The Broken Bow, page 12
The cowboy was on his feet before Clarice broke free and tumbled back into him. It looked like there had been a transaction about to take place and Frank had horned in when he shouldn’t have. That was how Gladdy saw it all play out. He stood halfway between the bar and the batwings as his hope of finding a good time girl for himself faded quickly. He’d spied a brunette stuffed in a red dress made like Clarice’s and just as tight, as soon as he’d walked in the door of the saloon. The brunette looked mighty tasty.
“You best leave this girl alone, mister,” the cowboy said. He was tall as a windmill and just as skinny. He wore a big hat and a mustache that was so thick he could have swept the floor with it. Both he and Frank looked to be about the same age, and Gladdy was already sizing the two up against each other trying to figure out which one could take the other in a fist fight. It was even odds at the moment, but heavy tension rippled through the saloon, and every sound in the big open room dropped noticeably. Everything but the piano. The player, a short, bald man wearing a white shirt and black string tie, played faster than he had before the disagreement had started.
“This ain’t none of your business,” Frank said. “Come on, Clarice,” he begged. “I’m ridin’ out of town. I just need a minute with you.”
“You best get, then.” Clarice planted her feet and anchored her hands on her broad hips, leaning back into the cowboy, who looked like he was holding her up.
“You heard what Clarice said. Now go on, there’s the door,” the cowboy said. “Come on darlin’, let’s me and you go somewhere quiet so we can finish our conversation.”
Frank grabbed Clarice again. This time harder, by the wrist, his face turning red to match hers. “You stay here until I’m done talkin’ with you.”
The cowboy took quick offense to the intrusion and pulled Clarice away from Frank, breaking the grasp. Then he set himself between the two of them with a fist rising into an upper cut as he finished the move. The quick punch caught Frank under the chin, unprepared, sending him sprawling backward as a spray of blood escaped his mouth. He’d bit his tongue.
Gladdy stepped forward, willing to jump into the melee, but Clovis pulled him back, deciding that Frank was outmatched. “This ain’t our fight.” He nodded toward two bouncers, both big as bulls, heading toward the trouble with fixed eyes and hands made into fists of their own.
The room went quiet except the piano. The player ignored the situation. Or acted like he was ignoring the situation and played faster and faster. Gladdy didn’t know the song, but it sounded like a rope getting pulled too quick to a yank back.
The cowboy rushed Frank who had stumbled off a table, sending pitchers and mugs shattering to the floor. A crowd of standing men, with a few girls mixed in, quickly created a wall resembling a ring around the two men.
Frank bounced back up, persistent and enraged, and met the cowboy with swinging fists of his own, landing a solid punch directly to the tall man’s nose. That hit offered another spray of blood to the floor and added the sound of crushing bone to the tinkling piano keys.
The cowboy stumbled back with a surprised look on his face caused by the pain that came at him from such an undesirable foe. He regained his footing, wiping the blood from his face, slinging it to the floor, and bounced his head as he reevaluated Frank and his abilities. “You want to end this now, mister, all you have to do is walk out the same way you came in.”
Music tried to drown them out, but it was no use.
“I ain’t leavin’ until I speak with Clarice,” Frank said. Then he went at the cowboy again dodging and darting, swinging and flailing, doing his best to make himself an unpredictable target.
Gladdy was becoming uncomfortable. The air inside the saloon was closing in on him, and smelled of blood, sweat, and the anticipation of escalating violence, that in Gladdy’s experience, had always turned out bad. “Frank’s in trouble,” he whispered to Clovis, unsnapping his holster at the same time.
“That fella’s got more men rooting for him than Frank does. You keep your hands where everybody can see them. You don’t need to draw no more attention to us than there already is.”
The two bouncers pushed through the fight circle and went straight for Frank. They grabbed him, but not before he got in another punch at the cowboy. It was more graze than a hit, but the crack of skin echoed through the saloon like a lone clap after a bad performance.
Frank was riled beyond restraint. He was a mad animal, determined to stay free and have his way. He was loose and slippery with his own sweat; his strength seemed to have multiplied in a way that made him stronger than before. He broke free of the biggest bouncer, swinging as he went. His nose flared, foam bubbled off his lips, and his face had transformed from a mild man on his way out of town to a red-faced devil bent on revenge no matter the cost. He swung at the other bouncer, missing as he went. The bouncer had been ready for him and threw his own punch, landing it directly against the side of Frank’s cheek. The hit was no clap. It was the cringing sound of a jawbone snapping in two. More blood expelled itself from Frank’s mouth as he stumbled backward, groaning as he went. The men behind him parted, allowing room for the falling man to crash to the floor without being touched. But the fall was not graceful or soft. Frank struck his head, right at the temple, on the corner of a table as he made his way to the floor. Another thud, then a thump as his body caught up with the rest of him. He landed on the floor like a pigeon shot from the sky, falling straight to the earth, dead before it hit the ground. All Gladdy and Clovis could do was watch in horror.
The piano stopped playing and silence proceeded to overtake the room.
“Somebody better send for the doc,” a man said.
Gladdy couldn’t see Frank on the floor from where he stood, but he could see the cowboy who was staring down with a concerned look on his face. Clarice was standing on the opposite side of the ring, and after a few seconds, she waved her hand in front of her face and fainted, drawing a collective gasp of concern from the crowd. A man caught her mid-fall and eased her to the floor. Another man pushed by Gladdy and ran out the door, leaving him to wonder if he should do the same thing. With Frank hurt, or worse, the ride to Aberdeen to find Trusty Dawson looked to be in serious jeopardy. Anything he owed or was given by Theodore Marberry was null and void. He could have just slipped out of the saloon and disappeared, but he didn’t. Clovis stopped him by saying, “We best leave and get on with what we’re doin’.”
Another man, standing close enough to see Frank said as loud as he could, “It looks like you best get the undertaker not the doc. This man ain’t breathin’.”
“It was self-defense,” the cowboy hollered. “You’all seen it, right. That feller came in swingin’, puttin’ his hands all over Clarice. I didn’t have no choice but to defend her.”
Every man, and the women, nodded, agreeing with the cowboy.
“We best go now, before they turn on us,” Clovis whispered.
“What about Frank?” Gladdy said.
“You heard what the man said. He’s dead. Now, come on, let’s go. I ain’t ready to die by association just yet. Are you?”
Chapter 12
North, on the trail out of Fort Yates, December 1888
A thick wall of steadily falling snow met Trusty and Oliver as they rode north; it was an unwelcome white flag, from sky to earth, with no promise of surrender. The blank color of the sky was hard on the eyes. The ground before them was just as white and just as bright, but more precarious than the sky. Rocks had turned to icebergs with only their sharp, slippery tips showing above the frozen sea of bent and dried grasses. Snakes made of snow squiggled from the northwest to the northeast; fanged vipers with skin made of diamonds that glittered briefly in the fading light. Each step Horse took was a challenge in staying upright, planted on four hooves, but the strawberry roan did not hesitate. He paced along, head down without hesitation as he pierced the wind and complied with his rider’s command.
Trusty shielded his vision by pulling the hood of his buffalo coat as far down as it would go. Both of their horses had transformed from roan and chestnut to albino white as they collected an easy half inch of snowflakes and pellets on their manes, withers, and rumps. There was no escaping the snow. It was wet instead of dry as the temperature hovered just under freezing. Which seemed odd. It felt like it was warm instead of cold, especially in the layers of clothes with the durable, heavy buffalo coat.
Trusty hadn’t come to a complete understanding to the moods of the Dakota weather, his time there had been too short. He was sweating and cold at the same time and starting to think that Arizona sounded like a better place to be, except that would take him farther away from the baby girl. He would never find her west. His gut told him that she was in St. Louis, under lock and key with Theodore Marberry. If she were his, of his blood, she would need rescued. But brought home to where? On the trail, hunting down criminals or escorting judges from one hanging to the next? What kind of life would that be for a girl? Or him, if he had to give up the badge. Trusty had no idea what he would do, or how he would live, if he was left to raise a baby on his own. Being lost in a snowstorm seemed to offer a better prospect at living. But he longed to know the truth. Was the baby girl, born to Jessica in another man’s bed, really his own?
Horse continued his steady pace, eyeing the ground with a frozen face as he went. The only reason they could keep going and not get lost was the lay of the land. The rise that edged north along the Missouri River was easy to follow. But slow going. Snow was falling fast, an inch or two an hour, and the horses and their riders rode with caution. There was a good thing about the weather, though. If there was a place where a man with a bounty on his head could feel safe, or as safe as possible, it was riding on a narrow trail in a snowstorm, covered in white, melding into the landscape like he was a part of it, not outside of it, an easy target. Worries of sudden death had been left behind in the fair weather south of them, though Trusty still held a concern about Oliver’s welfare. The Indian’s disappearance from the fort would be noticed by white men and Indians alike. Would they come after him, too? Would Captain Plumright and his alleged posse of men follow them north in hopes that Oliver and Trusty would lead them straight to Charlie Littlefoot? It was something to consider and to be wary of, along with the bounty hunters that Brazos Joe had warned him of. For now, he felt safe, protected by the weather instead of attacked by it.
There was no conversation between Trusty and Oliver as they edged along the river, no joy or comradery to be shared as they settled into the journey north. Tracking a man to bring him to justice was nothing to celebrate. Oliver had made it clear that he was there only because he had been asked to ride with Trusty by Amanda Plumright. Trusty had to wonder about their relationship, how deep it was, and why Oliver would drop everything to ride into the weather and danger by a simple request from a white woman. There was more that he didn’t know about the pregnant woman and her Indian friends, and that made Trusty just as wary as a clear day would have, making him an easy shot.
Trusty stayed in the lead and planned on remaining that way until Oliver gave him the word that they needed to go off the trail, take an Indian route instead of the normal way a white man would venture. Trusty looked over his shoulder every once in a while to make sure that Oliver was still behind him. The Indian was a white blur, barely visible, his own head down, covered by his own buffalo hat and coat. Oliver looked like a white bear sitting on a white stallion; any color had been covered up, stricken, erased from the Indian and his horse.
It wasn’t long before Trusty stopped Horse and waited for Oliver to join him. He had to admit to himself that he couldn’t see the way forward. The wind had picked up, and even though the snowflakes were heavy with moisture, the wind whipped them around in a frenzy that made the sky look like the ground, and the ground look like the sky. “I’ve lost the trail,” he said as Oliver pulled up alongside him.
“It is easy to do if you have not spent much time in this part of the world in the winter. The river will take us far,” Oliver said. He cocked his head downward. “But that might not keep the windigos away.”
“Windigos?”
“Giants who like the taste of human flesh. They like this kind of weather. They can walk freely in the world without worry of being seen.”
It was good to know that Oliver had fears of his own. Trusty didn’t know much about windigos, but they were among the last things he was worried about even though they sounded a lot like bounty hunters. Freezing to death or tumbling into a ravine ranked high above flesh-eating giants at the moment. “Can you see the way?”
“No, but my horse can.”
“And you trust him not to walk us in circles?” The falling snow suddenly abated for a second or two, allowing Trusty to see a white ribbon of frozen water, covered with more snow, arching north; a curvy path to Canada awaiting them both. He had forded many a river, but he had never used one directly as a trail. Thoughts of falling through the ice and freezing to death crossed his mind. No matter what, bounty or no bounty, Plumright and posse, if there was one, risk of injury, and the possibility of death were never far away. But he would have preferred that kind of death than meeting up with one of Oliver’s windigos or Marberry’s hired killers. “You lead,” he finally said.
Oliver agreed by nickering his horse around Trusty, trailing down the slight ravine that led to the river. Trusty held back and watched until the Indian and his ride were firmly planted on the frozen river. He joined them, tracing their route step by step as closely as possible. Horse didn’t seem to have any trouble navigating the way down, but stiffened as Trusty did, responding to the tension held in the reins.
Once they were on flat ground, there was plenty of room to spare. The two men rode abreast, silent again, facing the north wind with their heads down and ears open. If there were any enemies about, they would remain hidden, buried in the snow like the rest of the world, doing all they could to survive. Killing of any kind would have to come on another day or if the current blast of snow relented. That didn’t look like it was going to happen anytime soon.
Horse, it seemed, was glad to have a companion to ride along with. The two horses rode side by side, their breaths and exhales mingling into a single cloud, disappearing almost as quickly as it had appeared. Horse had always been amenable with other horses, enjoying company when it came, but never objecting to the loneliness of a single rider, at least as far as Trusty could tell. Though, most of the time, Trusty didn’t pay all that much attention to Horse’s social life. He viewed the beast as a mode of transportation and little more. That didn’t mean that Trusty didn’t take care of Horse. Just the opposite. He knew that he had to take care of the horse so the horse could take care of him.
Trusty was surprised when Oliver started a conversation by asking, “Why don’t you have a name for your horse?” The wind had calmed or had been shunted by the ravines on both sides of the Missouri River. Snow still fell at a steady rate, accumulating on everything around them like it had one purpose and one purpose only: Bury the entire world in a white blanket, covering everything it touched with icy fingers. From every perspective, the snow had been successful in that quest.
“I don’t know that it’s a name really,” Trusty said, “He’s a horse. Simple as that. What do you call your horse? I haven’t heard you name him.”
“Because you have not been listening.”
“The wind roars in my ears and this hat muffles your words, even now.”
“This is Takoda. Friend of Everyone.” Oliver patted the chestnut gelding, sending an avalanche of snow to the ground, exposing a sweaty brown neck. Snow began to collect on the smooth horsehair immediately with a ravenous appetite to cover it again. Oliver and Takoda would be hard to see, invisible as they traveled. That was a plus even with the windigos walking about freely. A single plus that didn’t stop Trusty’s teeth from chattering and his bones from aching from the cold.
The surface of the river was flat, easy riding. The snow was wet, making the way a little less slippery than Trusty had expected. He tried not to think about the ice under Horse’s hooves. He just hoped it was thick enough to hold their weight.
“Takoda seems like a good name, I suppose,” Trusty said.
“I have known Takoda since he was a colt. He bounced and ran through the field from one friend to the other, never making any other horse angry or feel threatened. I liked him right away, and he liked me. I have been lucky to have him as my friend for ten years. A horse will name itself if you pay close enough attention, tell you what he wants to be called if you listen. Horse is not your friend?”
Trusty sighed and looked away, then turned his gaze across the frozen river to the white, unknowable world on the other side of it. There was nothing to see but a rise covered in snow. All of the scrub had been covered. There were no trees, no birds, no sign of life, just a blank world that didn’t seem to end or begin. He hadn’t seen a living creature other than Horse, Oliver, and Takoda, since they had left Fort Yates. “I never thought about such a thing, whether I was friends with Horse. I didn’t grow up around animals other than when they came into my father’s blacksmith shop or I had to deliver shoes to the farrier. I learned to ride in the city on livery horses that were let to me when my father needed to send me on an errand or a delivery. I rarely rode the same horse twice. We had no dogs, though there was a wily old, orange-coated tom cat that hung around the shop. He was good at keeping the mice and rats at bay. My pa didn’t pay the cat any mind because he served a purpose and had said so more than once. He never called the cat by name and neither did I.”
Oliver didn’t say anything, just kept riding Takoda nose to nose with Trusty and Horse. Snow continued to fall, and the wind danced up and down the river, tossing snow around like it was nothing, making the world ahead of them even whiter and denser, if that were possible.
