Wa-ah-zho nodded, then stood and drifted off into the edge of daybreak. Someway, unwanted, I’d made allies tonight.
The Lawman linked his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Who knew you could be civil?” His voice rasped in the dark. “It’s almost as if you’re used to being belle of the ball.”
There was a time when I’d been the county darling. But I couldn’t revive that part of myself, as I must hold tight to control. The last time Olive came calling, she’d brought buttermilk pie. Poppy had raced into my shack to swap out her dime novel, narrating an unbroken stream about her last borrowed pamphlet, the bell of her calico dress stirring up dirt. Sofia had settled on my porch to shuck partridge peas, and Olive had taken to sweeping, overfull of gossip. They’d stayed from midday to almost candlelighting, Olive desperate for companionship, the isolation of the frontier almost unbearable for her. While I’d misplaced space inside myself for friendship. They were too brittle, too messy. When I sifted through memories, it was hard to reconcile all the betrayals. Most of the time, it felt like some dream. Something that had happened to someone else.
I unbuttoned my blouse’s cuffs. “Everyone has fun with me.”
Our log rocked as he bent closer. The blanket parted to reveal his pressed black waistcoat and white shirt. “Everyone, huh?”
“Well, anyone not born of the devil himself.”
Graphite-black scruff shaded his jaw, black hair curling behind his ears. In the distance, the amber and marmalade blur of the bonfire glowed. “So, what, you’re jealous?” I asked. “You want my friendship?”
“I don’t have friendships.”
“Me either.” Not anymore. My wind-whipped hands slipped below the blanket to press against my rib cage. “But sure, once I was the county’s favored darling.”
“I cannot envision you as a darling.”
I crossed my legs atop our stump, turned toward him. “Oh, I broke every rule placed before me. But I can dance to sunup, carry on longer than anyone else.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t tell, though,” I said conspiratorially. “I’m starting afresh, crafting a new alias.”
Light glinted on the chain of his pocket watch, and a willow trembled in the breeze. “I won’t tell.”
It was as if he meant more, as if he spoke of the confidences he kept for me. The air felt thick and soggy with all that was unsaid between us. “You won’t tell of the cowboys?”
“No,” he said. “It’s your secret.”
My inhale clogged my throat. “Thank you.”
I’d felt on pause, wondering what sort of man he was. But perhaps he wouldn’t hold my debt against me. I’d scrutinized how folks spoke of the Lawman, and the tales were atrocious: him roving No Man’s Land with rival outlaw bands, maliciously pitting criminals against each other. But it was becoming hard to envision him as a bloodthirsty gunslinger. I couldn’t untangle the story from the man before me. Of course he was unyielding and menacing, but there was an honor to him. A righteousness and appreciation of order. Those weren’t qualities one expected of a renegade.
The breeze whipped past, fluttering the baby hairs on my nape. He watched me, firelight striking across his jaw, highlighting the strong angles, the rough stubble, his austere demeanor. I felt uneasy, as if I couldn’t hide myself from him. I adjusted a hatpin in my bun.
“It’s Stot,” the Lawman said.
“Stot?”
“Umstott.”
His name.“Oh.” I rubbed my thumb over a deteriorating section of the wood stump. “You still have to call me Miss Hoopes.”
He doffed his hat, then settled back into his relaxed pose, as if he slept. The evocative rhythm of voices and drums and stomps thrummed along my spine. The song ended, and a hush spread like scent through the crowd. Though I didn’t want to rely on others, I’d enjoyed these hours with the Osage. I felt a part of myself sit up from the grave and remember.
I tilted my face skyward. The night had weakened from black to an oily gunmetal, like water poured across a canvas. The fire warmed me, but beyond, a norther rumbled and roared. Winter was almost here. I hoped I’d prepared enough to survive until spring. A faint warmth pulsed along my boots, beckoning me toward home.
Around camp, day rustled from night, the Osage rising from their timbers, blankets looped around bodies, the warm scent of black coffee seeping through the air. Niabi settled beside me on the log, the four stripes on her cloak arresting in the oncoming light. “Greet the new day with me?”
I followed Niabi to the edge of their camp, where grass became forest. Beyond, where sky met earth, a brightness loomed. Dawn was rising.
The Osage chanted. I was honored Niabi had invited me to observe their rite. I wrapped my blanket tight across my shoulders and waited. And then a sunray slashed over the horizon. As they sang, they crouched and lifted a piece of earth, swiping the soil across their foreheads in sacrament. Before fleeing Kansas, I’d rarely ever thought about this concept of land. The prairies of our farm had just been ours, something taken for granted. But after feeling cared for by my meadows and my creek, after hearing the Osage stories of honoring the land, after all I’d lived this past season, I felt such deep gratitude for the earth. I bent and scooped up a fragment of soil.
I studied the red dirt smudged on my fingertips. It was cold and silty. I rubbed the soil between my fingers and looked homeward.
Winter
