Chapter Seventeen
Iron Knife looked out at the Missouri landscape passing the train windows faster than a horse could run. The reflection staring back at him from the window glass was almost not recognizable with its hat, coat and shirt. The boots that had replaced his soft moccasins seemed heavy and hard on his feet. In the early summer heat, the coach was stifling, and Iron Knife could feel sweat running down his body under the heavy clothes. How he longed to be riding half-naked and free across the prairie, but he would endure anything to see his woman again. He opened the window, and the breeze blew the stink of the engine and a shower of cinders back on him and the other passengers.
He closed his eyes, lulled by the rocking motion of the train, and thought about Summer Sky. In only a couple more days, he would be in Boston. Maybe he should have just accepted Summer’s decision that she didn’t want him anymore; she hadn’t loved him enough to forgive him over Gray Dove. Or was it because the Cheyenne life was just too difficult? A woman who had been reared in civilized luxury would have to love a man a lot to endure such dangers and hardships.
If only he could talk to her, reason with her. Because of that, Iron Knife hadn’t let Todd write or wire that he was coming, afraid that maybe she would write back and say she didn’t want to see him. At least if he surprised her, he’d get a chance to plead his case. He was desperate enough to try anything.
Summer Sky. In his mind, he saw her riding with him across the prairie, her yellow hair blowing wildly in the wind. They had a favorite little dell where they sometimes rode, he on Spotted Blanket, she on her fine mare, Starfire, which Iron Knife had given her as a gift. They would ride to that private paradise and slide off the horses, laughing and hugging while he swung her up in his arms and kissed her face. She was his whole world, and when he made love to her, everything seemed to stop for both of them but that moment when he held her against him and kissed her tenderly. In his mind, he kissed her lips and remembered the taste of them. Her skin felt so warm against his as he cuddled her in his embrace. His strong arms could break a man’s back, but with her, he was always gentle. Sometimes they would roll on the grass, laughing and teasing; but then their gazes would lock, and abruptly they would grow silent.
“Make love to me,” she would command.
“You think I am nothing more than a brown stallion to be used to please a female’s wants?” he would tease.
“Very well, then, I will make love to you.” She would kiss him, her soft lips moving against his until he opened them to her probing tongue. When she pressed her breasts against him, he would forget everything but how much he wanted to possess her body. She had a way of locking her long, slim legs around his hips, pulling him down on her deeper and deeper still until nothing mattered but meshing with her velvet warmth, emptying his seed within her. He could take her every night and still not get enough of her. She had a talent for building a fire in him that centered his very being in a whirlpool of yellow hair and blue eyes.
“Ne-mehotatse,” he would murmur, “I love you, Summer Sky. Hahoo, thank you for coming into my life. I never knew what love was until I took you from that wrecked stagecoach and made you my captive.”
Then, with her kisses, gradually the big dog soldier had become her captive. There was nothing he would not do for her, no distance too far, no danger too great to endure for the white girl who had taken control of him body and soul. He had not meant to mate with the evil Arapaho girl, Gray Dove, but Summer had gone away, and he had thought she would never return when he succumbed to Gray Dove’s seductive charms that one brief time. Because of that, he might have lost Summer forever. If she would only give him one chance to prove how much he really loved her; he would spend the rest of his life making it up to her.
He leaned his head back against the seat and dreamed of her holding him close and kissing him, saying she would never love another as she loved him . . . kissing him . . . kissing him. . . .
“Wartonville! Coming into Wartonville! Wartonville, next stop!”
The conductor shouting down the aisle awakened Iron Knife from his fitful slumber. He sat up and looked around at the other passengers as the hissing train snorted and began to slow, pulling into the station. The late afternoon sun threw distorted shadows across a dusty prairie town as the sun retreated into the far horizon.
The conductor paused in the aisle. “We’ll be here a couple of hours, I’m afraid, folks; there’s trouble with the track between here and St. Louie.”
An elderly lady touched his sleeve. “Excuse me, what’s the trouble?”
The squat, round-faced man shrugged. “Nothing big, just something with the rails. We’ll be here awhile ’til they send word down the line it’s fixed; so plan to have a bite to eat, and then maybe we’ll be on our way.”
Iron Knife was superstitious, so he had brought some of his dog soldier things tucked safely in a carpetbag in the overhead luggage rack. The dream shield had too many taboos attached to its usage to bring along, and his father’s massive war bonnet was too delicate. He had brought his raven feather dog soldier headdress, the decorated and beaded Dog Rope, his moccasins, a fine and soft deerskin outfit, and small pots of war paint. His bone whistle and the brass earring were tucked inside, too.
He felt naked without the big knife he always wore, but it had been left behind. Todd had thought Iron Knife might attract too much attention wearing it under his coat, and it certainly wouldn’t do him any good in his valise. In fact, he had not brought any weapons at all.
“Wartonville!” sang out the conductor, “coming up!”
Iron Knife pressed his face against the smudged window and stared out at the drab frontier town. It wasn’t so big as Denver; but it was more than a village. His belly grumbled with hunger.
“Wartonville!” The conductor passed him, swaying in the aisle.
Iron Knife said, “Can I get something to eat here?”
The conductor nodded. “Stay away from the station food; it’s bad, but there’s a cafe downtown that’s pretty good.”
“You think we’ll really be here several hours?”
“At least.” He pushed his hat back and scratched his round head. “Don’t worry about gettin’ left; we’ll blow the whistle to warn everyone before we pull out. You’ll have plenty of time.”
The brakes shrieked as the train slowed coming into the station. Yes, he was hungry. The candy butchers sold a few things from a basket; but Iron Knife wanted some hot, hearty fare, and he had money in his pockets that Todd had given him. Afraid he might lose it, he had tucked the Van Schuyler’s address in his valise. He was unsure about finding the house in a giant city like Boston, but Todd had instructed him just to give the address to a cabbie and that driver would take him to the house. After that, Iron Knife was on his own. Iron Knife did not want to think about the wire he had gotten from Summer, saying she had thought it over and was staying in Boston, her union with him had been a mistake. Maybe when he faced her, he could convince her to return with him.
He stood up, stretched, and reached for his bag. His muscles ached from all these hours in that seat, and he welcomed the chance to walk and exercise his cramped legs. With the others, he went along the aisle and down the steps onto the platform. The warm air smelled of soot and smoke from the train, and a thousand other scents of the town. How he longed for the crisp, clean air of the high plains and the mountains.
The wildflowers would be blooming across the wild country he loved, and the sun would be warm on his back as he swam in the creeks with his children. In his mind, he saw little Lance and Storm Gathering diving like small otters and coming up laughing. Summer would be sitting on the bank with the plump baby, Garnet, both dangling their feet in the water and laughing as they watched. Iron Knife swallowed hard. He missed his family so much. What would he do if she refused to return?
Iron Knife stood on the platform with his little suitcase in the orange rays of the sun soon to be sliding behind the distant hills. People brushed past him, paying him no heed. He took his wallet from his jacket and opened it, brought the green paper out and counted it for reassurance. Strange that white men considered green paper of such value. Todd’s name and address were in the wallet, too, in case of any emergency that he couldn’t handle.
Iron Knife mingled with the crowd walking into the station. The building was stifling and smelled of stale food and smoke, sweat and dirt. He wrinkled his nose, remembering the conductor’s warning and went out the other side to look around. There seemed to be a lot of people in town, buggies, farmers driving wagons.
Saturday. White people always came into town to shop and trade on Saturdays, he remembered. His belly rumbled again as he looked toward the late afternoon sun now beginning to sink like a fireball behind a gray-blue horizon. At least when the sun finally set, it would be cooler; for that he could be grateful. His shirt seemed to stick to his big body, and the boots cramped his feet. He wished he could wear his moccasins.
He started down the street. He’d find that small cafe and eat something, then get back on the train. It might not be leaving for a couple of hours, but he was nervous about missing it. Iron Knife knew so little about all the mazes of track; he was worried about getting on the wrong train and ending up somewhere besides Boston.
Well, the conductor had been right; this town was small enough that one could surely hear the train whistle when it made ready to leave the station. A tall man with a star on his chest sauntered past him, glaring with hostility. The young man was handsome in a cruel way, Iron Knife noted. The deputy wore wicked Spanish spurs with jinglebobs that rang when he walked and a big Colt pistol on his hip.
Some of the white men in these towns didn’t like Indians, and Iron Knife’s Indian blood was evident, even though he was dressed like a white man. He could break that lawman in half if the white man challenged him to a fight, but Iron Knife didn’t want any trouble that would interfere with his getting to Boston and Summer. He’d hurry to eat and return to the security of the train. That way, when it left the station, he wouldn’t have to worry about running to catch it. Anyway, there was something about Wartonville that made him uneasy.
Iron Knife found the small cafe, sat down at the counter, placed his bag at his feet, and ordered a steak sandwich and coffee. Even though the weather was hot, the coffee tasted good. The fresh, crusty bread and the fried meat filled his empty belly. Beef was not as good as buffalo or deer, but among whites, they were only beginning to enjoy the taste of buffalo meat. It was just as well, he thought; if the whites ever discovered the succulent buffalo meat or how warm the fur was, they’d begin killing the big beasts, and the Plains tribes depended on buffalo to survive.
He was finishing his food when that lawman sauntered in and sat down at the counter near him. He didn’t look up, but he heard the big spurs as the man crossed the floor. Iron Knife felt his stare; decided to ignore it.
The deputy banged on the counter. “Hey, Hank, how about some service here? If you can feed Injuns, looks like a white man could get something to eat.”
The atmosphere changed, and people gradually stopped talking. Iron Knife paused, feeling the tension in the air, thinking that he didn’t need any trouble if he was going to get to Boston. He sipped his coffee.
The elderly white man rushed from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his dirty apron. “Sure, Jingles, right away; please don’t make no trouble with the sheriff out of town and all.”
“Trouble!” The deputy sneered, “I can handle it alone if it comes, but I don’t want me no trouble. Now, Injuns, they bring trouble.”
Iron Knife gripped his cup so hard, he thought it might shatter in his big fist. The young stud was spoiling for a fight in front of the crowd, backed up with his own sense of importance and that big pistol. No doubt he had looked Iron Knife over carefully to make sure he wasn’t wearing a holster under his coat. Iron Knife managed to control his temper. What he’d really like to do was put his knuckles in the deputy’s arrogant mouth, but he must not pick up the challenge. Getting to Boston was more important than protecting his honor. He threw down some coins to pay for his meal, and they rang loud in the silence.
Everyone was waiting to see if he was going to challenge the lawman; he could sense it in the quiet and the expressions on the other diners’ faces. Instead, he picked up his carpetbag, stood, and slowly walked toward the door.
“Well, big as he is, who’d think he was such a yellow coward!” The white man snorted behind him, “Reckon he’s got a suitcase full of scalps from women and kids!”
“Don’t crowd him, Jingles, you don’t have to prove nothin’, ” the old cook cautioned in a hoarse whisper. “He’s dressed pretty well; he might have money or important connections.”
Iron Knife didn’t pause to hear more; he forced himself to walk outside into the darkness. He was so angry, he was trembling. Someday, some real man would kill that sneering young gunman, but it wouldn’t be Iron Knife. The Saturday night street scene was busy, people, wagons and buggies still moving up and down, cowboys riding down the street. In the distance, faint laughter and music drifted from the saloon one street over: . . . Buffalo gals won’t you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight . . . ?
Through the darkness, he could see the lights of the train station. Night hadn’t cooled the Missouri heat much. He felt passersby staring at him either with curiosity or hostility.
Carrying his valise, Iron Knife decided to take a different route back to the station to avoid the Main Street crowd, and just in case the swaggering deputy followed after him to pick a fight. He strode down the wooden sidewalk. Up ahead, he saw the lights go off in a small millinery shop; then a woman came out and paused to lock the door. She walked on down the sidewalk far ahead of him. He couldn’t tell much about her because her hat shadowed her face, except that she walked as if she were weary.
His long legs were carrying him closer to the petite woman, and this street lacked the crowds the main street held. In fact, except for a saloon she was passing, most of the shops were darkened and closed now. Iron Knife slowed his pace, afraid that if the woman glanced back and saw him, the fact that he was big or maybe that he was a half-breed might scare her. White women didn’t generally go out on the streets alone at night, unless they were poor working women, and then they had to take their chances.
Even as he watched, a man staggered out of the saloon. In the moonlight, Iron Knife saw that he was young and well-dressed. A diamond stickpin reflected the moonlight.
“Hey, honey,” the man confronted the girl, “how about having a drink with me?”
She tried to walk past him. “I’m sorry, but I’m on my way home.”
The man grabbed her arm. “Hey, don’t you know who I am?”
“Of course, everyone knows who you are, Mr. Warton, but—”
“Then you know I’m important; my family owns most of this town.”
“Please”—she tried to pull away—“you’re drunk. If your father finds out—”
“I’m a grown man. Why does everyone treat me like a kid; think I always have to answer to him?” the drunken rake said. “Come have a drink, honey, get to know me better.”
“Please, no.” The woman’s hat fell off, and the pins from her hair fell so that the yellow strands tumbled around her shoulders. Except for her hair, she was rather plain and somewhere in her thirties. She struggled, but the brash aggressor was pulling her to him, attempting to kiss her.
“Now, honey, you just come along and we’ll have a drink. I’ll bet you never had a drink of whiskey in your whole life.”
“Please. My mother is alone; I need to get home.” She sounded desperate now.
Young Warton laughed. “So have a drink with me and then I’ll let you go take care of the old lady.”
She struggled, but she wasn’t very big. “I—I’ll scream for help!”
“In this town, no one would cross a Warton.” He swayed as he attempted to kiss her while she tried to break his grip.
In the distance, Iron Knife heard the train whistle a warning. He looked toward the station, then toward the couple struggling in the shadows. The woman was petite and slightly built, just like Summer. The rich young rake was now overpowering her, even as she fought him, dragging her toward the saloon.
Iron Knife was a stranger in this hostile town, and he did not even know this woman; he owed her nothing. In that split-second as he listened to the train whistle, he paused, holding his small suitcase, watching her struggle. She wasn’t Iron Knife’s woman, and he had no stake in this. Yet she was small and defenseless, and a real man always protected the weak. He reacted, running toward them as silent as a shadow. The immature drunk seemed to hear him at the last minute and half turned as Iron Knife hit him with the valise, dropped it, then pulled him away from the girl.
The dapper boy cried out in protest as Iron Knife hit him in the mouth with one big fist while the woman cowered against the wall, her dress torn. In the moonlight, her plain little face looked drained of color.
Iron Knife knocked the drunk over the hitching rail and into the dust of the street. The young dandy stumbled to his feet, blood running from his lip and down his weak chin. He began screaming for help.
“You drunk bastard!” Iron Knife hit him again. “Keep your hands off decent women!”
He could hear people running and shouting now, but he owed this rich young rake a lesson for the terror and humiliation in the shop girl’s eyes.
The drunk attempted to defend himself, but he was no match for Iron Knife’s steel fists. The half-breed was wiping up the street with him even as a group gathered. In the background, he heard the running jingle of spurs and saw the flash of moonlight on the deputy’s badge. He couldn’t fight the whole town, but he had to protect himself. Yet as he hit the deputy in the mouth, he heard the train whistle again. He had to be on that train. He must grab his valise and run. He must not miss that train to Boston; Summer was waiting. Summer.
That was his last thought as he saw the reflection off the deputy’s pistol barrel coming down toward him. Then lights seemed to explode in his head, and he felt himself falling as somewhere in the distance, the train began to chug out of the station.
“Stop it!” Serenity shrieked. “Stop it, you’ll kill him!”
About that time, a passing buggy reined in. “What’s going on here anyway?”
She recognized Hershel Warton, Senior. There was dead silence for a long moment as the stout but still-handsome man climbed down. Everyone looked at each other uneasily. Warton was the richest, most powerful man in town; he owned everything and almost everybody.
“Billy, what’s going on here?” He pulled at his mustache.
“Hello, Dad.” The young rake smiled sheepishly. “I—I was just on my way home; you didn’t need to come lookin’ for me.”
“Might have known if there was trouble, you’d be in the middle of it. What’s going on here, Jingles?”
She could see the sweat on the deputy’s face. Like everyone else in town, he owed his job to this man. Jingles doffed his hat. “Well, sir, with the sheriff gone, I was tryin’ to keep the peace, and this big half-breed drifted into town.”
Warton was no dummy, Serenity thought as his gaze swept over the scene, took in the unconscious man, her torn dress. “What happened to Miss Peterson?”
Before she could answer, Billy blurted, “I was just on my way home, Dad, when I heard the lady scream for help; came to her aid.”
“Is that right, Miss Peterson?” His only child, Hershel William Warton, had a bad reputation as a spoiled wastrel.
“Well, I—”
“Of course that’s what happened,” Jingles interrupted and was rewarded with a grin from Billy. “I heard the racket and had just got here to make an arrest.” With that, he leaned over and snapped handcuffs on the unconscious man. “Take him down to the jail, fellas.”
“Wait!” Serenity protested.
In the silence, the only sound was the chugging and the puffing of the engine pulling out of town, its lonely whistle echoing across the landscape. All the men turned and stared at her.
In that few seconds, Serenity remembered that Hershel Warton, Senior, owned the building that housed her struggling shop and that his bank held the mortgage on her modest home. His wife was also Serenity’s best customer. “I—I—”
“Now, Miss Peterson”—Hershel Warton patted her shoulder kindly, but the threat in his eyes was unmistakable—“you’ve had a bad scare, and your elderly mother needs you at home; we all know how ill and dependent on you she is. If you want to make a statement, why don’t you come in Monday when the sheriff gets back and talk to him?”
She paused, wavering, as she watched the men loading the half-breed in the back of the buggy. Billy was standing close enough that she could see he was cold sober now and nervous. He was afraid of his father, just like everyone else in this town. Young Warton had never earned a dime in his life, and town gossip said he lived in fear of Dad cutting off his money. In her heart, she knew what she ought to do; that stranger had tried to help her. “What—what will they do to him?”
“Oh, nothing at all.” Hershel Warton shrugged it off. “When he comes to, they’ll probably just turn him loose, tell him to get out of town; ain’t that right, Jingles?”
“Whatever you say, Mr. Warton.”
“But—” Serenity began.
“Just don’t worry about it, Miss Peterson.” The older man stroked his mustache and gave her a long, significant look. “This stranger is just passin’ through town; the rest of us have to live here, get along. Do you get my drift?”
She felt all eyes upon her. Almost everyone in the little group was beholden in some way to the Warton empire. In the silence, the only noise was the jingle of the deputy’s spurs. Handsome young Billy still looked a little unsteady on his feet, but he was smiling as if he knew he’d already won.
“Now you just go on home, Miss Peterson,” the father urged. “If you want to file any charges against anyone, you come in Monday morning, before you open that little shop of yours, and see the sheriff.”
“If I don’t file any charges against anyone, what happens?” All the men were looking at her. They knew who had the power and the wealth in this town.
“Why, nothing at all,” Hershel almost crooned. “We just forget this ever happened; right, Jingles?”
“If you say so, sir, I’m sure the sheriff will see it your way.”
She knew what was right, but she also was the sole support of an elderly, sick mother. The Wartons had the money and the influence to ruin Serenity’s business, run her out of this town. “I—I’ll think it over.”
“You just do that, Miss Peterson, I’m sure you’ll come to the right decision. Why don’t you just go on home now? You’ve had a bad scare.”
She was suddenly very tired and disgusted with herself. This stranger had helped her, and she stood here silent, knowing women would always be victimized until they had the courage to speak out against men like Billy Warton. For herself, she would have braved it; but what would she do about her mother if she lost her home and small business? Humiliated and defeated, Serenity watched the Wartons and Jingles get into the buggy carrying the unconscious stranger, slap the horse with the reins and drive down the street to the jail. Serenity was uncertain and afraid with no one to ask for help. She looked around the circle of faces in silent appeal. The men all avoided her eyes, then began to disband and drift away. Perhaps there was nothing to be done until tomorrow.
As she turned to walk away, she stumbled across the valise and paused. If she ran after them, gave it to the deputy, would the stranger ever get it back? Maybe not. This was one favor she could do him; not much in the way of gratitude, but the best she could do at the moment. She picked it up and took it home.
“Serenity, is that you?” She heard her frail mother’s voice from the bedroom as she entered.
“Yes, Mama, I’ll bring you some soup in a minute.” Serenity opened the valise. Maybe there would be a clue as to his identity, something that might help her decide what to do. Puzzled, Serenity stared at the feathered and beaded costume it contained. The only other item she recognized was a scrap of paper with a name and address in Boston. The half-breed didn’t appear to be the type who would have connections in Boston, but since he’d been carrying luggage, maybe he had gotten off that train that had pulled in several hours ago.
Serenity opened her reticule, counted what little money she had since she’d just paid her rent and the note on the house; not much, but enough to send a telegram. The telegraph office was at the train station, and it might still be open, although she wasn’t sure messages were delivered on Sunday. Maybe this woman in Boston could do something to help the gallant stranger. That made Serenity feel a little less guilty. She put the address in her reticule. “Mama, I’ve got to go out again; just for a few minutes. I’ll be right back and then we’ll have supper.”
Before Mother could protest, Serenity went out the door. Sometimes being the sole support of an elderly parent with as few jobs as there were available for women was a heavy burden. She never seemed to have time to meet eligible men, and now, she was past thirty. Anyway, she wasn’t pretty. Mother and everyone else had always told her she was as plain as her name.
Well, she had tonight and tomorrow to decide what to do about the attack and whether to file charges. Maybe Hershel Warton was right; it would be so much better for everyone if she filed no charges and the law just turned the stranger loose. She looked at her reflection in the station window as she approached the office. How can you live with yourself if you let this happen? She hadn’t asked the stranger to step in. If he hadn’t shown up and interfered, what was the worst thing that could have happened to her? Billy would have torn her dress a little more, given her a worse scare; but he’d been drunk, and he probably would have let her go if she’d insisted. Maybe it was her fault; maybe she’d done something to encourage the wealthy young rake who had a wild reputation in this town.
When her mother finally died, Serenity intended to leave this place forever, start again somewhere else. At the moment, as Hershel Warton had said, she had to live in this town, and that was the cold reality of it. She would do what little she could to help her rescuer; she would send a telegram.
Over in the jail, Hershel Warton looked down at the handcuffed, unconscious half-breed sprawled on the jail floor and cursed. “Big as he is, Billy, it’s a wonder he didn’t kill you.”
Jingles said, “I came to Billy’s aid; remember that, Mr. Warton.”
“Aw . . .” Hershel made a dismissing motion and sneered. “Neither one of you could fight worth a damn if I melted you and poured you on this galoot. Billy, you must have been dead drunk to bother that drab little milliner.”
Billy hiccoughed and staggered over to sit down on the corner of the desk. “Now, Daddy, I told you, he was attacking the lady and I was saving her—”
“Don’t lie to me!” He struck his son across the face, and the sound seemed to ring out in the silence. “I know you better than that; you haven’t a gallant bone in your lazy body!” Hershel watched the deputy searching through the stranger’s pockets. “Find anything?”
Jingles grinned and held up a handful of greenbacks and other papers. “Money, a train ticket, and a man’s name, Todd Shaw, in Denver.”
“Let me see that.” Hershel jerked the name from the deputy’s hand. “Wonder who this is?”
“Who knows?” The deputy still held the money, looking at him with a question in his eyes.
“Yeah, keep it,” Hershel grumbled, “call it a fine.”
“What’ll I do about the ticket?” He tucked the money in his vest, nodding his thanks.
“Same thing I’m doin’ with this name.” Hershel tore up the paper and threw it into the air. He turned and glared at his errant offspring again. “Jingles, get some coffee in him and see if you can get him sobered up before I take him home. I don’t want his mother to know; she dotes on him.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Warton.” His spurs rattled as he crossed the weathered floor. He glanced down at Iron Knife. “What do you want I should do with him?”
Hershel sighed and put his fingers to his throbbing eyes and paced up and down. He had spent a lifetime building this empire. Now he had only a wild, worthless son to leave it all to. It was Louise’s fault; she had always spoiled their son rotten. “I don’t know; we’ll talk about it tomorrow. Reckon we’ll turn him loose; run him out of town.”
Billy took the coffee, sipped it. “You suppose she’ll press charges?”
“Oh, now you’re worried, are you?” Hershel stopped his pacing and glared at his heir. “Why didn’t you think of that before you tried to rip her clothes off right out on the sidewalk?”
“I—I don’t know what came over me,” Billy mumbled. “She isn’t even pretty.” He sipped his coffee.
“Skirt crazy, that’s what you are.” Hershel put his hands to his eyes again. “That drab little hat maker is plain as her name—’ceptin’ for her hair. You must have been drunken than a boiled owl.”
Jingles grinned and pushed his hat back. “You know what they say, Mr. Warton: I never went to bed with an ugly woman, but I’ve woke up with a few.”
“Very funny!” Hershel snapped and renewed his pacing, pulling at his mustache. “Billy, you just can’t paw respectable women; sooner or later, one will have the nerve to press charges. Besides, there’s girls in the dance hall and pretty whores over in St. Louie. Sometime when I’m goin’ on business, I’ll take you along.”
Jingles poured himself a cup of coffee. “Could I go too, Mr. Warton?”
“Oh, you’re as worthless as he is!” Hershel swore. “Billy, I’ll talk to Miss Peterson again tomorrow, use my influence to make sure she sees this as what it was: a boyish prank.”
“Stop calling me Billy. I’m not a little boy, Daddy!”
“Then damn it, stop acting like one!” Hershel paced some more. “Next fall, I’m going to send you off to college, or the military; see if they can make a man of you.”
“Now, Daddy—”
“Don’t ‘now, Daddy’ me!” Hershel paused and looked at the prone half-breed. “Anybody got a clue as to who he is besides the name in his pocket?”
They both shook their heads.
Jingles stuck out his chest. “I tried to roust him a little at the cafe, but he turned tail when I insulted him.”
Hershel peered at both of them. “I’d say by the bruises on both of you, he got in a few good licks. Judging from his clothes, he might have some influence somewhere.”
“Him?” Jingles guffawed. “Naw. Maybe he stole the clothes. He was just drifting through town, maybe.”
“Well, throw him in a cell and I’ll tell you what to do with him tomorrow. Reckon it would be best just to take him to the county line and throw him out, tell him not to come back. Come on, son, let’s get home before your mother starts worrying and then meets us with a bunch of questions. Next time you want a pretty whore, go along with me over to St. Louie; I’ll take you to the right places.”
“Good night, Mr. Warton; Billy—er, Bill.” Jingles touched the brim of his hat respectfully and watched the pair as they went out the door. They only gave him a dismissing nod as they got in the buggy and drove away. Damn rich, uppity Wartons!
Someday, Jingles would have money and power, and he wouldn’t have to scrape and bow to anyone. He was damned good with a gun, and Wartonville wasn’t big enough to hold him. Someday, maybe he’d be sheriff in some wide-open boom town, and everyone would point him out when he walked down the street with his spurs ringing. There goes Jingles Johnson, they would whisper, he’s one tough lawman; when you hear those spurs comin’, you’d better mind your manners and step aside.
He grinned, thinking about it, imagining how pretty women would smile and flutter their eyelashes at him. The big saloons would pay him to keep the peace and not bother their gambling and whores. Yes, someday he’d be more than just a deputy in a hick town.
The man on the floor moaned and stirred. Damned half-breed. Gingerly, Jingles felt his own bruised, swollen face. The girls at the local saloon told him he was handsome, but getting his face beat up wouldn’t help. Now, a romantic knife scar down one cheek, that would be impressive for the ladies, but just getting his face swollen and covered with purple and green bruises would only cause laughter.
The man stirred again. “Now it’s my turn, you half-breed,” Jingles muttered. “Tomorrow I may have to turn you loose, but tonight, I can do anything I want with you!”
Jingles grinned and looked down at his sharp-toed boots with their wicked Spanish spurs. The half-breed lay there with his hands cuffed. Oh, this was gonna be fun! Jingles brought back his foot and kicked the man in the groin, then brought the spur across his chest in the torn shirt. When he got through tonight, this half-breed would remember Deputy Johnson.
Summer sat stark upright in bed, heart pounding. What was it that had awakened her? A bad dream? She looked around, listening, but she heard nothing except her own breathing. The whole house was asleep on this sultry summer night. It was late. No, it hadn’t been a bad dream; it had been a terrible sense of danger—of foreboding. For whom? Iron Knife’s rugged face came to her mind. Was he in some kind of trouble? Was he dead? Perhaps it was a nightmare after all. Certainly she didn’t think she had the uncanny gift of foresight her younger sister had inherited from the Blackledge side of the family.
She got out of bed, lit a lap and tiptoed down the hall to the nursery. Her three tots lay snuggled in their beds all safe and warm. She looked down at the swell of her belly as her unborn child moved. Something was wrong; what was it?
Turning, she tiptoed back to her room and put out the lamp. She got into bed but couldn’t sleep. The feeling persisted that something terrible had happened at the very moment that she had sat bolt upright in bed. She and her lover had been so very close that sometimes she thought she could read his mind. Maybe she needed to go to him. According to the wire from Todd, Iron Knife had taken a Cheyenne girl now, and she had better stay in Boston. Doubts assailed her. She would have bet her life he would never do that. Yet when she pictured him locked in Gray Dove’s embrace, she thought that maybe she didn’t know him at all.
Besides, she felt much too ill to travel. This pregnancy wasn’t going well, or maybe it was only the grief of dealing with her mother’s death that had laid her low. Her baby was due in September. Her belly seemed bigger than usual, yet she hadn’t been eating that much.
The house was ghostly quiet. The grandfather clock didn’t tick or boom out the hour anymore. In fact, the best clocksmiths had been unable to get it to run again. It stood silent in the front hall, its hands stopped at nine o’clock, ever since the night her mother died. Sometimes she pitied her father. Once she had found her mother’s bedroom door slightly ajar and peeked in to see him sitting in there among the small pieces of Priscilla’s life as if he were visiting a shrine. He had allowed nothing to be changed or removed, but if he had noticed that the music box was gone, he said nothing. Yet in contrast, Silas Van Schuyler had ordered her mother’s rose garden ruthlessly plowed up. The first time Summer had looked out at the fresh dirt, it reminded her of nothing so much as new graves.
Priscilla. She had not realized how much she would miss her mother. Summer blinked back a tear and touched the tiny locket she still wore on a gold chain around her neck.
Was she getting more like her mother every day? Would she, too, be trapped in this house by circumstances as her mother had been? Again Summer felt a great sense of loss and despair sweep over her and thought of her half-breed lover. She went back to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. Something was very, very wrong at this moment; she only wished she knew what it was.