Medicine Wheel (3 page)

He returned a wry smile. “You need some water and I wouldn’t drink it out of here. I have three-quarters of a canteen left, if you don’t mind sharing. Sorry, ma’am, but I don’t have any drinking glasses.”

Cato was quenching his thirst downstream, and Thad retrieved the canteen and handed it to Serena. “You can have first swig, ma’am.”

She accepted the canteen and he sat down beside her, keeping a respectful distance between them.
 

“You may call me ‘Serena’ if you like.”

"I like," he replied, “if you'll call me 'Thad.'”

She smiled. She actually smiled, revealing perfect white teeth, of course.

“Here, Thad, your turn,” she said, passing the canteen back.

He drank sparingly, and they passed the canteen back and forth several times like two old cowboys sharing a jug of moonshine. "Why haven't I seen you before?" he asked.

"We don't exactly move in the same society."

"I don't move in any society. My sister and I stayed in Manhattan with the Judge—that’s my father—while we went to high school, and I broke for the ranch whenever school was out . . . but I've seen your folks with some tiny girls in town. You weren't with them. I'd have remembered.”

She looked off into the distance. "I really don't live here. I come to see Mama and Papa and my sisters for a few weeks in the summers, but then I go back to school. I'm staying longer this year. I just got back, and I'll be with my folks another month or so.”

"Where do you go to school?"

"Washington D.C. You'll never remember the name. It's called the 'Institution for Education of Colored Youth.' Papa's sister—my aunt—teaches there, and I live with her.” She turned and looked directly at him. "You have noticed I'm colored, haven't you? A Negro?"

This was a challenge of some kind, and he sensed that his relationship with this young woman hinged upon his response. The Judge always told him “walk straight and talk straight, and you'll stay out of trouble.” He figured that was just another way of saying it's best to tell the truth. "Well, yeah. I'm not blind. I wasn't sure when I first saw you . . . never gave it that much thought. I figured as much when you said your folks were the Belmonts." He shrugged and smiled, "You've noticed I'm Scottish, haven't you?"

“I don’t understand. I can’t tell what you are.”

“Actually, I’m only one-fourth Scottish. I’ve also got parts of Irish, French, Swiss, German, a pinch of Mexican and God knows what . . . maybe a bit of African way back. The Judge always says the Lockes are pure-bred mongrels.”

“That’s an oxymoron.”

“Wow. And she uses big words, too. What kind of a cow is an oxymoron?”

With a look of feigned exasperation, she said, “It’s a contradictory state . . . you’re making fun of me.”

“Look for your sense of humor. I’m sure it’s around here someplace. You’re way too concerned about who’s what. I’m guessing you’re as much mongrel as I am. Anyway, that’s for idiots who care to worry about.”

“You’re really serious, I think.”

“Now, one question before we get on our way. How did you end up in Washington?”

“Papa came from near Boston. He was a free Negro descended from several generations of freemen. Mama is Seneca, although some places she’d be called a half breed since only her mother was Seneca and her father was some kind of a white man . . . I don’t know if he was a mongrel or not. To make the story short, Papa was blacksmithing on her father’s farm when he met Mama. They fell in love and got married over the objection of Mama’s father. She was more or less disowned and they moved to Pennsylvania, where I was born. Papa started another blacksmithing business and, according to Mama, was doing very well when the war came along. Then he took Mama and me to Washington to stay with Aunt Clara while he went off with a Yankee infantry unit.”

“But I’ve been told he was a buffalo soldier. They were cavalry.”

“Papa was good with horses, working in blacksmithing the way he did, and when the war ended, and Congress set up the Negro army regiments, he enlisted with the Tenth Cavalry. Sometime while he was in the Indian Territory he caught religion, and when his enlistment ran out a few years later, he left the Army and came back to Washington to just pick up where he left off. Mama and I hadn’t seen him for more than seven years. I didn’t even know him.”

“And then he brought the family to Kansas.”

“He brought Mama to Kansas. He wrote her at least once a month all those years he was gone, and I guess that was enough to stoke the embers of love she had for him. By this time I’d been going to the Institution since I started school, and I didn’t want to leave Aunt Clara to go off in the wilderness someplace with this gruff, scary man. Papa insisted I go with them. Mama had a private talk with him. I stayed with Aunt Clara.”

Thad took her foot and started re-wrapping the ankle.

“I can’t believe how I’ve rattled on. I’ve probably bored you silly. I don’t usually talk much at all to strangers.”

“We’re not strangers now, and I find nothing about you boring. But I’d better be getting you home.” He helped her to the horse and lifted her into the saddle.

“You’re one of those responsible types, aren’t you?” she teased.
 

He shrugged. “Most of the time, I suppose. I try.”

The canteen had been emptied well before they approached the Belmont farmstead. Thad’s legs felt sore and rubbery. Too much time on his ass, he thought. They had moved in silence for the last fifteen minutes, almost, it seemed to him, with a joint sense of foreboding. Thad knew there was nothing to physically fear, but he was terrified at the thought of just dropping Serena at the Belmont place and not seeing her again. Finally, he pulled up his courage, looked up at her, and broke the silence. “I want to talk to you again. I’m going to come by in a few days and see how you’re getting along.”

 
Panic flashed in her eyes. “No, you can’t. You must not. Please.”

“I wouldn’t stay long. Just to know you’re okay.”

“I’ll meet you someplace.”

“When? Where?”

“A week from today. Noon. Where you found me. I’ll bring something to eat. I’ll show you where I was headed when I fell. Don’t come to my home. I will be there.” She hesitated. “Will you?”

“You can count on it.”

Spring 1885

6

K
IRSTEN
C
AVELLE
LAY
on the cedar-planked floor of the single room that served as the dining and living area of the small ranch house. Except for her boots, Kirsten was fully clothed in her well-worn denims and heavy flannel shirt, but she was still cocooned in several blankets to ward off the early-March night chill. Only the top of her head ,with its short-cropped chestnut hair, emerged from her nest. The few remaining embers in the fireplace were dying, and the only light remaining in the room came from the streaks of moonlight that shot through the two small windows. Henry, her huge, gray tabby tomcat was snuggled against the small of her back, snoring softly.

Killer, her shepherd cow dog, slept next to the fireplace a few feet away, trying to soak in the last remnants of any warmth, even though the fire had been a token one to chase an evening chill. It was kind of a sad state of affairs, she thought, that her best friends in this rugged country were her furry companions.

She heard her husband, Maxwell Brannon, stirring in the bedroom, which she had refused to share for several months now. He refused to give up his claim to the bed, and she had made up her mind that she was finished with the mean drunk. She had met with Cameron Locke, the lawyer, about a divorce, and he had assured her she had grounds as a result of Maxwell having beaten her savagely the night before she abandoned the bedroom to him—not to mention his nightly drunkenness. The ranch was titled in her name, and Locke promised he would file the divorce papers tomorrow morning and procure a restraining order that would boot Maxwell out of the house by nightfall. This would be her last night bedding down on the floor.

“Kirsty! Get your ass in here now,” Maxwell bellowed.

“Go to hell.”

“I mean it. I’ve had enough of this shit.”

Kirsten heard Maxwell stumbling across the bedroom floor, and momentarily, the door opened. Henry disappeared, and Killer retreated to a haven under the kitchen table. She untangled herself from the blankets and struggled to her feet. “Go back to bed. Stay away from me.”

She could not see his eyes, but she could feel them glowering at her through his drunken haze. He was a big man, at least six feet, four inches, and he weighed close to two hundred eighty pounds. With his ample beer gut, he was a far cry from the muscular, young cowboy she had married four years ago when they were both twenty-two. Over five feet, nine inches, Kirsten was taller than most women and many men she encountered. Lean and sinewy, she could wrestle cattle with any man, but she knew in physical combat she was no match for Max.

Max staggered into the room. “I said I’ve had enough of this shit. You’re my wife, and I’ve got fucking rights. And I’m claiming them right now.”

“I’m done being your wife. I’ve seen a lawyer. Now leave me alone, you drunken asshole.”

Suddenly, he charged her like a raging bull. She turned to run when his shoulder rammed into the small of her back and she crashed to floor with Max on top of her. His fingers latched onto her short-cropped hair and yanked her head back so abruptly she felt her neck crack. “Now, bitch, I don’t give a shit what you’re dreaming up with some shyster. You’re my woman, and you’re going to come to our bed and spread your legs like a proper wife.”

He slammed her face into the floor and released her head before moving off of her and clumsily struggling up from the floor. While she lay motionless, he kicked her sharply in the ribs and she groaned and, for a moment, blacked out from the excruciating pain.

When her senses returned, she sprung up and started to race for the Colt six-shooter that was suspended in its holster from a wall peg near the door. She was pulled up short, however, when Maxwell’s hand closed around her wrist and jerked her back.

“You bitch. I think you’d use that gun.”

“You’re damned right I would if you don’t leave me alone. Go back to the bedroom and stay away from me. We’ll talk about this in the morning when you’re sober.”

His fist hammered into the side of her nose, and then releasing her wrist, he attacked her ferociously with both fists, pounding her face and body relentlessly until she blacked out and her legs crumpled and she sunk to the floor.

Her next awareness was of Maxwell’s string of expletives as he fumbled with the buttons of her shirt and finally, in one sweep, ripped them off. She realized then he had already pulled off her britches and was now tearing at the undergarments. He had evidently dragged her into the bedroom. She was disoriented and she tried to shake off the pain that throbbed in her skull and to clear the fog as he finished yanking off her remaining garments. Naked on the bed now, she saw his shadowy figure standing there as he unbuttoned his undershorts before they slid down his legs. He stood between her and the doorway; there was no escape.

He knelt above her now, his knees pried between her thighs. She wanted to drive her knee into his balls, but her legs seemed made of straw, so her hand found its way to the target, grasped and squeezed. Max howled in agony, but drove a fist into her throat, and she reflexively released her grip. Then his teeth sank into her breast and he tore at the flesh like a badger engaged in mortal combat.
 

She faded from consciousness briefly again, and when she came back she could feel his thrusting and found it no longer mattered. She heard him sigh when his release came, and when he pulled away and dropped onto the bed, she remained still and silent, wondering vaguely if there was any place on her body she did not hurt. She decided her feet were free of pain.

In a matter of minutes, he was snoring. That had been the pattern of their conjugal relations for almost two years now. He was on and off and asleep in a matter of minutes, leaving her to her own imagination for satisfaction.

When she was certain he was asleep, she got out of bed and slipped quietly from the bedroom. She could hear Killer whimpering from beneath his hiding place under the kitchen table.

“Thanks, Killer,” she said softly, “for nothing.”

She retrieved the Colt from its holster and made her way through the dark room back to the bedroom. She stood next to Max’s side of the bed and lit the oil lamp on the bedside table.
 

“Max,” she said. He did not respond, so she spoke louder. “Max, wake up.”

He rolled over and looked up at her. “Now what? Can’t you see I’m sleeping?”

“I’ve got something for you, Max.” His eyes widened in terror for just a moment before she squeezed the trigger.

She walked out of the room and returned the gun to the holster before lighting another lamp and finding a robe to toss over her naked body. Only then did she become aware of the blood dripping from her face and the red mass that was saturating the cotton robe.

She turned back to the entrance door and opened it. “Killer,” she commanded, “fetch Chet.” The dog crept cautiously from beneath the table and then rushed for the open door and disappeared.

Kirsten suddenly felt lightheaded and faint, stumbled to the nearby rocking chair and sagged into it exhaustedly. Her strength was ebbing, and now she just wanted to go to sleep and make the hurt go away.

“Oh my God in heaven!” came the high-pitched voice from the doorway.

Kirsten’s eyes opened and through the haze saw her wiry, diminutive foreman and only full-time ranch hand. “I’m not feeling too perky, Chet. Can you find some rags and maybe get a half bucket of water from the pump. A shot of whiskey would be nice, too, if Max hasn’t sucked it all up.”

The white-haired cowboy moved as fast as his gimpy leg would allow and began searching through the kitchen drawers, plucking out a handful of dish towels. He limped over to Kirsten’s side.

“Jesus Christ, Kirsten, you look like you were run through a slaughter house, I don’t know where to start. Your left brow seems to be bleeding worst.”