Melody McAdam slowed her beautiful horse, Maji, bringing the showy mare to a standstill out of sight on the far side of the rise. She stood up on the mare’s back to see over the ridge and into town. It took but a second to confirm they were about to receive company. The man started up the hill, proceeding at an angle and moving toward their wagons. Leading his horse, he moved slow and easy, his long legs taking long strides. He stopped to look back at the town. He could be the sheriff.
Neither of the two thugs who’d cornered her behind her wagon after her performance the other night was tall or clean. She’d describe them as short, stocky, and dirty. “My brother and me, we think you stole this here mare,” said the smellier of the two. “We’re thinkin’ no runty Injun squaw has any need of an animal so fine. Ain’t that right, Lyle,” said the bully, shoving her out of the way to get to her horse.
Turning his shoulder to her to block her protest, the other thug, the one dressed all in black from his hat to his boots, black hair, and whiskers had said, “She’s a purebred. Where’d you get her? Bet you stole her. We could turn you in to the sheriff. She needs to be put to a good stud. It’s a damn waste the way you use her. She’d sure make us a lot of money, wouldn’t she, Donny? Tell you what, we’ll take her off your hands. Give you a dollar cash money for her, and we don’t go to the sheriff and let him turn you over to the Indian Affairs.”
Maji had tossed her head and rolled her eyes, ears back when the smelly thug reached out to stroke her nose. Melody had stood her ground and refused to blink when the one dressed in black put his dirty hand on her shoulder, leaned down, and got into her face. His voice a low growl, he said, “Here’s the deal, squaw girlie, we give you two dollars, you give us a bill of sale and the horse, and we don’t slit your throat.”
She spit in his face. He grabbed her by the hair and twisted her head around. “So, you want to play rough. We can play rough, can’t we, Donnie.”
Melody, tired of playing around with Lyle, slammed her fist into his crotch. He buckled and lost his grip on her hair. Donnie grabbed her, cursed her and raised his hand, but that was all the farther he got. Maji reared up on her hind legs and came down hard, scraping his back with her hooves.
Back arched, his shirt torn and flesh bleeding, Donnie yowled. Jerry, Ollie’s husband, and his two boys, Mick and Jim, waded in and gave the attackers a beating.
The last Melody had seen of the nasty pair, they were face down by the river behind the feed store. Ollie’s husband, Jerry, assured her they weren’t dead, but he’d moved their camp up here on the hill, where they could keep a lookout.
And she’d kept a lookout yesterday and all day today, expecting the sheriff or the thugs to show up. Either way, she’d lose Maji. Ollie might’ve seen the man coming up the hill, but Melody couldn’t take the chance she hadn’t. Ollie had to be warned a stranger was approaching. Melody sent up her practiced war whoop and spurred Maji over the crest of the hill, charging the stranger to spook him. As hoped, he looked right at her. The remnants of the golden glow of the setting sun reflected in his eyes. His clean-shaven face in the spotlight, it struck her, no mortal man could be that beautiful.
∙•∙
Mind wandering, Van stopped on the crest of the hill to admire the view of the town below. A yodeling scream behind him snagged his attention. He looked westward into the last rays of the blazing sun. The terrifying war-whoop sounded again, high pitched and frightening. Ranger’s reins went slack in his hands when he raised his arm to shade his eyes. Out of the fiery light, a dappled gray and white horse, charcoal mane flying, charged straight at him. Mouth agape, pulse pounding, he lost his grip on the paper package of ribs and rice he’d planned to have for his evening meal and jumped to the side.
Ranger, the damn fool horse, bolted and joined the chase. The dapple mare, her pale eyes wide and wild, veered off, running northward on the crest of the hill, Ranger tearing up the turf on her flank.
He got a fleeting look at the horseman—a youth, an Indian. His long black hair caught in the wind exposed his grinning face. He wore a pair of torn and patched dungarees and an oversized blue plaid shirt. Elbows bent, the rider hugged the mare’s powerful neck, his hands gripping her mane. Riding bareback, bare feet tucked up against the horse’s flanks, they moved as one.
Van conversely admired the rider’s form and guts and cursed his recklessness. Standing stock still in shock, he watched Ranger and the mare disappear over the hill, the sound of their thundering hooves growing faint. The woman tending the campfire raised her hand and her voice at the kid as he passed, but it did little good.
The woman at the fire, dressed in trousers and a big brown plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, looked formidable in size and demeanor. Unease mounting, Van looked around, expecting to see her man come round the end of the wagon holding a gun on him.
The ribs lay in the grass, the rice scattered, and the paper, carried by the gentle evening breeze, somersaulted down the hill behind him. Having second thoughts about approaching the camp, he paused and plucked the ribs out of the tall, dead grass at his feet.
It crossed his mind he’d be safer in town with the cutthroats, harlots, and gamblers rather than isolated up here with a band of gypsies. Probably the kid had seen him coming and deliberately spooked his horse to steal it. He considered turning back, but his temper got in the way of good sense, and he headed for the woman who tended the fire and whoever else haunted this remote, suspicious camp.
The woman, in men’s baggy trousers, straightened and waved at him. “I saw what she done. Too bad there ain’t nobody around to take her to hand,” she said with a shake of her head. Her multiple chins wobbled, the pink skin under her fatty arms flapped, and she swiped at the coil of carrot red hair hanging down the side of her ample, sunburned cheek with a freckled, chubby wrist.
Her? The thief—a girl?
“Give me them,” she said, pointing at the ribs he held between thumb and forefinger. Her demand startled him, and he hesitated a moment too long. Impatient, she snatched the meat out of his hands. “I’ll give ’em a cleanup with some water. A dab of my special sauce and you’ll never know they was tossed.” Eying the meaty bones, one brown eye half closed and a thin, pale, peach-colored brow arched over the other brown-button eye, she said, “A little dirt never killed a body. A starving man wouldn’t give a damn, but I reckon you ain’t there yet.
“You come on, set yourself down on the flour barrel there,” she said waving at the barrel next to her wagon. “Kit’ll be back ’round with your horse. She don’t mean no harm. She probably thought you looked like a threat. She’ll run out of steam and come in soon enough, I reckon. The name’s Ollie Miller,” she said, sticking out her hand for a shake.
Van, calculating the risk, hesitated again. He could detect no deceit in the woman’s words or her manner and, so far, if there was a man around with a gun, he hadn’t shown himself. He made the decision to take a chance. Besides, he intended to stay put until he got his horse back. They shook hands. She maintained her grip. He tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t allow it. A sly smile on her lips, her beady brown eyes glittered with a challenge.
Blinking, he finally remembered his manners and said, “Van. Van DeVeer. Hoyt Van DeVeer,” he said, and asked himself why the hell he’d lied. He didn’t have an answer. Self-preservation, maybe, or could be he didn’t want to be boring, homebody, Van Buxton. Van Buxton never left home, never in his whole entire life, twenty-four years, had never even contemplated or wanted, or sought out an adventure. Today he would be a man with no ties, no strings, no obligations or responsibilities, a man undaunted by the unknown.
She nodded and let go and went behind her wagon, still talking. “I got a big kettle of rabbit stew. Put three rabbits in it and lots’ a taters. My man and my boys has gone to town, don’t reckon I should hold my breath thinkin’ they’ll return for supper. Or, before noon tomorrow. So, we’ll just go right ahead and have us a meal.” She came back into his line of sight carrying a big tin platter with his ribs smothered in onions and some kind of wine-colored gravy. And on the side, a big slice of yeasty smelling bread slathered with a generous dollop of butter.
“Now don’t be shy. Dig into the kettle. We owe you; Kit nearly run you down. We won’t wait on her. Hard tellin’ when she’ll give in and come back from her ride. This time o’day she does like to take to the hills, says it helps her sleep.
“Where you from and what’s yer business?” she asked, throwing him off guard one more time.
She filled her own plate. But didn’t stop talking, instead answering questions he hadn’t asked and giving him no time to formulate an answer to the original question. “Our little group travels ’round doin’ little shows. Kit puts on her trick ridin’ act. Pa and my sons plays music for dancin’, and I sells pies, cakes, candy, and cookies. We do all right. We’re on our way back to Boise. We’ll hit some small towns on the way. Got to go to River Glenn, they have a Scottish Caber Toss festival and horse tradin’ fair. I’m lookin’ forward to that. Once we’re on the other side of the mountains, we’ll do Elgin and on into La Grande and a few more shows if the weather holds on down the line. Should be home in a few weeks. Like to be somewheres out’a the weather before winter hits.
“Kit says she’s done with us for this season. She’s goin’ home. We’ll miss her. She stayed the winter with us in Boise last year. She pulled in good crowds wherever we showed up. We put on a show down there in the bottom, along the river a couple of nights ago. Had a real good turnout. But tomorrow, we’ll move on.”
Van, not a big lover of rabbit stew, gave himself a generous portion to be polite and resumed his assigned seat on the barrel. Settling himself, he shrugged before tucking into his vittles and said, “I found myself with some time and decided to wander a little. I haven’t done much of that. My home’s near Baker City,” he said, avoiding specifics.
“We done a couple of shows in Baker City. That’s a prime location. I wanted Pa to go up to Sumpter, but he said no. He don’t care much for mining towns. Too many rowdies, he says. We camp away from town, usually. I like it quiet. Don’t want to worry about some yahoo crawling in my wagon and slittin’ my throat in my sleep.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and leaned forward, her chubby hands braced on her pudgy knees, fleshy, freckled arms straight. “You ain’t one of them kind’a varmints is you? I gotta knife here in my boot and a rifle behind the box here by the fire. I could shoot yah, and no one would be the wiser.”
Van pressed his lips together to hold back his laughter. He swallowed hard. He couldn’t hold it; he had to let it out. Shaking his head at her, laughing hard, unable to speak for a second or two and trying not to drop his plate in the dirt, he pulled himself together long enough to make a reply. “No, Ma’am, I am not one of those. I had my suspicions about you and the kid…the girl, Kit though. Thought maybe you were horse thieves. The only weapon I have is in the scabbard on my horse, and you have that now. Or rather your girl has it.”
Ollie threw her head back and slapped her ample thighs. “Well, now, don’t that beat all?”
She sobered and shook her head. “Kit ain’t my girl, though. We took her up ’cause she had a yearnin’ to make a spectacle of herself. She’s done that and then some. But I reckon the bug that bit her is out of her system, and she’s ready to settle down somewheres, like most gals.
“Now my Jerry, he’ll never stop travelin’ ’round. And I go where he goes. He’s a good man. Someday my boys is gonna leave us, I expect. Then maybe Jerry’ll give it up and stay put in one place.”
Van nodded. He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’m up here ’cause I couldn’t stay in town another night,” he said and scooped up a forkful of Ollie’s stew and shoved it in his mouth, expecting to hate it. But dang, if it wasn’t delicious. And the bread, crusty and yeasty, hit the spot. He chewed and savored, and then swallowed. “Got a room in a boarding house last night, but the noise and the dust and all those horses and people, I just couldn’t do it for another night. I saw your fire up here and thought it looked like a safe spot. Thought I could get some sleep up here in the open air. Never expected to get a meal. Thank you, ma’am, this is fine stew, and the bread, very tasty.”
They continued in this amiable vein for a half hour or so. Ollie served him a huge slice of cherry pie. He’d scraped the last of the filling off his plate when the mare sauntered into the fire’s light. Ranger limped up behind her. The horses stood there together, heads down, looking guilty as hell.