Winter Rain

Deidecker recalled just how dead she had been yesterday as he and the old scout talked of his early years come west to the prairies and mountains. She had been next to lifeless. Dead was the most apt word he could use to describe her, even wrote it down on some of the pages of his notes as Jonah Hook talked and Nate stole furtive glances at the old woman. He remembered now the way her pale blue eyes had gazed out at him without any light or the slightest fire behind them. As if Hook’s woman were a shattered hulk of some weakened building, those blue eyes like gaping, paneless windows, staring out at him with nothing but bleak, hollow emptiness inside.

Abruptly Nate shuddered, remembering how Jonah described his return to his homestead in Missouri after the war and his service on the high plains fighting Indians—coming home to find the cabin windows broken, the fields gone to weed. His whole family ripped from his life. The daughter. His two sons. And that woman.

To rid himself of the frightening specter of that doomed homestead, Nate shook his head like the old scout’s rangy yard hound shook its hide free of water as it clambered up the bank from the Little Piney River and forced himself to think on other things.

The newsman wondered, How’s a man like Hook ever able to get it up? Not that the frontiersman was so old he physically couldn’t. Not that at all. Just, how can a man desire a woman who clearly isn’t involved in what he’s doing with her at the moment? Her body might be in that room. But, Deidecker figured, her mind surely wasn’t.

What with the way she rocked and rocked, and rocked on all that previous day out on that porch in the shadow of Cloud Peak.

The grassy yard lit up with a sudden green flare of phosphorescent lightning tonguing down from the peaks in splintered streaks. Landing so close to the cabin, it raised the hair on his arms, at the back of his neck. Its looming brightness surprised him, and for a heartbeat the eerie, unearthly glow illuminated the large room as if by the purest, unsullied daylight. As it did, the old chromotype gleamed again with a life of its own, once more drawing him as the slap of thunder gurgled off the high granite, rumbling down the slope toward the cabin.

It was in the silence of last night’s first flush of darkness that Nate had looked at the browning tintype—awakened, then drawn by the reflection of the figures he studied with the moon shining in through the window right above his mattress.

Must be close to dawn, he thought without real calculation as the first huge, sopping wads of rain struck the porch roof like mud clods, so loud it startled Deidecker bolt upright from the tick. He shook like he was under fire from disembodied spirits out there among the ghostly green light and wind-tortured pines soughing in the sodden, thunderriven darkness.

Then in a crack of that great, gaping silence Nate heard the old man’s voice whispering, his pleas just barely audible.

By God, he’s romancing her, Deidecker thought as he listened more to the tone and the inflection of the words—not really able to hear all that Hook was saying to his wife. But the newsman, here to get the story of a lifetime on one of the frontier’s most famous scouts, did not have to hear every word to know that, as the old man rocked his body back and forth atop the woman, Jonah Hook was also murmuring to her as if she might truly be intent, really hanging on all that her husband had to profess to her.

And for the first time since Nate had come awake and begun listening to the old couple groaning and grappling in that near room, Deidecker of a sudden felt like he was no better than the man who knelt at a keyhole and peered in on the private, shabby lives of others, spying on their most intimate moments.

He rolled over again, stretching a hand into the dark, its fingers spidering across the rough floor until they captured his pipe and tobacco pouch. Deidecker roiled and found his feet, rose unsteadily, and padded barefoot to the door. Noiselessly he drew back into the room just as another flare of lightning, white-hot as brimstone, ripped into the yard, sundering the black night in two as he flung an arm over his face. Nate stood there, temporarily blinded until the light’s sting faded from his eyes.

He was left with only the reassuring slap of the familiar thunder come to caress both him and this wilderness in remembrance of that streak of fire quickly swallowed by the dark void of this short summer night here in the lap of this great, silent land.

It was only then that he realized he had been robbed of breath, shocked by the closeness of the lightning’s strike now. In awe at the very raw, killing power of it. Something so primal, so savage. Like arrows of fire stalking out of the great black dome of the heavens, flung down onto this wilderness.