Back on the yacht, Whittle had gone on considerable about going West and joining up with savages. If he’d had a chance to chat with Matthew Forrest, though, I reckon he might’ve sung a different tune. For one thing, most of the Indians were already killed or tame by now. For another, they did things to white men that would’ve made any reasonable chap eager to stay clear of them.
The General went on considerable about such horrors. I don’t know if he just enjoyed trying to shock me, or if he had to talk about them. Maybe it was both.
Scalping seemed like a frightful thing, but that wasn’t the worst of it.
Whenever the Indians had a chance to work on dead men, they stripped them naked and not only scalped them but packed them full of arrows and cut off their heads and arms and legs and privates and scattered such things about. It sounded just as bad as what Whittle’d done to Mary and Trudy.
The redskins didn’t usually do such things to women, though, so Whittle had them beat there. They mostly hung on to the white women, and abused them, and kept them for slaves.
The General told me the two main rules of Indian fighting: don’t let the heathens capture your women, and don’t let them take you alive.
When women were at risk, you had to kill them. If it came down to one bullet left, and you had a choice of whether to plug an Indian warrior or your wife, why there wasn’t any choice to be made. You shot your wife in the head.
He told me about a time when it looked as if the Sioux and Cheyennes might overrun Fort Phil Kearney, so the soldiers put all the women and children inside the magazine and left an officer with them who was supposed to touch off the powder and blow them all to smithereens rather than let the Indians take them alive. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.
He said the worst thing, next to letting them get their hands on women, was to let them take you alive.
One thing they liked to do was to strip a fellow naked and stake him out on the ground. Then they’d build a fire by one of his feet. When that foot was good and crisp, they’d cook the other, and then the legs and arms. They took their time about it, too. When they finally got tired of it all, they’d build a fire on the poor chap’s chest and that would finish him.
Another favorite sport was to hang their captive upside down over a low fire. The head would cook real slow. By and by, though, it’d explode.
Sometimes, a white man would get turned over to the squaws. The General clammed up about what manner of games the squaws played on their prisoners, so I judged it must’ve been a sight worse than what he had told me. That was hard to imagine, though.
The upshot was, you’d rather be dead than captured.
If things got nip and tuck, you always saved your last bullet for yourself.
He told me about a time he found himself and his troops surrounded. He had a revolver for himself, but plenty of the others didn’t. They only had rifles, so before the Indians came whooping down at them, every one of them tied a string around his rifle trigger and put a loop at the other end. That way, when it came down to the last round, they could put the rifles’ barrels to their heads and use the toes of their boots to pull the triggers. Well, they got out of that scrape all right, but the General said it was common, when he came upon a massacre, to find whole passels of men who’d shot their own women and children, and followed it up with a bullet for themselves.
It made me sick to hear about such things, and to think about them afterward. Putting a gun to your own head seemed mighty extreme, but for a man to shoot his wife and children or anyone else he loved—it made me shudder.
One time, I asked the General how he felt about it. He took a pull on his pipe, and let the smoke out slow, then said, “There are many fates worse than death. Slow torture at the hands of the red man, that’s one of them. Another is to lose those you love. A bullet in the brainpan is quick and merciful next to either of those circumstances.”
I never told him about Trudy. But I spent considerable time worrying my head about the way she’d ended. Getting done by Indians was no worse than how Whittle’d butchered her. I took to feeling guilty about saving her life. If I’d let her hang or drown and not been so quick at jumping to the rescue, she would’ve been spared from his knife. The trouble is, I’d known it. Even while I’d been working to save her those times, I’d known she might be better off dead. But I’d gone ahead and saved her anyhow.
Maybe I didn’t have it within me to do otherwise. But after hearing all the General had to say about saving a bullet for the woman, I knew I’d done wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Losses
Early in April, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, Mable went roaming off. She’d pulled such stunts five or six times before, always sneaking out of the house when the rest of us were busy. On this particular day, the General was snoozing by the fire and I stayed in the kitchen to keep Sarah company while she baked cookies. It wasn’t till the cookies were done and we carried out a plate so the General and Mable could enjoy some hot ones that we noticed she’d gone missing again.
It always fell on me and Sarah to go hunting for her, as Sarah didn’t want the General out in the weather for fear he’d come down with pneumonia or such. Besides that, he never worried much about his wife’s disappearances.
I came back to the parlor after a quick search of the house and shook my head. “She seems to have gone off,” I said.
Sarah winced.
The General swallowed a mouthful of cookie and said, “Yes. There’s been a palpable, refreshing silence for the past hour or so. My eardrums have greatly appreciated the respite.”
“Grandpa!”
“Oh, now, no need to worry your head about Mable. I believe she only takes her little jaunts for the fun of being retrieved.”
“It’s pouring outside.”
“The rain’ll do her good. She hasn’t bathed in a fortnight.”
That was on account of me, I reckon. Sarah’d woken me up a couple weeks ago and after giving me my morning smooch, she’d said a hot bath was waiting for me. It had gotten to be a fairly regular thing. Every few days, she would prepare my bath bright and early so I could have it before the General and Mable got around to stirring. I’d go down and soak, then by and by she’d come along with coffee for both of us. She’d sit on her chair near the tub, and we’d have a nice chat while we sipped. Later on, she’d come over and scrub my back for me.
I’d found the business a trifle embarrassing the first few times, but that passed as I got used to it. Then I got to where I really looked forward to those baths.
Sarah took her baths on the days between mine. When she finished, she’d come into my room all fresh and rosy from the heat, her hair still damp. I always stayed in bed and waited for her.
It usually ran through my mind, while I was waiting, that maybe I could head downstairs and take coffee to her, and stay and chat and maybe wash her back for her. The notion made me feel a bit squirmy. It also put my mind at ease, though, for the way I got stirred up by thinking about Sarah in the tub made it clear Whittle hadn’t ruined women for me, after all. I purely longed to go down and visit her, but I felt guilty about it. After all, Sarah was some ten years older than me and often put me in mind of Mother, so it didn’t seem right.
I let her go on bathing alone, figuring if she wanted me to join her, she ought to ask.
It bothered me considerable that she never asked, but allowed she must have her reasons, so I never let on that our bathing ritual seemed a mite one-sided and unfair. Besides, whenever I imagined her asking, it wrecked my nerves so bad I judged I’d likely turn down the invitation.
Anyhow, on that particular morning two weeks before Mable wandered off into the rain, I put on my slippers and robe and hurried downstairs. Sarah had gone on ahead of me. I figured to find her in the kitchen, starting the coffee. But she wasn’t there, so I waltzed on into the bathroom.
Mable must’ve thought the bath was meant for her.
She’d beaten me to i
t, but not by much. She wasn’t in, yet. With one foot on the floor, she was holding on to the edge of the tub while she swung her other leg over the side. Of course, she didn’t have a stitch of clothes on.
She hadn’t seen me. I should’ve stepped out quick and silent, but I didn’t.
Not that I took any pleasure from the sight of her. Not by a long shot. But I was so surprised to find her climbing into my tub that I just stood there, gaping.
Her face was all dark and wrinkled like old wood. So were her hands. But the rest of Mable, mostly, was white except for a passel of blue veins and looked maybe thirty years younger than her face. She was so skinny her bones showed through her skin. The way she was bent over, her breasts dangled. They were long and rather flat, and hanging so low the nipple of one rubbed the rim of the tub.
I saw all that pretty quick, and then I noticed her scars. When I saw those, I gasped. Must’ve been fifteen or twenty of them, though I never got a chance to count. Puffy pink scars, each about an inch long, on her rump and down the backs of both her legs. I’d pretty much gotten used to Mable’s limp, but seeing all those nasty scars made me realize why she hobbled.
Well, the gasp gave me away.
Mable looked over her shoulder and let out a frightful squeal. I hotfooted into the kitchen. Safe outside the door, I called in, “I’m frightfully sorry, Mable.”
“You’ll be sorry when I lay my hands on you. Land sakes! A woman can’t bathe in her own house! Sarah! SARAH!”
Sarah rushed into the kitchen. She saw me standing there flustered. Then she fetched a glance at the open bathroom door. Then her cheeks colored considerable and her mouth dropped. “Oh, my,” she said.
Mable must’ve heard her. “You get in here right now and shut the door! That horrid child’s been spying on me!”
Sarah went into the bathroom and closed the door. I heard Mable rail on at her for a spell, and Sarah talking soft and reasonable, explaining the mistake. By and by, Mable settled down and Sarah came out.
She met my eyes. She was blushing fierce. “It’s all right,” she told me. “In the future, we’ll both need to be more careful. It must’ve been horribly embarrassing for you.”
“I do hope Mable will forgive me.”
“I made it clear that you had no intention of spying on her, and that the bath was intended for you.”
“I never…meant to look at her.”
“Oh, I know, I know.” Smiling a bit sadly, Sarah stroked my hair. “After all, you’ve had every opportunity to spy on me, if your inclination leaned toward such things. You’ve never done that, have you?”
“Why, no. Certainly not.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” she said, but the look she gave me was uncommon peculiar and set my face burning. Pretty soon, she said, “You’d best have your bath another day.”
Then we went over to the sink, and Sarah pumped water into a pot. I added some wood to the stove, working up my courage, then asked, “What happened to Mable’s legs?”
She hoisted an eyebrow.
“I only glimpsed her for a blink, really, but…”
“Grandpa’s never told you about that? All those nights you sneak downstairs and talk with him till all hours?”
I hadn’t known Sarah was aware of all that. She’d done some spying herself, apparently.
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“If Grandpa hasn’t told you, perhaps he’d rather you not know.”
“I suppose I might ask him about it tonight,” I said.
“Don’t you dare. For heaven’s sake, Trevor.”
“I won’t, then.”
She set the pot of water on the stove to heat it. I figured she’d had her say on the subject of Mable’s legs, but then she led me to the table and we sat down.
“It happened just after the end of the Civil War. Grandpa had been reassigned to a post in the West. He and Grandma were traveling there, just the two of them on horseback, when they were ambushed by a war party of Apaches near Tucson. Before they knew what was happening, Grandpa was shot off his horse. An arrow took him in the shoulder. When he fell, he struck his head on a rock. The blow rendered him unconscious, so he was completely unaware of all that happened afterward. I believe he’s never forgiven himself for that, though it certainly was no fault of his. That’s likely why he hasn’t told you the story. He’s never spoken a word of it to me, either. I only know about it because I once asked my father about Mable’s limp. I’ve kept it secret from Grandpa that I know, and you must promise to do the same.”
“I promise,” I told her.
“What Mable did, she saw that Grandpa was down so she leaped off her mount and ran to his side. The way Papa told it, arrows were flying all about her. None hit her, though.”
“The Indians likely wanted to take her alive,” I said.
“That’s exactly what Papa told me. And it seems to be the only reason they weren’t both killed that day. What Grandma did, though, she drew out Grandpa’s service revolver and emptied it at the Apaches. She got one of them, too. Then she was empty, and the savages were closing in. Fortunately, her shots were heard by a squad of cavalry patrolling nearby. She didn’t know that, though. Besides, the soldiers were still a distance off. Grandma didn’t have time to reload, so she dragged Grandpa across the ground to a hole in the rocks. It was like a cave. She shoved him all the way in, but there wasn’t quite room enough for both of them. She wedged herself into the rocks as best she could. Her legs and…hindquarters…wouldn’t fit. I guess the Indians had plenty of time to rush in and drag her out, but they didn’t do that. Instead, they stayed back and poured arrows into Grandma. They made a game of it. The way Papa told it, they were prancing about laughing and whooping it up and sailing arrows into her when the soldiers came riding in and scattered them.”
Well, that story changed my outlook on the General and Mable both. I could see why he’d never told me about it, and why he always went on the way he did about Indian tortures and how you had a duty to save your women even if it meant killing them. He must’ve seen it that he’d failed Mable. The Apaches hadn’t taken her off, but they’d damaged her considerable, and the fact it didn’t turn out worse was only due to luck. The whole thing made me feel sorry for the General, and like him all the more.
As for Mable, I never again looked on her as an obnoxious old nuisance, and felt rather ashamed forever thinking bad thoughts about her. It was just bully, picturing her crouched at the General’s side, blazing away at the redskins. Then she’d dragged him to safety, even though he was near twice her size, and caught a heap of arrows in the backside for her troubles. She was a heroine to me after I found out about all that.
Of course, I couldn’t let on that I knew. But I treated her extra nice from that time on. More than likely, she laid it down to my blunder of barging into the bathroom, and figured I was trying to win myself back into her good graces. That wasn’t it, though. The reason I turned so friendly was simply because I admired her awfully for the gumption she’d shown against the Apaches.
When the General mentioned that she hadn’t bathed in a fortnight, I knew it had to be on account of me. It weighed on me some while I got into my slicker and hurried off to the stable with Sarah. I wanted to be Mable’s friend, and not someone who gave her troubles.
We harnessed Howitzer to one of the carriages and set off in the rain toward town. That was the direction Mable always took when she wandered off. There’d usually been snow on the ground, the other times, so we’d worried about her freezing up. We’d always found her in time, though, and she’d never seemed the worse for wear. I figured she could handle some rain, so I wasn’t much concerned.
Not till I saw her.
Mable was sprawled face down by the side of the road, on a stretch between their place and the house of the nearest neighbor. Even from a distance, I could see she wasn’t moving. But I couldn’t see the puddle till we reined in Howitzer and jumped down and ran to her.
It was
n’t much of a puddle, actually.
No more than a yard around and a couple of inches deep.
But it had drowned her.
Or maybe it hadn’t, and she’d keeled over dead and her face just happened to land in the water.
Either way, Mable was dead.
I hunched down and rolled her over. She tumbled, all loose, like she didn’t have any bones. Her face was gray with muddy water. The rain cleaned it off, and fell into her mouth. Her eyes were open, staring. The raindrops splashed on her eyeballs, but she didn’t blink.
“Oh, dear Lord,” Sarah murmured.
She closed Mable’s lids, and then I picked up the poor limp body. Mable’d been a bit shorter than me, and skinnier. It surprised me, how heavy she felt. I managed, anyhow, and took her to the carriage and put her down across the rear seats. We climbed aboard, then turned for home.
We didn’t say a thing. We didn’t cry or carry on, either. I wasn’t feeling any particular sorrow, just then. Mostly, I felt rather afraid and sick, and guilty we hadn’t gotten to Mable in time to save her. And I dreaded how the General would take to the loss of his wife.
Much as he always complained about her, I didn’t suppose he’d be glad to have her gone.
We left the carriage in front of the porch. Sarah, she went in ahead of me. I followed, holding Mable’s body. We found the General in the parlor.
He rose from his chair. His mouth dropped open, then shut again. Not speaking a word, he stepped over to us and put a hand on Mable’s cheek.
“I’m so sorry,” Sarah told him, her voice quivery.
“I appreciate your bringing her back to me, dear.” He gave me a sorry glance, nodded, and took the body from my arms. “I’ll put her to bed,” he told us.
We both just stood there, silent, while he carried her away. I heard the fire crackling and popping, heard the stairs groan under the General’s slow footfalls.
Pretty soon, along came the gunshot.