Chapter 5: Dutch Oven

I didn’t wait to see if Marshal Autry would wire me back. I found myself missing Rebecca. And I had my whorehouse duties. I stopped at the Robinson homestead. Yeah, Cayuse Valdez had told them what we found. Yeah, the ranchers would keep watch, keep their guns handy. But they had to work, always more to do.

Rosie nodded at me as I mounted Scarface. A first. I gave her a little salute and wheeled Scarface around.

A week since I’d ridden south with Cayuse. The three Chippewas were in the back of my mind, but life moved on. Like it does everywhere I guess.

Rebecca had slowly taken over the day to day running of the whores. Not for money, more, I think, as a thank-you to Mrs. Chambers. One less thing for the proprietress to bother with. And not for a cut, Rebecca didn’t take a dime off the sporting ladies.

But she was in charge now. She still worked her lunch and dinner shifts at the Bighorn Restaurant. And she still quilted in the lamplight almost every night.

The word got out, as it does. Most of the customers came round to realizing that they should go direct to Rebecca. Tell her what they wanted to do and pay her what she said they should.

One night in bed, she whispered in my ear, “Men don’t got much imagination do they?”

“Oh?”

“Most of them just want a quick poke. Nothing fancy, just dip their carrot.”

I smiled in the dark, “Fancy?”

She whispered some more. I said, “Oh.” Then, “You sure?” I’d never tried that one out. Hell, I’d never even heard of it.

She slid her hand down my chest.

So long as those Chippewas were unaccounted for, I wouldn’t let Rebecca take that hotel buckboard and visit her family. It bothered her some, but she didn’t argue with me. Not when I was firm with her.

So early Sunday morning, before the church bells started tolling, I wrapped up some Bighorn vittles, then Scarface and I headed south. Cayuse Valdez had drifted further down, looking for more recent traces of the three braves. They had moved on to somewhere else.

Rose of Sharon spotted me first and waved. I tipped my black Stetson and nudged Scarface right up to the little house. Rosie thanked me for the food and spoke her first words to me, “Join us.”

Chet frowned, but didn’t comment.

Inside it was one room with a privacy blanket hung up for Rosie. We ate on a squat table fashioned from a thick tree trunk that still had its roots in the ground. Rosie carefully laid an oilcloth over it. Chet frowned again. I guess just the two of them didn’t bother. I learned later that it had been Rebecca’s idea to build the little house around that tree trunk. Seemed pretty clever when I thought about it. Chet had thought she was crazy, but went along with it. Rosie was particularly proud of the creativity her mother had shown.

Chet told me that they were still keeping watch for Indians, but they no longer had a lookout posted at night. “We’re too spread out.”

He was right; it was a tactical problem. It would take the Army five scouts, riding perimeter. Maybe six. Well, you do what you can, but you can’t do everything.

I made sure to eat light — they needed the food more than I did. But even in the short time we were seated, dust and grit from the sod room drifted down. Chet and Rosie didn’t seem to notice it; now I understood one of the reasons that Rebecca bathed so much. I felt a little grimy and could imagine I was tasting dirt in the roasted chicken.

Chet stood up, “Back to work.”

Rosie stood, then sat back down. “A minute please, Papa.”

I could hear Scarface’s tail swish away some flies. Chet didn’t like it, but there wasn’t any way of keeping Rosie from talking with me. Not without a messy confrontation that he wouldn’t much like.

Rosie waited, then whispered, “Is Mama really a whore?”

“What do you think?”

She shook her head, her face looked about 8. I could see Rebecca in her so clear. She glanced at the door and kept whispering, “He says...”

I held my hand up, slow down. “You know your mother. Know what a good woman she is. These days she’s waitressing lunch and dinner at the Bighorn. Started up quilting. And she’s Mrs. Chambers’ ... assistant.”

“The whore lady.”

“Yep. And hotel lady and restaurant lady.”

Rosie was studying the cloth over the table, tracing a circular pattern with her fingertip. “Is Mama living with you?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Is that why she don’t come home?”

I thought about that one. “Partly. But she misses you. Talks about you all the time.”

“To you?”

“And to the sporting ladies. Let me tell you what she’s doing for them. She looks out for those girls. Makes sure they aren’t mistreated. Makes sure they’re paid fair. And she’s even got some of them saving a little money. First time in their life.”

Rosie was quiet. Mulling things over. She wore dark canvas trousers and one of her father’s shirts with the sleeves rolled way up. “We’re still her family. She ought to come home.”

I agreed, part of me. But I said, “Look at it another way. Come back to Little River with me. You and your mother can have your own room.”

Rosie lit up for a moment, then her face clouded over, “I can’t. We got too much to do here. If them cattle prices go up just a little...”

That night, back in the Bighorn, Rebecca put down her quilting and looked up at me, “Trying to get rid of me, Mr. Murdock?”

I wasn’t and she knew it. But now I was feeling some of Rebecca’s guilt about Rosie. Maybe even a little about Chet.

Now that she was whore-managing, Rebecca became even closer with the girls. Was growing even more fond of them.

“They each got a story, Flint, but it’s mostly just the same story.”

“Hmm.”

“Could be me in there, lying on my back for Mrs. Chambers. Wasn’t for you.”

“Hmm.”

“She talked with me about it, when I first ... come here. Said I could earn right smart. Maybe five dollars a day.”

“Tempted?”

“Think I’d make a good whore?”

“The best.”

She turned toward me, slid a thigh over mine, nuzzled into my neck. “The girls say that men don’t like to pay for ... you know, just the mouth.”

“Oh?”

Her hand found me. “Once they pay their money, all they want is pussy. Just a straight poke.”

“I like ... the other too.”

“Really? Never noticed, Mr. Murdock, never once.”

She nipped at my shoulder and eased her way south.

“Flint?”

Rebecca’s tone was serious.

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t ... lie down with you just because Chet hit me.”

“Okay.”

“Or because you saved me.”

“Okay.”

A long silence, then, “I just wanted you to know.”

“I know.”

A boy, maybe 10, maybe 12, homesteader, rode a scrawny little pony full tilt into town. He screamed, “Where’s the big guy?” and a bank teller, name of Lawson, came hustling into the Bighorn.

“Kid brought a message from somebody named Cayuse. Indians burned out the Robinsons, killed the old man, took the girl.”

Rebecca didn’t collapse, she tried to stay resolute. But it was costing her. “Can you get my baby back, Flint?”

“Do everything I can.”

Livery Lou was provisioning a packhorse for Cayuse and me. My Dutch Oven and a jug of corn whiskey for night sippin’. Scarface was saddled and waiting. I checked my matches wrapped in oilcloth, knowing that we’d be traveling hard and might not even be able to build a campfire. But that Dutch Oven was just habit, got used to it over the years.

Rebecca hadn’t said a word about Chet and that was understandable. Rosie was maybe still alive and we had to concentrate on her. The dead can wait. Don’t have much choice, I guess.

Cayuse Valdez was mounted, waiting in front of the burned-out cabin. When he saw me coming, he headed out in a westerly direction, tracking a bit north so we’d intersect.

I was fully armed, my Parker eight-gauge always with me. Plus my 1873 lever-action Winchester rifle, in its own leather saddle scabbard. Used the same ammo as my Peacemaker — also the 1873 model. A reliable Colt Single Action Army revolver. My Cavalry bayonet in my right boot scabbard.

I’d had a gunsmith widen out the trigger guard on my Peacemaker and the rifle as well. My fingers were too large. I might not win a fast-draw contests with a full-time gunfighter, but at least I no longer had work to get my finger on the trigger.

But I knew it wasn’t firepower in this case. It would be Cayuse’s tracking ability, our stealth, and, most probably, some luck. I doubted we’d ever be close enough to use a pistol. Almost certainly not the bayonet.

Cayuse’s steady mare, Sugar, and Scarface nickered at each other, maybe remembering. In any case they wouldn’t be a problem.

“Tracked them as far as Huntsman’s Bend. Day and half south of here. Three unshod and one plow horse.”

Carrying Rose of Sharon Robinson.

“Heading?”

“Almost due south, a little east.”

“Away from their own people.”

That was about the extent of our palaver for this leg. Cayuse wasn’t much of a talker and there wasn’t much to talk about. Good chance Rosie was dead by now. Or if the Chippewas were keeping her alive, it was only for the purpose of rape and torture. Three of them and one of her.

I thought back. It had been one day shy of two weeks since Cayuse and I had trailed them to that smokeless campsite. I’d had reservations about coldblooded killing. I’d been wrong.

Well, they were three dead men. Rosie, we’d have to see.

Cayuse and I rode steady. We’d rest our mounts and the packhorse when they needed it. We were two days behind and would have been losing ground except for Rosie and that sodbuster plow horse.

It felt more like revenge than rescue. More like stealth than speed. When we did catch up ... well the Chippewas could leave Rosie and probably outrun us, but they couldn’t outlast us. Not so long as Cayuse could track them.

We didn’t stop to eat, we’d ride as late as Cayuse could read the ground. Tonight would be a three-quarter moon; maybe we could take advantage of that.

We slowed down once we reached the point where he’d stopped tracking them and returned to the homesteads to wait for me. Usually Cayuse would just lean over his saddle on the right side as we walked along. When the ground grew rockier, he sometimes dismounted and the slower pace was worrisome. But not as much as having to backtrack.

Once in a while he handed me the reins and surveyed on foot, sweeping out a hundred yards or so on each side of where we were. But he always managed to re-find the trail.

I could read sign a little. Cavalry patrols. But I would certainly have been a lot slower without Cayuse. He and I munched hardtack; we let the horses graze when the pace allowed. And drink without getting too full when we crossed water.

It was cold camp from the first day. Beef jerky and hard biscuits. When there wasn’t enough forage, we fed the horses corn from the three sacks.