Elkhorn Tavern by Douglas C. Jones

Author:Douglas C. Jones
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2010-09-21T00:00:00+00:00

2 Spavinaw Tom saw the lights go out inside the house and half expected gunfire. He was sure someone had come onto the back porch, but the night was so black he could hardly see the outline of the barn close by, and beyond that everything was veiled by rain. He called again.

“Hello the house!”

He straddled the pony’s croup, holding a blanket over his head and shoulders. Before him on the saddle lay a man, facedown. Spavinaw Tom edged the pony away from the barn and into the yard.

“Hello the house,” he called. “I got a hurt man here.”

No sound came back except the fall of water, like ice pellets shot against the wet ground.

“I got a hurt man here!”

“What do you want?” Spavinaw Tom thought it was a woman’s voice, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Somebody needs to take this hurt man out of the rain.” There was another long silence, and he could feel cold water running down his back. The man lying across the saddle was wearing only long underwear, and beneath his hand Spavinaw Tom could feel the soaked flannel. “Somebody needs to take care of this hurt man.”

“Who are you?” Now he knew it was a woman. He hesitated, not knowing the sentiments of these people, and with no men here, with only a woman to call back to him in the night, he knew they would be very nervous. Or maybe, he thought, she is there alone, which would be even worse.

“I was a soldier in this battle here,” he shouted above the rain. “But I’m not a soldier now. I found this hurt man in the woods. He needs to get in out of the wet.”

A lighted lantern appeared, making a fuzzy ball of light in the downpour. He could see three figures. One held a gun, but he kneed the pony forward, toward them. They remained under the porch roof until he was close, and then the woman and a tall girl ran out to the horse. Spavinaw Tom slipped down and helped them pull the man off the saddle and onto the porch. The other one, a man, stood well back, his eyes sharp and intent like a dog watching a rabbit being skinned. He held up the lantern; the weapon he held in the other hand was a shotgun.

“All right, let’s get him inside,” the woman said. Spavinaw Tom could feel her eyes going over him, combing him from top to bottom, looking at the turban and the feathers and the beaded jacket. They pulled the deadweight of the man across the porch and into the kitchen, where it was warm and smelling of cooked meat. The man with the lantern followed, watching closely, paying no attention to the soggy form they dragged across the floor, his eyes strictly on the Indian. I hope I haven’t made a big mistake, Spavinaw Tom thought. This is a very young man with that shotgun, and his eyes are very blue and hostile.

They laid the man on his back before the cookstove, his bare toes pointing up.

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