This Month – Hard Goodbyes and IN BETWEEN TIME
Southeast Wyoming Near Fort Laramie 1860
Either a nasty spring cold or some allergy kept Ally Hart miserable for the better part of two weeks. She rubbed her nose raw with the constant blowing, and between the sore red nose and bloodshot eyes, she looked as bad as she felt. She spent an entire day in bed, hiding from Elijah’s relentless mothering. The seventy-year-old man had appointed himself her personal knight in shining armor after her husband Sam died several months ago. However, when he demanded she spend a second day flat on her back, she put her foot down.
Another argument took place when she insisted Elijah go to town for supplies. Her gentle friend thought it out of the question to leave her while so weak with the fever. He forced her to promise both a morning and afternoon nap before he hitched the team to the old wagon and squeaked off for food and a needed jar of salve to heal cracked lips and chapped skin.
Ally’s loneliness, after only one night alone, took her by surprise. By mid-morning, as she tinkered around the kitchen wishing for late afternoon or evening when Elijah would return, sadness overtook her, robbing her of her little energy. She poured herself the last cup of morning tea, which she preferred to coffee, and sat down at the table she and Sam purchased in Hays City.
When Sam died, and she buried him under the larger of the two oak trees growing on their place, she resolved to put flowers on his grave at least once a week. However, the sadness became too much for her. Now, she seldom went to the grave, let alone with a flower arrangement. In truth, she resented Sam for dying and leaving her here, without the means to move. The ranch had been his dream, not hers. Now she found herself angry he didn’t make better provision for her. Of course, he might have if he expected to die, instead of being gored.
That was another disagreement between Ally and Elijah. Her bull, the one that did the goring, was running around somewhere out on the range. Elijah said she needed a bull to have any hope of making a living off the cattle. Since she lacked the cash to buy another one, bringing this one back was necessary. Ally argued she did not want ever to lay eyes on the vulgar beast again. So that’s how things stood. The bull running loose, Elijah concerned, and Ally not caring.
Ally decided she sat in her self-pity long enough. She picked up the old wooden bucket she carried water in and went out the kitchen door and across what made do for a yard toward the well.
About halfway to the well, too far from the house to go back, Ally saw an Indian sitting on a pinto horse only a few yards away. She froze. However, the Indian made no move toward her. For what seemed like minutes, but really only the briefest of time, they stared at each other. Ally let her eyes dart around, both looking for any way of escape and searching for other Indians. Seeing neither, she turned to face him.
After a moment, the man squeezed his bare legs against his horse, moving slowly toward Ally. She held the bucket in front of her chest. Either for protection—or to throw up. He rode a small circle around her, stopping in front of her. He sat on his horse, looking her over as if trying to decide what he wanted to do with her. The blade at the end of that lance was going to hurt. Will it cut smooth and clean? Or, will it rip through her soft skin, tearing her wide open? How will death come? Quick? Or in suffering?
She tried to remember what Sam and Elijah told her to do if caught out when Indians showed up. Don’t show fear. Not showing fear is critical. But how, this frightened, could she not show it? “What do you want?” she said, her boldness surprising her. It occurred to her the Indian might not, in fact, probably didn’t speak English. “What do you want?” she asked again, this time afraid about fear showing in her voice.
“Water for my horse.”
Relieved by hearing him speak English, she regained some composure. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Ally pointed to the well. You’re welcome to my water.”
“Sometimes we may cross here,” he said.
He looked at her with what Ally thought was sympathy, not anger. Yet, why would an Indian extend sympathy to a white woman?
“Do not be afraid of us. Cheyenne do not make war on women whose men are dead and who now live with old men. Roman Nose,” he said, tapping on his chest.
Ally assumed he was introducing himself.
“Do not fear the Cheyenne.”
As he moved his horse away, Ally managed to stammer, her name. “I won’t be afraid. Thank you.” The stammering embarrassed her. After all, this was Roman Nose, a Cheyenne Chief, speaking clearly and calmly in English. What kind of impression was she making, stammering in her language?
IN BETWEEN TIME
– Volstead and Fourteen-Year Supply –
Acquaintances—not close friends—acquaintances claimed he spoke with a slight Georgia drawl. Odd, he had never been to Georgia.
Now, in 1919, he referred to himself as C.J., never Cecil, or James, those awful names his mother gave him. He and his mother barely spoke. C.J. didn’t care much for his mother, not after her hospitalization in 1910.
Everything in the hospital room had been white, even her gown. All the white was depressing. Regardless of circumstance, even in depressing white hospital rooms, mothers should reassure twelve-year-old sons, not tell them they want to die. She told him she wanted to die on a Wednesday. Wednesday, October 5th. The day their relationship shattered.
Reading today’s headlines, he was indifferent about Alabamans unveiling a monument to the Boll Weevil. On the positive side, since his ambition was to be either a baseball player or a novelist, baseball banning tobacco juice-covered spitballs pleased him.
C.J. rejoiced about spitballs and his mother being out of his life. With prohibition passed, she would have worn him out, blathering about how grand forced teetotaling would be. To provoke her, he would have argued prohibition would only increase crime. Yes, no relationship with her was best, especially since she disdained the Irish.
He didn’t need her approval of Maggie O’Sullivan, Maggie Kathryn O’Sullivan, an opinionated Irish girl. Shrewd, stubborn, enticing, and sassy that one was. But, oh, she was pretty, soft red hair, beguiling eyes as green as the emerald isle itself, a warm skin tone, tall, willowy, and a hint of an Irish lilt in her voice. He knew the first time he saw her; she would be his muse. He decided it was time to tell her.
“Your muse?” she laughed, pulling her collar up and her red felt beret down over newly bobbed hair.
“Yes, my muse,” C.J. responded conceitedly. “Surely, a Mount Holyoke girl understands what a muse is.”
“Of course, I do,” Maggie replied while noticeably, intentionally noticeably, looking at the novel in her arm—The God of the Seas. “I’m just astounded an Amherst boy does.”
Happy to take her bait, C.J. obligingly glanced at the title of the novel. “Scandalous,” he decried.
“You know what they say about Holyoke girls and Smith girls,” Maggie grinned, increasing the swiftness of her gait. C.J. rushed to catch up with her. “Elliott,” she said, calling him as she always did by his last name, “You should head back home before this starts to stick.”
Stick? The snow could hardly be called flurries. Still, arguing with this girl was pointless. He argued himself mindless, trying to make her stop calling him by his last name. He remained Elliott. Surrendering to her, he muttered something about “Saturday then?”
“Yes, Saturday. And don’t you dare be late.” As Elliott turned to leave, she grabbed the back of his coat. “Elliott, aren’t you going to give me a goodbye kiss?” He leaned down to kiss her on the lips, but she turned her face and tapped on her cheek.