misfortunes. Well, well, I did it myself once, long ago. And so! They came and got me out of the wheelwrightâs to play for them. You see. He plucked a curled shaving from his pants leg.
Well then, listen. Captain Kidd shifted from one foot to another and briefly wondered if Johanna might have already absconded into the woods. He regarded his boots. His pants. Mud to the shins. Several women were buying ground meat, a man churned it out of a big-spouted grinder in a red sludge. On the other side of the store a girl and her friend were trying on hats. From the rear of the store came the light voices of yet more girls and the sound of several young men whose voices were very low and at other times broke and vaulted up the register. They came filing out carrying their dancing slippers. The Captain lifted his hat to them. Listen, he said. He groped around in his head for sentences and phrases and words to explain the situation.
Iâm listening, Iâm listening, said the fiddler. He lightly tapped the head of the bow on the floor between his feet. Some song was running through his head.
The thing is, I am returning a girl who was a Kiowa captive to her people, down south near San Antonio, and sheâs inthe wagon there, in that bur oak stand behind the livery barn, cooking dinner in my wagon.
Simon looked out the rainy glass at the vehicles passing by, the men and women hurrying along the raw, new boardwalk.
You jest, he said. Thatâs four hundred miles.
No, I do not.
How old is she?
Ten. But Simon, she is wise in the ways of battle and conflict, it seems to me.
Simon watched a cowboy walk by with his hat slanted against the increasing rain and his boots shining with wet.
The fiddler nodded and said, They are always at war.
Be that as it may. She has lost all acquaintance with the uses and manners of white people and I need somebody to keep watch on her while I do my reading. You and your particular friend Miss Dillon would do me a great favor if you would sit with her while I read. I am afraid if I left her alone she might go bolting off.
Simon nodded slowly like a walking beam. He thought about it.
She wants to go back to them, he said.
She apparently does.
I know of a person who was like that, said Simon. They called him Kiowa Dutch. He was blond-haired completely. Nobody knew where he had been captured from, or when. He didnât either. I played for a dance there at Belknap when they brought him in. He got away from the Army fellows who were returning him and he is up there yet.
I think I heard about him, said the Captain. He drummed his fingers on his knee. You know, it is chilling, how theirminds change so completely. But I have taken on this task and I have to try.
Simon lifted his fiddle and ran the bow across the strings. His fingers, hard and coarse with joinery work, blunt at the tips, skipped on the strings and a tune emerged: âVirginia Belle.â She bereft us when she left us, sweet Virginia Belle. Then he stopped and said, Sorry. I canât help it. So yes. I will go and get Doris. He sat for a moment considering where Doris might be. Probably attending a lady named Everetson who was ill with a fever. A yawn overtook him and he lifted the back of the fiddle over his mouth the way nonfiddlers would cover a yawn with their hand. He said, Captain, you have taken on a heavy load here, Iâm afraid. He tapped his fiddle bow on his shoe.
For an old man is what you mean.
Simon stood and then bent to his case, flipped a piece of waxed silk around his instrument, and laid it in the velvet. Click click he snapped the catches shut. He straightened.
Yes, for an old man is what I mean exactly.
THE CAPTAIN AND Simon and Doris all hurried through the drizzle to the stand of bur oaks. Between their overhead of rust-colored leaves and the canopy and stretched side curtains, the wagon was dry enough. The girl had made them a supper of cornbread and bacon and coffee and was sitting
Well then, listen. Captain Kidd shifted from one foot to another and briefly wondered if Johanna might have already absconded into the woods. He regarded his boots. His pants. Mud to the shins. Several women were buying ground meat, a man churned it out of a big-spouted grinder in a red sludge. On the other side of the store a girl and her friend were trying on hats. From the rear of the store came the light voices of yet more girls and the sound of several young men whose voices were very low and at other times broke and vaulted up the register. They came filing out carrying their dancing slippers. The Captain lifted his hat to them. Listen, he said. He groped around in his head for sentences and phrases and words to explain the situation.
Iâm listening, Iâm listening, said the fiddler. He lightly tapped the head of the bow on the floor between his feet. Some song was running through his head.
The thing is, I am returning a girl who was a Kiowa captive to her people, down south near San Antonio, and sheâs inthe wagon there, in that bur oak stand behind the livery barn, cooking dinner in my wagon.
Simon looked out the rainy glass at the vehicles passing by, the men and women hurrying along the raw, new boardwalk.
You jest, he said. Thatâs four hundred miles.
No, I do not.
How old is she?
Ten. But Simon, she is wise in the ways of battle and conflict, it seems to me.
Simon watched a cowboy walk by with his hat slanted against the increasing rain and his boots shining with wet.
The fiddler nodded and said, They are always at war.
Be that as it may. She has lost all acquaintance with the uses and manners of white people and I need somebody to keep watch on her while I do my reading. You and your particular friend Miss Dillon would do me a great favor if you would sit with her while I read. I am afraid if I left her alone she might go bolting off.
Simon nodded slowly like a walking beam. He thought about it.
She wants to go back to them, he said.
She apparently does.
I know of a person who was like that, said Simon. They called him Kiowa Dutch. He was blond-haired completely. Nobody knew where he had been captured from, or when. He didnât either. I played for a dance there at Belknap when they brought him in. He got away from the Army fellows who were returning him and he is up there yet.
I think I heard about him, said the Captain. He drummed his fingers on his knee. You know, it is chilling, how theirminds change so completely. But I have taken on this task and I have to try.
Simon lifted his fiddle and ran the bow across the strings. His fingers, hard and coarse with joinery work, blunt at the tips, skipped on the strings and a tune emerged: âVirginia Belle.â She bereft us when she left us, sweet Virginia Belle. Then he stopped and said, Sorry. I canât help it. So yes. I will go and get Doris. He sat for a moment considering where Doris might be. Probably attending a lady named Everetson who was ill with a fever. A yawn overtook him and he lifted the back of the fiddle over his mouth the way nonfiddlers would cover a yawn with their hand. He said, Captain, you have taken on a heavy load here, Iâm afraid. He tapped his fiddle bow on his shoe.
For an old man is what you mean.
Simon stood and then bent to his case, flipped a piece of waxed silk around his instrument, and laid it in the velvet. Click click he snapped the catches shut. He straightened.
Yes, for an old man is what I mean exactly.
THE CAPTAIN AND Simon and Doris all hurried through the drizzle to the stand of bur oaks. Between their overhead of rust-colored leaves and the canopy and stretched side curtains, the wagon was dry enough. The girl had made them a supper of cornbread and bacon and coffee and was sitting
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