Authors: DeAnn Smallwood
Chapter 10
The morning sun rose. Its warmth reached the two sitting by the pond. Heather, giving into an impulse, had removed her boots and was gingerly dipping her toes into the water.
She looked up at Whip, sitting on a nearby rock, his hat pulled low over his eyes, his face shaded. “Come on. Take your boots off and give it a try. Chicken?”
“Nope. Smart.”
“Smart?”
“Crawdads,” the answer came slow and deliberate.
“What do you mean, crawdads?” Heather’s voice pitched higher than usual, her toes involuntarily curling.
“Mean little buggers. That one big claw grabs hold of something, say a toe, and darned if you don’t have a heck of a time pulling it loose. Pond’s full of them.”
Heather screamed, then yanked her foot out of the pond and jumped back all in one movement. She would have fallen if a pair of strong arms hadn’t caught her.
Whip liked the feel of her in his arms. And darned if she didn’t smell good, too, a familiar scent of pine, horses, and woman. He tightened his arms knowing that any minute she’d realize he’d been teasing and explode. But it was worth it. Just holding her, feeling her in his empty arms would be worth all the hell she’d vent. He felt her stiffen just seconds before her voice cut into his thoughts.
“Crawdads? Whip Johnson, you are a liar, a cheat, a scoundrel, a—”
“A man that’s holding a very pretty woman in his arms. Now don’t you think the end justifies the means, Heather? Why, it’s all in how you look at it. There could be crawdads. Just cause I haven’t ever seen any in this pond doesn’t mean they aren’t there hiding in the mud just waiting for a pearly, pink toe to nibble on.”
“Let go of me. You,” she said as she jerked free of him, fire dancing from her eyes. “You are despicable and a”—she fished for words bad enough to describe him—“a rotten neighbor. I won’t be friendly with you. I won’t.”
Whip put a sober expression onto his face and tried to look contrite. “I’m sorry, Heather. I don’t know what it is about you, but you bring out the ornery in me. Could be I’m just not used to female company. The last five years, the closest I’ve come to a woman was a dance hall girl. Come on, you can’t ride off without accepting my apology. ‘Sides,” he said with a grin, “you’ve got my bread in your saddlebag. I might tolerate your leaving, but that homemade bread, well now, that’s a horse of a different color. Here, let me get it out of the saddlebag and you and I sit down on this rock and tear us off a hunk. I can smell it from here, I swear.”
“Tear us off a hunk?” she asked. “Tear us off a hunk of my bread? Mr. Johnson, you slice bread, you don’t tear off hunks. You”—she pursed her lips fighting back a smile—“have certainly been out of civilization too long. I can see I’m going to have my work cut out for me.” She paused, looking up at him, her hands on her slim hips. “Oh, what the heck. A hunk of bread does sound good. You wouldn’t happen to have some sweet churned butter on you, would you?” she asked.
Again, his chuckle surprised her.
Heather realized she liked the sound of his laughter and vowed she’d make it happen more often.
They munched the bread in silence, with Whip having more than one hunk. Heather laid back and let the sun shine on her, one foot at the edge of the pond, her toes kissing the water, but not venturing in.
Whip noticed this and couldn’t help smiling to himself. There were a million things he should be doing. Sitting on the bank of a pond wasn’t one of them. When he’d come across Heather, he’d been on his way to a higher bluff hoping for a better view as he looked for any sign of his herd. He wouldn’t be able to put off going into Buffalo much longer. A sense of unease plagued him, and he knew he was unwise to ignore it.
“You’re frowning,” Heather said, breaking the silence.
“My herd’s past due. When I spied you, I was riding up that bluff to see if I could spot them. I’ve got a lot tied up in that herd.” He paused, “Money and dreams. I keep telling myself they’re just taking it slow like I told them to. My foreman, Buster Walking Tall, is the best. He’d handle anything as good or better’n I would.” He fell off, silent.
“Buster Walking Tall? You left your herd…your foreman is an Indian?” The questions came unbidden to her lips.
“Yep. He’s a Lakota brave,” Whip said, studying her face.
“And you trust him?”
“With my life. We grew up together. I was orphaned when my ma died. I thought I was man enough to make it on my own. The townspeople thought differently.” He smiled at her, then pulled a blade of grass and put it into his mouth.
“Tell me about him. About you.” Unconsciously, Heather moved closer to him, a gentle, questioning look on her face.
He heard himself talking and sharing his story with her. Somehow, he knew she’d understand and accept what his city-bred Lettie never could.
“I ran away from the mission school those good folks sent me to. I had stayed long enough to know I wasn’t going to take anymore of the headmaster’s canings. Not that I didn’t deserve a few,” he said, winking at her. “My horse threw a shoe.” His voice was quiet as he thought back. “Well, it wasn’t exactly my horse. I borrowed it from the school.
“Anyway, we’d wandered into Lakota territory. The Lakota’s are one of the seven council fires of Sioux tribes. They’re fierce warriors and have no equal as horsemen.
My water had given out the day before, my food long before that. I don’t know where I thought I was going. I don’t think I was capable of thinking. The sun was hot and I was getting weaker. I saw a tall sagebrush and laid down under it hoping for some shade. The next time I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by a band of Lakota braves. They had been out hunting and trapping wild horses and had a small herd with them to show for their work.
“Riding beside the meanest looking brave was a boy my age: Buster. He wore vermilion slashes across his face and a claw necklace hung on his bare chest. He was scowling like the rest of them.” Whip grinned. “He wasn’t called Buster back then. His Lakota name was a bunch of sounds I never could wrap my tongue around. I gave up and started calling him Buster. After I got to know the language some, I realized his name translated into Walking Tall.” He gave a short laugh. “It was too late by then. He was Walking Tall to everyone else, but he remained Buster to me.” He shrugged, the smile still playing around his lips.
“I’m getting ahead of myself,” Whip said. “We sure weren’t on a first name basis at that moment. In fact, there was a great deal of talk going on, none of which I could understand. Damn, I was scared to death, sorely wishing I’d never left the mission school and the saintly headmaster.
“They looked fierce and every now and then one of them would scream something and jab me with his lance. I found out later they were arguing about my outcome. Some wanted to leave me for the spirits to take. I wasn’t even worth the effort to kill; the sun would do that for them. They’d already helped their selves to the only thing they saw of value, my horse. Others wanted to take me back to their camp and let the women have me for a slave.
“I found out later, Buster talked a good talk. He won them over by saying he’d take responsibility for me. He’d take the punishment should I prove unworthy. It was the first, but not the last time, he put his life on the line for me.
“They jerked me to my feet and tied me on my horse. Buster gave me a drink of water and some dried jerky that tasted like heaven. Almost, but not quite as good as your bread, Heather Campbell.”
“Hush! Go on, Whip. What happened?”
“Well, what happened is, when we got back to camp, Buster went immediately to his father who was a very wise and much-respected man. He knew the Indians had to accept the settlers and that the only way they could exist was to co-exist.” He paused. “Have you heard of the Fort Laramie Treaty?”
“Yes, my father was a history professor. He kept up on what was going on in this new land he’d adopted. I remember him being quite hopeful over the treaty. “As long as the river flows and the eagle flies,” she quoted with a quiet reverence. “The Indians could have control of the Great Plains for that long. In turn, they would guarantee safe passage for settlers and would allow forts to be built on their land. My father was sorely disappointed when Article Seven was changed on the treaty. Do you know what Article Seven is, Whip?”
“Nope, you tell me.” He gently touched the end of her nose with his finger. “You’re quite the scholar, Heather.”
“No, I had quite the father. The Indians were promised $50,000 a year annuity payment for fifty years. It was adjusted to ten years. My father thought this very unfair. Time has proven him right.”
“Yeah.” Whip shook his head. “Well, Buster’s father had been one of the tribal representatives at that council, but he wasn’t one of the six making their mark on the treaty. He had wisdom to see ahead and realized then what was needed was greater knowledge of the white-man’s world. That’s where I came in. Lucky for me, although I sure didn’t think it at the time, some of the headmaster’s teachings had sunk in and stayed.
“Anyway, they kept the scrawny white boy, and to pay for my life, I taught Buster English, how to read and write and sums. He taught me far more
—
the Lakota language, how to hunt, how to live off the land, how to ride like a Lakota warrior but, most of all, how to believe in myself. We’re brothers.” He made the statement proudly then sat there quietly reflective, his mind back in the Indian camp.
“Ever heard of Tasunka Witko?” His question broke the silence.
“Tasu who?”
“Crazy Horse? Tasunka Witko. I met him. He came into the Lakota camp once, full of fire and purpose. Scared the hell out of me.” He grinned at the memory. “Buster and I stayed up late that night, wide-eyed and still as field mice around the campfire, listening to him talk. Buster said to give him great respect. I did. He commanded it. I also walked a mile around him.”
“I would have, too,” Heather agreed. “We have been fortunate in that we’ve had no Indian problems. My father always treated them fairly and they in turn left us alone.”
“Well.” Whip rose lankily to his feet. “Enough stories of me. I don’t know what there is about you, Heather Campbell. I’ve met you all of three times, and here I am telling you things I’ve never told anyone.”
“I’m honored, Whip. Thank you.” She slipped on her boots and rose, dusting off the seat of her skirt. “I think I’d better be getting back to the ranch. I’ve stayed far longer than I planned. You’ve had quite a life. I’m hoping you’ll share more of it with me.” Their eyes met. She gave her head a small shake and turned away, mounting her horse.
He didn’t want her to leave, yet he had no reason to ask her to stay.
“Heather.”
“Yes.” She turned toward him.
“Ride with me to the top of the rise. Maybe two sets of eyes would be better than one. Maybe we’ll see some sign of that herd of mine.”
She waited a second then said, “Okay,” not letting her voice reflect any of the relief she felt. “I almost rode off with your steaks anyway.”
“I’d be cussing myself tonight when a good steak would be mighty tasty. I hate my own cooking, but I usually can burn a good steak. Just cook it till it quits mooing. Black on the outside, raw on the inside. I hired a cook, least he claimed to be, in Cheyenne. He should be following behind the herd. But, I probably won’t need him. I’ve got me several home-cooked meals to look forward to. You see, my neighbor owes me. And”—he winked at her—“I always collect my debts.”
Chapter 11
They rode to the lookout point and quietly scanned the land stretched out before them. Whip rose tall in his stirrups, shaded his eyes, and with fierce intensity looked in all directions. Heather did likewise.
Nothing. The land was still and shuttered, the only sign of life a lone hawk circling lazily in the sky.
“Damn,” Whip said to himself.
“I’m sorry, Whip. How overdue are they?”
“Several days. Something’s happened.”
Heather nodded, not wanting to voice any further concern that would add to Whip’s worry.
Whip started to turn his horse around when she stopped him.
“Whip, when you left them, they were headed in this direction?”
“Yeah,” he said, a question in his voice. “Buster knows this land like the back of his hand. No way he would vary from the trail. No way.”
“Just a minute,” Heather said excitedly. “You just said it. You just said what has happened.”
“Sun getting to you?” A wry smile quirked the corners of his mouth.
“Listen, you just said Buster Walking Tall knows this country like the back of his hand, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, and you just said there was no way he would vary from the trail, right?”
“Right. You’re beginning to sound like an echo, Miss Campbell.” He was feeling a frustration that had nothing to do with Heather, but her questions were leading nowhere.
“Bear with me a minute, Whip. There’s a back way into your ranch. I know. I’ve explored it looking for strays. It’s a lot rougher trail, not one that would be your first choice. It winds through a couple of rocky canyons before it drops down behind the Powder River and then onto your land. What do you think? I know it’s unlikely, but herds just don’t disappear and—she looked back over the empty land below them—there’s certainly no sign of it out there.”
Whip tipped back his hat, squinting at the sun devils dancing in the heat. “Doesn’t make any sense. Why would Buster take off through wild country when there’s a reasonably good trail?” He answered his own question. “Had to be a good reason. Something’s happened.” He glanced over at her. “I’ll ride back with you to your ranch,” he said decisively. Pick up the trail from there. Hope you’re right, Heather. Rough and wily as that country is, I’d far rather find them along that trail as to have to back track to Buffalo or Cheyenne.”
Decision made, Heather saw the strength in Whip. He didn’t ponder or vacillate. He was a man of action, one who would look at a problem from all angles, then move forward, usually in the right direction. He might not agree with her theory of where the herd was, but he wasn’t so pigheaded he wouldn’t check it out.
“I’m going with you.”
His eyes were dark in his sun and weather-tanned face as he absorbed her words. Then he gave a nod.
“I need to stop at the Circle C. I’ve got some chores that won’t wait all day to be taken care of. My animals need to be fed and watered. It won’t take long.”
“Okay,” he replied. “I’ll help. We’ll probably be gone most of the day,” he warned, “maybe late.” He looked at her, watching for any sign she wanted to reconsider her spontaneous offer. There was none.
“I know. That’s why I need to check my animals. But I think you’ll rescind your offer of help.”
“Doubt it.”
“Okay.” But her eyes danced. “Just remember, I warned you.” And with that she gave Patch a nudge and, leading the way, left the puzzled man no recourse but to follow.
They dismounted in front of the ranch house. Heather took her saddlebags off Patch. “I’ll put your steaks back in the smokehouse. I’ve danced them over enough country.”
“Sounds like a plan. Just don’t forget they’re mine.” He wrapped Buck’s reins around the hitching post as Heather headed in the direction of the smokehouse.
Sassy, he thought. Walks like she owns the place and everything on it.
He chuckled,
Come to think of it, she does. How in the Sam hill does she keep it all up?
He met her halfway and followed her around to the back of the house. The minute they rounded the corner they were greeted with a variety of sounds.
Built into a hill, Whip could see what looked to him like a root cellar. Yet it wasn’t like any root cellar or dugout he’d ever seen. It was big for one thing. Bigger than any root cellar had a right to be. Still, that wasn’t what caught his eye. It was the pens.
The cellar itself had two log-hewn doors blocked open into what looked like a large, cavernous room. No, to be correct it looked like someone had built a barn, all right, but instead of placing it out in the open, they’d went to a hell of a lot of work and built it against and inside a hillside. They would have had to tunnel back and haul off a pile of dirt to make a room that large.
He wondered how far back it went. The doors were strong, big and sturdy enough to withstand the elements. He wanted to look beyond the immediate front of the room in the back, but his eyes were riveted on several cages of various sizes, taking up most of the front space.
In the first was one of the ugliest coyotes he’d ever seen. It paced from left to right, stopping in the middle to give a menacing snarl, lips curled back, muzzle quivering, as narrow, yellow eyes bored through him. It was giving a series of short, warning yips, and was obviously favoring its right paw.
Next to the coyote, sitting on a perch, was a bald eagle, with its uniquely white-feathered head and neck. It was perched regally on a tree branch, but one of its large wings fanned out and drooped down its side. Talons gripped the branch as easily as they would grip and kill any of the smaller animals it would normally prey on.
A few years back, he’d come across one flopping in a field, trying, to no avail, to rise and soar in the air. When he got closer, he could see what had happened. The young, not fully-grown eagle had swooped down on a rabbit and locked its talons into the animals flesh. What the eagle hadn’t taken into account when he’d made his strike was the size and weight of the big jackrabbit. His wings beat the air, frantic as Whip had approached. All it was able to do was rise a few, flopping inches into the air and then fall back to the ground. It would try, even exhausted, fighting against itself, until it perished, not realizing the way to freedom was to relax and let go.
Whip had dismounted and slowly approached the bird. Its mouth opened menacingly at him, and he knew that if he got within reach of its sharp beak, it would tear him to shreds.
He looked around him for something that would break the killing grip. Something he could use to try and free one talon while not getting within striking distance. But there was nothing but baked ground and sagebrush. From the looks of the beaten ground around the eagle, this life-and-death struggle had been going on for a long time. It wouldn’t be much longer and this glorious bird would die. It probably had been without food or water for hours, maybe even days. Intent on ridding itself of the heavy weight binding it to the unfamiliar chains of the earth, the eagle didn’t realize that food and liquid was right under its nose, so to speak.
That gave Whip an idea. It was a long shot, but a long shot was all the bird had. He slowly back stepped to his horse, reached into his saddlebag, and pulled out a biscuit that had been baked in a little bacon grease. He made his way back to the trapped bird whose struggles were intensified with the presence of man. Whip got as close as he knew he dared, then broke the biscuit in half and threw it at the eagle. It landed short of where aimed, and the bird pulled back with suspicion. He broke the remaining half in two and threw one of the pieces. Same thing. If this last piece didn’t do what he was hoping it would, there wouldn’t be anything else he could think of to try. One biscuit was all he had left from that morning’s breakfast. He inched forward, the eagle still, watching, waiting. Then he threw the remaining piece, aiming for the bird’s beak. The bird saw it and reacted at the same second. Its beak opened and grabbed for the bread. With all thoughts focused on striking whatever was in his beak’s reach, he involuntarily relaxed his hold on the hapless rabbit. The talons pulled back, free. Whip could tell the exact minute the bird realized this, for it spread its magnificent wings and effortlessly glided upward. He stood there and watched it circle, each time catching more and more wind under its wings until it became no more than a speck in the sky.
The bird in the cage was bigger, much bigger. He looked over the rest of the cages. All held animals in various stages of injury and mending. It was as if every hurt or maimed animal within crawling distance of the Circle C had dragged itself to Heather’s doorstep.
“I’ll take you up on that offer, now,” Heather said, grinning at his astonishment.
“Huh?”
“That offer to help me feed the animals. Why don’t you start with the badger? Careful of his claws. He’s just getting over an infected slash on his neck so he’s testy. Wants to lash out at anything—or anyone.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Yep. Only thing is, I’m missing one of my favorite critters.”
“Yeah, what?” he asked warily, reluctantly taking his eyes off the cages.
“Crawdads.”