The Broken Bow, page 15
“You make a valid point,” Oliver said. “We need to finish before nightfall so you can get some sleep.”
“I hope I can get warm enough to get some shut-eye.”
“You will. I have all that you need.” Oliver smiled, then stalked off toward the horses, carrying a Henry rifle with him, cocked and loaded, ready to respond to anything that came his way. It wasn’t that long ago that Trusty wouldn’t have trusted an Indian with a rifle so close to him, but there was something about Oliver that made him feel comfortable and at ease. It was an unusual and welcome feeling. The Indian Wars were over, at least for Trusty, but the memory of them remained buried just below the surface of his thin skin.
* * *
The lean-to was enclosed, and protected from the wind as it was, much warmer than Trusty had thought it would be. Oliver had made a bed of buffalo blankets with rocks pulled out of the fire, wrapped in leather, and placed in between the warm fur of the buffalo. Trusty snuggled into the bed, fully dressed, still in his layers, but with his boots off. His toes felt like they were melting, perched against the hardness of the hot rock underneath the blanket, but it was a great relief to feel them. Oliver remained outside, taking his turn at watch, staying close to the fire. It didn’t take long for Trusty to fall asleep, to drift off into a comfortable rest. The long ride and the struggle to stay warm throughout the day had drained him more than he had given it credit for.
Fully realized dreams rarely came to Trusty. Sometimes there were snippets of visions, a person from the past, or even those in the waking world, that would haunt him when he first awoke, but by the time he had washed his face and had his first pee, the dream was gone. Trusty always had somewhere to go, another place to ride to. Mileage rates paid his way as a marshal, but it was more than that. Trusty never wanted to stay in one place too long. Setting down roots had never been a desire or a dream. Until now, at least in this sleep. He found himself in a dream, in a green world, sitting on the front porch of a cabin made of freshly cut wood, staring out over a calm parcel of land, rich with green summertime grass, the seed tassels yet to ripen, swaying with the rhythm of the wind as it breathed across the field. Birds chattered. Insects buzzed. The sun sat halfway in the sky, wary of nothing, not even a cloud. If there was ever a more comfortable place, Trusty had never seen it, and he most certainly had never been there.
A casual movement at his feet took his attention away from the view in front of him. Trusty looked down to find an unknown dog at his ankle. Short brown hair, happy and smart amber eyes just like Horse’s, and a flip of the tail at the moment of recognition. It was a boy dog, about the size of a first-year sheep; a guard for the farm as well as, from the look of it, a loyal friend. It was something felt and understood in the eye-to-eye exchange. Trusty wondered if he had named the dog like he had named his horse in the waking world he had left behind. This place was most definitely a dream. He had never owned a dog before.
The wind touched his nose, bringing with it the smell of baking bread, that warm comfortable smell of home that engaged Trusty’s memory of his own boyhood when his mother had been alive with the energy to work in the kitchen. She had loved to make the daily bread, and Trusty, Samuel to his mother, had loved to eat it. Bread had never tasted the same after she had died. But this bread, this smell, it smelled just like what his mother had made.
Footsteps approached from inside the cabin. The floor vibrated with every step, and Trusty half expected his mother to walk out onto the porch. He begged for it to be her, hoped more than anything it would be her. He had never dreamed of her after she had died. He could barely remember what her face looked like and what her voice sounded like. The footsteps, not heavy, just normal, like the day was uninterrupted by any tension kept coming, until the screen door pushed open. Trusty felt his eyes watering up with hope. It wasn’t his mother who walked toward him, though he wasn’t disappointed.
“Do you want some coffee,” Jessica Marberry said.
She looked like she had when he had last seen her in Oklahoma Territory, when the baby girl had been made—unknown to him—and they had gone their separate ways. She wore a flowing emerald-green dress that reached to the ground. A high collar made of rabbit fur was turned up to ward off wind that didn’t exist, covering the back of a matching green hat that only allowed Trusty a peak of Jessica’s golden hair. Her profile was regal, straight nose, high cheeks, rosy from the chill, with a thinker’s forehead. She had the smooth gait of a woman full of confidence and good breeding. If she were a horse, there would have been no mistaking her for a thoroughbred. She didn’t look dressed to be where she was, and she wasn’t. Jessica was dressed just like she had been in Muskogee when fate had intervened in their lives one last time and made sure they crossed paths.
The dog stood up and went straight to Jessica. “There you are, Buddy. I wondered where you were. But I should have known you were here with Sam. You’re his shadow, aren’t you?”
“Buddy?” Trusty said standing up. Three feet and a dog separated him from Jessica. His mind knew that she was dead, that this was a dream, but his heart didn’t care. If he had a choice, he would have signed a piece of paper right then and there to stay inside this dream forever.
“You named him; don’t you remember?” Jessica said with concern. “Are you all right, Sam?”
“I must have dozed off is all.” Trusty wanted to rush to Jessica and take her into his arms, but he was afraid she would disappear if he did.
“I’ll get you that coffee.” Jessica turned to leave, but Trusty reached out and stopped her from leaving. Her skin was warm, as real as the smell of baking bread. He couldn’t resist and pulled her to him and gave her a deep and loving kiss. To his relief, she responded in kind. When he finally pulled away, Jessica’s face was flushed. A curl of fine straw-colored hair fell across her forehead. “You must have been dreaming.”
“I think I am,” Trusty said.
“I’ll get you that coffee.” Jessica hurried to the door. “But we don’t have too much time to dilly-dally. She’ll be here anytime.”
“She?”
“Yes, she. Her. Ours. You know?”
“No, I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?”
It wasn’t until then that Trusty saw the change in Jessica, moody, uncertain, bound to her father and her wealthy way of life in a way that a blacksmith’s son could never understand. A cold wind blew between them and rustled Jessica’s dress. “I didn’t know until it was too late. I had no choice but to marry that horrible man.”
“Vance Calhoun?”
Jessica nodded. “Father insisted. Said he would cut me off, not pay a dime for any of my living expenses if I didn’t marry him. He wanted that ranch, he wanted to move into the cattle business and Calhoun was the deal he had been looking for. And what was I? A widow, once married, childless, on the verge of becoming an old maid. He wasn’t going to have it.”
“So, he sold you to the highest bidder.”
“The only bidder.” Jessica stared at Trusty with tears forming in her eyes. “I’ll get that coffee. She’ll be here any minute.” And then she disappeared inside the door. Buddy followed, but was prevented from going inside, from being with her. He whined and looked to Trusty for help.
Trusty’s throat was dry, and he couldn’t feel the tingle in his fingers. He could see them shaking, but that was all. He was cold all over his body even though the sun was beating down on his face.
“Buddy.” The dog turned to face Trusty, knew its name, which surprised him. “You could have told me.”
The dog wagged its tail and sat down by the door. Pots and pans clattered from inside, but not loud enough to overcome the sound of a wagon racing up the drive. Trusty turned to see it, hoping upon hope, just like he had been expecting to see his mother instead of Jessica, to see the baby girl all grown up. But he didn’t see her. What he saw surprised him and frightened him in a way he wasn’t sure he understood.
He recognized the wagon right away. It was loaded with Singer sewing machines. A dead man was driving. Carmichael. The natty little salesman who had killed his partner so he could keep all of the Marberry bounty for himself. Miles, with the left side of his head caved in, sat next to Carmichael smiling like he had just won a big faro game. Two lathered Springfield mules pulled the wagon toward the cabin faster than mules ought to have been able to run. The sky behind the wagon swirled into a black web, with lightning being born inside it.
Jessica stepped outside the door with a cup of coffee in her hand, but she stopped solid at the sight coming for them. “I’m too late. I’ve always been too late to help.” Buddy slipped inside the door and disappeared.
Thunder cracked and the coffee cup shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, raining down to the floor of the porch like salt poured on a wound. Trusty reached for his gun, but it wasn’t there. He had no weapons, nothing to protect himself with. All he knew to do was push Jessica inside the cabin to protect her, but she wasn’t there. She was gone. He was about to turn and run inside to look for her, to find a gun. If it was his cabin, there had to be a gun, a knife, something to protect himself with, but the sight of the wagon and Carmichael stopped Trusty in his tracks.
The salesman was standing up with a rifle aimed straight at Trusty’s chest, his heart the target. The mules ran on their own. And Miles, smiling with his half face and half mouth, still dripping blood, sitting calmly on the seat of the wagon holding a pristine white bassinette. When Carmichael pulled the trigger of the rifle it didn’t erupt, or clap thunder. Instead, the air was filled with a baby’s cry, penetrating, deep, longing, hungry, and still alive.
Trusty heaved as something heavy hit his chest, gasped for air to fill his lungs. He blinked and rolled his eyes, and when he did, the wagon, Carmichael, Miles, and the bassinette, were gone, and he was awake, back inside the lean-to.
The crying baby still rang in his ears, and it took him a long second to realize that sound was the wind screaming outside and nothing more. He had never felt so alone in his life.
Chapter 16
South of Cannonball, Dakota Territory, December 1888
Darkness ruled the world when Trusty rushed outside of the snow-covered lean-to. As far as he could tell, it was the middle of the night. Stars, pinpricks of molten silver, throbbed and pulsed clearly overhead, but there was no sign of the new moon. No blankets of clouds to be seen, either, no angry swirl of weather dumping its bounty of frozen water onto the earth; the air and everything in it was vacant of any moisture at all. The blizzard had been pushed east, exiled into another territory, leaving dry air in its wake. All that was left was the wind, the power that had, thankfully, vanquished the storm to parts unknown.
A wall of wind smacked Trusty in the face with a cold punch, doing its best to push him back where he had come from. The protection of the lean-to had been solid. That was no surprise. But the cold was a bone-chilling cold, invading his body through every open pore of skin; he ached to return to the warmth of the buffalo blankets and the hot rocks in between them, but he knew he had to escape into the real world, no matter the rage of the storm. The dream had left him shaken and uncertain. He was half in this world and half in the sleep world he’d been ripped from. The sight of Jessica and the baby drifted away like a dandelion seed on a spring wind. No matter how hard he tried to grab at the baby, to touch her, to see her face, those parts of the dream slipped through his fingers, his mind, and were gone; dust sparkles that had never really existed. “Jessica,” he whispered as he wiped his eyes. The wind answered back with the scream of a child torn from its mother too soon.
The fire was dead. There wasn’t a single orange coal to be seen. The wind had conquered the flame, returned it to the nothingness it had come from, and Oliver had let the fire die for some reason.
There was no warmth or comfort to be found outside of the lean-to, but Trusty had not expected to find any.
He searched for Oliver and the horses, but the only horse he saw was his own, still tethered, covered with snow and ice atop his blankets, standing just beyond the pit of dead fire. There was a shiver to Horse’s stance that concerned Trusty, a weakness that wasn’t there before he had gone to sleep. And then there was the sense of aloneness in the camp. There was no sign of Takoda or Oliver. It looked like they had been sent along with the fire and snow to somewhere else, unseen, perhaps against their will. Or had they fled while Trusty slept?
Trusty was not dressed to be outside. He had left his buffalo coat and hat inside the lean-to. But he didn’t move. He focused his eyes and ears, watching and listening for anything that moved. All he heard was the wind pushing around him, angry that he was in the way. Finally, he surrendered to the cold and made his way to Horse. “You all right?” he said as he knocked the snow and ice off the blanket that covered Horse’s back.
Horse shook, sending even more snow and ice to the ground. In the gloom of the night, the gelding looked more purple than roan. Trusty ran his hand down Horse’s long nose, his memory feeling the dream dog, Buddy, instead of the horse. He pushed away the emotional attachment that had ridden into the waking world with him as best he could. In reality, he had left the dog behind, a dog he really didn’t know, but loved somehow in a way that was even more unfamiliar to him. He was replacing that feeling with more affection for Horse than he usually felt.
Trusty was happy to see Horse, that his ride was still there, alive, okay, but in need of some warmth. “Where’s your friend?” he said as he untied the tether line. “Where’s Oliver and Takoda?” He looked around the camp, out into the darkness as far as he could see. There was nothing there. No sign of life at all.
Horse didn’t answer, but a sound rolling toward him on the wind caught Trusty’s attention. Horses riding hard. The unmistakable sound of hooves hitting the snow at a faster than normal rate of speed carried on the wind like a dish breaking in a small kitchen. Multiple horses. Not one. Trusty rushed back to the lean-to to get his Colt and rifle. He had left the weapons behind along with his coat.
When Trusty hurried back out of the snow cave, fully armed, he found himself surrounded by four men atop their horses, all with their rifles aimed right at him. He had hoped it was Oliver with Indian friends. Now he had to worry about facing the bounty alone. His plan of setting a bright fire seemed to have worked better and quicker than he thought it would. He had also counted on Oliver being there with him, but the Indian obviously had his own ideas about that.
The exhaust of the breaths from all four of the horses joined together and created a thin, see-through cloud that made all of the men look like they were standing behind frosted glass; obscured, unclear, their faces dark under the brims of their hats. With no direct light to define the riders, Trusty had to wonder if he was awake or dreaming, if Carmichael was lurking in the shadows, ready to have another go at killing him. The Colt in his hand felt real. The cold felt real. And the rifles pointed at him looked real. He wasn’t taking any chances.
“You better just put that gun down, Deputy.”
Trusty recognized the voice right away. It belonged to Captain James Pierpoint Plumright. He didn’t move. “I expected to see you sooner or later,” he said.
“Did you hear my order, sir,” Plumright said.
“My guess is that if you’ve lit out of the fort, you’re not a captain any longer. Not that I would obey your command anyways. I think we already established that chain of command at Fort Yates. I didn’t answer to you then and I won’t answer to you now.”
“What you established after leaving the fort, Deputy Dawson, is that you associate with the enemy and are not to be trusted whether you wear a badge or not. Where is your Indian friend anyway? I don’t see a sign of him.” Plumright edged up and grabbed the saddle horn with his left hand; a Henry repeating rifle was balanced against his shoulder, held by his right hand. His horse was only a couple of feet in front of Trusty. The other three riders, who Trusty didn’t recognize, held back, their rifles unwavering in their aim just like Plumright’s.
“I have no idea where Oliver is at,” Trusty said. “He stood watch and when I woke up, he was gone.”
“Sounds about right. Led you up the river while word was sent out to Charlie to head down out of Canada.”
“You know that for sure?”
“Why would I tell you?”
“Why don’t you shoot me if you’re going to.”
“Are you in a hurry to die, Deputy?”
“No more than any other man is ready to die. But if you’re not gonna shoot me, then the respectable thing you should do when you ride into a man’s camp is to tell your toughs here to take down their aim. I’ve got enough coffee for us all.”
“We have our own pack, thank you.”
“I was just offerin’.”
“I ordered you to drop your weapon,” Plumright said.
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“Looks like we’re at an impasse.”
“Looks that way. You can kill me and bury me in the snow, but sooner or later somebody, the Guardsmen, Bill Tilghman, Heck Thomas, or other U.S. Marshals, will come lookin’ for me. Might even be both, or the army since they’ll know it’s you they’re lookin’ for. Now, the way I see it, Plumright, you got enough problems to deal with right now, includin’ the ones you’re creatin’ for yourself by bein’ out here looking for Charlie Littlefoot when you should be back at the fort, still in uniform, tendin’ to your wife’s delicate condition. The last thing you need is Bill Tilghman on your tail or spendin’ the rest of your livin’ days in a jail cell for the act of murderin’ a U.S. Marshal, wonderin’ what the heck your child looks like.”
“What are you suggesting?” There was a hard edge to Plumright’s question.
“I’m not suggestin’ anything. Just sayin’ there’s no way to see a child grow up behind prison walls is all.”
