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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Coffee
Tom Sheehan
The grass was brown, the tree line green and the mountain tops white, the highest ones sticking up into the vague, pale sky. Not much at all seemed different in the dawn flash. To the roused cowpoke slipping out of his blanket, it all said, “Coffee to start the day.”
But there remained from his sleep the elements of a dream upon which he could not put a finger of clarity. A cloudy, nebulous nothing seemed to hang on, though he could not recall the first inkling of it. Associations, he said to himself, might bring back the gist of the dream. He’d wait on one of those associations coming along with a mind of its own, the way his imagined aroma of coffee held sway.
Thornton Tewksbury, English by birth, traveler by choice, cowpoke by need, enjoyed the sun getting stronger. He placed a few stones in a small net-like canvas bag and hitched it to a length of rope when he spotted a dead tree. The dead tree stood like a bleached flagpole at the edge of the tree line with sunlight reflecting on it. Dead and still standing, he thought, and found admiration for the tree, his mind working in its odd way, yanking him alert at the strangest times, seeing more than others might see in an image, in an object. For him the tree had purpose: upright it provided fuel, on the ground it would rot away, back to earth, useless to him but not the worst of outcomes, enriching the Earth once again.
Pulling his horse to a stop under the tree, he heaved the net up toward one limb on the tree. The heavier net swung over the limb and fell about 6 feet below the limb on the other side. Then he looped the rope around the section above the net, twisted it tightly and pulled the limb down out of the tree. It crashed down in its bleached-out state, like a gift of ivory for the cowpoke wanting his coffee. The Indians identified kindling obtained this way as squaw pine.
With the kindling gathered he had the makings for a good cup of coffee the coffee pack in his saddlebag with dry matches, and now kindling set up for a fire. Soon he’d have the cup he had been thinking of through half the night, but dared not light a fire in the dark; he had seen Indian activity earlier on the day before. He was not sure if they were friendly or not, though they had not appeared to be a war party.
In a patch of bare ground, the earth with a busy red tone in it, he arranged a few stones he’d found at the tree line, started a fire, put his three-cup coffeepot near the flames.
The aroma of brewing coffee filled the air. It whet his appetite, although he had little food in his saddlebag, a piece of jerky, which he generally disliked, eating it for survival. He shoved the jerky into his pocket.
All the contrasts around him seemed too mixed to be discernible, though some stood apart, perhaps the real and the unreal. He fought to bring back a dream from his night. Some part of it was trying to say “peril” to him or “danger.” That’s all he could find from the dream.
He had just about finished the second cup of coffee, heady with morning’s aroma, when he heard a baby cry from the within the tree line.
That was his dream sound; a crying baby, the peril, the danger; for him, he wondered, or for the baby?
He looked off to the tree line when the cry came again, this time as though the cry was quickly muffled. He pictured a hand placed over a small mouth. He thought of a mother in peril, frightened of being discovered by the cries of what she was trying to protect. Incongruity hit him as the picture stayed at the back of his head.
Images passed through Tewksbury, a whole slew of them in rapid fire, like a salvo of sorts. With his pistol in one hand and the cup of coffee in the other, he walked toward the tree line, heard the cry again, a short, mouth-covered cry, and found a young Indian woman holding an infant. No one else was in the area when he looked around, seeking someone in hiding, fearing enticement or entrapment.
He approached the woman, saw fear sitting in her eyes, and felt sympathy for the infant in her arms. He held his hand up in the universal signal of peace, of friendship, of no harm being harbored within him. With a slow motion, he put away his pistol and then offered the woman the cup of coffee, the aroma still alive in the air. He saw her inhale the aroma as it stayed buoyant in the air about them. The woman did not reach for the cup. Tewksbury placed it on the ground in front of her as the baby cried again, and then he stepped back. She stuck a finger in the cup, tasted the coffee on it, then stuck the finger in the cup again and into the baby’s mouth. The baby suckled at her finger. She took a sip of the coffee, dipped a finger again for the baby, gave it to him, and drank again.
She smiled at Tewksbury. He found her a most beautiful woman, young, dark-eyed, black-haired, the rising sun finding elegance, and a worry, in her cheeks, on her face. Her dress was Sioux. A dress of deerskin adorned in several places with teeth from an animal, claws, and rows of beads in a splash of color. She wore the dress with distinction and charm, not parading herself but aware of being in the presence of a kind man, a kind white man with pale green eyes she was not familiar with and made her stare at them, blond hair that fell well below his ears and the color of his shirt.
Tewksbury, trying to find out what he could when she did not answer any of the questions he tossed at her, offered the image of a baby suckling at a mother’s breast. She nodded. He turned away and he could hear the baby drawing deeply, as if the coffee had whet its appetite. For a few minutes Tewksbury stayed that way, letting privacy have the hand.
The woman said something in her language that was unknown to Tewksbury, and he turned to face her. She put a finger to her mouth, then her hand. He found a piece of jerky in his pocket and offered it to her. She chewed rapidly, looking down at the baby still at her breast, then looking back at Tewksbury, the smile more radiant on her face.
Still curious about her being alone, and wondering how she had gotten here in this place with no horse in sight, he drummed his fingers on a piece of wood. She understood the imitated sound of hoof beats immediately, and tossed one hand abruptly to one side and grabbed her shoulder and hugged the baby. He understood her as telling him she had fallen from her horse and had hurt her shoulder as she protected the baby. He noticed a bruise on her forehead and figured she had run into a low hanging limb of a tree.
Why she was alone bothered him, and arose the possibility that braves from her tribe would be looking for mother and child.
Tewksbury made triangles of his hands joined at the fingertips and moved them into separate places in a steady pace. Her nod said she understood he was asking about her village, and her eyes lit up with emotion as she swept one hand in a continuous motion. Tewksbury took that to mean her man or her village had forced her departure from their village.
“Oh, my,” he said, “what could she have done?”
She put her hand over her heart, shook her head and said angry words in a quick mouthful, and hugged the baby closer.
The mother’s instinct was seen in its rarest form by the cowboy. He took her by the hand, patted the baby with his other hand and led her to the side of the fire. She drank the last cup of coffee as Tewksbury saddled his horse and placed several stones on the few sticks yet burning. Smoke drifted into the air of early morning. He mounted his horse, put his hands down for the baby, lifted the now silent one aloft, and then helped her mount the horse to sit right behind him. He passed the infant back to its mother.
The trio rode off into the rising sun, riding off to the nearest spread, which was Charlie Peabody’s Triple P, PPP on a line, and Charlie’s wife Priscilla, her too from Dorsetshire in the old country and a dear dear woman with half a dozen children of her own. Help for the mother and child would come with warmth from the Peabodys.
As he rode Tewksbury often looked behind him for signs of any riders, Indian or otherwise. He agreed that he’d be hard pressed to let such a woman go off by herself in any situation, under any circumstance. The image of Priscilla Peabody hugging a child once more came to him repeatedly.
They were about a mile from the Triple P spread when he saw the Indian riding down from a cluster of trees, urging his horse to run faster, screams in his voice and a rifle waving overhead in one hand.
Tewksbury felt the girl cringe against his back, utter a helpless sound, and start to shake.
Tewksbury did not rush off. He dismounted in a hurry, drew his rifle from the saddle sheath, aimed over the saddle where he had positioned the rifle … and brought the Indian to a surprising halt. He sat his horse about 100 yards off apparently waiting for Tewksbury to fire at him.
Tewksbury held his fire as the Indian woman uttered more fearful sounds and clutched the baby tighter against her bosom.
Tewksbury still held his fire and the Indian still sat in place.
After 10 minutes or so, and after waving his rifle in the air and screaming in his language, the brave rode off into the cluster of trees and was not seen again.
The trio was greeted with joy and curiosity by the Peabodys, with Priscilla the first off her porch, a morning coffee in her hand. She handed the cup to Tewksbury and said, “What do we have here, Thorn? I haven’t seen you in weeks and you show up with a woman and child. Are they hurt? Hungry? Are they in danger? Are we? Is the child yours?” She reached for the baby and the Indian girl passed the child to her and slid off the horse.
Tewksbury dismounted as Charlie Peabody reached to shake hands. “Where’d you find them, Thorn?”
“Out on the grass. I think she was ushered from her village and one brave came on us as we rode back here. I was on line duty for Griswold, for whom I am now working.”
“He come at you, that lone Indian?” Peabody said.
“He gave it a try,” Tewksbury answered, “but when I dismounted and steadied a rifle on him from about 100 yards, he wouldn’t come any closer. He fully understood I had him straight on.”
“He bail out then?” Peabody was nodding at a picture in his mind, seeing the scene out on the prairie, Tewksbury at heroics.
The two men kept talking as Priscilla Peabody ushered the Indian woman off to the porch, still cradling the baby in her arms, cooing to the infant, finding an old happiness she sadly missed. Pouring a cup of coffee for the woman, she pointed to bread and jam on the small table.
“They’ll get along, won’t they,” Tewksbury said as he and Peabody stood apart from them in the ranch yard.
“If she’s Sioux, that girl, they will,” Peabody said, “’cause Prissy speaks some Sioux if you didn’t know. It’s like a hobby with her. She’s good at that kind of stuff. Picks it up early and easy-like. I sense that you would too, if bent to it. You folks had some good education before you came this way. And I’m damned glad both of you made the trip. I’ll tell you, Thorn, when you dismounted out there and took the best aim, he understood you were not a runner. He most likely has run down a few runners in his time. This turn of yours put him in his place. He understood you and what you meant. That’s good thinking, Thorn.” He shook his head, smiled broadly and patted Tewksbury on the back, saying, “When are you coming to work for me?”
“OH, Charlie, you know that would spoil a perfect relationship with the lady from Dorsetshire and I surely don’t want that to transpire.” He laughed as he said it, his relaxation into rhyme, and so did Peabody, knowing the inflection and the full meaning of comfort.
The two of them spun about as Priscilla spun out a few words in Lakota Sioux, and offered her quick translations for the men.” Taŋyáŋ yahí.” And over her shoulder offered, “Welcome.” Then she said, “Táku eníčiyapi he?” and explained to the men, “What is your name?” And added, to the Indian woman, “Akhé eyá yo, and to the men, “Say again.”
The use of the Sioux language moved along between the women in jerks and starts on the porch, the Indian taking the food offered, smiling at the baby asleep in the arms of the older woman, finding an unknown comfort building around her.
Priscilla Peabody was at her best, mother, friend, and confidant.
Choosing a break in the conversation between the two men, Priscilla Peabody qualified it all from the porch, in a voice filled with satisfied curiosity, “Her name is Two Stars Shining and her baby’s name is
Small Star. It’s a girl. Numra wicahpi ojaja and Cistila wicahpi. That’s who they are. They were ousted from their village by a drunken husband, name of Bear Claw. He’s the one came at you out there on the grass and she knows he’ll come back at you. But she says adamantly that she will not be going back there.”
And as if she could move the mountain herself, and the whole Sioux Nation, Priscilla Peabody looked directly at the two men and said, “Not if I can help it.”
Her grin was as broad as Charlie Peabody had seen since the last visit of their eldest daughter, all the way from St. Louis.
All the observations in this matter found resolution. Priscilla Peabody kept firm her stand highlighting the situation. Thornton Tewksbury eventually went work for Charlie Peabody, and Two Stars Shining and Small Star found a home in a cabin on the Triple P ranch with Tewksbury.
And the Englishman from Dorsetshire, Thornton Tewksbury, in one mad day of being shot at too often from long range, as if to drive him into an escape run, dipped into a wadi, dismounted, spurred his horse beyond, and from a slight rise in the wadi made his stand, catching Bear Claw coming over the rise with two other braves, and ended the on-going problem with his rifle after sustaining a bullet in one leg and one in his arm.
In time, Tewksbury became Peabody’s foreman and Two Stars Shining became like a daughter to Priscilla Peabody. All parties helped in raising the infant girl to fullness, calling her Star Bright when she had fully grown.
Now and then in those long years following, Tewksbury wondered where he’d be, or Two Stars Shining and her daughter, if he had not yearned for a cup of coffee on that fateful morning, realizing, of course, that he had a morning addiction.
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