Chapter Five
"A-Ahh!" Jim cried out in agony as he once again became all too aware of pain, and the pain quickly became unbearable. He gasped and stiffened as his whole body became wracked in sharp, searing, excruciating, breath-taking pain. It felt like someone had just rammed a red-hot poker into his back again. He wasn't sure if he was awake or not. At any rate, he seemed to be reliving his worst nightmare. "Oh-ohhh!" he moaned when his breath finally returned. His eyes slowly opened and things finally focused. He found himself lying on his left side with his shirt off. John Two Rivers had a firm hold on his left wrist. His friend, Dave Fisher, had a firm hold on his right. His trail boss, Mr. Donnelly, was sitting on his legs and Old Dan--the Double D Outfit's chief cook, dentist, doctor, confessor and bottlewasher--was standing hunched over him with a frown on his face and a smoking fire-iron in his hands. So Jim wasn't 'dreaming'! Somebody really had just rammed a red-hot poker into his back! The cowboy grimaced and gasped again as the sickeningly sweet smell of burning flesh suddenly filled his nostrils--his burning flesh! Things started spinning again. Even his stomach started to turn.
"Sorry, son," Old Dan said sincerely, "but I had ta cauterize it in order ta get the bleedin' stopped. That ol' boy sure did a job on you!" Old Dan spoke as he went about bandaging Jim up, "The good news is, it looks now like yer gonna make it. The bad news is, yer prob'ly gonna be wishin' yah hadn't a'...for the first couple a' days, anyways. But, when the pain starts gettin' so's where yah cain't stand it no more, you jes' take a couple a' swigs a' this here stuff, here..."
The cowboy completely ignored the bottle being held up in front of his face and aimed his groggy gaze up at the old man who was holding it there.
Old Dan saw the partly puzzled, partly panic-stricken look in his patient's drooping eyes, "Sorry son. But yer gonna have ta stay put for a while. If'n we was ta move yah--in the condition yer in right now--why we'd kill yah for sure!"
Jim grimaced and shut his eyes tightly, finding this latest bit of news every bit as painful--maybe even more painful--than his wound. Someone gave his right arm a reassuring squeeze. He forced his eyes back open and stared blurrily up at his trail boss. Somehow, he found the energy to speak--well, leastways, to whisper, "Sorry, Mr. Donnelly...but it looks like...I'm gonna be leavin' you...short-handed."
"Don't you worry none about that," his boss ordered down, his words equally soft-spoken. "You just take it real easy, Jim," he urged with a forced, but reassuring smile, "And you'll be back 'ridin' the wind' in no time. We got ta be gettin' back ta the herd now..." he added, his voiced filled with deep regret.
Jim forced a slight smile himself and gave his boss an understanding nod. Things were spinning worse than ever and beginning to grow dim again, so he let his drooping eyelids drop. He heard Mr. Donnelly's voice turn deadly serious.
"But I promise you, we'll be back. We'll swing by and pick you up on our way back from Dodge. Yah hear?"
Jim gave him another slight nod.
He gave Jim's arm another slight squeeze and then left.
Dave, who still had a firm hold on his right wrist, gave it a reassuring squeeze, too, "I brought yah another shirt. An' I'm leavin' yah my guitar. It'll help yah pass the time. An', as long as yah don't sing along while yer playin' it, they shouldn' have no call ta 'scalp' yah." He smiled, seeing his hurting friend was forced to smile. Then he turned sad and solemn again, "I hate to leave yah here like this, partner. But yore new friends, the Chief an' Mr. Two Rivers here, promise ta see ta it that yer takin' real good care a'. So you jes' lie here--nice an' still like--an' I'll be back before yah know it!" he vowed, repeating his promise of earlier in the day. "Okay, partner?" he inquired, gripping his partner's wrist one final time.
Jim smiled slightly and managed one last nod before gradually nodding off into unconsciousness again. Somewheres off in the not too distant distance, he could hear voices. Old Dan was telling John Two Rivers how and when and why the dressings on his wound should be changed. But Jim wasn't paying him no mind. He didn't really care what was being said. Soon--mercifully--he no longer had a care in the world.
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Unmercifully, that carefree state didn't last very long. Leastways, not nearly long enough.
Jim woke up--late the next day--in a whole lot of pain. And it didn't take long for him to reach the point Old Dan had referred to the previous evening--the 'point so's where he couldn't stand it no more'. "A-Ahh!!" he cried out involuntarily and forced his tightly shut eyes open. The seated figure of John Two Rivers was the first thing that came into focus. The young brave had a very concerned, very anxious look on his youthful face. "You still here?!" Crown managed to blurt out between clenched teeth and gasped breaths, "Surely...you must have...somethin' better ta do...than jes' hangin' around here...keepin' some...poor, dumb cowboy...company!" he gasped.
The young Indian bristled at the young cowboy's words and the angry tone in which they were delivered. But then he realized that the anger was not directed at him, personally. Jim Crown was understandably angry--and upset. He would be too, if he were to wake up and find himself lying in this 'poor, dumb cowboy's' position. "There are a lot of other things I could be doing," John Two Rivers had to admit, "But nothing better...at least, not right at this moment. Besides, I gave you my word."
"Yeah? Well...I won't hold yah to it...You're free ta leave...any time...you like."
"And I am free to stay as well."
"Look...I don' need no nursemaid...An' I don' need nobody settin' aroun' here...feelin' sorry for me, neither!"
"I have been asked to serve as your interpreter for the duration of your stay with us."
"An' I don' need no 'interpretin'', either!...Believe me...there ain't nothin' I'm gonna have ta say...that's gonna be worth...translatin'!"
"Then I shall stay as your friend."
The young cowboy flashed the Indian a rather astonished, somewhat confused look.
"Believe me, Jim, you do need a 'friend'."
Jim's eyes moistened, causing all the pain and anger--and frustration--to vanish from them for the moment. "I'm sorry I lashed out at you like that," the cowboy confessed quietly, after a time, "I'm afraid I don' handle...pain...very well."
John Two Rivers suddenly remembered something. He pulled a cork from a bottle he took from beside his pained companion, and held it up to his parched, tightly pursed lips, "Here...this will help you handle it."
Jim got a 'whiff' of whatever was in the bottle and his already watering eyes watered even more. The smell could best be described as that of a half-decayed carcass soakin' in kerosene. Yes...yes, that was it all right. He grimaced and gasped as his on target description caused his stomach to turn. Then he pulled away.
But John Two Rivers persisted, "If Windrider drinks, drink will kill pain."
"If Windrider drinks...drink will kill Windrider!" Jim corrected, pulling just as far away as he could from the awful odor.
John quickly stashed the cork back into the bottle and then reached for the unwilling drinker to stop him from thrashing about.
But Jim had already stopped thrashing about, himself. He blinked his blurred vision into focus and lay there motionless, staring disbelievingly up at the beautiful young girl who was kneeling at his feet. It was the same girl he had stopped to admire and assist. But what was she doin' there? He let his head drop back and then aimed a sort of dazed, amazed gaze up at his interpreter. "What is she doin' here?" he wondered again, this time aloud.
John Two Rivers looked a bit uneasy, "She is here because...because she belongs here."
Jim thought his friend's reply over for a few moments. His reply was just a reply, it certainly was no answer. "Why-y? This her tent?"
"This is Chief Pe-ro-ka`-mas' tent."
"She his daughter?" Jim wondered, looking and sounding even more confused.
John shook his head no.
Jim looked absolutely astonished, "She his woman?!"
Again John shook his head no. "She is...your woman," he explained calmly.
And, this time, Jim was beyond being absolutely astounded. He stiffened and then groaned as the sudden movement produced even more intense, even more excruciating pain. "What do yah mean...MY woman?!" he demanded when he was finally able to speak again.
"My Chief has already given you the use of his lodge--and all of his worldly goods. But he is anxious to do even more for you. That is why I have been asked to serve as your interpreter. And that is why--when someone mentioned to my Chief that you were seen admiring this girl--he decided to give her to you."
Jim just stared at his interpreter in utter disbelief, "I didn' pull that old man...out a' that pen...because he was a Chief! I did it because...well...it jes' seemed like the thing ta do at the time...So, I'll jes' settle for a simple 'thank you'...thank you! An' he kin keep his lodge...an' his possessions...an' his people!"
John Two Rivers looked thoughtful, "Do not worry about my Chief. He is busy making the rounds, visiting his relatives. They consider it a great honor to have him stay with them. And, as for the girl...I suspect he did not give her to you purely out of gratitude for saving his life. I suspect he gave her to you simply to be rid of her. White buffalo hunters raped and tortured her--and her mother--and then left them both for dead. And her mother did die--mercifully. She lived...and now carries a white child. So, no one else around here will have her."
Jim gave the beautiful young girl--with the unbelievably tragic past--a deeply sympathetic look. "Poor thing..." he muttered softly. Then he stared thoughtfully up at the lodgepoles overhead again. "No one's ever given me a 'woman' before...I ain't all that sure I want one," he stopped and turned back to his translator, "What happens...if I don' accept...his 'gift'?"
"If you send her away now, it will be a sign to our people that she could not please you...that she failed you. And she will become an even greater outcast then she already is--the scum of the 'scum of the earth'."
Jim looked as horrified by the bleak prospect for the girl's future as he had been by her tragic past, "An' if I keep her?... After what those buffalo hunters did ta her?...Well, you kin see the way she looks at me...I mean, it's pretty obvious...how she feels about whites...What's ta keep her...from takin'...one a' those knives over there...some dark night...an' 'carvin' my bleedin' heart out'?"
Mr. Two Rivers looked thoughtful, "I cannot think of a single thing," he confessed honestly.
"Oh!" Jim looked miserably miserable, "Great!" he stated glumly. But then suddenly brightened, "Wait...I'm not all 'white'...my mother had some Apache in her...an' my father was part Mexican...Maybe, if you were ta tell her that...No...no-o...on second thought...you'd better not...The way my luck's been runnin' lately...it jes' might be...she hates Apaches an' Mexicans...even more...than she hates 'whites'."
John Two Rivers was amused to no end, and he had himself a good laugh.
Jim Crown grinned, through all his pain and misery. But then suddenly looked a bit nervous again,"What about you?...Does it make any difference ta you...that my mother had some Apache in her...an' that my father was part Mexican?"
"None in the least, my friend. I'm afraid I hate 'whites' even more than she does."
Jim looked about as confused as anyone could possibly get.
"You see, the way I see it," John interpreted, "a man is a 'white' who is one on the inside. There are 'white' Indians. You have demonstrated a genuine concern for the welfare of both my Chief and my people, so you cannot possibly be a 'white', because 'whites' are concerned only with themselves."
Jim felt tremendously relieved and incredibly thirsty, "Mr. Two Rivers...you reckon I could trouble you...for some water?"
"Oh, I 'reckon' you could, all right," John replied, suppressing another smile, "But your woman is sitting over there, just waiting for something to do. She would probably welcome the chance to bring you some water."
The young cowboy studied the young girl carefully. "Oh...she probably would, all right..." he had to admit, between gasped breaths, "But I'd be too afraid...ta drink it."
Mr. Two Rivers enjoyed another good laugh.
Jim managed another grin, but then groaned involuntarily and made another feeble attempt to sit up.
John gripped his shoulders and forcibly held him down. It didn't take too much force. Jim was, after all, still extremely weak from loss of blood and lack of food. "You just lie still, Windrider, and I will bring you something to eat and drink."
The young cowboy gave him a 'much obliged' look.
The young brave got up and left.
Jim watched his 'friend' leave and then reluctantly turned his attention back to the beautiful young girl. Back to his--HIS woman?!
The girl didn't do or say anything. She just sat there, staring silently back at him, with that pure, unadulterated, unmistakable, all out hatred in her eyes.
Jim swallowed hard and forced a nervous smile. "How--" he said, mustering up as much cheer as he could, which wasn't much, considering the circumstances.
Again the girl didn't do or say anything, but just sat there, staring silently back at him with that pure, unadulterated, unmistakable, all out hatred in her eyes.
"--dy," Jim added, glumly. The girl's presence made him feel terribly uncomfortable. In fact, her presence was so discomforting that it just might serve to distract him from his other discomforts. But there was very little consolation there. The cowboy was glad for the presence of John Two Rivers, however. Especially now, when it appeared that he needed a 'bodyguard' almost as badly as he needed a 'friend'... maybe even more.
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The lo-ong, loud, lonesome whistle of a train shattered the Marshal's all too realistic dream and sent him hurtling back, twenty years into the future. He jerked awake with a grimace and a groan and then gasped and carefully leaned forwards. No wonder the pain in his dream had felt so real! It had been real! It was still real! One of the boards in the wall behind him had been pressing very painfully into his back--his back right rib cage to be exact. The pain in his heart was real, too. For, in this point in time, all that remained of John Two Rivers...was a memory.
To his people, We-yo-wa-su-yen had been an outcast, because he had turned his back on tribal traditions and married a white missionary woman, who taught him to speak English and to partake in strange, white customs.
The U.S. Army and the Indian Bureau authorities referred to John simply as a 'crazy, renegade Comanche', because he refused to leave the land of his ancestors and live on a reservation--like all the rest of the 'good little Indians'. His rebelliousness was tolerated in the hopes that, if he was ignored long enough, he would simply 'go away'.
But to one federal authority, U.S. Marshal James Crown, the Indian was a close acquaintance--one of the closest acquaintances he had ever allowed himself to make. John was his friend--his equal. Crown thought of John Two Rivers as more of a 'rugged individualist' than a 'crazy, renegade Comanche' 'outcast'. John was a kind and decent, law-abiding, highly principled man, who Crown felt highly priviledged to call his friend. And John had been a good friend. John had just always somehow managed to be there for Crown whenever Crown needed him most. Oh, if he could have only been there for John, when John had needed him most!
The Marshal's vision blurred and he suddenly found himself kneeling in a little gulley, staring blurrily down at the battered, lifeless form of his friend. He forced himself to overcome his initial shock and grief and reached out to gently roll the tortured man over onto his back. He closed his watering eyes tightly and grimaced in anguish. John's body was still limp, still warm! It tore at Crown's insides to think that, if he could have just shown up a few minutes sooner, maybe...?
Then he was leading John's battered, blanket-covered body home, draped across the bare back of his Indian pony.
John's wife and fifteen year old son met him out in the yard.
"I'm...sorry, Beth," he heard himself saying, "but he was already...gone...when I got there. There was nothin' I could do...nothin' anyone could do."
"Thank you for bringing him home, Jim," Beth told him stoicly. But as John Two Rivers junior gently lowered his father's lifeless form to the ground, Beth fell upon her husband's blanket-covered body and went all to pieces. She lay sprawled there for some time, sobbing hysterically, completely overcome with grief.
Crown slipped to the ground and stepped up behind the weeping woman. He wanted her to know that he shared her grief, that he was grieving, too...only silently. So he reached down and placed a hand on her shaking shoulder.
She sat up and sniffled, "I'm sorry," she apologized in a somewhat shaky voice, "I have no right to be carrying on so."
"That's not true, Beth," Crown corrected, his soft-spoken voice a bit 'shaky' itself, "you have every right. Go on. Let it out."
"No," she continued between sniffles, "I'm not crying for John. If I were, they'd be tears of joy. You see, he's at peace now. At last he has his wish. He will never have to leave here now. Never! Now they will never be able to drive him from this land." She managed a brave, but brief smile, and then looked sadder and more grief-stricken than ever, "No, these tears are for me and for our son. I'm afraid we're going to miss him, terribly." She placed her trembling hands on her husband's blanket-covered body again, "John was...special. But then, I don't have to tell you that..." her cracking voice gave way and she started crying again.
Crown took his 'special' friend's widow in his arms and tried to comfort her.
She rested her head on his shoulder and just stood there, crying softly.
Then, at long last, she was all cried out and Crown handed her over to her son, "Kin the two a' you manage here without me? I want ta get started trackin' the men that did...this...before it gets any darker an' the trail gets any cold--"
"Jim!" Beth interrupted, latching onto his right wrist, "Please! Promise me you won't do anything foolish!" she pleaded, sounding almost desperate, "Getting yourself killed isn't going to bring John back!"
Crown thought her comments over carefully before making his response, "The law requires that the men who did...this...pay for what they did. It's my job ta see to it that they do. An' they are gonna pay for this, Beth. That I kin promise you." He pulled his wrist free of her grasp and climbed back up onto his horse. Then he gave his friend's blanket-covered body one last, blurry, parting glance and went riding off in a pink-tinged cloud of dust.
Then the dust cleared as the Marshal blinked his damp eyes back into focus--and into the present again. Crown drew in a deep breath and then released it as a long sigh of frustration. He had to stop dwelling on how his friend had died. Besides being extremely depressing, dwelling on John's death was proving counter-productive. It would be less self-destructive and much more productive if he were to dwell on how his friend had lived instead. And if he were to keep his attention focused on his promise to Beth--his promise of seeing to it that his friend's killers paid for what they did.
Mac was right. So his best hadn't been good enough. It still was his best. And if he could have been there for John, he would have been there for John. There wasn't anything in the world that Crown wouldn't do for John Two Rivers--including riding out into a possible ambush to avenge his death. Which brought him back to Mac's interestin' question. Crown guessed he'd still be riding out. Even if John were a total stranger. He would still be riding out. Because that was his job. Because it was his duty to ride out. But for anyone else, he would be riding out strictly as a U.S. Marshal. For John Two Rivers, he was also riding out as a friend.
The gradually slowing train finally jerked to a complete stop. Crown heard the unmistakable sound of ropes sliding through pulleys and watched as the door to the stock car he and his horse were traveling in slowly fell away and became an unloading ramp.
"Gault's Spring!" one of the train's brakemen announced and peered cautiously inside. He shot the motionless figure propped up in the corner of the car a worried look, "Are you all right, Marshal?"
"Yeah..." Crown drew in another deep breath. Then he stashed his Stetson back on his head and started getting stiffly to his feet. "Yeah...Thanks, Bill. I'm fine...jes'...fi-ine," he replied rather unconvincingly. The Marshal didn't like to lie, and so he wasn't very good at it.
The brakeman watched his two stow-aways disembark from the train. "You gonna want us to pick you back up on our return trip?" he inquired as the Marshal helped him get the combination loading ramp/door closed again, "We should be coming back here sometime around eleven-thirty tonight."
"Thanks. But I got ta be back in Cimarron before then."
Bill brightened, "Sa-ay, that's right! Today's the twelfth! And tonight's your--" he cut himself short and cleared his throat nervously, "So-o, I'll be seein' yah, Marshal!"
Crown couldn't help but smile, a sort of sad, half-hearted smile. "Yeah..." he muttered softly, "Be seein' yah!" Then he mounted his horse.
The train lurched and then began rolling again.
Crown turned his mount around once and tipped his hat to the wildly waving brakeman. Then he rode off in a due easterly direction, heading for the Fort...an' God only knew what else.