Secondhand Sunsets, page 23
“Whatever the law says.”
Captain Whitaker stared out at the parade grounds. “Stealing Army cattle, weapons, and liquor; supplying the enemy; killing a squaw; leaving his wife for dead—”
“Plus assaulting an officer.”
The captain started to answer when a messenger gestured them down a short hallway. Martin had the sensation of being a little boy again, entering Pastor Schultz’s study at Mama’s side.
Maps covered an enormous table engulfing half of the office. Tall and tanned, General Crook’s full beard parted at the chin. Close-cropped hair framed his thin visage, and a frayed canvas hunting outfit the shade of rebel uniforms hung on his spare frame. A trapper or scout might sport such stained cuffs.
“At ease, men. This must be the Sergeant Tolzmann you have mentioned, captain.” The general leafed through a sheaf of papers. “I have here your report and the evidence.” He pointed toward the crate slat and whiskey cork from McHale’s pasture. “You found these on Ray McHale’s property?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Ever meet the man before this investigation?”
“I had no idea who he was. I found the items under the captain’s orders. He, ah—”
“Yes?”
Martin squirmed. “He had an intuition to explore the canyon beyond the Rim.”
General Crook rubbed his beard. “An intuition, captain?”
“Colonel Masters forbade searching there because of an Indian burial ground, he said, but we found none.”
“And your fresh injury?”
“The down side of the prisoner’s handcuffs. I ought to have known better than to get so close.”
“Our surgeon employs some herbal Indian remedies. Stop in there for one of his plant concoctions.” The general ran his forefinger along his own jaw. “Stay here until that wound heals over, captain. Anything else to add?”
“My misgivings run stronger than ever after the past week.”
“And you, sergeant? Feel free to speak.”
Martin glanced toward Captain Whitaker, who urged, “Tell him everything.”
“I found an Indian woman dying in McHale’s barn. He broke her neck after he delivered the goods to the natives.”
General Crook squeezed his eyes shut, but motioned for Martin to continue.
“A day earlier, I discovered McHale’s wife on the trail, barely alive. A whiskey flask lay nearby. Here it is.” He handed over the flask.
“R. M.” The general massaged his forehead. “This brings my Mary to mind. If anyone were to— Begging your pardon, but sometimes I wonder why certain people carry on, while innocents die.” He lifted a paper.
“Perhaps you have not heard that within the past week, Apache warriors have again raided Camp Reno. If only Chief Del-che-ae’s brother had not been killed three years ago. But that was before your time, Captain?”
“True, but I believe Del-che-ae’s people might have supported our work on the Green Valley road. Unfortunately, his death confused the other Indians. The command kept changing—who they could trust?”
“Indeed. Things took a bad turn after the commander imprisoned the chief’s brother and killed him when he tried to escape.” The general’s sigh filled the room. “Was that about the time you two reached your unit?”
“We came just in time for the Fort McDowell supply train attacks.”
“We have nearly finished the road, but paid for it in blood.” General Crook winced and grabbed his side.
“One of your mementos from the second Pit River expedition, Sir?”
“Humph. Not everyone can say a poison arrow resides on their person—just last week our surgeon had to forcibly remove an arrowhead embedded in a soldier’s leg bone. Infection set in, but at present, he shows signs of improvement.” The general rubbed his hip. “But back to Camp Reno. I hoped November’s natural phenomenon over the Tonto Basin would quiet things down. Did you witness it?”
“Yes, from east of the Mazatzal Range—like flaming rain sent straight from heaven. The sight brought us to attention, Sir.”
“Others have compared it to battle. The earth heaved and the skies thundered, they say. The vision scared the Indians for a time, but now they’ve become so hungry—” General Crook’s shoulders sagged. “I see no way around more bloodshed. But I digress. Captain, visit the surgeon immediately—that’s an order.”
“Colonel Simms asked us to wait here until he arrives. Do you agree?”
“Yes.” The general’s tone hardened. “For your ears only—Colonel Masters faces court martial. His replacement has already been summoned.” He drummed his fingertips on his desk. “Sergeant, I want you available as a witness.”
They took their leave, and at the bottom of the steps, Martin asked his burning question. “He has a poison arrow in his hip?”
“From California gold country. His bravery resulted in his commander naming a fort after him. Impressive, eh? Let’s eat and do some exploring.”
“Sir, what about the surgeon?”
“Ah, yes. But first, we eat.”
Over hot biscuits and beef drowning in thick gravy, all conversation ceased. Finally, Captain Whitaker quipped, “Behold the fruits of justice. As we feast, McHale’s stomach growls with no relief.”
From the mess hall, a private led Martin to their quarters while Captain Whitaker saw the surgeon. In evening light, he entered their room with his jaw bandaged.
“Creosote leaf poultice from the Pima.” With that, he collapsed on his bunk and fell asleep in an instant. Martin nodded off, wondering when the other contingent would arrive. The sooner he could tell Abby about Ray’s imprisonment, the better.
The next thing he knew, a woman’s voice grated outside. Across the room, the captain still slept. Martin stretched toward the window opening, where she verbally accosted a guard.
“I demand to see Ray McHale. That no-good, filthy cheat belongs to me, his rightful wife.”
Martin shook away his lethargy. Wife—McHale?
“State your name, ma’am.”
“I told you, Lola McHale. Now, let me in!”
A man spoke with a genteel accent. “Begging your pardon, sir, Albert Aldrich lately of Abilene. Mrs. McHale is most... ahem... indisposed, since we have traveled far and wide in search of your prisoner. A Camp Reno detachment sent us here, and we would be most gratified for your help.”
“Past the parade ground, third building on your left.”
Martin pulled back the shutter, and the scene almost hurt his eyes. With a tattered dress, hat askew, and dull hair flying loose from its pins, a worn-out matron sat atop a dilapidated rig.
McHale’s wife? His heart did a flip.
Immovable as a post, Captain Whitaker still snored. The surgeon must have drugged him with sleeping powders. Silently, Martin pulled on his boots.
†††
With a deep sigh, Elda Mae looked up from her chair beside the bed. Deep crevasses lined her brow at Fred’s tortured rasp. Abby slipped out to the porch, and her own breath, visible in the cold air, rose to the sky.
“Oh God, please protect Fred.” During the night, he coughed even harder than Papa when he had pneumonia.
From the cooler, she removed the wet burlap cover from a bowl of cream. Screens let air circulate throughout the cooler’s three slatted shelves to keep perishables safe. Another loud spasm issued from the bedroom as she ladled out some cream and replaced the bowl.
The strong onion poultice drew her back inside, where Elda Mae fetched more hot water. Amidst more dreadful hacking, her voice remained calm.
“Dear, please prepare the sumac.”
Pouring boiling water over some dried berries, Abby awaited the resulting faint lemon scent. Elda Mae, pale and disheveled from her nursing duties, welcomed the brew.
“Would you let me watch him for a while?”
“Maybe later, if he sleeps.”
Fred’s form, a mere bony rise under the blanket, sent a shudder through Abby. Back on the porch, she set her hand to his handmade wooden plunger. Nine carved potato-sized openings he had crafted forced cream up into the churn.
“Such a brilliant invention—the texture stays consistent as the butter forms.” Elda Mae had praised his ingenuity the first time she showed Abby the plunger. “Makes the job far easier and saves time.”
Long after sun splayed the east window, the up and down motion centered Abby, until Elda Mae sent her scurrying to the barn for more onions. The difficult descent from the mow had her grappling with her skirts.
“I should make myself some bloomers. If Mama could see the conditions here, even she might approve.”
With the Huckaback towels already warming, she and Elda Mae sliced onions until one towel overflowed and wrapped two more around the mass. Together, they pressed the healing poultice over Fred’s chest and piled on blankets.
Elda Mae was right—their patient was completely dependent on Providence. Elda Mae possessed no power to save Fred, and in the same way, she could have done nothing to change Ray’s behavior. Was it Pastor Fox who said, “Trouble and despair drive us to prayer?”
Her plea for Fred rose once again.
By the time the butter formed, the poultice and tea had quieted Fred’s cough. Abby removed the plunger and spooned fragrant yellow mounds into a granite bowl to set in the cooler. Then she peeked into the bedroom.
With her forehead against Fred’s chest, her torso rising and falling in rhythm with his, Elda Mae rested. Her chins trembled against her bodice with each breath, and her plump fingers splayed in exhaustion.
“He means so much to her, and to me, too. Please let him live.” Sending up her faltering prayers seemed far too little. There must be something more she could do.
Meat still clung to a chicken carcass they roasted yesterday, so she could make soup, Mama’s all-purpose healer. And fresh corn bread—ah, yes. The scent might pique Fred’s appetite.
When the bread had baked and the soup simmered, Elda Mae finally emerged with good news. “At last, his fever broke.”
“I have supper in hand and can do the chores. Please rest a few hours.”
That evening, Fred drank chicken broth. Two days later, even skinnier than before, he walked out to the porch. The next day, the barn became his target. When he resumed his sketching, his grin widened like normal.
One afternoon the next week, when most of the snow had melted away, Elda Mae led Abby far afield to hunt for herbs. “The Indians gave me creosote powder for foot fungus and taught me to put heated branches directly on Fred’s chest. You can gather them all year long, even in the cold, but they only grow down this slope.”
Being outdoors spurred her tongue. “I ran out a few days back, but the next time he suffers, we can boil these leaves and have him breathe the steam. I add some to my bath water, too, for aches and pains.”
They topped a ridge overlooking a meadow alive with small plants, despite the temperature.
“The Indians led you here?”
“Yes.” On a large flat rock, Elda Mae pressed a reddish substance from a creosote branch into a small glass vial before turning the branch to press the other end.
“This gum makes a sore throat wash and an ointment for cuts and scrapes.”
Around them, green-black Ponderosa pine and blue-tinted juniper joined light green bristle bushes. Here and there, yellowed leaves added light strokes. Undulating along the Rim, shadows darkened the palate.
“My drawings could never do this country justice. ”
“How long have you sketched?”
“When I was little, Mama gave me a canvas and brushes and taught me the essentials. My teacher encouraged me, but then I let everything go.”
Elda Mae unwrapped a packet from her coat pocket. “But now, you are busy once again. Have a biscuit. I imagine our place gives you a different perspective of the Rim. Surely you sketched from the ranch?”
“I longed to, and just before I rode to your house, I considered stealing a page from Ray’s record book.”
From the west, a large bird sailed their way—a turkey vulture?
“Oh, a golden eagle.” Elda Mae shaded her eyes. “I do hope Fred sees it.”
“The wingspan must be seven feet.”
“More will come some day. Fred means to catalog every species.”
“But what if a golden eagle never lands near the cabin?”
“One will. The White Mountain Chief told us about the Thunderbird and honored us by fanning its feathers over us in the Thunderbird ceremony to bless Fred’s work. Of course, we don’t believe the eagle’s eyes issue lightning or that it portends victory in battle. But Providence created all things, and the Indians chose this eagle as their symbol for power and protection.”
“Like an idol?”
“So some folks assume, but the tribe also acknowledges the eagle’s creator. The Thunderbird ceremony resembled our church’s farewell service for our wagon train.”
The eagle swooped and ascended, clutching some unfortunate animal in its beak.
Elda Mae touched Abby’s shoulder. “Have you ever read God’s promise to renew our strength?”
“My memory fails me.”
“We must remedy that. Some passages were meant for claiming.”
Back at home, she fetched her Bible and read. “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall rise up with wings as eagles .”
“The other day I asked how long I needed to wait. Perhaps this is my answer—until my strength is equal to facing the future.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Loud banging, grunts, groans, and exclamations came from the stockade, so Martin skulked behind the buildings in that direction. He had missed some sleep last night after the stockade guard had told Lola to return in the morning.
“You will let me in, or—” Someone rattled the latch.
“Who goes there?”
“Lola McHale. Confound you, let me in. And hurry.”
Putrid latrine odor assailed Martin, who froze against the back of the frame structure. His heart beat a crazed staccato, for if this woman—Lola—had really married McHale, that meant Abby...
“What goes on here?” General Crook’s voice—the noise must have drawn him, too.
“Sir, we seek entrance.” Lola’s male friend made the request.
“On what pretext?”
“Legal right. Ray McHale is this wronged woman’s lawful husband. We attempted to prove this last night, but were thwarted.”
“What evidence have you?”
Dry paper crinkled as a forlorn birdcall issued from patch of bushes.
“You see, general? I married Ray years ago, in the Territory of Kansas.”
The tips of Martin’s ears burned as he peered around the corner. Slinking along like a criminal to eavesdrop—but the scene magnetized him.
In the same canvas as yesterday, but wearing a shabby pith helmet, General Crook studied a wrinkled document. “Indeed, it seems the law binds you to this man.”
“For better or worse. And he owes me.” Lola’s flimsy hat teetered when she tossed her head.
“Is that so?”
“Blamed thief stole my—”
General Crook cut her off. “You wish to speak with him now?”
“He took the deed for a ranch I won fair and square in a poker game. I mean to get it back.”
The man at her side nipped her waist, so she quieted down.
“But I heard in good faith that Mr. McHale beat his wife nearly to death.”
“Who knows how many women he so-called married?”
“I grant you five minutes.” The general turned toward his mule, and a guard drew out his key. Martin side-winded to the back. Seconds later, Lola’s cursing at McHale would have put the toughest soldier to shame.
Even from this distance Martin reeled at her screeching. Then someone muttered. “If only all men could be like Padre Kino, taking nothing for himself. He gave his all, and left this world a better place.”
A mule’s muzzle showed around the stockade corner, and its rider continued. “Quite the pair, selfish as this land in a downpour.” He stopped short when he saw Martin.
“Enjoying yourself, soldier?” The sparkle in General Crook’s eyes called Martin to attention.
“At ease, Sergeant Tolzmann.” A smile pulled at the general’s lips. “Most excitement here since the last Apache raid. I presume you have reason for spending your leisure in this muck?”
“Hearing Mrs. McHale’s voice whetted my curiosity.”
“How so?”
“She maintains to be the prisoner’s wife, yet—”
“You carried that other wife to safety?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sometimes the look of things falls far from reality. That other wife the prisoner nearly killed—how far did you carry her?”
“Perhaps a half hour to the neighbor’s cabin.”
General Crook’s mule stamped a hoof. “Apache. Patience.” He patted her neck. “My apologies. Apache loves her morning promenade and shows little tolerance for changes in routine.”
For a moment, he seemed to have forgotten the subject. Martin wished he could quietly disappear, but General Crook dismounted and advanced.
“Interesting things happen to a man’s heart when he totes an injured woman that far, sergeant. Her name?”
“Abby, Sir.”
“Will she be all right?”
“She had regained her senses before I left.”
“Good. You will check on her again?”
“I promised to let her know when McHale could no longer hurt her.”
“And well you should, after all her suffering.” A howl from within the stockade made the general grimace. “If McHale’s true wife has any say, our prisoner may perish before his hanging. Your Abby can rest easy now.”
