Outcast (22 page)

Standish's brow wrinkled.
Why was Iona crying?
“Did I say something that…?”

Iona shook her head.

“Would you rather that I stop?”

“No, please go on.”

“I didn't mean to.…”

“I know.”

Standish nodded. “Frostbite doesn't hurt. Your feet get so numb that it feels as though you are walking on stumps, but when they start to thaw, when the feeling comes back.… I remember the pain. I remember dark hands pulling off two of my toes. I thought that was funny, that it was just a dream, but it wasn't.”

He looked at Iona with a question plain on his face, wondering if she could explain what had happened to his toes. Iona was shaking her head. Apparently, she didn't know.

“When I awakened, I thought I was still in a dream. I could see the sky, but only a piece of it, bright blue. It was almost like being in a barrel, or at least what I imagine what it would be like to be in a barrel. My first impression was how warm it was. I was wrapped in a robe, a pelt with the hair on the inside.

“I didn't see him at first. He seemed to be as much a part of that tent as the poles that held it up. I think it was the light glinting off his eyes that made me see him. He nodded at me, and I nodded at him. He shuffled toward me, and then dipped a horn, buffalo I think, into a pot of soup simmering over the fire. He brought it to me and fed me the soup.”

Standish turned to Iona. “I can't tell you how wonderful that soup was. I.…”

Iona nodded.

“Days were broken into consciousness and unconsciousness. I knew when it was day and night by the hole in the roof. It felt suspended, separate from the world. Sometimes the wind would howl and shake me back to Earth.

“My feet were sore, but he would rub something on them every day. That helped. I was growing stronger.… He never seemed to leave the place…not even for the things that all creatures must do, and there was always soup in that pot…that wonderful soup.

“He didn't speak a word to me, but I always knew what he wanted me to do. One day he helped me to my feet. We walked around the tent…actually it was a teepee. We did that until I was strong enough to walk until I was strong enough to go.

“I knew when I was ready. I packed everything. I offered him the bag of gold and he took a pinch of the dust and threw it on the fire. Maybe I should have thrown the rest away, but I kept it.”

Standish drew figures on the blanket with his fingers, then he rubbed the palm of his hand over them as though to erase them.

“I stepped outside into a Chinook. What a blessing warm air is in winter. I walked on tender feet, losing my balance until I learned to compensate for my missing toes. I thought about that as I walked downhill, wondering what the old man had done with them. Standish stared across the blanket at Iona. “I even wondered if he might have put them in that pot, but I knew he wouldn't do anything like that,” Standish tried to smile at Iona, but the effort failed.

He continued. “I tired easily, and every time I stopped to catch my breath, I took my bearings on the mountains around me. I wanted to be able to go back to that old man's teepee. I wanted to do something for him. I owed him so much.”

Standish doodled on the blanket with his finger. “I don't remember how many days I walked, but I remember that I wasn't hungry the whole time. I don't know what that old man put in that pot, but I wish I had more of it.”

Iona tried to smile, but the effort failed. She looked down and doodled on the blanket.

Standish continued. “I came to a road. The snow was packed down on it, but the edges melted clear in the Chinook. It was slippery, real slippery, and I found an old willow along a creek bed and took that with me. I must have looked like a wild man walking down that road.”

Standish pulled his attention from Iona, staring at the pond. “Looks like Arch has caught another one,” he said, his voice jerking on each word. He tried to smile again, twisting his face into something grotesque.

“I walked through town, and people stared at me. One woman herded her children into a haberdashery. I walked into a store, and the clerk studied me as though I were inhuman. I told him I needed food and a horse and a wagon. I needed them for the miners on Moose Creek. His eyes widened, and he said, ‘You're him. You're Miles Standish the cannibal.' ‘No!' I said, ‘No, I'm no cannibal.'

“The clerk took his wife's hand and ran from the store. He was shouting. ‘The murderer is here! The man-eater is in my store! Miles Standish is in my store!'

Standish scratched his forehead. “I didn't know what he was talking about, and then I saw a newspaper on the counter. The headline was ‘Cannibal Steals Victims' Gold.' I took the newspaper and ran out the back, stopping to look over my shoulder. A preacher was leading a mob toward the store. He was shouting that I was the devil, that I had come to eat their children.”

Standish wrapped himself in his arms, scratching at them. I could hear them; hear the things they wanted to do to me. They were roaring like an ugly summer storm. Then somebody yelled, ‘He's got a store full of weapons and ammo in there.' That slowed them down, even the preacher. I ran and ran. I don't know when they found out I wasn't in the store. I was a long way from town by then, but they came after me. I was in a thicket when I heard the horses coming. I slipped under a log. They were following a tracking dog. He came right to me. I petted him for a moment, and he ran off, looking for another man to hang. I laid under that log for most of two days.”

Standish sighed. “If you don't want to have anything to do with me, I'll understand. I'm dangerous to be around. Wherever I go.…”

Iona stared stricken at him. “Please continue your story, Mr. Standish.”

“Miles.” The attempt at a joke failed, did nothing more than to crack his face. He continued.

“Samuel Bodmer, the only other surviving miner, said I was a demon going through the camp, eating raw meat, killing others when I ran low on food. He said he hid in a cave and prayed to save himself from me, a demon from hell.”

Iona shook her head. “I don't want to hear any more of that…filth.”

Standish leaned toward her. “Bodmer is rich, and he is devoted to saving the world from ‘that devil's pawn, Miles Standish.' He means to kill me. He wants to hang me. I heard him say that. I thought I was dead, but.…”

Iona shook her head violently. “You have done no wrong. What Bodmer did to you is despicable. That strutting little popinjay has torn you to pieces to save his own hide.”

“Iona.…” Standish stared down at the pond. When he spoke, he was looking at her from the corner of his eye. “Sometimes I wonder if he might be telling the truth.”

Iona drew back.

“What if I did that? What if I simply couldn't bear the guilt of it, so I erased it from my mind. What if the old man who took care of me was just a dream, part of a wall I built around myself so I wouldn't have to deal with the demon in me?”

Iona shook her head. “That couldn't be.”

Standish shook his head. “It could be. I wanted to prove them wrong, so I went back into the mountains looking for that old man's teepee. I couldn't find it. I couldn't find any sign that he had ever been there.”

Silence stretched for eons, and then Iona spoke. “You said that when you were sitting on one of those high ridges that it felt as though God was sitting beside you.”

Standish nodded.

“Maybe He saw that you were the only one of that bunch to risk death rather than cannibalism. Maybe he sent that old man to care for you, and then called him back. You have been persecuted for so long you are beginning to believe the lies. You are not capable of those terrible acts. I have seen evil in men, Mr. Standish. I do not see it in you.”

Iona tipped her head back to stare at the clouds. “Bodmer is using you to save his own worthless hide. You are the victim of a lie, a terrible, terrible lie.”

Iona stared at the blanket. The silence stretched for what seemed an unbearable length of time. She spoke in a whisper. “I had a friend once.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“Ma'am you don't.…”

Iona glared at him. “This friend of mine was born in Boston of an old family. She had a comfortable childhood, much more comfortable than most Bostonians. She traveled to Maine for weeks in the summer where the family basked on the beach and sailed.”

Iona smiled. “What a wondrous thing it is to sail on the ocean.”

Iona was silent for a moment, a faint smile on her face, and then she continued. “They partook of lobster and other blessings of the sea.”

“Steamed lobster,” Standish said.

“With butter,” Iona added.

They sat for a moment, considering those eastern tables of plenty, and then Iona continued. “They were in all ways blessed, but as this friend of mine grew older, she began to question her life. She wondered if she were really fated to marry a man of position to raise children for prep schools and to groom her daughters to continue that line.

“My friend met a man. He was.…” Iona scratched at the blanket, searching for the right words.

“Not of her class?”

“Class is such an ugly word.”

“Not for those who are born to stellar positions.”

Iona stared at Standish, and then smiled, a thin, wan smile. “I suppose not. He was born a cobbler. His father had a little shop. I went there one day to pick up a pair of shoes I had ordered. He stared at me as though…as though.…”

“As though he had never seen anyone so beautiful?”

Iona blushed, the scar on her cheek glowed red. “Perhaps. He stepped from behind the bench and walked over to me. I remember that he smelled of leather. I have always been partial to the smell of leather.”

Standish nodded.

“He said that he intended to leave that shop. He said that he intended to move West where the land is free and wealth is compensation for hard work. He said that he wished to take a woman with him to share his dream. He said he wanted to take me.”

Iona, face fragile as fine china, stared at Standish, willing him to understand. “I had read Emily Bronte's
Jane Eyre
until the pages wore thin. John Keats painted pictures of young romance that set my soul afire. What an adventure this man offered me. Perhaps he could leave me to the love I had found in Keats' poems.”

Standish whispered, “How old were you?”

Iona turned to him stricken. “Fourteen.”

“You went home, then?”

“No.” Iona dropped her eyes to the blanket. “He took all the money from the cash drawer. He said he had earned it with all the hard work he had done in that shop. He took me by the arm then and led me to the train station. I was giddy with the adventure of it.”

Iona looked across at Standish. “While we were standing on the landing, waiting for the train to unload, it dawned on me what I was doing. I told him I couldn't go. I told him I had to go home. He got mad; Hedrick got mad very easily. He told me that I had helped him rob the cobbler. He said I would be put into jail. He asked me what I thought of that. He frightened me. I tried to pull loose, but he hit me on the jaw. When I awoke, we were on the train, some place I had never been before. I…I.…”

Standish reached across the blanket and took Iona's hand. She took her hand back and continued. “He told me that I if I tried to get away, I would be apprehended and sent to jail. I would shame my parents. I was so confused. I didn't know what to do, and when he dragged me to a minister…I said, ‘Yes.'”

“We came to Montana to that farm,” Iona said, gesturing behind her. “Hedrick knew nothing of farming. When time came for harvest, the threshers would just shake their heads. There was no reason to cut the wheat, they would say. The crop wouldn't pay the cost of harvesting. He would rage, then, striking at whatever was near. Usually that was me, and sometimes Arch. Arch came early. He was the only family I had. He was.…”

Iona's eyes squeezed shut. “I lived in constant fear of Hedrick's rage, that my family would discover what.…”

Tears were running down Iona's face, giving it the sheen of a marble statue in a rainstorm.

“Klaus Bele came.…” Iona shook her head. “I don't remember how long ago. Arch went to him as he has gone to you, seeking something besides a man's fist. I guess I fled to him, too.”

Iona ran her hand through her hair. “Hedrick didn't like Klaus. He thought that I.… That wasn't true. I did nothing but talk to him. It was so nice to have someone to talk to. Hedrick was either yelling or silent. When he was silent, I knew what was coming. No one had ever struck me before. I.…”

Iona buried her face in her hands and wept. The words came muffled through the palms of her hand. “One night Hedrick was at the Campbell's. He went there some nights because Mr. Campbell kept a bottle in the barn. The two of them would talk and drink whiskey.

“Anyhow, I was sitting at home, and Arch ran into the cabin. He said that Klaus was sick, really sick. I don't know much about medicine, but I've learned some things since I've been here. I know about some of the plants that grow here and how they can help.…”

“Like willow bark?”

Iona looked up and tried to smile, but the effort fell into shards. She nodded. “He had a terrible fever. So I took the roots of a purple prairie coneflower. I think some people call it Echinacea, but it.… I took it to him, and had him drink a tea I had made of it. He was burning up. I was afraid he would die. I took a wet cloth. I was washing his body. His skin felt hot as though he were on fire, but he was shaking.…”

Tears spewed from Iona's eyes. She tried to talk, but the words wouldn't come. Standish felt a terrible urge to take her into his arms and comfort her, but he knew he couldn't do that.

Iona looked at him, her face a mask of pain. “Hedrick came in. His humanity had fled his rage. He saw me washing Klaus, and he called me a whore. He called me a whore in front of my son. Then he beat me unconscious. That was a kindness of sorts, because I didn't see him beat Arch and Klaus.”