To Charley’s horror, a snort burst from his lips, followed by a loud cackle. Right away he clamped a hand over his mouth, but the harm had been done. The gleam in his fiancée’s eyes had nothing to do with love.
“Find that funny, do you?” Melissa’s tone was as brittle as eggshells. “The woman you’re going to marry groped by another man?”
Tony rose. “Did I hear right?” He beamed at Charley. “You have proposed, and she accepted?” Laughing heartily, Tony embraced him. “I congratulate you, my friend! I wish the two of you all the happiness in the world.”
“I’d like you to be there as my best man.”
“I would be honored.” Tony spread his arms wide to hug Melissa, but she held out a palm, stopping him.
“Explain yourself, Charley Pickett.”
Charley took her hand and sat her down and told her about Maria, Tony’s true love, and all Tony had been through. He concluded with, “If you love me, you have to trust me. And if you trust me, you have to trust my choice in friends.”
“I trust you with all my heart,” Melissa said, and rising, she gave Tony a hug.
After that they sat around the fire talking until the wee hours of the morning. Charley couldn’t stop glancing at her and touching her arm to prove it was real and not a dream.
Melissa was curious about Maria. Tony answered her many questions openly and honestly, and presently she said, “We’ll help you do whatever needs to be done to bring her over. Maybe we could make it a double wedding.”
“I would like nothing better. But there are complications. Her father does not want her to have anything to do with me. He fears the Camorra, and rightly so. He might keep her in Naples against her will.”
They were quiet awhile after that, until Melissa said, “I’m curious. Where did you learn English so well?”
“It is taught in the schools. Many of my country-men practice it as a second language.”
Enos Howard chose that moment to smack his lips and roll onto his side.
“I guess we should turn in,” Melissa said. “Our curmudgeon of a buffalo hunter wants to ride out at dawn. Says it will take us about two days to reach Eli’s. Then, if we’re lucky, it’s on to the Hoodoos.”
The rosy inner glow that had sheathed Charley like a bubble burst. He crawled under his blankets, but he couldn’t sleep. His emotions were in turmoil. Now that Melissa had declared her love, it changed everything.
Charley realized Mr. Leeds had been right. He had no business bringing Melissa along. There was no excuse for placing her life in jeopardy. It was pure selfishness. If she came to harm, it would be his fault and his alone. And when dealing with cutthroats like the Hoodoos, that was a very real possibility.
What in God’s name had he done?
Chapter Sixteen
Nebraska Territory
The swaying motion lulled Federal Agent William Shores into dozing off, as it had so many times. The sun was an hour higher in the sky when a slight jolt awakened him. He raised his head and beheld grass, grass, and more grass for as far as the eye could see. Shores was sick to death of it. Just as he was sick to death of being treated like an invalid. His fever was long gone, and he had regained much of his strength, but Red Fox insisted he was not yet recovered enough to ride. “What do you call this thing again?”
“Travois, Brother John. Many tribes use.”
Shores had to admit it was a great idea. The old Shoshone had chopped down a few saplings and fashioned them into a crude but serviceable platform. He had then lashed the two long poles on either side of the paint, climbed back on, and off they went. The claybank plodded along behind them, linked by a rope to the travois.
They had been traveling steadily south for days, making for the nearest settlement. Once there, Shores hoped to learn the latest news about the Hoodoos. “How much longer before we get to this place you mentioned?”
“Five, six sleeps, maybe more,” Red Fox answered. “Prairie big, Brother John. Your patience small.”
Shores was impatient all right. He was impatient to get back on his feet. He was impatient to find the Hoodoos and wrap his assignment up. He was impatient to part company with the old man. Most of all, he was impatient with the West and everything in it: the grass, the dust, the bugs, the sun, the sweaty smell of the horses, the worse smell when they used their hind ends for what hind ends were made for.
With nothing better to do, Shores twisted to his left. His saddlebags were on the travois beside him. Opening one, he rummaged inside for the drawings he had made of the symbols Mat-ta-vish had drawn in the dirt. He had not looked at them since he showed them to O. T. Quarrel, and he had no idea why he had an urge to look at them now.
There were two. They did not contain much detail, but there was no doubt what they were. One was a buffalo. Its horns and hump and overall shape were unmistakable. The other reminded Shores of a jellyfish, but that couldn’t be. Mat-ta-vish had never been anywhere near an ocean. Mat-ta-vish’s sister believed it was a star. So the two drawings translated into “Buffalo Star.” Shores had asked her if the name held special significance, but she was as puzzled as he was.
Shores eased partway onto his side so he could face Red Fox. “Did your brother’s wife mention the drawings he spent the last few moments of his life making?”
“Drawings?” The old Shoshone glanced down.
“These.” Shores handed the paper up to him. “I think they’re a clue of some kind. An important clue. Is there a place your people call Buffalo Star? Or could it be the name of someone?”
“Not name,” the old warrior said, the lines in his seamed countenance doubling. “Not Buffalo Star.”
“What do they mean then?”
“One be white buffalo.”
“What’s the difference? Buffalo, white buffalo—it’s all the same, isn’t it?”
Red Fox spoke slowly. “White buffalo special. White buffalo rare. To Indian, much good medicine.”
“What about the star? What does that mean?”
“Star mean star.”
“So you’re saying it’s Good Medicine Star?” Which made even less sense to Shores than the other. Maybe he was wrong, and the drawings had nothing to do with the Hoodoos. Maybe they were symbols with special meaning for Mat-ta-vish and no one else. He mentioned as much.
“No. Drawings be about bad whites. So must think like whites.” Red Fox pursed his lips in contemplation. “To your people, white buffalo be good luck. Like rabbitfoot soldier at fort have.”
“Carrying a rabbit’s foot for luck is a silly superstition,” Shores said. “So is thinking an albino buffalo is special.”
The old warrior leaned down and handed the paper to him. “Much whites not know.”
“You’re smarter than us, is that it? Look at you. Running around half naked. Using a bow and arrow. And you live in a dwelling made of hides. What do you know about the world that we don’t? Have you read the Bible? Or Plato? Have you ever been to Europe? Africa? Asia? Hell, your people know next to nothing about life. And the sad thing is, they know so little, they don’t realize how little it really is.”
If Red Fox was offended, he didn’t show it. “Indians know all need to know. How to hunt. How to skin animals. How to make clothes. Before whites come, Indian happy. Go where we want, do what we want. Now must live on reservation. Must wear white clothes. Must send children to white school. Cannot count coup, cannot raid enemies. Indian unhappy.”
“Don’t blame me. I wasn’t a party to the treaties.” Shores stared at the drawings. “Good Luck Star?” he said aloud, as baffled as ever. He shoved the paper into his saddlebags and lay with one hand under his head. He couldn’t wait to reach the settlement. If they had a telegraph, he would send an update to the assistant director and request the latest information on his quarry. It was probably too much to hope for. Just as it was probably too much to expect them to have a decent hotel where he could treat himself to a hot bath and a night’s sleep in a soft bed.