Margaret Brownley (17 page)

After awhile Caleb joined her, patting her on her shoulder. “He gave me salve for the infection. I rubbed it on his wound. I think it will help.”

“I hope so,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“It’s almost time for Papa to close shop,” Caleb said. “You better go home.”

She shivered against the cool night air. “I’m not leaving Wolf.”

“You can’t stay here all night. Papa will be furious.”

She turned to face him. “Go home and close my bedroom door. Papa will think I’m not feeling well.” Her father never entered her room when the door was closed.

Caleb gave a reluctant nod. “There’s some dried meat and cheese in the wagon. I’ll go and get it.”

She waited by the door while he ran to the wagon to fetch the food. She took the small package from him, surprised at how hungry she suddenly felt. “What about you and Papa? What are you going to eat?”

“We’ll grab something to eat at Redd’s.” He hesitated. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

She hated to see him go. “Should I give him more medicine?”

He shook his head. “Doc Myers said we have to be careful when administering laudanum not to overdose or cause addiction.” He seemed reluctant to leave her. “Did you know we have sixty thousand miles of blood vessels in our body? Not only that, we have—”

“Go,” she said, recognizing the delaying tactic for what it was. She pushed him out the door and stood in front of the church until the rattling sound of wagon wheels faded away.

Feeling very much alone, she gazed at the bright starry sky and began to pray. She prayed mostly for Wolf but she also asked God’s help in another matter close to her heart.
God, Caleb would make such a wonderful doctor—the best. You know he would. Please, please help me land a job so I can help put him through school. Amen
.

From the distance came the sound of a fiddle, but she was unable to pick out the tune. Lights from the various saloons cast the town in a faint glow.

It was a town she’d known all her life. Yet tonight it looked strange to her, almost foreign, like she was an outsider and didn’t belong. If only she could talk to her best friend Monica, but she didn’t dare. It was bad enough that Caleb was involved.

She hated having to keep Wolf’s presence a secret, but she didn’t want to put him in any more peril than he already was. Barnes’s article made him sound dangerous, and the sheriff did nothing to dispel that notion. Even Timber Joe threatened to shoot Wolf on sight.

Still, she hated being secretive—the isolation of it. The way it separated her from others—her father and friends. Maybe even God, for when she prayed she didn’t feel close to him.

Shuddering against the thought, she closed the heavy door and hurried back to Wolf’s side. It would be a long and lonely night.

Thirteen

To affect a charming pose, women should strive for a line of grace.
Never wear a fullness of dress that makes the face look insignificant
or a hat that gives undue proportions to the head.

– M
ISS
G
ERTRUDE
H
ASSLEBRINK, 1878

L
et me go!” Wolf fought with every bit of strength he had, but his wiry ten-year-old body was no match for the strapping six-footer whose arms clamped around him with the force of a grizzly
.

“Let go of the box.
”

“I won’t!” Wolf cried, clutching the treasured possession next to his chest. It wasn’t much larger than a cigar box but it was his, and he had no intention of parting with it
.

“We’ll see about that,” one of the youths said
.

“What’s he got in there, gold?” another asked
.

With only the stars to guide them, the four youths trampled through the woods carrying him. Two boys held him under the arms, the other two held his feet. The boys’ joking voices were soon drowned out by the swift-flowing Rocky Creek River
.

They reached the water’s edge and someone lit a torch. Startled, Wolf stopped squirming. Though he feared what they had in store for him, he refused to let them know he was scared. It wasn’t the first time he’d been bullied. Not by any means. He’d learned through the years not to let on how afraid he was, as that only prolonged the torment
.

Shadows danced like frenzied spirits around them, but the tall pines were so still the dark, looming shadows might have been painted against the star-studded sky
.

Strong hands lifted him into a small rocking rowboat. In the light of the flickering torch, the faces of the youths became clear. A scar . . . one blue eye, one brown . .
.

Then a voice. “No. We can’t do this!
”

“Relax. We’re just having a little fun.” One of the youths leaned over the side of the boat. He had a scar that ran from his brow to his chin. “What’s it gonna be? The box or a ride down the river?
”

Wolf shook his head. “It’s mine!
”

Scarface rocked the boat back and forth so violently that Wolf was forced to let go of the box and grab hold of the side. The box clamored to the bottom of the boat. One of the other youths reached for it. Wolf dived for it but it was too late. The boy let out a whoop and ran away
.

“Come back,” Wolf called. He tried to stand but the boat was rocking so hard he was knocked off his feet. He fell with a thud, hitting his head. Dazed, it took him a few moments to realize he was in trouble. The boat had pulled free from its moorings and was now caught in the strong current
.

He heard shouts from the distance but was too panicky to make out what anyone said. He searched frantically for oars but there were none. In a desperate attempt to keep the boat from going down the dreaded rapids, he tried paddling with his arms to no avail
.

The boat continued down the river, faster and faster . .
.

Wolf woke with a start. He was dead. He was certain of it. He could hear the heavenly host.

“God give us strength. God give us hope . .
.”

He rubbed his eyes. If he wasn’t dead, where was he? And why were angels singing?

The edges of his mind dull as an old rusty knife, he blinked until his vision cleared. He turned his head to look around. Threads of sunlight filtered in through slotted walls. He lifted the blanket and peered down the length of his body. He was naked except for his bandaged leg.

Bits and pieces of the last few days and nights came back to him. He had no idea how long he’d lain there, but he guessed it was at least three or four days, maybe more.

It seemed as if every time he opened his eyes, she was there.

Lucy Fairbanks.

Her touch had been as soft as a rose petal, her voice gentle to the ear even as she forced liquids down his throat.

“God give us strength. God . .
.”

Slowly he sat up, the muscles of his body protesting every move. Where was he? He couldn’t remember ever feeling so weak. He held his head between his hands. The singing stopped, along with the resonant sounds of a tuneless piano. Shuffling feet followed by a booming voice rattled the very walls around him.

“Welcome on this glorious day the Lord has made . . .”

His mind whirled.

The voice continued. “God offers us life through the cross. We accept his offer through baptism.”

Wolf fought off a wave of dizziness. The words tumbled around and around in his head but nothing made sense.

“Water washes away our old lives, allowing us to begin anew.”

Wolf shook his head. What was the man saying? Wolf knew about water. To him it represented death and drowning, not life.

A baby cried out and Wolf blinked. It seemed like the cries filtered from the very walls around him. Then all was quiet.

Wolf stood. A wave of dizziness washed over him but it passed quickly. Putting as little pressure as possible on his injured leg, he staggered across the tiny room, dragging the blanket with him. Bracing himself against the wall, he cracked open the door and peered though the small opening.

A preacher stood only a few short feet away in gospel mode. Dressed in a black frock, arms raised, he addressed a church full of people.

Wolf quietly closed the door, leaning on it until he gathered enough strength to make it back to his makeshift bed.

The baptism complete, the preacher began his sermon. “Jesus said forgive your enemies seventy times seven!” the preacher’s voice boomed.

Wolf pulled the blanket over his head, but there was no drowning out the voice.
“Forgive . . .
”

Easy for you to say, preacher. Easy for you to say
.

He had little patience for preachers. Left on the steps of the mission as a baby, he’d had his fill of religion. He never felt like he belonged at such a rigid place. At the mission he was called Patrick after some saint, and the name fit him like someone’s loose-fitting hand-me-downs. As a child he spent long hours in front of a beveled-looking glass reciting names, trying to find one that fit.
Michael, John, William, Matthew .
. .

He didn’t know who his parents were, but for some reason he couldn’t explain, he was convinced his mother had named him before placing him on those mission steps and that the name was buried deep inside his consciousness.

The missionaries said he was half-breed: not Indian, not white, but mixed in a way that was “unnatural.” Behavior regarded as normal in the other boys was deemed wild in him.

“You’re acting like a savage,” his instructors would say when he grew restless during his studies. He soon learned that savage was another name for Indian. Too young to know that they were only following the policy of the Office of Indian Affairs policy to “kill the Indian and save the man” or, in his case, the boy, he rebelled.

He decided to search out Indian names but the mission library offered no help. He began hanging around the Indians that worked in the mission fields. He studied the way they walked and talked. Though they were forced to speak English at the mission, many would fall back on their own language when they were out of ear range of the missionaries.

Fascinated by how Indians rode without a saddle and mounted their horses from the right instead of the left, Wolf practiced. To this day, he still mounted a horse the Indian way and preferred to ride bareback.

He ran away from the mission at the age of ten. Big mistake. He was cornered by four youths who wanted the box he carried that had been left with him as an infant on the mission steps. After they’d sent him down the river, it was only a miracle that a man named Malcolm Combes happened to be in the area and heard his cries.

A cabinetmaker by trade, Combes took him home and named him David, after the boy who alone fought a giant. It was Combes’s way of telling him to fight prejudice and injustice, but Wolf often wondered if a weapon existed that could fell such foes.

Combes taught him to read and write and make furniture. Wolf found he had a talent for wood carving and he enjoyed his work. At eighteen he heard one of Combes’s customers object to having a half-breed serve him. Worried that he was a liability to Combes, Wolf left the furniture company and traveled from town to town looking for employment.

During this time he discovered an amazing thing. He could grow a full mustache, something most full-blooded Indians could not do. He became convinced this meant he was supposed to live as a white man. However, he soon discovered the futility of hiding behind facial hair.

He considered traveling to The Nation, hoping someone could lead him to the man who carved the wolf on the missing box. But he couldn’t forget what happened after the cavalry left Texas to fight in the War Between the States. Indians burned down the Combes’s furniture business along with several farms in the Texas panhandle. Combes never fully recovered from his losses, either financial or health-wise. After that, Wolf had grave doubts about pursuing his Indian heritage.

He was a man who lived between two worlds: one which he rejected and one which rejected him.

Upon hearing that Combes had an apoplexy, Wolf returned home to help care for him until his death. It was the least he could do for the man who had rescued him from the river all those years ago.

Combes’s son, Joseph, took over the furniture company and offered Wolf his old job back. Wolf was touched by the offer and would have accepted on the spot had Malcolm Combes not convinced him on his deathbed to return to Rocky Creek.

“Find the boys who did that awful thing. Find the box they took from you. That’s your stone,” he’d said. “That will help you put the demons of your past to rest.” They were the last words Combes said before meeting his Maker.

“Find the box. Got to find the stone.” Wolf was hardly aware that he spoke aloud. His mind dull with memories, he drifted off again and was back in the boat. Water all around him.

With a start, he woke. Eyes open, he studied a water stain on the ceiling . . . shaped like a dinghy.

Always, always the boat. It was as if he had been born on that boat and at times like this he thought he would die there.