Gathering on Dance Hall Road Read online

  Her? The thief—a girl?

  “Give me them,” she said, pointing at the ribs he held between thumb and forefinger. Her demand startled him, and he hesitated a moment too long. Impatient, she snatched the meat out of his hands. “I’ll give ’em a cleanup with some water. A dab of my special sauce and you’ll never know they was tossed.” Eying the meaty bones, one brown eye half closed and a thin, pale, peach-colored brow arched over the other brown-button eye, she said, “A little dirt never killed a body. A starving man wouldn’t give a damn, but I reckon you ain’t there yet.

  “You come on, set yourself down on the flour barrel there,” she said waving at the barrel next to her wagon. “Kit’ll be back ’round with your horse. She don’t mean no harm. She probably thought you looked like a threat. She’ll run out of steam and come in soon enough, I reckon. The name’s Ollie Miller,” she said, sticking out her hand for a shake.

  Van, calculating the risk, hesitated again. He could detect no deceit in the woman’s words or her manner and, so far, if there was a man around with a gun, he hadn’t shown himself. He made the decision to take a chance. Besides, he intended to stay put until he got his horse back. They shook hands. She maintained her grip. He tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t allow it. A sly smile on her lips, her beady brown eyes glittered with a challenge.

  Blinking, he finally remembered his manners and said, “Van. Van DeVeer. Hoyt Van DeVeer,” he said, and asked himself why the hell he’d lied. He didn’t have an answer. Self-preservation, maybe, or could be he didn’t want to be boring, homebody, Van Buxton. Van Buxton never left home, never in his whole entire life, twenty-four years, had never even contemplated or wanted, or sought out an adventure. Today he would be a man with no ties, no strings, no obligations or responsibilities, a man undaunted by the unknown.

  She nodded and let go and went behind her wagon, still talking. “I got a big kettle of rabbit stew. Put three rabbits in it and lots’ a taters. My man and my boys has gone to town, don’t reckon I should hold my breath thinkin’ they’ll return for supper. Or, before noon tomorrow. So, we’ll just go right ahead and have us a meal.” She came back into his line of sight carrying a big tin platter with his ribs smothered in onions and some kind of wine-colored gravy. And on the side, a big slice of yeasty smelling bread slathered with a generous dollop of butter.

  “Now don’t be shy. Dig into the kettle. We owe you; Kit nearly run you down. We won’t wait on her. Hard tellin’ when she’ll give in and come back from her ride. This time o’day she does like to take to the hills, says it helps her sleep.

  “Where you from and what’s yer business?” she asked, throwing him off guard one more time.

  She filled her own plate. But didn’t stop talking, instead answering questions he hadn’t asked and giving him no time to formulate an answer to the original question. “Our little group travels ’round doin’ little shows. Kit puts on her trick ridin’ act. Pa and my sons plays music for dancin’, and I sells pies, cakes, candy, and cookies. We do all right. We’re on our way back to Boise. We’ll hit some small towns on the way. Got to go to River Glenn, they have a Scottish Caber Toss festival and horse tradin’ fair. I’m lookin’ forward to that. Once we’re on the other side of the mountains, we’ll do Elgin and on into La Grande and a few more shows if the weather holds on down the line. Should be home in a few weeks. Like to be somewheres out’a the weather before winter hits.

  “Kit says she’s done with us for this season. She’s goin’ home. We’ll miss her. She stayed the winter with us in Boise last year. She pulled in good crowds wherever we showed up. We put on a show down there in the bottom, along the river a couple of nights ago. Had a real good turnout. But tomorrow, we’ll move on.”

  Van, not a big lover of rabbit stew, gave himself a generous portion to be polite and resumed his assigned seat on the barrel. Settling himself, he shrugged before tucking into his vittles and said, “I found myself with some time and decided to wander a little. I haven’t done much of that. My home’s near Baker City,” he said, avoiding specifics.

  “We done a couple of shows in Baker City. That’s a prime location. I wanted Pa to go up to Sumpter, but he said no. He don’t care much for mining towns. Too many rowdies, he says. We camp away from town, usually. I like it quiet. Don’t want to worry about some yahoo crawling in my wagon and slittin’ my throat in my sleep.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him and leaned forward, her chubby hands braced on her pudgy knees, fleshy, freckled arms straight. “You ain’t one of them kind’a varmints is you? I gotta knife here in my boot and a rifle behind the box here by the fire. I could shoot yah, and no one would be the wiser.”

  Van pressed his lips together to hold back his laughter. He swallowed hard. He couldn’t hold it; he had to let it out. Shaking his head at her, laughing hard, unable to speak for a second or two and trying not to drop his plate in the dirt, he pulled himself together long enough to make a reply. “No, Ma’am, I am not one of those. I had my suspicions about you and the kid…the girl, Kit though. Thought maybe you were horse thieves. The only weapon I have is in the scabbard on my horse, and you have that now. Or rather your girl has it.”

  Ollie threw her head back and slapped her ample thighs. “Well, now, don’t that beat all?”

  She sobered and shook her head. “Kit ain’t my girl, though. We took her up ’cause she had a yearnin’ to make a spectacle of herself. She’s done that and then some. But I reckon the bug that bit her is out of her system, and she’s ready to settle down somewheres, like most gals.

  “Now my Jerry, he’ll never stop travelin’ ’round. And I go where he goes. He’s a good man. Someday my boys is gonna leave us, I expect. Then maybe Jerry’ll give it up and stay put in one place.”

  Van nodded. He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’m up here ’cause I couldn’t stay in town another night,” he said and scooped up a forkful of Ollie’s stew and shoved it in his mouth, expecting to hate it. But dang, if it wasn’t delicious. And the bread, crusty and yeasty, hit the spot. He chewed and savored, and then swallowed. “Got a room in a boarding house last night, but the noise and the dust and all those horses and people, I just couldn’t do it for another night. I saw your fire up here and thought it looked like a safe spot. Thought I could get some sleep up here in the open air. Never expected to get a meal. Thank you, ma’am, this is fine stew, and the bread, very tasty.”

  They continued in this amiable vein for a half hour or so. Ollie served him a huge slice of cherry pie. He’d scraped the last of the filling off his plate when the mare sauntered into the fire’s light. Ranger limped up behind her. The horses stood there together, heads down, looking guilty as hell.

  Chapter Three

  Startled by his good looks, Melody regretted her impulse to frighten the stranger but not soon enough to change her tack. Maji mistakenly translated her mistress’s momentary astonishment and hesitation as fear and bolted.

  The stranger jerked back and dropped his package, the reins of his mount jerked from his hand. When his horse gave chase, Melody laughed at her stupidity. Ollie raised her fist, cursed her and called her a damn fool. Maji raced over the hill and down into a narrow draw with the bay giving chase.

  Maji favored the rivulet along the crease of the hill. It stayed cool, and she liked to wade in the water and paw and splash in it.

  »»•««

  Opening her eyes, Melody saw stars, lots of stars, and four, no five…a lot of moons, all lined up and out of focus. Disoriented, and not a clue as to how she’d ended up on the ground, she shivered and tried to sit up and regretted it. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She tried to weep, but any movement that required breathing made her wince, and her head hurt. Pain, a sharp nasty pain, shot up her arm to a place behind her left ear. Her left shoulder had folded, twisted back. She couldn’t move. She tried to pull her leg up, one leg at a time. They still worked. But she couldn’t sit up or get up on her feet.

  Maji s
nuffled at her ear, her nose warm, soft and fuzzy. “I don’t suppose you could go up to camp and let Ollie know I’m down here on my back,” she said to the animal. The bay on her other side snuffled her head, ruffling her hair. “You two are a big help.”

  Maji raked the ground with her hoof and snuffled, smelling Melody’s cheek, her side, and her shoulder. She bobbed her head and slowly turned away. Melody, on her side, her head turned away from the hill, lay unable to see where she went. The bay left her side too.

  Alone and cold, Melody came to a pitiful conclusion—she had landed herself in a fix, and she didn’t know how it had happened. Maji had never thrown her. She’d fallen off certainly, many times while learning a new trick, but she’d never fallen off without remembering how she’d messed up. She couldn’t move, it hurt to take a deep breath. She couldn’t call for help; she barely had a voice. No one would hear her down here. Her daddy always said someday she’d break her damn neck. Well, she hadn’t broken her neck, but she sure as shootin’ had busted something because she couldn’t even roll her head.

  ∙•∙

  Van handed his plate to Ollie and approached the dappled mare, very slowly repeating, “Whoa, girl, easy, girl. Where’s your mistress?” He gently stroked the bridge of her nose.

  Ollie, from behind him said, “Look there, she’s got a rope halter. Kit never put a rope on that horse, never a bit, bridle or a saddle. No sir.”

  He gave the mare a closer look and carefully slid the hemp cord down and off her face, smoothing his hand along her neck, over her back and down her dirt-covered hip and hind haunch to her hind legs. His fingers found an open wound, fresh blood above her hooves on both hind legs.

  Rope burns. Someone tried to hobble you. Why? And the girl, what about the girl?

  Ranger whickered and blew his nose. Van moved from the mare and spoke to Ranger. The saddle horn, decorated with a tumbleweed and grass poking into the bridle, hinted the horse had taken a tumble. The reins dangled to the ground, but the blood on Ranger's lips and nose said he’d done battle with something or someone. “Now what have you done, old son? Put the varmint on the run, did you? That how you hurt yourself? Or did you just trip in a gopher hole? Let’s have a feel of that leg.” Carefully, he ran his hand down the gelding’s right front leg, then the left. The muscles on his dirt-covered shoulder rippled and twitched. “Ah, so this is where it hurts. Guess you’re out of commission for a while, then.” He ran his hand all the way down to the hoof, feeling his way. “Not broken, a sprain, though.” And to himself, he said, “No cuts. But something rolled you, or made you fall.”

  The mare tossed her head and hit him on the shoulder. She turned around and trotted back down over the hill. Running, Van kept her flashing gray tail in sight. Heading down the steep hill in the dark at a run, he tripped and caught himself, using his arms like windmills to stay on his feet. It occurred to him he could break his neck or sprain an ankle like his horse and slowed to a quick walk. They were surely near the bottom of the draw; the air felt cooler here, icy and cold. The moonlight didn’t touch the bottom of the ravine but lit up the rise behind him where the wagons sat.

  The mare stood quiet, head down not more than ten feet in front of him. Van didn’t see the girl until he was right beside her prone body. Kneeling down beside her, he put his fingers to her ice-cold cheek, afraid she was dead. She lay on her side, and he tried to move her. She winced and moaned in pain.

  “Busted,” she said. “Daddy said.”

  Van carefully felt of her shoulder and thought it at an odd angle, folded almost completely behind her back. Dislocated, most likely. Not a doctor, but he’d helped his veterinarian brother set bones on the horses, dogs, and even a bird or two—little girls, never.

  “Sorry about this,” he whispered to her in the dark. He removed his shirt and set it aside. Slipping one arm beneath her neck, and placing the other on her hip bone, he turned her onto her back and positioned her shoulder and arm down to her side.

  She cried a very weak cry. He would’ve expected a child to scream and beg. The girl bit her lip and moaned. “I’m going to snug this shirt to pin your arms to your sides. Might have busted a rib or two. You breathe now, nice and easy.”

  She tried and emitted a little mew. The mare snuffled the girl's face and pawed the ground.

  “Sorry, definitely ribs,” he said, speaking to no one. She’d passed out. He worked in the dark, moving her as little as possible.

  Carrying her up the hill, he changed his mind about her age. When she’d come at him up there on the hill, he’d thought her ten or twelve. Now he couldn’t decide. She felt soft, fleshy of hip and thigh. Her long black hair draped over his arm and hung down past his waist, but he couldn’t see her face clearly enough to say what she looked like. He had her bad shoulder snugged up against his chest. Heavier than what he’d expected, he began to think she could be fifteen or so, but still a damn fool kid.

  The mare followed him up the hill, head down.

  Waiting for them at the top of the hill, Ollie cried out and put her hand over her mouth to cover her weeping. She’d tied Ranger to the back of her wagon. He nodded and thanked her.

  “Put her in the wagon there beside ours. That’s her wagon. Oh, the poor thing. Is she dead? Broke her neck, has she? Jerry tried to tell her; he tried to warn her.”

  Van stepped up on the crate at the back end of the wagon, then onto the tailgate and sidestepped into the interior. Ollie held the lamp above her head to help him see the narrow bunk, neat and tightly made up with a patchwork quilt, a pillow, and one white Indian blanket with a black and red stripe folded carefully and at the foot. He laid his burden down, thought about removing his shirt, and then stepped back and closed his eyes.

  “Do you know if she has folks close by?” Van asked, huffing. He removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “No, her folks lives up in the Blue’s. I ain’t never met any of’em. Is, is…is she dead?” Ollie asked.

  He straightened, or tried too, and hit his head on the low canvas ceiling. He hunched his shoulders and turned toward her to take the lamp. “No. I think she has a dislocated shoulder, cracked some ribs, maybe a bump on her head. Nothing broken. Do you know anything about setting bones?”

  She nodded. “I’ve done a few.”

  “Do you have anything to kill pain?”

  She nodded again and disappeared.

  Left alone, Van had time to study the girl’s face. He found her slightly parted, full lips provocative and tempting. She had a smudge of dirt on her nose. Leaning over her, he made a move to touch her face. He told himself he just wanted to wipe away the dirt, but it was more than that, he wanted to touch her, touch her cheek, caress and comfort her. She looked so small and helpless lying there. Ollie reappeared. He straightened, withdrew his hand and put it behind his back, embarrassed she’d caught him.

  Ollie handed him a half-full jar of clear liquid. “Corn liquor,” she said. “I make it myself. Don’t give her more than a sip or two. Never seen her drink hard corn, don’t know how she’ll take it.”

  He nodded and poured out a dribble into a cup and put it to his nose and took a sniff. It didn’t smell at all. He took a sip; it didn’t taste. Two seconds later, it hit. Heat stripped the back of his throat; his eyes watered, his ears buzzed. “Can’t give her this,” he said, choking, his throat in spasm. “If she’s got busted ribs, can’t have her going into a coughing fit.”

  “Right,” Ollie said, taking the jar out of his hands and hugging it to her ample bosom. Her button-brown eyes grew round, sandy brows arched. “Wait, wait. I got some tonic from a peddler man a while back. It’s got arnica somethin’ or other in it. The peddler said it could heal wounds, bruises overnight and cure the toothache.”

  “We should get a doctor up here,” Van said under his breath. Talking himself into going to town, he adjusted his hat on his head. The chances of finding the doctor were probably slim to none. But to subject an already down and out little-
bit of a woman to some quack remedy didn’t feel right. But really, what more could a doctor do, other than give her some putrid form of morphine? He’d had morphine, and he wouldn’t give it to a rabid skunk. Better to shoot the critter. Ollie, bless her, gave him a way out.

  “Don’t waste your time goin’ to town,” she said, smoothing the girl’s cheek with her finger. “Pendleton don’t have a doctor. They got a dentist. He takes care of the broken noses and bones. That poor man is busier than a one-armed paper hanger. Can’t blame him for wanting to stay drunk.”

  With her hands on her ample hips, Ollie took a deep breath then exhaled. “Well, we gotta’ do somethin’. I got a sheet, I’ll tear it up, and with your help, we’ll wrap her ribs and put the shoulder in a sling. We’ll try the tonic on her. Kit’s tough.”

  Ollie’s plan sounded better than trying to find the drunken dentist among the hooligans in town. But the girl, now he’d gotten a good look at her—her features, he could think of only one word to describe them, exotic. Long, black eyelashes fanned her high cheekbones. Her eyelids, a soft purple-gray like the color of dawn, slanted up at the corners like a cunning fox. She had a straight nose, not sharp, but slightly curved, nostrils gently flared. And a mouth, even now in repose, invited a kiss. She had a waif-like body. Her complexion, a warm honey hue, begged him to touch her cheek. Her hair, straight black, draped over her smooth shoulders and bosom like a satin shawl. He thought her beautiful, and untouchable, a fantasy woman out of another time, another realm, a primitive realm where white men were the intruders.

  A child’s body he could’ve looked upon with indifference, but Kit, a wisp of a woman to be sure, but a woman full grown. No doubt about it. No, conscious or unconscious, it would be wrong to see her naked torso.

  Not a prude, or inexperienced, Van regularly visited a lady or two in Baker City, also experienced. But he drew the line at molesting virgins. The thing is, he didn’t know if Kit was a virgin. She lived in her own wagon, traveled with vagabonds, performed before paying audiences, how innocent could she be? And where the hell was her family?