Dorothy Garlock (5 page)

“Pull in yore stinger, honey.” He gave her a wicked, teasing smile. “Ya suit me just fine.” He slid from the saddle and handed the reins to Charlie. Gil Frank was not much taller than Willa, and when their eyes met, they were on a level.

Until now he hadn’t seemed to notice Buddy. He looked down at the dog pressing against her skirts. Her hand was
fastened in the hair at the nape of the dog’s neck. The man’s eyes were hard when they met hers.

“The first time that dog makes a move against me or mine, I’ll kill him.”

“He’ll attack only if he thinks I’m in danger.”

“Don’t worry about that, honey. I’m goin’ to take good care of ya.” He winked. Willa kept her lips pressed firmly together and glared at him. Then Jo Bell’s giggle caused her temper to snap.

“I didn’t ask for your help, Mr. Frank, although I’m grateful for it. I’ll be with you only until we reach the next town. Meanwhile, I’ll do my share of the work and I want to make it clearly understood that does not include
night
work!”

His roar of laughter was joined by Jo Bell’s giggles. Willa’s face flooded with color.

“Ain’t ya ever heard of nooners, honey?”

“No, I haven’t and my name is Miss Hammer.” Willa was shivering with suppressed agitation and fear. She was certain that this man’s intentions were less than honorable. He was bold as brass about that.

“My name is Gilbert. Ya can call me Gil, or honey, or sweetheart if yore a mind to.” To Willa’s relief he turned away from her and put his arm about his daughter’s shoulder. “Ya got supper ready, little pretty thin’?”

“It’s ready but for the gravy.
She
said she’d make it. I already done everythin’ else.”

“Ya done everythin’? Didn’t Charlie help ya?”

“He unhitched—”

“—And watered the mules, staked them out, filled the water barrel and built the cookfire,” Charlie said, coming up to the fire.

“Papa, he pushed me when I said you’d not let that stinkin’ old dog stay.”

“Did he hurt you, lovey?”

“Not . . . much—”

“Son, I’ve told ya, ’n’ told ya, real men don’t manhandle their womenfolk. There’s other ways a gettin’ ’em to do what ya want.” His eyes flashed to Willa. “Yore sister’s just a little bitty girl. She’s been cookin’ ’n’ doin’ the camp chores.”

“Starr did it while she was with us, now Jo Bell’s pushin’ it off on Miss Hammer.”

“Watch yoreself, boy. Don’t ya be gettin’ sassy ’n’ don’t ya go gettin’ sweet on Miss Hammer. She’s a mite too old for ya.”

Willa avoided looking at Charlie to save him further embarrassment. She waved Buddy away. The dog obediently went to lie in the grass beyond the wagon from where he could see her.

Working as she had done countless times when she and Papa Igor were on the road, Willa forked the meat from the skillet onto a graniteware plate and spooned flour into the fat. After it had browned, she added a dipper of water and a pinch of salt. When the gravy thickened, she pulled the skillet from the fire, stepped back to the end of the wagon and waited until the family had filled their plates before she helped herself.

Gilbert Frank and Jo Bell sat back away from the fire on a makeshift bench. Charlie squatted on his heels beside the wagon and attacked the meal with relish, emptied his plate, and went back for more.

Willa stood at the end of the wagon, her plate on the tailgate, and ate because she knew she must. Mr. Frank gave Jo Bell all his attention, for which Willa was grateful. Jo Bell plainly adored her father and he her. Charlie was more or less ignored by both of them.

While Mr. Frank was still eating, Willa concealed several biscuits in her dress pocket, picked up the water bucket and walked toward the stream. Buddy rose tiredly and followed.
When they were out of sight of the camp, she quickly fed him the biscuits.

“I’m sorry there isn’t more. I know how tired and hungry you are.” The sound of dry brush scraping on something brought her quickly to her feet. Relief flowed through her when she saw that it was Charlie.

“I brought him something to eat.” The boy pulled biscuits and several strips of cooked sidepork from under his shirt and placed them on the ground. Buddy made no move toward them and Charlie frowned. “What’s the matter, ma’am? Ain’t he hungry?”

“Yes, he is, but he’s waiting for you to tell him the offering is his. He’ll not touch it otherwise.”

Charlie knelt down. “Here, boy. This is for you.” He held out a piece of the meat. Buddy went to him and took it gently from his hand. “You’re just plumb tuckered out, ain’t ya? I’ll put some tar on that cut tonight. It’ll keep them pesky flies from a botherin’ you.” The boy talked to the dog while he was eating and gently rubbed his head.

“Thank you, Charlie. Buddy will be a loyal friend.”

“Ma’am.” Charlie stood, looked at her and then away “Don’t . . . don’t be feared Pa’ll . . . force ya to do anything ya don’t want to. It ain’t his way. He . . . ah . . . ain’t never forced a woman that I know of.”

“I’m glad to know that. I’m not that kind of woman, Charlie.”

“I be knowin’ that right off, ma’am. Just don’t let him get ya off by yoreself. Stick with me or Jo Bell.”

Willa dipped the water bucket in the creek. Charlie took it and started back toward the wagon. Her hand on his arm stopped him.

“Charlie, can you tell me why they hanged Papa Igor and burned our house?” Her pleading eyes sought those of the boy. Charlie set the bucket down.

“Ma’am, I don’t know the whole of it.”

“I do.” Gil Frank appeared in front of them on the path. “Take the bucket back to the wagon, son. Go on,” he said when Charlie hesitated.

Willa stepped around the bushes so that she would be in sight of the wagon, then turned back and faced Mr. Frank.

“What happened?” she demanded bluntly.

“He shot two men.”

“Shot two men? Why?”

“He was in the store. Brought in a clock he’d fixed. A couple of rowdies got to scufflin’, knocked over the clock and broke the glass. He swore at ’em and made ’em mad. One thin’ led to another. They yanked off his coat and tore his shirt. They started talkin’ about you. One of ’em said he’d be in your drawers before the week was out. That made the ugly little bugger fightin’ mad. He swung at one of ’em and bloodied his nose.”

“Don’t call him that! Don’t you dare call him that!” Willa’s eyes mirrored her anger.

Gil Frank laughed. “He warn’t no
pretty
little bugger.”

“He was a man. A human being the same as you or me.”

“Anyhow, the boys pulled off his shirt to see the hump. They was just funnin’ like some do when they’re liquored up.”

“Funning!” Her voice wasn’t loud but angry and dripping with contempt. “You call stripping a man of his clothes in front of a crowd and making fun of his misshapen body . . . funning? He must have been so . . . humiliated!”

“He was hoppin’ mad and the teasin’ went on. Somebody said they’d ort to geld the freak. Well . . . dammed if the little bastard didn’t pull out a derringer and shoot. Don’t think he killed ’em, but they was bleedin’ all over hell. Things turned ugly quick. Before you knowed it he was tossed in a
wagon and took to the woods. Don’t know why they fired your house or whipped ya. Once a crowd is worked up to a hangin’, they’re liable to do anythin’.”

Willa pressed her lips tightly together to keep from screaming at the injustice. She wanted to run; she wanted to lash out at Gil Frank, who was calmly building a smoke. Instead she turned and walked quickly toward the wagon, paused, then walked on.

Papa Igor had been pushed over the brink by the humiliation of having his humped back exposed. To him the horror of his grotesque body being displayed for ridicule was the final indignity. In the silent grove of a thick stand of oak trees, she wrapped her arms around a giant trunk and leaned her forehead against the rough bark. Tears gushed from her eyes and sobs from her throat.

“Bastards! Ignorant, insensitive bastards!”

Anger and grief tore at her heart. She slammed her fist against the tree trunk. How could they do that to him? How could they? Papa Igor had never hurt any living creature, man or beast. She cried bitterly, cried until her mind was drugged with grief and remorse. Covering her face with her hands, she shrank deeper into a pit of misery.

“Papa, Papa, I’ll not forget you . . . ever—”

She dropped to her knees, her face covered with her hands. When her storm of weeping was over, Willa looked around to see Charlie and Buddy sitting on the ground nearby. The dog lay beside the boy. They were waiting. She peered at them from tear-swollen eyes.

“I put the pine-tar on Buddy’s cuts.”

“Thank you.”

“Pa said leave ya be, ya’d get over it.”

“You never get
over
the death of a loved one.” Willa went to sit in the grass beside them. “Time sometimes dulls the
grief.” She burrowed her hand in the dog’s thick fur. Buddy was all that was familiar in this tilting world into which she had dropped. “How long has your mother been dead?”

“Four or five years, I reckon.”

“What part of the south are you from, Charlie?” Willa wanted to keep talking to keep tears at bay.

“Louisiana.”

“Did you come up-river?”

“Part of the way. We been on the road for almost two years. Papa works a while and we go on. He says we’ll be at the Powder River crossing in a few days. Uncle Oliver’s ranch is on Clear Creek in the Bighorn Mountains.’

“Did he say how far it was to the next town?”

“I don’t think there is any towns. Pa says there’s a stage station at the crossing. We might meet up with some folks travelin’ west. Pa heard it ain’t smart for a lone wagon to be goin’ into that country even if Custer did clean out the Indians a few years back. Some are still killin’ white people.”

“Custer didn’t clean out the Indians, Charlie. Crazy Horse out-maneuvered and out-fought Custer. In my estimation, Custer is not a man to be admired. He led his men to certain death even though his Crow scouts warned him against going into the Bighorns.”

“He didn’t whip the Indians?”

“No he did not. The Sioux won the battle. Custer was an egotistical little man trying to make a name for himself.”

“If the Indians won why ain’t they here?”

“They realize they are being overrun by the whites. They have scattered, but their spirit is not broken. It will be a long while before they lose their resentment of the white man. They are fighting for their land, their way of life, and who can blame them?”

“Pa heard they’d moved on west.”

“Why would they stay? The buffalo is gone from here
Their way of life is gone. White settlers are sweeping across the land, snapping and snarling at them like a pack of starving dogs. The Indians used this land for hundreds of years by taking only what they needed. Rawhiders came west and slaughtered thousands of buffalo just for the hides and left the meat to rot. When the Indians killed a buffalo, they ate the meat, used the hides for clothing and shelter, the bones for tools and utensils. The dung of the buffalo was used for fuel. Some tribes left the buffalo’s heart behind believing that the mystical powers of the heart would help regenerate the depleted herd.”

Charlie looked at her with open-mouthed admiration. “Where did you learn all that?”

“From books.”

“Can you read?”

“Yes. Papa Igor taught me to love books. He was a well-educated man and interested in many things. He has . . . ah . . . had a wonderful library of . . . books. He called them his treasures, worth more than their weight in gold—” Her voice faltered, then trailed.

“I sure do wish I could read. I can read my name and write it too,” he said proudly.

“Did you go to school in Louisiana?”

“Not hardly any. Pa likes to move around.” Charlie stood. “We’d better get closer to the wagon, ma’am.”

The campsite was just as she had left it. Mr. Frank sat on the bench where he had eaten his supper. Jo Bell lounged on a quilt she had spread on the grass beside him. Glad to have work to do so she wouldn’t have to talk with them, Willa washed the dishes and put them away, leaving the smoke-blackened coffeepot on the grate near the fire.

Occasionally she glanced at the man who had rescued her from the angry crowd. His hair was inky black and curly like Jo Bell’s. To Willa’s way of thinking, he was totally unsuited
for this country. He reminded her of the riverboat gamblers she had seen on the Mississippi River.

As soon as the camp was tidy, she carried a washpan of warm water to the wagon, sat on the pallet and washed the best she could without removing her clothes. Using Starr’s hairbrush, she brushed her hair with long sweeping strokes and braided it in one long, loose braid.

Jo Bell came to the end of the wagon.

“Ain’t ya goin’ to sit with me an Pa and tell us ’bout all the places ya been?”

“No. I’m very tired. I’m going to bed.”

“Well, that ain’t very nice after what Pa done for ya.”

“I’m not in the mood to visit,” Willa said bluntly.

“Well, la-di-da. Go to bed then, but don’t you get on the bunk, that’s my sleepin’ place.”

Willa peered out the back of the wagon and saw that Charlie had spread his blankets on the grass and that Buddy had settled down beside him. It was a comfort knowing that Buddy was with her. Thank goodness Charlie wasn’t like Jo Bell. The girl badly needed a lesson in manners.

Fully dressed, Willa lay on the pallet staring into the darkness. Every minute her despair and apprehension grew deeper. What was she going to do? She had no money to pay for a ticket to Deadwood when they reached the stage line. She couldn’t go back to Hublett. Everything she owned was gone. She didn’t even own the clothes that covered her nakedness. What choice did she have but to stay with Gil Frank? And he was taking her deeper and deeper into sparsely settled country. When they reached his brother-in-law’s ranch, what then?

Until Jo Bell came to bed, Willa managed to keep her eyes open, feeling reasonably sure Gil Frank wouldn’t come to her pallet with his daughter in the wagon.

A week and a half of days had passed so slowly that at times Willa felt as if she were suspended in time. The ranch houses they passed were so far off the road that they would only see the smoke from the chimneys. Buddy, sensing Jo Bell’s and Gil’s dislike, kept distance between them. He slept beside Charlie at night; and because of the extra food the boy was able to slip to him, the dog had regained his strength. During the day he trotted beside the wagon or hunted for food alongside the trail.