Waltz with the Lady Read online

  Belly down, he crawled through the brush to the camp’s edge. He spied only one, but others could be lurking nearby in the willow. The brave held her by the hair and he was bending over the fire, snatching at the broiling fish.

  “White woman steal Bear Claw’s fish. Bear Claw not happy.” She struggled under his hold.

  With wagging tail, Coyote ran and sniffed the Indian’s heels. A slow smile of relief crept over Gat’s face when he recognized the voice and then the profile. Tom Skinner! That old devil. He could pass for an Indian even among Indians.

  “Bear Claw take white woman to tepee, make good cook.” Skinner’s words didn’t seem to intimidate India.

  “White woman go nowhere with Bear Claw.” She shook her head with finality. “White woman cook poison for Bear Claw. Give him big stomachache.” Gat chuckled under his breath.

  Skinner gave a merciless yank on her hair, then pulled out his knife and waved it threateningly. India returned his stare, without a hint of fear. Now, Gat was impressed.

  But about that time, he decided he’d better make a grandstand play and come to her rescue. No use letting her get too confident or he’d be out of a job.

  He rose to his feet and raised his hands in a sign of peace. He said, “White woman big trouble. Bear Claw take woman. I give Bear Claw woman.” The look of shock on India’s face was well worth the charade. Gat had never thought to see her dumbfounded.

  Tom Skinner looked to the face of his friend and gave a conspiratory wink. He tightened his hold on India’s hair and squatted down beside her. Nose to nose he leered ferociously. “Your man give you to me. You my squaw now.”

  “I no man’s squaw!” she sneered. “Better trade for Bear Claw to take white man’s scalp than lazy squaw.”

  Skinner could not contain himself. He jumped back and let out a guffaw. He held his belly and hooted. “Ransom, where’d you find this gal? I never knowed a lady so plucky. Why, she’d out-grit a bear. Yer scalp ain’t much use to her.”

  Gat walked forward, wondering himself. “It appears not.” He gave Skinner a hefty pat on the back. India looked from his face to Skinner’s in confusion. Then, Gat saw the truth begin to dawn on her face like sunrise in morning. “Miss Simms, this is Tom Skinner, ‘Mountain Tom’ to his friends.”

  She got up off the ground, shook the dirt from her leather skirt, and gave him an outraged stare. Gat was still chuckling, but his amusement subsided quickly. The fury in her eyes simmered like the sulfur pools of Yellowstone. They’d gone too far.

  Gat cleared his throat. “Tom, sit down, have some supper. We’ve got plenty. I left a mess of fish and my pole down by the river. You had me goin’ too, I’ll say that for you.”

  India said nothing.

  Gat kept looking over at her, a little uneasy about his part in the joke. Then, with lips clenched, she turned without a word and went over the bank and down to the river to fetch the fish—he hoped. He knew she had put on a brave act and he admired her for it. Suddenly, he realized she was probably fairly unsettled. Perhaps an apology was in order. That would make a second one he owed her.

  When she finally returned with the fish, Gat attempted to draw her into their conversation, but all he received was a contemptuous glare.

  Tom was not averse to talk, however, and after supper he propped his feet up on a stone by the fire, lit a pipe and gazed at the summer sun still high in the sky. His hair was waist long, straight and black, against a face browned by years in the sun and wind; his eyes were clear and keen as a hawk’s. Indians, miners and soldiers became his subjects of discourse. He talked about various occurrences during his many years of trapping and living in the West. Gat listened attentively, as youth listens to experience.

  “I suppose with the railroad done there’ll be more pilgrims. Maybe if we’re lucky they’ll ride on through to Californy.” Tom took a long draw on his pipe. “I’m sorry a white man ever saw these valleys. Mind you, I ain’t no Indian lover, but when I traveled these valleys twenty years ago there was no trouble with the Indians. I’ve been through all their camps—Blackfeet, Sioux, Crow—and they treated me with the best they had in those days. Now the same Indians would shoot me if I got near ’em.” Gat nodded in genuine agreement.

  “It’s the damned government’s two-tongue talkin’ that has riled ’em up,” said Tom with a forlorn sigh. “Times is changin’. You know it’s a fun’un you should try and give me this here woman for a trade.” Skinner looked over at India who was spooning more coffee into the pot. She gave him a baleful glare in return. “I’ve been thinkin’ on takin’ a wife.”

  India’s eyes riveted to Gat’s as if warning him not to suggest her as a candidate.

  “Sounds like you’re gettin’ civilized to me, Tom,” Gat said. “But I’m sure you can find a woman who could be prevailed upon to undertake that honor.” He gave India a sidelong glance. “I hear tell there’s an overabundance of heart-and-hand females in the East just hankerin’ for male companionship.”

  India’s eyes narrowed.

  “Yes sir, most likely, but the devil of it is, could a man find the right kind? Better be without them at all than get one of the wrong kind.”

  “Well,” remarked Gat, “you’d have to take your chances like the rest of us.”

  “Maybe,” Tom mused. “I expect if it turned out bad, I could drop her like I did my squaws. There’s no divorce in this country.”

  “Suppose she got tired and wanted to drop you first?” interjected India, much to Gat’s enjoyment.

  Tom looked over at Gat incredulously. “Where’d you find this heifer?” Gat only grinned. “She reminds me of a little Snake squaw I bought for a pistol and bullet about twelve year back. She was purty skeered at first and run away, but I caught her and whipped her good. Clipped a little slice out of her ear, then she stayed close by.”

  “Mr. Skinner,” India began with a politeness Gat knew she didn’t feel, “it might pay you to visit civilization now and again. Times may be changing, but believe me, it is for the better. Perhaps you would care to sign a petition in support of giving women the right to vote?” She went to her saddlebag and pulled out her parcel. “We no longer live in the dark ages, and if you intend to keep a wife by slicing her ear, do the female population a favor by remaining a bachelor.”

  Tom took a puff of his pipe and gave Gat a sly wink. “Maybe you are right, Miss Simms. In this country it’s better to take a squaw than marry a white woman. They are more profitable. They ain’t got expensive luxuries, and they can dress in skins and catch yer horse if it has a mind to run away. Why, they can do all kinds of work. And most mainly, their powers of conversation is limited.” He laughed heartily at his own joke.

  Gat looked over to India, wondering if Tom Skinner knew how close he was coming to a death by choking.

  Her eyes narrowed and she gave a tight smile of toleration, then with an exaggerated “humph,” as if to say she was done casting pearls before swine, she turned her back on them. Gat supposed she was at the end of her tether. He watched in mock gravity while she opened the parcel and took out the petition ledger, set it aside, and picked up one of the dime novels. She sat down and settled back against the support of her saddle and began to read silently to herself.

  “What you readin’, Miss Simms?” Skinner asked. He bent to pour himself another cup of coffee.

  “A ten-cent novel entitled The Heroine of Whoop-Up.” She continued reading.

  “You mind readin’ aloud, Missy? I have a particular enjoyment of such stories.”

  Gat thought she perked up to the request.

  “I don’t mind, Mr. Skinner, but I am not sure you or Mr. Ransom would enjoy this adventure, for the heroine is quite outspoken. At one point in the story she says to the hero, ‘Oh! sir, but you are venturing into peril on my account. Pray do not do that. I would rather accompany you and thus share the risk.’ And then the hero replies, ‘Lady, you are wrong. You are not one to brave peril when I, whose very life is made up of per
il and adventure, am able to act in your behalf.’”

  “Well, he’s certainly right in keepin’ her out o’ trouble,” agreed Skinner. He put down his cup and rummaged through a beaded leather pocket attached to his legging.

  “But don’t you think her assistance might be useful in a tight situation? Women can shoot and ride as well as men,” India proposed. Gat wondered if she ever got down off her soapbox.

  “Maybe, but from my experience they just get in the way. Here Missy, this here’s the story to read.” He displayed his own dime novel.

  “A few years back this writer feller came to Fort Laramie and set by my campfire one night. I told him some o’ my adventures, and a year later when I was down to the fort again, this package was waitin’ thar fer me and this ten-cent novel were in it. Mountain Tom. That’s me.” He pointed proudly to the buckskin clad man on the cover. “It ain’t of’en I come across someone that kin read. I kin’t myself. Course I know it by heart but it would pleasure me to have you read it aloud.”

  “I will gladly,” India relented. “It isn’t often one can meet a genuine hero in person.” Gat could see in her eyes Tom had been forgiven as she carefully opened the pages of the wellworn novel. He just wished his turn would come.

  “‘The Far West!’” she began. “‘Magnificent and unknown region—with its boundless oceans of verdure, its endless prairies, its stupendous mountains, its enormous rivers, its fierce animals, and fiercer men!

  “‘Our story opens on a certain afternoon, about three of the clock, many years ago.

  “‘A single horseman sits upon his beast and surveys the territory about him. The rider is a trapper, one of that sturdy race of frontiersmen which is fast fading away before the advancing strides of civilization. His eyes are decidedly black, with a grim sort of humor in their depths—the playfulness of a tiger, perhaps. His shoulders are broad, and the development of his chest and limbs is enormous; there is no superfluous flesh, but his muscles stand out like whipcords. His body is too long and his legs too short to be symmetrical; he is, in fact, a vast amount of rude strength, compactly put into a very small compass. He sits astride his steed like one who feels fully and perfectly at home there.’”

  Before continuing, India looked over at Tom critically. The color of the eyes matched at least. She continued.

  “‘This man is a trapper, and let it suffice for the present to say that his name, according to the parish register of a little town in North Carolina, where he was born and christened, is Thomas Skinner. He is known by his hunting acquaintances, however, by the more familiar cognomen of “Mountain Tom”.’”

  “I didn’t know you were born in North Carolina, Tom,” interjected Gat.

  “Sure was. That writer feller got it all down purty good. I reckon I’ll become a legend in ma own time.” They laughed.

  India cleared her throat for their attention and began to read once more. “‘Mountain Tom was evidently a trifle out of humor about something. His face wore an expression of doubt, not unaccompanied by anxiety.’”

  “Excuse me, Missy,” Tom interrupted. “I wonder ef’n you could tell me what that word…anxiety means? I never knowed it.”

  “Yes, it means to worry,” India replied.

  “To worry? Humph!” Skinner seemed to discredit the thought.

  India continued, “‘Mountain Tom raised himself in the stirrups and was looking intently to the right, among the hills, beyond which flowed the waters of the North Platte.

  “‘“Claw my hair!” he ejaculated, in a heavy, substantial tone, indicative of ill humor and also good lungs. “Ef them ain’t Injins, then thar’s no use of a feller havin’ either eyes or nose. Them ain’t deer, nor buffler, nor coyotes. Them’s beyond doubt pesky Injins—Snakes, like’s not, an’ they’ll lift ma scalp fer me.”

  “‘The trapper was correct. A party of some twelve or fifteen Snake Indians appeared out of the hills to the east. They were mounted, and seemed to be moving toward the hunter. Then, with a yell, they darted forward.’”

  The sun lowered in the sky as India read of Tom’s heroic scrapes with Indians, grizzly bears and wolves. Every so often she would stop and ask him to verify a particular happening, which he did without hesitation. At last, when sunset gave way to twilight, she set down the book and rubbed her tired eyes. “You’ve lived quite a life, Mr. Skinner, if this ten-cent novel is to be believed.”

  “Why, Missy, that ain’t the half of it. Thar’s one gut-twistin’ story I never dared tell that thar writer feller, but if you ain’t the faintin’ sort, I’ll gladly relate it to ya now.”

  “Indeed yes, Mr. Skinner, I would like to hear your story,” India prompted with sincere interest.

  “It’s purty scary, but I swear it’s true. Ya might not want ter sleep alone after ya hear it.” He looked over at Gat and winked on the sly.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be quite content to sleep alone, Mr. Skinner,” India assured him as she snuggled into her woolen blanket cocoon to ward off the cool night air. She made a marked effort to avoid Ransom’s dark-eyed glance, pushing away the unsettling image Skinner’s words had sparked.

  Since South Pass, she and Gat seemed to collide much more than usual when they moved around their camps, and his hands held her a little too long when he helped her off her horse. Occasionally, as they walked side by side, the backs of their hands touched, and she’d quickly steal a glance at him, but he’d continue looking straight ahead, unaware. It was as if something threatened to explode inside her, and some nights she’d go to bed with her body so tense she found it difficult to fall asleep.

  The embers in the fire burned low, and the coyotes called across the silhouetted hills. Tom produced a rough carved pipe from his leg pouch and prepared to smoke. He began to tell his curious story in a soft, slow voice. Gat and India leaned forward to catch his words.

  “Some years back I had this here partner, a Frenchman called Defago. Defago wanted me to ride into the Yellowstone to find new trappin’ grounds. Well, he talked me into it, agin my better judgment, mind you. Oh, it weren’t just Indians made me hesitate, it were the strange goin’s on up in that country.” Tom paused and his eyes seemed to glow like the hot coals of the fire. “Queer things like the devil’s work,” he finally breathed in a chilling voice.

  India looked slowly left and right into the darkness and inched a little nearer the fire.

  “We camped in snow by a lake. Fer three days we set traps but never ketched nothin’. On the fourth night a wind storm came up. Funny thing though, the trees was standin’ perfectly still, nary a branch or leaf moved. We could hear the wind howlin’ but just couldn’t see it. And as we listened, it sounded as if it were callin’ Defago’s name. ‘Da-faaaaaaaaay-go!’ it’d call. ‘Da-faaaaaaaaay-go!’ until we thought we was losin’ our minds.

  “Well, my partner started to get skeered and he buried his head in his arms. ‘What’s goin’ on?’ I asked, but he wouldn’t say nothin’. The wind kept callin’ to him, ‘Da-faaaaaaaaay-go!’” Skinner wailed out the name and stared steadily into India’s face. He paused, and a deep hush fell around the trio. A shiver rippled down India’s spine as the strange and scary imps of her childhood imagination crept into her mind.

  “Da-faaaaaaaaay-go!” Skinner suddenly jumped toward India. The unexpectedness of it brought a yelp to her lips and she jumped toward Ransom for protection. His arm went around her shoulders and a slow smile touched the corners of his mouth. He had to hand it to Tom for being a real matchmaker. “Now Tom, you’d better not scare her. I think she’s had enough of your teasin’ for one day.”

  “I ain’t teasin’. No, I just wanted her to feel how skeered I was m’self.”

  A little embarrassed, India attempted a smile, and moved from beneath Ransom’s arm, not a great distance but enough for propriety’s sake. Then she prompted, “Go on, Mr. Skinner.”

  “It finally got to ma partner, and suddenly he jumped to his feet and went runnin’ off into the trees.
I chased him an’ tried to wrestle him to the ground. He broke free o’ me. The wind kept callin’. He was screamin’ as he went. Again and again he cried, ‘Oh ma fiery feet, ma burnin’ feet o’ fire.’ After a spell, his voice faded away and the wind died down.

  “At daybreak, I followed his tracks in the snow. Lordy, they got longer and longer like no man could have made ’em. Then they just disappeared. It made no sense. While I stood thar wonderin’ what had happened, the wind picked up again. It were howling like the night before. Then I heered Defago’s voice. It were comin’ from above, and he were a screamin’, ‘Ma fiery feet, ma burning feet’. I couldn’t see nothin’.

  “Well, I decided I needed a change o’ scenery real quick. I went back to camp, packed up, left some food for Defago and started south.” Skinner took a long draw on his pipe and shook his head thoughtfully. “It were surely queer.”

  “Did you see Defago again and discover what had happened?” India’s curiosity got the best of her.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “But what could have happened to him?” she puzzled.

  “Well, I kin’t say fer sure but I believe it were the Wendigo.”

  “The Wendigo?” India looked over to Ransom doubtfully. But he seemed to take Tom’s disclosure with gravity.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Skinner. “The Indians believe the Wendigo is a female spirit what calls her victims to her. She carries them away so fast that thar feet ketches fire.”

  “So you think that is what happened to your partner, Defago?”

  “With nary a doubt,” returned Skinner. He tapped out his pipe and yawned. “Well, I’m ready to rest ma bones. How about you, Ransom?”

  “It’s about that time of night. I’ll check on the horses before turning in.” He stood and walked off into the darkness.

  Ransom’s absence made India uncomfortable. In the flickering light of the campfire Tom Skinner’s wild appearance became odious, and she hadn’t forgiven him for the prank he had played on her earlier. Adjusting her bedding, she situated herself close to the fire and made sure Ransom’s bedding was between her and Skinner. As she drifted off to sleep her thoughts pondered over the missing Defago, and she decided it was just another attempt of Skinner’s to tease her. Yes, she’d almost fallen for it.