LAURA FUSTER

     Perched on a rocky ledge, Brook watched Cedar Mountain’s shadows crawl over the Silver Spur Ranch below, kerosene lamps now popping on in the manor and bunkhouse.  She stopped fiddling with the little book-shaped locket around her neck to pull up her jacket’s collar.  The cow hair of her “woolie” chaps kept her denimed legs warm enough, but her jacket and cotton bandanna were no match for this cold Californian altitude.  Too dangerous to kindle a fire—it would give her position away.  A $1,000 reward, dead or alive, had proven a tempting invitation to every bounty hunter from here to Texas.

  

     Before the light faded completely, Brook checked off another day in her notebook, pursing her lips at the September 4th date.  She’d spend tomorrow’s 16th birthday on the road, as usual.  Well, it probably wasn’t her actual birthday anyway.  By the time she knew what birthdays were, no one was around to ask.  At about 8 years old, she’d picked her favorite number and month to choose a September 5th, 1852 birthdate—as good as any.

 

     Movement turned her attention back to the ranch.  Jacob McMaster, Jr., head rancher, had stepped out onto the veranda for an after-dinner cigar.  His unjustly withholding her pay after the cattle drive still clenched her fists and gritted her teeth.  Though disguised as a boy with her breasts wrapped flat, a bit of padding around her waist, and her shaggy blond hair cropped just below her ears, her shorter, thinner frame and youthful face had made her a target of macho ridicule on more than one occasion, but this went too far.  For the past three days, she had studied the manor’s routine and layout, particularly which window led to the parlor and the end table where they kept “petty cash” handy.  It wasn’t stealing if the money was owed.  

    

     She smiled as she heard Charlie’s footsteps behind her, but waited for him to nicker and nuzzle her arm before reaching up and wrapping it around his neck.

    

     “Don’t worry, Charlie.  It’ll be alright.  Easy as falling off a log,” she murmured, caressing his soft hair.

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     She reached into her saddlebag and pulled out a dried peppermint leaf—her best friend’s favorite.  He munched it down, but stayed by her side, keeping her company until time to descend into the valley.  

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 ***

 

     When the lamps in the manor were extinguished, Brook made her move, creeping up to the house an hour later.  Her tall leather boots crept silently over the autumn ground—stealth one of many skills learned during her first seven years with a Sioux.  Charlie hid behind a nearby clump of trees.  

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     Crouched below the target window, she reached up and slid open the sash, standing on the parlor rug a few seconds after.  She headed straight for the end table, opened the drawer, and picked up a healthy wad of dollar bills.  After choosing a $20, three $10s, and two $5s, and slipping them into her vest pocket, she returned the rest.  As she glided the drawer closed, moonlight reflected off the glass of a picture frame, drawing her eye.  She froze.  In the photo, a young couple stood smiling in their Sunday best before a red-bricked church somewhere back east.  Hanging from the woman’s neck was a locket—its unusual shape looked identical to the one under her shirt.  

 

     Heart pounding, she picked up the picture for a closer look, the grainy image denying her certainty.  But then her locket’s inscription sprang into mind:  “A and J M - June 20, 1844”.  What was the matriarch of this family’s first name?  She hurried to the desk and rummaged through the papers, her breath catching at a bank statement addressed to an “Abigail McMaster”.  It all fit!  She dashed back to the end table and grabbed the photograph, trying to see some resemblance in the faces as years of bitterness simmered within her.  

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     Her own eyes stared from the young woman’s face.  The frame shook in her hand, her breathing now labored as anger and resentment swelled.  She had imagined this moment since the day she learned the truth, but never with such a twisting knife in her heart, stealing her breath.

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     With a warlike scream, she hurdled the frame across the room, its glass smashing against the wall.  Then she yelled, “Mrs. McMaster!  Mrs. McMaster,” as loudly as she could.  

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     Jacob McMaster, clad only in long underwear, was first through the door, his pistol aimed. 

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     “Hold it right there!”

 

     Brook raised her hands away from her gun belt, but her expression remained defiant.

 

     “You!?” Jacob cried, disbelief clear in his voice.

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     Brook didn’t move, but continued to shout, “Mrs. McMaster!” “Mrs. McMaster!”

    

     “Stop that!” he ordered.

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     “Or what, Jacob?  You’ll shoot me?”  She repeated her call again.

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     The youngest son, Chad, jeans on, but bare chested, flew into the room, his rifle pointed and ready.  A young lady in a long white robe trailed behind him.  

    

     “What’s going on?”  

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     “I suspect more stealing, little brother.”

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     An older woman, stiff and proud, appeared in the doorway, her brow furrowed.

    

     “Jacob?  What’s the problem?” 

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     “Just a lowly thief, mother, nothing to worry about.”

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     Brook’s glare locked on his, her jaw set as Jacob sauntered towards her.  

    

     He reached into her vest pocket and pulled out the bills with a smirk, throwing them onto the end table.  

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     “I only took what you owed me, not a copper more.”

 

     He shook his head, but before he could retort, his mother gasped, spying the shattered photo frame.  She hurried to her destroyed treasure, grabbed the photo’s edge, and brushed off the pieces of glass.  Holding it to her bosom, she turned on the thief, her cheeks red, eyes glistening. 

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     “My dead husband gave me that picture frame on our first anniversary.  Why on earth would you destroy it?”

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     Brook merely stared at her without a word.  Finally, she said, “I have something that belongs to you, Mrs. McMaster.”  

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     “I’m not surprised,” Jacob mocked.

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     She motioned that the item was around her neck.  

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     He nodded, saying, “Don’t try anything stupid.”

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     She lifted the necklace over her head.

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     “Put it on the desk, then step away.”

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     She strolled over and tossed the locket onto the blotter, then moved back to the end table.

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     “Keep your gun on her, Chad,” Jacob said as he and his mother approached the desk.

 

     As they neared, Abigail froze, her eyes wide.  Her shaking fingers reached for the gold chain. She turned the miniature book over and gasped, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

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     “Is that…”

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     “Yes, Jacob,” she said, her haunting tone silencing him. “It’s the necklace in the photograph.” 

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     She looked at Brook.  “Where did you get this?” 

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     Brook’s response was a scowl.

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     “Answer her!” Jacob ordered.

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     Brook refused to break her glower.

 

     The woman studied her, squinting and frowning as if trying to figure something out.  When her jaw dropped and eyes widened, Brook knew she had her.  

    

     “No, it can’t be!” she said, shaking her head, her voice cracking as her tears welled.  “Kate’s dead!  We buried her.”  

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     Brook just stood there, glaring at her.

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     The woman crept towards her, staring at her face.  With barely a whisper, she said, “Could you please roll up your left sleeve?”

 

     Holding her scowl, Brook did as bid.  

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     The woman touched the ancient scars on her forearm, then stumbled, leaning on the end table to steady herself.

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     Jacob ran to her side. “Mother, are you alright?”

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     But Abigail could only mumble, “It’s you.  You’re alive!  My beautiful girl has come back!”

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     Jacob and Chad exchanged a look.

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     The woman reached up to touch her cheek, but Brook backed away, her scowling eyes glued to hers.  

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     “Mother, what are you talking about?” Jacob yelled.

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     Choking on tears, she answered her son, but directed her labored words towards Brook.  “The Sioux stole your baby sister during a raid….  For three days, we searched for her… until we came upon a Sioux camp burned to the ground.  We found… a baby’s body… beyond recognition.  A gold bangle lay beside her … Kate was playing with the bracelet and a locket before the attack.  We never located the necklace.  Convinced this was our beloved daughter… we buried her… at the nearest outpost, Fort Bridger, in the Utah Territory.”   A squeaky cry slipped out as she gulped a breath. 

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     “That’s where I go every May—to plant birthday flowers on her grave.” 

    

     Breaking the stunned silence, Brook hissed, “Out of guilt.”

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     “What?” Abigail murmured.

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     Brook answered, her voice eerily calm, but her tone harsh, accusing.  “A Sioux woman escaped that brutal assault on their settlement, saving me as well.  Nakotah taught me the Sioux ways, treated me as her own.  One day I asked why I looked different from her with my blond hair and white skin, so she told me of the raid on your camp.  She said you’d left your wagon train and ventured where you shouldn’t have.  They surrounded and outnumbered you.  Chief Hotah proposed a deal, your infant, in return for the lives of the rest.  So, you sacrificed me.”

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     “No, no! it’s not true!” Abigail cried.  “They stole you from your cradle while we were fighting.” 

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     Her scowl holding firm, Brook continued.  “Then an Army deserter killed Nakotah, and I was on my own.  My only goal, to survive so I could find you - so I could see what kind of mother would give her baby to people she considered “savages”.   And as the years went by, so I could show you the life to which you had condemned me.  I’ve seen and experienced things no child should; the price on my head is for a murder I didn’t commit.”

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     “Please, please, Kate, you must believe me!  We would NEVER have given you to them, NEVER!  They suddenly rode off whooping and screeching, but we didn’t know why until we discovered you missing.  We left at once to get you back.  I’m so sorry we stopped looking, but the bracelet had convinced us!”  She fell to the ground, wailing, “I’m so, so sorry…” 

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     For the first time in her life, Brook questioned her reality as she watched Abigail on the floor.  If the woman were lying, she was a terrific actress.  That Nakotah could have lied to make her want to stay, she had never considered.

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     Confusion left her breath short and shallow, her head spinning.  The walls seemed to be closing in on her; she suddenly felt trapped.  She jerked around and bolted to the open window, diving through, landing with a somersault, then jumping on Charlie’s back.  

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***

    

     Brook gazed at the sleeping plateau below and the stars twinkling overhead, the peacefulness helping her think.

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     Nakotah had been good to her, treated her like her own.  But she had also told stories of how the white man’s sickness killed her people.  Was she trying to tell her she’d been a replacement for a lost child? 

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     And if Nakotah’s version were true, it had to have been an impossible decision for her mother to choose between her life and those of her other three children.  She had no honest answer to what she would have done in her mother’s place.

    

     One thing was certain; she would never know who was lying.  But after all she’d gone through, could she forgive her mother, given the quagmire of doubt?

 

***

    

     As the sun peeked over the horizon, Brook shuffled through the gates of Silver Spur Ranch, stopping in front of the manor house.  The door flew open; her mother stood on the threshold, tears running down her cheeks, a hopeful smile tugging at her mouth.  Brook’s eyes met hers and she walked towards home.  

 

  THE END

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