Later she woke in the sand beside a road with a crushing pain in her skull so terrible she could not see clearly at first. She attempted to stand but the pain and dizziness brought her to her knees. The sun overhead warmed her, and after a while she was able to stand but the pain made her vomit, and she went only a few steps before she sat down by the road to wait for help.
Indians found her. She remembered that. Had she managed to walk a bit farther down the road? Men and women approached, then dropped their rakes and hoes to run to help her. From the shocked expressions on their faces, she realized she must look terrible. It wasn’t until one of the Indian women wrapped a piece of cloth around her shoulders that she realized she was naked. She felt something warm running down the back of her head, and when she reached back to touch it, fresh blood smeared her hand. She felt hard crusts matted in her hair. One of the women spoke English and told her not to be afraid, they would take her to their house and send for help. They steadied her between them as they slowly walked; even then the pain and dizziness caused her to stumble and she had to vomit again. They helped her down to a soft pile of blankets and quilts, where she sank into the gray light again.
Later the women helped her into a blue gingham dress much too large for her before the men lifted her into the back of an old wagon they filled with blankets and quilts. The wagon went slowly enough, but even the least bump sent fiery pain through her skull, so she had to hold it tight in both hands.
When the wagon finally stopped and she opened her eyes, she saw the familiar downtown storefronts of Needles. As soon as the deputy sheriff came out, the store clerk, bank teller, and others gathered around the wagon to stare. Another deputy helped carry her from the wagon to the barber’s chair.
As he gently snipped the hair from around the wound, the barber explained he’d studied medicine for two years in Philadelphia; the nearest doctor was in Kingman. She was lucky to be alive because her skull was cracked. The alcohol stung and ran into both her ears as he flushed the wound of dirt. The barber and his wife kindly offered a cot in their pantry until she got back on her feet. The barber offered to send a telegram to her family but she felt too dizzy and weak to reply.
For three days Hattie slept, waking only to drink water or use the chamber pot. On the fifth day her appetite returned and she ate a bowl of potato soup. Later the barber’s wife heated water for a bath; as soon as she sat in the warm water she felt the other wounds her attacker inflicted, and tears of anger filled her eyes. She found so much sand with weeds in her clothes she put on the blue gingham dress again.
Her rescuers had gathered up what they could of the scattered clothing and belongings, but the little wooden box with the carved gemstones were gone. In a way, the loss of the carvings was worse than the outrage done to her body; she had no recollection of that, but her anguish over the carvings grew by the hour. The gemstones were perfect and beautiful, yes, but in their presence Hattie felt cherished in the way her father loved her. Now they were gone.
She cried so bitterly the piercing pain returned to her head and made her vomit; the barber gave her laudanum, which dulled the pain. The low ceiling of the pantry resembled a tomb. She was sorry she survived the attack — how much easier death would be than this.
The deputy came to make the report the next day. She was careful to move her head slowly and to answer his questions slowly or the pounding pain in her skull came back. The last thing she could remember was checking into the hotel from the train station the day she arrived; she lost all memory of the day of the attack. The deputy asked if there were other injuries beside the blow to the head, and Hattie could tell by the deputy’s averted eyes he wanted to know if she’d been raped. She hesitated, then nodded, but she didn’t cry; she didn’t feel anything.
The deputy did not look up from his report.
“All your money and other valuables were taken?”
She nodded, then as she described the little box of carved gemstones, tears filled her eyes.
Though she could not remember, it seemed obvious she was on her way to Road’s End the day of her attack. Surely the desk clerk at the hotel remembered who drove her — after all, she checked out that morning with a good many bundles and all her luggage. The deputy kept writing. At last he looked up, and promised to get back to her after his investigation.
The deputy completed his inquiry in one afternoon. The desk clerk recalled her checking out but neither he nor the bell captain saw her leave the lobby. Hattie was incredulous — the hotel staff would have had to help load all her luggage and the crates of meteor irons. The deputy looked her in the eyes: the livery stable had no record of a fare from the hotel on the day of her attack.
“But that can’t be!” she cried as she realized the townspeople protected one another. The deputy said the case would be left open for one year from the date of her attack; any new information she might have as her memory returned should be submitted to his office.
So this was how it was done in Needles, California — it wasn’t terribly different from the way it was done in Boston. Now it was clear to her, she could never return to her former life among the lies. She had to leave at once.
The barber’s wife was kind enough to wash and iron her clothes, but Hattie insisted on wearing the blue gingham dress even when she slept. The woman tried to persuade Hattie people would think her strange if she continued to wear the dress — a squaw dress — much too large for her. When Hattie made no reply, the woman warned if she wore that dress around town, it wouldn’t help matters.
“What matters?”
“You and the Indians,” she replied. “People here don’t welcome outsiders who meddle.” She looked away from Hattie. A new Indian encampment started down along the river about a week ago; her attacker was probably one of them, full of green beer.
Hattie was so happy to learn of the encampment, she ignored the woman’s last remark. She knew she would find Indigo there. Hadn’t the girls talked about a winter gathering near Needles? She felt so much better just to know Indigo and the girls were nearby.
Hattie wired her father collect to ask him to please send the barber the money she owed for her treatment and room and board. She took her winter coat and all the warm clothes she could layer under the blue dress but left her luggage and all the rest with the barber as collateral until the money arrived. Her telegram told her parents how much she loved them, and please, not to worry. She was in the hands of God and no harm would come to her.
The sun was bright and the air mild and dry the morning she set out on foot from the barbershop for the encampment down along the river. As weak as she still was, she was glad to have nothing more to carry than a thick wool blanket and a sack of hard candy balls.
What idiots these military police were! The U.S. magistrate saw at once they brought in the wrong Negro. This man was twice the age of the deserter. He asked Big Candy if there was anyone in Tucson who might verify his identity.
In Tucson? He couldn’t think of anyone. He would have to send a telegram to the address Wylie gave him, though it might be weeks before he got a reply. Then he remembered that construction worker from Tucson — Charlie — what was his name? — Sister Salt adored him — he might even be the baby’s father — Charlie Luna! If they could find him, he would confirm Big Candy’s identity.