Waltzing With Tumbleweeds (6 page)

“Eat your food,” he said then he lighted the finger packed tobacco with a great sulfurous match.

“You are not my boss!”

“You are my woman now,” he said, before letting a small stream of the sweet smoke hiss from his teeth.

“I am no man’s woman!”

He pointed the stem at her. “You have no choice, it’s either me or the wolves and I have a warmer lodge.”

“What will you do with me?” she demanded.

He frowned in displeasure. “Sell you to a Crow if you don’t settle down.”

“No never! I would not ever be a slave in their camp.”

“You talk like a woman that’s got a helluva lot of options.”

“Op-tions?” She did not know such a word.

“Meaning you can either go out there and feed them hungry wolves or keep this lodge with me.”

“My man has—”

“Don’t matter, you and I are alive and that’s what counts. What’s your name?”

“Deer Woman.”

“Red Lyon.”

“You are part big cat?” She looked at him hard.

“No, just Red Lyon, my name is not an animal.”

Deer nodded she understood and picked up the bowl. He was a dominant man and she knew she did not dare to trifle with him. The stew drew her saliva as she considered her fate. He had food and a warm place, she should be grateful for him finding her despite the burden of her sorrows.

Deer Woman did not share the Lyon’s blankets though she assumed the role of his helper. He moved them southward for several days journey. Astride a powerful horse, she led the pack string. She hoped to see some of her own kind but after many familiar miles with the Big Horn Mountains to the sunset side of her body—she saw no camps of the Sioux. Not finding any sign of her people drove her sorrow deeper—maybe the army had killed all of them. At every turn in the way, she was reminded of the lifeless bodies of her family. She bowed her head and beat her heels on the big horse’s ribs for him to go faster.

They met three breeds in late afternoon. The threesome stared at her with hungry intentions as they sat their skinny horses breathing clouds of vapors in the cold.

“We’ll take her for some of our robes,” the thin-faced one laughed. The cruel glint in his eyes undressed her and made Deer shudder under the thick warm blanket that she wore for a coat.

“Not for sale,” Lyon said.

“Ten robes!” the breed shouted
_,
acting angry that Lyon did not take him serious.

“She is not for sale.” Lyon shifted his coat and she knew the great ivory-handed pistol in his belt was exposed for him to draw and fire.

“You are crazy! She’s a damn Sioux! She’ll split your throat some night in your sleep. I know how to treat them.” Then the man shared another smirk with the other two who looked warmed to the notion of having her for their own purposes.

“I will trade for your pelts,” Lyon shook his head, “but not the woman.”

“You have powder and lead?” the Breed asked but he could hardly keep from snatching looks at her.

Lyon agreed and they spent the afternoon bartering on a blanket,
despite the falling temperature, they acted like they were very deliberate in their trading. Deer knew that they only stalled for darkness to come—did Lyon know this?

The hairy-faced man had suddenly become her responsibility—yes, he was the key to saving her from the three schemers who by her estimation were hardly better than the wolves. She must help Lyon watch, for they would murder him in a minute for his horses, and goods
_,
including her. Their presence made her skin tingle as she poured them coffee. She side stepped as one reached to put his hand on her thigh.

“We have some white otter,” the leader said with a grin.

Lyon nodded he had heard. “How many?”

“Three and they are prime.”

“Very rare,” Lyon said as the youngest one brought them.

“Five gold pieces,” the Breed said. He waited ready to pounce on Lyon’s offer in return.

“Too high!”

“Then I give them for the woman!” he shouted and held the snowy pelts high over his head.

“She’s not for sale!”

“You have had her. We have been away from a woman’s flanks for many moons. Give her to us for one night.” The others agreed with quick nods as they waited for his answer.

“How many times must I say no!”

“We are through trading with you!” the head one said in disgust and rose to his feet.

“Those white furs?”

“Never!” he snarled and they stomped to his horses. In a bound, they mounted and gave Lyon a cross look. Deer nearly laughed at them as she drew the oily smelling buffalo gun from the saddle boot and brought it to him.

“Thanks Deer,” he said with his hard stare locked on the threesome as they lashed their animals away in a flurry of snow and left them.

“They will be back,” she said and bent over the fire to stoke it.

“They will only come back to die,” he said and she looked up at the resolve in his green eyes. He would kill them without a blink of his eyelids.

“The white skins,” she said, “are worth three squaws?”

He agreed with a small nod, still watching them. She looked as they went over the high rise, their horses fighting the deep snow.

Night came early as it did in the Last Moon of the Goose. A wolf howled to his pack on the mountain. The hair rose on her scalp as she sat in the lodge and brushed her hair by firelight. He came inside and set the rifle down.

“No snow tonight, it’s clear out there. They’ll come back during the night.”

“What will we do?”

“Go outside, lay down by the packs and kill them when they come for us.”

“You could have sold me?” she asked.

“Why?” he asked. “Those breeds would have hurt you.”

She shrugged her shoulders and stared in the fire. “Anyone can be a worker. Even a boy could do what work I do for you.”

He roughly raised her by the arm and looked deep in her eyes. “When you stop mourning for your family, then you tell me, until then, be quiet.”

She blinked her eyes at his words. Without saying anything else, he began gathering blankets to go outside. She wondered what he meant—forget her family. She would always be sad for the loss, though the pain was less. Should she still be in mourning? A guilty lance struck her conscience. Red Horse, the children, they seemed further away although she missed them; she wanted a man’s strong arms to hold her as the
memory of her husband’s affection grew dimmer.

“Get the canvas sheets, that will be our cover. First, build up the fire so they’ll think we’re in here.”

Deer nodded she understood as she fueled the campfire. Lyon was setting a trap. They had not fooled him either. She ducked low to go outside with her arms loaded down. The cold air slapped her into seriousness. The night was frigid as any that season.

In their hiding place among the panniers they waited belly down, side by side in a wedge of blankets. The sharp wind drove hard grains of ice at them as they lay poised, ready for the attackers. The frozen flecks made ticking sounds striking on the material over them. She wished for the comfort of the lodge which shed much of winter’s force. but she knew the canvas cover would pass for snow if the breeds did not examine it too closely.

The night passed slowly and the moon was nearly set when she heard voices on the wind.

“They come,” she said then buried her tingling face in the buffalo robe beneath them for a moment to warm it.

He handed her the pistol. “Can you shoot it?”

She nodded.

“Be sure who you shoot,” he said and rolled over on his side to cock the rifle.

The breeds’ shots made her start. She saw the orange blazes from their rifles as they came down the hillside shooting at the conical lodge. His hand quickly stayed her. Two of them were edging closer, shadowy figures on the albino slope. She carefully cocked the hammer back waiting his order.

Her stomach crawled as she tried to squint to better see their silhouettes. They had stopped to reload. Metal cartridges clicking loudly as they injected them and they talked triumphantly about there being no sign of life in the lodge.

They were less than thirty feet when he gave the command, “Now!” and raised up.

She pointed the barrel and thumbed the hammer back for each shot as the pair withered to the snow in a hail of their gunfire. Then there was silence except the quiet clicks as her man reloaded the pistol for her.

“You did good,” he mumbled and handed her back the Colt.

“The other one is not here?” she asked.

“I have to go find him,” Lyon said, impatiently searching about the silver world that held them.

Deer reached out and grasped his arm to make him stay for a moment. “After this you plan to go to places like Fort Laramie?”

“Why?” he asked acting anxious to go find the last breed, who probably held their horses beyond the last hill.

“White men leave their Indian woman at such places.”

“So?”

“You promise to kill me when you grow tired of me?”

He looked into her eyes. “You’re saying I must kill you if I ever get tired of you?”

Deer nodded aggressively. “I don’t want to die drinking bad whiskey and lying with soldiers.”

“I understand,” he said. “Now I must go find the other one.”

She agreed. “You come back. There will be one bed in your lodge.”

“Yes, I won’t be long then.” He started out across the gray snow, then stopped and turned back. His words soft spoken over the night wind. “Deer Woman, I won’t ever leave you or kill you either one.”

Deer heard his promise as she shook the dry snow from her blankets. She must arrange the lodge special for his return. From here on, she must care for this man—half Sioux children would be better than no Sioux. Her ear turned to better hear the night sounds, she listened to the whispers of the wind and hoped her spirits someday would tell her why they had delivered her to him. She felt certain it was their wishes that she be with this man as she went inside her lodge to wait for his return.

The wind bore needles of ice that struck his canvas coat like spears. Even with his sheepskin collar turned up, the chill still invaded the security of his wool shirt and mixed with his perspiration, causing him to shiver. He was grateful the funeral service was over. His nearest neighbor Herman Peterson had suffered enough; death was a blessing in this man’s case.

Thurman Lake looked with pity at the bent figure in the old blue army overcoat with her head wrapped in a black scarf, it was hard to tell she was a woman. Though past twenty, Dunkia Peterson had never married. First, her mother, then her father had lingering illnesses; the young girl had grown into a woman while caring for their needs.

Thurman recalled seeing her the past spring in a wash worn dress and men’s pants beneath it, following a mismatched team with a steel hand plow. She made a rawboned figure, shoulders too wide, and her straw colored short hair tossed by the spring wind. Cheeks raw from the elements, she hadn’t looked up when he rode up that spring day. He only stopped to ask her how the old man was doing.

“Papa has good days,” she said. Her downcast gaze centered on the soil scoured shinny plowshare.

“Planting oats?” he asked.

She nodded woodenly.

He had said something else to her then, but he could not remember what. Thurman could not find any words to comfort her this day as much as he regretted his inadequacy. Leaning into the wind, he fought his way to the huddled wooly-coated mustang. He made two tries to mount his horse, but his boot soles were so icy, they slipped from the stirrup. When at last mounted, he lifted the reins and headed the gelding home. To conserve his body heat, Thurman bent over in the saddle.

His spread was two hours away, three in the snow and cold. By the time he arrived, the weak dying sun shone across the flat grey snow.

In the protected alleyway of the cottonwood log barn, he dismounted. His back muscles were contracted stiff from his fight with the cold. For more circulation, Thurman stomped his numb feet on the bare frozen ground before he unsaddled his horse. After he put the Texas saddle on the rack in the feed room, he tossed the horse three ears of corn as a reward.

The path to the small house had drifted over with four inches of dry snow. When he swung the corral gate shut to contain his horse, the leather hinges protested louder than the wind.

In his absence the fire had gone down. His breath produced streams of vapor as he poked the few remaining coals in the stove. With a small scoop, he added coal from the packing crate bin. Then he pulled off his heavy mittens, and slipped off the plaid wool cap. It would soon be warm inside. He undid the deer antler buttons of his coat. Darkness began to engulf the room before he lighted the kerosene lamp

He busied himself with meal preparation. First, he sliced bacon from the slab. While it fried, he went after potatoes from the house’s cellar. After supper, he blew out the lamp. Wearily in the darkness he pulled off his boots, shed his waist overalls, and then climbed between the quilts and the feather mattress. His last thoughts before he fell asleep were that in the morning he must feed his cows.

Before the sun cracked the North Dakota morning, he rose from the warm covers, charged the stove, and left a yellow stain in the snow a few feet from his door. He hated to empty the chamber pot, so he usually braved the elements.

After his oatmeal, he sipped coffee from a stained mug and waited for the sun to come up.

When he left the house, Thurman knew the temperature was well below zero. He hoped the draft horses hadn’t strayed too far. Sometimes, on the mornings he fed, they came in for a reward of corn. Otherwise, he saddled the mustang and went in search of them. He repeated this ritual every third winter day.

An hour later, the big pale red Percherons were harnessed, their nostrils blowing streams of fog as they stomped their pie plate sized hooves. Trace chains jingled and leather creaked when Thurman turned them with the lines in one hand and the heavy double trees in the other. Outside, beside the barn, he sawed them back and pinned in the double tree. He was always cautious least the team bolt and jerk the big hay sled on top of him. The first few hours that he drove the Percherons, they were always too anxious.

He stood up on the boards of the sleigh and clicked to them. The team churned puffs of powdery snow with their high steps. A smile of pride touched the corners of his mouth; he enjoyed the power of his big horses.

At the wire gate to the meadows, he tied the reins to the headboard and marched ahead to open it. Beyond, the distant bare cottonwoods stood like sticks along the frozen creek. In the bottoms, the white-mantled haystacks rose in mounds.

Loading the sweet smelling fodder on the sled was hard work, but Thurman thrived on the labor. Warmed by the exertion, he tossed pitchforks of the summer’s growth on to the sled. Fine grains of ice shook loose and melted on his face as he heaved the bundles higher on the load.

At last, when no more would stay on, he stuck the fork in the front so he didn’t lose it. Then he untied the lines and let the team test the load. On the first try, the horses fell back as if shocked that they could not move the sleigh.

He spoke sharply to them. When they lowered themselves and their powerful ham muscles strained, the runners began to ease forward. Though Thurman knew they could do it, he still took pride at their effort. He walked beside the load and drove them south to where his herd sought shelter in the small hills.

At the gate, he let the horses blow. They were still two miles from the pole feeders that he knew would have been eaten down, but never empty. A storm might cause him not to be able to feed for several days, so he left more fodder than his hundred head could consume in three short winter days.

Past noon, the hayracks were over flowing; the she stock crowded the fresh hay as if it was sweeter than ordinary. His bulls stood back as if they considered themselves snobs and better than the foolish females. Observing their roan coats as thick as their Scottish Shorthorn ancestors, Thurman knew his sires were still well conditioned, despite the winter’s onslaught.

One male arched his full neck to show his muscles as if the others or anyone cared. Then he bawled in a deep husky voice to challenge the icy hills around them. Thurman clucked to the Percherons and they swept the empty sled north and homeward. Their hard work done, anxious for the waiting meal of corn, the team churned up the white powder.

The temperature had climbed by his estimate to a little above zero. Even the wind lost its edge as he closed the last gate and clucked to the horses to go home. So far this winter, the wolves had not pulled down a single cow. He had reason to celebrate. The afternoon’s low sun felt warm on the right side of his face. Maybe he’d have a glass or two of rye when he was through for the day.

At the barn, he unhitched and removed the harness. Then he picked a half bushel of corn in the shuck from the bin. He tossed a few ears out in the alleyway for the mustang to eat before he took the big horses outside the corral.

Beyond the gate he poured the corn on the ground for them, took off their work bridles and went back to put them in the tack room. The mustang was already eating his share, his molars noisily crushing the flinty kernels as Thurman went around him. His day’s work complete, he dropped the tack room latch in place and headed for his house.

There was still an hour’s light left. Thurman considered what he would cook for supper. In the morning he planned to ride north and hunt for a mule deer. A month’s supply of venison would make the trip worthwhile.

Thurman stomped his boots as he opened the door. In dismay, he blinked his glare burned eyes. Seated at the table in the cold room was Dunkia. She did not raise her scarf bound head at his entry.

“Why didn’t you put coal in the stove?” he asked, angry at her backwardness. Thurman opened the cast iron door and shoveled in the dark chunks with a ferocity to match his mood. Anyone should know they were welcome to fuel his stove. To just sit there and be cold—what was the matter with her?

“It wasn’t my coal,” she quietly mumbled.

“Next time,” he said sharply. “Use some of mine”. Free of his mittens and cap, he undid the buttons on his coat. She must be simple, he decided. Thurman dared not look at her. He wondered how she had found his place: she’d never been there before.

“I had no place to go,” she said.

He studied her. With the wool scarf wrapped around her bowed head, she huddled in the old blue army coat. To him, she looked small and defenseless.

“Don’t you have your farm?” he asked, shrugging off his coat.

“No. The bank has taken it.”

Thurman frowned and shook his head. “Bastards!” he swore under his breath. What sort of low life turned a girl out in the cold?

“I owed them more money than I could ever pay. They let me stay until papa died. It was an understanding.”

Her explanation hardly settled the issue for him. She must have known for a long while that after the old man’s death they would evict her.

“You can stay here,” he said, even before he thought. What had he offered? One room, one bed, one chamber pot, one everything—this was no place for two.

“I could go to work in town,” she said. Her voice sounded full of dread.

Thurman looked at her. Dunkia clearly meant Sophie’s place. He could not imagine her in a filmy gown seated in the parlor, coaxing men to hardness and leading them back to a cubicle. No, he did not think she could do that.

“You can stay here,” he said. He would not have her loss of respectability on his conscience. Dunkia might be backward, but she didn’t fit his image of a soiled dove.

He hung his coat and cap on a peg by the door. Maybe she thought he wanted her for that reason.

“I can cook.” He heard her say before he turned around.

“Good,” he said, feeling grateful that she had broken the silence.

The room was warming, but she did not offer to remove her scarf or coat. He scowled at her.

“Take off your coat,” he said, sharper than he intended.

The chair legs scrapped the floor as she rose unsteady to obey him. Her frost burned red fingers fumbled with the odd buttons. She slipped out of the coat, and he took it, waiting for her to undo the scarf.

He remembered the wash worn dress from the day he spoke to her in the oat field. She looked thinner; her bones seemed to hold up the wash worn material. He turned and went to put her outer clothes on the peg beside his own.

“What should I cook?” she asked.

“There are potatoes in the cellar.” He pointed to the trap door in the floor. “I’ll cut some bacon.”

“How many?” she asked.

“Four or five,” he finally said. “There are plenty. And get a jar of plums.”

“Yes.”

He sliced the white fat in layers off the brown slab and into the skillet on the stove. She came up from below with her hand full of the red spuds.

“You have so much food,” she said.

“Plenty,” he said. In truth, though Thurman never thought about his store beneath the house, there was easily enough for two. Obviously, Dunkia was impressed.

“Do you like bread?” she asked. “Tomorrow, I can bake some for you.”

“Sure,” he said. He watched her wash each individual potato with her thumb erasing the last trace of dirt. Her hands were so raw and cracked that he hurt for her. He stepped back when she indicated for him to move aside so she could slice the potatoes over the hot grease.

She was deft with his sharp knife, the white slices swiftly dropping into the sizzling skillet. When she finished, she said, “I’ll go get the plums.”

“Yeh.” Thurman wished the house were larger so they could keep a distance. Perhaps with more space she would be more at ease.

Thurman noticed the sun was about to set. Red rays danced on the frost patterns etched on the front window. He lighted the lamp. As he replaced the glass chimney, the strong coal oil smell filled his nose. A bit of smoke blackened the narrow throat, so he adjusted the flat wick until he was satisfied. He mused how different it would be with her in his house.

He took a dog eared journal from the stack and sat at the table, pretending to read it. He knew every page by heart but he pretended to concentrate so she would not feel so self-conscious.

“Do you want coffee?’ she asked.

“Sure.” He wondered why he had not thought of it. If he had been alone, he would already be drinking some. His molars floated at the notion of hot coffee in his dry mouth. He closed the journal and returned it to the pile. With his hands shoved flat in his front pants pockets, he teetered on his boot heels at a loss for how he should act towards her.

She set the table, but never looked up at him as if she were too busy. But he, in turn, felt all the more obvious about standing idly by.

“It is done,” she announced. She placed the skillet on the table, using a rag to protect her hand.

He sat down and dug in; fishing out some bacon and spearing a few brown potatoes. Thurman stopped when he realized that she was still standing.

“Sit down and eat,” he said.

The chair bumped as she took her place opposite him. After she sat, he finished filling his plate.