The widowmaker, p.25
The WidowMaker, page 25
For a long minute, McPherson thought he had gone too far. Tears were beginning to stream down her face and the panic he sensed in her seemed closer to the surface. Suddenly, she turned and spoke to her escorts.
“(Please go.)”
“(He cannot be trusted.)”
“(You are mistaken. He is a respected friend. He will not harm me.)”
“(His pain will be long-lasting if you are wrong.)”
Much to McPherson’s surprise, the Indians peeled off and turned toward the upper end of the valley.
Not until after they had disappeared from view did he realize he was shaking. “What did you tell them?” McPherson asked.
“It’s wrong fer ya to be here now,” she said, ignoring his question. “You keep saying that.”
“Many things are different,” she explained with a shrug. “I can see that,” he replied.
“They care for me.”
“As I would have, given the chance.” “I was wrong to send you off.”
“Do tell,” he snapped. “Hell of a time to be finding that out, if you ask me.” Molly flinched at the obvious bitterness in his voice.
“I ain’t deservin’ of thet, Jess.”
“Maybe not, but it’s hard to forget how you looked holding that shotgun on me.” McPherson took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look, Molly, promises aside, I care for you a lot more than you realize, probably more than I realize, and the one thing I didn’t do is ride in here to argue with you. I brought you some supplies. I figured you’d be out of things.”
Her eyes brightened. “Did you bring coffee? I ain’t had coffee in more’n a year.”
“And a lot more. Tell you what. I’ll unload this stuff and you can catch me up for the last two years.” “Wouldn’t know where to start.”
“The Indians—who are they?” “They are of the Nez Percé.”
“The people Anton traded with for that horse?”
“He din’t trade fer it. They gave it to him as an honored friend. Anton was friends with them a long time afore I come here.”
“What are they doing here? When I was on the Oregon Trail, I heard stories that the army had defeated the Nez Percé at some place called Snake Creek up in the Bear Paw. Folks at the trading posts said the army killed off most of the tribe and the rest were put on reservations.”
“Them tales ain’t all true,” Molly corrected him. “Some of them got away.”
“More’n you can say for a couple of tribes in Arizona.” McPherson untied the ropes holding the load on the packhorse. “The army was pretty vicious. They blamed the Apache for brutality, but they weren’t any better. Here’s the coffee—enough for more than a year if you ration it. Salt, sugar… Ahhh.” He handed her a large package wrapped in brown paper. “This is a bolt of cloth to replace that dress I ripped when you were sick.”
“It’s like Christmas, Jess,” she exclaimed in delight. “You din’t have to do this.” “Sure I did. Couldn’t very well drop in for a visit without bearing a few gifts.”
“You ain’t foolin’ me, are you?” she asked, the mask of seriousness once again dropping into place. “You din’t come back to stay?” McPherson stopped in mid-stride, caught unawares by her unexpected question. He finished unloading the packhorse, pulled the saddle off the buckskin, and turned them both into the corral. “You din’t answer me, Jess.”
“Tell you what, Molly. Let’s carry this stuff up to the cabin and make some coffee. Then I’ll answer your questions and maybe you can answer a couple of my own.” With that, he loaded his arms and walked off. Molly scurried to pick up the remaining supplies and the bolt of cloth and ran after him.
“You build a fire,” he directed, “and I’ll fetch some water.”
McPherson picked up the bucket standing near the door and started for the creek, returning a moment later to pick up the rifle. Trusting was one thing, being foolish was another. By the time he had returned, the stove was throwing off enough heat to start the coffee. He rinsed out a pot that had gathered dust for more than a year, filled it with water and dumped in the raw coffee grounds. Within minutes, the pungent aroma of hot coffee permeated the musty air of the cabin. After splashing water in a pair of cups to rid them of the accumulated dust, he filled them with coffee and settled in on the porch.
“Now, Molly, to answer your question. I came to visit and bring you supplies...no more, no less. As to how long I’ll stay, I never give it much thought. Why don’t you tell me. Maybe it’ll make it easier on both of us.”
McPherson glanced at Molly as she leaned back in her chair and sipped on the hot coffee. He waited for the forthcoming explanations, not only about her reaction to his sudden reappearance, but as to the ongoing presence of Indians in the valley. However, the explanations were anything but forthcoming—her reticence to discuss the past, especially when it concerned her, had not changed.
“Jess, I…” Shaking her head, Molly set the cup down and started toward the creek. McPherson gave her a minute and then followed along, rifle in hand. She was sitting on the edge of the creek bank with her feet dangling in the water. McPherson pulled off his boots and joined her.
“Funny thing about memories, Molly. Some of them are important enough that they just never go away. Like when I stormed out of the cabin cause I didn’t want to admit being afraid of caves. I come down here and sat on the bank and stared at the water. But you wouldn’t let it lie—you pushed me ‘til I admitted what was bothering me. Now the shoe’s on the other foot. It’s you that’s afraid—saw it the moment we started talking—but I don’t know what you’re afraid of.”
“You… I’m afraid of you.” “Me? But why?”
“I don’t know…”
“Molly, what happened here since I left? Why are the Indians here?”
Molly scooted off the bank into the creek, peeled off the dress and tossed it on the bank before diving into the deeper part of the pool. She swam alone, absorbed in the exertion, oblivious to the fact that McPherson was sitting on the bank remembering the daily baths they shared. But unlike the last time, there was no enticement to join her, no invitation to bathe. At long last, she waded back to the bank and climbed out. After brushing off the excess water, she dressed and sat down beside him.
“I never give it much thought, bein’ scared, when I was married. I loved my husband, knew he’d pro- tect me no matter what…but he never had thet chance. After the Crow took me away, I thought about it a lot. At first, I was scared they was goin’ to kill me, and after a while, I was scared they wouldn’t. After we got to the village, I was treated like the lowest thing on earth, lower than anythin’ I could imagine, until all I could think about was killin’ them all, to take revenge for what they did to me and mine. It reached the point that I had to shut it out to make the pain go away. Then them buffers started it all over again when they took me from the Crow.
“Anton was more like a brother—treated me like his little sister. He never once touched me, not even when I offered. Then one day you showed up, and the old fool got it in his head thet me and you oughta git married.”
“He was right. We shoulda.”
“No!” she cried. “No. No. No… That’s why I’m afraid of you—yer just like Anton. You make up yer mind and ya don’t hear another word. I told him over and over thet I wasn’t ever gonna leave this valley, but after you showed up, all he could think of was gittin’ me outta here… And you weren’t no help, makin’ promises ya couldn’t keep.”
“I’m listening now. Why wouldn’t you go with me? Nobody had to know. Even if they had found out, they wouldn’t of thought the worse of you.”
“I knew… I knew what happened wasn’t my fault, but it did happen, and nothin’ was ever gonna make things different.”
“I figured what with us making love every night…”
“I know, I did too, but every mornin’ I was scared, more and more, til I knew you had to leave or I’d go crazy. I loved you much as was humanly possible—I guess I still do. You finished what Anton started— you give me back my dignity...” Once again, her tears flowed, and once again, McPherson reached out to her. “Don’t… Please. About a month after you left, a bunch of white men come in, lookin’ for whatever it was Anton was protectin’. I kilt one, but they was just too many. It was like the buffers all over again, ceptin’ there was more of ‘em.”
“I don’t need to hear any more…”
“You said you wanted to help,” she moaned as she continued to relate the events since he had ridden away. “In the beginnin’, they tried to be nice—they thought Anton was still alive and I guess they was hopin’ I’d tell them what they wanted to know—but once they realized I was alone… They played cards to see who got me fer the night, but when I tried to gut him, they held me down and took turns. After thet, they din’t bother to pretend. I was a woman and from their way of thinkin’, women was meant fer one thing.
“Mid-winter, it was, when the Nez Percé got here. The snow was comin’ down pretty hard and they just all of a sudden appeared out of nowhere. They had broke away from thet hell-hole the army called a reservation and was just lookin’ for a place they could live. They rode right up to the cabin, thinkin’ Anton would greet them like he always did. The whites panicked and started shootin’—killed two before they could get away. The Injuns made camp down by the lake and kept watch and waited for the whites to stick their nose outside. By the time winter was over, all of ‘em was dead—the Injuns picked them off one at a time.
“We made a deal of sorts and it worked out fine. I live here and they live up to t’other end of the val- ley. We visit, they bring me meat, and they seem to know when strangers are comin’ down from the ridge.” Molly could see McPherson’s puzzlement—and defined it before he could ask. “They’re as decent as any white man, more so if you ask me. They be polite and they treat me with respect—they don’t hold what happened up for me to see.” She laughed. “I even had an offer of marriage. I been happy, given the circum- stances—til today. I hold a special love for you and I always will, Jess McPherson, but you wern’t s’pose to come back.”
“But I did.” His words, though not intended as such, had struck like a thunderclap, effectively silenc- ing her. “I told you, Molly, I didn’t come back to argue with you. I had planned to stay a week or two and then move on. But if you’d rather, I’ll leave in the morning.”
Molly jumped to her feet and ran toward the cabin, leaving McPherson to wonder if she could listen calmly and rationally to anything he said. As he got to his feet, he also began to wonder if he had made a serious mistake in returning to the valley. On the other side of the pool stood two of the Nez Percé. A thou- sand considerations raced through McPherson’s mind as he bent to gather up the rifle he had leaned against a tree. He was out of his element and he knew it. In the nearly four years he had spent in the West, his deal- ings with Indians was limited to the previous spring in Arizona, and even that had been unexpected. Now, he was faced with the possibility that these friends of the old man would see anything he did as being harmful to Molly and turn on him. On top of that gruesome thought was the reality that Molly was about as stable as the weather. In less than an hour, she had gone from fright to childlike glee to philosopher to near panic, and every one of the emotions was tied to the same thing—his presence in the valley.
Keeping his movements deliberate, he nodded to the Indians and walked slowly back up the hill to the cabin. He was greeted by a billowing cloud of dust as he stepped on the porch. Molly had been franti- cally sweeping the accumulated dust from the cabin floor into a pile against one wall, but had changed her mind and aimed it out the door. He tried to dodge but the cloud caught him full, turning the thin film of sweat on his face into a mask and his attempts at breathing into a momentary impossibility. Molly heard rather than saw him choking from the dust, but when she came outside, was convulsed by gales of laughter at the sight.
“Ohhh, Jesse,” she whooped, unable to control her laughter. “I’m sorry. I din’t know you was there.” She tried to wipe some of the caked dust from his face, but only succeeded in making things worse. “You are a sight.”
Molly’s laughter was infectious, despite his instant irritation. McPherson hemmed and hawed in a vain pretense at anger but was quickly sitting on the porch edge, trying to get the dust out of his eyes, and laughing almost as hard as she was. She encouraged him to pull off his shirt while she grabbed a cloth and the pail of water from inside.
“Lean forward,” she ordered, pouring most of the water over his head as soon as he did. Still chuck- ling, she began wiping the black streaks from his face, neck and chest. “Teach ya to sneak up on me.”
“I’ll holler next time...from somewhere up on the ridge.”
“You do thet.” She took a final swipe across his face and gave up. “Best ya try and wash down at the creek.”
“Not too sure I want to do that. A couple of your friends were looking on with great interest from the other side right after you ran back to the cabin.”
“Yer makin’ them nervous, bein’ here,” she explained, sitting down beside him. “I ain’t exactly comfortable with the idea myself.”
“Mista McPherson… I ain’t changed my mind about things, but I apologize fer how I been actin’. When I sent you away, it was like you had died—I never figured to see ya agin. Watchin’ you come off the mountain and then seein’ you inside the cabin was like...like seein’ a ghost.”
“I’m no ghost.”
“No, yer no ghost, and I ain’t laughed fer what seems a lifetime. Considerin’ thet yer here, we might as well visit fer awhile.”
“I’d like that. What about…?” he gestured toward the woods.
“I told them you were a respected friend. Once I tell’em you won’t be stayin’ on, they’ll give me a wide berth until yer gone.”
“Why don’t you do it now. I’d like to get clean but I don’t cotton being in the creek naked and having to explain myself.”
“I could be an hour or two.” She gathered up the reins of the Appaloosa. “Just be sure. I don’t figure me or them want any surprises.”
THIRTY ONE
The moon was in its final phase, and an increasingly larger portion of the yellow circle was missing from the sky each night. Also in danger of disappearing was the relaxed atmosphere that had come to char- acterize McPherson’s stopover. He knew at best he had no more than three to four days before he would have to be on his way, and while neither he or Molly would admit it, the thought of him leaving was creat- ing problems. Despite comments to the contrary, he would have preferred to delay his departure, but the presence of the Nez Percé precluded that possibility. The Indians might have been friends with the old man, but they didn’t know him from Adam, and after the bitter lessons of Arizona, he knew that trust was something earned over a long period of time—not over a few short days.
The first week of his stay had passed quickly, more quickly than McPherson would have preferred. True to her word, Molly had returned within a couple of hours with the news of her visit to the village. As expected, the Indians had expressed concern at his presence, as much for their own safety as for hers. She reiterated that he was an honored friend, both of herself and of the old man, a friend whose counsel she respected and valued. She went on to explain that he would be leaving before the new moon, some ten or eleven days hence. The time limit seemed to satisfy the Nez Percé, and it allowed Molly to relax for the first time since his return.
The two had quickly settled into a pattern, beginning each day with hot coffee and then setting off on a long walk. The walks allowed them to relive the long winter months McPherson had spent in the valley, to laugh at the many and constant arguments with Schlesinger, more often than not triggered by some inconsequential incident, and remember with fondness how much he had meant to them both.
There was an unspoken pact to indulge in the moment, to disregard those things they had no control over. The walks evolved into a requisite swim, at first in the lake further down the valley, then in the creek below the cabin; and despite half-hearted efforts to the contrary, the sexual tension between them resur- faced, increasing slowly and inexorably until by the third day, they had surrendered to the primeval instincts they had shared in the past…
For the third continuous night, Jess and Molly had indulged in the pleasures of the flesh. They hadn’t bothered to go inside until late in the evening, choosing the grassy creek bank and the darkness of the night to bear witness to their lovemaking. Once, twice, a third time they intertwined as the thin sliver of the moon made it way across the visible sky, moving inside the cabin only when it had disappeared behind the trees. They fell into an exhausted asleep, to be awakened at daybreak by a pounding on the door. McPher- son was quick to grab his Peacemaker, snapping the hammer back in anticipation of trouble, but the firm pressure of Molly’s hand on his arm caused him to pause. After wrapping a blanket around her shoulders to cover her nakedness, she went to the door and opened it wide. An Indian filled the opening and was obvi- ously agitated, speaking quickly and excitedly. After listening for a moment, she turned to McPherson.
“We got problems… He says bluecoats.”
McPherson started to question her, but she had gone outside and was already deep into conversation with the Indian. He jammed the pistol back in the holster, pulled on his trousers and boots and joined them on the porch.
“(…He brought them,)” the warrior gestured violently at McPherson.
“(He did not know you were here,)” she patiently explained, trying to calm him down. “(I do not believe that. If we must die, then so will he.)”
