Authors: Dorothy Garlock
“Hello, Arvella.”
She had prepared herself for his visit. The loose garment of soft, blue-sprigged fabric that covered her massive bulk hung from her shoulders to the floor. Her blond hair had been washed and puffed. Alvin’s eyes swept over her and away.
“Dinner will be ready soon. If you want to wash up, there’s warm water in the pitcher in the bedroom.”
“I think I’ll do that. It’s a long trip out from Sweetwater.” At the door, he turned back unable to hold back the question he asked. “Do you have news for me, Arvella?”
“Not the news you want.”
Alvin turned into the bedroom and closed the door. He glanced once at the stout bed on his way to the washstand. No doubt it had been spread with fresh clean linen for his visit. He closed his eyes briefly before looking at his reflection in the mirror that hung over the china washbowl. He saw a man with a sprinkling of gray in his dark hair and mustache. Hell, he was almost forty years old! He hadn’t much time left to make a big name for himself.
Alvin indulged himself in a moment of self-pity. Not only had he the
man
and Arvella to contend with, but that damn Linus was like a millstone about his neck. Why couldn’t the goddamn kid clean himself up? If he weren’t so valuable a snoop, he’d put him on a train and hope that he’d end up in South America in the middle of a revolution.
During dinner Alvin sat at one end of the table and Arvella at the other. Moonrock served a perfectly cooked meal of chicken with dumplings, green peas and raisin cream pie. The linen cloth on the table was edged with lace tatting. The gleaming silver service was correctly laid alongside the thin china plates. Alvin enjoyed the meal. It was far better than any he could get in Sweetwater. Cooking was one, possibly the only, talent Arvella possessed, and she had taught the Indian girl how to serve.
After making a few futile attempts at conversation Alvin lapsed into silence. The only diversion other than eating was watching the young Shoshoni girl move from table to kitchen as she served the meal. Had she sprouted breasts since he was here last, or was he just now noticing?
She was dressed in a neat, but faded dress, with a white apron tied about her slender waist. Her black hair was parted in the middle and hung over her shoulders in two braids. She kept her eyes down, never looking at Alvin or Arvella. She must be about fourteen now, Alvin mused. You couldn’t tell about Indian girls; they never seemed to be very young or very old.
After the meal, Alvin sat at the desk and looked over the books. The entries were made in a neat hand: the number of cattle brought to the agency, the number turned over to the Indians, the number of pelts traded and for which goods. A note was made about the kind of fur and its condition. He paid special attention to what had been purchased by Miss Gray, and was startled at what Arvella charged her.
His wife, he admitted begrudgingly, kept a set of books that would pass the Indian Bureau inspection, should the occasion arise.
She sat in the large chair, her small, plump hands clasped over her belly, her small feet just touching the floor. Alvin could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head.
“You’ve met the teacher the Bureau sent out.” Alvin spoke without turning around.
“Yes. I listed what she bought and what I charged her.”
“I see that. It was plenty.”
“She didn’t complain.”
“Did you invite her to have tea or coffee.”
“No. She and Linus had a set-to.”
“Yeah.” He stared down at the closed ledger. “What about?”
“The Whitaker kid. He came in to trade.”
“Was it trade day?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t going to trade in front of … her.”
“I suppose Linus stuck his bill in.”
“He told the kid to get out.
She
pulled a gun on him.”
“Linus backed down?”
“You would have, too. She had the gun stuck in his privates.”
Linus’s voice came from the kitchen. He was whining about something while he ate his meal. Why didn’t Arvella insist the kid eat in the bunkhouse with the other men?
“Go to bed, Arvella. I’ll be there soon.” He turned off the lamp on the desk and stayed with his back turned until he heard the bedroom door close. Then he heaved a heavy sigh and got to his feet.
Linus sat on a chair with one foot propped up on the table.
The kid was like a boil on his butt.
“Get your feet off the table!”
Linus’s foot came down with a loud plop. He glanced at Moonrock, who was hanging wet cloths on the line over the cookstove.
“The next time I come out here and find horseshit a foot deep under the hitching rail and dirt and mud all over the store I’m going to kick your ass from here to yonder. Understand?”
“What’s got you all het up? Ya ain’t said nothin’ before.”
“I’ve said it. You just didn’t hear it. Now get the hell out of here. Linus,” he called as the boy started out the door. “I understand you had a set-to with the teacher. Stay away from her. Just let me know about every person that comes to Stoney Creek, and I want to know if that Whitaker kid crosses the line as much as a foot.”
“She’s a snooty bitch. She was goin’ to blow my balls off.”
“That would have been a great loss, I’m sure,” Alvin said dryly. Then, in a commanding tone. “Stay away from her.”
“Old Ike’s been there three days.” Linus thought to throw in a little information to put Alvin in a better mood.
“What’s he doing there?”
“Helpin’. Him and that Murphy bitch fixed the well. Been workin’ on the smokehouse—”
Hmm … Ike stayed out of sight while I was there.
“Get on out. Moonrock’s waiting to blow out the lamp.”
Alvin stepped through the door and into the other room. After the boy left, the Indian girl put out the lamp. When she passed him to go to her bed in the back of the store, Alvin grabbed her arm.
“You’ve gotten to be a real pretty girl,” he murmured. She tried to pull her arm free, but Alvin drew her close. “Don’t make any noise,” he warned. She twisted until her back was pressed to his chest and muted frightened sounds came from her throat. “Shhh … I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see what you’re hiding here.” He wrapped his arms about the small struggling girl, nuzzled his face in the curve of her neck, and cupped a breast in each hand.
“Be still, honey. You feel and smell like a woman. Have you been broken into yet?”
His hands moved over her small firm breasts and squeezed, then one lowered, cupped her crotch, and pressed her hips against him. He worked his sex organ into the crack between her firm hips and it began to harden. He forced his hand into the front of her dress sending buttons flying. His fingers fondled her naked breast, stroked and pulled at her small nipple.
“Sweet little thing. Pretty little gal,” he murmured. “Someday I’m going to suck these titties.”
He found himself thinking about a slim auburn-haired woman with clear green eyes. His arousal grew. In the heat of his excitement, his mouth fastened onto Moonrock’s neck and he sucked vigorously.
Finally, the sounds coming from her throat and the wetness of her tears caught his attention. He jabbed his rockhard sex viciously against her several more times and whispered a string of vulgar words in her ear. Then he roughly pushed her from him.
His trembling fingers fumbled at the buttons on his britches as he hurried into the pitch-dark room where his wife waited.
This morning after her visit to the outhouse that had been moved and made usable, Jenny stood outside the back door and brushed her hair. She loved this time of day. She had brought a fresh bucket of water to the kitchen as Colleen carried an armload of wood for the stove. Granny was cooking breakfast.
As Jenny ran the stiff bristles of the brush through her long thick hair, she scheduled her work. By evening the schoolroom should be ready. She would ask Whit, once again, to take her to the tribal elders. Should he refuse, she would ask Ike. Between now and the time her pupils arrived, she wanted to make a trip to Sweetwater.
A week had passed since Trell McCall had come to Stoney Creek. Every night she had added to the report she would send to the Bureau. Last night she had written about the visit from Havelshell. She had ended the report with the request that all her mail be sent to Forest City. She had also written to Uncle Noah asking him to inquire about a fund set up for Whit Whitaker’s college education, and to speak to his influential friends about having Havelshell removed as Indian agent of the Shoshoni reservation.
She had not expected to like this wild beautiful land; but if something should happen that prevented her from fulfilling her contract and the land came up for auction, she would buy it. She had no idea what it would cost, but her inheritance was sizable; and if it was not enough, she was sure Uncle Noah would invest.
She heard the whinny of a horse before she saw the rider slowly emerge from the fog. Jenny was aware that he was leading something, but she had eyes only for the man on the horse. He sat tall in the saddle and wore a hat with the brim rolled at the sides.
Her heart began to flutter like a caged bird. She held the brush in both hands and pressed them tightly to her chest as Trell McCall rode into the yard leading a plodding white-faced cow.
“Morning.” The dark gaze that fastened on Jenny’s face became soft and searching.
“Morning,” she murmured. Her gaze met and held his in a moment of sparkling sweetness.
“Found a cow along the way. Thought maybe she was yours.”
“You know we don’t have a cow, Trell McCall! Where did you
find
her?”
Trell dismounted. Winding the lead rope about his hand, he pulled the bawling cow forward.
“Rancher between my place and Forest City had her. He already had one milch cow and the calf of this one. He didn’t need her so I took her off his hands.” He didn’t mention that he had traded a halter-broken mustang and a good iron-rimmed wagon wheel for her. The cow mooed again. “She needs milking.”
“Whatever he charged I’ll be happy to pay.”
“No money changed hands. I traded a broomtail I was going to turn loose on the range anyway.”
“Thank you. It will be wonderful having milk again.”
Colleen and the girls came from the house. Beatrice ran straight for Trell. He handed the rope to Jenny and scooped the child up in his arms.
“My frog went to his mama and didn’t come back.”
“We’ll have to find another one.”
“It’s about time you got here, Trell. We’ve been looking for you every day.” Cassandra walked around the cow and jumped back when the cow began to let water. “Ugh! Who’s she for?”
“She’s for all of you.” Trell greeted Colleen and then set Beatrice on her feet, all the while conscious of a pair of green eyes watching him. “But I got something for you and Beatrice.”
Trell opened a cloth bag hanging on his saddlehorn and took out a brown-and-black bundle of fur. He held the puppy close to his chest. It whined and licked his face. He squatted down on his haunches. Cassandra came close and he shoved the little animal into her arms.
“Every kid should have a dog.” He looked up at Jenny with a broad grin.
“Oh, my.” For once Cassandra was too surprised to say more than, “Can … we keep him, Jenny?”
“Of course. Every kid should have a dog.” Jenny echoed Trell’s words and her sparkling eyes caught his.
“I … always wanted a dog. Margaret and Charles hated them.” The little girl hugged the puppy and rubbed her cheek against the soft, furry head.
“Can I hold her?” Beatrice stroked whatever part of the puppy she could reach.
“It’s a
him
,” Cassandra explained to her younger sister. “I noticed that right away.”
The cow mooed. She was clearly in distress and needed milking.
“Where shall we put her, Colleen?” Jenny said, suddenly remembering that her hair was hanging down her back. She handed the cow’s rope to Colleen, gathered her hair at the nape of her neck and tied it with a ribbon she took from her pocket.
“In the shed, for now. I’ll get a pail and we’ll milk her.”
“I got the pail.” Granny came out followed by Ike. “From the looks of that full bag, she’s a good milker. Ain’t she, Ike?”
“How in tarnation would I know? I’m a tellin’ ya straight and pure-dee, Miz. Murphy. I ain’t milkin’ no dad-blasted cow.”
“I ain’t hearin’ nobody askin’ ya to,
Mister
Klein,” Granny retorted, then to Colleen, “Get me a box to sit on, child.”
Colleen brought the box. “Careful, Granny. Way she’s fidgetin’ around, she may be a kicker.”
“She ain’t no kicker.” Granny patted the cow’s sides. “She’s hurtin’ with that full bag. I allus was fond of a good milch cow.” Her bright eyes settled on Ike. “Ya ain’t too persnickety to clean out that cellar, air ye?”
“Yer goin’ to put her in the cellar?”
“Don’t be a clabberhead! We got to have a good cool place to store milk if I’m goin’ to be makin’ the milk gravy and buttermilk biscuits ya been hintin’ for.”
* * *
If Trell had thought about it, he would have been absolutely sure he had never been happier in his life. He sat with the
family
at the breakfast table and was the center of attention as he told about leaving his ranch during the early morning hours and leading the balky cow across the river.
“She’s got a mind of her own. When she wanted to rest, she dug in her feet and stopped. I put her on a long rope. My horse didn’t like her much. She made too much racket to suit him.”
“Some males are not at all tolerant of female discomfort.”
Cassandra made the statement, then looked around the table with raised brows expecting a comment, but none came forth. By now, all were able to hide the amusement they felt when the child offered “words of wisdom.”
What to name the cow and the puppy was discussed at length. It was decided to call the cow Sweet Betsy, in honor of the song that gave Ike his nickname. Cassandra was determined to give the puppy a
dignified
name. “Blackie” and “Spot” were scornfully rejected when they were suggested.
“We should name him after a president. Ulysses S. Grant was our eighteenth president. We should name him Hiram.”