"There are all kinds of people on earth, that you will meet someday. They will be looking for a certain stone. They will be people who do not get tired, but who will keep pushing forward, going, going all the time. These people do not follow the way of our Great-Grandfather. They follow another way. They will travel everywhere looking for this stone which our Great-Grandfather put on the earth in many places."
Sweet Medicine, Cheyenne Prophet
~~~
December 1880, Curtis Wells, Montana Territory
Call stood by the grave, hat in hand, oblivious to the piercing wind that tossed his hair across his face and the snowflakes that filled in the deeply etched letters on the stone. The sharp wind had brought tears to his eyes, that once started now threatened to fall. He dashed them away impatiently and knelt to brush the snow from the inscription. If only he could wipe away the writing on that stone. It was so cold, so heartbreakingly final. Call seldom came here, but tonight he felt unavoidably drawn to this place. His sweet Hannah, his own dear wife was here. He could feel her presence.
Maybe it was because it was Christmas Eve. Lord knows, he hadn't thought about Christmas in the years since he'd lost Hannah. It was easier not to think about it. It was easier not to think at all, just to drown out his sorrows alone with a bottle of whiskey. Call preferred it that way. He shut out any attempts at friendship. People were wary of him . . . afraid. He was a lone wolf, a dangerous animal. Isn't that what the townsfolk said about him?
But not tonight; tonight was different. "Hannah . . ." His anguished whisper was snuffed out instantly by the wind, but not before it echoed over and over in his empty soul. The letters on the stone began to blur. He wished they could have had one Christmas together, a few precious memories to sustain him through the endless lonely years ahead. Hannah had died in early December the year they were married. Their life together only just begun, was cut so cruelly short. Call would have given anything to change what had happened, to erase the tragedy of losing his beautiful, young wife. If only he hadn't brought Tavish and his gang into Curtis Wells. If only Hannah had stayed out of danger with Josiah like he'd asked her to. If only he could have saved her. If only . . . Call was not about to forgive himself for not saving her. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye.
Call didn't know how long he had knelt at the grave. The snow melting on his hair and dripping steadily down the inside of his shirt finally brought him around. He stood to leave, replacing his hat. He knew he had nowhere to go. His past was in ruins; his future didn't exist. It was all buried here . . . here with Hannah. "Why'd I come back?" he asked himself not for the first time since he'd returned to Curtis Wells. No one wanted him here; that was for sure. Josiah blamed him for Hannah's death, and Austin couldn't stand the sight of him. They would never forgive him for leaving. But he couldn't have watched them put her in the ground. That final parting was too much for him to bear. And so he had gone. And returning was the hardest thing he had ever done. Memories of Hannah haunted him everywhere he looked. He turned and walked back to town overwhelmed with grief.
As he trudged down the street, Call thought himself alone, but others saw him and wondered. Florie looked down and noticed him from her window. Pain was evident in every dejected step, in the way he hung his head. She hoped he was coming to see her. Call was more than a customer to Florie. She believed she could care for him a little if he'd let her. But there was something so distant about him, so unreachable. Florie knew about Hannah. But the first time they'd been together she had seen the raw hurt and need in his eyes, and it had moved her. She hoped she could ease that pain a little. She meant to try.
Call passed the saloon. Just then Austin came out with one of Twyla's girls. He was obviously far gone in drink. Call looked quickly away so that he wouldn't meet his brother-in-law's eyes. Austin saw Call, swore under his breath, and staggered off, leaning heavily on the whore. Conflicting emotions played across Call's face. He missed Austin . . . their wild times together, their friendship, and their family connection. It wouldn't do to let Austin know it, but he still cared a great deal for his brother-in-law. Call was confused by the change he saw in Austin. He was a different person now. Aw, it was all Mosby's fault, as was most everything gone wrong in this town. Call glared up at the light in the window of Mosby's private quarters above the Ambrosia. "Damn you, Mosby," he muttered. He continued down the boardwalk, almost bumping into Mattie who was crossing the frozen street after her lonely supper at the Dove.
"Where you headed tonight, Call?"
Call brushed past her. "Nowhere," he replied absently.
Mattie took him at his word. Her heart went out to him. He had told her once that he had never gotten over Hannah. Well, that much was obvious. Call sure could use some looking after. He didn't take proper care of himself. She hoped he was going to the hotel for something to eat. He continued on without slowing his walk. She looked after him wistfully. Maybe he'd like someone to talk to. Then she sighed. What was the use? Call didn't need her. He'd pointed that out on several occasions. She continued on her way alone, holding her coat tightly closed against the wind.
Before entering the hotel, Call glanced up the street. The Montana Statesman was dark inside. Josiah didn't publish the paper now; he hadn't the heart for it anymore, he said. Or the mind, most folks added. These days Josiah had a rather tenuous hold on reality. Call dropped his gaze. His father-in-law's condition weighed heavily on him; he felt responsible. He hadn't been there for Josiah when it mattered most. The way he figured it, he'd failed most everyone.
Call went up to his room. It was the same one he had shared with Hannah. At first he couldn't bear to go into that room. But now he wouldn't let anyone else have it. It was almost sacred to Hannah's memory. Sometimes he would pretend she was inside waiting for him, and he would open the door quickly to catch a glimpse of her before the hope had time to fade away. Tonight he knew she wasn't there . . . would never be there for him again. He fell heavily on the bed, her image still clear in his mind. He closed his eyes. He hadn't realized how weary he was. His breathing slowed; he slept. And he dreamed of Hannah. In the morning his pillow was wet with tears.
~~~
The next morning Call sat on the bench outside Creel's General Store, trying to clear his head. The church bell was ringing. Call didn't put much stock in preaching. He didn't have much use for God either. It wasn't that he blamed God for Hannah. Call knew who to blame. He hadn't been to church since she . . . A tremor coursed through him. Last night's dreams were still vividly etched in his mind. He passed his hand across his eyes, remembering . . .
"So, Mr. Call, black souls like ours can't be saved even on Christmas mornin'." Clay Mosby sauntered across the street towards him. He was elegantly dressed as always in his leather slicker and crisp black hat, a wreath of cigar smoke curling above his head.
Call jumped up from the bench. "Whadya want, Mosby?" He almost spat the words.
"Pleasant as always, Call." Mosby took in Call's disheveled appearance. "You used to be a real upstandin' citizen in Curtis Wells. What happened to you?"
"You happened," Call hissed.
Mosby frowned as he watched him walk away. Newt Call was a blight on the whole town. It would have been better for everyone if he had never returned.
Call crossed the street. He headed to the livery where he saddled the Hell Bitch and rode out. The trees were crusted with snow from last night's storm. The sun glittered hard on the ground before him. But Call stared straight ahead, unseeing. Almost before he knew it, he had arrived at his claim . . . his and Hannah's, though he never worked it now. They'd had such dreams for this place. But none of it seemed important anymore. He sat looking down on the ruins. The night the cabin burned, he'd almost died in the flames.
"I shoulda died," he said aloud. "I got nothin' to live for --not anymore." The home he had built with his own hands was gone. There was no shelter here for anyone. There was nothing left but ashes. Sadly, Call turned his mare and started back to town. He took the long way; nothing was waiting for him in Curtis Wells.
~~~
Glancing up, Mattie was surprised to see Unbob step into the gunshop.
"What're you doin' here, Unbob? You're supposed to be takin' the day off."
"Well, you're here, Miss Mattie. You shouldn't oughta be here by yerself. What if somebody gets shot and needs buryin'? Nope, ya might need me. That's why I come."
"Oh, Unbob, I'm all right. I'm just goin' over some accounts, is all. You run along home."
Unbob shuffled towards the door. Then he turned back. "Well, if you're really sure."
"I'm fine, Unbob, you go on now," Mattie told him. Then she hesitated. "Oh, wait a minute; I almost forgot. I got somethin' for you. I found it in Miles City."
Mattie came from behind the counter and handed Unbob a bulky package wrapped in a coarse white handkerchief.
Unbob hurriedly unwrapped it. In his hand was a large pale-colored seashell.
"It . . . it's so purty. But . . . what's it for?"
"It's a present, Unbob, for Christmas. I know it ain't much, but I thought you'd like it. If you hold it up to your ear, you can hear the ocean. Go on, try it, UnBob."
A look of wonder came over the simple man's face as he held up the shell. Pure joy lit his features as he listened. Then his face clouded over.
"But I ain't got nothin' fer you." He looked at Mattie, crestfallen.
"Oh, that's all right, Unbob, I don't need nothin'. You run along now. I'm busy." Mattie smiled as he left the shop, the shell clutched tightly in his hand.
Outside, Unbob held the shell up and shook it, then peered inside. "You kin hear the ocean. I don't know how come. There's no water in it. But you kin hear it just the same!"
Unbob wandered off down the street. He stopped everyone he met and offered them the shell saying, "There's a whole ocean in it. You kin hear it. You just put it up to yer ear and there it is!"
~~~
Austin was still sleeping off his night's revels when Josiah entered his tent.
"Austin, "what are you still doing in bed? It's the middle of the afternoon."
Austin groaned, rose up on his elbows, and squinted at his father in the light coming from the open flap. "What the hell else have I got to do?" he asked, dropping back onto the bed.
"I'm ashamed of you, Austin. You drink with those whores all night. Then you sleep all day. You need to find a job." Josiah
stood looking down on Austin.
"Doing what, Father? Mosby owns this town. Think anyone's gonna take me on now?"
"I heard they're looking for someone over at the livery."
"You think I'd do that kind of work?"
"It's honest work, Austin. Why, Newt . . ."
Austin snorted. "Oh, yes, Father, let's talk about your precious
son-in-law."
"Austin, stop it. You're my son."
"Then act like it, Father. Stop trying to turn me into somethin' I'm not."
"Austin, you have no ambition."
"And Call does?"
"He gets by."
"That's what I'm doin'." Austin rolled over, turning his back on Josiah.
Josiah sighed heavily. Turning to go, he stumbled over some empty bottles on the dirt floor. He stopped at the door. "What would your sister say?"
"She's not here," Austin mumbled. "Remember?"
"I'm glad she can't see you like this," said Josiah. But he got no response. Sadly, he turned and left the tent.
~~~
On his way home, Josiah stopped by the Ambrosia Club for a drink. He rested his elbows on the bar and stared fixedly at the wall in front of him, nursing a whiskey. Newt and Austin were all that was left of his family. And as far as he could tell, the two men hated each other. He downed the remaining liquor and refilled the shot. He wished his wife, Sarah, were still alive. She'd know what to do with the pair of them. He swirled the liquid in his glass, lost in contemplation.
Colonel Clay Mosby descended the stairs adjusting his tie. He noticed Josiah, shook his head at his "mayor", and found himself wondering for the thousandth time why he allowed him to continue in that capacity. Certainly, he was not serving the citizens of Curtis Wells. Between the mental confusion and the drinking, Josiah was of little use to anyone. Ah, well, right now there was no one to take his place. Clay supposed it wouldn't hurt to let things remain as they were for the time being. He continued out the door of the Ambrosia and walked briskly down the boardwalk to the Lonesome Dove Hotel. He opened the door and removed his hat as he stepped over the threshold. His gaze swept the room as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
Amanda was serving a late lunch to some guests. He waited for her to finish. She refilled their coffee cups and met Clay near the front desk.
"Afternoon, Amanda," Clay greeted her. "I've come to check on those rooms I reserved. I assume everythin' is in order?"
"Oh yes, Clay, I've saved the best rooms in the house. They're clean and ready just as you requested."
"Splendid, my guests should be arrivin' tomorrow. I assume you will be accommodatin'," he concluded, grinning at her.
"Yes, Clay, I assure you I will do everything in my power to meet their every need."
Clay smiled. "Good, I knew you were the woman for the job. These could possibly be the most important visitors this town has ever had, Amanda. I met with Mr. Higgins in Miles City last month. He and I have some business dealin's to conclude. If everythin' goes accordin' to plan, the face of our little community could change very rapidly indeed."
"Clay, you haven't told me what this is all about," Amanda coaxed, her most engaging smile firmly in place.
"Nor do I plan to, my dear. You'll know soon enough. You'll just have to trust me .Oh, by the way, we are goin' to require a private meetin' room. May we use your office?"
Amanda's smile faded. "Oh, Clay, I don't know. I have important papers in there. That's why it's called a private office," she said pointedly. "Why can't you use your office?"
"Because," Clay explained, "it would be more convenient for my guests if we met here. I just told you how important this is to me, to all of us, Amanda. It would behoove you to go along with me on this. Let's not be difficult, hmmmm?"
Without another word, he replaced his hat, turned his back, and strode out the door. Hands on hips, Amanda glared after him for a moment. "Merry Christmas to you too, Clay," she murmured. He certainly was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. She turned, smoothing her dress and went to the kitchen to check on dinner.
~~~
It was evening when Call returned to Curtis Wells. Town was quiet. After he stabled the Hell Bitch and gave her an extra ration of oats, he headed to the Number 10 and ordered a bottle of whiskey. Taking it to a solitary table in the corner, he sat and poured himself a glass. Its fiery contents burned in his belly; he'd eaten nothing that day. He was used to the empty ache in the pit of his stomach; food wouldn't take that away. He sat staring at nothing. Maybe he should go and check on Josiah. He wondered how the Peale family had spent Christmas when Hannah was alive. Call sighed heavily. He couldn't remember ever having a family.
Over in a corner, two men were speaking quietly. He couldn't see their faces. One of them turned and looked his way and then went out. Call poured himself another shot.
Max Johnson was a weasely little man who had drifted into Curtis Wells some months before. With no money and no prospects, he had jumped at the chance to work for the richest man in town. Outside, he hurried toward the Ambrosia Club. He entered the gambling establishment and took the stairs two at a time to Mosby's private quarters. Clay Mosby was drinking alone as well. Christmas brought too many memories of his beloved Mary and Hatton Willows. When the war swept everything away, it took his soul along with it. And tonight, of all nights, the blackness threatened to engulf him. He heard a sound at his door. With an effort, he struggled back to the present.
"What is it, Johnson?" Clay cursed silently, deeply resenting the intrusion.
"Mr. Mosby, Sir, Call's over at the Number 10. He just rode in. I'm keepin' an eye on him, just like you said, Mr. Mosby."
"Well then, go back there and do what I'm payin' you for. Don't let him out of your sight. Do you understand me? Well, go on."
Max turned to leave the room.
"And shut the door on your way out."
Clay frowned. He'd be damned if Call was going to interfere with his plans. He had a knack for turning up at the wrong moment, and he always had some kind of objection to whatever Clay was trying to accomplish. The man was decidedly disagreeable. But it wasn't going to happen this time; he would see to that. There was too much at stake. Clay sighed and went back to his dark reverie.
~~~
Christmas was a quiet time at Twyla's. The family men had commitments, and the loners usually got dead drunk trying to forget that they didn't have commitments. Florie sat in the gathering gloom, wondering if she should light the lamp. She twisted the fringe of her lace shawl absently against her cheek. She was thinking of Clay. She had expected him to send for her tonight. The sheer gall of the man! He treated her like she was his own personal property, but he'd never make an honest woman of her. She was pretty certain on that point. He hadn't been too happy when he'd found out that Call had been coming to see her regularly. Just what was it with those two anyway? She'd have to try to get back in Mosby's good graces. Being his favorite had its advantages.
She was startled by the knock. "Come in." The light from the hall revealed Call in the doorway. She rose and met him in the darkened room, her forgotten shawl falling to the floor between them. She didn't want to be alone either . . .
Afterwards, Florie sat on the side of the bed trying to do up her hair. One long dark curl kept escaping, despite her efforts. A kerosene lamp burned dimly next to the bed. Call lay staring at the flame, a faraway look in his pale blue eyes.
"Why do you always ask for me, Call? There's lots of other girls here, lots of pretty blondes. I heard tell gentlemen prefer blondes," Florie teased. She knew perfectly well that she was the top whore at Twyla's.
Call sat up and leaned toward her. "Mebbe I ain't no gentleman." He gathered the offending curl in his fingers and ran it softly across his lips. "Come here," he whispered and pulled her down on top of him. He loosed her hair again and it fell softly around his face . . .
Later, Florie brought Call a plate of food from Twyla's kitchen. She knew he lived hand to mouth, but he never said anything. He took the food from her hands gratefully and ate, then asked if he could stay. He fell back on the bed, relaxed. Soon he slept, and Florie watched him. She ran her fingers gently down the side of his face, tracing the hard line of his jaw and caressing his fair hair. Call never threw her profession up to her the way other men did. She did what she had to do to survive. That was something he understood. She eased down gently so as not to disturb him. Sometime in the night, he cried out, but she held him till he quieted. He didn't awaken. Outside the wind had picked up again.
The next morning Call felt about the way he always did when he spent the night with a woman who wasn't Hannah . . . more empty and alone than before. He rose early and headed to the livery. In the half-light he tripped over a man lying in the straw. It was Luther Root.
"Rough night, Luther?"
Luther groaned and sat up. "Call, what're you doin' up so danged early?"
"Thought mebbe I'd go huntin' . . . Felt like gettin' outta town for a spell."
"The stage won't be back for a couple days. Want I should go along?"
Call slipped the Hell Bitch's bridle over her head. He didn't meet Luther's eyes. Truth was, he'd be glad of some company. But he didn't want Luther to know it, didn't want to seem to need anyone or anything. It was his way. He shrugged. "Suit yourself."
The two men saddled their mounts and rode out. On their way, they passed the church and the frozen pond where Hannah had loved to skate. Call reined in his horse and sat staring silently at the ice for a few moments. In his mind's eye he could still see her as she'd looked that last day, the freedom with which she skated, her dark curls streaming behind her. "Like an angel," he sighed under his breath. Call turned the mare. Avoiding the churchyard, he followed Luther out of town.
Max Johnson watched them leave. Then he hurried to the Ambrosia to report to Mr. Mosby.
~~~
Later that morning, Florie stepped into the bathhouse. While Lau's back was turned, she slipped unnoticed behind the curtain where Mosby was soaking in the private tub, his ever-present cigar sending curls of smoke toward the ceiling.
"Wash your back, Clay?"
"Florie, what're you doin' here?" Clay's words were cold, his voice hard-edged.
"I missed you."
"Is that so? Well, it appears you've been keepin' yourself pretty busy of late."
Florie looked away. "What do you mean, Clay?"
"What do you take me for, a fool? Damn it, Florie, how can you sleep with Call? The man despises me. He's only usin' you to get back at me."
"Why would he do that, Clay?" Florie responded, her eyes downcast. "Because of his dead wife?"
Clay didn't answer. His dark eyes smoldered in the dim light.
"Clay, you know what I am. It's not like I can refuse."
Florie knelt beside the tub, picked up a cloth and the soap and began to wash Mosby's arm and shoulder. Suddenly, he lunged forward and grabbed her wrist, sending the soap skittering across the floor.
Florie was frightened. She hadn't thought he would be this angry. "Please, Clay, it doesn't change things between us."
"Oh, doesn't it?" Mosby released his hold and sank back into the water. Florie rose, rubbing her wrist. Neither spoke for a few moments. "What do you want from me?" he inquired finally through clenched teeth.
"I don't know, maybe for things to be the way they were."
"Maybe you should have thought of that before you invited Call into your bed . . . repeatedly."
Florie felt chilled. She pulled her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. Turning to go, she paused for a moment in the doorway, then left quietly without looking back.
Mosby pulled furiously on his cigar. Call would pay for this. "Lau, get some more hot water in here . . . on the double!"
When Clay left the bathhouse, he stopped in at Twyla's and made arrangements for Stella, one of Twyla's new girls, to visit him in his rooms at the Ambrosia that evening.
~~~
Luther was glad Call had let him come. Though neither man would admit it, they were friends. Luther was worried about Call. He scarcely spoke; he seldom ate; and lately he'd been doing some pretty heavy drinking. He had been sullen and uncommunicative for weeks now. Luther knew where he was heading. He'd already been there himself. But out here Call seemed to be in better spirits. By late afternoon, they had bagged some small game and were ready to ride back.
Call hesitated as they turned their mounts towards town. "There's smoke yonder. Best check it out."
The two men guided their horses through thick stands of Aspen and Fir to the edge of a small clearing. An Indian woman sat alone, hunched over a meager fire. She hardly stirred when Call dismounted and approached.
"You alone? Where's your people?" Call asked as he knelt down in front of her.
"Gone. No sons to care for this old woman," she answered him haltingly. Her hollow eyes followed Call as he rose and looked around the camp. He saw no provisions and wondered when she'd eaten last.
"You hungry?" Call walked over to the Hell Bitch and took down a couple of rabbits they'd killed and some leftover biscuits he had in his saddlebag. He tried to hand the food to the woman, but she only looked at it, then turned her head away. Luther stoked the fire while Call skinned and gutted one of the rabbits and rigged up a spit. The meat cooked slowly. When it was ready, Call tore off a hunk and handed it to the old woman; she picked at the bones but ate little. Call asked her how she came to be out there alone. She told them her sons had gone to hunt for food. They had not returned. The buffalo were scarce now, she said. And there was not much game. Her sons had been gone many days.
After they had eaten, Call and Luther checked out the camp. There were two tipis, some buffalo robes, and a deer hide stretched on a frame to dry. Aside from a few cooking pots and utensils, there was little else. The old woman watched them but said nothing.
Call and Luther decided to wait until morning to start back. Call slept fitfully, alert to every sound. Around midnight he rose and went outside. The sky was ablaze. As much time as he had spent sleeping out under the stars, Call couldn't recollect ever seeing anything like it. Bright green swirls flickered and danced on the horizon, melting into crimson depths above, the whole sky shot through with streaks of pure white light. He stood silently, watching the play of color and shadow in the heavens.
The old woman's voice came from behind him.
"Spirit fires. The spirits of our ancestors build fires to guide the feet of the dead who come to join them."
"The Northern Lights," Call replied. He glanced over his shoulder at her.
The old woman was watching him intently. Neither spoke for a few moments.
"Pain is no stranger to you."
Call was surprised. "No," he answered quietly.
"You have suffered much," she continued. "Your heart carries a heavy burden. You mourn for what you have lost. But pain is not the enemy."
Call turned and looked at the woman, wondering if his grief showed that plainly.
"Guilt is the enemy. Guilt crushes the soul. A man does not carry the blame for what the spirits allow to happen. It is not his fault. To live a life in regret brings only bitterness."
With this, she turned and reentered her lodge. Call stood silently, thinking over what she had said. The colors of the sky began to fade.
Next morning Call was up early. He hadn't slept much. He had stopped dreaming of Hannah. At least when he dreamed of her, he could be with her again for a little while. The day stretched long in front of him.
~~~
Josiah had been drinking throughout the night. By early morning he had lost all touch with reality. He sat at his desk at the Statesman office with his worn Bible in his hand, quoting scripture.
"Behold, how good and pleasant it is when brothers live together in harmony. Psalms 133:1. He that hateth his brother walketh in darkness. 1 John 3:15. A house divided against itself shall not stand. Matthew 12:25."
Josiah was disturbed by the bad blood between Call and Austin. He buried his face in his hands. It was all his fault, it had to be. Where had he failed them? His mind wandered. Where was Hannah? He needed her. The memory returned with crushing force. Sweet, Jesus, she couldn't be gone, she couldn't be!
In desperation, his thoughts turned to Fiona, the whore who'd been able to help him forget all that he had lost. The angels had smiled on Fiona, just like they had Hannah. He momentarily forgot that Fiona was gone now too, dead and buried. Josiah himself had paid for her funeral. "I'll find Fiona. She'll ease my pain," he said aloud. He rose unsteadily and staggered out into the street.
~~~
Clay Mosby had met Jack Higgins and his men for an early breakfast at the Dove. Afterward, they gathered in Amanda's office with Johnson stationed outside the door. Zeke, Pratt, and various other members of Mosby's hirelings were positioned around the room. Higgins, a middle-aged, balding man with a decided paunch, leaned back, smoking one of Clay's best cigars contentedly, his feet propped on Amanda's desk.
Clay was anxious to begin; there was a lot riding on this meeting, but he didn't want to rush the man. He made some small talk while waiting for him to finish, but Higgins only grunted in response. At last he exhaled and ground out the stub. He turned and faced Clay, planting his feet firmly on the floor. He looked up expectantly.
Clay cleared his throat and opened the discussion.
"I don't have to tell you, Jack. I'm very gratified that we have been able to reach an agreement. It's no secret that I have been tryin' for several years to interest the railroad in comin' to Curtis Wells. In fact, shortly after I first laid eyes on this little settlement, I . . ."
Higgins interrupted. "Yes, Clay, I'm aware of that. You have the necessary documents?"
Mosby felt a bit nonplussed. So much for pleasantries.
"Yes, I believe everythin' is in order," he began again. "I had my lawyer in Miles City draw up the deeds. I assume that you have been able to procure the rest of the required property?"
"Yes, of course. Yours is the last piece needed in order for construction of the lines to begin early next spring."
"Excellent, excellent," Mosby nodded his approval. "But this is prime real estate we're talkin' about, Jack. Before I sign it over, I will need to see the proof of intent that we discussed."
By way of answer, Higgins pulled an envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to Mosby.
Clay accepted it eagerly. It was an effort to keep his hands from trembling as he opened it. This would be the culmination of all his efforts, the realization of all his hopes and dreams. Soon all the years of trying, all the setbacks he had suffered would be worthwhile. Very soon .
He unfolded the contents and perused them carefully, then replaced them in the envelope. He slid it inside his vest and addressed Higgins once more. "As we previously discussed, I'll be signin' over the actual property for the railroad construction and as agreed, a little somethin' extra for your trouble." He handed Higgins a sheaf of papers. "Here are the deeds."
Higgins accepted them from Clay's outstretched hand and spread them out on the desk in front of him. He looked them over at some length.
"It's just what you wanted, Jack," said Clay, "the old Kimball ranch, eighty acres of paradise for you to retire on someday. It's a beautiful piece. Shame to let it go, really."
Higgins continued to examine the deeds. Seemingly satisfied, he picked up the pen from Amanda's fancy inkwell, dipped it, and signed the documents without further hesitation.
He handed it to Clay who took it from him, refreshed the ink, and wrote his name with a flourish.
"Splendid," Clay approved. He fetched a decanter and two glasses from Amanda's sideboard and brought them back to the desk. "Let's have a toast to our joint venture, shall we?" He poured the drinks and handed one to Higgins.
"Here's to our . . . " Clay began as Higgins downed the liquor in one gulp and held out his glass for more. " . . . little arrangement," he finished somewhat anticlimactically as he refilled it. The two men raised their glasses, and once more Higgins wasted no time in emptying his.
The man was decidedly lacking in manners, Clay thought as he finished his drink and strolled back to the sideboard to replace the decanter.
"So, how long will you be stayin' in our fair city, Jack? Headin' straight back to Miles City, are you? I' m sure duty calls."
"Actually, no, I'll be staying here for a while. My work in Miles City is finished. In fact, bringing this line to Curtis Wells was my last big project for the company." Higgins looked into his empty tumbler and then over at Mosby hopefully.
"Really, Jack? That surprises me. You're still a fairly young man. Don't tell me you're plannin' on wastin' your time in idle pursuits." Returning to the desk, Clay seated himself across from Higgins.
"Ah, quite the contrary, Clay, I have something definite in mind." Higgins set his empty glass down on the desk and folded his hands in front of him.
Clay smiled. "Oh, really? And what might that be? Care to enlighten me?"
"Certainly. After all, it's your generosity that has made it all possible." Higgins smiled back at Clay. "There's something you may not realize about the land you just signed over to me." He pulled the papers closer to him and looked at the fresh signatures, the ink still drying on them. "I have reason to believe there's gold on my new property. Thought I'd do a little prospecting."
Mosby's eyes narrowed. "There's no significant amount of gold on that land, Jack. That vein played out a couple of years back."
"Oh, well, according to what I've been told, it's there all right. At least the apex is on the Kimball place. But of course that isn't where the real fortune lies. I'm quite sure the gold extends underground onto the Indian reservation. Owning the adjoining property makes it relatively easy to get at that vein. It's mine for the taking."
Clay's smile froze as he felt his gut tighten. He had been afraid of something like this ever since gold had been found on the reservation. Its discovery had put Curtis Wells in a very precarious position. The last thing they needed was an all out Indian war. He rose and stared down at Higgins.
"Now just a moment. What you're proposin' is preposterous. I will not allow you to violate the tribal lands. Red Crow would massacre you and every person in this town. He'd murder us all in our beds! You ought to see what he did to the last man who tried to take that gold."
"Ah, yes, Edward Burns. I heard what happened to him after those heathens turned on him. Bad form by the way, Clay, turning one of your own kind over to those murdering savages."
Clay glared back at him.
Higgins sighed and continued. "Actually, I knew Burns quite well. He was my business partner. We were planning to go into this project together. That is, until you got him killed."
Clay couldn't believe what he was hearing." Burns murdered Little Wolf, the Lakota religious leader! Do you know what that means?"
"That used up old soothsayer? No great loss as far as I can see."
"Now, you listen to me, Higgins," Clay insisted. "We maintain an uneasy truce with the Lakota. I cannot, I will not allow you to jeopardize the safety of everyone in this town!"
Higgins stared back at him belligerently. "Reservation life has not agreed with Red Crow's people, and you know it. There's precious little to eat on that God-forsaken prairie." Higgins paused for a moment, gauging the reaction his words were having on Mosby. "I'm planning to give back a percentage of what I find on their land. The Lakota will be amply compensated; I'm sure they will be glad to cooperate."
Higgins leaned back in his chair. He pressed the tips of his fingers together and regarded Mosby. "What I need is a go-between," he continued. "I understand there's a man here who is a friend to the tribe. I'd be willing to pay him for his assistance."
"Call," Clay gritted out between clenched teeth.
"That's him. I've heard that his father was a Texas Ranger. He ought to prove useful. Where can I find him? I'd like to begin negotiations with the Indians straight away."
"I doubt that Mr. Call would be willin' to help you. The man can't be bought," Mosby informed him testily.
Higgins sneered. "Every man has his price."
"That's beside the point!" Clay slammed his palms down on the desk. "Don't think for one moment that I believe you're plannin' to turn anythin' over to the Indians. You're a goddamned liar! You have no idea of the danger you are placin' yourself in, to say nothin' of this town."
Higgins observed Clay quietly for a moment before he replied. "I'm going after the reservation gold, Colonel. And I intend to have it whether you like it or not. I would advise you not to get in my way."
Emotions raged inside Clay Mosby. The man had played him for a fool. He felt like tearing Higgins apart with his bare hands. But he mustn't forget who was in charge here. He knew what he had to do. He reined himself in and took a deep breath before answering.
"That sounds an awful lot like a threat, Higgins. You'll find I am not easily intimidated, especially in my town. I am in control here. Allow me to demonstrate." At Clay's signal, his men drew their weapons. Higgins rose hurriedly shoving back his chair. It flew into a plant stand by the window sending Amanda's Boston fern crashing to the floor.
"I've changed my mind," Clay advised him. "I'm sure you understand. You'll never set foot on that land."
Higgins looked at the deeds lying exposed on the desk. Then his eyes locked with Clay's in challenge.
"Remember, Mosby, if you nix my land deal, you toss out the railroad agreement as well. You can't have one without the other."
Clay hesitated for only a moment as he stared unblinkingly into Higgins' smug face. Then he picked up the deed and tore it in half lengthwise. Higgins watched in disbelief as Clay let the pieces flutter slowly to the floor.
"I believe our meetin' is finished. Escort these men out, won't you?" Clay directed Zeke and the others.
Meanwhile, Amanda, hearing the commotion, had come downstairs and confronted Johnson.
"What's going on in there? That's my office, dammit! This is my hotel. I demand to know what they're doing in there!"
Johnson was about to protest when the door crashed open. Higgins and his men filed out followed closely by Mosby's deputies. Mosby was the last one out of the room.
"Clay, is everything all right? What happened in there?"
"Relax, Amanda, I have everythin' well in hand," Mosby said as he swept by her and followed the others outside.
~~~
Josiah squinted against the morning light. He made it to Twyla's front door and sagged against it, trying to knock. The most he could manage was a kind of muffled thumping. After a few moments, Twyla herself came and opened it.
"Why, Mr. Peale, we don't usually open for business so early in the morning. Can't it wait?"
"Fiona, I need to see her. Is she here?"
"Mr. Peale, you know she isn't here. Why, Fiona's dead, don't you remember?" Twyla noticed how pale and shaky Josiah was. She reached out a hand to steady him.
Mosby's deputies shoved Higgins and his men down the steps of the hotel. Higgins lost his balance and fell headlong into the street.
Clay struck a match on the porch support, lit a smoke, and stood looking down on them calmly as Higgins picked himself up and wiped his hand across a bloody lip.
"Now," Clay began, "I want you and your men out of Curtis Wells within the hour. Is that understood?" He took a long pull on his cigar and waited for Higgins' response.
Higgins regarded him sullenly, then turned and spat on the ground. "You haven't heard the last of this, Colonel. And you can kiss your railroad goodbye. Not one mile of track will be laid in this valley; I can promise you that."
Clay smiled with his lips, but eyes remained cold. "Well, that remains to be seen, doesn't it? In any case, you and I will not be conductin' any further business."
"That railroad contract isn't any good, Mosby; you may as well tear it up too."
"Is that so? Well, I believe I'll just check with your superiors in Miles City before I do that. Meanwhile, it's time for you to leave. You're no longer welcome in my town." Clay gestured to his hired helpers. "Get these men on their horses," he ordered.
There was a flurry of movement as one of Higgins' men swiftly drew his gun and pointed it at Mosby. "Why you Southern trash, I oughta blow yer head off. You can't talk t' us that way and git away with it."
Zeke jumped on him. The two men struggled. The gun fired, and the shot went wild. It struck Josiah in the back as he stood in front of the whorehouse. He crumpled like a rag doll and fell clutching at Twyla's skirts. Twyla screamed and bent down to help him.
Across the street, the gunman twisted out of Zeke's grasp and leveled his weapon at Mosby once more.
Guided more by instinct than conscious intent, Clay's revolver was in his hand and the shot fired almost before he realized what was happening. The bullet hit the gunman squarely in the chest. He fell dead in the street.
A small crowd began to gather. Several men knelt by Josiah. "Somebody go get Doc Cleese," one of them called out. "And you'd best find Austin quick. It don't look good."
~~~
Dr. Ephraim Cleese came out of the room, wiping his hands on a towel, and descended the stairs to the lobby of the hotel where Austin and Mosby and several others waited for news of Josiah's condition.
Austin rushed at him. "How is he, Doctor?"
"I don't know, Austin. It'll be a while before I can say for sure. I removed the bullet, but he's lost a lot of blood. I'm afraid he wasn't in very good condition before the shooting. He's been drinking heavily of late; the man smells like a distillery. And he's quite malnourished. Do you have any idea when he ate last?"
"How the hell should I know? I'm not his keeper," Austin snapped.
"No, of course not. Well, in any case, there's something else you should know," Cleese continued." He regained consciousness for a little while. He was asking for Newt, er, Mr. Call, and someone else."
"Who? Who was he asking for? Was it me?"
"No, Austin, I, I'm afraid not. It was Hannah he wanted."
Austin dropped his gaze, his lips pressed tightly together. He sank into a nearby chair, his head in his hands.
Mosby turned on Austin. "Are you just goin' to sit there? Your father may be dyin'. Go and find your brother-in-law."
Looking up, Austin met Clay's eyes coldly. "Call's no kin o' mine, not anymore. And besides, Father don't need Call. He needs me; I'm his son."
"Then act like it. Go find Call and get him back here before it's too late."
Dr. Cleese interrupted the two men. "Excuse me, Gentlemen. Austin, if you're going to go, you had better do it. We may not have much time."
Still Austin made no move.
"For God's sake, Austin, think of someone besides yourself for once. Do this for your father. Do it for Hannah," Mosby admonished him.
Austin jumped up and confronted him, his eyes locked on Clay's in fierce hatred.
"You bastard! Don't you dare speak her name to me. You lusted after my sister like she was a common whore. I shoulda killed you for that. And my Father wouldn't be dyin' if it weren't for you."
"That's enough." Clay stood in angry silence for a few moments. He kept his temper with visible effort. When he spoke, his words were guarded.
"This is neither the time nor the place for your accusations. Call rode out early yesterday. It may take you some time to find him. You'd best be on your way."
Austin scowled at him, but this time he didn't argue.
~~~
Back at the camp, Call and Luther were having a discussion about the Indian woman.
"Can't leave her here, Luther. She was fixin' to starve to death when we showed up. Best take her to Red Crow. His camp's only a few miles from here."
Luther agreed. "Let's get goin' then. I need to be gittin' back."
The woman did not protest as Call wrapped a buffalo robe around her shoulders, then lifted her and placed her on his horse. He figured the Hell Bitch could easily carry them both. The old woman scarcely weighed anything, thin as she was.
Though the sun was shining, it was a bitter morning. Winter was starting to take hold. Call recalled the Lakota words for December-- Moon Of The Popping Trees. The snow crunched beneath their horses' hooves as they made their way north.
~~~
For a few hours Call and Luther had been paralleling a mountain ridge that rose several hundred feet above the valley floor. The ridge ended abruptly in a rugged stone cliff, a small lake spread out at its base. The old woman had been sitting motionless behind Call. Now she stirred and asked them to stop the horses.
"Look there . . . on the mountain . . . above the flat water."
Call looked across the ice-covered lake to where she was pointing. Luther was gazing up at the rocks.
"What do you see?"
Call and Luther didn't answer. After a moment, Luther spoke up. "Looks like a woman standing about half way down the cliff. See 'er, Call? Looks like she's got wings."
The old woman continued. "Long ago there was a young woman. Her husband was a great warrior who was killed in battle. When she could no longer live with her sorrow, the woman came to the top of this mountain. She jumped, and she fell down the cliff. When she was falling, the spirits looked down and saw her. They were sorry for her pain so they turned her into one of them. Now she stands forever, looking for peace."
The two men gazed thoughtfully at the stone figure for a few moments. Then they turned their horses and continued on their way. The woman's words echoed in Call's head. "Peace." Call hadn't known peace since Hannah died. Bounty hunting hadn't brought him any lasting peace. He'd figured putting men like Tavish where they belonged would make him feel something again. It hadn't happened that way, though. Truth be told, Call despised himself for the killing he'd done.
Call's mind went back to the early months of his marriage. He and Hannah were getting ready for bed in their room at the Dove. She knew how badly he was feeling about the death of his friend, Little Bear. And she told him about losing her mother, how she couldn't change things and neither could he. "You have a good heart, Newt Call. Don't let this or anything else ever change that."
Call knew he had changed. Hannah wouldn't recognize him now. The man she had known and loved didn't exist any more. The ice around his heart held it in so tight a grasp, he didn't think it would ever let go. Every man he'd killed wore Tavish's face. But killing them hadn't brought Hannah back. It had only made him more empty. There was nothing in his life but echoes. . . . echoes of lost dreams and lost hopes. They were beautiful and mocking. His heart was frozen stone cold.
A short while later, the Lakota village came into view. The tipis, with their openings facing east toward the rising sun, squatted along a small creek, smoke lingering protectively over them in the heavy winter air.
The travelers were made welcome. Lakota squaws took the old woman away to care for her and brought food to the two men. After they had eaten, Luther noticed a young girl trying to flirt with Call. He was seemingly oblivious, staring into the fire.
"What're ya waitin' for, Call? Go on, go with 'er."
Call glared at him briefly and then looked back into the flames. The young woman took Call's hand and tried to pull him up onto his feet. He wrenched his hand away without looking at her. He pulled his knife out of its sheath and began absently playing with it, sticking it in the ground and pulling it out by the blade. Each time he did it, he opened a small cut.
Watching him, Luther shook his head. He knew better than to try and reason with Call when he got like this. Well, I'm goin' then. I ain't had myself no fun in a coon's age."
Call stared at the blood on his hands, rubbing it between his fingers. He didn't even see Luther leave with the girl.
When Luther returned to the fireside, Call was nowhere to be seen.
Glancing up, Luther saw Red Crow approaching. The Indian Medicine Man stopped at the fireside and addressed Luther. "Your friend's spirit is much troubled," he said. "He has gone."
Luther nodded. "Which way'd he go?" Red Crow pointed back the way they had come that morning.
Luther got on his horse and followed Call's trail. He found Call back at the lake staring up at the stone formation in stark silhouette against the pale winter light. He didn't turn around when he heard Luther ride up. The two men sat in silence for a few moments. Then Luther spoke. "Call, there's nothin' you coulda done."
"You don't know nothin' of it." Call was still for a moment, his face a study in profound loss and pain.
"I was there, remember?"
Call didn't answer.
"You know, Call, I lost my wife too. I was trappin' over in the Dakotas when she took sick. By the time I got back, it was too late." His next words came with considerable effort. "Call, she was gonna have a baby." The big man lapsed into silence.
Call turned haunted eyes on Luther, and Luther was reminded of an animal caught in a trap, agony and desperation written plainly on his features. His young face looked old, his eyes full of unshed tears.
"So was Hannah," he said bitterly. Without another word Call spurred his mare and was gone.
Luther's heart broke silently for his friend. He stayed a while longer looking up at the cliff. Then he sighed heavily and followed Call.
~~~
As Austin guided his horse across the frozen terrain, his thoughts returned to Curtis Wells and his father. What if Josiah didn't pull through? Things had not been good between them lately. He needed to make it right if he could. His father was just so damned hard to talk to sometimes . . .
The wind rattled the last dry Aspen leaves across the frozen ground. Austin's thoughts were elsewhere and he let the horse have his head. Suddenly, a flock of birds flushed out of the brush nearly under the gelding's nose. The startled horse reared and tried to bolt. With some difficulty, Austin brought his mount under control.
It was quiet . . . too quiet. Austin felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He heard a slight rustle behind him before he was knocked to the ground. Momentarily stunned, he shook his head to clear it. When he opened his eyes, he found himself flat on his back surrounded by Lakota braves, their weapons drawn. There was a rifle barrel pointed at his chest.
~~~
Call and Luther were preparing to ride back to town when the hunting party returned to the village. The procession continued slowly past the lodges to where Call and Luther stood. Call was surprised to see Austin astride his horse, his hands tied to the saddle horn in front of him. The lead brave dismounted and addressed Call.
"This man says that you are brothers."
Call stared at Austin for a moment and then nodded almost imperceptibly. Austin was untied and dragged from his horse. He stood uncertainly, glancing at Call and rubbing his wrists.
Call turned his attention to tightening the Hell Bitch's cinch. "That right, Austin? You told 'em we was kin?" Call smirked, enjoying Austin's discomfiture.
Austin glanced at the retreating backs of the Lakota. "They were plannin' to lift my scalp. I had to tell 'em somethin'." He hesitated, looking down at the ground. "I need you to come back to Curtis Wells with me."
"That so? Ain't likely, Austin. Reckon you wasted your time comin' after me."
"Call, it's Father. He's been shot."
Call whirled to face him. "What happened, Austin? Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I'll tell you on the way. We don't have time . . ."
"My Lord, how bad is he?"
"Doc Cleese says it's bad. He, he might not make it. He's askin' for you."
The three men wasted no time in getting back to Curtis Wells. On the way, Austin filled Call in on the details of the accident and the events leading up to it. He didn't gloss over the part Mosby had played in the affair.
When they reached the Dove, Call took the stairs three at a time up to Josiah's room. He met Dr. Cleese in the doorway.
"Oh good, Mr. Call, I'm glad you've arrived. Josiah has been asking for you."
"Is he all right?" Call took hold of Ephraim's arm. "Tell me, Doctor, is he gonna make it?" Calls face was ashen, his eyes wide with concern for his father-in-law.
"It's too early to tell, but he is responding to treatment." When Call hesitated he continued, "He's awake. You can go in if you like."
Austin, who had followed Call up the stairway, stood uneasily, turning his hat in his hands. Ephraim gave him a brief smile and patted his shoulder before starting down the stairs.
Inside, Josiah smiled weakly when the two men entered the room. He reached for Call's hand. "Oh, Newt, there you are. I've been waiting for you to come."
Austin hadn't missed the look on Josiah's face and the welcome in his voice when he saw Call. He looked away, hiding the hurt in his eyes. Once more, Josiah had failed to acknowledge his son. Austin turned angrily and strode from the room.
After sitting with Josiah for a short time, Call could see that the older man was tiring from the effort of speaking. "You rest now," he told him. "I'll be back later."
"Where's Austin? Tell him I want to see him."
"I will," Call answered him. "Just take it easy, Josiah."
Call didn't see Austin in the lobby or on the boardwalk outside. He knew where Austin spent most of his time these days. He quickly left the hotel and headed over to Twyla's. He found Austin tipping back a whiskey, his face a study of anger and resentment. He didn't look up when Call addressed him.
"Austin, your father needs you. You'd best see to him."
"What does he need me for, Call? He's got you."
"Somethin' botherin' you, Austin? You got somethin' to say to me, you best say it. Get it off your chest."
Austin regarded him sullenly. The end of his cigarette glowed red through the smoke rising thickly around him. He didn't respond.
"Look, Austin, I ain't got time for this right now." Call turned to go.
"You goin' to find Mosby?"
Call paused. He didn't look at Austin. "Ain't none of your business, Austin."
"I don't give a damn what you do, Call."
Call started for the door. He hesitated when Austin spoke again. "Tell you what though. When you find Mosby, I hope you kill him . . . or he kills you. Either way, it'd be an improvement."
Call strode out the door and into the street.
Mosby and Amanda were strolling arm-in-arm and apparently deep in discussion when Call spotted them. He reached them just as they were approaching the Dove.
Call advanced on Mosby, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around. "Mosby, you son-of-a-bitch!"
"Call, leave him alone! What's the matter with you?" Amanda demanded.
"Stay out of this, Amanda; this is between me and Mosby."
Call jabbed his finger repeatedly into Mosby's chest. "You almost got Josiah killed. That bullet was meant for you," he snarled. "I wish to Hell it'd found its mark."
Clay's eyes darkened ominously. He shook Call off and adjusted his coat. "What's this about, Call? You know very well the shootin' was an accident."
"That so? Seems like you stirred up a mess of trouble."
"I was tryin' to do what's best for the town. That's somethin' I wouldn't expect you to understand."
Call stood still, his intense gaze still riveted on Mosby's face.
"What's best for you, you mean, ain't that right, Mosby?"
Clay shrugged and smiled unconvincingly. "It's practically the same thing."
"Oh, is it?" Call continued to glare at Mosby.
Just then, they were distracted by a commotion further down the street. Ike appeared from out of nowhere. He appeared agitated.
"Mr. Mosby, you'd better come. There's somethin' goin' on you should know about."
"Oh, what is it now, Ike? Can't you handle it?" Clay asked irritably.
"Some Indians come into town. They're injured. Folks is askin' questions."
Call was already hurrying ahead. He pushed his way through the small crowd that had gathered around two small Indian children. Mattie was kneeling there with the head of a young boy in her lap. His buckskin leggings were torn and dirty, and one leg was covered with blood. A slightly older girl knelt beside him. She was bleeding from her arm and a deep gash on her face. Both of them shivered with the cold.
Mattie looked up at Call piteously. "They've been shot. Who coulda done this? They're just kids." Her sad eyes filled with tears. Unbob stood close by wringing his hands.
Call knelt beside Mattie. He laid his hand gently on the younger child's forehead. Then he turned to the girl. He spoke softly to her in her own language. Her eyes were large and frightened in her tear-stained face. She stared back at Call but made no reply.
"I don't think she speaks no English," Unbob suggested helpfully.
By this time, Mosby and Amanda had arrived and stood with the others looking down on the scene.
Call stood up abruptly and waved his arms to disperse the crowd. "Back off and give 'em some room. Unbob, help me get 'em to Doc Cleese."
Call shouldered the small boy, and Unbob took the girl by the hand, and together they moved off in the direction of Cleese's office.
~~~
Ephraim finished examining the children and approached Call and Mosby. He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes tiredly.
"They'll be just fine physically. Their wounds are superficial. Though I can't help but wonder what this has done to them emotionally. Why would anyone do this?"
Call glanced at the children. "Looks like someone used them for target practice. This wouldn't have nothin' to do with them damn miners you brought into town, would it, Mosby?"
"They're not miners," Clay snapped. "They work for the railroad."
"Well, you better hope they're not on the reservation. They get Red Crow all riled up, could be hell to pay."
"I'm fully aware of the possible consequences, Call. And if you're such good friends with the man, why don't you talk to him?"
"I intend to, providin' it's not already too late." Call stormed past him to the door.
"Now, hold on, Call, it might be best if we all rode out there together . . . ," he suggested to Call's retreating back. Mosby bristled.
Oh, what was the use? The hair-shirt stubbornness of the man! Couldn't he just once support the team effort? He motioned Zeke over. "I thought I told you to see to it that Higgins and his men headed straight back to Miles City."
"Well, Mr. Mosby . . ." Zeke's voice trailed off as he searched for something to say.
"Well, what? I won't hear any excuses. You were to escort them to the county line. Can't you men follow a few simple directions?"
"We did just what you said; they must have doubled back," Zeke protested feebly.
Mosby glared at him. "Well, you'd better hope they're not out there stirrin' up trouble. I don't want any further bloodshed. Go get the others."
Outside they turned their horses in the direction of the reservation and rode hard, already afraid of what they were going to find.
~~~
Early winter twilight deepened to purple as Mosby and his deputies headed north. A solitary plume of smoke could be seen rising above Bitter Creek where it crossed the southern boundary of the reservation. Mosby held up his hand, and the company halted. They dismounted, and he instructed them quietly. "These men are to be dealt with as peacefully as possible. Do you understand me? A gun battle could bring Red Crow down on our heads in short order, that is, if the smoke hasn't alerted him already. You men spread out and make sure you keep out of sight. Wait for my signal before you make your move. We'll have them surrounded before they know we're here."
A roaring bonfire burned on a sand bar in the middle of Bitter Creek. As they drew closer, they saw Higgins and his men with shovels in hand, poking about in the icy stream and scraping at the ground around the fire. They hadn't noticed that they had company.
Clay watched as his men moved noiselessly through the trees. He caught sight of Call almost hidden behind a large boulder across the creek. The two men stared at each other for a moment, then Mosby gave Call an almost indiscernible nod, and a silent resolve passed between them. Clay drew his revolver and stepped out into the open. His men followed suit.
The noise of the running water was in their favor. By the time the miners heard them and looked up, they were surrounded. Seeing the gun force around them, Higgins' men stopped all activity and slowly raised their hands. Higgins stood stony-faced staring at Mosby.
"Get their gun belts," Mosby commanded. "You don't look happy to see me, Jack. Frankly, I'm more than a little surprised to find you here. You've no business on this property, and you know it. You're trespassin'."
"I told you before, Mosby, I aim to have the gold. And you're not going to stop me." Higgins glared balefully at Clay, his hand hovering near his holster.
Mosby's finger tensed on the trigger of his Remington. He waited for Higgins to make the next move.
Just then, Call stepped out of the trees, his Peacemaker trained on Higgins. "Drop that gun belt nice and slow, Mister; shame to have to kill you over somethin' that ain't even yours."
Higgins whirled as he drew and leveled his weapon at the man standing behind him.
Call fired, the bullet piercing Higgins' gun hand. Higgins dropped to his knees, clamping his good hand over the wound. Blood spurted between his fingers.
Mosby swore under his breath. He had hoped gunplay wouldn't be necessary. "Now then," he called out as he holstered his weapon, "There's been enough unpleasantness, wouldn't you agree? You men pack up your gear and get back on your horses. Help him," he directed, indicating Higgins. "You'll be leavin' this place just as you found it, and you'll be forgettin' you were ever here. Am I makin' myself perfectly clear?" He barked orders to his men. "Get that damn fire put out."
Call crossed across the creek to help with the removal of the men and their paraphernalia. They were interrupted when a line of mounted Indian braves appeared in silhouette at the top of the rise.
In the growing darkness, Red Crow alone rode slowly down to the company. He stopped before Call and Mosby and held up a hand in greeting. Call returned the salutation. The firelight flickered across Red Crow's handsome, strong-featured face as he addressed them. "They are here for the gold."
Call nodded. "They were just leavin'. They won't be botherin' you again."
Red Crow regarded them solemnly. "How many more will come?"
"I am afraid there will be others," predicted Mosby.
"Your government gave us this land," the Lakota chief began. "They said it would be ours. And now they will take it away. It is like everything else they have told us. Their words mean nothing. Lakota are men, but the White ways are not our ways. The Whites come; they are many, with their pointed irons tearing up the earth, their fences, and their lodges that can't be moved. Soon my people will have no land to call their own. We will find ourselves with no place to build our lodges, no place where our women and children may sleep. You have killed the buffalo. We are hungry. My people are melting away like snow in the sun, while your people are growing like the spring grass."
Red Crow looked out over the assembly, his face devoid of emotion. Then he turned his horse and rejoined his band. They rode away into the night.
~~~
Clay Mosby was dining alone the next evening at the Dove when Mattie came in. Clay motioned her over. "Join me won't you, Mattie?" He stood and pulled out a chair for her. "Might I say you're lookin' particularly lovely this evenin'?" he drawled easily as he seated her.
"You can say it, but that don't mean you mean it," Mattie responded with a soft smile on her lips.
"Mattie," Clay reproached her, "you wound me deeply." He placed his hand over his heart in mock sorrow. "I am in earnest, I assure you."
Mattie grinned and answered, "I'll just call Mary Ann over and order somethin' to eat. That is why I'm here."
After Mary Ann left their table, Mattie broached the subject most on their minds that evening. "I checked on the Indian kids. Dr. Cleese says they're gonna to be all right. Call's takin' them out to their village tomorrow."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it," Clay replied with genuine concern. "I wonder what happened to their folks."
Mattie looked at him sadly. "Dead, I suppose. Otherwise, I expect they'd of come lookin' for 'em."
"Hmmm, yes, you're probably right." Clay took a sip of his after- dinner coffee. He was silent for a moment; then he continued.
"Josiah seems to be improvin'."
"Josiah's gonna be fine, Clay. He don't hold you responsible for what happened. He told me so himself."
Clay sighed. Recent events had left him feeling somewhat dispirited. "How'd I ever end up in this one-horse town, Mattie? Why do I stay here?"
Mattie wondered about her own reasons for staying in Curtis Wells. She had often asked herself the same question. "Because it's our home now, I guess. That's why we stay."
"I wish people understood my vision, what I am trying to accomplish here."
Mattie smiled. She reached over and covered his hand with her own. "I know Clay; I do."
Clay squeezed her hand and smiled back at her warmly." Thank you, Mattie. It's good to know someone believes in me." Then he leaned back in his chair to enjoy his coffee.
~~~
Call sat beside Josiah's bedside. Josiah's wound was healing nicely, and his mind was clearer than it had been for some time. He dozed intermittently.
Call picked up the picture of Hannah in her wedding dress from the stand next to Josiah's bed.
Josiah opened his eyes and saw him looking at it. "Hannah rests with the angels now, Newt. May her spirit find peace."
He looked closely at the younger man's face and saw the fresh pain his words had inflicted. "Sometimes you have to leave the past behind, Newt. You can't run from the ashes. You have to rebuild on the ashes." When Call didn't respond, Josiah continued. "We'll see her again someday. That's what the good book says. It's all right here; you should read it." He patted the worn Bible lying on the coverlet.
Call glanced at the book, then back at Hannah's smiling visage. As always, he yearned to take her in his arms one more time. Call didn't know if he believed in heaven, but the road he was on was leading him straight to hell. And he knew it. Gazing at Hannah's picture, the words Ida Grayson had spoken over her husband's grave nearly three years before came back to him with startling clarity.
"I will never say goodbye to you. I know I will see you again. Until then, my heart will ache. And in my soul you will remain till the day I die."
~~~
"I have carried a heavy load on my back ever since I was a boy. I learned then that we were but few while the white men were many, and that we could not hold our own with them. We had a small country; their country was large. We were contented to let things remain as the Great Spirit made them. They were not, and would change the rivers and mountains if they did not suit them. We were like deer; they were like Grizzly bears."
Chief Joseph
The End
12/2001
Author's Notes:
In response to politicians, settlers, miners and others, the United States launched a shameful but successful campaign to clear the West of all of its original inhabitants.
Some historians believe 700,000 Native Americans died in the Nineteenth Century western expansion. Many died in battle or in massacres, though most died of disease, starvation or exposure during forced marches to new reservations.
