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Vinita, Indian Territory
“IS IT BECAUSE OF THE fire?”
Peter glanced at her, still wearing the mysterious smile. He’d slid his fresh shirt on before they’d left camp, but the day had already grown so warm, that he’d rolled the sleeves partway up his arm. “Is what because of the fire?”
She gestured over her shoulder. “The bobcat. It’s still following us.”
“Really?” Peter glanced out his window. He sighed and snapped the reins. “I don’t think so, Katie.”
Katie sucked in her bottom lip. It was already well past midday and the little cat still followed them. Never did she feel threatened but instead she sensed, on some level, that the little bobcat simply wanted to be near them. “Doesn’t it make sense that if an animal is threatened by fire it will act strangely?”
“Yes, that makes sense, but I don’t see any other animals acting like this. Something about this particular animal just doesn’t feel right.”
Katie contemplated their situation for a moment. “I think it just likes us, Peter,” she reasoned. “Maybe if you pull over, I can pet it.”
Peter looked at her as though she’d just recited the Gettysburg Address in Latin. “No Katie, that cat’s sick. See how Sookie’s acting?” It was true. Their buggy horse had kept up a steady trot all day, despite her singed ankles. “See, she senses that we’re getting close to town and is pouring on the steam.”
“She’s doing what?”
Peter smiled. “Going faster.”
Katie shrugged. “Oh,” she said, pointing to a sign. “Va-nee-tah.” She glanced at Peter for approval. “Vinita?”
“That’s what it looks like to me.” He shifted on the seat. “Welcome to Indian Territory, my dear Katie girl.”
Katie’s eyes widened as they pulled into Vinita. “So this is what Indian Territory looks like,” she whispered, awe softening her words.
“Let’s park the buggy at the livery and see what we can get to eat.” Peter climbed down and reached to assist Katie.
Once in the street, Katie’s hands flew to her exposed hair. “Oh Peter, I can’t be seen without my covering, and—” Her worried face melted into one of indignation. “Hold on there now. I thought you said that we were fresh out of cash money.”
Peter gave her hand a squeeze and winked. “I may have had enough to take care of us. But Bob Dalton? He can take care of himself.”
Katie arched an eyebrow in spite of herself. “What do I do for a covering?”
Peter crossed his arms and glanced up and down the wooden boardwalks that lined both sides of the street. She did the same. Though a bit tumbledown, the settlement of Vinita looked a smidge closer to how she had been picturing Old Amarillo to look.
“Ah, there now,” Peter said, pointing to one of the brightly painted building façades. “Can you read that word on there, Katie?”
Katie stared at the word, trying the letters out on her tongue before trusting herself enough to try them aloud. She’d never been a star pupil and had focused more on causing grief for the smarter kids, like Rebekah Stoll, than applying herself to her studies. Her Pa had told her once that she had done just fine, reading the letters she thought she saw, but they were the wrong ones for the word. Truth be told, the letters tended to jump around and flip upside down when she concentrated on them too much, making anything she said come out wrong.
It had only taken once when the entire one-roomed schoolhouse in Gasthof Settlement let a soft snicker pass over them while Katie was reading aloud from the blackboard. Never again had she even bothered to attempt a public reading. At least, not until Peter asked her to.
“Mer,” Katie started. “Merchant’s Tile?”
Peter nodded. “Close. Mercantile. That’s where you’re going to pick out your fabric for a new covering.”
Katie’s face, hangdog at her mispronunciation of the word, brightened. She pulled back her shoulders. “Really, Peter?”
“Really, Katie. But there’s only one condition.”
Katie’s resolve threatened to falter. “Oh?”
“Pick out both a white fabric and a black fabric.” Peter flashed a grin. “That way, if you ever consent to marry me, your black wedding covering will be all ready.”
Biting back her tongue, Katie had to physically cross her feet so as not to dash into his arms. Arms that looked so empty without her in them. Arms that were divinely made for her.
“That sounds good to me, Peter Wagler.” Ducking her head, Katie hid her smile. I can’t wait to tell him that I love him. God grant me the patience that Peter requires of me now.
“Better late than never,” Peter chuckled, pointing down the road.
Sure enough, the bobcat had followed them into town.
As they watched the haphazard cat trot down the main street of Vinita, Katie called attention to the drool sliming from the cats frothy mouth, all the way down to the dusty road. “It’s growling Peter,” she said, stepping back behind her beau. Now, something about the unfortunate little cat made her want to run, hide and forget she ever saw it. How foolish was I to want to pet it?
From out of the saloon across the street, a lanky stranger staggered out to meet the day. Obviously hung over, he shielded his eyes from the sun as he stared at the buggy. A tiny smile came to his unshaven face and for a moment, Katie thought he might come over and speak to them. However, the out-of-place bobcat caught his attention first. His shooting iron was drawn from his holster in a flash and before Katie could suck in breath enough to offer any protest, the little bobcat was lying dead in the dusty road.
Fire flashed inside her where moments before, friendship could have bloomed. Just as she suspected earlier, the stranger strode over to make their acquaintance. Pistol holstered, the gunman’s face was untelling of anything out of the ordinary. If one had just happened upon the scene, they never would have guessed the tall, smiling man had just gunned down a helpless bobcat. Katie’s words flew off her tongue with a righteous air. “Just what do you think you’re doing there, mister?”
Peter placed his hand lightly on her arm. “Katie.”
“Is this the kind of place where a man can just shoot animals and that’s that?”
“Katie.” Peter’s voice was more insistent as passersby were beginning to stop and take notice.
Flinging her hands into the air, Katie managed to tangle her fingers in her chestnut mane. “I’m starting to wonder if I shouldn’t have just stayed in Gasthof.”
“Katie!”
With a huff, Katie turned to face Peter. “What is it, Peter?” Tugging hard, she freed the last of her fingers from her tresses.
The pistol-packing stranger stood there in the street, grinning at her as though she’d just showed him a side of life he’d never seen. As opposed to entering into argument with Katie, he simply drew a flask from his vest pocket and tipped it to Peter. “Got your own little rabid cat there, don’t ya, mister.” He tipped up the flask and took a healthy swig. “Clayton Allison, at your service.”
Peter stuck out his hand. “Mr. Allison, hallo. Thank you for the fine welcome.” He glanced at Katie. “And for dispatching that rabid bobcat before any harm could come to us or anyone else in the fine town of Vinita.”
Clayton nodded, the smile fading from his shadowed face. Strikingly handsome, Katie let her eyes roam over the raven haired gunman. The severe part in his shining locks gave the impression of waves curling back from over his springtime-green eyes. Or are they blue? Katie leaned in closer to get a better look. Maybe they’re a bit of both, yes that’s it. A bit of both, like the ocean. A frazzled tuft of curls had apparently lost their pomade and poked out at the peak of his forehead.
“Sorry, I’m not better company today, folks. Fact of the matter is, I just plunged you, me, and this whole God-for-sake—” He paused in his spiel and glanced at Katie. “Excuse me there, ma’am. This whole part of the country into progress.” Clayton wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out the corner of the mouth, as though he were trying to rid himself of a bad taste. “Progress. Ha! Progress for who—er, whom—is what I want to know.”
Producing his flask again, Clayton helped himself to a hearty swig and ignored the indignant stares from the respectable townsfolk who congregated on the boardwalk. Interesting how those folks never step off into the red dirt street. Katie was intrigued by the man who was probably only a decade or so older than she herself was.
“I’m sorry Mr. Allison, but how did you fling us into progress?” Clayton’s eyes twinkled, bemused, as he looked at Katie. “Ah, the wide-eyed face of innocence.” He jutted his jaw and stared off over the tops of the buildings, into the wild blue sky. “I’ll tell you darlin’, I flung this here part of the world into progress because earlier this week I singlehandedly escorted the last of the wild Comanche chiefs to an Army base just a ways south of here.” He blinked back moisture and his lower lip quivered. “It was there, at a place called Fort Sill, where Chief Quanah Parker surrendered his freedom to the Great White Father.”
Katie tried to follow along, but the words Mr. Allison chose to use served more to confound her than anything else. “You can probably tell we’re new to your part of the country,” Katie said quietly. “I don’t know anything about a Quanah Parker, or a Great Father in White.” As much as she willed it not to, as much as she just simply wanted to move on down the trail with Peter to their long-awaited home in Texas, Katie’s heart began to pound. This was an adventure she had to hear.
“Is that so? Well, I’ll tell you this. There was a time when the Comanche Indians, or as they called themselves—The People —roamed free. Then the white people started moving into their land and generally making a nuisance of themselves.” Clayton spoke with such a knowledgeable tongue that Katie was intrigued. She recognized the passion right off, too. Her lack of a covering momentarily forgotten, she leaned farther forward to absorb as much of the story as she could from Mr. Allison’s lips.
“As you can probably imagine, wars began. Land wars, people wars, these wars, those wars—all us Texans knew what was going to happen, where it all was leading.” Clayton sighed deeply. “Then the day came that too many Indians had died. Too many whites, too. And, of course, when you’re dealing with the government, too much money had been lost.”
English people certainly talk more about money than anything else.
Clayton wobbled a bit but caught himself on the side of the buggy before he fell completely to the ground. “It was time for the Comanche to surrender, or the Army was going to wipe ’em all off the faith—er, excuse me, face—of the earth.” Clayton burped into his fist before continuing. “Quanah Parker, the great chief that he is, decided to do what was best for his tribe and surrender. And I was the unlucky son-of-a-buck who got to take his freedom away.” A tear leaked from the corner of Clayton’s eye. Without trying to appear as though she was staring, Katie adjusted herself to get a better look. Yup, indeed. This gunfighter is crying.
Clayton Allison sniffled back the rest of his tears before drawing another long gulp from his flask. “So I escorted Chief Parker from his home range in Texas, which was quite near my ranch mind you, right up to the gate at Fort Sill. Wouldn’t go in myself though, no sir. I got my principles you see.” Clayton patted the buggy and stepped back a ways to test out his balance. “Once I done that, I just kept on a-comin’ north. Time to forget the whole business. I mean shoot,” he went on, gesturing wildly with one arm. “I could almost hear those ranchers banging up the barbed wire fences behind us as we left Texas.” He stumbled back over and leaned nonchalantly against the buggy, squinting, even though, his back was to the sun. “Little lady, you’re lookin’ at the durn fool who tamed the West that day.” Clayton ducked his head and sniffled back another round of tears.
Never having met his equal, Katie glanced at Peter, who shrugged and commenced to examining his fingernails.
Katie stepped a bit nearer to Clayton. “You’re from Texas then?”
“Yes, ma’am. Down around San Antone.”
Nodding, Katie continued. “How blessed you were to have Mr. Parker, er Chief Parker, as your neighbor then.”
Clayton sniffled again. “Well, we weren’t rightly neighbors. Comanche range was further west. But you see,” Clayton raised his head and pointed off to the south, “everyone in Texas is your neighbor. You’ll see.” He turned his back to the buggy and propped one leg up as though he were resting against his own wagon.
Turning, Katie mimicked his stance best she could. “Parker. Do all Indians have such English sounding names?”
A spark lit up Clayton’s eyes, and he spun to face her, almost falling in the process. “You mean to tell me you’ve never heard the story of Cynthia Ann Parker? The white woman who was captured by the Comanche as a small girl, only to grow up and become a wife to a chief and mother to a future chief?”
Katie’s jaw went slack. So much information spewed forth in Clayton’s few words that taking it all in was like a water-logged garden being graciously sprinkled with more and more rain. “Texas certainly sounds, well, interesting.” Katie forced a smile. Fact was; her mind was already out of Indian country and over the Red River, where all the excitement seemed to be.
“That sun’s mighty hot. Would you two care to join me in the saloon for a drink?” He winked at Katie. “They offer sarsaparilla too, you know.”
Sarsaparilla? That sounds fun—Katie opened her mouth to accept, but Peter cut her off. “No thanks, Mr. Allison. But we certainly thank you for your company.”
“And for the stories,” Katie chimed. She patted Peter’s arm as Clayton Allison sauntered back into the saloon. “Texas is getting more interesting the closer we get.”
Peter nodded, unimpressed. “Let’s go pick you up that fabric. Those coverings aren’t going to make themselves.”
***
KATIE WAS SECRETLY glad Peter had insisted they bunk overnight at the hotel across from the saloon in Vinita. With Peter safely tucked into the room next to hers, Katie had the cloth for both coverings spread out across the small bed in the corner of her room. She sat at the roughshod desk by the window and stitched by candlelight to the tune of the plunky piano music coming from the saloon across the street.
The candle had almost burned down to a nub when a sudden fracas in the street called Katie’s attention away from the nearly-finished coverings. She poked the needle into the fabric before jumping to her feet and hurrying to the window. With her nose pressed to the dirty glass, she could just make out the figures of two men tossing something back and forth to one another. “Hey, that’s Clayton,” Katie mused to her absent audience. Leaning to the wall that separated her room from Peter’s, Katie gave the wall a bang. “Peter! Are you seeing this?”
Peter knocked back quietly. “Yes, Katie,” he replied in a voice notably softer than the one she’d used. “You don’t have to yell.”
The corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Oh, you’re right. Sorry.” She thought she heard Peter’s musical laugh from the other side of the thin wall.
A gunshot, not unlike the one that had taken the life of the sick bobcat earlier, rang out in the street below. “Oh my,” she exclaimed, exhaling onto the glass. Rubbing furiously, so as to get a better look at the goings on outside, Katie let go a huff. Most of the dirt is on the outside of the window. By the time Katie got enough of the window cleaned off to peer out with more detail, everyone had already cleared away. Was Clayton part of that shootout?
Katie’s shoulders sagged, and with a defeated sigh she blew a tuft of her russet bangs off her forehead. I think Peter should go investigate. She gave another soft knock to the wall. “Peter?”
No answer.
“Peter!” She knocked again, a bit louder. “Peter, are you awake?”
A dull thunk sounded from Peter’s side of the wall. “I am now. What is it, Katie?”
She could hear the sleep still heavy in his voice. “Don’t you think you should go out there and see what happened?”
Peter must have leaned against the wall because it pushed in against her a little. “No. I don’t think that would be a very smart thing to do.”
Her mouth fell open. “Well,” she stammered, “why not? Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“You, I, and the entire settlement of Vinita heard what happened. There was a shot.”
Katie peeked out the window again into the dark, quiet street. Though the lights of the saloon still burned bright, there was no more plunky piano music on out-of-tune keys echoing through the night. It looked as though all the saloon-goers had simply vanished. “What if Mr. Allison was involved? I am almost sure it was him in the street, tossing something with another man.”
Peter sighed loudly. “Katie, don’t you think that Mr. Allison knows how to handle a pistol?” He paused a moment. Whether he was giving her time to ponder his words or if he had dozed off, Katie wasn’t sure. “He was quite drunk when we met him this afternoon, and still he managed to shoot a moving bobcat and kill it with one shot.”
“Oh. I suppose you’re right.” Katie ran her fingers over a lock of her exposed hair. She examined the color and held it up to the wooden wall, comparing the tones. “You’re right as usual.”
There was a long silence. She could hear him shifting his weight on the creaky floorboards on his side of the wall. “Katie?”
“Yes?”
“Was there anything else?”
Katie thought for a moment. Yes, there is something else. I want to come to your room and see if your window is any easier to see out of. The question burned on her tongue, but she didn’t ask it. “No, that’s all.”
“Okay. Goodnight, Katie. Sleep well.”
Her voice was meek. “Goodnight.” She listened as he climbed back into his bed. A moment later, she could hear his deep, rhythmic breathing. Retreating from the wall, Katie stole another glance outside. Still, there was nothing notable going on that she could see.
Picking up her covering, she pricked her finger on the needle. Not tired enough to sleep, she kept one eye on her sewing and one eye on the window.
***
KATIE WAS UP WITH THE sun, partially because her hotel room faced east, and there were no curtains to block out the bright rays. Still, waking and greeting the day without daily chores was something she hadn’t gotten entirely used to. Having fallen asleep watching the window, she plucked up the black covering and had just finished when a soft knock came at her door.
“Good morning Peter,” she called gaily. Only Peter can knock that softly. Flinging open the door, Katie was pleased to discover Peter there, with matching plates of breakfast.
“Did the fabric work for your coverings, Katie?” His voice was subdued.
Of course, he doesn’t want to wake up the English patrons who like to sleep late into the morning. “They did, thank you.” Twisting her hair into a tight bun, she pulled on her new soft white covering. Of course, a handful of locks escaped. She tucked the stubborn locks back up where they belonged, only to have them fall back down again.
“Here, let me.” Setting the plates on the night stand, Peter’s fingers gently brushed her neck as he tucked her hair into place. “Beautiful,” he breathed.
Goosebumps crept up Katie’s arms. “I’m, um, packed. Ready to head for Texas?” Turning to face Peter, she tried to look comfortable in her skin. “Let’s continue our adventure together.” I love you, Peter.
***
KATIE WAS JUST ABOUT to step into the buggy when a slumped figure from the side of the saloon caught her attention. She recognized the severe part and tuft of bangs in an instant. “Excuse me, Mr. Allison?” She took care to keep her voice low as she approached him. Squatting down in the mud, she could hear his muffled sobs. “What’s wrong?”
“Hi, Katie darlin’. They won’t put me in jail.”
Katie looked hard at Clayton. “What did you say, Mr. Allison?”
“Sheriff won’t put me in jail. I killed a man last night, and I even walked into the cell myself, but fool that he is he wouldn’t lock the cell door.”
Katie sucked in her bottom lip as the town of Vinita slowly came to life around them. “Well, forgive me for asking, but...” Katie let her voice trail off before she asked a question she might not have wanted to know the answer to. Giving over to her curiosity, she continued. “Why did you kill him?”
Clayton stretched out his legs in front of him and hung his head. “He called me an Indian Lover and drew down on me. I agreed with him and told him I wished I hadn’t brought the Comanche in to surrender.” He looked up from the mud, depressed and seemingly helpless. As well as hopelessly drunk. “Then I handed him one of my guns to kill me with.”
Not knowing how to respond, Katie stared at Clayton before shifting her body and motioning for Peter to join her.
“By this time we were in the street,” he continued. “Durn dude, he threw my pistol back at me! The durn thing discharged. Killed him dead. Now the ole sheriff is sayin’ self-defense.” Clayton pinched the bridge of his nose in such a way that a passerby would think the weight of the world rested on the young man’s shoulders.
Katie glanced back at Peter. Sure enough, he was unsuccessfully hiding the smile that flickered on his lips like a candle flame.
“Well, I have never heard of such a thing,” Peter said. “And I’m sorry Mr. Allison, but I have to agree with the sheriff. It sounds like you’re innocent.”
“He is innocent,” a strong-featured man proclaimed as he marched up, fully sober, from the red dirt street. With a sincere smile, he offered his hand to first Katie, then Peter. “Howdy folks, I’m Bill White. This here’s John Threepersons.” He motioned behind him to a tall, lanky man, dark-skinned, with a flat top hat.
Katie nodded. “Hello, Bill. John.”
Peter nodded at the men, an amused twinkle overtaking his eyes.
Leaning together as though choreographed, the men pulled Clayton out of the mud and hauled him to the horse trough that sat in front of the saloon.
“Ma’am, you may want to avert your eyes for this,” John Threepersons warned. Then, he and Bill White proceeded to shove Clayton’s head under the slimy, brackish water.
Katie gasped and looked at Peter. “Should we do something?”
Peter watched as the two men yanked their friend up by his collar. “Sober yet, Clay?” Bill called.
Clayton shook his head and babbled something about just going on and drowning him. “Again,” the mystery friends agreed before dunking him back under water.
From behind his hand, Peter spoke Pennsylvania Dutch. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do that these men haven’t already thought of, Katie.”
Clayton’s voice rang out, watery and loud. “I’m sober now you yellow-bellied sapsuckers!”
John Threepersons grinned, revealing one missing front tooth. “I declare you sober.”
Clayton shook the horse spit out of his hair over the dusty road. “Forgive the theatrics Peter, Katie.” Gesturing, he asked, “Have you fellows met Peter Wagler and Katie Knepp?”
Stone drunk and upset and he still remembered both our names?
“We met, Clay,” Bill assured him. “Saloon keeper told us you were out here having a good cry ’cause the sheriff wouldn’t arrest you.” He shot a pained look to Katie. “John and I hurried over to see if there was anything we could do.”
Something tells me this isn’t the first time these two men have come to Mr. Allison’s rescue.
Clayton tilted his chin skyward, a proud grin on his unshaven face. “No sir, I already done it.”
Bill and John exchange a look. “What’d you already do, Clay?”
Straightening his vest, Clayton began to explain. “Well, when the good sheriff wouldn’t keep me in jail, I paid a visit to the widow.”
Katie licked her lips. “What widow?”
“The wife of the man I killed last night.”
Bill sighed. “You didn’t kill him, Clay. It was a fool accident. Everybody says so.”
“Anyway, I paid her a visit. I apologized, and I gave her my ranch.”
Bill and John shook their heads in unison. They’ve obviously been friends with Mr. Allison for quite some time. Katie followed Peter’s lead and attempted to hide her smile behind her hand.
“It was the right thing to do,” Clayton attested. Producing a comb from the pocket of his vest, he proceeded to groom himself in the saloon’s front window.
Bill closed his eyes. “Oh, Clay. Please say you didn’t.”
He turned his head, checking his reflection from every angle. “All 10,000 acres of the Rockin’ R, down San Antone way. And all the cowboys to work it now belong to the widow of—” Clayton stopped combing as a look of absolute horror overtook his face. “Boys, I don’t even know the feller’s name I kilt.”
Bill and John exchanged a knowing look.
Replacing the comb, Mr. Allison resembled a banker more so than a gunfighter. Or a murderer. Or even a drunk. “I killed her husband, Bill; it was the least I could do.”
“Did you marry up with her too?” John asked. From his tone, Katie couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not.
“No, I’m already married boys, you know that.” Clayton’s eyes glassed over. “Excuse me fellas, Miss Knepp, but I have to go.”
Bill flung his hands up. “Where you headed to now, Clay?”
Hurrying down the dusty street with his six guns still strapped to his hips, Clayton Allison offered only a slight glance over his shoulder as he called out his reply. “I have to beat that widow woman to the Rockin’ R. I ought to be the one to tell my wife I just gave our ranch to another woman!”
