Waltz with the Lady Page 24

  Why she agreed to it at all was beyond her understanding and became just another of the extraordinary predicaments she’d experienced in Gat Ransom’s company. The baby nuzzled the fleshy mound and whimpered, then caught the upthrust peak in its mouth. Absurdly self-conscious, she avoided Ransom’s eyes and wondered how long the baby would be content to suckle an empty breast.

  In the awkwardness of it all, the blanket slipped off her shoulder and exposed her breast to Gat’s view. For a moment Gat did not move, did not breathe. Then with a dutiful politeness he adjusted the blanket back on her shoulder, took a seat by the fire, and in some part attempted to remove himself from the intensity of feelings he’d just experienced. He’d never wanted a woman as much as he wanted India, but tonight he wanted her in a different way. He studied her circumspectly, and admiration for her self-sacrifice swelled through him. Her head was bent over the baby and in the silhouette of firelight he no longer saw her as a desirable calamity but the wellspring of hope itself. In her he saw the chance to remake his past; with her he might have one more chance. Yet he knew to love her would be full of risk, but also full of real promise.

  “I think it’s working,” she whispered across the fire.

  He watched the baby settle into sleep and smiled inwardly. The mantle of motherhood suited her, though he knew her nipple would be as sore as hell in the morning.

  With sunrise, she poked Gat awake with her foot, handed him the baby and walked off down by the river. Careful not to lose her balance and fall headfirst into the river, she knelt down, unlaced her dress, dipped a hankie in the water and pressed its coolness to her tender nipple. She was tempted to ask Gat if he still had Eugenie’s ointment for inflamed udders, for she hadn’t expected mothering would be so uncomfortable.

  Off in the distance, a voice called to her from upriver. The stranger waved and moved along the shore toward her, approaching with a wide smile.

  “I saw you preparin’ to wash up and I thought I’d better warn you that a pair of gents was camped up the way.” He preened his fuzzy salt-and-pepper beard. India’s face warmed and she clutched together her unfastened dress and rose to her feet.

  “That was polite of you to warn me, sir.” She looked past him but couldn’t see his partner. “I’m camped here with my…my husband and a young man. You and your partner wouldn’t have a tin of milk with you, or something to nourish an infant? The young man’s wife has died in childbirth, and we’ve nothing to feed the baby.”

  The man pulled his beard and shook his head. “We’ve got a little whiskey,” he chuckled, but India remained straight-faced, thinking his jest in poor taste. “No, ma’am, I don’t reckon we have much fer babes. My partner and I are drivin’ a mule team to South Pass City with some minin’ equipment. Ain’t no baby feed in the wagon. Tell you what, ma partner is hitchin’ up the wagon now, and we’ll pass by your camp in a while. Maybe we can think of somethin’.” He walked off and India returned to camp.

  Jobias seemed the most interested in the news of the mule drivers camped up the river. After he drank a quick cup of coffee, he asked India the direction and went on his own up to find them.

  Soon India and Gat saw the wagon, led by ten mules, wheeling down the trail. Jobias was riding in the back. The man India had met earlier and his partner were in front. They introduced themselves to Gat as the Badger Brothers, freight line owners, and took a moment to exchange trail talk, since both had been where the other was going. The brothers spoke of seeing a few Sioux braves.

  On hearing this, India set about clearing up the camp. She was anxious to be on their way, not only because the proximity of Indians made her nervous but the sooner they left, the better for the baby’s sake.

  The great surprise came when the Badgers climbed back up on the wagon and Jobias expressed his intentions of going with the brothers.

  “But you can’t take that baby with you. You’ll have to come with us. We’re closer to a settlement this way,” protested India.

  Jobias looked over at Gat and then down to his boots, “I kin’t raise a baby, a girl’un. You take ’er, ma’am.”

  “But Jobias, I…I…” she wanted to say she wasn’t even married, but then she’d told the Badger brother she was, and he was looking on with interest. “What about your family? Would they take the child? You could come back with us and arrange a home for the child with your relatives, then return to the gold fields.”

  “No, ma’am. Ain’t no one goin’ take it, I know.” He had gathered his pitiful belongings and bundled them up moments before. “The Badgers is waitin’ on me. You take the baby to one o’ them foundlin’ homes. I kin’t take ’er,” he turned to heft himself up on the wagon.

  “Gat?” India pleaded in his direction.

  He stepped forward and rubbed his neck with dilemma. “I think we better take her. The boy’s right. The child has a better chance with us.” He walked over to India’s saddlebag and pulled out her petition ledger, uncorked the ink bottle and scribbled something on the last page with the pen. “Here, Jobias, you sign this. It gives me guardianship over the baby.”

  Jobias hesitated, and India thought he might have a flickering of parental responsibility. “I kin’t write,” he finally admitted.

  “Just your name, Jobias,” prompted Gat. “Here, I’ll guide your hand if you’d like.”

  Agreeing, Jobias climbed down off the wagon. He stepped next to Gat and in a long moment, the pair managed to scrawl out his signature. Then he climbed back up on the wagon. The Badger brother pulled off the brake, and with a simple jerk of the line, backed by a powerful voice and the crack of his whip, the wagon creaked forward.

  “Oh, ma’am, one thing,” called Jobias. “Call ’er Hope, after her ma.”

  The wagon rolled down the trail, and India looked over at Gat with an uncertain shake of the head. “Now what?”

  He shrugged back, “Who knows. We’ll have to hope she’s a fighter.”

  Chapter 18

  When five Sioux Indians rode across the river, India reined her horse to a standstill and swallowed hard. She hadn’t forgotten meeting Tommy Cahoon or seeing the grave of the dismembered Bill Rose. Not taking her eyes off the approaching Indians, she muttered aside to Gat, “I hope you still have some horehound candy.”

  “I think they want more than candy.” Gat raised his hand to the braves, “A’hou!” he saluted. Each brave saluted back.

  Hands tight on her reins, India studied their movements and dress. One wore a buffalo skin over a linen shirt; the other one a woolen blanket and a jacket of deerskin ornamented with fringes much like India’s own doeskin dress. The object that caught her eyes was the decoration of scalps hanging from the deerskin jacket, the mere sight causing her stomach to feel like a butterfly migration. The braves circled them. All the while, Gat was talking to them in a combination of sign language and Indian tongue, incomprehensible to her.

  “They are going to take us to their encampment farther up the river to meet Chief Red Cloud,” Gat said at last.

  “Red Cloud!” echoed India. “Why, isn’t he the one—”

  “He’s the one,” interrupted Gat. Then more softly he cautioned, “Watch what you say. Some of them speak tolerable English.”

  India worriedly glanced at the baby, still asleep in its saddlebag cradle, and guided her horse close to Gat’s. Two braves rode ahead, three followed behind.

  After riding an anxious two hours, India saw the tepees of the Indian encampment across the river. Their entrance into the encampment caused a great commotion, as everyone stopped their tasks and crowded around the riders. A dog fight erupted between Coyote and two uncongenial dogs, but it was curtailed when Gat whistled Coyote back to his side.

  There was no mistaking Chief Red Cloud, hooded-eyed and hawk-nosed, sitting beside a smoldering buffalo-chip campfire at the central tepee. He was a man who needed no braid or brass to signify rank, and around him his braves were an imposing sight, strong and stately with the appearance of intell
igence and independence.

  India had typeset an article in the Argus regarding Red Cloud’s reputation for arrogance and stubbornness in negotiating with the government. In past years he’d led hostile raids against the U.S. military and Indian tribes alike.

  She looked over at Gat, and though she saw no more of his face than his indecipherable profile, she could sense the tension moving through him by the line of his broad shoulders. Following his lead she climbed down off her horse and they were led to the fire.

  The brave with the scalps on his jacket acted as interpreter, though India suspected Red Cloud probably understood English as well as she did. Gat pointed to the baby in the saddlebag and seemed to be explaining their problem. Red Cloud motioned Gat to sit down within the circle. Gat turned his head to India and she glimpsed the assuring glint in his eye. He pointed to a spot adjacent him in the council circle and India obediently sat there. Then he turned his full attention to Red Cloud.

  “Red Cloud wishes to speak,” said the interpreter. A murmur rippled through the group and more and more Indians collected around the council circle.

  Red Cloud began speaking, and after a moment the interpreter echoed the long flow of words. “Red Cloud is not much impressed with the white man’s world.”

  The wind changed direction and India’s eyes began to tear from the campfire smoke blowing in her face. The baby, still tucked in the saddlebag, woke up and started crying. A woman was summoned, and much to India’s satisfaction, she sat down by her and proceeded to bare her breast to baby Hope. She nursed like a greedy kitten and soon fell asleep with the nipple still in her mouth.

  The sun moved lower in the sky and Red Cloud spoke on. A gourd of water was passed through the circle, and India drank thirstily, thinking a long-winded clergyman had nothing over Red Cloud.

  “I have met many councils with the white chiefs at the forts. It would have been better for me to spend my time hunting buffalo than to visit the white chiefs,” continued the interpreter. “The white chiefs seduced my ears with pleasant words and soft promises which they will never keep. They made sport of me by saying I should dig the earth and raise animals. I, who am always with the buffalo and love them. From my birth I am strong and I lift my tepee when necessary and go across the prairie according to my pleasure. I know the Great Spirit has made us all, but he made the red man in the center with the others all about. You have come to Red Cloud and I treat you fairly, but does the white man only take from Red Cloud? Have you a gift for him?”

  A hush fell over the circle and India looked over to Gat, knowing he didn’t have enough horehound candy for everyone. What could they possibly have that Red Cloud would think worthy of his person?

  “Whatever is mine, is yours, Red Cloud,” returned Gat diplomatically. India squirmed, seeing a vision of herself being traded to Red Cloud.

  At that point some zealous Indian took it upon himself to unstrap the saddlebags from the horses and lay them at Red Cloud’s feet. Everyone crowded closer like curious children at a birthday party when the gifts were unwrapped. The interpreter tipped open the saddlebags, spilling out the contents to Red Cloud’s view.

  Amazingly, Red Cloud pointed to the brown sack of horehound candy, which was immediately opened. He took a piece, popped it into his mouth and passed the paper sack on. Other items were examined. Of major interest was India’s black-beaded, silk-tasseled handbag. This was set aside. Luckily, it didn’t contain all her money, most of it was secure in the secret pocket of her silk pantalettes. Nevertheless, if she was required to give up the money she decided it would be a cheap price for their lives. The dime novels and petition ledger came to view. Red Cloud picked up the dime novels and studied the covers a moment and then thumbed through the petition ledger with an inquisitive eye.

  “Red Cloud wishes to know whose signatures are in this book,” announced the interpreter.

  Gat looked over at India with a twinkle in his eyes. “This woman carries a paper asking the white chiefs to give the white women a voice in the council meetings. Many who want this have put their signature to the paper.”

  The interpreter repeated Gat’s words, and for the first time everyone, including Red Cloud, began to laugh. A short discussion transpired between Red Cloud and his interpreter. The interpreter spoke once again. “Red Cloud wishes to put his mark to this paper.”

  Aghast, India looked at Gat. He grinned back at her and reached for the pen and ink and gave it to Red Cloud.

  “Red Cloud thinks it a great joke if the white women have a voice in the white man’s council,” explained the interpreter.

  “Things might go better for the Indians if they did,” muttered India, apparently loud enough for the interpreter to hear. He repeated her words to Red Cloud.

  Red Cloud’s dark eyes narrowed and for a long moment he turned and studied India as if he hadn’t seen her before. He spoke again.

  “A spring fawn does not shift the breath of a winter wind, nor can a gentle voice waylay the white man’s greed,” said the interpreter. “The woman’s desire is not without honor. Red Cloud would name this woman ‘Windsinger,’ one who sings against the breath of the wind.”

  India marveled at his perception and understood why he had such a notable reputation in the West. He dipped the pen into the ink and signed the ledger, then he smiled shrewdly at her and spoke.

  “Now Red Cloud asks if you have something more for him, something equal to the value of his signature on your paper.”

  India cast an anxious look toward Gat. What more was there? They had nothing equal to the value of his signature. Their horses and supplies were all they had. Then Gat rose to his feet. He was tall and his physical prowess would be an equal match to these virile sons of the plains if challenged.

  Slowly, he unstrapped his holster and laid it at Red Cloud’s feet. Again comment moved through the encampment.

  “I accept your gun as equal payment,” said Red Cloud, omitting to use his interpreter. His free speech showed his pleasure in receiving the weapon. “It is worthy of a warrior. Stay in my encampment until the child gains strength.” With that, he picked up the gun and two boxes of cartridges from the saddlebags. He stood, then stooped back down, for something else in the pile had caught his eye: India’s Votes For Women sash. Red Cloud’s craggy face broke into a grin and he took a moment to drape it over the wide shoulders of a nearby brave.

  Everyone laughed and the brave strutted comically in front of the tepee. He then fell into the entourage of women and children following Red Cloud out of the encampment. Moments later, India heard gunshots in the distance as Red Cloud tried out his new gun.

  India and Gat were left alone in front of the central tepee with the Indian woman who had been summoned to nurse the baby. Gat spoke to her, and after some hesitation she answered, telling him her name was Woman-Who-Killed-A-Bear and that they could stay in her tepee.

  India gathered up the items the Indians had discarded and put them back in the saddlebags. Leading the horses, she and Gat followed Woman-Who-Killed-A-Bear to her tepee. India smiled to herself, thinking not even Sissy would believe this adventure. But in the back of her mind nagged the unfortunate worry that she may not ever have the chance to write and tell her.

  After two days in the encampment, India decided that Gat should have given Woman-Who-Killed-A-Bear the gun instead of Red Cloud, for it was she who nursed the child faithfully and prepared food for them, not to mention all of the other tasks involved in tending to her own family.

  The Indian women seemed to be the most degraded slaves on earth. It appeared to India that once married, the young girls soon lost their maidenly beauty through hardship and drudgery. The women did all the work in the encampment while the noble braves strutted about proudly, like inflated turkey cocks. Wherever the men chose to go, the women walked behind carrying the burdens.

  One afternoon India watched Woman-Who-Killed-A-Bear dress a fresh buffalo hide. The procedure was most involved and laborious, and India w
ould much sooner have the task of killing the buffalo than preserving the meat and dressing the hide. If any group of human beings would benefit from equal rights it would be these women, and India had in mind to say as much. But she was hardly in the position to speak out and rally them against their braves.

  Still, an opportunity came on a windless afternoon while she sat watching a group of women sewing beadwork. Their sewing was the most beautiful she’d ever seen. Even old Hanner White would have been impressed. One woman, her thick braided hair streaked with gray, worked on a tiny pair of doeskin moccasins. They looked as if they were made of satin, so finely ornamented with colored beads.

  “You like them?” asked the Indian woman, aware of India’s close perusal. India was taken aback by her clear English.

  “You speak English?” India asked with surprise in her voice.

  “Ya, I speak. Long time ago I trapper’s woman. I learn.”

  India remembered Mountain Tom and quickly looked at her ear, but it wasn’t cut.

  “The moccasins are very pretty,” said India.

  “I give them to you for the chin cha. White man’s shoes cripple tiny feet.”

  India smiled. “Thank you.” The other women in the group all nodded at her and returned her smile, and India felt self-conscious especially when they put their heads together and whispered. She knew they spoke about her and she tried not to notice, keeping her eyes on the older woman as she finished the intricate beadwork design on the moccasins. “You are kind to make these for the baby,” she said to her.

  Not looking up from her sewing, the woman replied, “We feel sadness for you because you have no milk for your chin cha.”

  “Oh, the baby is not mine,” corrected India. “Its mother died on the trail and its father could not keep it.”

  The woman relayed this news to the others. They spoke among themselves, digesting this information.