Blood and Gold

“I’ll be fine, Captain, but thank you so much for your concern.”

The soldier seemed to realize that any further attempt at persuasion was useless. He waved his men forward and the troop clattered past us, their accoutrements jingling loud in the morning silence.

After the soldiers disappeared from sight a deeper silence descended on the valley, and the heat of the sun did little to warm me.

Without a word to Lila, I went back up the hill and retrieved my horse. By the time I caught up with the wagon the day was brightening to noon and the sky was swept clear of clouds. As I surrendered the black to Lila, a hawk circled high above me, then glided off on still wings to the north only to dive with tremendous speed at something crawling in the grass.

A little death had just occurred, but it was one among many, and the sky and the sun and the listening hills seemed none the poorer for it.

We traveled through the growing heat of the day under a smoldering sun and saw no sign of Apaches. But I knew they were out there sure enough, moving through the vast land that had swallowed them, making no sound, gliding like vengeful ghosts.

I walked beside the oxen, my rifle across my chest, knowing I had no hand in the course of future events, but must wait for whatever happened to come to me.

It was a perilous situation that did little to settle a man’s mind and I felt exposed and mighty vulnerable.

That night we made a cold camp in a thicket of mesquite and shared a poor supper of the peppermint balls I’d bought at Doan’s store.

Later, after Lila and her pa had sought their blankets, restless, I took up my rifle and scouted around the camp. Above me, in the dark purple heavens, a sickle moon was reaping the stars and a rising wind whispered warnings in my ear in a language I could not understand.

I climbed a small hill above the camp that rose to its crest in a series of narrow benches. Once at the top, I stayed there, listening to the silence that suddenly stirred below me.

Carefully, I descended the other slope of the hill, then froze when I heard a hoof click on a rock. My eyes slowly penetrated the gloom and I saw a huge, shaggy shape walk along the sandy bed of a wash, every now and then stopping to dip its bearded muzzle into a shallow pool where the rain had gathered.

Even in the uncertain moonlight, there was no mistaking the humpbacked shape of an enormous buffalo bull. The animal lifted his head, caught my scent and, his eyes rolling white in panic, he galloped along the wash and disappeared into the darkness.

The bull must have been among the last of his kind and his survival was nothing short of a miracle. Miracles are not for men who believe, but for those who disbelieve. And right then, with all the puncher’s inborn superstition, I was willing to believe that the buffalo was a sign Lila and me and her pa would also survive.

Thus reassured, though I knew in my heart of hearts that I was surely clutching at a straw, I returned to the camp where the others were asleep. I caught up my blanket and drew a little ways off, settling my back against a boulder that jutted from the earth among a few post oak. I wrapped the blanket around me and forced myself to stay awake.

I thought about Lila Tryon and the way she looked and the way she looked at me.

Was I falling in love with her?

That was unlikely, on account of how I planned to very soon marry pretty Sally Coleman.

But Sally giggled!

The single memory of that high-pitched, undulating tee-hee giggle cut through all the rest like a knife.

Could I wed a gal with a giggle like that?

Once, it was only a few months ago but seemed like a lifetime, I’d thought her giggle a darlin’ thing and when I heard it my breath would ball up in my throat and I’d go weak at the knees.

Now, remembering, I realized it wasn’t so cute, but kind of little-girly and immature.

Lila didn’t giggle. She had a good, outright, white-toothed laugh that chimed like a silver bell.

Ashamed of myself for my treachery, I put both women out of my mind, forcing myself to concentrate on what was happening around me, and the soft sounds stirring amid the gathering night.

Ned Tryon tossed in his blankets and cried out in his sleep and a coyote yipped in the distance and once I heard, or imagined I heard, a far-off rifle shot.

The wind gusted over the buffalo grass, bending it this way and that, setting the leaves of the post oaks to fluttering. Shivering, I drew my blanket closer around me, worrying over that rifle shot, if that’s what it was.

One way or another, I reckoned it was going to be a long night. . . .

I woke with a start as the darkness died around me, probing fingers of dawn light forcing open my eyes.

I stood, stiff and weary, and studied the land around me. The plains and sentinel hills lay still, bathed in brightness from broken clouds that looked like someone had dipped a giant brush in gold paint and stippled them across the vast blue canvas of the sky.