SIX
WITH his chest bound in Mary’s bandages, as long as Thurman didn’t use his left arm, he felt better. She’d been applying some of her herbs on the wounds, and she told him it was healing. After a sponge bath and her shaving him, he’d felt half alive and had stopped taking the laudanum. He worried about addiction. Too many soldiers injured in the war could never ever quit it. How long had he been resting there? A week.
Anxious to move on again, he sat on the stump and whittled. Her future worried him the most. Leaving her behind for that worthless Chickenhead to abuse again bothered him. He pulled too hard on the cedar stick in his left hand, and his side complained. The marshals had lost Chickenhead’s trail, and there was no sign of Thurman’s good red horse. That was a big loss with him facing such a long ride.
Mary came from the spring with a canvas pail full of water. “You look deep in thought.”
She stood with the rope bale in both hands. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to get on. They won’t find Red, but—”
Her dark eyes looking concerned, she shook her head. “You can’t ride a horse yet. That would hurt you too much.”
“Exactly.”
“What say I buy a buggy that’s for sale and we hitch Ira to it and go to Fort Smith? You can get that reward and can find yourself a better horse there.”
“How much will the buggy cost?”
“Harness and all, fifteen dollars.”
He closed his eyes at the thought of being jostled around on a buggy seat all day, but that was an answer. Not a bad one either.
“That’s plenty cheap enough. How far is Fort Smith by buggy?”
“Three-four days.” She wrinkled her straight nose as if to say that was nothing.
“When you go to buy the buggy, buy some material for a new dress for you and the food supplies we’ll need.”
She acted affronted. “This dress is good enough.”
He shook his head. “Not to go to Fort Smith with me.”
She set the bucket down, stepped over, swept off his hat, and kissed him on the forehead. “Thank you, Thurman Baker. How far is Montana from Fort Smith?”
He half closed his left eye to stare at her for an answer. “You’re wanting to go all the way up there?”
She looked around the area. “I don’t see anyone else around here who’s going to take care of you.”
“Six weeks to three months by buggy, which is the way we will be going most of the time.”
“Depending on how much your side can stand?”
“That, too. I can carry the water—” He started to get up.
She elbowed him aside. “I am the woman. I carry the water. Besides, I want you well enough to ride in that buggy tomorrow.”
“We’re leaving that soon?”
“I can make the dress while we are on the road. What else is to keep us here?”
He reached over with his right hand and petted Blacky, who had become his companion. “He better go, too.”
“Fine. I have an aunt in Sullyville. Can she go, too?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “No. We only have a buggy if you can buy it.”
“Money talks in these mountains. I’ll ride Ira over there and get it.”
“Here’s a twenty-dollar bill.”
She made a face. “That bill is too big to trade for a twelve-dollar buggy. He will think I am too rich. Besides, he won’t have any change for it either.”
“Keep the twenty for supplies. Let me see.” He took all the change out of his pocket, found some pesos, a few singles, and a five-dollar bill. “Will he take that?”
“Sure, and he’ll think he got all my money.” She laughed and ran for the cabin. “I’ll get ready.” In a short while, she caught Ira and bellied up on him.
Thurman looked up at her as she tossed her thick braids over her shoulder. “You better buy some moccasins, too. There’s lots of things to cut your feet where we’re going.”
“Can I buy some with beads on them?”
He frowned at her. “Why?”
“They cost more, but they are pretty.”
He was so amused by her, his laughter made his side hurt. He eased off the stump to his feet, then went over and handed her another twenty. “Beads, whatever. Oh, yes, get a big tarp if he has one we can use for a fly.”
“You mean like to make a tent?”
“Yes.” It wouldn’t hurt to have it along.
In a few hours, Mary returned with a woman beside her on the buggy seat. He got up to greet her, and nodded to the Indian woman she called Birdwoman.
“She makes pretty dresses,” Mary explained, bounding out of the buggy and then shaking a thin wheel to show him. “It is a good buggy. I bought it and the harness for nine dollars. So I had money for the dress, moccasins, and for her to help me make it this afternoon.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing. Rest. You will get very tired going to Fort Smith.” She left him, busy unbuttoning her dress and talking in guttural Cherokee to Birdwoman.
They had to be discussing how to make the dress, Thurman figured. He and Blacky better entertain themselves for a few hours outside. A gray fox squirrel in the hickory tree chattered at the dog. When the tree climber hit the ground, Blacky gave pursuit, but he was no match for the speedy squirrel.
Herschel took off the folded canvas cover, and opened the two wooden crates of food in the back of the rig. Plenty of canned peaches and tomatoes. Coffee, flour, sugar, baking powder, raisins, dried apples, bacon, lard—they’d eat well anyway on the way up there. He went around back and settled in a hammock. In a few minutes, he was asleep in the shade.
It was Ira’s braying that woke Thurman with a start. Blacky joined in, barking. When Thurman sat up, his side caught and he rolled off the hammock onto his knees. The pain took his breath away, but he held the .44 in his fist. On his feet at last, he came around the corner and saw the two lawmen riding up the lane, Youree on the wagon, Morris on horseback.
Holstering the handgun, he leaned his good shoulder on the corner of the cabin to see what they wanted. The sharpness began to ease in his side.
“We ain’t found your horse yet,” Morris said. “But we’re still looking.”
Thurman nodded. “I reckon I’ll never see him again.”
“Man. We sure hated not finding him. You healing?” Youree asked, climbing down from the wagon heavily and pulling his pants out of his crotch.
“Slow. Sore as hell.”
“I bet,” Youree said. “But you’re lucky. Not many have lived through a shoot-out with ’em. But they can’t avoid the law forever.”
“I bet Baker’s been in worse scrapes than that,” Morris said. “We need a drink of water.”
“Them women are making a dress inside. The path to the spring is right up there.”
“Yeah, we’ve used it before. See you got a buggy.” Morris clapped a hand on a narrow iron-rimmed wheel and tested it.
“Yes, we’re going to Fort Smith and collect that reward.”
“I better warn you. They won’t pay that in cash. They’ll give you a warrant and you’ll have to either keep it till the court gets money, which could be six months, or discount it to a merchant.”
“You mean the federal government has no money?”
Youree shook his head. “They owe both of us money and expenses for the last two months.”
“Good to know. How bad do they discount ’em?”
“Oh, fifteen bucks on a fifty-dollar reward like the one you’ve got coming,” Morris said, and dismounted and started on the path through the post oaks.
“Thanks, that’s good to know.”
“I wish you’d shot all of them,” Youree said, and then he followed Morris up the trail. “But they can’t avoid us forever.”
Holding a dress in front of her at the door and half hidden behind the wall, Mary asked in a low voice, “What do they want?”
He winked at her. “A drink of your springwater.”
She nodded and disappeared again.
When the two lawmen returned, Morris took off his hat and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “Getting hot. Well, we’ve got a wagonload of prisoners rounded up. So we’re going back, too.”
“What did they do?”
“You name it,” Morris said. “We serve warrants issued by a federal grand jury. They range from pig stealing to murder and rape. Lots of whiskey makers.” He shrugged. “But I’ve got to get my prisoners there alive for me to collect three dollars. Get a dollar a day to feed them and ten cents a mile for our own horses and wagon. Youree gets a dollar a day as my posse man, and I collect the fees for the arrests.”
“Sounds like work.”
“Yeah, and it ain’t easy. We both had a fight on our hands night before last with this guy’s wife and mother-in-law when we tried to arrest him for failure to appear on a warrant. Crazy damn squaws anyway.”
Thurman nodded. “You looking some more for Chickenhead?”
“Can’t. We’ve got fourteen prisoners and need to take them in.”
“Reckon Chickenhead knows that?”
“What the hell do you mean by that, Reb?”
“I mean if someone doesn’t stay after him, he can go on robbing, raping, and stealing what he wants.”
“Listen, I risk my damn life about every day for three lousy dollars an arrest. If I get shot up, they won’t pay my doctor bills either. Chickenhead’ll be here when I get back. I’ll get him.”
“How many will he rob and rape in that time?”
“You shot one of his gang. Why don’t you go find him?”
“I have things to do. Besides, it ain’t my job.”
“We’ll get him.” Morris mounted and nodded at Youree, who took his seat in the wagon, and they left.
Mary came out wearing her wash-worn dress to sit on the ground by him. “What did he say?”
“Nothing. I really don’t think he wants to mess with Chickenhead.”
She hugged her knees while seated on the grass and nodded. “If he ever shoots a marshal or robs a train, Parker will send the tough ones down here.”
“That gets results?”
“Oh, yes. I hope you will like my new dress.”
“I will. Why worry?”
“I want you to be proud of me. Should I take down my braids for Fort Smith?”
He rubbed his palms on his pants and laughed. “Why?”
“They will call you a squaw man. I could wear a bonnet?”
“You know any of those folks that will talk about us?” He chuckled at her concern.
“No.”
“Then don’t worry about what they say. I sure won’t.”
She jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. “I won’t. Oh, that food and the tarp cost seven dollars . . .”
“We’ll need it.”
She nodded, but still looked uncertain. “What will they think of me in Montana?”
“That you are a nice-looking young lady and they’ll be jealous that you are with me.”
“Can I ask you one more thing?”
“What is that?”
“Do you really want me to go with you and meet your son?”
“Yes, Mary, I do. I am old enough to be your father. You’re a pretty young woman. I’ll be proud to have you with me.”
“Good. Birdwoman and her family are going to live here until I ever come back.”
“Sounds fine. You may grow tired of me.”
She smiled and shook her head. Then she pushed off and rose to her feet. In front of him, she bent over and looked him in the eye. “I am excited about tomorrow and the next days.”
“You ever been to Fort Smith?”
“Yes, but I was a blanket-ass Indian’s wife then, with a baby, and people sneered at us.”
“Hell, we’re only going in there with a buggy and a mule this time.”
“And you. I have your suit coat fixed and most of the bloodstains out of the shirt. If you will wear the coat, they won’t see them.”
“I’ll be proud.” He leaned over and looked at the house. “Is Birdwoman staying here all night?”
“No,” Mary said, looking embarrassed. “I know you want to leave at sunrise. Right?”
“Let’s do that.” He felt anxious to get on the road again.
The next morning, with their bedding, his saddle, and some cookware tied down on top of the supplies, they left in the first light. She saved her new blue dress to wear until they got close to Fort Smith.
Ira acted spunky and a little spooked by the buggy chasing him. With Mary on the reins, he left the yard high-headed and struck the creek road in a jog trot. Blacky joined them, and went through the woods chasing cotton-tails, then showed up later with blood on his chin—breakfast. Then he fell in for a while beside a wheel, tongue lolling out, and tracked the buggy.
She rigged the scabbard so Thurman’s Winchester was hung on the dashboard. With him on the left and her on the right, they took the bumps on the horsehair-padded bench seat, but she did a good job of guiding Ira around the worst bumps. The narrow iron rims were churning up dust as they moved along.
He smelled wood smoke, and they soon drove past a clearing in the forest. Several haggard men stood in chains forming a line getting breakfast. Thurman looked them over. They were Morris’s prisoners. He waved at Youree, who was standing guard over them with a shotgun. Then they were gone and the hardwoods closed in on the narrow road.
Next, it opened to clearings and fields of new corn—small green shoots. Other fields, he decided, were planted in cotton. It was too small to tell. He closed his eyes. He hated farming. His life began on a dirt farm in Alabama and like Mary, when he went to town on Saturday, the boys that lived there called him names as though he was trash.
But he showed them. With his work-calloused hands as fists, he gave them black eyes, bloody noses, and sent them home crying. When he was married, he took his wife and went to Texas. Settled west of San Antonio and went to trading horses, mules, oxen, and cattle. He soon made enough money to buy a suit and looked respectable. After that, he never wore overalls again. He hired others, and let the boys do the chores and break the horses he brought in. But they never had any dealings with cotton, hoeing or picking it. Those boys were cowboys from the start. Knights on horseback, he always called them.
Mary elbowed him to awareness, and pointed ahead as she reined up Ira. “Do you see those men in the road up there?”
“Yes. Who are they?”
“Road agents. They are wearing masks.”
He considered them. Four men with flour sacks over their faces sat their horses less than a quarter mile ahead of the wagon. Split-rail fences crowded both sides of the dirt ruts so the road agents could force the wagon to halt.
Bending forward with some pain, Thurman jerked the rifle out and told her to stay on the seat and hold the reins tight. He stepped off the buggy, chambering in a cartridge—not listening to her telling him to be careful. If they wanted to rob him, let them come get him.
“Make Blacky stay here and hold on to Ira when I shoot,” he told her.
“Clear the road,” he shouted, and the men laughed like they were amused. They sounded pretty drunk—damn them anyway.
He knelt on his right knee and used his left one for his elbow. With the .44/40 rifle steadied, he aimed through the buckthorn sights for the tallest black hat. When he shot, one of their high-crown hats went flying off. A horse exploded. He came bucking hard out of the group and quickly piled his rider off. The man’s three partners whirled around and left on their own mounts in a cloud of dust.
“Bring the mule and rig,” he said, and ran up to where the man bucked off lay on the ground groaning. The outlaw hugged his right leg as if it was broken.
Filled with fury, Thurman jerked off his mask. “Who in the hell are you?”
Before the moaning young Indian could answer him, Mary slid Ira to a stop beside Thurman, telling him, “He’s Harvey Needles, one of Chickenhead’s men.”
Thurman heard the throaty sound, and whirled around in time to see the stiff-legged Blacky advancing wolflike on the boy. His lips curled back and growling, he was ready for the attack. Needles threw up his hands in wide-eyed fear.
“Here! Here, Blacky,” Thurman said to the dog. “Get back there. He ain’t worth chewing on. Now you go on.”
He stamped his boot on the ground for effect and pointed with the rifle to where he wanted the dog.
Blacky finally obeyed him, but did not act pleased to be called off. He finally went to the rig and sat down. Satisfied that was over, Thurman looked all around at the emerald green mountains.
The good red horse hadn’t been among the ones the outlaws had ridden. Had Red already been sold?
Where in the hell did Charlie Chickenhead go?