The floorboards of the bunkhouse porch creaked under the movement of the wooden rocker where Teaspoon sat listening to the sounds of the night, and waiting.  He pulled out his pocket watch and moved the dial around in the moonlight until he could make out the time.  Two-thirty.  It wasn’t that he needed to know the exact time to confirm that it was late, rather he just needed something to do while he waited for a sign of Buck.

He had sent Kid and Cody to bed, under protest, after their trip to Sweetwater had turned up neither the trapper nor Buck.  Both boys had runs the following morning and needed a decent night of sleep.  A six or seven hour ride was hard enough on a rider when he was rested.  Taking off on a run without proper preparation was asking for trouble.

Emma had waited up with the Teaspoon until she dozed off about one o’clock.  Only after Teaspoon promised that he would wake her at the first indication of trouble would she retire to the house leaving the stationmanager to keep watch for the missing rider alone.

Sam had promised to take whatever measures were necessary to keep Buck out of trouble should he return to Sweetwater, even if it meant locking him up for the night.  Teaspoon was appreciative of the marshal’s offer of assistance, but didn’t hold out much hope that Sam would see Buck.  The boy could be nearly invisible if he wanted to be.

Teaspoon really couldn’t blame Buck for seeking revenge against this man.  He had been around indians enough to know the type of treatment Buck would have received from the Kiowa.  Teaspoon had known of white captives treated better than a half-breed.  The indians knew what to expect from someone who was white but a person of mixed blood was a different matter.  A half-breed walked in both worlds with undetermined loyalties.  He could not be trusted.  The defeated look on Buck’s face when confronted with insults from the townspeople confirmed Teaspoon’s suspicions that the boy had endured the same or worse treatment before from his own people.

It would have been easy for Buck to become bitter and lash out at either or both sides of his heritage, but instead, it seemed to Teaspoon that he tried to walk a fine line in between the two worlds.  Although choosing to leave the Kiowa, he held firmly to their beliefs and seemed determined to maintain a tie to them.  He now wore clothing befitting a white man, but the length of his hair and the ever present medicine pouch hanging over his heart clearly spoke that he would not entirely succumb to the white man’s dress. 

Teaspoon remembered a Sunday morning when Emma decided her boys needed some religion and dragged Jimmy, Cody and Buck to church with her.  Jimmy sank down uncomfortably in the wooden church pew as if trying to avoid the pastor’s fire and brimstone.  Cody used a hymnal to hide a paperback novel and entertained himself through the sermon with “The Adventures of Deadwood Joe.”  Buck, in contrast, had sat quietly though the service, remembering the proper way to behave in church impressed upon him by the iron handed sisters at the Catholic orphanage.  Upon returning to the station, however, he quickly packed together several items in a leather bag and rode into the prairie.  Teaspoon recognized the contents of the bag as a prayer bundle and gathered that Buck felt the need to pray to his own spirits lest they think he had converted to Christianity.

Teaspoon understood it wasn’t the people who had abused and turned him away but the generations of a proud people who had come before him that Buck wanted to remain close to.  It was this tie to the Kiowa’s beliefs that, also, demanded he seek revenge for the attack on his mother and the humiliation he had endured for so long.

Teaspoon couldn’t help but think that if this was the man who attacked Buck’s mother and had caused so much misery in their lives, he deserved what he got.  Unfortunately, if Buck did kill the man, seeking vengeance for an 18 year old crime against an indian woman, there wasn’t a court in the territory that would see his side of the matter.

He genuinely liked this boy and hated the thought that Buck might have destroyed his chance for a future.  As far as Teaspoon was concerned, the boy definitely had a job with the Express for as long as he wanted.  Buck was a perfect Express rider, often appearing more at home on horseback than on his own two legs.  The Kiowa were known as the ‘horsemen of the plains’.  Teaspoon now understood why.  The boy rode a horse with such grace and agility it was difficult to determine where the animal stopped and the rider started. 

His tracking skills had proved invaluable already.  Sam had enlisted the aide of Teaspoon’s boys during the first month the Express was in operation to bring in a ring of horse thieves who had robbed a neighboring ranch.  Buck easily tracked them through rocky terrain.  The thieves were quickly apprehended and the rancher’s stock recovered.  Both the Marshall and Teaspoon had been impressed and told the boy so.  Buck’s entire face lit up when Teaspoon and Sam praised his abilities.  The reaction surprised the two men, it was as if the boy had never received a compliment before.  Slowly it dawned on Teaspoon that he probably hadn’t.

Yes, there was a place for Buck with the Express.  Teaspoon could only hope that he hadn’t thrown away the opportunity in exchange for revenge.

Teaspoon pulled the watch from his pocket again. Three o’clock.  Gazing into the watch in the moonlight he sighed heavily and began to wonder why he was waiting up when his attention was diverted by the sound of an approaching horse. 

From the porch Teaspoon breathed a sigh of relief that the boy had come home as he watched Buck dismount and lead his mare into the barn.  His relief quickly reverted to concern as he now worried about where the boy had been all night.  Buck emerged a few minutes later, slowly closed the barn door to avoid making noise and walked quietly across the yard of the station toward the bunkhouse.

Buck started up the porch steps, carefully avoiding the boards known to squeak, attempting to slip into the bunkhouse without waking anyone inside, but was startled by his employer’s voice in the darkness.

“Out kinda late, ain’t you, Buck,” Teaspoon questioned.  “Anything we need to talk about, son?”

Buck stopped abruptly and turned his head away from the voice.  He had not expected anyone to wait up for him and didn’t relish the idea that he needed to account for his whereabouts. Realizing he was not going to get past the stationmanager,  Buck  reluctantly turned and took a seat on the porchsteps.   Resting his elbows on his knees he held his head in his hands and waited for Teaspoon to join him.

Teaspoon rose from the rocking chair, stiff from hours of inactivity, and walked to the steps, taking a seat beside the young indian.  His heart sank fearing the worst as he noticed blood stains on the boy’s shirt and hands in the moonlight.

Teaspoon paused for a moment before asking, afraid of the answer he might receive,  “You in trouble, Buck?”

The flames of the campfire danced against the darkness illuminating the angry young indian in a surreal glow, the fury in his eyes equal in intensity to the burning embers of the fire.

“Now, you just hold on there, boy!” exclaimed the trapper, growing nervous under Buck’s steady gaze and drawn pistol.  “What the hell are you talking about! I ain’t never seen you before and I sure as hell ain’t your father!”

Buck remained motionless, his fiery gaze nearly burning a hold through the flesh and bone of the trapper in search of the black heart within him.

“Where’d you come up with a notion like that?” cried the trapper as he began to rise to his feet.  A quick motion of Buck’s gun demanded the man remain seated and the trapper sank slowly back to the ground.

“You said so,” Buck calmly replied, cocking the hammer of the pistol with him thumb.

“Boy, you are makin’ a big mistake!  I don’t know what you are talkin’ about!”

Buck liked the feeling of being in charge, enjoyed watching the man he hated squirm in fear.  He wanted the trapper to remember his sin and in a calm, unwavering voice began to explain why the man was about to die. 

“In the saloon tonight, I heard you talking about raping a Kiowa woman and leaving a scar on her face to remind her of you.  That woman was my mother, Five Horses.  I was born nine months after you attacked her, now you are going to pay for what you did.”

“Now wait a minute, you got it all wrong!” argued the trapper holding his hands in front of him defensively as he remembered the conversations of the evening.  “I ain’t never really done that.  Them’s just stories I like to tell to have a good time, you see, makes people laugh.”

Buck was quickly losing him temper with the trapper.  It was bad enough his mother had been raped and beaten by this man but now for him to claim it was just a made up story, the equivalent of one of Cody’s paperback novels, was intolerable.   Anxious to right past injustices, Buck took a step forward toward the trapper taking aim at the spot between the man’s eyes.

Fearing for his life, the trapper confessed, “Listen here, breed, I never hurt your ma myself, but I know who did.  Used to trap with him down around the Platte years ago.  Gabriel Jensen was his name.  He was always telling me ‘bout getting his pleasures from indian women, but I thought he was just puttin’ on a show.  Never really believed him.”

Buck held his aim as the trapper chuckled nervously, “Old Gabriel bragged a lot, guess you’re the proof he wasn’t lying after all.”

Buck remained motionless, his intent unwavering.

The trapper grew more anxious as he searched for proof of his innocence.  “You looked at yourself, boy?  You ain’t bad lookin’ for a breed.  Think the likes of you gonna spring from the loins of an old coot like me?”

Buck studied the man for a moment.  The trapper was right, they bore no resemblance whatsoever.  A brief shadow of doubt entered Buck’s thoughts from somewhere deep within him.  Buck tried to push the thought away, he knew many fathers and sons that looked nothing alike.

But the doubt would not be dislodged.

“Boy, I am telling you the God’s honest truth,” the trapper pleaded.

“Why should I believe you?” 

The trapper searched for a plausible answer.  Finding none he resigned himself to his fate. “Ain’t got no reason.  You’re gonna kill me if you’ve a mind to.  Just so you know, though, you ain’t gonna be righting no past wrong done to your ma by killin’ an old man who opened his big mouth one time too many.” 

A hard lump began to form in Buck’s throat as the doubt began to grow larger.  He didn’t want to, but for some reason, a part of him almost believed the trapper was sincere.  Before he could stop the words, the doubt inside him asked, “So where is this man, your partner, now?”

“Hell, I reckon!” bellowed the trapper.  “Don’t think the good Lord be lettin’ someone the likes of him past the pearly gates.  That man was a mean son of a bitch!”

The trapper strained to look into Buck’s eyes to ensure himself the uncertainty he sensed in the young man was still there.  “Word was ol’ Gabriel got caught cheatin’ on some trades with the Lakota up north ‘bout ten years ago.  Them Sioux didn’t take kindly to watered down whiskey.  Reckon they made short work of ol’ Lefty.”

A puzzled look passed across Buck’s face.  “What did you call him?”

“What?  Lefty?”

Buck nodded his head slightly.

“Ol’ Gabriel was one of them queer folks liked to use his left hand over his right.  Looked totally backward to me, but he said it just come natural to him that way.  I never could understand it.  Started calling him “Lefty”, never looked like a “Gabriel” to me, anyhow.”

Buck cast a quick glance at his own left hand extended before him.  A brief memory of the sisters at the orphanage striking his knuckles with a wooden ruler, in an attempt to make him use his right hand, flashed through his mind. 

The seed of doubt grew larger.

Buck struggled with the thoughts beginning to whirl through his mind.  He wanted to kill his father.  His beliefs demanded that he avenge the crime against his mother. 

“Pull the trigger!” a determined voice in his head ordered.

“NO!” demanded another voice from inside him.  “It’s not the same man!”

Buck closed his eyes tightly for a brief moment as he waged war with himself.  He would put a bullet through the trapper’s skull with no hesitation if he was certain the man was his father.  But he was not certain.

The trapper drew a deep sigh of relief as Buck lowered the gun.  “Didn’t mean no harm, boy.  Just told that story for some fun.”

The tension exploded from Buck with the force of a wild animal released from its cage.  “It’s not funny!  It’s not some story to impress the drunks at the bar!  It’s my life!  My mother’s life!  It’s not a joke!”

The familiar feelings of pain and humiliation began to creep back into Buck’s mind and replaced his earlier attitude of confidence and power.   Buck searched for a way to express to the trapper how abhorrent his excuse was, but found no words strong enough.  Such callous disregard for another human being was beyond his comprehension. Lowering his head in defeat, Buck holstered his gun and began to turn away from the trapper. 

“Boy, whatever happened to that woman?” the trapper asked, a shadow of sincerity in his voice.

‘Why would you care?” Buck spat back at him and began to walk away.

After a few steps, he stopped and turned back to the trapper.  Drawing a deep breath, through gritted teeth, he told the man of Five Horses’ fate. 

“She gave birth to a white man’s son.  Because she loved me, her own people shunned her and turned her away.  She lived a sad and lonely life and when she died, none of them cared.” 

Hot tears of anger beginning to sting his eyes, Buck turned away from the trapper and disappeared into the darkness.

Buck raced his mare across the open prairie until he could no longer hold back the overpowering feelings of grief.  He reined the horse to such a sudden stop she nearly sat upon her hind legs as he slid from her back and fell to his knees in the tall grass.

Buck had watched Red Bear openly grieve for Five Horses after her death, but was too young at the time to join him in the ritual.  Buck quickly stripped off his vest and shirt and turned his face to the sky in search of the gods of his faith. 

In the stillness of the night, rocking quietly back and forth, in unison with the swaying grass, Buck sang his mother’s death song.  He sang of her life, her pain and her death, but also of her love for him.  In his song he implored the spirits who controlled the land of the dead to give her a place of peace and rest. 

Drawing his knife from its sheath on his boot Buck sliced through the flesh on his upper arm opening a large gash.  Dropping his head back, he looked into the dark sky and released a cry of grief.  The blood began to flow as he inflicted another wound on himself, and then another until the blood ran freely down his arm and onto his hand. 

Growing a bit light headed, Buck closed his eyes and allowed himself to remember the chants of his mother’s people.   The ancient words brought an odd sense of comfort  to  him as he felt the pain of the knife, his grief releasing itself in the flow of his own blood and in the long over due tears of a motherless child.

Buck raised his head and looked into Teaspoon’s worried face.  “No,” he answered.  “No, Teaspoon, I’m not in trouble.”

The older man breathed a sigh of relief as Buck continued, “Cody and Kid told you what happened?” 

Teaspoon nodded.  He wanted to know what had happened to the boy, but wasn’t sure Buck would tell him. 

Buck felt uncomfortable but knew Teaspoon deserved an explanation, he was going to have to face Cody and Kid in the morning, anyway.  Maybe if he told Teaspoon what happened he wouldn’t need to tell the others. 

“I followed the trapper from the saloon to his camp and confronted him with what he said about my mother.  He denied that it was him who raped her . . . said it was just a story.  He liked to tell stories, evidently made him feel like a big man.”

Buck stopped for a moment.  Teaspoon feared the boy was finished, but Buck continued.

“He said his partner was the one who attacked my mother.  The Sioux killed him for cheating on trades years ago.”  Buck didn’t try to hide the satisfaction that thought gave him.  He knew the kind of torture and eventual death the Sioux would have inflicted upon the man.

“You believe that, son?” Teaspoon asked.

“Yes, I think so,” Buck answered slowly.  “I don’t know. I thought I would feel something, a connection of some sort if it was really him and I didn’t.  So I left him.”

Teaspoon was relieved but still had to ask the question, “Whose blood is it, Buck?”

Buck held his hands out in the moonlight.  He hadn’t thought about the blood and wasn’t sure Teaspoon would understand the explanation.  “It’s mine,” he quietly answered.

“Are you hurt, son?” Teaspoon asked, concern evident in his voice.

Buck shook his head “No” and searched for the words to make a white man understand the Kiowa ritual. 

“I was young when my mother died, eleven maybe.  I never grieved properly for her.  Tonight I felt the need to.” 

To Buck’s relief, Teaspoon nodded his head in understanding.  Teaspoon had never witnessed but had heard of the rituals of grief practiced by the plains tribes.

“You don’t need to explain, Buck, I understand.”

They sat quietly for a time before Buck felt the need to continue.  Teaspoon was surprised by the ease with which the boy now spoke.

“When I was little, I would lie awake at night and think of all the ways I could kill my father and I would have tonight, without a second thought, if I had been sure it was him.  Does that make me a bad person?”

After a moment Teaspoon answered, “Buck, my father left my ma with four kids and another on the way.  I watched her work herself into an early grave taking care of us and swore I would hunt that man down and put a bullet through his heart.  Does that make me a bad person?”

Teaspoon’s words took Buck by surprise.  “Did you ever find him?”

“No son, I didn’t,” Teaspoon answered.

“Would you have killed him if you had?”

The older man drew a deep breath, “Ain’t rightly sure, Buck.  Finally stopped lookin’.  Decided that much as I despised him, he was half responsible for puttin’ me on this earth.”  Teaspoon raised an eyebrow and gave Buck a mischievous grin, “And I have enjoyed my time on this earth.”

Buck smiled briefly, appreciative of Teaspoon’s humor.   He waited for a moment before voicing his concerns.

“Sometimes I worry that I might be like him, might have that same anger and cruelty inside me.  It scares me, Teaspoon.”

“Well, son, I admit there is a bit of an angry streak in you, but it’s not the same thing.  Your anger is against injustice, not the kind that would hurt someone just for the hell of it like your father.  You are a good man, Buck.  You ain’t capable of somethin’ like that.”

Buck thought about Teaspoon’s words, hoping they were true. 

“Now, I know there are many schools of thinking ‘bout this.  I do think that some traits are born in a person, but I honestly believe, son, that what a man makes of himself is largely up to him.  I’ve seen many the son of an honest man swinging at the end of a rope with his mama crying “Lord, where did I go wrong?” and likewise seen the son of a drunkard take up the cross and follow Jesus!” Teaspoon explained, gesturing wildly with his hands.

Buck had to hold back his amusement at the man’s dramatics.

“I don’t know much ‘bout the other boy’s parentage, but Lou’s father weren’t no saint and he’s growin’ into a fine young man.”

Buck lowered his head to hide his smile and chuckled to himself over the fact that Teaspoon still didn’t realize Lou was growing into a fine young ‘woman’.

“Buck, I know it ain’t easy, but there’s no point tormenting yourself over that man and what he done to you and your mother.  Ain’t gonna change the past.  You gotta find a way to make peace over it or it’ll eat you up.”

Buck looked at Teaspoon and understood that this man really did care about him.  It was a feeling he was not familiar with. 

“I miss her.  She gave up everything for me.  She didn’t have to keep me or love me, but she did.  Her life was ruined because of him.  Because of me,” Buck said softly, guilt and sadness in his voice.

“After all these years, Buck, I still miss mine, too.  Ain’t nothing so pure, so powerful as a mother’s love for her child.  I do believe Caeser’s legions of soldiers would lay down their swords and surrender rather than battle a mother protectin’ her child.”

Buck had to smile at the Teaspoon’s analogy.  The man had a way of making things better.

“Buck, it may have been an act of violence that created you, but it was the acts of a mother’s love that brought you into this world, protected you, helped make you the man you are.  If I was gonna dwell on somethin’, son, I’d dwell on that.”

Teaspoon put his hand on Buck’s shoulder, using it for support as he rose to his feet.  “These bones of mine are too old to be keeping such late hours.  I think I’m headed to bed, son.  You best do the same, remember, them stalls in the barn gonna be needin’ your attention in the morning.”

Buck smiled at the man as he watched him stiffly walk down the porchsteps.  “Teaspoon,” he said pausing for a moment as the stationmanager turned around.  “Thank you.”

“For what, Buck?” Teaspoon questioned.

“For worrying about me.”

Teaspoon gave the boy a reassuring nod and turned toward his shack outside the barn. 

Buck sat quietly and leaned his back against the post supporting the roof of the porch listening to the soft sounds of the horse’s muffled movements in the corral, the song of the crickets, the coyote’s call for his mate and other indistinguishable sounds of the late night.  Closing his eyes he saw the face of Five Horses.  He remembered the faraway look in her eyes as she felt the scar on her face.  Felt the gentle touch of her hand on his face tending his bruises and wiping away his tears.  Remembered her moment of hesitation before taking his knife and cutting off her own hair in an act of empathy for his own shorn head.  Saw the look of apology in her eyes as she lay dying.  Buck smiled at the memories.  They were infinitely more important to him than hatred of a dead man.

The acts of a mother’s love.  Teaspoon was right.  He would dwell on that.