Note: The language Shoshone's speak is often spelled Shoshoni although the spellings can be substituted one for the other.

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Kiss Me

"Just where the hell you been?' Hoss asked when I rode into the yard of the Ponderosa. "Guess you didn't find 'er, huh?" I dismounted but I guess due to my grin and swagger, Hoss changed his inquiry. "So you did find 'er, didn't you?" He grinned as widely as I did.

"Yes, I did."

"Well, where is she?"

"You know our line shack about five miles south-east of here?" I made a motion with my thumb to indicate direction.

"Yeah. Don't tell me that's where you stowed 'er? Whyn't you bring her back here 'stead of leavin' her out there alone? 'Less course you got 'er hog-tied so she don't run away again. I don't think…."

I put up my hands. "Wait, wait, wait. Don't jump to any conclusions." And I was starting to explain Kopakashe's refusal to accompany me to the Ponderosa when my father stepped out of the house and stood, hands in pockets, waiting. When I called out, "Hi, Pa," and started to walk to him, I practically felt his sigh of relief. He smiled and hurried to me; we met in the middle and he took my hand in his, placing his other hand on my shoulder in what I always think of as a "Cartwright hug." It's the closest we come.

"Glad to see you, son. I've been a little worried as we hadn't heard from you since …."

"No need to worry, Pa." Hoss said, walking over, leading his horse. He seemed on his way somewhere. "He and Kopakashe are stayin' in that line shack out there on the east line, the one that's closest to us."

"What?" my father asked. "Why aren't you staying here?" He looked truly shocked. I wanted to remind him about his lecture on proper behavior under his roof but didn't; it would serve no purpose.

"It just seemed best," I said, "if we stayed elsewhere..." I felt uncomfortable for an unknown reason and then, looking straight into his eyes, said, "I consider us married, Kopakashe and me, not by our law nor by the church but by her tribe. I don't expect you to condone it but I hope you'll accept it." I waited.

My father gathered himself as if I'd landed a body-blow. "Well, I guess what's done is done. I'm sorry you've chosen to live where you have but just know you're always welcome here. And by 'you', I mean both of you."

"Well, thank you, Pa. That means a lot to me." My father was obviously uncomfortable when expressing deep feelings face to face; it was easier while riding on the property or sitting side by side. It's just the way we were made, maybe how all men are made.

"One thing though," he said, "and I know this is a bad time, but I'd been counting on you to help with spring roundup and the branding. I mean you're good with taking the lead and then there's your experience…but if you feel you can't…" His voice trailed off.

"I'll be here tomorrow to help out. Whatever you want, Pa, but right now, I need to get some things, clothes, as much as I can pack in my saddlebags, and head…home." I chuckled. "That sounded strange; I never thought a line shack would be my home or consider it any place other than this." I looked at the proud house, the homestead I had helped design. It wasn't elegant, didn't flow with curved walls or have a grand portico but it was sturdy and strong and melded with the tall tress that surrounded the cleared area. The house belonged.

"It's odd for me too, but…as long as you know this will always be your home and your…wife's." My father was uncomfortable albeit, apologetic. "And, Adam, what I had said about who you marry and who I would prefer you marry, I'm sorry. I should have never said anything. Know I only want what's best for you and if this is what you want, then I'm glad."

"I know, Pa." And I did.

Hoss said he had to go help round up some mavericks they found on the northern ridge; just slipped back to the house to raid Hop Sing's cookie jar. Said he had a craving for a little "somethin' sweet" and since he didn't have a pretty, sweet, young bride waiting for him, he had to make do with cookies. He slapped my back and said he'd drop in some time for dinner. I told him that he better bring a side of beef if he wanted dinner with us and I told him the story of the oat cakes; Hoss laughed but my father didn't. I don't think he found anything about the situation amusing. Anyway, I went upstairs and found my carpetbag on my wardrobe's top shelf and set to packing, throwing in my hairbrushes, shaving mug and razor; it would serve better than my saddlebags. In a corner of the room was my guitar and I hooked the strap over my head and slipped one arm through. I looked about the room and gazed lovingly at my bed with its down-filled mattress. It would have made for a far more comfortable "wedding night" to have taken Kopakashe here. But things are what they are and I found myself anxious to return to her.

Once downstairs, Hop Sing came rushing from the kitchen, a large basket on his arm. "Mistah Adam, father say you marry Indian missy. So, Hop Sing pack food. Maybe she like this." He pulled away the napkin covering the food. "Two loaf bread, kind you like…apple butter, lots sliced ham—wrap in oil paper, cookies, two jar pickles, onions and carrots from garden." He folded the napkin back over them. "Hop Sing happy make lucky wedding cakes but not enough time."

"Thank you, Hop Sing. Really, thank you." He looked as if he would cry. I suppose I had denied him the pleasure of cooking up a marriage feast on the Ponderosa and now he felt left out. I remembered that once he had asked me what Darla's favorite type of cake was. He must have been planning the wedding meal fit for the eldest son of Ben Cartwright for quite a while now.

"Wish you many years happy with wife. You bring first child home and Hop Sing make cake, special cake for child long life. Give lucky gift to baby."

I thanked him again and said I would and grabbing my rifle which was still by the door, headed outside and saw my father hitching two horses to one of the buckboards.

"What's this, Pa?"

"It's for you, Adam. I thought we'd load some oats for the horses—and make sure the horses get them and not you—some hay, chicken feed and a few chickens and whatever else you think you two might need. Let me know if you think Kopakashe might like some shoats to raise." He looked at me, amused. "You look a bit like a pack mule, son."

I had to laugh. "Thanks. I'll bring it back when I come tomorrow, ready to work."

"No," he said. "You keep everything, horses, buckboard… I'm sure you can use it all."

And that was where we left things. He and I quickly loaded up the items saving the crated chickens for last, and then I headed back to the line shack and my bride. The closer I was, the more anxious I became, fear creeping up the back of my neck and giving me the cold chills but finally I was there. A bowl sat on the little bench in front of the line shack, a bucket on the ground. The bench was one of the amenities for any temporary inhabitants. Sitting outside on a cool night with a cup of hot coffee and watching the sunset is one of life's finer pleasures, at least in a cowboy's life who spends most of his days sitting a saddle. But Kopakashe was nowhere to be seen. I jumped down and opened the door, expecting her inside but no. My heart thumped. I went back outside and started to call for her when she stepped out of the trees, holding one of those Shoshone bone-handled knives.

"There you are," I said, sounding more angry than relieved and although Kopakashe couldn't understand my words, she did understand my tone and her chin went up in defiance. She stepped past me and placing the knife on the bench, sat down and putting the bowl in her lap again, began to uncap acorns and drop the nuts into the bucket of water, ignoring me.

The two chickens still pecked about the yard, their necks safe for at least another day, and I had a whole buckboard full of supplies and Kopakashe wasn't the least curious. "We having goddamn acorns for dinner? First horse oats and now squirrel food? That's what you're feeding me? And look at the buckboard. Aren't you even interested in what I've brought back or are you so used to stolen white man's goods ending up in your tribe's camp that this just seems normal?" I wished she could understand my insults; I wanted an argument. I had taken on quite a bit for her, alienating my family if needs be, and she just calmly worked away on her acorns while I stood not even able to have a good row. I wanted to knock the bowl off her lap. Instead, I went over and unlatched the tailgate and pulled out the sacks of feed and oats.

But then she paused and watched. I pulled off the crate with the chickens and dumped them unceremoniously in the clearing; there was no chicken house but the hens could roost in the trees. I didn't give a damn about any eggs they might drop; I'd get around to building a coop when I had time.

I pulled Hop Sing's basket off the buckboard seat and dropped it on the bench beside her. Pulling back the napkin, I lifted out the packet of sliced ham, pulling open the paper. "See? Ham. Do roasted acorns go with ham?" I dropped the packet back into the basket. "And look…bread. Not goddamn oat cakes but actual baked bread. And here's some apple butter and pickles and some cookies. Look at this." I pulled out an onion from the bottom. "Add a little taste to the food." Kopakashe looked at me oddly. I think she was trying to decide just what the hell was wrong with me. I had left a loving husband and came back an angry maniac.

I was furious. And it was because here I was, her wealthy husband who owned one quarter of the largest ranch in Nevada territory and I had put her in this line shack that was barely fit for a ranch hand to take a piss on. And I expected her to live there. And not only that, I hadn't provided any food that day except what I could get from my family. Kopakashe had spent the hours I was gone gathering acorns to eat; she knew food had to be found and she knew what served to fill a belly. Once the acorns were soaked long enough to leech the tannins, she would probably roast them. She was providing for me the best way she knew how and I had turned my anger on her instead of on myself.

I lifted the basket, sat down on the corner of the bench and placed the basket in my lap. What kind of man was I? But more important, what kind of husband? "I'm sorry, Kopakashe. I am one miserable sonovabitch, aren't I?" I gave her a half-ass smile and she gently smiled back, saying a few things as she poked at the items in the basket I held. "How can you forgive me so easily?" I asked, watching her as she curiously went through the items. I bent over and kissed her cheek and she was surprised, raising her head.

And then she said one word. "Kiss."

I laughed. "Yes," I said, pointing to myself. "Kiss me." And she raised her sweet face and kissed my unshaven cheek.

That night we slept with Kopakashe's small head on my chest, one arm diagonally across my stomach and her legs laced about one of mine. I should say "she" slept while I lay awake worrying and listening to odd noises such as the horses in the cow shed or what might have been a mouse scurrying across the floor. I had tried to secure the food so no vermin would be drawn to it but I wondered if I'd been successful. Tomorrow, I told myself, I'd look for any mouseholes and plug them.

Dinner had been surprisingly good considering it was roast acorns with ham followed by bread smeared with apple butter. It filled me up and Kopakashe seemed pleased with the meal. And after supper we washed and dried the dishes, two things she found odd. Not that the Shoshone weren't clean people but making dishwater by sloshing about the soap cage in the hot water, was odd to her. She poked the bubbles and laughed delightedly when they popped.

We were so different, she and I, in so many ways. As with most Indians, when a day consists of finding sustenance, the men hunting, the women finding herbs and berries and whatever food they could, it left little time for what we think of as "love." When a white man has money, he can indulge himself and spend a few days in a whore house drinking whiskey or in the best houses, champagne, and enjoying the favors of any "lady" he wants; all he has to do is crook his finger. It's all a matter of amusement, a way of passing time. He knows his belly will be filled even if he's tossing away his money with both hands. But when a man had to leave his wife and family and head out to bag an antelope or deer that can make the difference between starvation or not, such carnal amusements aren't possible. The husband and wife are partners in survival. I wanted that for us, for Kopakashe and me to be equals in our union, marriage, whatever it was. And although I wanted a table filled with roast beef, fried chicken or a roasted pig, Kopakashe would have been satisfied if she ate nothing more than dry oat cakes and roasted nuts.

While in college, I met Edwin Booth, the actor. He was making a half-hearted effort at a college education and once when we were both drunk—he drunker than I, drunker than anyone I ever knew could be—he told me his father, Junius Booth was a sworn vegetarian; eating the flesh of animals caused a man to become violent and aggressive. Why, his father pontificated, take meat away from Indians, have them rely only on vegetables and the Indian problem would be resolved. I brought up the cattle raising on the Ponderosa and the lure of a thick rare steak covered with fried onions and Edwin laughed and said he wasn't a vegetarian although, since whiskey and beer were all brewed from grain, he was partway there. The last time Edwin had been home, his father asked if he had sworn off meat yet and Edwin said he'd told his father, yes, and that the only "flesh" he consumed was what was beneath a woman's "fur". He roared with laughter at that, and I did as well; as I said, we were both drunk and it just seemed funny. He claimed his father hadn't laughed and Edwin swore that only eating vegetables, that eschewing meat, ruined a man's sense of humor and made him dull. I wasn't one to dispute him.

I pulled Kopakashe closer and smiled to myself, remembering her face that evening as she watched me shave. The blade must have seemed more a weapon than a tool of civilization and she was intrigued at the shaving soap I used and how I slid the sharp edge up my throat and in small strokes across my cheeks. She had said something and with one small finger, touched the foam on my cheeks and tasted it. Her expression of distaste made me laugh and she spat into the sink, rinsing out her mouth with handfuls of water.

"Tastes pretty awful, doesn't it? When I was a kid, my pa washed my mouth out with soap when he heard me cursing. Told me it would teach me a lesson and it did; I learned not to curse if he was anywhere near." Finally, I faced her, the lower half of my face taking on that bluish sheen it always did after a shave "Well, what's the verdict?"

"Ad-am, no weda, no bear." She was incorporating more and more simple English into her speech but even without that, it was surprising how much we understood each other. I had made some progress learning Shoshoni but not enough. I suppose, since I love the English language, the facile ways it's used in poetry and in novels, I felt she should learn my language. Or maybe it was because I expected her to live in my world. I grabbed her and rubbed my clean-shaven cheeks over hers, She laughed delightedly, pulling away, saying something in Shoshoni. And then, looking most serious, she said, "Kiss." As far as I was concerned, that was all the English she needed.

So that night, once we'd crawled into the cramped bunk, I whispered I loved her. I doubt the words meant anything but my mouth to her ear must have stirred her as she became eager for her "weda" or "bear" husband. So, I pulled her under me and did a damn fine job considering the lower bunk was cramped and narrow with little room to "make the beast with two backs". Let's see the Shoshone create a better, more poetic metaphor for coupling than Shakespeare had so many years ago.

After such an enervating act, I should have been exhausted and glad for sleep but instead, found myself listening to the gentle sip of Kopakashe's breath while I worried about tomorrow and leaving her alone while on round up with a group of Ponderosa waddies. There hadn't been trouble with rustlers or trespassers in a long time but that didn't necessarily mean there wouldn't be tomorrow or the next day and they could find the line shack—and her. And although Kopakashe had hidden in the trees when the buckboard approached, what would that do to fend off anyone who cared to rob us? Or harm the little Indian maid? Kopakashe moved slightly in my arms and I wondered if my racing heartbeat had caused her to stir.

How could I get her to stay at the Ponderosa during the day? I imagine, in her mind, the house was associated with the Rowes and the guest room that had kept us apart. And then there was the matter of providing for her. And there were clothes. Kopakashe couldn't keep wearing her buckskin because… I didn't know why except for my bias for wearing clean clothes every day. I wondered if she washed the buckskin; it was so finely tanned you could breathe through it. And then there were her moccasins that laced halfway up her shins. I thought of taking her into town, of buying her a few dresses and some shoes. Kopakashe moved again and opened her eyes, raising herself on one elbow. It was dark in the lower bunk, a dark night in general and I couldn't see her well, just felt her smooth skin slide against mine.

"Ad-am?" Her fingers lightly touched my face and I took her hand and held it.

"Go to sleep," I said, kissing her forehead and shifted my position to make her more comfortable and with worries still circling in my brain, I finally fell asleep.