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American History :
1. The Rivers of Wind (Popo Agie
Time) – Chapter Five
Etruscans : The Forgotten Heavens -
Chapter One, few pages
THE
RIVERS OF WIND
(Popo Agie Time)
by May Ionnes Cherry (nom
de plume of Mariangela Cerrino)
Translation
by Emilia Anna Cianci with
Steve Dinges
Preface:
It
is May of the year
To
Ray, who was born in humble circumstances near
The young man hesitates to return Liza's
feelings --- he knows himself well, and fears his hearing of "the call of
the Wild" might come between himself and the young woman. Torn by
indecision, he hesitates too long . . .
The wagon-train stops for supplies at
But, the day after the dance, as Ray is waking up from one of the more
memorable drunks of his young life,St.
Clair comes to him with an unexpected offer: There is a man in the general
store, about Ray's age but slightly taller and blonde, who has apparently given
great offense to St. Clair.
Enough offense for him to offer Ray 50
dollars, in gold . . . to kill a man he's never met, in cold blood . . .
Chapter 5 - A Job Well-Done
"Kill him." Ray muttered the words to himself, under his
breath, tasting their strange nature, a nature wholly alien to himself ---- the man he was, the life he'd lived, and what
he liked to think he stood for. He murmured it again; "Kill him."
Kill him?
He
certainly knew the word, was well aware of its meaning, but the act of grasping
the concept was made difficult by a thousand other ideas whirling in his mind,
thoughts that had nothing to do with the contemplation of such a sanguinary
act. The fact that he was still drunk, shading into a hangover, from the night
before, wasn't helping, either.
Liza; her light-grey eyes, like ashes, the way she moved in
her light cotton summer-dresses, her habit of brushing her lips with a finger
when she was lost in thought. The warmth of her small hands,
and most of all the way he felt ten feet tall when she was at his side.
Had
there ever been anything else in his life that meant so much to him? Maybe he
was looking at it from the wrong way; wouldn't it be more correct to ask himself whether anyone had ever noticed he existed at all,
before Liza?
Ray rubbed his eyes again, and resumed his stroll toward the nearest log
cabin, trying to walk more-or-less in a straight line over the uneven ground
which had, after all, been open prairie for thousands of years before the fort
had been built. It was early evening; the sun had already vanished behind the
peaks of the faraway Tetons, and inside
Ray paused for a moment, also pretending to
admire the sunset, but in reality still trying to wrap his mind around the
enormity of the deed he was contemplating. Killing a man . . . why the Hell
should he be willing to do that for anyone, let alone for St. Clair, whom he
disliked in the first place, no matter how much money was involved ? He was a
trail boss, not an assassin . . .
He
ascended the front steps past the men and reached the door, standing in it for
a moment and surveying the interior of the store, which occupied a good half of
the cabin. In the other half there was a bar with a couple of tables, and some
rough-hewn benches along the side walls made from split logs, with the bark
still on the semicircular underside. Above them, on the walls, hung Indian
blankets woven from buffalo wool.
The
bar-keep had already lit the oil lamps, which hung at regular intervals from
the log rafters and bathed the space in a dim but cheery golden glow. In the
very center of the room, between the store and the
bar areas, stood a big iron pot-bellied stove. The
place smelled of leather and whiskey, and green wood.
"A beautiful place, a beautiful place, indeed," Ray murmured
to himself, drunkenly. "Ain't quite like the posadas I knew when I was younger, but pretty decent,
all-in-all."
He
failed to notice Cold Jobe and his brother Henry, who
along with Leland Patterson and a couple of the Malones
were sitting at a table off to one side, because the man he was looking for,
the man St. Clair wanted him to put six feet under, was standing in front of
the counter in the store.
The
man turned to look at him; he wasn't much taller than Ray, except maybe by a
hair. Didn't appear to be a hunter or fur-trapper, and certainly wasn't an
immigrant. He had fine, blonde hair that fell in wisps over his forehead, and
grey-blue eyes with which he proceeded to give Ray the once-over. Smiling an
inscrutable, knowing half-smile, he remarked, "You appear to be on a
rather fine bender, my friend."
And you do not appear to be armed, thought Ray. At least he had that
much in his favour, if he was really going to do this thing. Otherwise, he
leaned against the unlit stove, being basically too drunk to do much of
anything else.
The other man looked past him, into the shadowed corner of the bar.
"Pardon me --- I'm not in the habit of meddling in the affairs of others,
especially those I've just met, but right off-hand I'd say those gentlemen
appear to have some grudge against you."
Ray half-turned his head, glancing over his shoulder. The stranger was
probably playing the oldest trick in the book on him, but he decided to play
along, still feeling a bit woozy and not really wanting to leave the support
the stove offered him. He saw the Jobes rise and start toward him, with Leland Patterson in support.
"Mebbe so," Ray conceded. He was
turning it over in his foggy mind; there had to be some reason these fellows
were angry with him, but he couldn't for the life of him remember why.
"Looks like it might be the better part of valour for you to
clear-off for a while," offered the blonde man. Ray noted that he seemed
not to have found the item he wanted in the general store, and also that the
clerk behind the counter didn't seem all that eager to wait on him. In fact, he
had stepped off to the side, away from the saloon. Most likely, thought Ray,
he's just trying to make sure he's not in harm's way when this deal goes down.
Smart man . . .
Cold Jobe reached Ray first and spun him around and shoved him
backwards towards the corner of the counter. The blonde man had to step to one
side to avoid having Ray crash into him, and he turned to face the onrush of
the three men. Jobe noticed this, and, by way of
warning, bellowed "Don't go stickin' yer nose in where it don't belong, blondie!"
With
that, he hurled himself at Ray, attempting to land an overhand right, but Ray fortunately
saw it coming and took a half-step to the side, himself, and Jobe wound up punching the unyielding iron of the stove. He
cursed in pain, and Ray continued stumbling around, trying to find his balance,
and wound-up with his back turned when Henry Jobe
landed the next blow, which caught him in the kidneys and doubled him over.
Ray
collapsed onto the sawdust-strewn floor. Cold Jobe
had recovered, and fell on him anew, raining blows all over his head and torso.
When he paused, winded from the effort, his brother and Patterson took over,
kicking him savagely in the ribs.
"That'll be quite enough, gentlemen," came
the blonde man's voice from behind them. Jobe barely
raised his head and heatedly replied, "Damnit, blondie, I told you before this was
none o' yer concern . . ."
He
was answered by the cold click of the hammer being pulled back on a .58 calibre
buffalo rifle. The blonde man had retrieved it from the display behind the
counter in one swift leap and reach, startling the clerk so much that he, too,
now stood over in the corner with his hands in the air.
Ray
put a hand to his forehead, where he was bleeding profusely where one of the
blows had rent the skin for an inch or so. Indeed, his entire face was covered
in cuts and scrapes, and was swollen and reddening from the severe beating it
had just taken. He couldn't see very well, now; the lanterns in the rafters all
seemed to be swaying to-and-fro, and Ray felt a wave of nausea rising from the
pit of his stomach.
Cold Jobe stood up, and took wicked satisfaction in dealing Ray
one last solid kick to the ribs. Ray screamed in agony. Jobe
turned to the man holding the rifle, a dark, ominous expression on his face,
and chortled, "As you wish, blondie . . . but
it'd be better for you if you hadn't gone to meddlin'
. . .". He let the implied threat hang in the
now-still air of the tavern-cum-dry-goods store.
Jobe jestured to the others to
back off, and Ray tried to scuttle away on all-fours. He knew full-well that he
and the man he'd come to kill had precious little time to make their exit, and
the man couldn't very well help him walk away while still keeping the rifle
trained on the Jobes and Patterson. He managed to
crawl out the door; there was nobody on the porch or the steps anymore, and it
was dark. Once Ray was in the clear, the blonde man de-cocked the big rifle, layed it on the counter before the still-goggle-eyed clerk,
and followed Ray outside. He somehow heaved the near-helpless
The
blonde stranger took the painter hanging from the bridle of Ray's horse,
mounted the other one, grasped the reins, gingerly put the spurs to his mount
to get it moving, leading the other horse a couple of paces behind. They passed
out of the front gate of the stockade. Ray was surprised by the quiet outside
the fort after the din of the brawl in close quarters; his mind was clearing,
though he still felt sick to his stomache. He closed
his eyes as the other man led them away --- he felt as though an entire herd of
bison had been stampeded over him. When he drew breath, the pain in his chest
grew sharper, and he had to breathe slowly and carefully. He closed his eyes
and let himself be carried away into sleep.
************************
When Ray awoke, he found that at least his mind was clear, now, apart
from a dull ache that seemed to come from the very back of his skull. But his
throat was parched, and his lips still hurt him badly if he gave them the
slightest twitch. He rolled over carefully on his side and finally opened his
eyes; the light of a day already well-begun shone down through a cleft in the
rock above, spreading its rays in a fan-shaped pattern on the ground, and he
realized he was in a cave.
He
was lying on a bed of light-coloured sand, near the ashes of a now burned-out
fire in the middle of the space. Through another cleft in the rocky vault he
glimpsed a streak of bright blue sky, partially obscured by some overhanging
brush. From outside the mouth of the small cavern came the sound of running
water, and Ray could also detect the distant gurgling of a subterranean stream
from somewhere far behind him in the inky blackness of the interior.
He
pushed himself slowly and gingerly to a sitting position, feeling the sand
beneath his palms and the roughness of the saddle-blankets on which he was
lying. A short distance away, off to one side, he saw two saddles, more
blankets, a large canvas bag, and two rifles. A shadow appeared in the entrance
to the cave; Ray shaded his eyes from the glare, trying to discern the identity
of the intruder.
Seeing that Ray was awake, the shadow remarked, "You have a couple
of broken ribs. Nothing serious, at least nothing that time won't mend."
"Who the heck're you?"
"The name's Martin --- Dave
Martin."
Ray craned his head backward on his shoulders, still trying to get rid
of the pain in his back. Now he remembered; the brawl in the tavern/store, the Jobe brothers, and the blonde man who had intervened on his
behalf.
Then he remembered St. Clair, and the errand on which he had sent him .
. .
Ray slipped a hand into the pocket of his
"You the one who patched me up?" asked Ray, quietly.
Martin nodded, not stopping in his work, gradually adding larger and
larger twigs, then branches, and finally a couple of small logs as Ray watched
him. Soon he had a cheery blaze going, and set a pot on the fire to make
coffee.
"You do good work, mister."
Martin regarded him with some slight amusement, and a little half-smile,
the same one he had worn the night before, when remarking on Ray's intoxicated
state. "I should --- I'm a doctor."
Ray was flummoxed. "A doctor? Out
here?"
Martin chuckled, and the smile broadened slightly. "What's the
matter? Haven't you ever seen a doctor before?"
Ray shook his head, but affirmed, "Yeah, but not very many, and
never one that looked like you, I reckon." Martin grinned, both at the
compliment and its tenor.
"Where are we?" Ray knew the
Martin answered, looking around appreciatively and gesturing at the rock
walls all around them, "In the Popo Agie, the Sinks. Here many stream-waters vanish
underground. The Shoshone People say that one of the Four Spirits of the Earth
has his dwelling in this place."
Ray digested this new information, but made a gesture to halt Martin in
his narrative. "It's a fine place, right-enough, but . . . what I still
can't figure is what's a feller like you, educated feller, doin'
way out here?"
"In this cave, you mean? Well, for one thing, it provides excellent
shelter. It's dry, and the entrance is away from the prevailing wind. For
another, I really couldn't manage to go much farther, with you in your condition.
You fell from the horse twice, and getting you back in the saddle by myself was no laughing matter."
Ray was astonished, although that wasn't the answer to the question he
was really asking. "Wait a minute . . . you sayin'
I fell from a horse? Twice? Me? I was practically born
in the saddle!"
Martin seemed to put little stock in
Ray's mind turned to the presence of the fifty-dollar gold-piece in his
pocket, and the reason it was there in the first place. His curiousity
aroused, he asked Martin, "Pardon me for askin',
but I'm wonderin' just what it is that's come between
you and St. Clair."
Martin looked up sharply, surprised at the sudden turn of the
conversation, perhaps, but he had to admit that he was himself curious about a
similar issue regarding Ray, namely what he had done to engender such enmity in
the Jobes and their crowd. Not that it took much to
arouse the ire of that group of notoriously dim-witted and animalistic frontier
thugs, but Martin nonetheless couldn't help but wondering how it was that the
other man apparently had such a severe beating "coming to him", if
indeed he did, at all.
"How's that?" he answered, as if he hadn't quite heard
the question arightly.
Ray
shifted his position a little, sitting a little more upright. His face wore a
pensive expression. "Well, dunno for sure, but
it seems to me that you coulda had a darned-good life
by joining-up with St. Clair's outfit. But, you also strike me as the kinda man who doesn't go for playin'
second fiddle to anybody, and you knew that if you were going to play St.
Clair's game, it'd be by St. Claire's rules, too, and you wouldn't go for
that."
Martin considered this, somewhat surprised at the perspicacity of the
rough-spoken young Texan's observations, but impressed, nonetheless at their
accuracy. He said, "You know there was a wagon-train through here, right
before yours?"
Ray nodded. "Sure; that would've been McQuary
leading it. Good man, from what I knew of him."
Martin continued, "Yes, I believe that was his name. Anyway, after
his outfit passed through here, some of the settlers' cattle came up missing. McQuary sent word back to St. Clair at the fort, asking him
if he knew anything about it. St. Clair replied that McQuary
could obtain the return of the missing livestock by meeting him at the
fort." He paused, his eyes fixed on some faraway point beyond the mouth of
the cave, out in the seemingly-infinite expanses of the
Martin turned back to
Ray closed his eyes in a long blink and shook his head, remembering McQuary as a decent, honest man. Shot down like a dog . . .
"Doesn't seem like he profited much from his hurry. Didn't get away far
enough, or fast enough. You there when the deal went
down?"
"I was, indeed. St. Claire was taunting McQuary,
basically rubbing his nose in the fact that he could do nothing about anything
without St. Clair's say-so. McQuary quickly decided
he'd had enough of this, and grabbed his rifle out of the scabbard hanging from
his saddle. Managed to get it cocked, but he wasn't fast enough --- several of
St. Clair's men were witness to all this, including Rawlins. They had the drop
on him, and that was that."
Ray sighed a knowing, world-weary sigh.
"I'll bet they all put it around that it was 'self-defense',
too . . ."
Martin's expression filled in all that he had left unsaid. "No
doubt it was," he remarked cynically.
Ray cocked his head to one side and asked, "So, what exactly is St.
Clair's game with the settlers? What does he get out of all this?"
Martin answered, "For one thing, he wants cheap labour. When a
wagon-train rolls into the fort, he starts out by 'giving' the people a lot of
provisions --- tools, dry goods, and the like. But then he hands them the bill,
which is, of course, absurdly high, even for frontier rates, far from
civilization. Naturally, the 'cost' of all the supplies is much more than the
settlers can afford, so he suggests they remain with him around the fort, to
'work off their debt' ."
He
paused, and his face took on an expression as though he'd bitten into some
rotten food; "It's like indentured servitude, although 'peonage' would be
a more accurate term for it. The English used this tactic quite successfully to
enlarge their empire on these shores, back in colonial times, before we shook
off their chains. It was such a good deal --- for them, at least --- that they
attempted to re-acquire the 'rights to the concession' in 1812." Martin smiled
a grim little smile. "But they finally got the message, that time, after
we 'explained it' to them in language they could understand."
Even
in his painful, brused and broken state, Ray couldn't
help chuckling at Martin's way of making his point. Matter of fact, he had even
known some greybeards back around
Martin regarded him archly, cocking an eyebrow. "Well, you know how
it is, out here on the frontier . . . sometimes their supplies just happen to
come up missing in the night, or their cattle, and that obliges them to return
to the 'refuge' of Fort Bissonette. Isn't it a
wonderful thing for them, that 'help' is so close at-hand
?" His voice had taken on a slightly bitter edge, to reinforce his
point all-the-more.
Ray, too, was outraged at this state of affairs, but wondered aloud,
"How can he get away with that? Wouldn't the territorial government look
into it, mebbe send the Army 'round here to have a
look-see?"
Martin was quick with the answer: "He can do anything he
damned-well pleases. Look around you -- the nearest large body of troops is
Ray
understood, and, satisfied that he now had a much more accurate picture of the
kind of man who'd tried to use him as a hired killer, returned to his original
line of inquiry. "I reckon that's so, but I'm still wonderin'
. . . how'd you wind up hereabouts? You bein' a
doctor and all, I mean --- seems like I'd be more likely to find you in some
big town, like St. Louis, or even one of the big fort-towns like Laramie,
'stead of out here in the middle of nowhere."
Martin's face showed a brief, rueful smirk, apparently directed at himself, then he turned serious again. "When I set out,
my original intention was to reach
"Were you entrapped by St. Clair, like what happened to McQuary's wagon-train?"
"Oh, no. Ran into something more
unexpected. Our party was just outside of
"How'd you do with it, then? With the measles, I mean?"
Martin shrugged and sighed. "Some fared better, some not so well.
That was two Winters ago; I spent a Summer with them
on what they call the Greasy Grass, high-plains country. I guess it was their
way of paying me back for helping save those that I could, although I neither
expected nor desired anything from them. The second Winter
was much harder, and I was obliged to hole up at
Ray
nodded. "Winter's no picnic in
He
reached into his pocket, withdrawing the $ 50 gold-piece and flinging it on the
sand between them. "There. You know what that is?" Martin looked at
him strangely, cocking his head to once side. "That's how much St. Clair
values your life."
Martin continued staring at him, still not comprehending.
"It's the price he put on your head," Ray repeated.
"Apparently he took me to be the kind of man to be a hired killer. When I
came into the store, it was you I was looking for."
"To kill me?"
"Yep. How was I to know what the real story was? I was
too drunk and angry to be concerned with the truth." Ray shook his head
ruefully, thinking of what he might have done, had he been a little more sober.
Comprehending at last, Martin pondered this startling bit of
information, then chuckled. "So . . . your
friends actually did me a favour, by beating you up ?"
Ray snorted in derision. "Oh, yeah, 'my buddies' . . . you know the
saying: 'With friends like that, who needs enemies?' The only good thing I can
see that's come of all this is that St. Clair's gonna
be pissed-off like Hell with 'em. They screwed up the
whole damned deal."
Martin eyed him quizzically, and chuckled
again. "Well, suh, that may not be the only
thing 'good thing' --- I'm a pretty fair hand with a rifle or a pistol, and it
was pretty obvious you couldn't even stand up without hanging on to the stove.
In that particular fight, if it had indeed happened, I wouldn't have layed any money on you being the victor." His tone of
voice was ironic, but friendly nonetheless, and seeing the truth of the
doctor's observation made him feel like laughing.
Martin
poured them each a cup of coffee, and playfully raised his tin cup in a mocking
"toast" to Ray's "good fortune". Ray returned the gesture
with a smile, but his expression quickly changed to a frown of distaste when he
took a sip of the coffee. He peered into the cup of dark liquid doubtfully, then looked up at Martin.
"Dave, you're a fine doctor, and I'm living proof, but I gotta tell ya --- this coffee
stinks, y'know?"
Copyright by May Ionnes Cherry * (Mariangela
Cerrino)
(Ee-da-how)
by May Ionnes Cherry (nom
de plume of Mariangela Cerrino)
English
Translation by Emilia Anna Cianci
and Steve Dinges
Chapter Two:
Ray was trying to provoke Martin, get any
kind of reaction out of him, about the openings at the stage-line.
"It ain't no 'lousy'
job. What's so lousy about it? I suppose you'd rather still be sittin' cooped-up inside four walls, with an endless stream
of folks comin' to tell you what ails 'em. This way, we'd get to be out in the great wide-open and
have a regular paycheck, to boot! "
Martin shrugged; he wasn't in the mood to take the bait. The confines of
the city made him both restless and circumspect.
The city seemed, at least temporarily, a welcoming place, especially
after their recent sojourn in the wide open spaces of
Ray wasn't completely immune to the charms of civilization, either,
though he, like Martin, loved the vast, untamed expanse of the territories
above all else. Even though it was a cold November day, with a biting wind that
cut to the bone, Ray could have spent hours just wandering up and down
He paused to study his reflection in the frosted glass of a storefront
and grinned. "Damn, I'm handsome!", he said
aloud, thinking of what his luck might be with the ladies of the town.
Martin answered, "Sure you are . . . but, since you're so eager
about the new jobs, we'd better go straightaway and check this place out."
Martin saw life through different eyes, as Ray understood quite well.
Martin seemed at home everywhere, and yet no one place had any hold over him.
He seemed to perfectly grasp a situation before he had even fully entered it. Almost clairvoyant, and certainly mystical.
One of these days, Ray was sure he'd find the secret to his friend's seeming omniscience, but for the moment what
concerned him most was that he and Martin get to the appointed place as soon as
possible and get out of this God-awful, freezing wind. Having recovered from
his brief episode of self-admiration, he now urged Martin to pick up the pace,
and wished he'd been more forceful in trying to persuade his companion to head
further south, like maybe
At last they made it to the office and hurriedly shut the door behind
them. It was a simple, almost bare room, except for a big old cast-iron
potbellied stove in the middle, around which perhaps a dozen men clustered,
rubbing their hands and holding them out to absorb the welcome radiance of the
fire within. In the further wall was a single closed door, apparently leading
to a smaller, more private chamber. Ray's glance fell upon a poster next to the
door. He read it eagerly, glad to see it confirm that
at least he and Martin were in the right place:
LEAVENWORTH AND PIKE'S PEAK EXPRESS CO.
DRIVERS AND ESCORTS WANTED
Preferrably
Unmarried
Ray pointed to the last line and turned to Martin. "Hey, Martin . .
. what the Hell you think they mean by that? 'Preferrably unmarried'."
Martin fixed Ray with his usual laconic stare, but there was a hint of a
grim smile at the corners of his mouth.
"Well, suh, that's so if you buy the
farm, they don't have to worry about your widow coming around trying to collect
your fee as some sort of death-benefit."
At that, the whole assembly snorted and guffawed, partially at Ray's
seeming green-ness but more so at the truth of Martin's succinct summation of
one of the grim realities of the trade they were about to enter.
Most of the men were probably there just for the warmth and cameraderie, either too young or too old for the
occupations advertised, but there were four or five who might be considered
"the competition". Ray spied the one remaining vacant chair and
settled into it, while Martin stood at the window looking at the sky through
the top half, over the coloured paper obscuring the lower portion. The dark,
low-ceilinged clouds promised snow, and soon.
A chilly gust of wind rattled the shutters of the building across the
street.
Finally, the door to the small, inner office opened and all heads turned
toward the sound . . . except for Martin's. This aroused the curiousity of Mr. John S. Jones, the man who had appeared
in the office door. He glanced around the room, spotted Ray, and gave him a
curt nod.
"Come in", he commanded.
At that one of the waiting men stood up and burst out "What the
Hell? I was here first!"
Jones fixed him with a steely glare, and his
hand strayed to the butt of the .44 Colt Dragoon on his hip.
"That'll be for me to decide."
Ray rose and sidled past the man who had objected, tipping his Stetson
good-naturedly. "Pardon me, hombre' --- no offense
intended." The other man muttered some sort of imprecation under his
breath, but raised no further ruckus.
"Score another one for the kid," thought Ray, who entered the
office, followed closely by Martin. Martin immediately closed the door behind
them and leaned back against it. In addition to Jones, there was another man in
the room, seated behind a tall desk made of handsome, dark oak. In contrast to
Jones, who wore the simple, durable clothing (including the ever-present
"big iron" in its holster) common on the frontier, the other man wore
a beautifully-tailored black frock coat, a string-tie with a large silver
slide, and a broad, flat-brimmed black hat. He didn't speak, but merely glanced
at Ray, then Martin, with the nervous energy of the riverboat gambler he
resembled.
For his part, Jones gave them a little half-smile, which was about as
close to "friendly" as he ever got. "Thought it over, did ya, Ray?" He turned to the man at the desk. "Ray
worked for me on the
"How come he left us?" The man behind the desk glanced at Ray,
his darting eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"No trouble, if that's what you're thinkin'."
Jones turned back to Ray; "Ray, this here's Will Russell, chairman of the
company. We're openin' a line to
Ray shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and grinned. "Pannin' for gold gets kinda
boring after a while . . . 'specially if'n it don't
pay."
"You been pannin' ?"
"Fer a spell."
" ' Round
Ray nodded again, and his grin broadened. " So
that's why you're lookin' to put in a
stage-run!"
"Pree-cisely. Fella's gotta be lookin' ahead, if he wants to make a buck."
Jones glanced at Martin. "He'd be ridin'
shotgun, y'say? That's funny, 'cause you've always
been the one for guardin'. How come he's the man for
that, now, 'stead o' you?"
Ray playfully shaped his thumb and forefinger into a "pistol",
then "fired" it by dropping his "cocked" thumb.
Jones raised his eyebrows, an amazing show of surprise, for him. "Y'ain't sayin' he's a better shot
than you are . . .?"
"What if I am?" Again, the impish shrug.
Jones found Ray's remarks to be both provocative and intriguing. Ray
wasn't a gunfighter, per se, and Jones knew as much, but he had the reputation
for being one, whether he liked it or not. His lighthearted
acknowledgement that Martin might be his superior in that regard left Jones
surprised and bemused.
"Y'mean . . . with a
rifle, right?"
"Didn't say
that."
Martin seemed unwilling to join the conversation, either to say
"yea", or "nay" to Ray's implied endorsement. Jones turned
his attention to him now, studying him closely.
"Can you read and write?"
"Sure."
"Where'dya learn?"
"Here
and there."
Martin seemed hostile and
defensive, so Jones dropped the background questions, at least for the moment.
He took a Remington off the wall. It was a fine piece of workmanship,
well-kept, but of much lighter calibre than the ones Martin and Ray were
accustomed to using against bear and elk, almost as light as a Kentucky rifle,
though not as long. It was also much newer than anything they'd carried in a
while.
"Let's see whatcha can do with this ---
keep in mind that a coach is usually movin' when you
have to use one o' these." He nodded in the direction of a side-door out
of the office and motioned for Martin to follow. It was an unusual thing to do,
even for a man like Jones, who had his own ideas of what constituted a proper
"interview". Even Russell looked a little worried; Jones had just
insinuated that Martin might be illiterate, and Ray had known plenty of men who'd
take oggense at such a suggestion. Very grave oggense, indeed, and here Jones was about to hand him a
loaded rifle . . .
But Martin simply took the
Remington and preceded Jones through the doorway. He found himself in a small
courtyard, sheltered by a tall fence that had fallen down on one side. A small
ditch ran though it, and on the far side of it was a woodshed. The light was
growing dimmer, and the wind now cut into the skin with thin needles of frost.
Martin raised the rifle to his
shoulder and stood there abstractedly for a moment, as though his mind was far
away, and concerned with a completely different issue than the matter at hand.
Martin looked over at Jones while still holding the rifle to his
shoulder. "Have you anything in particular in mind?"
Jones replied impatiently, almost with a note of exasperation in his
voice, "Just hit the woodshed --- Hell, go for
the post holdin' up the roof, if you feel up to
it." He averted his eyes from Ray's stare, finding the latter's seeming
over-confidence to be disconcerting, even offensive in some indefinable way.
What manner of man was this unknown Virginian? Someone with an education,
certainly, perhaps even a doctor . . . but, if so, what was he doing out here
in
Without any apparent further aiming, Martin fired. A burst of splinters
flew from the exact spot Jones had indicated, where the post met the roof over
the front porch of the little building. Jones raised his eyebrows in
appreciation of Martin's handling of the fine little light rifle, but said
nothing to this unexpected display of skill from Ray's friend. Apparently, this
was not the first time he'd handled a rifle --- whatever else Jones might think
of Martin's manner, that much was for certain!
Ray casually lowered the rifle and made as if to move on to some other
matter. "Can you see that well enough from here, or would you like to
inspect the impact at close quarters?"
Unobserved from behind them, Russell had been watching, also, from the
doorway. He now spoke up --- "You'll be making the inaugural journey
tomorrow. Come on back in."
They all walked back in, glad to once more be out of the chilly gale
blowing from the northwest. As Martin layed the
Remington on the desk, Russell took him by the arm, to have a word with him.
Martin bristled at what he regarded as an inappropriate over-familiarity of
manner, but he was willing to hear Russell out.
"Jones vouches for
Apparently satisfied, now that he'd made his "company policy"
speech, Russell asked, "Do you have accomodations
in town?"
Martin regarded Russell coldly, bridling again at the latter's
insinuation that he and Ray were mere homeless, penniless drifters, unable to afford
lodgings, but he managed to keep a civil tongue in his head. "We're
staying at the Beaver Sands."
Ray new his friend very well, from long experience, and could tell that
Martin was on the verge of either walking away from the job, or exploding with
rage, or both, in the next minute or so, if Ray didn't step in and smooth
things over a little bit. He chimed in, "We've only been here two days,
barely long-enough to get settled in."
Russell answered, "Well, you need to move over to the Pike's Peak
Hotel --- that's going to be our station on this end of the line. You'll get
room and board there when you're in town, and the same applies to the other
end, in
Martin turned on his heel without breathing so much as a word and headed
for the door.
Jones was still mystified, and a little angry at Martin's taciturn manner.
"That partner o' yours ain't real talkative, is
he, Ray?" He shot
But Russell seemed unconcerned. "I like 'em
better that way. Let's see another pair."
The heavily-built man who had complained before was already at the door
of the office, determined not to be displaced this time. Ray grinned
ingratiatingly and nodded encouragement, having no desire to get into a scuffle
now that they'd landed the job --- "company policy", he chuckled to
himself --- and bolted for the door. Once outside, he could see that Martin was
already halfway down the street, and he nearly broke into a run trying to catch
up.
It was Ray's turn to be miffed. "Now, just what
in the Hell's gotten into you?"
"Nothing."
"Well, I've known you long enough to know it ain't
'nuthin' ', and I'm
guessing you're thinkin' this is all a little beneath
your station, as it were. How come you didn't tell 'em
you're a doc?"
"Can you explain to me why a doctor would want to be a hired-gun on
a coach-line? Well, I didn't think I could explain it to them, either, and I'm
not really sure I can explain it to myself."
Ray shrugged. "It ain't a bad job, y'know . . ."
"As you've already said, several times."
They had reached a point in the street in front of the Beaver Sands. Ray
stopped and stood silent for a moment. One thing was certain:
"I'm sorry," Ray said in a low voice, his eyes downcast, and
buried his hands deeper in his pockets. At that, Martin spun around; the
thickening snow-flurries were sprinkled liberally on his hair and face, giving
him the absurd look of some sort of glowering frontier frost-god, and it was
all Ray could do to avoid bursting out laughing.
Martin at last gave the least little bit of a smile, and exclaimed
"Don't be . . . we wanted a job, and now we have one!"
He turned and went into the Beaver Sands with Ray on his heels. They
packed up their belongings, checked out, and moved into the
Ray surveyed their new surroundings approvingly. "This place is
almost a royal palace, and best of all it's free, or at least included in the
deal."
Martin proceeded Ray downstairs into the small
dining room of the
She seemed a bit out-of-place, too, in her clothing, a deep blue formal
dress with a high, lace-trimmed collar. Her hair, light-golden like a field of
newly-ripened barley, flowed freely across the collar and down onto her
shoulders. She was a vision of perfect elegance, here on the edge of the wild
parts of
"See, Dave? I knew this line-o'-work would suit me!", he exclaimed. The girl raised her perfect, sky-blue
eyes at Ray's outburst, but immediately looked past Ray to Martin, who, with a
slight bow, requested leave of the lady to join her at the table. The girl
smiled at all of the attention, but agreed with a small nod.
Ray noted that her eyes had gone immediately to his friend and chuckled
knowingly, having seen this reaction before to the courtly, Southern ways of
the cultured Virginian; gals ate that stuff up. "He's quite the gentleman,
ain't he?"
At that moment they were joined by three more men, plus Russell and
Jones; the latter frowned in disapproval of Ray's forwardness of manner with
the young lady. "Now look-a here --- if you're so into chasin'
skirts, maybe this ain't the job for you, hoss."
It was Martin's turn to intercede before the situation got out of hand.
"Why do you not take a look around before speaking? If you would do so,
you would see that there are no other tables free at the moment."
Jones reddened perceptibly at this unexpected chastisement, and again
inwardly rued the day he had allowed Ray to talk him into bringing this
troublesome stranger on board with the stage-line. Ray, for his part, noted the
barest hint of an amused smile on the girl's beautiful lips, almost
imperceptible.
Russell saw a need to set a policy-precedent. He turned to Ray and Dave.
"From here on out, there'll be no more of the staff dining with the
passengers. You men will eat in the kitchen."
"But of course", replied Martin, softly, but with
unmistakeable sarcasm. "No need for the good citizens to be put through
the embarrassment of having to deal with the unwashed and the uncouth."
Russell shot him a brief look of amazement. Martin's tone of voice,
diction, and pronunciation revealed him as a man of far more culture and
education than Russell had previously suspected.
At that moment, the kitchen-door opened and the cook brought out large
pots of stew and beans. One of the three other men spoke up, addressing the
chairman --- "I'd expected something better in the way of
travelling-company for the inaugural journey. Instead, I find myself sharing a
room with the Agent for Indian Affairs for
Russell replied, "You're mistaking my function, Mr. Lawson. I have
the right to decide many things relating to the running of the operation, but I
can't pick and choose who I want for the journey, when they're all paying
customers." He meant it as a light-hearted remark, but no one around the
table was laughing.
Lawson, a powerfully-built, broad-shouldered, strong-armed man with
prematurely-grizzled hair falling over his brow, forgot his stew for the
moment. He had a harsh, weather-beaten face with ice-cold eyes, and he now
raised them for a long, hard look at Ray and Martin.
"But you could, and did, choose these two. Are we in good hands,
with them?"
Russell brightened a bit, still trying to re-inject some conviviality
into the dinner-table conversation. "Why sure . . . you think I'm going to
squander my starting-capital on second-rate hired-help? Ray Logan's a good
driver and a pretty fair hand with a gun --- he's worked with my man Jones
before."
Lawson shrugged, returning his attention to the plate of beef stew, but
remained openly skeptical. "I dunno --- all I can say is that I'm hoping they'll be able
to do something for-real when we get in a scrape, something more promising than
melting at the first skirt they see."
Ray bristled at this assessment of him and Martin, from a man to whom
they had only been just-introduced. "So that's the idea you have of us,
then?" Martin stiffened, watching for Lawson's reaction, but said nothing.
Lawson unconcernedly ate a spoonful of his stew. "Yep, I reckon
so." The girl seemed once again to be quietly amused, and not offended in
the least to be spoken-of as though she were not present at the table. Ray
thought to himself that meeting the girl was the only good thing that had
happened since they came downstairs for supper.
The man from the Bureau of Indian Affairs also regarded Ray and Martin
with curiosity, but said nothing. He was very conservatively dressed, but in an
unassuming way. In other circumstances, in a larger gathering, he wouldn't be
noticed at all.
Taking advantage of the momentary silence, the dealer-in-trinkets, a
dapper fellow named Artie Goldberg, turned to the Indian agent. "If what
they say is true, by next Spring the whole Pike's Peak
region'll be another
Not waiting for Cody's reply, Lawson interjected, "Oh, we'll tell 'em a few tales, as usual." A sinister grin crossed his
harsh features. "And by then there'll be a hundred-thousand more of us to
fight them." He raised his eyes to Martin, and Ray suddenly understood
that the two of them knew one another.
"Now, what I'm really curious about are your views on the matter .
. . Doctor Martin."
All eyes turned to Martin, except for Ray's and the girl's, both of whom
looked down, listening and staying out of whatever it was that was to come.
Russell broke the tense silence. He looked from Lawson to Martin, then
back again. "I take it you gentlemen are previously acquainted?"
Lawson answered, "Let's put it this way. I was there for the
signing of the Treaty of Horse Creek with the Oglala
Sioux. Red Cloud and his braves refused to even sit to talk until he
arrived." He indicated Martin with his thumb. "The Sioux call him
Yellow Head --- it seems he's got quite a bit of influence among the
savages."
Russell turned to Martin in amazement and suspicion. "It seems there's an awful lot of things you didn't tell us about
yourself, doctor."
"I don't recall your having asked me."
Ray spoke up. "I hope this doesn't change anything." He was
relieved to hear Jones say, "As far as I'm concerned, it don't." Maybe Jones' opinion of Martin was changing,
now that he understood his new employee was not some mere uneducated drifter.
Lawson continued, determined not to be side-tracked from his line of
questioning, now that he had Martin on the spot. "You seem to have an
awful lot of influence with the Indians --- just how much do you reckon you
have?"
The Indian Affairs agent interjected, finally breaking his silence,
"A lot. It's a shame the Army couldn't put it to good use, but then, they
could hardly regard Doctor Martin as an 'unbiased participant', where Indians
are concerned." He shot a meaningful look at the Virginian, and a
not-entirely-friendly one, at that.
Martin returned his stare, raising an eyebrow in disapproval of the government
man's attitude, as if remembering something distasteful. "I remember you,
Mr. Cody. If I am not mistaken, you were at Horse Creek, observing your
predecessor, a Mr. Laurell, I believe." He
turned to
Cody bristled; "Is that an accusation, then?"
Martin countered, with the barest tinge of sarcasm, though Ray could
tell his friend was very angry indeed, "How could it be? You've only just
now been appointed, if I'm not mistaken. You're still poor . . . but for how
long?"
Lawson by now was very interested and animated by this exchange, and his
raised voice drew attention from the diners at the other tables. "Perhaps
Mr. Cody has been too considerate in his assessment of you, Doctor Martin. Just
what does he mean by 'not unbiased' ?"
Martin moved his dish, which he had
hardly touched, to one side, in preparation to giving his answer. Ray,
transfixed, sat looking at his friend, his fork half-raised to his mouth, and
then looked over at Cody. Whatever had passed between the BIA man and the
doctor before, it was certain that this chance reunion did not bode well, for
any of them.
Martin looked around at his audience at the table, holding each one's
eyes in turn for a brief space, and then began. "Let us, for a moment, put
ourselves in the place of Mr. Russell and Mr. Jones. What is it that they
desire above all else? That their new stage-line should pass without
interference from one station to the next, bringing more and more people to the
territories."
Martin paused.
He now had the
attention of the entire dining room, and there was silence at the other
tables. There were nods of agreement all
around, even from Ray, though he wondered where his friend was going with all
of this, and the girl briefly raised her eyes to Ray's, perhaps thinking to
find there some explanation of what this was all about. But Ray could only
widen his eyes and give a small shrug of his shoulders, as if to say
"Don't ask me what he's up to --- I don't know, either!"
Martin continued, "With more
people comes an increase in commerce." Again, nods of agreement,
especially from Goldberg. "I am certain this is Mr. Goldberg's way of
thinking, and it's probably yours also, Mr. Lawson. From your point of view,
this is absolutely the correct way to regard this new venture of Misters
Russell and Jones, and your own presumed personal roles in the days to
come." Again, nods of agreement from around the table, though all regarded
Martin's observations as being rather obvious.
"Now, let us reverse
perspective, and consider the point of view of the Indians. They have allowed
the Whites to cross their lands freely, believing no ill would come of this, as
it is the Indian way of thinking that no man owns this Earth that we are on.
But the White Man has not merely travelled through the land, but has thrown-up
forts, smothered previously open lands with villages, and hindered the access
of all other living things to the rivers by putting farms along them."
"They have also taken to
the senseless, wanton slaughter of the buffalo, and have dug-up the prairies
and blasted the mountains in their quest for gold." He paused for effect.
"At the Treaty of Horse Creek, I was asked by the Sioux to give my word that these
practices would not continue."
"And you did not,"
interrupted Cody.
"I could not have
given my word, for it would not have been true."
Cody took umbrage at this,
though he couldn't deny the truth in what Martin was saying. "These
Indians do not deserve to be treated so scrupulously. They are mere savages,
and deserve no more than they are getting from us now."
Martin glared at him with
barely controlled rage, though he kept his tone civil, indeed almost lighthearted in its mockery. "Yeah,
right. You deserve to be hanged for that last statement, alone, aside
from any other such attitudes you may harbour. Thanks to 'enlightened' people
like you, the Indians have been cheated at every turn. When they realize the
way they've been defrauded , the result is that they
attack the first wagon-train they meet, or the first isolated house . .
.". He paused for effect, his voice icy, " . . . or the first
stage-coach, killing everyone aboard. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe us."
Jones exclaimed, "Hey, now . . . that's not funny!", though
he, too, knew all-too-well the truth of the doctor's words.
"Precisely. It wasn't my intention to be
humorous."
Russell silenced Jones with a
gesture and made a last-ditch effort at keeping the peace in what had become a
very acrimonious situation, indeed. "Perhaps Dr. Martin's exact
phraseology leaves something to be desired," ---- he shot a quick glance
at Martin, then continued --- "but the hazards of
the frontier are an undeniable fact of life, for all who travel here. I'm just
hoping that, if the Indians do attack one of our coaches, it'll be one where
he's riding-shotgun. Perhaps, with a man of his experience and influence, we'll
lose neither coach nor passengers."
There was laughter, but not from Lawson, or the girl, or Ray, and
certainly not from Dave Martin.
"Now, I'm sure
Doctor Martin, here, was just having a little fun with us --- ain't that right?" Russell looked at him sidelong,
expecting at least tacit agreement from his new employee.
"Maybe."
Ray knew from the way Martin was talking that he intended no joke at
all, and that there would soon be violence, if Russell or anyone else pushed
the matter . He glanced at Lawson, and at the girl. He
knew that they both understood, too, and that he had better say something
quick, before the situation deteriorated any further.
So, he turned the conversation to his
favourite subject, which was, of course, the girl. "Say, gentlemen . . .
no one has properly introduced us to the lady, here."
Jones responded, "The lady would be Alice Ferriday, and she'll be
travelling to
"Why, Mr. Jones, the way you make the introduction, you make the
poor woman out to be a criminal or something." He smiled his best smile at
Miss Ferriday ---- "I'm Ray Logan. Very pleased to meet you", and
gave her his hand across the table. She accepted his defence happily, and gave
her one of her own hands, small, warm, and lively. "I'm glad to know you,
Ray."
At that point Martin himself joined the conversation. "I beg your
pardon, Miss Ferriday --- I hope I haven't annoyed or offended you with my
little discourse on past doings between the Whites and Indians."
"Oh, no, not at all! I've heard a few
Indian tales, on occasions, and like them a lot. Many of them are quite
beautiful. Do you know any?"
Ever irrepressible, Ray chimed in, "I know a few Indian tales,
myself, mostly from the Shoshone."
The girl's eyes lit up, grateful for the timely distraction. She seemed
happy, like she was on a holiday, but, since she was dressed the way she was,
and Jones said she was headed for
Ray smiled again, leaning slightly forward but deliberately speaking in
a voice loud enough for everyone to hear him. "Been among 'em, you say? I married a Shoshone girl! A
wonderful, dark-haired girl who left me far too soon, sad to say. All
the tales I know, I learned from her, but I tell you this: I'm not really the
one for storytelling --- my friend Mr. Martin, here, can tell a tale much
better than I can."
The others were now listening in
curiosity, or maybe mild annoyance, but for Lawson this was all too much. His
eyes were wild in his head, and he looked as though he were about to explode,
but he said nothing, merely tightened his lips and looked away from Ray.
Taking his cue from Ray, Martin kept staring at Lawson, almost daring
him to say some thing or make a move. It was the first time in many moons that
Ray had spoken about Minee-ee, and that Ray would do
so just now, in front of strangers, at a tense moment like that, must have some
special meaning for him. He began the story, at first in a low voice, as if the
memories he was touching on were only his and Ray's, and the girl was the only
other one allowed to hear it, although everyone was listening closely by now.
"According to Shoshone legend, there is a hidden place. Only a
brave warrior, or a woman pure-in-heart, or a very powerful medicine-man can
hope to reach it, and then only once in a lifetime. In this place, the Four
Powers that rule the Earth, who are mingled in the One, become visible and bend
to hear the wishes of the mortal being who has been
able to enter their world."
The girl's eyes were half-closed, imagining the Spirit World Martin was
describing, and Ray was enjoying the tale, too; it was one he had never heard
before.
"The Four Powers are very mighty, and are not easy to reach or
communicate with. But in that place, the light dwells over the mountains both
night and day, the fields are unfenced and bountiful, the Summer
is warm, the Winter icy. The Spring is short, and the Fall is calm, and there
is Good in all things. The Children grow strong, and
their Elders teach them."
"The visitor can try to achieve an understanding with this place by
showing their face and their heart, with truthfulness of tongue and sincerity
of action. He or she can wait for the Four Powers to expel them from the land,
or they can bend to the ways of the place, and try to understand. Sometimes
strangers, too, are allowed to come to the secret place, where they may express
just one wish."
Martin fell silent, and around the table there was a profound hush.
Alice Ferriday opened her eyes, suddenly saddened not by what the words were
saying, but something in Martin's voice. She asked, "Does this place have
a name?"
Martin answered, "Among the Shoshone it is known as Ee-da-how, which means 'The Light on the Mountains'. What
we refer to as the
Lawson had heard
enough, and stood up abruptly. He turned to the company chairman and
complained, "I hope next time you'll arrange better company for the
journey, Russell --- the outfit's reputation is likely to suffer, if there's
any more of this going on." He indicated Ray and Martin with a small
inclination of his head in their direction.
Ray, who was enjoying Lawson's discomfiture on a very personal level,
exclaimed, "Now, why would that be? Didn't you enjoy my friend's
tale?" He was on dangerous ground, here; Lawson had made it very plain
that he didn't care for "Injun-lovers" of any kind, and especially
not for those who actually married Indians.
Alice Ferriday sensed immediately that there was a fight brewing between
the irascible Lawson and the newly-hired stage-coach driver who seemed so
smitten with her, and it scared her, so before Lawson could make a move or even
answer the implied challenge, she leaned toward Ray and intervened in the only
way she could. "I'd like to go out for some fresh air." Her eyes were
bright with fear, but it calmed her somewhat that Dave Martin, who also knew
quite well where things might be going, immediately rose and offered his arm to
her.
Taking his cue from the lady and his always more level-headed friend,
Ray let the matter drop and proceeded out the door of the Pike's Peak Inn ahead
of Martin and Alice. The weather had not improved; the wind howled, still
spitting tiny ice-crystals. Ever the gentleman, Martin adjusted the cloak on
Alice's shoulders, and for a while the three of them walked in silence along
the sheltered front porches of the businesses along the street, the glow of
whale-oil lamps acting somewhat to dispel the gloom and bluster of the early
winter evening.
They came to a crossroads, in the center of
which was a big mud-puddle. Ray and Dave glanced at one another, each reading
the other's thoughts, then they both playfully lifted
her up, on each arm, and carried her over the mud. This greatly amused
They had come to the front of a saloon, with music and voices filtering
out through its closed doors.
"Oh, come on, now, Miz Ferriday . . . you
can't really believe that'd be so! Why, I'll bet that back in the big city, you
practically had to beat 'em off with a stick!"
Ray tried to turn it into a joke, especially since he obviously did regard
"Take myself, for example. When I was a boy, I didn't think I'd
ever be able to read or write, or be much good for anything other than stealin' tortillas from the local cocina.
But, just look at me, today! Brand new job, headed for a brand-new land of
opportunity with my best buddy, and with a beautiful lady as one o' my
passengers!" He grinned his best boyish grin,
hoping that his clowning manner would take
It seemed to work.
"No ma'am, and that's a fact, for
sure."
The girl suddenly turned serious again, though. She leaned on both their
arms at the same time, looking from one to the other meaningfully. "Thank
both of you very much for a lovely evening. Thank you, Ray, for making me feel
like a human being again, and thank you, Dave, for making me feel like a
lady."
They turned back toward the
The barest hint of a smile came to Martin's lips. "And I suppose
you'll be helping them, then, in learning how to dispose of their new
wealth?"
Martin nodded knowingly, still smiling the little smile. "Who
knows? Perhaps you are, in a way, though I'm fairly certain Ray isn't the brave
warrior and I'm not the sage medicine-man, either. I wish you the best of luck,
Miss Ferriday." They had reached the doors of the Pike's Peak Inn. He took
her hands in his, and the girl rose up on the balls of her feet to kiss him on
the cheek, then turned to Ray.
"Mr. Logan, do you wish to escort a lady to her door this fine
evening?" Ray put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her slightly
towards him; somehow, she looked older than before, when her joyful, childish
smile had first captivated him. He kissed her on the mouth, but said, "Not
tonight. Maybe next time, Silver."
The next morning it was
colder still, well below freezing, and all of
The stable-boys had been up before the dawn, and now brought the new
coach-and-six around to the front of the inn. No one, not even Lawson, could
accuse Russell of having skimped on this most important aspect of the new line.
The coach itself was a magnificent dark-green affair, capable of carrying up to
nine passengers in its slightly-ovoid cabin, with plenty of room for not only
the passengers' baggage but also for a goodly amount of goods for trade on its
roof. The brass cargo-railing and other hardware glimmered cheerfully even in
the wan light of the grey, cold daybreak.
Ray took an appreciative and critical walk around the new vehicle,
twice, in fact, checking to see that all the hardware was in-order and the
harnesses fastened properly to the six magnificent horses. Satisfied, he
clambered up to the high driver's bench, where Martin was already in place, the
fine Remington in its weatherproof scabbard next to his knees.
Next came the hotel porters loading the baggage, and finally the passengers,
themselves ---- Jones, taking the inaugural journey to check the operations of
intermediate stations on the way, Lawson, silent, withdrawn, and bitter, Cody,
the Indian Affairs agent frivolously chatting away on inconsequential matters,
Goldberg, the dimunitive trader and his large trunks
of dealer-samples, and finally Alice Ferriday, in a large, dark travelling
cloak and deliberately wearing a sullen expression, as of one who suddenly
finds herself in disagreeable company.
A
few of the townspeople had gathered to see the coach off on its first run, the
early hour and the bitter cold notwithstanding, since this was by far the most
important thing to have happened in the frontier town in quite some time. A
pack of stray dogs were engaged in a scuffle nearby, spooking the horses, who
were snorting clouds of exhaled breath visible in the cold, dry air. Ray tried
the reins a bit, feeling their stiffness in the cold through his heavy leather
gloves. He pulled the reins a bit to the left, then to the right, trying to
gauge the mood of his charges and perhaps distract them a bit from the
dogfight.
He half-turned toward Martin; "Say, Dave, just how true is that
tale you told last night?"
"Which one?"
"You know --- the tale of 'the Light on the Mountains'
."
Martin smiled ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, and there was the
barest hint of a twinkle in his eye. "Well, it's not mine, that's for
sure. I heard it from Washakie --- you do remember him,
don't you?" Ray nodded, chuckling; Martin had helped Ray woo his beloved Minnee-ee from Washakie, all
those years ago. Ray certainly did remember him.
"So . . . I'm not the brave warrior in the tale, then?"
"Perhaps not, but then I may not be the powerful medicine-man,
either."
At this, Ray laughed loudly and cracked the fine, long, black coach-whip
in the air over the heads of the team. The magnificent coach jerked forward and
settled into a brisk pace, leaving behind the fighting dogs and leaving town
headed for the white-blanketed trail beneath the brooding, low, wind-driven
dark grey clouds.
Copyright by May Ionnes Cherry * (Mariangela
Cerrino)
(Etruscans)
by Mariangela
Cerrino
English
Translation by Alessandro Zabini
Chapter One – First book
First Page
Soon before sunset the sky
darkened all of a sudden.
Until then, the day had been fine
and almost too hot for that season; the wind ruffling up the honeysuckle's
twisted masses all around the wing of the Palace that, looking to the East, was
reserved to women.
Then, from the West, the clouds had
come.
"From the West, as ill
omen", Velvur murmured to himself, standing
still near the arch admitting to one of the inner yards, and pretending he was
unaware of the distress caused to the maids by the forthcoming occurrence and
by his presence there. He awed them and he scared them as much as the storm
near at hand, and even more than that.
The signs were ever the same. He had
read them the day before, sacrificing the last born ewe of the house, and he
did see them again now, in the clouds running fast and climbing to cover up
every scrap of blue, and every blaze of light in the sky.
Velvur did
feel the smell and the quivering of lightening raising in the air as a light
fever under the skin, an excitement that possessed him entirely, wringing him
away even from the reality of his thoughts, and dragging him to see different
things and different times.
"But not now", said Velvur to himself. "Not now."
One of Ramtha's
maidservants had come to him, but she did not dare to call him nor to made her presence felt, so she stood a few paces distant.
She seemed to look in his shadow for a shelter from what was lurking in the sky
hardly beyond the safe walls of the Palace.
Velvur
turned around with a faint smile.
"My lady asks for your
presence, Great Trutnot", the maid murmured,
mustering her courage. "The child... He does not to be born..."
"The child is a girl, my
faithful Hasti. The child is a girl…", Velvur replied, moving to
follow her. The young woman brightened briefly. There was a dim shade of hope
on her face, strained with almost a night and a day without sleep, but she
didn't dare to speak.
The slave girls were kindling the
lamps and Velvur stopped on the threshold of the
Queen's room. The air, there, was much thicker, much more stifling, and filled
with pain and fear. The maids were around the bed together with the elder women
of the house, but no one of them could do more than what had already been done.
The water in the echinus was hot and the linens were untouched.
Through the large, thin cloth that
lightly screened the window, twilight and the wrathful wind filtered, but the
storm seemed to restrain itself, almost hanging from the taut thread of the
cobweb glistening hardly beyond the window, still in the whirlwind.
Velvur
smiled faintly, seeing it with his mind's eyes. Storm and future were hanging
from that thread, and they were in his hands, also. However, the occurrence was
written.
And nothing could change what had
been written.
Ramtha did
lay on the bed, worn out with many hours of pain and
with a fear that even Velvur had not been able to
drive away from her. She had had three sons before, each one of them stillborn.
Though Ramtha was very young, King Tarchon was well beyond the full flower of manhood and he
did not have Heirs, yet.
Velvur
held out a hand and with his fingertips lightly touched her brow. Ramtha opened her eyes. They were dark golden, and lost now
on the edge of an oblivion that might seem to her the lesser evil, after so
much suffering.
She tried to talk to him, hardly rising herself. She was beautiful, and of a
noble family, and she had been given as a bride to Tarchon
only a few years before, but now even her young body seemed to yield and
withdraw from the world.
"Do not speak, my Queen", Velvur murmured, drawing close to her lips a phial full of
a dark and bitter drink he had brought. The young woman tasted it with the tip
of ther tongue.
"Now your child shall be
born", he continued. "Her name shall be Caitli,
and her eyes shall see beyond time and beyond borders. She shall be devoted to Athrpa, the Fate Goddess, and through her a powerful nation
shall be born: the more powerful
nation of all the time already sealed. And that same nation shall so
scatter us, when our centuries will come to an end, as the wind scatters the
dust at the end of summer."
Ramtha bit
her lips. For an instant Velvur held her eyes,
quieting her, then the woman arched herself crying, and the Seer withdrew. The
scream of the child filled the still air.
The wind had fallen.
With his mind, Velvur
broke the cobweb's thread and let the lightning strike the tree hallowed to Athrpa, on the edge of the wood that was sacred to the
Goddess behind that wing of the palace.
Nothing he would see, other than
that little, treasured life that for an instant had been in his hands. "Caitli will be greater than me, when grown",
he thought. "So it is written, however, and so it has to be."
***
(another bit from First Chapter : Caitli and the Opal of Power)
"That child will be the ruin of
my day", he murmured at last. "First she brings all the snotty kids
of the Palace to me, and now she accuses me of having a false tongue!"
"Your ships will not sink before
two seasons have passed", Caitli replied,
interested in the opals placed on a carpet by a servant.
Demestone
paled.
"Have I offended your house,
perhaps, King Tarchon?" he murmured. "If
so, please, let me put that right and withdraw that child's words!"
"Sometimes the Gods speak
through her mouth. She's Caitli, daughter of the
King. And, if you had not lied, she would have had no need to tell you what
fate has put aside for you. So be careful from now on, and be grateful for that
warning, that was given to you as a gift", Velvur
put in, watching what had raised Caitli's interest --
an opal, almost as dark as obsidian and hardly veined by a milky shade. Hanging
by a thin golden chain, it made a pendant.
"Do you like this?" the
King questioned her.
"It is hers!" Demestone hurried to say. "It is hers for the warning
gift and for the kindness of the Goddess that speaks through her, whoever she be!"
"It is a strange jewel for a
child", Velvur commented when Caitli raised it, almost as a prize, to show it to
him. The opal seemed diaphanous in the
light.
"It is for Larth, that is coming", was all the child replied, before
she slipped away.
Copyright by Mariangela Cerrino