12

South Dakota

Disappointment dogged Cassie.

Why had she set store by visiting that ranch? Three days later and it was still bothering her. It wasn’t the only one along the road, and Chief assured her they would come to a town fairly soon. Disappointment dragged together with regret and missing the show. At least there’d always been someone to talk to when she’d been with the troupe. Here, Othello carried on a better conversation than her three human companions did. Maybe it was being stuck in the wagon that was doing her in. Accomplishing anything in the wagon while they were traveling yielded bruises like the one on her thigh when the wagon hit a rut, which seemed to happen on a regular basis.

How their patient stood the pain the rough roads were causing increased Cassie’s respect for the woman tenfold. However, Runs Like a Deer was growing stronger daily. When they were stopped for the night, Micah brought a piece of wood that he had flattened into a smooth board that extended from her heel to her knee.

“Please wrap this.”

Cassie nodded, running her fingers over the smooth surface. “How did you get it so smooth?”

“A rock.”

“She’ll need a crutch next.”

“I’m working on that.”

“Good. In the meantime she can lean on me to get around.” Chief and Micah had used a blanket to carry the Indian woman outside once, but the board had been too long and did not allow her to sit down.

“Crutch will be done tonight.”

“Thank you.” She pulled out a drawer that held bedding and proceeded to rip the sheet into strips and then wrapped the board. Cassie showed it to her patient. “This should help.” Starting at the woman’s foot as the woman lay on the bottom bunk, Cassie untied and removed the ties that bound the long board to the leg. She lifted the board away and leaned it against the bed frame. The woman’s leg seemed to be healing nice and straight, so she laid the new board in place and bound it to the leg, being careful not to wrap it too tight.

“You still have to be careful, but now at least you can sit up. Micah promised to make a crutch for you tonight. Then you can walk again, but don’t put that foot on the ground.” She wished she knew if her patient understood what she was saying. “Do you want to sit up?”

Runs Like a Deer nodded and propped herself on her elbows, nearly banging her head on the frame above her.

“Careful. Let me help you.” Cassie grasped the bound leg and helped ease both legs over the edge of the bed. When the woman flinched as Cassie lowered her leg, she stopped. “Better not do that.” She glanced around the small space, searching for something to help, but since every inch was filled with necessary supplies, she shook her head. If we could get you to the chair . . .

Runs Like a Deer looked in the direction Cassie had been looking.

“Chair.”

“I was thinking the same thing, but I think we’d be better having Micah pick you up.” She went to the door and called for him.

“Here” came his voice from the direction of the fire pit Chief had already constructed. Micah arrived at the wagon door immediately and nodded as Cassie explained what they wanted. “You want I should carry her outside?”

“No, I think not for this first venture. Let’s just move her to the chair, and we can prop her foot on the wooden box.”

Micah took the woman into his arms, and trying to turn his burden around, he bumped her into the bed frame.

Runs Like a Deer flinched and clung to his arm, her jaw tight, but she relaxed when he settled her on the chair and propped her leg on the box. “Thank you.”

“Welcome.” Micah grabbed the pillow off the bed and, raising her leg, arranged the pillow under it. “Better?”

She nodded and leaned back in the chair with a sigh.

Cassie studied her patient. She had found an old shirt of Jason’s in a drawer and dressed Runs Like a Deer in that, plus an old skirt of her own. “Maybe we can change your clothes when you are stronger. I have your own clothing all clean and waiting.”

“Thank you.”

“Bring out the kettle and the frying pan,” Chief called.

The kettle of beans had been soaking since the morning so were now ready to be cooked. He would be frying the last of the fresh deer meat, the remainder of it dried and hanging in bags from the ceiling. Cassie handed the kettle to Micah and dug the frying pan out of the storage box. She could feel the Indian woman watching her.

“Can I get you something?”

A shake of the head was her only answer.

What had she been thinking about during these long days in confinement, Cassie wondered. They still knew nothing about her. Where was she going? Or coming from?

While the men did the cooking outside, she decided to clean up the wagon. The broom was still in the same cupboard as when her father had lived in the wagon. Sweeping was a good place to start.

Who was out with the cattle if both of the men were in camp? She propped the broom and headed outside. With a sigh of relief she saw the animals not far from the camp, where the prairie grass looked to never have been grazed. Surely the ranchers around there still believed in the open range. They’d not seen any farms. Maybe this area was too desolate for farming. Not that she really understood the difference between ranching and farming. She clamped down on those kinds of thoughts. She was on her way to a valley that must be truly beautiful, since her father carried the memory with him all those years. Once they were there, they would raise cattle and horses, like her pa always talked about. Where she would get the money to do all this was one of those thoughts she kept stuffing back in a box in the far recesses of her mind and slamming the lid on it.

She sat down on the bed by Runs Like a Deer. “Can I ask you some questions?”

The woman looked at her.

“Do you understand what I am saying?” The nod in return made Cassie smile. “Good. I’m not sure how much English you speak.” Watching the woman’s face told her to slow down.

“Will you tell me if you don’t understand?” Another nod. “Can you talk with Chief?” Cassie continued after this nod. “In English or Sioux?”

“Sioux more.” She said something else, but Cassie had no idea what. This time it was her turn to shrug. “Let me go get Chief.” Out the door she went again and down the steps, feeling like they had come a long way. She explained what they’d said. “Will you go talk with her, find out about her?”

“You will watch the fire?”

“Where’s Micah?”

“Out with cattle.”

“Okay.” When he returned sometime later, she waited for him to tell her what he had learned, but instead, he sat staring into the fire.

“Well?” When he didn’t answer, she gave the pot of beans a stir and glared into the fire. Why was it so hard to get these men to talk? All she wanted was simple answers, after all. Grabbing the coffeepot, she went over to the water barrel, and after swishing a small bit of water around in the pot and tossing it on the ground, she filled it and set it on two rocks positioned on the edge of the flames. “So what did you find out?”

“She’s running away from a man who beat her.”

“Oh.” Cassie heaved a sigh. “Where is she going?”

“Rosebud is her reservation, but she doesn’t want to go there.”

“Her reservation?”

He nodded. “But farther than Pine Ridge.”

“Can she do that?”

“All Indians are to be on reservations.”

“Does she have family there?”

“Maybe. She walked from Montana, but Rosebud was her home. She fell and broke her leg.”

“Is the man after her?”

“She thinks he might be dead.”

“Was he sick or injured?”

He nodded.

“Which one?” When he stared at her, she wished she’d never asked. “She killed him?” Her question came out on a whisper.

He half shrugged. “She thought so, but when she went back, he was still alive. She dressed his head wound, got him into bed and left, after asking the neighbors to check on him. She doesn’t think they did. He was mean to everyone.”

Aching to know more of the story, Cassie stirred the beans. “I better help her back to bed.”

“I did.”

Cassie lifted the lid on the frying pan and turned the meat before covering it back up. With the coffee water heating, she returned to the wagon to fetch the coffee and some salt for the meat. Visions of the dining tent at the show flitted through her mind. There had always been a variety of food—real choices, not like now where you had two: eat it or don’t. And she’d never had to cook a day in her life. Or hunt for the meat they needed, or carry water, or scrub dishes with sand in a cold creek. And there’d always been plenty of people around, most of whom she thought of as friends.

She paused on the step before heaving a sigh. Her mother had always said to be thankful for everything. That sounded much easier from a soft bed in her parents’ tent than now. When traveling they had used the wagon, but once the show was set up for a few days, they moved into the spaciousness of a tent. Or did she say be thankful in everything? Either way, Cassie was having trouble with the whole idea. Yes, she believed Jesus Christ died for her sins. Yes, she believed God loved her. But if this whole fiasco was His idea of love . . .

Okay, she ordered herself. Think of one thing to be thankful for. Right now. One thing. A coyote howled off in the distance. Another answered. God, thank you that I can hear. And see. There. Two things. She pushed open the door to the darkness of the wagon. She should have come in and lighted a lamp for Runs Like a Deer, but the regular breathing from the woman on the bunk bed told her their patient was sound asleep. Moving around like that must have been mighty tiring.

The next morning, after helping Runs Like a Deer into her own clothing, Cassie left her sleeping in the wagon and climbed up on the seat beside Chief. She’d awakened in the middle of the night with a whole list of questions she wanted to ask him. If she could get him talking.

She chewed on the idea awhile before asking, “Would you please tell me how you met my father?”

“I heard he was asking for a guide to the Black Hills, so I went to him and said I could do that.”

She’d not heard him string that many words together since they’d left the show. “When was that?”

He shrugged. “Long time ago.”

“I know that, but when?”

“After the white man invaded our land to find gold.”

“I see. What happened?”

“Your pa and a friend of his wanted to find land, go hunting, look for more gold, whatever. White man banned again, but it made no difference.”

“Why did you become his guide, then?”

“He offered good money.”

“I see. You lived on the reservation?”

A nod. “Pine Ridge.”

“What was my father like? What did he like to do?”

“He played cards, was a good gambler, won a lot of money.”

“He did?”

Chief turned to look at her. “He said something, he did it. No lying or cheating.”

That made her feel warm inside. “He was good-looking, wasn’t he?”

“Women liked him.”

“Men too.” She remembered that well. There were always lots of people wanting to talk with her father. “He loved to tell stories.”

“He did.”

“So you were his guide. Did you help him find his valley?”

“Yes. Him and Ivar Engstrom.”

“Was he a good friend of my father?”

Another nod.

“Where did he meet up with Jason Lockwood?”

“In Rapid City. They talked long time, then said, ‘Start a Wild West show.’”

Cassie rested her elbows on her thighs and propped her chin on her hands, staring out at the landscape. So her father was a gambler. Somehow that didn’t surprise her, but his answer, while giving her something to ponder, raised more questions.

“And they asked you to join them?”

“Me and others from the reservation. I stayed.”

When she asked another question, he grunted and shook his head. “Enough.”

The next day they met up with the road coming from Medora and leading to Deadwood. They had to get off the road for a mule-drawn line of dray wagons to go by and wait for the billowing dust to settle, a sure sign there must be a town up ahead.

As they finally neared the town, the road grew busier. They encountered teams pulling buckboards, riders on horseback, and even one on a mule, everyone calling out greetings. They caught up with a wagonload of pigs, the stink announcing the cargo far sooner than sight.

Driving the wagon for a change, Cassie wrinkled her nose. She heard someone tell a boy that this was a Gypsy wagon. Couldn’t they read the sides of the wagon that boasted of the Lockwood and Talbot Wild West Show? But then, perhaps they should have covered up the sign. What if there was a warrant out for her arrest for stealing this wagon? More things to worry about. At least they had money to buy supplies at a store here.

Chief rode up beside her. “We’re taking the cattle around the town. Will wait on the other side.”

“All right.” She flicked the reins, wishing she were riding Wind Dancer instead of the wagon. But who else could do the shopping? Not that she was adept at that either. Some days just seemed a heap more trouble than they were worth.

When she saw a mercantile, she pulled past it and parked on the side street. No sense flaunting their wagon if she could help it. Stepping down, she tied the horses to a post and felt in her pocket for the roll of bills. Sugar was one of the things on her list. And more coffee. Real bread would taste mighty good for a change, if they had any to sell. She let down the steps and opened the door to tell Runs Like a Deer what was happening.

“It won’t take me long,” she said, shutting the door again. While the woman was awake, she lay in the bed as she’d asked her to do. If she got up when the wagon was rocking, who knew how badly that leg could be reinjured.

When Cassie stepped inside the mercantile, the wonderful fragrance of freshly baked bread greeted her, making her mouth water.

“How can I help you, miss?” The smile of the man behind the counter was missing one front tooth. The town probably wasn’t big enough for a dentist.

She laid her list on the wooden counter that looked about ready for the cast-iron stove that warmed at least one end of the long room. What did they do? Chop wood on it?

He looked over her list. “I can get this together in a few minutes. You want to look around while you wait? We have fresh bread and eggs. Both just arrived today.”

“I’ll take a dozen eggs and a loaf of bread, then. Thank you for telling me.” She wandered the aisles, marveling at the assortment of goods they had. Boots and saddles, harnesses, metal pails and washtubs; there were spices behind him on the wall, and on the right side, bolts of fabric stood at attention along with other sewing notions. It was a good thing she had plenty of clothes, so she needn’t spend money there. She stopped at a rack of sheepskin jackets lined with the wool on the inside and then walked on. Her wool coat would have to do for at least another year. Maybe Chief could trap enough rabbits for a vest.

When the man called out to tell her that her order was ready, she returned to the counter.

“See anything else that suits your fancy?”

“Plenty, but we need to be pushing on. You wouldn’t know how long to Deadwood, would you?”

“You ridin’ or drivin’?”

“Both.” She almost mentioned they were trailing livestock too, but something warned her to keep quiet.

“Probably about five days, depending on how hard you push. That’ll be ten dollars and fifty cents.”

She wished she’d left the roll in the wagon but peeled off a fifty without exposing the roll and laid it on the counter.

“Sorry, miss. I can’t make change for that. You’ll have to go to the bank to get change. You have anything smaller?”

“I think so.” She glanced down to find a ten and a one and held them out.

With a smile, he gave her the change. “You have someone to carry that sack of oats?”

“Ah no. Guess I’ll have to do it myself.”

“I’ll take that out if you can manage the rest. Where you hitched?”

“Around the corner.” She scooped up her packages and walked ahead of him, pushing open the door and holding it for him to get through.

“Mighty nice day, ain’t it?” He slung the burlap sack of grain up on his shoulder and followed her around the corner. “Land o’ mercy. That rig yours?”

She nodded and let the steps down to set her packages inside. “That goes under here.” She motioned to the wooden box attached to the wagon, next to the water barrel, and lifted the lid. The grain went in with a thunk, and she closed the lid.

“Where’d you get a wagon like this?” He read the banner on the side. “Always wanted to see a Wild West show.”

“Yeah, me too. Thanks for your help.”

“Good luck on the rest of your trip.”

“Thanks.” She levered herself back up onto the seat. “Good day.” As she drove back onto the main street, she could sense him watching her leave. She should have ridden Dancer in and led a pack horse. Would have caused a lot less interest both in the shopkeeper and the folks on the streets. Should have. Why was hindsight always right?