Ambush at Kansas City - Michelle Tanner Going West - Part One, Page 2

day, along with possibly saving the Union Army and the War.

  Jumping out of bed, Meeker toddled to the dresser in the room. The sound of the water pouring from the pitcher to the basin broke the silence. Cool water bathed his face as he washed the sweaty mist away. Fumbling around, he eventually struck a match and lit the lamp. Three forty, the gold pocket watch showed the time with precision as it performed its duty.

  His wife and son’s faces stared at him from inside the pocket watch, and the memory of the telegraph flooded him. Sadness overtook him.

  “Sleeps with Bears my pale white ass,” he said to no one, “can’t sleep at all most nights. Not anymore.”

  The hardwood floor felt good against his bare feet as he moved to the window. He pushed up the sash, and the night air flooded the room. No longer hot, a gentle breeze blew in, almost cooling the room, almost. After a visit to the chamber pot, Joseph Nathan Meeker somewhat calmed down, settled back into the bed; his long, flowing white hair covered the pillow as he blankly stared at the dark.

  Forty-eight years old, Meeker’s hair had turned gray more than a decade prior. Having left home at fourteen, he had lived a life of adventure. He was a fur trapper, scout, celebrated frontiersman, deputy US marshal, and the subject of many a penny dreadful and dime novel. He was all those things and yet—none of them. Husband and father were his favorite personae, but when the war broke out, he had had to choose sides.

  He had two things he loved more than life, both now gone taken from him by an act of vengeance. That damn telegraph had shattered his world. Resigning his commission, Meeker had set out for home, only home would not be home anymore. Looking up at the tinwork ceiling, he admired the intricate pattern stamped in the panels, which showed horses running on the flat prairie. Sleep crept over him again, and he finished the night blessedly free of dreams or nightmares.

  Michelle Tanner—1856

  She was tall for her age, taller than all the boys her own age. She had lost her mother two years before and for a while struggled to accept it. Still, she was happy, well-adjusted, and the light of her father’s life. Michelle Tanner was quite the precocious twelve-year-old girl.

  Many called her spoiled, being the only child of a wealthy widower. It would have surprised no one when this headstrong daughter stood in a corral face-to-face with a horse. Blanket and saddle in one hand, she petted the beast on his long face as it whinnied at her. Turning from the great white beast, the girl moved in a steady pace to the fence. The stallion followed her, his head bowed down to her level in a show of submission. Michelle hoisted the saddle over one of the rails of the fence, throwing the blanket over the seat of the saddle.

  Picking up the hackamore bridle she turned back to the horse, placing the bridle on his head. Rubbing the beast on the neck as she cinched up the bridle, she spoke to him in a soft voice, “You will not need a nasty ole bit in your mouth. No, you will behave yourself for me. I know you will.” She led Blanco around the corral for a few minutes and then threw the blanket on, continuing to march him around the enclosure. Soon she put the saddle on him and tightened the cinch.

  Michelle walked Blanco around for at least fifteen minutes, working the animal just as she had seen her father do on many occasions. John Tanner broke his own horses in the manner taught to him by his father, who had learned from a Cherokee long before John was even born. Michelle, having observed this all her life, felt she knew exactly what to do. With care, she stood on the left side stirrup, her left hand on the horn and right hand on the cantle. She spoke to the mount with a calm, sure tone.

  With her gentle prodding, the steed walked around the corral with the girl standing in the left stirrup. Blanco moved around the arena in a slow trudge. One would believe that the animal had carried the girl in this style a thousand times in as many days.

  After a short time, the girl swung her right leg over the horse and put her foot in the other stirrup. Shell took the reins in her hand and pulled them. Not tight, but she held a good firm grip. Michelle assured herself that not too much rein hung between her hands and where the reins attached to the halter.

  “Now, Mr. Blanco, I would really appreciate it if you would walk briskly in a circle around the corral.” Speaking to the beast as though he understood her words in perfect clarity, the girl tapped her heels to the animal’s rib. The first few times she touched him, Blanco did nothing, but the third time he moved forward. Michelle guided him in a smooth liquid motion, using her reins and knees.

  John Tanner had a good healthy heart, which considering what he saw was a good thing. He looked through the window expecting to see his daughter on her charger. What he saw instead was Michelle on the new horse. His young daughter sitting atop a seventeen-hand-high, 1,475-pound stallion. An animal he had not yet broken.

  Rushing out the back door of the house, John yelled at his daughter to get off the charger. He was running as fast as he could and screaming at the top of his voice. Glasses flew from one pocket while documents he had been reading fell from his hand. The papers blew off in the light breeze that wafted through Washington Town.

  “What do you think you’re doing, Shelly?” he screamed at her as he climbed on the fence. Michelle pulled back on the reins, and the creature stopped in place. Reaching forward, she rubbed his ear, and the animal responded by rolling his head against her hand.

  “Father,” she said in a strict voice, “stop yelling or you will frighten poor Blanco. He was lonely. He just needed some companionship.” Tanner climbed down, motioning with his hands his wish for her to get off the beast.

  “He has only been here a week, dear. He isn’t used to the place yet, so just get down off him,” Tanner said, still pushing downward motions with his hands. “Besides, I have not yet broken him.”

  “Father,” she said indignantly, “you told me we do not break horses. We train them. I have ridden him twice a day, for two hours at a time, for four days straight. He is as mild as a lamb.” She was now patting the horse’s neck while he nodded his head as if trying to tell Mr. Tanner she was right.

  John Tanner squatted; putting elbows on knees, he held his head with his hands. “You have ridden him for four days?” he asked in disbelief of what he had heard.

  “Yes,” she said with a matter-of-fact tone in her voice. Michelle could not believe her father’s reaction.

  A realization exploded in John Tanner’s mind. Michelle was an extraordinary person. He had known she was special, but how special he never understood. Not, that is, until that moment. He also knew in his heart that he would not be around her nearly long enough to satisfy him. At that moment, any thought of her marrying and having children passed from his mind. John Tanner would spend every moment possible with his daughter over the next eight years.

  Eight Years Later, 1864

  Michelle Tanner fidgeted in her bed, trying to get comfortable. Unable to sleep she was too excited about the life upon which she was about to embark. Sitting up in bed, Shell turned to the mirror on her dresser. Taking the brush from her nightstand, she brushed her bright red hair while she pondered what possible adventures she might encounter.

  She would need a horse, but best to purchase that after she was out west. Out west, the thought of going west agitated her. A new life awaited her no matter what it brought, it would be...at least...different from the life here.

  Life was not hard here; that was not a part of the equation. Life lacked a challenge for her. If she wanted a man, a good man, it would be challenging for several reasons. First, there were far more women than men in the eastern United States; the war ensured that. Second, Michelle Tanner was taller than most women were. Well, to be honest, Miss Tanner was taller than most men were—standing over six feet tall, she towered over most men in the 1860s.

  Michelle had no need for a man, not to provide for her, not to protect her, and certainly not for any carnal pleasure. Her desires were considered unnatural by the conventions of polite society; Michelle kept those thoughts to herself. Wearing men’
s clothing set her apart. Ridicule of her was what passed for entertainment by some of her peers.

  Out west, Michelle hoped to find several things there—adventure, happiness, and something that eluded her here, freedom, the freedom to be who she was. In the west, people were more apt to overlook ticks, quirks, and the oddities of one’s personality—Shell had read that and believed it to be true. In turn, she would do likewise for them.

  This is not to say that she did not have suitors; no, she had them in droves. Michelle Tanner was bored with the long line of suitors after her father’s money. She never had been drawn toward men. Still, to know that their chief interest was her father’s money was hurtful. She knew she was too tall, too muscled, and too smart to attract the opposite sex. John Tanner’s vast wealth was plenty of incentive for the would-be suitors who swarmed around his daughter. They were not unlike bees swarming to protect the hive. Or perhaps, more akin to vultures converging on a fresh body?

  Messing with her hair, she looked in the mirror thinking of what was to be; this calmed her. Laying the brush down, she again lay on the bed. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to sleep. She dreamed of horses, running free—the ponies moved across an endless sea of grass. The wind blew and caused the grass to have ripples just like waves on the ocean.