[short story] A Spot of Red in a Field of Green
A historical women's fiction short story by author A.T. Butler
The spring morning had flown by. Though he had woken at dawn, to Jack Hamilton it seemed as though he had barely been on the road at all. As he made his way toward Denver the wide open expanse of southeast Colorado Territory captured his attention. He felt as if he could stay out there forever.
That said, after spending nearly six weeks in the wild—on the prairies, in the mountains and forests of the west—it was time again for Jack to make his way to town and to what passed for civilization on the frontier. It was time for a proper shave, a warm meal, a shot of whiskey, and maybe even the company of a pretty woman.
Mostly the shave and the meal, though, Jack thought. Of the domestic life, that was what he missed most. He could roast up a rabbit over the campfire as well as anyone, but sometimes a person sure did miss butter. Jack had a pocket full of gold nuggets that he was looking to cash in, and then he’d be back out on his own to seek more of his fortune.
His horse, an elegant red-brown gelding he had named Fireball, had been his only company the whole time. Though he had been in and near Indian country, not once had Jack come in contact with any of the natives. Whether that was by luck or by design, he didn’t know.
What he did know was he was dying to talk to another human being. Fireball was a fine horse but not much of a conversationalist.
The horse walked steadfastly on, following the dirt track worn through the tall prairie grass. The last time he had passed through this part of the territory, Jack had not allowed his mind to stray from his destination. Now he let his gaze wander.
The narrow path wound around low hills and stands of pine trees. Jack took a deep breath in; the scent of a cold creek met his nose. It was a familiar, almost metallic scent, the melted snow carrying minerals down from the mountains.
Amidst these thoughts, and among the greens and browns and blues of the prairie around him, Jack’s attention was suddenly seized by a flash of red.
But not just any red; it was a deep brown, rust-colored red.
Jack reined his horse, pausing to look. From this distance, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He nudged Fireball closer, off the road, through the knee-high wildflowers that grew as far as he could see. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe the deep red color he had glimpsed was just another flower in the myriad.
But as he and his steed drew closer, Jack knew it was no mistake. The brick-red spot, the blood, spread over several feet; curves of a familiar figure were covered with the arresting shade. Jack’s heart leapt to his throat. It was a body. He had come across a woman, injured, abandoned, and lying, apparently unconscious, off the road.
At least, he hoped she was just unconscious. There was a strong possibility that he was too late, that she was already dead, but he put that thought resolutely from his mind.
Jack nudged Fireball slightly closer, but dismounted before he could startle the woman. After tying the horse to a nearby tree, he cautiously inched his way toward the prone body.
“Ma’am,” he said gently.
She was a slight thing, delicate, with an alabaster pallor that belied all the time she must have spent beneath the brazen sun. Jack was just guessing, but she seemed a few years older than him. She reminded him of his sister, in fact, whom he hadn’t seen since he left Ohio several years before. Maybe it was this personal connection that made him want to smooth down the mess of curly auburn hair and hold a canteen of water to her lips, but for now he resisted.
“Ma’am?” When there was again no response, he knelt down and reached out to gently shake her shoulder. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”
The woman opened her brown eyes slowly, then jerked back, scrambling in the grass away from him.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said hurriedly, holding his hands up as though in surrender. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I just wanted to check that you’re okay. You’ve been bleeding pretty bad, looks like.”
The blood-soaked dress she wore was still damp in spots, though enough had dried that Jack guessed she had been lying there for a few hours. The woman began to examine herself, putting a delicate finger to the long gash that ran the length of her leg. Her hands cautiously found the bruises, broken ribs, and deep knife wounds along her torso, and the tears that flowed broke Jack’s heart.
“Ma’am,” he said again. “Do you know how you got here? What’s your name?”
She looked at him suspiciously and backed up in the grass another couple feet before answering.
“Marjorie,” she whispered. “Marjorie Cantwell.”
“All right, Mrs.—is it missus?—Cantwell. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Jack spoke slowly. He felt as if he were dealing with a wild creature that might spook if he moved too quickly. “My name is Jack Hamilton. I’ve just been riding by and spotted you over here, injured.”
She continued to search her person. Jack wondered if she had lost her memory. She seemed to be able to hear him, at least. That was something.
“I can see that you’re hurt, ma’am,” he said, as she ran her fingers along her scalp under her dirty and blood-matted hair. “Can you tell me if you have any broken bones or still-bleeding wounds? Is there anything I can help you bandage up now?”
Her gaze, panicked and agitated, darted to his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, raising his hands again and leaning back on his feet. “I mean you no harm, ma’am. I just want to help.”
Her breath became more frantic, and she cried out in pain, putting a hand to her side.
“They kicked me,” she said softly. “Here. I think …”
“You might have a broken rib or two, that’s certain,” Jack said. “Hopefully you’re not bleeding inside, but I’m not one to know. We should get you to a doctor right soon.”
She burst into tears again, her petite frame shaking with sobs. Jack wanted to comfort her, but his instincts told him that whoever had caused these injuries had frightened her terribly; he didn’t want to add to her trauma. He waited quietly while she composed herself.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked. “How can I help you?”
“We were …” she began. She paused to clear her throat and push her hair off her face. “My family and I were moving. My husband had gotten a position as an overseer on a fellow’s ranch and we were meant to live there.”
“Was that near here?”
She looked around, dazed. “I don’t know.”
“All right, never mind that now. I know where we are and I can get you to where you need to be. What happened?”
Her eyes unfocused and she looked off into the distance, remembering. “The first night … we hadn’t even made very good distance that day. That first night, I was putting the little ones to bed, and …”
Once more, tears overcame her.
“How many children do you have, Mrs. Cantwell?”
“Three. We had three,” she choked out. “Three beautiful angels that now …”
Jack was at a loss. Comforting a woman in such grief was near impossible. All he could do was be here for her when she was ready. Minutes passed as she remembered her children and let herself be taken by sorrow.
When she seemed to be calming a little, Jack asked another guiding question. He hated to have to put her through this, but if there was a chance the children were still alive he needed to know.
“Mrs. Cantwell, can you tell me what else you remember? Where the camp was and what happened there?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t say. It was south of Denver, but that’s all I know. I’ve been …” She wiped her tears away again and tried to continue. “I’ve been walking all night, I think, trying to … trying to just survive.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t appear to hear him, but continued with her story in a dazed manner.
“I was putting the little ones to bed and heard … it sounded like war whoops, or what I’ve been told are Indian calls. I … now that it’s all over, I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure that’s what you heard?”
“Oh, no. I know what I heard, but thinking back … I’m not sure any of the men who attacked us were natives.”
Jack’s mouth fell open in shock. “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Cantwell composed herself further, taking steadying breaths, and said, “A group of half a dozen men attacked our camp, turning over our wagon … murdering my husband and children … stealing the few valuables we had with us, and leaving me for dead. I’m sure I heard the hoots and hollers that I’ve always been told were from the savages, but I’m also sure that all the men I saw attacking us were white.”
“You think they wanted to make it seem like Indians?”
She nodded, then suddenly wailed, “Why would they do such a thing?”
Jack thought quietly for a moment while she cried. What kind of low-down, despicable man would not only attack a nearly helpless family but also try to blame it on a blameless party? Were they trying to start a war? Did they leave this woman alive deliberately so she could report that she was attacked by savages? This was something he was determined to get to the bottom of. He couldn’t let any other families be at risk if he himself could have done something about it.
He shook his head. “I don’t know, ma’am. I’m sorry. There are some truly awful men in this world.”
“And one less good one,” she cried.
“Let me help,” he said gently, offering her his hand. “We can be in Denver before dark. I’ll get you to a doctor, to someplace safe. You don’t have to spend another night out here, that is my promise.”
She swallowed and brushed away a tear but remained where she lay.
Jack watched her carefully, not daring to get any closer. What trauma she must have suffered at the hands of those men. What memories she would carry with her.
“I have an idea,” he said.
Jack returned to where Fireball was contentedly munching on the grass that lined the creek. His saddlebags were full to bursting, but Jack knew exactly what he was looking for. One of the smaller packs, near the back of the load, held his derringer and extra bullets.
He pulled out the dirty shirt and mostly empty sack of dried corn piled on top, and withdrew the extra gun from the careful padding he kept it wrapped in. Jack turned back toward where Marjorie was still seated in the dirt watching him. Moving slowly and deliberately, intent on her seeing every movement, Jack opened the gun and held it high, showing her there were no bullets loaded. He walked cautiously back over to her, until he was once more kneeled in the grass in front of her.
“Have you ever fired a gun?” he asked her.
She nodded, her eyes wide as she watched him.
He held out the small gun, letting it rest in the palm of his hand. She hesitated only briefly before snatching it from him.
“Do you know how to load it?” he asked, and he held out a couple bullets in the palm of his other hand.
She took a deep breath, keeping her eyes on him, and reached for the bullets more cautiously.
“I do,” she said. “That was one of the things my husband insisted on. So if he …” Her voice trailed off as another wave of tears overcame her.
Jack waited quietly. He could sense this woman’s backbone of steel. She didn’t need to be coddled or pitied. He knew that, given the chance, she would find the strength she needed to continue. Jack was determined to be that chance.
Marjorie pressed a palm to her face, holding it there for just a moment before wiping away more tears and sitting up a bit straighter.
“My husband insisted I learn how to load and clean his derringer, so if anything ever happened to him I’d have some means of protection.”
“Sounds like he was a smart and caring man,” Jack said.
She nodded and finally met Jack’s eyes again. “He was an incredible man.”
“I was thinking, Mrs. Cantwell, that if you had a weapon of your own you might see your way to trusting me. I mean you no harm, but I know that sometimes words ring empty.”
“Thank you.”
They sat silently for another few moments; Marjorie examined the gun, loading it carefully and weighing the balance in her hand.
“Whenever you’re ready, ma’am. If Denver hasn’t changed too much from when I was there a couple months ago, I know just the place for you to rest up. Dr. Courtney is a kindhearted older man who will take good care of you.”
She nodded.
“I just need you to trust me enough to get you there.”
Jack stood and offered his hand to the admirable woman. Holding tight to the loaded gun in one hand, she took his with her other and stood with him.
“Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I trust you. Thank you.”