hard man.

Slowly his head moved, and before she realized it, her eyes were locked with a pair of startling green ones that looked at her with total dislike. She turned her face quickly, conscious that she was a little breathless. Something in the lazy negligence of him as he lounged there, the cigarette between his lips, his eyes upon hers, went beyond dislike. It was as if he thought she was unworthy of even his appraisal. She had a sudden fear that he would reach across the table and swat her as he would a fly. The impression was so definite that she cringed away.

Mr. Byers returned with the buttermilk. He poured a cup
for Willa. She saw Smith turn his eyes away from it. Angered by the way his look had affected her, she couldn’t resist taunting him.

“Buttermilk, Mr. Smith? Perhaps it would settle your stomach.”

Her contempt washed over him like a chilling torrent. He got up from the table and went to the stove. After refilling his cup from the smoke-blackened coffeepot, he stomped past the eating table, went to the far side of the room and sat down.

7

^“
M
r. Smith,” Charlie followed and stood behind one of the chairs at the poker table.

“What do you want now?”

“Willa didn’t mean to rile ya.” Charlie murmured the words as if not wanting the others to hear.

“Ah, hell!” Smith spat disgustedly. “It takes more’n a know-it-all woman to rile me.” He spoke so that his voice carried the length of the room.

Mr. Byers came to the table, hooked out a chair with his foot and sat down. “I’ll swear, Smith, I never knowed ya to be so down right cantankerous.”

Smith ignored the station keeper for a moment and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his kerchief.

“I’m not one for parlor chit-chat, Byers. You know that.”

“Ya ain’t one for manners either or ya’d not said what ya did in front of that woman.”

“I’m not caring what I said. I told you I’d stay until Coyle and Fuller were gone. Rusty tailed them. When he gets back, I’m riding out.”

“I was hopin’ they’d head for Deadwood.”

“They crossed the river and went north.”

“These folks ain’t got nowhere to go but to the Eastwood Ranch, Smith. If ya don’t take ’em, they’ll strike out on their own.”

“Dammit to hell! That’s no skin off my back.”

“Mister,” Charlie said and straddled the chair he was leaning on. “My pa never talked to me much. He never said nothin’ about what to do if somethin’ happened to him. The only thin’ I know to do now is take my sister on to Uncle Oliver’s. I ain’t askin’ nobody for a free handout. I’ll work for our keep.”

Smith turned cold green eyes on Charlie. “Take your sister and that nasty-nice woman to Buffalo, Sheridan or back to Deadwood. They’ve got no business at Eastwood. That old woman will eat ’em alive.”

“But, sir—”

“Don’t sir me, either, boy. Name’s Smith.”

“We got no money. I thought Pa had more, but guess he lost it in the poker game ’n’ got desperate enough to cheat. Uncle Oliver was my ma’s brother. My ma was quality folk ’n’ I’m thinkin’ Uncle Oliver was too. Quality folks take care of their kin at least until they get on their feet.”

“What was your ma’s name?”

“Regina.”

“He talked of her some.”

“You knew him? You knew Uncle Oliver?”

“Yeah, I knew him.”

“I wish I could of knowed him. I was hopin’ he’d teach me to be a cowboy, and maybe I could stay there after Pa got a rich husband for Jo Bell.”