lies,
But don’t give me none
Of your dried apple pies!
He turned to Jenny with his wide smile and dropped to one knee.
“Miss Dousmann, will you marry me?”
“You’d better ask me first,” Otto said, unsmiling.
Raleigh laughed. “Now why would I want to marry you, old Black Hat?”
The wagon followed soon after. Tom and Milo Sykes saw to the horses, then began stretching and pegging the hides. Jenny helped them. When she lifted the first limp, rolled-up hide from the wagonbed, her knees nearly buckled. It must have weighed sixty or seventy pounds. She stiffened her spine and carried on. When she finished half an hour later, her back was sore. It’s not quite like hanging out the wash, she thought. She went to the fire, where her birds were roasting in a slow oven. The hens were stuffed with crumbled hardtack, onion, and wild Mexican plums Tom had found growing near the spring. Her baking had turned out nicely. On the dropped tailgate of the spring wagon she had tin plates, spoons, and forks arrayed, along with a crock of salted buffalo tallow, a plate of hard rolls, and a loaf of bread with which to mop up the gravy, five tin cups (clean for a change), a full, steaming coffeepot, and two flower-patterned china bowls she had brought from home, one filled with sugar, the other with salt. There were no napkins. To make up for that shortcoming, she had picked some blackfoot daisies and purple prairie asters near the spring, arranging them neatly in an empty Mason jar.
“Quite a picnic,” Raleigh said, coming up behind her with Otto and the skinners. “If it all eats as good as it smells, you’ll have done us proud, Miss Black Hat.”
They helped themselves and dug in. Ten minutes later all her day’s work was undone. What remained of it were gnawed chicken bones, bread crumbs, grease spots, and a pile of dirty dishes. Milo Sykes belched, sprawled on an elbow in the grass, and began picking his teeth with the point of a boning knife. Otto loosened his belt a notch, wiped his mustache with the back of his hand, and sighed heavily. Tom Shields, who had hunkered on his haunches away from the firelight as he ate, rose and slipped quietly into the darkness after scraping his plate into the coals. Raleigh lay against a wagon wheel, feet to the fire, and sipped a mug of coffee, watching the stars pop into being.
Jenny gathered up the plates and went to wash them. They heard her rattling and splashing at the tub behind them, singing some German ditty.
“Scarce thirty hides between us in a whole damn day,” Raleigh said. “It don’t shine, old son.”
Otto grunted.
“Let’s go down to the Yarner,” Raleigh said.
Otto looked over at Jenny. He looked down at his feet. He grunted noncommittally once again.
“What’s that mean, yea or nay?”
“I don’t like it, Cap. Not with a woman along. Especially when she’s my own flesh and blood.”
“We can’t make money up here. Face it, Black Hat, this here now herd is finished. Shot out.”
“He’s right,” Sykes said. “But they’re thick as fleas on a spotted pup ‘twix the Cimarron and the Lodge Pole.” Lodge Pole was another name for the Washita River, where the 7th Cavalry had wiped out a village of Cheyennes five years earlier.
“We’ve never been there,” Otto said. “We don’t know the country.”
“Tom does,” Raleigh said. “He’s got Southern Cheyenne kin in those parts. And Sykes was down that way in ‘68 with Custer, weren’t you, Milo?”
“Right down on the Lodge Pole,” Sykes said, nodding. “In Black Kettle’s very camp. November it was, just like now, only colder: we rode through ‘em at dawn with the whole damn regimental band playing, b’God. ‘Gary Owen,’ can you believe it? Lifted some hair that day, b’God.” He spat in the fire. “Them Dog Soldiers won’t be bothering us no more.”
“B’God,” Otto said.
Raleigh laughed, then said, “Aw, Black Hat, your sister will be safe. Tom knows the
But don’t give me none
Of your dried apple pies!
He turned to Jenny with his wide smile and dropped to one knee.
“Miss Dousmann, will you marry me?”
“You’d better ask me first,” Otto said, unsmiling.
Raleigh laughed. “Now why would I want to marry you, old Black Hat?”
The wagon followed soon after. Tom and Milo Sykes saw to the horses, then began stretching and pegging the hides. Jenny helped them. When she lifted the first limp, rolled-up hide from the wagonbed, her knees nearly buckled. It must have weighed sixty or seventy pounds. She stiffened her spine and carried on. When she finished half an hour later, her back was sore. It’s not quite like hanging out the wash, she thought. She went to the fire, where her birds were roasting in a slow oven. The hens were stuffed with crumbled hardtack, onion, and wild Mexican plums Tom had found growing near the spring. Her baking had turned out nicely. On the dropped tailgate of the spring wagon she had tin plates, spoons, and forks arrayed, along with a crock of salted buffalo tallow, a plate of hard rolls, and a loaf of bread with which to mop up the gravy, five tin cups (clean for a change), a full, steaming coffeepot, and two flower-patterned china bowls she had brought from home, one filled with sugar, the other with salt. There were no napkins. To make up for that shortcoming, she had picked some blackfoot daisies and purple prairie asters near the spring, arranging them neatly in an empty Mason jar.
“Quite a picnic,” Raleigh said, coming up behind her with Otto and the skinners. “If it all eats as good as it smells, you’ll have done us proud, Miss Black Hat.”
They helped themselves and dug in. Ten minutes later all her day’s work was undone. What remained of it were gnawed chicken bones, bread crumbs, grease spots, and a pile of dirty dishes. Milo Sykes belched, sprawled on an elbow in the grass, and began picking his teeth with the point of a boning knife. Otto loosened his belt a notch, wiped his mustache with the back of his hand, and sighed heavily. Tom Shields, who had hunkered on his haunches away from the firelight as he ate, rose and slipped quietly into the darkness after scraping his plate into the coals. Raleigh lay against a wagon wheel, feet to the fire, and sipped a mug of coffee, watching the stars pop into being.
Jenny gathered up the plates and went to wash them. They heard her rattling and splashing at the tub behind them, singing some German ditty.
“Scarce thirty hides between us in a whole damn day,” Raleigh said. “It don’t shine, old son.”
Otto grunted.
“Let’s go down to the Yarner,” Raleigh said.
Otto looked over at Jenny. He looked down at his feet. He grunted noncommittally once again.
“What’s that mean, yea or nay?”
“I don’t like it, Cap. Not with a woman along. Especially when she’s my own flesh and blood.”
“We can’t make money up here. Face it, Black Hat, this here now herd is finished. Shot out.”
“He’s right,” Sykes said. “But they’re thick as fleas on a spotted pup ‘twix the Cimarron and the Lodge Pole.” Lodge Pole was another name for the Washita River, where the 7th Cavalry had wiped out a village of Cheyennes five years earlier.
“We’ve never been there,” Otto said. “We don’t know the country.”
“Tom does,” Raleigh said. “He’s got Southern Cheyenne kin in those parts. And Sykes was down that way in ‘68 with Custer, weren’t you, Milo?”
“Right down on the Lodge Pole,” Sykes said, nodding. “In Black Kettle’s very camp. November it was, just like now, only colder: we rode through ‘em at dawn with the whole damn regimental band playing, b’God. ‘Gary Owen,’ can you believe it? Lifted some hair that day, b’God.” He spat in the fire. “Them Dog Soldiers won’t be bothering us no more.”
“B’God,” Otto said.
Raleigh laughed, then said, “Aw, Black Hat, your sister will be safe. Tom knows the
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