The Powder River (21 page)

After too much thought, Smith said quietly, “I don’t know what will happen to us.”

“What will happen to me?” Her catawampus face was courage and fear, both rampant.

Smith looked fondly at her. “You are my daughter. You are a Cheyenne. You may do whatever you want in the world.” He chuckled. “If we’re alive tomorrow.”

The next morning before dawn the Morning Star people were gone. They had left a buffalo robe with hair on it. On the robe were ammunition and powder, a gift for those who would continue fighting. Little Wolf would go on with one hundred and twenty-six people, including forty men of fighting age. Five hundred miles to Powder River.

Elaine sat on the steps of her porch, getting a little sun and making herself do some work. The Kansas sun was warm on this Indian-summer day in late October, so she wore only the wrap borrowed from Fran over her nightdress. It wasn’t polite, sitting outdoors in a nightdress, but she didn’t feel polite. She knew she’d never looked worse. Her hacked-off hair was unflattering. Her fingernails were bitten for the first time since she was a teenager. She’d developed the strangest nervous habit the last week—she would bite on the knuckles of her fingers until it hurt. She didn’t know why she did it, but she couldn’t stop herself.

The work she’d started was an article about the flight of the Cheyennes toward their Powder River homeland, for the
Atlantic
. She and her sister had published poems in that magazine when they were teenagers, and one of the editors professed himself an admirer of theirs. Maybe her welcome would still be good. And maybe a few words in the Eastern press would make a difference, would mitigate the punishment the Cheyennes were headed for. So it was worthwhile.

She was also reading everything about the Cheyennes in the local newspapers, the Dodge City
Times
and Ford County
Globe
, which were as informative as a fit of apoplexy. She had written Dora for whatever she saw in the Boston paper, or other Eastern papers, and had even written the editor of the Kansas City
Journal
in the faint hope of getting some of the coverage done in that newspaper. Kansas City was near the turmoil, but not in the midst of it, and possibly not so bloodthirsty.

“Mizz Maclean?” came a voice.

The man stood in the street, for Dodge City mostly hadn’t the graces of sidewalks yet. He was an interesting-looking man, only medium-sized but powerful-looking and with a certain aura of … something.

“Yes?” said Elaine.

The man held a telegram. He came forward gently, with a smile that was mere politeness. His eyes were gray and had a glint of devilment about them. Something was familiar about this man, something in the eyes.

“I’m Bat Masterson, Mizz Maclean. The sheriff here. Thought you ought to see this.”

The telegram was from the provost marshal of some division of the army in Fort Leavenworth. It described two Cheyenne Indians, companions, a young man estimated to be six and a half feet tall, and an old one. It said they were wanted for the murder of the Reverend Somebody Ratz, the kidnapping of his daughter Hindy, a juvenile, and the murder of three scouts of a brigade of the cavalry, U.S. Army, these crimes committed near Dodge City, Kansas. The younger man was suspected to be a half-breed, Adam Smith Maclean, formerly a physician at the Cheyenne and Arapaho Agency in Indian territory, well educated and able to pass for a white man. No guess was ventured about the identity of the older man. County sheriffs located in Dodge City, Wallace, and Hays, Kansas, and Ogallala and Sidney, Nebraska, were asked to be on the lookout for these fugitives.

Well. They army had done its work well enough in figuring out who Adam was. That’s what happens when you’re outstanding, she thought. The old man must be Sings Wolf. She snorted a little. It was still hard to think of her as a man—
him
as a man.

She realized the sheriff was waiting, his eyes sharp on her. “Yes, Sheriff … I’m sorry I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Masterson, Mizz Maclean, Bat Masterson.” He just stood there, eyeing her. Now she wished she didn’t look such a fright, in this half-decent wrap and her hair ugly. “Is Adam Smith Maclean your husband, Mizz Maclean?”

“Certainly, Sheriff … Masterson. But my husband hasn’t killed anyone unless he was attacked. He’s a physician—he
saves
lives.”

The sheriff smiled a little, as though he’d expected her to say that.

She expected him to say that decision of who was a murderer and who was not was made by a court of law, not by him, and not by her. Instead he said, “These are strange times, Mizz Maclean. Strange times.”

He kept looking and smiling a little, perhaps with a hint of … what? A hint of menace, she thought. Now she knew him. The man getting a shave in the barbershop. She knew him, too, for what he was, a masher, a seducer, what men called a ladies’ man. Well, he had an attractive devil-may-care air. She was a little shocked at herself for thinking so.

“Where is Mr. Maclean now, Mizz Maclean?”

“I don’t know where
Dr.
Maclean is,” she answered.

“
Dr.
Maclean,” Masterson repeated. He waited a couple of beats. “It’s a crime to protect a fugitive from the law,” he said.

“I wish I could protect him,” she said. “I fear that he’s in grave danger. He’s trying to help his people return to their homeland at Powder River, and the army is treating them like criminals. I don’t know where they are, or where he is. I’m confident he’s done nothing wrong.”

Masterson nodded a couple of times again, an odd mannerism, perhaps confirming something to himself. “How long do you plan to be in Dodge City, Mizz Maclean?”

“Sheriff, my right leg has been amputated below the knee. I’m sure I’ll be in Dodge City for some weeks. Dr. Richtarsch hopes I’ll be able to start walking with a wooden leg in perhaps two more months. I may move into a boardinghouse in the meantime, if you need to ask other questions.”

Sheriff Masterson didn’t appear inclined to take the hint. “Yes, ma’am.” His eyes twinkled wickedly, the rogue. “I knew a lady once lost her leg like that,” he said. “She learned to ride with a sidesaddle, it being her right leg that was short some. Dr. Richtarsch tells me it’s your right leg.”

Elaine said, “I sold my sidesaddle, Sheriff.”

He nodded. “That’s what I heard. Over to Ham, at the livery.” Cheeky fellow, and certainly not Elaine’s sort. “That lady learned it,” said the sheriff giving all his phrases an extra pause. “Course, she was a sporting lady.” Only his cool, gray eyes smiled at that.

Well, Mr. Masterson, she thought, saying such a thing to a lady. All right, if you want to play that game.

He touched his hand to his hat brim. “Mizz Maclean, you let me know if you hear from your husband now, will you? Be sure. Army looking for him—that’s not too serious, because they don’t look too hard. Too busy fighting Injuns. But it’s best to get things like this straightened out.”

“Of course, Sheriff Masterson.” Of course if I knew Adam was headed into hell, I’d point you toward heaven.

The sheriff touched his hat again and walked off, the walk of a man who supposed he was being watched by an attractive woman, and liked it. Elaine gave a quiet
hummpf
.

An hour later the liveryman brought her sidesaddle. The note read simply, “Compliments of Bat Masterson.”

Chapter 10

Little Wolf told his people to scatter into the Sand Hills. He said they’d leave many trails, like birds scattering through the brush. The soldiers would not follow any trail so small, he said. Let the soldiers follow Morning Star, who was going in to surrender anyway, and who said he trusted the soldiers of this country.

Little Wolf named a place on the north side of the Sand Hills and west of the head of the Snake River where they would meet. Not far from there Little Wolf knew a place to make a winter camp. It was time to stop running, and time to hide.

The camping place they reached two weeks later was Lost Chokecherry Valley, a small, cupped formation with a lake. It promised some warmth and lots of ducks and geese. Some of the men said it was too close to the Black Hills Road, that they would be discovered, but Little Wolf said it was the best choice, and that was enough for everyone. The people were tired, desperately in need of rest.

The next morning Wooden Legs and some of the other young men brought in a few cattle for food. Luckily, they were even unbranded cattle, so the cowboys of the ranches would not come looking.

No one knew whether the Human Beings could hide here all winter. But the Elk Society men would keep a diligent watch. When army scouts came, the people would hide in the bushes, and if spotted, they would scatter into the little hills and come together again somewhere else. It was the best they could do. For now the people must rest and eat.

Smith thought it would be a damn rough winter. No buffalo-hide lodges, the pride of every Cheyenne family. No canvas tents, not even any blankets to speak of. They would have to live in brush huts and in holes in the hillsides. He wondered if they could get enough food. It would be dangerous to shoot the guns so near the road, and they didn’t have much ammunition anyway. So they would have to live on what they could get with the bow and arrow, and then be careful not to leave a moccasin trail back into Lost Chokecherry Valley. Smith had not hunted with a bow and arrow in fifteen years, but he could do it, and he would get his skill back this winter.

Smith kept his mind off Elaine, three weeks along toward a mended leg now. She would survive there at the Wockerleys’ house. She would still be stuck in her bed, in traction, surely lonely and bored, but safe. He couldn’t help her except by giving her some company. And right now his family and his people needed his company, his support, his protection, and whatever else he could offer.

Elaine had her mind made up to try to ride by Thanksgiving day, and she did. The day before the pilgrims of her native state gave thanks for a bountiful harvest, Sheriff Masterson led a mare around opposite the porch door for her, with the sidesaddle already cinched on, and the mare tied to the back of a surrey.

Of course, she’d refused the sheriff’s gift of the sidesaddle. But Sheriff Masterson had prevailed upon the liveryman he called Ham to loan it back to her without charge. The man had done some repairs, too. It looked smart.

She simply clumsied to the bottom of the little steps—what choice did she have? Standing there getting her composure back, she saw a shadowy figure behind the curtains in the window next door. Well, she was probably a neighborhood curiosity. Strange that she’d never seen the children playing out near her porch again.

She poked her way to the road on her crutches, now rather proud of the way she maneuvered. She was swift to heal, Dr. Richtarsch said, and remarkable at rehabilitation—“amazingly dedicated,” in his words.

The sheriff stayed in the road by the surrey while she crutched her way across the little patch of lawn, its grasses browned by the late-autumn cold. The surrey had been his idea. When she tired, she could sit in the little carriage and be driven back. She knew she might tire in a block, but suspected she would be good for a mile, perhaps farther. She thought she was sneaky strong.

When she got to the carriage, she beamed at Sheriff Masterson. Why not beam? She felt like a child on a lark. Her hair was ugly at shoulder length, but it was nicely brushed out. She was going out on the town, sort of. She wished her escort were Adam, but at least the sheriff was a good-looking man.

She nudged the thought of Adam out of her head—she was angry at him. Why had he been out of touch for nearly eight weeks? If he still wanted her, he’d have been in touch somehow, by telegraph, at least. She wondered whether Cheyenne culture taught casualness about marriage. When you can have three or four wives, how much difference can one make?

But she had no intention of doing what everyone hinted at—consider the facts available, and face them. As they put it. She would have her husband back. When she found a way to bear letting him see her crippled.

She grasped the saddle horn, handed Sheriff Masterson her crutches, and he set them in the surrey. She was grateful that he had been thoughtful enough to let her gimp her own way across, not supported by a man. Evidently he wasn’t going to fuss over her, and that would be splendid.

She reached out and gripped the sheriff by his shoulders. He gave her a mischievous grin, took her firmly by the waist, and—here came the dicey part—gave her a good hoist into the saddle.

First pleasant surprise: It didn’t hurt yet, or not more than a twinge. She held to the saddle horn. She got her left foot into the stirrup and her knee braced against the leaping horn. That was easy. Then she laid her stump over the higher horn, which supported her leg just above the knee.

She put some pressure against the horn—that would be her cross to bear. Whoa! It was going to hurt. She pushed away the sad memory of learning to ride under Adam’s tutelage and thought of exactly what exertions would be needed to ride the horse. Yes, she recalled, the pressure on the horns fluctuated with the motion of the horse’s back. It peaked when … Ow! She wouldn’t be able to do that today.

“Sheriff,” she said, “perhaps today if you’d just lead her. We could stay right in this street.” So much for a mile. So much for sneaky strong.

The sheriff nodded and smiled. Elaine noticed that he liked to look a lot and say little, and constantly made his own quiet judgments.

She took in her breath and gave a fair squeeze against the horns.

God! She nearly blacked out. She damn near fell off.

Sheriff Masterson quickly supported her by the waist with both hands. She used his forearms, forearms as thick as Smith’s on a much shorter man, and got her seat back.

She really thought she couldn’t do it.

She got her breath. So, if she couldn’t, she would just fall. She’d fallen off a horse before. She refused to be stymied by something as simple as pain.

She noticed Masterson’s face. He just watched her, his cool, gray eyes taking in everything, curious, interested, but without compassion. What an odd man, she thought, admirable in his way, but quite cold.

Of course, she supposed his interest in her was seduction. Certainly not passion. No, a detached and amused wondering if he could seduce her. She imagined this sort of man made some gesture in the direction of every half-suitable woman he met. Perhaps in her case he was also curious about her … handicap. She refused to contemplate the ugliness of that sort of interest.

In any case, she thought, he would make his effort, and with a certain style. It would do him no good. Right now she didn’t want warmth or even real friendship from a man, and certainly not morbid curiosity about her stump.

Fran had told her that Sheriff Masterson had shot and killed a man over a dance-hall girl. Elaine thought he could. He also had a reputation as an avid gambler, not calculating, but daring, full of bluffs and high spirits.

“If you’ll lead, please.”

He untied the reins from the surrey, looked back to her to check, and started slowly down the road.

She lurched and had to grip with her legs—Oh! She gasped for breath through the pain and choked back a cry. After a moment she wiped the tears from her eyes and forced herself to look ahead. She abandoned all pretense about sitting with style, and held on to the cantle and the saddle horn with all her might. The sheriff appeared not to have noticed her little upset, but she thought that was just his politeness, for he noticed everything. She was grateful.

They got to the intersection at Front Street. Sheriff Masterson looked out sharply for traffic, circled the horse slowly in the larger street, and headed back toward the Wockerley house. Elaine noticed that heads on Front Street turned toward the lady being led around by the sheriff.

No doubt most of those heads wondered who the lady was. No doubt some of them knew—the fool who went to the Injuns and paid a leg for her trouble. No doubt tongues would wag.

Well, considering that right now she felt as though she couldn’t attract flies, that was not unflattering. The tongues could do all the scandal-mongering they liked.

The sheriff stopped the horse by the surrey, tied the reins without a word, and lifted his hands to help her down. She slid to him gratefully. She’d have to be careful of this getting off the horse, or she would end up in his arms in a suggestive way. She preferred to be careful.

He handed her the crutches, she pegged across the lawn, and at the stoop he held the door for her. “Thank you for your courtesy, Sheriff,” she said with a smile, which took some effort.

Bat Masterson gave her that devil-may-care grin back, wheeled, and was off. To your gambling dens, Sheriff? To your sporting women? Too bad. He wasn’t an unattractive man.

In the hard-face moon, which the white men called November, the Human Beings hidden in Lost Chokecherry Valley got bad news, and then a great stroke of luck.

The bad news came by messenger from Morning Star. During the big blizzard near the end of October, his people were captured by soldiers and herded to Fort Robinson. Instead of joining Red Cloud’s people, they had become prisoners at the fort. No one knew what would happen. The soldiers talked of escorting them back south to Indian territory, but were waiting for instructions from Washington City. The people would not go back, said the messengers, no matter what the whites said or did. They preferred to fight and die at Fort Robinson, if necessary.

Little Wolf smoked his pipe in silence over this news. Smith guessed the Sweet Medicine chief found it too sad for comment. If the soldiers were adamant, and the people were adamant, the snow would turn red, and the earth beneath would be thawed by warm blood.

Smith thought how glad he was that his family was here, in Nebraska. True, they were not yet home—home to Powder River, home where he was raised, home to both his mothers. True, they were hungry and cold. But they weren’t penned up in some fort, waiting for some soldiers to tell them whether they could live.

The stroke of luck came shortly after the bad news. The scouts spotted a great, dark line coming from the north. Once they would have thought, buffalo. Now they thought, soldiers. The women began packing their few belongings. But then Raven saw the advancing line for what it was—elk. A huge, migrating herd of elk.

Raven directed everyone to the sand pass where the elk always used to cross. They waited until the leaders got down into the gully and began to fire—arrows and spears only, no guns. Soon elk fell over the bodies of the beasts in front of them.

Little Wolf and other older men kept a close watch, for the situation was very dangerous. Maybe soldiers were chasing the herd. Maybe soldiers would spot the scavenger birds over the carrion. Little Wolf directed the women with packs of meat to go back toward the Lost Chokecherry Valley by a roundabout route to the north, misleading any trackers.

Though no longer a first-rate shot with an arrow, Smith downed two cows and a bull. His women hurried out to skin them, grinning irrepressibly. Bloodthirsty bitches, ain’t they? Smith commented teasingly to himself. Then he acted like a
veho
—he went to help them get the meat packed and get out of here. This place was likely to be trouble, one way or another. The soldiers would either come on them here or spot the carrion birds above the leavings and follow the people’s tracks back to the valley.

He was as glad as his women were for the elk. The meat would get them through the winter. Just as important for their spirits, he thought, were the elk teeth. Cheyenne women decorated their fancy dresses with elk teeth, but for a long time now his mother had been poor as a white woman. Smith would give the teeth from one animal to Lisette, from one to Rain, the poor creature, and from one to Hindy, her first elk teeth. And you’ll make a fine savage yet, girl, Smith thought.

Then came another miracle. As the people hurried off with the meat, snow began to fall, first gently, then thickly.

Damn, thought Smith profanely, Maheo is with us.

The snow would cover their tracks. Better yet, it would cover the carcasses and entrails and keep the carrion-eaters away. There would be no high-circling buzzards for the soldiers to see.

That night the Tsistsistas-Suhtaio feasted. Every fire had meat aplenty. Not buffalo, true, but the elk was fat for the coming winter, and some of the people wondered aloud if even buffalo was so good. Smith’s women roasted the guts first on sticks over the open fire, and then the ribs, the tongues cooking for later. Smith loved ribs—he liked the feeling of gnawing straight off a bone, stripping the last, clinging fragments with his teeth. It made him want to grunt mockingly, “I am animal. Good.”

After supper, and after Smith smoked a little kinnikinnick, Lisette came and sat beside him and put an arm around his waist and nuzzled his shoulder with her head. She could act familiar—she was his mother, and he didn’t have a sits-beside-him wife, not here. Besides, Lisette had always done what she wanted. He had heard tales about her sexual explorations when she was a young woman. He looked into her face. She was still damned attractive, fifty years old or not.

“You need a wife,” she said in English.

Smith laughed and put his arm around her teasingly.

She chuckled and said softly, “Rain needs a husband.” He was glad she’d chosen English. He didn’t want Rain to hear.