Silver

February 12, 2018

Greetings from the Wild One,

Dear Mr. Reid,

I apologize for having to write this letter, as I would much rather deliver this kind of news in person.  Since it is not possible I hope you’ll understand.   The fact is your mother has gone missing.

She woke each morning always a little surprised to see her hands had aged.  It was a small conceit, but he had given her so many compliments about her hands, she tried to take care of them.  And now it seemed silly; age has no pity for the vain.

So many years passed and yet she never thought of herself as any older than the day she met him.

As you know your mother took up rooms here several years ago, and the other boarders all care very much for her.  She has been taking in sewing and other small chores to help pay her way. She seems very content, although in recent months she has not been entirely herself. 

He always seemed so comfortable, no matter who he was talking to.  He looked directly at people, spoke to them, even in her village.  He sat near the fire with the other men, and in time they taught him words, and soon were trading stories.  They respected him.

It was nearly a year from the first time she saw him in their camp until he came and sat with her.  She forgot to be nervous.  She knew he was of course, and by then there were many stories about him.  He rode into the camp and slipped from his horse, fluid and graceful. 

And in time he spoke to her.  First in her language, and eventually in his. He was not like any other man she had seen, not just how he dressed, but the way he acted with others.  When he spoke with her he always touched the brim of his hat, wished her a good day when they parted.  She also sensed something else, not quite danger, but something at the edge of that.  When he stood his hands never drifted far from his guns; not because he was afraid, but it seemed like the were more of an extension of him.

She would ride out to the copse of trees north of their village, where the river cut a rift in the prairie.  Sometimes she would have to wait, but then he would be there, as if he had always been.

He spoke to her in his language.  He looked at her when he spoke, and his eyes were the color of the summer sky.  In time they grew close.  She called him by his name, a word that had not been spoken to him since he was a boy.

Your mother was always friendly, and almost always spent time helping around the boarding house, even planting in the garden.  But just this fall I have found her on the front porch or out by the corral just staring off.  My wife tried to speak to her about it, but you know how reserved your mother can be.   We were both concerned she was becoming addled.

And then came the day when he told her he could not leave without her again.  She knew why; she felt the same ache each time he rode off.  She told him that she would go with him.

He told her that his life was dangerous, and worse she would be at risk to be with a white man.  It would be hard, but he pledged his life to protect her, and he knew a way they could make it work.  She said there was no danger that would stop her from going with him.  And he held her beautiful hands in his and told her how they would make their life.

When you left to go back east we thought you might convince your mother to go with you, but I understand how willful women can be.  She did seem determined to stay here, though I daresay she would have been more comfortable with family nearby.

And so for many years she dressed as a Comanche man, acted as his scout and tracker; his partner.  The two of them crossed the territory, enforcing what little law there was, trying to bring some civilization where there was only chaos.  There were many times she did not understand the rules, but believed so strongly in him, in his compass, that she would follow him anywhere.

He lived out his purpose, and he had spoken the truth, it was a dangerous life.  But no matter what came their way, he protected her with his life, and she with hers. 

And every morning they began their day together, the sunrise adding its color to the campfire.  And each night they pulled the stars over them before sleep.  And so it would be forever.  Until one day she knew she was carrying his son.

When we found she had disappeared we immediately gathered some help to search but the snow here has drifted so there is no sign of a single track.  I want you to know that we searched vigorously for two days but with no luck.  If your mother was outside in this weather for this long I’m afraid there is little hope she would have survived.

He brought her to this town and found a place that would take her in.  She knew he could not stay, knew that the mask would not be enough to protect them.  But it broke both of them when he rode away.  Her only consolation was that he promised to come back.  He told her to listen for him on this same day, the fourteenth day.  And then his son was born and it was like a part of him was with her.  But she listened for his horse.

We will search again when the weather breaks, and if we find her I will write again.  I can promise you that she will get a good Christian burial.  Your mother was a fine woman, we never spoke a harsh word to her or any of her people.

The fourteenth night, one of many she waited.  She lay in bed watching the snow sift by the window, already frosted in the corners from the bitter wind.  She had pushed cloths along the frame to keep the draft out. She must have dozed off again because the next time she looked the snow had stopped.  The moon was trying to shine through the clouds.  She could feel her heart beating, could feel the breath go in and out of her. And she felt the soft vibration, as if from a distant drum.  And she knew what it was.  She sat up and looked out of the window, peering into the pale light.

When she finally saw him he seemed to float in the air.  She could make out his duster and the shape of his hat, but his horse was so white it was nearly invisible in the moonlit snow.  He was waiting for her. 

She put her hands on the sill and pushed the rags aside, and then leaned her weight against the window, expecting it to be frozen shut.  The wood creaked slightly and slid upward, and she felt the winter air against her skin. 

She paused and looked around the room for moment.  As she turned back to the window, she noticed her hands.  The scar, the brown spots, the wrinkles and creases were gone. She caught her reflection in the glass and saw the young woman from the first day she met her lifelong companion.

She looked up at him from the window and heard him say her name.  She smiled at him, and then climbed out into the night.

We have packed up the few things she had here and will store them here until you tell us where you would like them sent.  There is nothing of real value other than a book or two, however I will mention one thing that struck us both as curious.  After we had searched for your mother my wife was tidying up the room hoping to find a note or something, and she discovered something odd, laying on your mother’s pillow.  It was a silver bullet. 

Hope this finds you riding into the sunset,

David

Copyright © 2018 David Smith