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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Blue Wing, Maiden of the Pool
Tom Sheehan
From a hidden spot uphill from a pool fed by the River of the Nations, Jobie Trask watched the Indian maiden as she swam in the cool-looking water, all the while perspiration cloaking him where he hunched down between two large rocks. He suspected her to be Cherokee, believed her to be beautiful, and had no idea at all that she was nude. None of those facts lined up in his thinking as he watched her swim with an elegant style from one end of the pool to the other end, perhaps 100 feet apart. He wondered if there were any fish in the water, or any big turtles. He shivered at the last thought and it made him stand by just in case she found trouble, or it found her … or so he told himself.
The pool was on the high end of the River of the Nations, at least a dozen miles from Sharpsville, and the abandoned fort there, in high Wyoming.
He thought he had seen her once before, near the gate of Fort Wilcox just before it was deserted by the 4th Cavalry Brigade heading off to unrest elsewhere, and just before he was put out of a job by the move. If she was the one he had seen, her name was Blue Wing. He recalled that a bit of mystery sat in her face that one time, in the natural rise of her cheekbones shaped by the slanting evening sun bidding goodbye to day, at lips that seemed to be tasting the very air, and in the dreamy, slow and subtle moves of a most curvaceous body.
Trask had been a scout for the brigade on a long assignment; his 9 years in the territory had brought him invaluable knowledge of Indians, traders and hunters of the hills, and cattlemen of the range.
Trask was only 24 years old, looked 35 with weathered skin and carried the wary look of an older man in his eyes. Just under six feet tall, husky at chest and shoulders touting strength, he moved with confidence in each motion, having been “out and back” as his father had said enough times and the local sheriff had echoed those sentiments when he said, “He’s been there and done most of it bound to be done.” It was an accurate statement that many folks would agree on. When Trask walked into the Teton Hills Saloon all the customers counted him as countable on either side of an argument or a struggle. Two pistols were carried on his gun belt, he wore a magazine of new bullets like a badge on his shirt pocket, but unlike other western men, his feet were shod with a pair of highly-decorated leather boots made by a Cherokee friend. Trask explained the boots saying, “No Indian wears spurs and they’ve been riding horses longer than we have and I don’t need spurs either.”
He had friends all over the Nations, which included some Indian women. Yet he longingly looked at the maiden swimming in the blue pool, her dress on the bank and flattened in the sun, moccasins beside the dress, all with the sudden idea hitting him that she was naked down there in the water. For a bare moment he dwelled on that image, realized it was most likely true, and held his breath in expectation.
When a sudden movement caught his eye at the opposite end of the pool, not sure if it was a metallic flash or the white of a face amidst the green growth, he figured somebody else might be watching her too, from behind a clump of brush on another small rise. He closed one eye as he lined up the spot as if it was a target. In a new reflection off the sun, the top of a Stetson hat glowed pure white, and then a face followed it into his vision.
He knew it to be a kid from town, Clayton Shanks, a loner, maybe 15 or 16, touted as a harmless loser all the way and never employed for any length of time, and each of those occasions often shorter than a decent breath. Each time, Trask recalled, a girl was involved in the short stay. The sheriff and some people were aware Shanks might become a problem, and might someday hurt somebody. Yet some said he was a harmless and overgrown kid, like lard on a hook … he’d become what he was meant to be.
Yet here he was spying on an Indian maiden who might be nude. There were many folks in town who’d say, “So what,” to that, but here was trusty Jobie Trask doing the same damned thing as the kid Shanks.
Trask was sure that Blue Wing and Shanks had not spotted him or seen his horse tethered in a clutch of trees and brush behind a rugged outcropping. The whereabouts of Shanks’ horse was unknown to Trask, perhaps hidden in another grove or in rocks behind the hill. It was sure he had not come on foot. But other doubts assailed Trask … he could not shoot at Shanks for looking at a woman who might likely be nude at the time … or close to it, he thought, as he again looked at the display of her clothing played out on the banking.
If he tried to get behind Shanks, the youngster might shoot at him, being this far out of town (perhaps he had already done something like it) or Blue Wing would see him also as a Peeping Tom, though his looking was accidental. The soft boots he wore, without spurs attached, might assure him of a close-up, face to face confrontation with Shanks.
No matter what he did, Blue Wing would see both of them as Peeping Toms; that bothered Trask.
And in the pool, with a graceful move, Blue Wing made a turn at the far end of the pool, her elegance visible to both pair of eyes.
The entire idyllic scene, a beautiful woman swimming nude in a pool of water, two men of sorts looking on and enjoying the display in a sensual setting, and a clear blue sky reflected in the pool’s surface, was brought to a sudden change when two other men, mounted, came to the bank of the pool and ordered Blue Wing out of the pool.
“Over here, squaw,“ one of them said as he pointed to the pool’s bank in front of him.
Blue Wing did not move as she crouched in the water at the lowest end of the pool. When the man fired a shot on the water near her, she started to swim back towards the pair of new strangers … and on the far end of the pool, from his place of hiding, Clayton Shanks bolted from his hiding place and ran for his horse.
One of the intruders yelled out, “Shoot that guy, Harry, and go after him. Make sure he’s dead before you come back. He might be running for help, maybe for Injuns.”
The mounted stranger rode off around the pool and went out of site, yelling out, “I’ll get him, Jake. I’ll get him, and you bet I’ll be back. You better wait on me.”
Blue Wing was in the middle of the pool, swimming slowly back, and the man named Harry yelled out to her, “That’s the good old girl. You come over here where this old boy’s gonna give you a big welcome.”
He fired another shot close to her, and laughed as he did it, saying as she stroked again, “You know better don’t you, woman? Now don’t you?”
He fired again and Trask knew the man was drunk. It would be stupid to allow him another shot that might go crazy on him and hit Blue Wing.
Trask stood between the two rocks and put a round at the man’s feet, right where he aimed it. Dust flew up around the man’s ankles with chips of rock chattering and clattering in the air, and when he spun about to see who was shooting at him, he dropped his gun on the spot and raised his hands over his head.
“She’s only a squaw woman, fella,” he said in his partial stupor. “Just a squaw woman. What’er’ya shootin’ at me for?” He stumbled as he spoke and let a look of amazement limp across his face.
Trask, in his harshest voice, said, “Jake, if you’re not up on your horse and out of here in a minute, and without your gun, I’ll kill you. Tell your pal Harry, if you ever catch up to him, if he hurts that kid who ran off, the whole town of Sharpsville will be after both of you. Better go now, pal. Part of your minute just got spent and I’m willing to keep talking if you want to hang around and listen.”
The pool shooter was mounted and out of sight in a matter of a few minutes, dust swirling up from his hasty retreat, and Blue Wing was putting on her dress as Trask casually looked off downstream while she dressed.
But Jobie Trask had seen enough of Blue Wing to say that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He was hooked.
As she rode on the back of his mount, Blue Wing said, “Bad men were looking at Blue Wing when she swim in the pool. Were you looking at Blue Wing too when you shoot at man with gun shooting at water?”
Trask, feeling the loose coil of her against his back as they rode, her arms curling tightly around his waist, had difficulty in concentrating, so he answered her question with a barrage of questions of his own, each one offered as if in defense of his actions, especially his looking upon her as she swam alone in the pool.
“Why are you out here alone?”
“My horse run away on me when I pick wild flowers off grass.”
“Why were you alone?”
“I make surprise for chief who is my father? His name is Red Horse Run.”
“Why did your horse run off?”
“Snake make him run.”
“How far is your village?”
“Take half day. Village in valley beyond rock place.”
“Are there any flowers there?”
“Not like flowers grow in grass and sun many day.”
“Will Chief Red Horse Run be angry at me for making Blue Wing ride on my horse with me?”
“Chief not be angry. He know what you do for me at pool.”
“How will he know that?”
“Chief send Rain Mountain to watch me. Rain Mountain is brother of chief.”
“Why didn’t Rain Mountain do something when the bad men came and shoot near you? Is he your brave?”
“He old now, only watch to tell chief. I have no brave of my own. Not yet but may have soon.”
Trask felt a slight squeezing where her arms coiled about his chest, and Blue Wing’s words sank into him as if they were lodged to stay in a special chamber inside. The words made him fully alert to her physical charms, and the clean, new scent of the woman, shortly from a swim in a pool, whose newly wrapped arms became tighter it seemed with each stride of his horse.
“I think you good shooter. Is true?”
Her question surprised him. “Why do you ask that?”
“Chief who see daughter ride on horse with man, make sure man can shoot, man worthy of daughter, man protect daughter, man be brave as brave can be. Chief make him shoot better than other braves. Man need prove he good shooter.”
A sudden awareness hit Trask. “Where is Rain Mountain now?”
“He follow us. Watch us. Go with us to village in the rocks, tell chief what happened to daughter.”
She directed him into a pass he had never entered before, and he stared in amazement to see it break out into a small valley as green as it could be. He took a second look and saw no flowers growing in the small meadow, but at the far end many tipis coned into the air.
When Trask asked Blue Wing why there were no flowers, she said, “Daughter pick all for chief, surprise every day.”
“He must be a great chief,” Trask replied, looking again at the meadow with not a single flower growing on it.
“Great Chief Red Horse Run must be wise before brave. Must lead others even before battle, so must be wise, earn good and many surprises, some every day from daughter.”
Trask, now that he had the opportunity, wanted to learn as much as he could about Indian chiefs, her father in particular.
“If Red Horse Run was a coward but wiser than all others, would he still be chief?”
Blue Wing had a strange look on her face when she heard Trask ask that question. “If he wise to start with,” she said, “he know that others know him before he know himself, so he will not wear bonnet of chief ever if he is coward.”
Though he was always alert on the trail, but was now engrossed with Blue Wing’s beliefs, Trask failed to see the brave that appeared directly in front of him as if he had been spurred up by promise.
The brave, unusually tall and unusually impressive, was mounted bareback on a pinto pony and carried no visible weapon, and though smeared with facial and body war paint his attitude showed mostly in his dark face. His eyes were staring at Trask as if Trask was guilty of a horrendous crime against the Indian nations. Trask saw the body paint of the Indian leap like a flame across his chest, the way a night fire is seen by a far observer. Trask believed the Indian was a messenger of notice rather than a warrior about to do battle.
Trask said to Blue Wing, “I guess you know this fellow, don’t you? Looks like he’s got some kind of message about him. Do you know him, what he’s about, what’s next?”
“He is Tall Tree,” Blue Wing responded. “Red Horse Run send him to bring us to him. He wears paint all the time. He hate white men take away land of the gods. He know since he was papoose he fight for land of the gods. He fight any man, but only when Red Horse Run tell him.”
“So what’s next? What happens now?” He was thinking a duel was in store for him.
“You will see when Red Horse Run tell Tale Tree what to do. Red Horse Run know about you and Blue Wing and two men at pool. I do not worry for you.”
Tall Tree spoke in the language to Blue Wing and she led the way to the far end of the valley where one tipi was larger and stood taller than all the others. She walked alone to the tipi and entered, after more Indian talk from Tall Tree.
For several minutes Trask sat his mount in front of the big tipi and little attention was paid to him by Tall Tree or Indian women at different tasks. Some of them were grinding corn, some were preparing fish and some were cutting up large chunks of meat that younger girls carried off to several fires, where smoke began to swirl into the air. The aroma carried well to Trask who knew a quick hunger.
As Trask studied the area he did not see many braves around, except for Tall Tree and two others off to one side, appearing as if idle. He had not yet seen any weapons, not a single rifle or bow and arrow or spear or tomahawk. Yet there was meat that had been killed and butchered, fish that was had been caught, grain that had been harvested. And there was little if any movement around the two dozen or so tipis spread across that end of the valley.
It was an idyllic scene indeed, thought Trask, and then Blue Wing, as if in perfect accompaniment to it all, somehow as beautiful as the calm scene about him, came out if the tipi. She was followed by an Indian shorter than Tall Tree, wearing no war paint, carrying no weapon, who yet cast about him an imperial aura. “No doubt,” Trask said under his breath, “this is Red Horse Run.”
The chief came right to Trask’s horse, patted the animal with a confident move, and said, “Welcome to my village. Please step down. Trask does honor to my daughter, to me, and to my village. A chief needs such honor for his daughter.” His pause was specific, and pointed, as he swept his hand to include something larger than what was seen. “And to my whole tribe.”
“That’s a whole lot to chew on,” Trask said to himself again as he dismounted in front of the chief, with hardly any of the tribe present.
Red Horse Run, after his illuminating pause, said to Trask, his eyes on him, “In her foolish way she wandered too far alone to gather prairie flowers and was at the mercy of strangers, and to you. You did her well and she speaks well of you. She says your eyes are eager for her, as her eyes are eager for you. Do you think she is telling the truth? Do your eyes tell the truth?” He folded his arms over his chest, in an imperial way, but his eyes were open and friendly.
Trask, conscious of Blue Wing standing by his side, aware of Red Horse Run’s penetrating stare, said, “Both off us speak the truth.” He believed at the moment he was at a point in his life that he would remember forever, and the thought settled in place with deep resolve.
With a nod, though not as imperial as before, the chief said, “Blue Wing and Rain Mountain tell me you are a good shooter. Can you protect Blue Wing forever with your shooting? Are you sure of your shooting?”
“Yes, I am,” Trask vowed.
“You are best shooter you know?”
“Yes, I am,” Trask affirmed.
The smile that crossed the chief’s face was still pleasant, as he said, “We will test your truth. My daughter Blue Wing is not like frightened bird, does not leap too quick, but she is a woman and must also show her truth.”
Red Horse Run yelled out in his language a string of words Trask could not begin to understand, but was aware of some intent in them, something important was due after all the talk of truth.
Several Indians appeared from nowhere, bringing a rig that looked like a tripod for a camera Trask had seen a writer use to take a photo, but this rig was made of stripped branches and stood in a clumsy way about five feet tall when opened. A small piece of wood, flat and square, was placed atop the three points protruding each at the same level above a knotted leather bind.
The chief spoke the language again and one brave placed a small melon on the top of the flat piece. Then Red Horse Run stepped off twenty paces, spun about, and said to Trask, “You stand here and shoot there and knock melon off wood and not move wood. Only try if you think you can shoot only the melon. Blue Wing will watch you.”
Trask, not nervous at all, as confident as if a cloak was wrapped around him, stepped to the line drawn by the chief, pulled his pistol and shot the melon without disturbing the flat board.
Blue Wing smiled a wide smile that cut into Trask with deepest affection. The chief nodded, and made another command to the braves, and one of them put an apple on the board, an apple that was half the size of the melon, and the chief turned to Trask and said, “Trask shoot again with confidence?”
Trask understood the question, and stepped to the line, drew his weapon, aimed, and shot the core right out of the apple.
Again Blue Wing smiled and the chief nodded, and then he made a series of verbal deliveries in the language. One brave produced a nut much smaller than the apple, and took Blue Wing by the hand and stood her directly in front of the tripod. He placed the nut on the flat board that was just visible above the top of Blue Wing’s head. And almost in some kind of mimicry, the brave, with his hands over his ears, ran off to hide behind a tipi.
Blue Wing smiled, Trask gulped, and Red Horse Run said, “If Trask can shoot nut off board, Trask can have Blue Wing forever.”
At the line, Trask felt the sweat running down his back, down from his forehead onto his nose and then dripped off the end of his nose. He wiped his brow, looked at Blue Wing smiling at him, knew he’d love her forever, saw the imperial chief fold his arms across his chest as if the eternal gesture was at hand, and Trask drew his pistol from its holster.
He took aim, and Red Horse Run said, “Trask can stop shooting now. Only the great god of the mountain is perfect. Chief cannot ask Trask to be a perfect, to be god of the mountain, only to be a good man for daughter of Cherokee chief. I will make you married this day.”
Blue Wing hugged Jobie Trask and whispered, “Will my husband this day take me back to the pool?”
Trask understood everything she meant.
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