THE TIME OF AN INDIAN woman’s menstrual period is one of solitude and isolation. Doe knew before they reached the mountains her time was about to begin. She had hoped they would reach their destination before it happened, but luck was not with her there.
“Hey, get out some bread, would you?” Sam had stopped to let the horses take a break and was uncinching his gray. When no reply came, he glanced back over his shoulder. Doe had dropped the lead for the pack animals and was backing her horse away from the others, clearly upset. She looked like she was about to bolt. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“I go away! I am unclean.”
“What are you talking about?”
She looked down at her knee-high moccasins, the tops of which were now stained red. “It is my time.”
“Oh.” Sam saw now what she meant. He reached out and grabbed the bridle of her horse. “Doe, I’m not dumb about women. I was married for quite a while. My wife had the same thing.”
“Not matter.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t. This is a natural thing.”
“Bad time to be near me.”
“Calm down. We’ll go ahead and make camp here. I’m not afraid of this.”
“Apache men are.”
Sam snorted. “I ain’t no Apache, and we ain’t got time for superstition.”
“Then we must go on to the mountains. This is a bad camp.” She sighed, relenting. Torn between two worlds, she believed that she must please this man. If he was a fool not to fear her unclean time, she must protect him in other ways.
He patted her leg to reassure her. “Soon as the horses get rested.”
“When they are rested. Let us go on to the mountains.”
——————————
THEY HAD MADE THEIR NEW camp high the mountains by dark, at what she had come to call The Place of the Mockingbird. It was a good name for the site—a grove of white-barked aspen with a grassy bottom for the horses across a rushing, clear little stream. Their new canvas tent, still so white it hurt her eyes under the sun, sat in the middle of the small clearing in the midst of the aspen grove. The western horizon was dominated by tall peaks, providing a gentle updraft to cool the warm afternoons. The steeper slopes were forested in pine, except for a few barren black rockslides.
Sam had ridden off at dawn to a place called Summerville for supplies and what information he could talk out of the locals, leaving her to tend to her morning chores. Saucy blue jays scolded her as she lifted the three-legged Dutch oven over hot ashes with her iron hook. Heaping red hot embers on the lid with a small shovel, she set the bread to baking. The horses were standing hipshot out in the meadow, swatting lazily at flies with their tails. Full of the rich bottom grass, they were content.
A mockingbird nesting nearby had dived at her several times already this day. Smiling, Doe feigned a wave and sent the brave split-tailed bird away again. Soft winds rushed through the aspen and played a song she knew as a little girl. Smiling to herself, she hummed along with it and began to move her feet. She was proud of the stiff new knee-high boots Sam had purchased for her in Alkali. Stiffer than deer hide, she had worked on them for hours, kneading them with gun oil to help soften the tops. Bending forward, she lifted her knees, testing the stiff soles. She could dance in them as she remembered in the camps of her own people.
Elbows close to her sides, she swung her arms up and down as she stomped in the Camp of the Mockingbird. It was good, but what dance was she doing? The Dance of the Eagles or the Victory Dance? It had been so long since she’s been among her people, she couldn’t remember. But it really didn’t matter. She had not been so happy since she’d been pulled away from her tribe and her family so long ago.
A cold breeze suddenly chilled her bare arms. Doe shivered.
She stopped, peering about. It was not cold. Across the stream, the horses now stood stock still, their ears pointed.
Something was amiss.
Snatching up her pistol from beside the fire, she listened intently. Could it be a bear? Perhaps a cougar? Maybe—
A heart-stopping scream rent the morning air. Swooping in like eagles, four Indian braves on horseback appeared from the far side of the grove, and charged toward the camp. They were all young, thin, and bare-chested, their faces and breasts streaked with war paint. Feathers streamed from their long black hair as they rode toward her at full speed.
Doe didn’t hesitate. She took aim with her pistol and pulled the trigger.
The Colt belched fire and smoke. One of the horses screamed and toppled over, rolling end over end and crushing its rider. A second shot struck a surprised lance bearer squarely in the chest. He flopped back off his pony like a puppet with its strings cut, falling to the ground in a cloud of loose arms and legs.
Veering off, the other two raiders headed for stream and the horses beyond. Doe fired again and missed. She took a deep breath and steadied her aim. Her next shot caught the Indian on the left square in the back. He raised his arm skyward and pitched headlong into the stream. The last brave’s pony swerved trying to avoid the body, then reared into a bucking fit. All the rider could do was hold on for dear life. The pony reared again, spun, and ran off toward the west with his tail tucked tightly between his legs, chased away by Doe’s last two bullets.
Her hands shook as she poured black powder in the cylinders of the six-gun, then rammed a lead bullet in. She sealed each one with lard, so they did not crossfire. Her fingers still trembled as she put caps on each nipple.
Then she collapsed on her butt.
Both of the Indians on the ground just short of the camp were still. She still kept a watchful eye on them, lest they erupt. The one in the water hadn’t moved, either. His pony, a thin paint with a feather tied in its mane, stood wide-eyed at the far bank. Blood had turned the little stream bright red.
Hoofbeats in the distance.
Damn! More horses were coming. Clutching the Colt tightly in her hand, Doe ran to the tent for the double-barrel, then took cover behind the packs nearby. If these were more Indians, she would be in trouble. They wouldn’t make the mistake of rushing headlong into the camp like that a second time. Moving slowly, she raised the barrel of the scattergun and peered over the canvas packs...
She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.
All bluecoats and gold buttons, the cavalry troops splashed through the stream toward her, their little red and white flag fluttering in the breeze. A large man at the head of the column reined up just short of the camp and looked around.
“Sergeant, go see if anyone’s hurt over in that camp.” He leaned over to examine the fallen buck in the stream.
“Yes, sir.” Spurring his horse, a man with yellow stripes on his sleeve spurred his mount up the sandy bank. Pulling up short, his eyes opened wide as Doe leveled both barrels of her shotgun at him.
“Whoa, mister—ma’am.” The man, red and rawboned, swallowed hard. “Anyone hurt here?”
“Three, four Indians.” She jerked the barrel of her shotgun at the ground.
“Sergeant Webster?” The impatient officer demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s a woman, sir. And she’s armed!”
“Good Lord.” The officer rushed his horse across to join his non-com.Reining up short, he raised his hand. “We’re friends. You speak English?”
“Yes.” She dropped the barrel and turned it away. “I am called Doe. My man come soon.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” The officer turned and shared a look with the other soldier. Both men shrugged. “Ma’am, I’m Lieutenant Carlin, this is Sergeant Webster. We’re with the B Troop, 6th Cavalry. We’ve been tracking these renegades for several days. May I ask, how... how did you manage to fight them off?”
Doe snorted. These men were not very bright. “Two guns.”
The old sergeant cackled, then coughed to try to cover it up. His lieutenant shot him a warning glance. “You’re saying you did this yourself?”
“Who else here?”
The officer blinked. “Well....”
“Glad you come.” She jerked her head toward the bodies on the ground. “You can bury them.”
“Pardon me? I don’t understand.”
“Tired of burying no good outlaws! You soldier boys bury them!” Doe shook her head. Could this man not speak English? “Leave horses alone.”
“Oh, yes, ma’am.” The lieutenant dismounted. He gave his horse to an orderly, then turned at the sound of another horse coming toward them.
“Not worry. My man. Sam Brennen.”
She grinned as Sam burst into view, waving a pistol with the wild look of a madman. Breathless, he saw the cavalry troopers, then leapt free of the lathered gray.
He looked around at the wreckage of the camp. “What in tarnation has happened here?”
The lieutenant shrugged. “Your wife, I guess.”
“You do all this?” With a furrowed brow, Sam searched Doe’s face. She gave him a sly smile.
Answer enough.
All he could do was laugh. Holstering the pistol, he held out his hand to the young officer. “Sam Brennan.”
“Lieutenant Alfred Watkins, B Company, 6th Cavalry.” They shook hands. “We knew we were close behind these four renegades, but we were up on the mountain when we heard the shooting. Seems like the Mrs. here—ah, Doe—sent three of them the the happy hunting grounds by the time we got here. My troopers are rounding up the last one now.”
The army officer turned as three troopers rode in with the fourth painted buck in ropes.
“Damn glad you boys showed up when you did.”
“It’s our pleasure, of course, sir.” The lieutenant bowed. “If you don’t mind my asking, though, sir... what kind of Indian is your wife?”
“Damned if I know.” Sam pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “When she’s angry, she starts cussin’ in Apache, so I were a bettin’ man, that’s where I’d put my money. That’s all I’ve got, though.
“Oh, no!” Doe screamed, then nearly bowled them both over scrambling toward the campfire.
“What, Doe?”
She looked up at him with blood in her eyes. “My damn bread burnt!”
The cold-eyed brave bound on his horse looked over them, ignoring the jesting guards as they pointed to the woman who had defeated him. His gaze never flickered when her angry eyes met his as she dumped the blackened bread on the ground.
A legend was born in the Camp of the Mockingbird. The Utes in the southern Rockies would speak of the “Many Guns Woman” who rides with the “Hunter of Men.”
A burial detail buried the three dead Indians in shallow graves. Doe cooked more bread. Then, she baked more bread for the cheerful bluecoats in her camp. Watching her, she heard them whisper about the strange couple, but they were all polite and were delighted with her fresh bread.
After supper, Lieutenant Watkins offered Sam a cigar. “If you don’t mind my asking... What is your business, Mr. Brennen?”
Sam cleared his throat. “Well, I mainly prospect these days. I used to be a lawman. Worked for Wyatt Earp in Dodge City for a while, then marshaled up in Fort Collins. I still collect a few bounties from time to time.”
“I see.”
“Lieutenant, while I was in Summerville, I visited with the Marshal there. He’s an old trail buddy, and he tells me the Mulvain gang is up in this area. You haven’t run across a Timothy Mulvain, have you?”
“Mulvain?”
“Yep.”
The sergeant spoke up. “He means Potshot, Lieutenant. You know, up on Clear Creek.”
“Oh, yes.” Watkins nodded, now remembering. “Yes, we examined his camp earlier this year. We were looking for whiskey and any stolen horses with a U.S. brand. Couldn’t find a thing. That’s a dirty bunch, I tell you, though. Up to no good,”
They’re wanted in New Mexico,” Sam said by way of agreement.
The officer gave a sigh. “Unfortunately, we’re limited as to what we can do in terms of civilian arrests. I saw nothing we could enforce. If you don’t sell whiskey or guns to the Indians and don’t steal U.S. property, then we have little jurisdiction.”
Sam poked absently at the fire with a stick. “Is it an armed camp?”
The sergeant leaned forward. “Well, they didn’t get ornery with us, you know, but we ride in with a whole company, Sam. Been different if there hadn’t been so many guns, I’d think.”
Sam chuckled “Probably.”
“Excuse us, Sam.” The Lieutenant got to his feet. “Your wife’s bread has spoiled my troops, and it’s getting late. We’ll bivouac across the stream and head back to Camp Sherman in the morning. If you two ever need a job scouting, come look me up.”
Standing stiffly, Sam nodded and shook his hand.
The officer mounted, saluted sharply, and moved off into the dark. The sergeant followed.
Doe slipped in beside her man as they rode off. Gently, she bumped her hip to his.
He dropped an affectionate arm on her shoulder. “Sorry I wasn’t here.”
“I was afraid it was bear. I am glad it was not.”
He hugged her shoulder and shook his head in disbelief.
“Aw, hell, girl. Four renegades sweep into camp, you send three of them into the ever after, and you’re worried about a damned old bear?”
She did not dare look up. He did not understand. How could four men equal a bear? He has no fear in his heart for the bear.
My foolish man, I must watch him closely, for a bear has too much power even for him to overcome.
But what he did not know, there was no need to explain.
“I have a present for you,” he declared as he unsaddled the gray and turned him free to join the others.
“What?”
“Here.” He laughed and handing her a scarred brass spyglass.
Examining it gingerly, she frowned, perplexed at what it was.
Impatiently, he reached over and pulled it out to its full length and had her squint through the eyepiece. “It’s called a spyglass.”
“Spy—oh, I see! A speck is now big.”
“We can see from a long way off now.”
“Yes!” She was amazed by the power of the tube. Busy viewing everything on the mountain, the new gadget impressed her.
Once upon a time, she had viewed through such a thing at the mission but only for a moment—she became afraid that it would make her a red ant and be stepped on by a big horse.
“It will not make us small by its power?”
“Lord, no!” Sam chuckled. “Just gives you the eyes of an eagle.”