Dorothy Garlock (3 page)

Rosalee moved quietly. She added more wood to the cookstove and ladled water into the black iron teakettle. When it boiled, she opened the can with their precious supply of tea, put two pinches in the crockery pitcher, filled it with boiling water, and sat a wooden plate on top of it so it would steep.

Logan Horn was sitting on the edge of the bunk. He held one of his mother’s thin hands in his. He was angry at himself. He had waited too long to come back for her. While he was fighting to free the slaves, his mother’s people had been massacred at Sand Creek. She had fled north with her relatives to the Yellowstone. It had taken him two years to find her.

Morning Sun, his mother, was once the beautiful daughter of Running Wind, a Cheyenne chief. A white man had married her in an Indian ceremony; it had been his means to get her into his bed, to use her during his short stay with her people. When he was ready to leave, he divorced her. He “threw her away” at a tribal ceremony called the Omaha Dance. Playing the irate husband, he danced alone with a stick in his hand. He struck a mighty blow on a drum with the stick, threw it into the air, and shouted, “There goes my wife.” Morning Sun had felt much shame at being discarded in such a manner.

Someday soon, Logan vowed silently, he would look into the eyes of the man who hadn’t wanted him, the man who was ashamed he had slept with a squaw and gotten her with child, and he would kill him.

“Mr. Horn.” Rosalee stood beside him with the mug of whiskey-laced tea in her hand.

Logan’s mind jerked back to the present. There was a burning ache in his throat that had nothing to do with the raw, raspiness that had plagued him for days. It was as if he was traveling down a dark narrow path through a region of devastation.
Mister Horn.
This slip of a girl was the first person to give him that respect since he came into the Colorado Territory. Singly, few had dared to call him “dirty half-breed” or “red ass.” They were braver in numbers, and he had endured their insults in stony-eyed silence, steeling himself against the animosity in the eyes turned on him.

He knew now he would not remain passive in the face of insult ever again. Unless he planted his feet and asserted his rights, he would be trampled into the ground by the “civilized” people who had massacred hundreds of helpless women, children, and old people at Sand Creek.

He took the mug from Rosalee’s hand. “Thank you.”

She pulled the bench up beside the bunk and sat down. Somehow she felt her presence was welcome. The man sipped the tea in silence.

“What is her name?” Rosalee whispered.

“Morning Sun. She was once the most beautiful girl in her village. My grandfather, Running Wind, said he had been offered many horses for her.”

“But she chose your father?”

“Yes.”

The word was softly spoken, but Rosalee felt it was bitter in his mouth. She sat silently and waited for him to finish the tea.

“I remembered her with smooth skin, laughing eyes, and dark hair that hung to her knees. She was beautiful and sparkling. I didn’t recognize her when I found her. I went to the village and asked for the mother of Deer Horn, daughter of Running Wind, sister of Tall Horn, after who I was named. She had been without a lodge for months, eating the food that was thrown to the dogs. She fell to her knees weeping. I vowed she would be warm and have all she could eat for the rest of her life. I’ve taken care of her for only two short months. It is little enough to do for one who gave me life.”

Rosalee looked up to see the sparkle of tears on his thick lashes. She looked away quickly and blinked back the moisture from her own. The woman on the bed moved restlessly, her eyelids fluttered and opened. She saw only the man who sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward.

“My mother . . .”

“You are still with me, my son?”

“For the rest of our days, Mother.”

“It is good to be with you while I wait for the night wind to carry my spirit along the Hanging Road to the abode off
Heammawihio,
the Wise One Above.” Her eyes were bright and watchful. “There is a thing I would say to you.” She lifted her hand, trying to reach his face. He took it in his and carried it to his cheek. “My son,” she said weakly. “My son, greatest of them all. I can hear you weeping. There are too many tears, too much hatred, too many ashes behind you.”

“What do you mean?” he asked in a hushed voice.

Morning Sun’s eyes were strangely bright. “The death song rises from every rock, every blade of grass and drop of water in all this vast land. Our land was once the place of warm sunlight and endless song. Now it is a land of tears. The Indian and the
Wasicun
have wounded it. Do not run away. Stay and heal it. Touch the joy of life, my son.”

“I intend to stay, my mother. Is this not the place where you gave me life?”

“My son. My beloved son. I hear you. I know the path you walk is not easy. I would see you walk with a sense of beauty and a compassion for life. The
Wasicun
and I gave you life. Do not despise the one who is your father. He cannot help being what he is anymore than you can help being what you are.”

“Don’t ask that of me, my mother. For I have vowed that someday I will kill him.”

A half smile curled her lips. “No, my son. Killing is the refuge of cowards and my son is not a coward. Show your father that you are the better man and he will die a thousand times.”

“I will think on this, my mother.”

“I see your heart, my son, and seeing it has warmed my own. When the time comes you will do what is right.”

A film glazed her eyes, but there was fearlessness in her face. She knew she was dying, but the knowledge of it held no terror for her. She had walked too long beside the Spirit People to fear joining them. She was confident she would live forever among her long-lost loved ones.

Logan knew his mother was slipping away from him to walk in the darkness forever without him. He saw her lips open, but no sound came from them. In the silence she went on talking soundlessly. One of her hands groped for his and fastened on his wrist. A tremor passed through her body, then her life ebbed away.

Rosalee had moved away from the bed when Morning Sun began to talk. She stood, now, with her back to the bunk, her hands on her cheeks. There are no easy deaths, she thought, and her mind flashed back to her mother’s death while giving birth to her sixth child. Death was cruel, agonizing, gut-crushing. She turned back to Logan Horn. He sat on the bunk, his mother’s hand in his, his eyes riveted to her face. Had the woman closed her eyes in death, or had her son closed them? Rosalee moved to stand beside him and placed her hand on his shoulder. He looked up. Her eyes were a mirror of tears.

“I wish there was something we could have done.”

He nodded. “You did more than I expected a
Wasicun
to do. It was dry and warm here, and she could see my face. I thank you.”

“I’ll take care of her, if you like.”

“I’d be obliged. I have her ceremonial dress.” He tucked his mother’s hand beneath the blanket and stood up. The tin roof rumbled as the restless wind passed over it. Logan lifted his head and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Good-bye, my mother,” he whispered.

Logan Horn sat at the table and drank the hot tea while Rosalee washed and dressed his mother’s body. Soon after the woman had breathed her last, he had gone outside and stayed for a long while. When he returned he carried a package wrapped in an oiled slicker. It contained a beaded dress of soft leather that had once been white but now was yellowed with age. He laid it on the end of the bunk beside worn, white moccasins and a feather necklace and turned away.

By the time dawn streaked the sky the wind had carried the rain clouds away. Everything looked fresh and clean, but the ground was soggy underfoot.

Logan brought the mare from the corral and attached the travois. After commanding the dog to sit at the mare’s head, he returned to the cabin for his mother’s blanket-wrapped body. Ben and Rosalee followed him into the yard.

“I’d be glad to come along, Mr. Horn.” Ben stood awkwardly on first one foot and then the other and spoke in hushed tones, acknowledging the presence of death.

“Thank you for the offer, but this is something I need to do alone. I’d be obliged for the use of your ax.”

“You’re welcome to it,” Ben said, and went to get it from the woodpile where the blade was sunk in a log to protect it from rust.

Logan secured his mother’s body to the travois with a rope and saddled the spotted stallion. He picked up the mare’s reins and turned to the silent pair.

“I thank you for taking us in and for all you’ve done, ma’am.” He mounted the horse and put his fingers to the brim of his hat. Rosalee went to him and thrust a cloth-wrapped package into his hand.

“A few biscuits and some meat.” She met his downbearing gaze with the same air of assurance she had maintained the night before.

“Thank you.”

“Are you familiar with the country, Mr. Horn?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been through here before.”

“There’s a beautiful spot to the west, just beyond that line of fir trees.” She lifted her arm and pointed toward the mountains. “It’s on a high plain. It’s peaceful and calm and I don’t think anyone ever goes there but me and Ben.”

“Is it on Clayhill land?”

“No. I don’t think the land has been taken up. The Clayhill ranch is north and west of here.”

Logan narrowed his eyes and looked toward the place she had pointed out. “I’ll head for the line of firs.”

“It’s a two-hour ride.”

“I’m in no hurry.”

He brought his eyes from the hills and looked down into the girl’s upturned face. From the first he had been comfortable with her. Her low, sweet voice was like the gentle music of a brook. Her eyes had come from the sky and looked into his, unclouded by suspicion, hate, or fear. Her skin was golden from the sun, and her hair was thick and heavy with small tendrils dancing around her face. The wind caught at her dress and whipped it out behind her. She was tall and thin and swayed like a reed. Rosalee was unlike any woman he had ever met; soft, pretty as a buttercup, calm, sensible, and compassionate.

Logan had no name for the feelings that flooded him as he looked into the woman’s delicately drawn features. Even with tension drawing his nerves tight, he could only marvel at this girl who could take on a man’s responsibilities yet remain totally a woman. She was the strength of this family. She and the boy were carrying a heavy load.

There was a curious stillness between Logan and Rosalee—a waiting, uneasy silence that deepened and pushed them farther apart. Only her sky-blue, thick-lashed eyes and the faint color that lay across her cheeks betrayed the fact that Rosalee was not completely at ease.

“I’ll be back.” Something like a smile crossed his face as he continued to study her thoughtfully. Then, he put his fingers to the brim of his hat and his heels to his mount and moved away. The mare followed with the foal at her side. The travois carrying the beloved body of his mother bounced gruesomely over the uneven sod. The wolf dog, sniffing the ground, moved out ahead of the stallion.

Rosalee’s eyes followed him, but he didn’t look back.

*  *  *

Logan sat in the fast-fading light, as motionless as the wild hills that surrounded him, rough, old, and hugely somber. His thoughts drifted over the solemn silence, the bold peaks and the windswept canyons. This was a land that had charmed his soul, a land that could not be ignored, a land that punished, but also rewarded vigilance. The golden air, the halcyon silence and the unravished panorama quivered with promise. This was a good land, and here he would stay.

The sun was gone. The scarlet fingers of dusk faded and the moon rose swiftly to cast a mellow light over the plain. Logan sat beneath the scaffold that held his mother’s body. He felt a restless stirring and knew the unfed hunger of a lifetime would not let him go. He had to see the man who had sired him, the selfish bastard who planted his seed in a beautiful, young woman and then carelessly discarded both her and her child. No, he had not merely discarded them. He had ruined Morning Sun, divorced her in such a way that no other man would have her.

Logan stood and leaned his forehead against the pole that supported the platform. All the days and all the years came together and were the same, and all rushed toward this moment. Time stopped, then fell away and hung motionless in the great void. Even the wolf dog and the horses seemed to sense the eerie quality of the time and place and were quiet.

He mounted the stallion, whistled for the dog and the mare, and made his way steadily through the night. It came to him that he had reached a crossroads but there was never the slightest doubt which path he would take. What really mattered was that he could not turn back, nor did he want to.

*  *  *

At sunset Rosalee walked away from the cabin and, her hair stirring in the breeze that swept the valley, she stood alone beside the trail and looked toward the west. She never tired of the evenings. She loved to watch the soft sunlight change the color of sky and mountains. The air was cool and fresh with the smell of cedar if it was sweeping down from the mountains, or with the smell of sage if it came from the plains.

When she was young, Rosalee thought, everything seemed easy, and life was forever. She had spent a lot of time dreaming about the kind of life she wanted. She had not imagined it would be so hard, and so . . . lonely. There had always been a man in her dreams, one whose face kept changing, but who was very much in love with her and ready to die for her. She had wanted to meet him someday. Cowboys and drifters had stopped by the cabin now and then when they heard about an unmarried woman living there, but she had not the slightest interest in any of them. They were hunting for a woman, any woman.

It wasn’t, she thought, that she was looking for a man who owned a wide stretch of land, with cows and a ranch house with more than two rooms. It was more than that. She was a woman with a woman’s love to give, and she needed someone to reach out for it. There was an emptiness within her, a yearning that had to be fulfilled.