Fireblossom (39 page)

"You two are in love?"

She blushed prettily. "Yes, I believe so. Sometimes I believe it more than others, but at least now I understand that Fox's life is complicated by matters other than me. If he's not ready to take a wife and settle down, it's not because he doesn't love me enough." She stared into space and sighed again.
"But,
I will admit that I've had hopes of realizing those dreams in time, after Fox sorts out his life. I think he may miss the closeness we shared while we were with the Lakota. Oh, Gramma"—she looked up, her emerald eyes bright—"it was the most wonderful time of my life. I learned so much—about myself, and about Fox, and about life."

Gramma Susan gazed out the window reflectively. "You've heard stories since you were born about my father's career in the United States Senate." She waited for Maddie's nod, then continued, "You remember, don't you, that Benjamin Franklin was his mentor? My brother, and your brother, were both named after Dr. Franklin. I remember discussing the Indian problem with Papa during my youth, and he repeated something that Dr. Franklin had told him—that most of the time when white prisoners have been raised among Indians from a young age, they refuse to be reclaimed by their own race. He spoke of cases where the white person, often female, had been ransomed and treated with all possible tenderness by their English brethren, yet he or she would escape back into the woods at the first opportunity... never to be seen by white faces again." Dusk was gathering in the kitchen, heightening the poignant effect of her story. "Fascinating, isn't it? When I was young I often dreamed of somehow tasting that experience for myself. I'm glad that you were able to, my dear, before that culture disappears completely."

"Yes, Gramma, I am glad, too." Maddie's throat was tight with emotion.

"But, you were speaking of your dreams for you and Fox," Susan said briskly. "What shall we hope for from that young man?"

"I wish I knew." Maddie rose to light the lamps. "I was thinking earlier that everything has changed now, hasn't it? Fox's mother is here, and who can say what that will mean? In any case, I hardly think that he'll be anxious to bring a wife into his home as long as she is staying there."

* * *

"I can't imagine what you've been doing with yourself these past weeks, Daniel!"

Annie Sunday Matthews stood in the middle of her son's spacious house, arms akimbo, and gazed around with undisguised chagrin. Her eyes touched the rumpled bedrolls in the corner, traveled past the open staircase that ascended to the loft above, then lingered on the second stone fireplace, a table and chairs that consisted of planks and barrels, and some crates of supplies and kitchen utensils. "I must say it: I am shocked. How can you live like this?"

Titus Pym had been sitting in the open doorway drinking a mug of ale and watching the sun sink behind the top of the gulch. Now he rose, embarrassed. "I'd best be off, me lad. 'Tis glad I am that you and the lady are back."

"Titus, where are you going?" Fox asked in consternation.

"Why, I'll go down to the Custer Hotel. Now that Mrs..." His voice trailed off in confusion.

"Matthews," Fox supplied.

"Aye. Now that Mrs. Matthews is here to take care of you and will be staying in this house, she'll be wanting some peace and privacy. It's best this way, at least till we build some proper rooms." Pym ended with a broad grin and bowed to Annie Sunday.

She went to the door to wave good-bye to the Cornish miner, then surveyed the daisies and zinnias blooming cheerfully in front of the log house. "I see you have
flowers.
How surprisingly civilized of you, my dear boy."

Fox bit back a sarcastic reply and tried instead for his best boyish smile. Wrapping an arm around Annie Sunday, he implored, "Don't be so hard on me, Ma. Look at this house! It's a palace compared to the others in Deadwood. I just haven't had time to furnish it properly."

"Nonsense. You've chosen to live like a heathen, sleeping on the floor, eating beans out of a can, and washing in a tin basin."

"Now, that's not true!" he protested. "I go down to Main Street to the bathhouse practically every day, especially when it's hot. I even pay extra for fresh water!"

"My, my, you must be the talk of the town with such shockingly cultivated habits." Annie looked away from his appealing face.

"Ma, you know that I admire you more than anyone, but I've got to be honest. This attitude doesn't suit you. Aren't you happy to see me?"

Her chin trembled slightly. "Of course I am. Perhaps I've just missed you too much, and I've tried to maintain a semblance of composure in the midst of this very foreign place and a lot of strangers. I'll own that I was beginning to worry that something might have happened to you. Can you imagine my fears when I arrived here only to learn that you had gone off to deal with
Crazy Horse
?" Her words were spilling out quickly now. "Oh, Daniel, when I heard about that terrible massacre at Little Bighorn I sobbed for days, certain that you had been killed."

"You, sobbing? Impossible!" Fox chided gently, kissing his mother's shining hair.

"No, no, it's quite true," she insisted. "Thank God you had the presence of mind to send word to me of your safety and your whereabouts. I was so overcome with relief that I determined to come here without delay. I think, were I completely honest, that I felt as if I were felling back in time, back to the days when your father left me in Washington to journey to the frontier. I used to live in fear that he wouldn't come home, that he'd be killed and mutilated by the Indians he sympathized with so, but I never said a word to him, and eventually he stopped leaving." Annie Sunday pulled herself together, calming her voice and smoothing her skirts. "You must be right. I'm tired—and so very happy to see you, darling. You don't mind that I've come?"

"Mind?" Fox echoed. "I love you, Ma. It's wonderful to see you, too."

"Well, that's settled, then. And it's quite clear that you need my help with this house, too! It needs a great deal more than a few flowers, Daniel."

"Actually you can thank Maddie for the flowers. They are her doing." His eyes drifted toward the pine trees separating their houses.

"Who? Oh, yes, Miss Avery. She seems to be a very nice young lady. I've grown quite fond of her father." Annie Sunday searched her son's face for a moment, then brushed away the fears that threatened her cheering mood. "Let's see what we can devise for my bed tonight, shall we? Then tomorrow we'll go down to Star and Bullock's store and buy you some proper household goods. Goodness, we'd better get a sound night's sleep, Daniel! Tomorrow will be a busy day!"

His mother went bustling off around the house and he walked outside, looking his property over for the best spot to build a new cabin. It wouldn't have to be very big; just large enough for Annie Sunday.

Chapter 23

August 16, 1876

Fox found J. B. Hickok's grave in Deadwood's cemetery, inventively named Boot Hill. The graveyard was located in a natural clearing partway up the side of the gulch east of town. Fox went there while the sun was still rising on the other side of the white rocks that rimmed the canyon and he found Bill's grave easily among the others. It was still covered with flowers. On the face of a tree stump the facts were inexpertly carved: Hickok's name, age, and the circumstances and date of his death.

Fox had bathed at dawn, then awakened Wang Chee's wife to pick up his clean, starched clothes at their laundry. It felt good to be scrubbed, shaved, and clad in a ticking-stripe shirt and faded blue pants that smelled of sunshine, soap, and the hot breath of Mrs. Chee's iron. Although he always felt a pang of longing when he thought of the Lakota, this was where he belonged. Even with its glaring flaws and inconsistencies, Deadwood was home, and he had returned with a new sense of his own worth. Maybe he was flawed, too, but he still had a purpose—and it felt good to know that again. It was as if the flame in his soul had been rekindled.

From Old Frenchy at the bathhouse, Fox heard the details of Bill's death, already embellished, certainly, for the sake of legend. He'd been holding aces over eights, now called the "deadman's hand." His back had been to the door of the saloon when Jack McCall came up and shot him through the back of the head. Some said the assassin was just a drunk, others thought he'd followed Wild Bill to Deadwood to avenge his brother's shooting, at Hickok's hands, in Abilene. Anyway, the miners' court, convened at the Gem Theatre, had seen fit to let him go. So much of the story was muddy that Fox made up his mind not to brood about the circumstances of his friend's death. It was just his time, Fox mused, staring down at the drifts of wildflowers that marked the grave.

"Hey, pard," a voice spoke from a few yards down the hill. "I heard you was back."

Fox saw Colorado Charley Utter approaching and put out his hand. "Good to see you."

"I was gone that night," Charley said. "Didn't get back from Cheyenne until after they buried him. I've been trying to piece it all together, but seems like everybody has a different story. Anyway, nothing I can do now to bring him back." He shrugged, breaking off as his eyes began to water.

"I was just thinking that same thing." Fox's heart went out to the other man; he'd lost his best friend. "I'm going to miss him a lot. It was an honor to know him. I just hate to see this town turn him into some kind of myth—another means to make money, you know."

"That's the kind of town Deadwood is, though... Do you feel like breakfast? I was thinking about payin' a visit to Aunt Lou Marchbanks at the Grand Central. Want to come? Her biscuits are beyond compare. Bill loved 'em; we can eat in his honor."

A slow grin spread over Fox's face. "I'd really enjoy that, Charley. It's damned good to be home."

As they clambered down the hillside and crossed the rickety wooden bridge spanning Whitewood creek, Charley said, "I'm gonna make a real marker for Bill's grave. I been thinking about what to carve on it and I thought I'd say, 'Pard, we will meet again in the happy hunting ground to part no more.' " He gave the younger man a sideways glance, waiting for a reaction.

"Those are fine words, Charley. Just what Bill would like," Fox replied. "Let me know when you're going to do it and I'll give you a hand if you need one."

"Much obliged."

* * *

Fox wished that he could confide fully in Colorado Charley Utter, but it seemed like too big a chance to take. He was sure he could trust him to keep a secret but, what if he talked in his sleep or something? So, instead, they ate biscuits and gravy and eggs and sausage, washed it all down with lots of coffee, and talked in generalities about Fox's journey to Bear Butte.

"The folks around here really hate the Sioux," Charley observed when his stomach was fall." 'Course, that's mostly fear, and guilt, too, even though they don't know it. Everybody yells about the advance of civilization and how it's our duty to do it since the Indians are too simple-minded and savage." He dropped a chunk of brown sugar in his coffee and stirred. "I don't know the answer. I don't think that the Lord sent us whites to advance civilization; seems to me that we'll prob'ly end up wrecking a lot of this beautiful country. But on the other hand, I don't want to give it back... and I don't want to
go
back. Do you?"

Fox rubbed the bridge of his nose for a few seconds. "No. No, I don't. But I don't see why it has to be either us or them."

" 'Cause we're too arrogant to share."

"Damn. I know it."

"You might be different, but that's just you."

"It's sad to see it from the other side, Charley." Fox leaned back in his chair, which groaned in protest. "Those people just want to be left alone to live the way they've always lived, in harmony with the land. They want the open prairie and the buffalo, and if we could give them that freedom, we wouldn't have to worry about teaching them to farm or giving them rations."

"Yeah, but that would mean admitting that there are other ways to live besides our way, and we're too damned arrogant for that, too! We gotta turn 'em into white folks or kill 'em trying."

Fox thought about the way Custer had behaved before Little Bighorn and how the hundreds of men had gone along with his orders. "You have to admire a man like Crazy Horse, you know. The day after we started back here from the village, we met up with him and a couple of his men who were leaving the Hills after their latest raid. I don't think they accomplished much—certainly not enough—but Crazy Horse was holding a red sunshade that he'd gotten hold of. He was taking it back to an old Indian called One Moccasin who's been fainting lately in the heat. He was proud to be returning with that red sunshade. Even a little victory like that, which was more symbolic than anything, keeps his spirits up. There's something truly noble and admirable about a man like Crazy Horse, who refuses to give up in the face of impossible odds."

"Yeah, I guess," Colorado Charley muttered doubtfully. "Kinda stupid, too, though, don'tcha think?"