Sweetwater (7 page)

“Now that he’s got a pretty wife, I’m wondering how I’ll ever get the ornery critter away from the house long enough to do any work,” Trell said with a teasing smile.

Una May looked stricken. Her cornflower blue eyes flew to her husband.

“He’s teasin’,” Joe said quickly, and put his arm across her shoulders. “Ya know what teasers them Irish is. He’s glad yo’re here, honey-pie. He’s thinkin’ ’bout fillin’ his belly with them good biscuits ya make.”

“I do make a pretty good biscuit, Mr. McCall.”

“They’ll be a sight better than Joe’s, I’m sure of that. It’ll be pure pleasure to come in and have a hot meal without having to cook it. I’m glad you’re here, Una May. And call me Trell. You two go on and get settled in. There’s nothing pressing that has to be done right now except maybe strengthen that pole corral. In another week, Joe, we’ll go out and drive the mares in.”

Trell went back to the house and hung his hat on the peg beside the door. He poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee from the blackened pot on the cookstove and stood with his back to the stove while he surveyed his home. It was a tight, neat two-room cabin. The furnishings—sturdy oak table and chairs, cupboards, desk and chests he had chosen were all of good quality. In the other room was an iron bedstead with wire springs and a thick cotton mattress, a wardrobe and a washstand.

Trell was proud of his home … but somehow, today, it seemed lonely. It needed a woman’s touch. Una May was going to cook, clean and do the washing, but each evening she and Joe would go to their private quarters. Seeing the happiness on their faces had somehow reminded Trell how empty his life was without anyone to share it.

Trell plucked his battered hat off the peg and slammed it down on his head. On his way to saddle his horse, he stopped by the bunkhouse and knocked on the door. He was about to walk away when Joe came to the door shoving his shirttail down into the waistband of his old duck britches.

“I’ll be gone most of the day, Joe. I’m going to stop and see the folks at the Whitaker place. I suppose you’ll be sticking around here.”

“Ya betcha.” Joe’s hair, sandy and thick, was in total disarray. He ran forked fingers through it and grinned sheepishly. “I’ll keep a eye on thin’s.”

“Take Una May in and show her where things are. Don’t wait supper for me. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

The door was closed again when Trell rode past the bunkhouse and headed toward the river. The horse and Trell were of similar mind. They took their time, just breathing the good air, keeping an eye out for trouble. Ten minutes later, far off and below, he saw a dot that had to be buffalo. Most of them had been killed off, but here and there groups of three or four had taken to the mountain valleys.

Crossing the river, he passed through a corner of the Shoshoni reservation and onto the Whitaker land near where, he had heard, a nester had built a shack. As long as he was near, he’d thought to drop by and let the man know that he was in a dangerous situation because Havelshell was dead set on getting him off the land.

From a distance the nester’s newly built shack backed against a sheer rock bluff. It blended with the background. A thin line of smoke wafted from the rock chimney. A wash pot stood in front of the cabin and behind it a wagon. The only livestock were two mules staked out a distance from the house. The smoke and the mules were all that kept the place from looking deserted. Trell was within a dozen yards of the house when a man in overalls and a round-brimmed hat stepped out with a rifle.

“Stop right there!” The voice was gruff and strained.

Trell held up his hands. “I mean you no harm.”

“Who are ya and what’a ya want?”

“Trell McCall. I have a ranch across the river. I’m just paying a neighborly visit.”

“Yeah! Fine time to be payin’ a neighborly visit!”

The voice had lost the gruffness and Trell realized the person holding a rifle on him was a boy.
No, by golly, it was a girl!

“Look. I came by to warn you that you’ll be getting some trouble from the Indian agent about squatting here.”

“Kind of ya, mister. Why’er ya comin’ ‘round now for?”

“Because I just heard about it a few days ago.”

“Yo’re too late. Trouble’s already been here.”

“It seems you were prepared to handle it without any help from me. I’ll just mosey on.”

“We didn’t get a chance to handle anythin’.” Although still angry, the girl’s voice was not quite so steady. “So? What’er ya waitin’ for? Get on down the trail to wherever ya was headin’.”

“Good day to you.” Trell turned his horse.

“Wait!” A small white-haired lady came out the door.

“Stay inside, Granny. We don’t know about this sidewinder. He could be one of ’em!”

“I don’t think so, Colleen. And we need—”

“Where was he when we needed help?” The girl shouted angrily. “We don’t need him now!”

“Maybe we do, child.” The woman stepped out into the yard. She was stooped from years of hard work. Her gnarled hands clutched a Bible and her lined face was wet with tears.

“We’d be obliged if you’d help bury my boy. The girl can’t dig the grave and get him in it all by herself.”

“I can do it, Granny! I’ve got it started.”

“I’ll be glad to help.” Trell stepped from his horse. “If it’ll put your mind at ease, I’ll leave my rifle and handgun with you.”

“It’s best you keep them.” Tears rolled unchecked down the old woman’s cheeks. “They give us two days to leave, but they got a look at Colleen when she flew at ’em, after they killed her pa. Bein’ the kind a men they be, I’m a-fearin’ they’ll be back.” Her nearly toothless mouth trembled.

“When they come, I’ll be waitin’ for ’em!” the girl declared.

“We was just a standin’ here … listenin’ to ’em tellin’ us we got to get off the land. Miles said he was goin’ to talk to a government man. One of ’em said, ‘I ain’t thinkin’ ya are.’ He just moved his horse up, pulled out his gun and shot him down.”

“Pa had told us to leave the guns in the cabin so there’d not be no trouble. The dirty, low-down, belly-crawlin’ snakes!”

“How many?”

“Three.”

“Had they been here before?”

“Never laid eyes on ’em. I’ll know ’em if I see ’em again. Ya can bet yore life on it.”

Trell dropped the reins to ground-tie his horse. “If you show me where you want him buried, I’ll get started.”

“I started it up there … in the grove overlookin’ the river. Pa liked the … view.” The girl’s voice broke.

“It’s a pretty place.”

“Pa thought this the prettiest place he ever did see. He heard it was gon’ to be let out for biddin’. He wasn’t going to stay if he couldn’t get title to the land. Now he’ll be here forever.”

“Stay here with your grandma. I’ll come back when it’s ready.”

“We’re obliged … I guess.”

The hand that held out the shovel was large and strong. Trell could see the girl’s face plainly now. The skin that stretched tightly over her high cheekbones was smooth and sunbrowned. There was a bitter twist to her wide, full mouth. Stormy blue eyes were bright with unshed tears. She was not what he would consider a raving beauty, but she was far from plain-looking. The hair that escaped from under the old hat was as black as midnight, and there appeared to be plenty of it. She was tall and willow-thin, but he didn’t doubt that she had a steel rod for a backbone.

When Trell returned from the grove an hour later, he went directly to the water bucket that sat on a bench behind the house. After drinking and washing the sweat from his face, he knocked on the door.

The girl, wearing a faded black skirt that came only to the tops of her black shoes, opened the door. A black shawl was wrapped around the upper part of her body to cover a white shirtwaist. She had tried to put her hair in order, but the unruly curls had broken away from the pins and were flattened against her tear-wet cheeks.

“If you want, I’ll put together a box,” Trell said. “I can use the side boards on the wagon.”

“We don’t have any nails. Pa traded them and the saw for sugar, flour and coffee.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll line the burial hole with cedar boughs … if it’s what you want.”

“Me and Granny would be obliged.” She stepped back and closed the door.

The next time he came to the house, the old lady was waiting for him. Like her granddaughter she had dressed in black for the burial. She came across the yard to meet him.

“Mister, don’t be put out ’cause Colleen’s short with ya. Murphys has got a good bit a pride. It’s been hard on the girl seein’ her pa shot down like a cur dog and hard to have to take help from a stranger.”

“I understand. She’s got a right to be edgy. If you’re ready, ma’am, I’ll bring up the wagon.”

When Trell saw the body of Miles Murphy, he wondered how the women had moved him into the house, much less up onto the bed. The man was huge, big-framed and heavily muscled. They had dressed him in a moth-eaten black suit; his hair and beard were combed. Trell stood back while the girl placed a tintype photograph in the hands folded on his chest. The two women gently wrapped him in a pieced quilt. When they finished, the girl looked at Trell with something like agony in her eyes and nodded.

Staggering under the weight of the corpse, Trell managed to get it in the wagon. Before leaving the cabin, he took his rifle from the scabbard on his saddle and placed it under the seat.

“You drive. Grandma and I will walk with Papa.”

Trell walked the mules slowly out of the yard and toward the grove, knowing it would be hard for the elderly woman to keep up. He looked back one time to see her leaning heavily on her granddaughter’s arm.

To Trell’s way of thinking, anyone who would shoot down an unarmed man was as low-down as a human being could get. To do it in front of the man’s womenfolk made him unfit even to be called a human being. The Indian agent who wanted Whitaker’s land had sent cold-blooded killers to do his dirty work.

The grove was cathedral-quiet. Even the team stood noiselessly while Trell lifted the body out of the wagon and placed it in the hole where Miles Murphy would spend eternity. Trell stepped back to leave the women alone with their loved one before he filled the grave. The girl began to speak to her father.

“You were a good papa and did your best to take care of us.” With her arm across her grandmother’s shoulder, Colleen spoke in a clear and controlled voice. “Ya loved Mama and grieved when we lost her. I hope yo’re with her now. Yo’re not to worry. Granny and I will be all right. I want ya to know, Papa, that if ever I set eyes on that low-down, dirty, son of a bitch that shot ya, I’m goin’ to walk right up and put a bullet in his head. Thank ya for what all ya taught me ’bout right and wrong. Good-bye, Papa.”

After a moment of silence the girl began to sing in a surprisingly clear voice. It wasn’t a song Trell expected to hear, but somehow it seemed appropriate.

“As the blackbird in the spring,

’Neath the willow tree, sat and piped, I heard him sing—

Au-ra Lee, Au-ra Lee, maid with golden hair—

Sunshine came along with thee, and swallows filled the air.”

When she finished singing, the girl took the shovel and began to fill the grave while her grandmother watched her son’s body disappear beneath the rich dark soil. When Trell took the shovel from her hand, Colleen gave it to him willingly.

“I suppose you think I should have sang ‘Rock of Ages’ or something like that. ‘Aura Lee’ was Papa’s favorite song. Mama’s name was Laura Lee—” Her voice broke. She turned quickly and went to the end of the wagon.

Trell felt that nothing he would say would ease their grief, so he remained quiet. Back at the cabin, he unhitched the team and watered them. He was reluctant to leave the women alone and told them so.

“You don’t owe us anythin’, mister. Me and Granny thank ya for what ya done.”

“Can I help you load up?”

“We ain’t sure what we’re goin’ to do or if we’re even goin’ to leave. If them fellers come back, I’ll shoot ’em out of their saddles.”

“If you try it, there’s bound to be shootin’ on both sides. Do you want your granny left to bury you?” Trell knew the words were harsh, but he wanted to shock her into being sensible.

“You think I should let it go? Let them get away with murderin’ Pa? He wouldn’t’ve if they’d a killed me.”

“I think you should report it to the Territorial marshal.”

“Ha! Havelshell’s got ever’thin’ and ever’body in the territory eatin’ out of his hand.”

“You’re wrong about that. The teacher for the Indian school won’t be kowtowing to him.”

“If he don’t, he’ll be the first man I’ve met since we come to Sweetwater that don’t lick his boots.”

“Teacher isn’t a man. She’s a woman. I’m on my way over there to make a neighborly visit.”

“Yo’re right neighborly, ain’t ya?”

“You could say so.”

“Then ya’d better get on yore horse and get goin’. Granny and I got some thinkin’ to do.”

“Mister, I’ll hold ya in my prayers for what ya done.” Granny Murphy held out her hand. Trell took it gently.

“I’m glad I happened by. I’ll stop again on my way back. If you like, I’ll take you to my place until you decide what you want to do.” He looked at the tall girl, then back to the little woman. “You can’t stay here. You must know that.”

“It ’pears to be so. We be thankin’ ya for the offer.”

Trell mounted his horse. Colleen stood beside the door and never lifted a hand to wave when he rode away. He hoped the girl would come to her senses and not go looking for trouble. When he stopped on his way back, he would invite them again to go to his place until they decided what they wanted to do.

He put his horse into a fast trot. The sun showed an hour or so past noon. He certainly hadn’t planned on burying a man when he left home this morning. He wished he’d thought to bring the Murphys and the teacher a couple of smoked turkeys or a haunch of deer meat. It would have been better than paying a call empty-handed.

It was less than an hour’s ride to the Stoney Creek Ranch. Trell figured to pay his respects and return to the Murphy’s. He had an uneasy feeling that the men that killed the father might return for the daughter.