Secondhand Sunsets, page 6
He snapped his book shut. “They’s sickness at a place called Wickenburg. Nothin’ diff’rent. Live oak n’ hackberry. Dry land.”
All this he uttered with his eyes on his notebook. She rolled to her knees—if only he would look at her.
As full dark fell, his heels hit the floor. He shoved her down and her head hit the floor. “Shoulda left y’ in Missouri.”
“I only want to... ”
A second later, the empty rocker bobbed back and forth. Manure assaulted her senses, and pain seared her scalp. Over her, Ray’s fist crushed a golden tangle.
“You—you pulled out my hair!”
Single strands drifted from his thick fingers. Renegade floorboards creaked as he turned. Abby lowered her face and braced for another blow.
His leather boot toes pleated into deep crevasses as a whoosh grazed her forehead, but then he backed off and leaped down the steps. His boots crunched on rock thirty-seven times. The barn hinges squeaked, and then came a slam.
Sharp needles pierced the tender skin behind Abby’s ear. After some time, she became aware of the pine wind caressing her cheeks like Papa’s gentle touch. What did these reliable pine friends whisper?
No one will come. Lying here will do no good. Dizzy and faint, she stumbled up and steadied herself on the rocker.
Another elk call issued, forlorn and desperate. Then a turkey vulture’s unmistakable chut chut quickened her. The great bird lunged close, though Ray swore they never flew after dark.
Against a lazy moon, its updraft cooled her forearm before the creature careened upward toward Strawberry Mountain. In its wake, something nestled in Abby’s palm. She poked the velvety softness safe into her apron pocket and touched her scalp. The copper smell of blood oozed on her fingertips.
“Make a cold compress—” Even her whisper trembled. “Mama would give me some of her wound drops.” She took a step toward the cabin door. “He has never hurt me like this. Oh, if only I could bear him a child.”
In the darkness, Granny’s toothless visage prophesied. More sorrow... travel far, where darkness assails...
“No—no—go away!”
If Mama were here, her holy words would thwart this evil omen. But Abby could only stumble to the bed and cling to her quilt.
Chapter Six
“Must be the Fort McDowell ambulance.” Martin ducked his head as an inescapable dust cloud enveloped them. He summoned his men. “Water break.”
Soldiers dipped into wooden water barrels stationed near the road. Captain Whitaker waved Martin over, a veil of red dust masking his clipped mustache.
“When we finish this confounded job, perhaps we can serve as housemen for this new Major Lewiston and his wife.”
“He brought her out here?”
“Yes, and some other officer’s daughter, too. If women can live at McDowell, they think, why not at Camp Reno?”
“Without—” Wheels crashed against granite, and the mule driver’s high-pitched cussing blotted out the rest.
“Only sluggards stoop to cussing, children. The Lord gave us thousands of phrases and a brain to use them.” Mama’s strong opinion always surfaced at such times.
Amidst more profanity, one straining mule perked at the name “Missy.” A serpentine whip sailed as the team conquered the taunting grade.
“Sir, I heard the drivers give each mule a woman’s name.”
“Indeed.” Captain Whitaker groaned. “Clearly, General Crook never mastered the word impassable.”
Now came a soldier roosted on a great thorough brace wagon seat, inciting four lively mules. Some fool had rolled up the murky canvas top, revealing splashes of pale pink and lavender.
The unnatural tints startled Martin. Captain Whitaker saluted, so he followed suit, and a young woman under a bright calico bonnet gave her fan an extra flap. Heat razed Martin’s face, though he knew she aimed her gesture at his superior.
The ambulance gave way to a gigantic blue army wagon piled with boxes and camp equipage. Against tents and ponchos rolled into a corner huddled several camp laundresses, copper-skinned Spanish women with glistening black hair. Young children curled around them like beagle puppies shrouded in dust.
“Pfwhhaaa.” The Captain’s clay mustache flaked onto his uniform as the second wagon topped the rise.
“Sergeant, that young lady in silk would make you a fine bride.”
“A sluggish old farmer like me?”
“Ah, you think too lowly of yourself. Recall that lovely girl back in Missouri—Ferguson’s Store, wasn’t it? I noted her interest in you.”
The Captain hurried off, leaving his comment to niggle at Martin’s deep conviction that he was unsuited to marriage. After Papa died, he and his brothers tackled far too much farm work to think about anything else. Then came the war and now the cavalry.
But he did recollect that girl in Missouri—in the mercantile in Poplar Bluff. Ever since he accompanied a contingent of soldiers northward after Vicksburg, she had roused his curiosity. He still wondered about her fate, for when they rode through Poplar Bluff in the dead of night, they noted that the store had burned to the ground.
On the porch next door, someone rocked in a swing—a distinct creak, creak, creak. Was it the storekeeper’s daughter?
Regardless, his destiny included no fair-eyed bride. He had passed through that season of life and emerged unwed.
Martin turned to his crew. “Go at it, men.” Picks clashed against rock—it still amazed him when troops obeyed his orders.
An hour passed and after another water break, the men lapsed into resigned silence, hands molded to axe handles and picks. Dulled by the profound afternoon heat, supper and sleep became their highest hope.
Private Harris, an Iowa giant, helped Martin shove broken boulders to the side. He lifted rocks the size of a pot-bellied stove, yet maintained a good-natured grin.
“Between California and Council Bluffs, I hear men are building a railroad, Private. Would you rather be doing that?”
“Work is work. I’d as soon do this as anything.”
When Captain Whitaker crested the hill again, Martin met him. “Everything all right, Sir?”
“Colonel Masters has summoned us to his tent tonight.”
“Me?”
“You. Who knows what awaits us?”
Back in camp, Martin washed up and devoured his meal, and as he finished, Captain Whitaker sidled by with a grim smile. “Ho... beef and beans. A change from our regular fare, eh?”
“If you say so.”
“It was beans and beef last night. A man has to find variety wherever he can.”
After supper, Captain Whitaker appeared at his tent. “Someone as important as Masters must not be kept waiting.”
His tone evidenced disrespect, but Martin maintained deference to their commander. After all, Colonel Masters had survived the war, too.
†††
A few tents away, the colonel waved them in and after the usual greetings, plunged in. “Every week, more cattle disappear from the government herd in the Tonto Basin, just under General Crook’s Rim.” He reached for a thick roll of maps. “We must rout the rustlers; make them a public example.”
Captain Whitaker helped him flatten the maps over a wooden table.
Since the Colonel was touchy about his height, Martin cramped his shoulders. But Captain Whitaker squared his and stood a full head above the Colonel’s sparse topknot.
“One of the cowhands may have connections with outlaws who wager that with three thousand head, a few at a time will go unnoticed. Your job, men, is to ferret out the culprits.”
“How many troops shall we take?”
“Choose two good scouts, ah... except Harris and Wilson, who are needed elsewhere. Sergeant Tolzmann, word has it you are a natural at reconnaissance.”
Better to let such comments slide.
Colonel Masters circled a flat area surrounded on three sides by the Mogollon Rim and bordering the East Verde River on the south. “No use wasting time here. Indian burial grounds, our scouts say.”
“Any other specifics?”
“You might inquire of the cowhands.” Colonel Masters pursed his lips. “Certain men have no scruples—surely you find this true, Captain?”
“That is the world’s way.”
“And upright men must bring such scoundrels to justice.” The Colonel drummed the table. “I expect a complete report—depart on Monday next. Dismissed.”
Some distance away, Captain Whitaker led the way down a ravine. “What do you think, Martin?” Since they had served together for so long, Captain Whitaker sometimes waived protocol.
“Seems we have ourselves a job.”
“You know all about cattle, right?”
“As much as any Iowa farm boy.”
“That’s all there is to know.”
A quarter moon rose and evening birdcalls hushed. Martin kept hoping to hear something akin to those back home, perhaps a turtledove.
“As a sheriff’s son, I bring to this task considerable intuition.”
“Is that why the Colonel chose you?”
“He knows nothing of my upbringing and thinks you ignorant, despite his cheap compliment. But he knows I can write stunning reports to impress Washington. Even an inept officer can be made to look good on paper.”
Martin stretched his shoulders, suddenly recalling his last hot bath, thanks to Captain Whitaker. What he wouldn’t give for one right now.
“Colonel Masters desires me out of the way for a while—Major Lewiston is one of his old war cronies.” Overhead, one lone star made its appearance.
“Sir, why do you think the Colonel rejected Harris and Wilson?”
Captain Whitaker took his time, long enough for a coyote to yap and receive an answer from a distance.
“True scouts would find the thieves, but Masters hopes we get lost, or worse.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, indeed. If we find nothing, he can claim he tried. If we return with valuable information, he gleans all possible glory. But if one of his Indian scouts rides into camp with our hides draped over a horse, he can say he even forfeited two good men in the effort to secure justice.”
†††
At rare hoof beats from the east, Abby shooed away her hens and grappled with the screechy coop door. Ray’s fierce look kept her from asking questions of the last stranger who rode through, and that evening, she had hovered on the dark porch to eke out the men’s campfire talk.
“Hell-fire renegades ... ended up in the calaboose, by Betsy. We was armed with a passel a’ firearms—best battle I ever fit.”
With this guest so close, she felt even lonelier than before. Now, weeks had passed, and this steady garumph-garumph neared the yard. The hens broke out in wild cackling. Goose flesh scampered the length of Abby’s arms. Startled pullets scattered like buckshot as she thrust the pin through the latch.
She listened again—unbelievable, but unmistakable—someone was coming.
“Better make some coffee.” She washed at the tank, dropped her chore shoes by the steps, and raced inside. Groping behind the mending pile for her clean shoes, she touched some paper instead—what could that be? But she dashed her curiosity and circled her fingers until she touched her black shoes with their delicate side buttons.
Still hidden by dense growth along the trail, the horses slowed. Hammer blows echoed from the pasture—Ray’s pounding and sawing would mute this arrival, and the barn blocked his view.
Visitors all to herself.
“Whoa, now.”
Pulse roaring in her ears, Abby sprang onto the porch.
“Ho there, Missus.” A deep baritone belied a tall man’s wiry frame.
He helped a plump woman wriggle from her horse. Abby could barely maintain her composure. The stranger dusted off her skirt, the color of dark red maple leaves. Her face bore a smile like sunlight.
“I declare—someone does still live down here.” The woman extended her hands. “Elda Mae and Fred Allen, your neighbors. You must be Ray McHale’s wife?”
The woman’s lavender scent, so like that of Mama and Aunt Susan, rendered Abby faint.
“Yes.” She remembered her manners. “Please call me Abby. Do come in for cake and coffee.”
“Ma’am.” Fred shook her hand, surveyed the yard, and fingered his hat.
“My husband is clearing beyond the pasture today.”
“Well, then. We shall whet our whistles, and you can look things over out here, Fred.” Elda Mae smoothed dimpled fingers over his shirtsleeve. “Coffee sounds wonderful, doesn’t it, dear?”
The scrape of chairs and the dust on Fred’s collar assured Abby she was not dreaming. She warmed the coffee and filled cups as Elda Mae set down her hat and seated herself. Fred tapped his foot, so Abby pulled up a crate.
“Sorry, we have no extra chairs, and only honey for your coffee.”
“We take ours straight.” Fred settled on the crate with somber aplomb, but the sparkle in Elda Mae’s green eyes enticed Abby.
“This cake tastes delicious. What is that spice?”
“My Grandmother Carmichael’s recipe. I experimented with an herb growing in the yard—I might add a pinch more leaven next time.”
“Oh, I am so delighted to meet someone else who uses our native plants.”
Outside, the pine wind stirred. Abby allowed for polite silence before asking the question thrumming inside her. “Where do you live?”
Fred flung his hand toward the window. “Up that way, probably a country mile.”
A sob caught in her throat.
“I often stay home when Fred fetches supplies in Green Valley, but this time we met a man who speaks of homesteading on Pine Creek. Just think, some day, we might have more neighbors.”
“Pine Creek?”
Fred’s thin cheeks turned pale. With a searching look at his wife, he offered, “That would be the water running through your property.”
The creek had a name? These folks must think her dim-witted.
“Would you like more coffee, Mr. Allen?”
“No, thank you.” He flicked his bony thumb and finger. “Have you heard that the army brought Texas cattle here for the Indians to hunt like buffalo? The government, that is.” He rubbed his palms with a swish, swish.
“In Green Valley, we met a man who lost a good part of his arm to snakebite. He almost died, but an army doctor performed surgery.” Ray would call Fred’s diction “citified,” but Abby devoured every word. “My hat is off to the physicians who tend the ill and injured in these parts. What a task!”
“Fred, Abby and I need some woman talk. Maybe you can find Ray.”
“Oh, no!” Abby slapped her fingers to her lips. “That is... ah, he would rather not be disturbed.”
Elda Mae repositioned her weight, sending forth another lavender draught. “Well then, maybe you can spot that phantom turkey vulture, Fred. I imagine he visits here, too.”
“Yes, indeed. Thank you kindly for the cake, ma’am.” Fred shuffled outside, and through the open window, his shadow lengthened toward the skimpy corn patch. Wide brown suspenders pitched his trousers into tents, like a garden specter Mama created every spring to frighten away voracious crows.
“No supper for me tonight, Miss Abby.” Elda Mae’s countenance crinkled into pleasant folds. “I am so pleased to know another woman lives nearby!”
Another woman... close by.
Scarcely able to pose her next inquiry, Abby asked, “How far are we from your place?”
Her visitor patted her lips with her hankie. “Why, child, I assumed you...” She fingered a small jar of wildflowers. “Did you pick these?”
“I keep some inside even in fall—Mama always did.”
“So many varieties here. I have even found some that puts me in mind of the pincushion flowers back east.” Elda Mae peered out the window, highlighting gray hairs throughout her thick black locks.
“Fred has a nervous disposition. When he cannot bear sitting still, he drags the roadbed to the Rim, to ease access. We heard in Green Valley that the overland stage might alter its route this way, and General Crook may build a road over the top. I do hope so. Fred’s work requires quiet, but living out here does get awfully lonesome.”
She took one last forkful of cake. “So tasty, dear.”
Abby gathered her courage. “Begging your pardon, but if a person wished to visit you, which way would they go?”
“Oh, forgive me. I do get off track. Where the trail ends at your wagon path, turn left. Come out on the porch with me, dear.” She gestured past Fred, who examined the corn with great care.
“Past that giant sycamore the trail curves, and soon, water flows from the rocks—you can refresh yourself there. Follow the trail to a prospector’s shack left to rot.”
She scratched her right temple. “Brush may hide the path at times, but our horses graze a little farther on, and then you see our cabin.”
“So our places form a triangle with the Rim?”
“I guess you might say so. Travelers sing up there by times, and supply wagons rumble along every few days—I doubt you hear any of that.”
Travelers sing... not so far away...
“No.” Abby laid a hand on her chest to quiet her heart.
Elda Mae flicked dust off her sleeve. “You certainly have an artistic bent—I suppose a vulture might observe our homesteads as a triangle, but I never thought of it that way. Fred deems those birds so wise. Such awkward flight, wings in that upraised V, wobbling in circles, but they ride the currents like ships in the ocean.”
She patted Abby’s hand. “I noticed your chicken coop. Do you have a garden?”
“I found squash seeds in the barn and some sprouted turnips. Wild onions grow despite the rocks.” Abby led the way around the cabin.
“Gardens take work in this ornery soil. Oh, for Ohio’s lush black earth.”
