Beneath a Dakota Cross (3 page)

Milton stabbed a large bite of mashed potatoes and brown gravy. “He was . . . back in '68. It didn't work out. I know what you mean! My sentiments exactly. They need American democracy over there, that's what they need!”

Thelma cleared her throat, then blurted out. “I hear that since his wife died, Mr. Disraeli has been seeing Lady Chesterfield.”

“Oh no, dear,” Louise corrected. “He's quite smitten with her sister, Lady Bradford.”

Brazos focused on the pot roast.

Louise's hand still on his left arm, Thelma Speaker reached over and took his right hand. “Mr. Fortune, how long will you be gone north?” she asked.

“He's going to move, dear,” Louise informed.

“Well, he's not officially moved until he comes back for sweet little Dacee June. When do you intend to come back?”

Brazos looked at Thelma, then Louise. “In a few months.”

“That will be nice,” Louise tugged on his left arm. “You will have to come over and let us cook you some supper on your return.”

“Yes, indeed,” Thelma echoed.

“Well, if I have time, I'll certainly plan on that.”

“Oh, that will be marvelous. Do you like homemade noodles?” Louise asked.

“Yes, and I . . .” he tried to raise his fork to his mouth, but Thelma Speaker didn't release her grip.

“Let's see, several months . . . oh . . . we will have fresh fruit by then. Would you like a berry or a peach cobbler?”

“I, eh . . . ladies, don't go to any trouble . . . I don't know if I'm even goin' to . . .”

“Oh, for goodness sake, Thelma,” Louis insisted, “we'll just make one of each!”

“Yes, yes . . . that's what we'll do!”

“Brazos, have you ever read anything by this young man, Twain?” Doc Ferrar boomed across the room. “He's written a book or two. He's quite humorous, you know. All those Missourians are.”

“Other than the Bible, I haven't had time to read anything in the past couple years.” Brazos glanced over at the Reverend who was oblivious to all conversation, other than the muted whispers of Miss Adaline Crosley.

Finally, the ladies released his arms. He and the pot roast renewed their acquaintance.

“You know, Louise,” Thelma began. “We should just take a little trip out west ourselves.”

“You mean go to San Francisco?”

“Well, at least we could go to Denver, Cheyenne . . . Helena,” Thelma suggested.

“Doesn't Helena sound like a lovely place? It sounds so cultured . . . so Grecian.”

“Actually,” Brazos corrected, “if you want to pronounce it correctly, you put the accent on the first syllable.”

“Oh, my!” Thelma's hand flew up to her mouth. “Dear me,” she began to giggle. “Perhaps we shouldn't go there.”

“Some of the West is still pretty undomesticated,” Brazos cautioned.

“Now, Mr. Fortune, if it's tame enough for Dacee June to go live, it would be tame enough for us to visit.”

“You have a point there,” he conceded.

“Brazos,” Ferrar called out, “did you know they started a medical school in London just for women?”

“Sounds very progressive.”

“Too blasted progressive, if you ask me,” Dr. Ferrar hollered.

“I think it's marvelous,” Barbara Ferrar added, as she carried the silver tureen full of steaming vegetables towards the far end of the table.

“You know,” Thelma Speaker suggested, “if you, Dacee June, and the boys were settled in Wyoming when we take our little western excursion, I'd stop by for a visit.”

“Don't you mean,
we'd
have to stop by?” Louise corrected.

“Oh, yes . . . of course that's what I meant.”

“Ladies, I'm not at all sure where we'll have our place or where it will be, but you are
both
invited to come for a visit,” Brazos offered.

“That settles it. We'll come for a sojourn,” Louise rejoiced, then looked across the table. “I do hope you aren't having those spells still,” she nodded to her sister.

“Spells?” Brazos asked.

Louise leaned forward in a hushed whisper, “Thelma's going through the Change of Life, you know.”

Brazos flushed and was thrilled to hear Milton's baritone voice boom out, “I hear there's a rebellion down in Cuba. That island always seems to be the center of turmoil. Have you ever been there, Brazos?”

“No, but then I've never been to Florida, either.”

“Don't go to Florida. If the mosquitoes don't carry you off, the alligators will! It's a worthless land. One big swamp and a little sand. I don't know how the Spanish ever suckered us into takin' it off their hands. An ol' boy from New York City came out here tryin' to sell me a hundred acres of beach. Can you imagine the gall? Can't farm sand, I told him. Can't graze cows in the swamps. It will never be good for anything.”

“I'll remember that.”

“Pass Mamma the potatoes,” Barbara signaled. “I believe she's still hungry.”

“Granny Young hasn't been full since '59,” Milton roared.

Everyone at the table laughed.

Including Granny.

Brazos hugged a teary-eyed Dacee June Fortune in her bed before daylight the next day and rode north towards Fort Worth. He hoped to make the nearly one-hundred-mile journey in one day. He'd have to push his dark sorrel geldings to reach town before dark.

It felt warmer than April should be. He pulled off his coat before noon. The traffic on the road increased a little as he rode north out of Hill County. Most of the day he kept wide of the others on the trail.

His Sharps carbine bouncing on his lap, he trotted north, his mind wandering from Wyoming to Waco.

Lord, leavin' Dacee June was the second hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I told her over and over ever'thing's fine, but you and I know it truly could be the last time I ever see her.

Where did this thing go wrong?

It was supposed to be me and Sarah Ruth, some babies, and a nice little spread down on the Leon River. We weren't goin' to bother no one. Just work and love and go to church on Sundays. A simple life.

Then came the war. A man had to choose.

The war cost ever'one somethin'.

It cost me the lives of two beautiful little girls who died of smallpox down on the border. Sarah Ruth lost the sparkle in her eyes in Brownsville. Too ashamed to come home, Sammy went on the owlhoot trail. It's like we lost a son, too. We came back to squatters livin' on our ranch. Neighbors who hated us. A bank that was set to ruin us.

Then, Sarah Ruth came down with the cancer.

Now Lord, I'm not sayin' that it's not fair. No, sir. Fairness is your business, and I probably couldn't spot it if it stared me in the face.

Sometimes I think I'm goin' north just to speed up things.

There are worse things than dyin'. Like losin' my Sarah Ruth. And sayin' good-bye to Dacee June.

If a man is given a certain number of tough times, I think I used mine up already.

Take care of my baby girl, Lord. She's the reason I get up in the mornin' and keep pushin' myself.

I'm gettin' tired, Lord. Way too tired for a man of forty-nine.

Big River Frank, Grass Edwards, and a extremely thin man introduced as Hooker Reed were waiting on the bench in front of the Ranger's Roost Cottage when Brazos rode into Fort Worth. They spent half the night pouring coffee and poring over maps of the North. After selecting a route through the Llano Estacado and up to Denver, then on to Cheyenne City, they eyed the 40-by-120-mile stretch of western Dakota called the Black Hills. The entire area was marked “Sioux Indian Reservation.”

“It don't seem right to go in there, if the government says we can't,” Big River mildly protested.

Hook Reed jabbed his fingers at several places on the map. “They're going in from Cheyenne, Sidney, from Fort Pierre and Fort Abe Lincoln. Trust me, boys, the government don't care. Shoot, it was Custer who went in there and brought out the report of gold. He ain't goin' to come kick us out. I say if we don't get in there by Christmas, there won't be any claims left. I was too late to the Comstock, too late to Alder's Gulch, and too late to the Salmon River. I ain't goin' to miss this one.”

“I heard they might open it up by this summer. Could be that question is solved by the time we get there,” Grass Edwards added.

Big River Frank rubbed his freshly shaven, pointed chin. “What do you think, Brazos?”

Brazos tugged off his gold-framed spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Boys, somewhere up there is a place the Lord has for me. I'm goin' north to find it. Might be Wyoming. Might be Montana. Might be the Black Hills. I'll know it when I see it.”

“Brazos got a sign from the Lord,” Big River reported.

“What kind of sign?” Grass Edwards asked.

Brazos stared across the room. “I don't want to sound fanatical, but I had this dream about a big cross and . . .”

“A cross?” Hook Reed shouted. “You're lookin' for a cross? Look here!” He unrolled a crude map etched out on buckskin. “This gold claim is beneath a Dakota cross! Right out on the bluff above the creek this old boy drew a cross. Do you see that!”

Brazos studied the map. “That's not exactly what I envisioned. Some gulch on Indian Reserve Land isn't ranch country.”

“But it is a cross!” Hook insisted.

“Might be a good place to start lookin',” Big River offered.

“I suppose headin' for one destination is better than havin' none at all,” Fortune admitted.

Brazos had never been in two barns that were exactly the same.

But every barn had the same smell.

Leather.

Hay.

Sweaty horseflesh.

Manure.

For him it was the smell of home. It was still mostly dark when he led his packhorse, Mud, out of the livery stable and tied him to a corner of the corral. Coco, the other dark sorrel gelding, pranced at the touch of the saddle blanket on his back. He snorted when the cold bit was slipped into his mouth and tugged back at the feel of the girth yanked tight.

With the morning drift from the north a little chilly, the blanket-lined coat felt comfortable. As Brazos waited for the other three to saddle, he pulled off his dark brown, wide-brimmed hat and ran his fingers through his clean hair that looked increasingly gray.

Well, I'm ridin' out of Texas, Daddy . . . and I hope you understand why I just couldn't stay. For you it was the promised land, but the Lord's promised me something else.

He untied Mud's lead rope, then swung up in the saddle on Coco. He pulled his carbine out of the scabbard and laid it across his lap, just as Big River Frank rode out of the barn. “Well, Brazos, are you ready for a long trip north?”

“Are you Brazos Fortune?” It was a high-pitched, nervous voice.

Brazos turned back towards the street. He spotted a medium-built man in a custom wool suit, vest, tie, crisp bowler hat, and a silver badge pinned to his pocket.

“I presume you ain't been in Texas too long,” Big River called out. “You pronounce his name Braa-zis . . . just like the river.”

The well-dressed man ignored Big River Frank. “I'm from Illinois and unfamiliar with Texas rivers, but that don't matter. I asked you a question. Are you Brazos Fortune from Coryell County?”

“I reckon that's me. What can I do for you, Deputy Constable?”

As the policeman watched Grass Edwards and Hook Reed ride up alongside Big River Frank, four guns became visible.

“Eh, well . . .” He pulled a paper out of his vest pocket. “I have a telegram here from the sheriff of Coryell County saying I should detain Mr. Brazos Fortune in Fort Worth, pending his arrival.”

“What on earth for?” Brazos asked.

“It mentions failure to pay some sort of loyalty tax.”

Brazos took a deep breath, then stared up to a mostly clear, breaking daylight sky. He rode his horse forward past the lawman, and the other three swung in beside him.

“Where do you think you're goin'?” the deputy constable shouted.

“We're leavin' Texas,” Brazos called back.

“You can't! You have to wait for the sheriff of Coryell County!”

Brazos stopped and turned in the saddle to face the man who now had a .32 caliber revolver in his hand, pointed down at the dirt. “I have strict instructions to keep you in town and to impound your saddle, horse, and gear, including that Sharps. They will sell them at auction to repay the back taxes.”

Brazos rubbed his hand across his mouth, glanced over at Big River Frank, then back at the constable. “Son, I appreciate your enthusiasm. I'm a law-abidin' man myself. As Big River can testify, the folks down in Coryell County ran off my cattle, burnt my barn, and illegally appropriated my ranch. This horse and this gear and this gun is about all I have left in the world. I'm not givin' them up to you. I'm not givin' them up to any man.” The carbine across his lap pointed in the general direction of the deputy constable. Brazos cocked the hammer with his thumb.

The deputy took a couple steps back, but left his own gun in hand, hanging at his side.

“You cain't leave town! You're a wanted man!”

“Son, I don't know if you're goin' to lift that gun and pull that trigger or not. If you are, hurry up and do it. But I guarantee that when that gun gets pointed at me, I'm goin' to pull this trigger.”

“Are you threatenin' me?” he screamed.

“No, sir. I'm just trying to avoid either of us gettin' hurt. Do you think this horse and saddle are worth either of us gettin' shot?”

“Eh, no . . . I reckon I don't.”

“Good,” Brazos said. “Now, we're goin' to ride out of town. Why don't you go have a cup of coffee to settle down those shakes of yours?”