Smoke spent the morning checking on his herd, looking over the new colts, crisscrossing the valley floor, his eyes alert for any Indian sign. He knew he was stalling, putting off the trip back to the house — and to Nicole. He was not expecting any trouble from the Utes, for when they saw he was not going to be run off the land, and was not — at this time — the forerunner of more whites, they had made gestures of peace toward him, and he had accepted that offer.
Twice he had shared meat he had killed with the Utes. And once he had come upon a young Ute boy who had been badly injured in a fall near Ute Peak. Smoke had spent two lonely nights with the boy, watching over him, tending to his injuries. He had then constructed a travois and carried the boy to his camp.
The years with Preacher had stood Smoke well, for he had slept in countless Indian camps and had learned their ways — as much as any white man could — and Smoke knew sign language, which seemed to be universal among the many tribes.
The next morning he had ridden out of the Indian camp, as safely as he had ridden in. There had been no more trouble from the Utes. But the Ute were not the only tribe in this part of the country; there were Piute, and to the south, Navajo and some Apache. And the Apache were friends to no white man — and damn few other Indians.
In this section of the young nation, if one grew careless, one could get suddenly dead.
He turned Seven’s nose north. Toward the cabin. Toward Nicole.
He stabled the Appaloosa, rubbed him down, and forked hay for him. Then Smoke washed at the stream behind the hill.
Nicole was silent as she ladled beans and venison on their plates, then sat down across the rough-hewn table from Smoke. There was unexpected tension between them. They had been alone before, several times, when Preacher was off wandering; but this was different. They were
“How’s the stock?” Nicole asked, her eyes fixed on the plate.
“Fine. Two colts growing like weeds. No sign of Apaches. Saw some deer. Didn’t think to shoot. We got food enough for a time.”
After that, conversation did not lag — it died.
Smoke was aware of his heart thudding heavily in his chest. Nicole was nervous, twice dropping her fork. The meal seemed to be taking a lot longer than usual. Smoke suddenly noticed she had changed her dress since his leaving that morning. She had put on her best dress. Usually she wore men’s britches she had tailored to fit her. The dress seemed to bring out her womanhood.
Smoke reached for the honey pot to sweeten his coffee and knocked over the clay jug.
“I’ll get it,” they spoke in unison, as honey dripped from the table to the floor.
They both rose and bent down, banging their heads together. Smoke put his hand on the edge of the table for support and it toppled over, dumping him to the floor, everything on the table spilling and pouring on his head and all over her.
“Oh — hell!” Nicole said.
That startled Smoke. It was the first time he’d ever heard a lady swear.
They looked at each other: Smoke, with beans and venison on his head; Nicole, with honey and gravy dripping off her chin. They began laughing and pointing at each other.
He offered his hand and she took it, both of them rising to their feet, slipping in the mess on the floor. He took off his shirt and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“To the creek, to take a bath. I’ll holler when it’s all clear.”
She smiled, and Smoke was not at all sure he liked the look in her eyes.
Standing in the water, with lather from the waist up, Smoke could not believe his eyes when Nicole appeared on the bank, towels in her hand. He closed his eyes and turned his back, speechless, when she began taking off her stained dress. Then she was by his side.
“Give me the soap,” she said. “I’ll scrub your back.”
“Nicole …” he managed to croak.
“Turn around, Smoke — look at me.”
He turned, and she laughed when she saw his eyes were tightly closed.
“You’ll have to open them sometime,” she whispered.
He did.
And there was no more need for words.
Full dark when he slipped from her side to step out into the coolness of Colorado night. He left Nicole sprawled in sleep in his bed. Smoke rolled a cigarette and lit it, the match explosive in the night. He inhaled deeply.
He felt drained, but yet, ten feet tall. He felt weak, but yet powerful. They had made love, and told each other of their love, for what seemed like hours, on the cool grass of the creek bank. They had bathed and soaped each other, then walked naked back to the house where they made love again. Then they had slept.
In all his young but eventful life, the man called Smoke had never before experienced anything to compare with the sensual events of that afternoon and early evening with Nicole, in the quiet valley.
He stepped back into the house, pulling on his boots and buckling his guns around his lean waist. Shirtless, he stepped back out into the purple night.
He checked the grounds around the house, then the corral and the lean-to that served as a barn. Quiet. It really was an unnecessary move, since Seven would sound an alarm if a stranger approached, but it made Smoke feel better to double check. He went back into the house and stoked up the fire, putting on coffee to boil, the pot
