THE BERDACHE

“Bartender, whiskey, and a jug of water, if you don’t mind.”

Wynonna Belle’s lips were parched after a long day trundling through sage brush and dusty trail on her way south toward Fort Apache, Arizona. Her arrival in the sleepy little town of Holbrook bade well for resting her horses and her achy bones. Tired and hungry, Wynonna had initially sought out the hotel saloon hoping for a hot meal, a drink of rye, and a comfy bed for the night. However, she quickly doubted her decision of a drink first when the ornery herd of cattlemen and scallywags vociferously debating all kinds of man issues, suddenly went quiet in her presence.

“You travelin’ alone, Miss?”

The bartender’s direct question irked Wynonna to the point of irritation. It was all too common for a woman travelling alone to be labelled one of ill repute, and the bartender’s loud question interested some of the all-male clientele, now posturing to listen with ears pricked up for her answer.

“I’m meeting a gentleman friend here,” she replied. “He’s a cavalry officer coming up from Fort Apache. Not that’s any of yer business.”

After the closing of her library back in Canyon Diablo, Wynonna had the unenviable task of finding new homes for her large collection of homeless books. As part of her plan to disperse them to various locations around the Southwest, she telegraphed her friend, Captain ‘Irish’ James Calhoun at Fort Apache, letting him know of a surplus stock of books that might help alleviate certain boredoms associated with cavalry outpost living. When Captain Calhoun gratefully replied, he told Wynonna that he would rendezvous with her at the small town of Holbrook and provide a troop escort for the remaining leg of her journey to Fort Apache.

“I meant no disrespect, Miss,” the bartender apologised. “We don’t often see a pretty face drinkin’ with the men.”

“Get this straight,” Wynonna hissed. “I ain’t drinking with nobody. I’m minding my own business, and I suggest y’all mind yours.”

“Again, I meant no frump. It’s just that you’re…”

“Packin’ two six-shooters, ready to despatch anyone that tries any funny business,” Wynonna warned.

“Sure thing, Miss. Are you needin’ a room fer the night?”

“I am,” Wynonna curtly replied. “And some hot food… please.”

Her timely manners on recall, helped allay Wynonna’s trail-travelling anxiety. It had been a long journey hauling a wagonload of library books across rugged terrain, so she expected that the lonesome dusty trail would challenge her librarian’s resolve to remain calm and to maintain a certain sense of social decorum. However, after a full day of driving a loaded wagon over bone-shaking terrain, swatting pesky horse flies - whose painful bites turned into tormenting itches, and a scorching sun testing her will to live, even a saintly nun would have been pushed to the jagged edge of irritability. Added to that, Wynonna’s worst enemy was herself – when alone. So, the passage of self-accompanied time, had sardonically eroded the civilised manner her parents had so meticulously engrained into her.

“A lady must be patient, understanding, and above all, in charge,” her mother would repeatedly tell her.

However, although Wynonna held those values in the highest regard, when pushed to vexation; an understandable calming period was usually required before reacquainting herself with society and all its shortcomings. But on this occasion, she had forgotten the necessity of good manners, currently forsaken for the uncontrollable desire of hot food, a soft pillow, and some wet whiskey.

“Hay-ell!” Shrieked a dusty cowboy upon seeing Wynonna. “Y’all see this vision of beauty in here?”

He asked like he had just seen an apparition of the Virgin Mary. “Ain’t she mighty purdy,” he stated. “I see you come ridin’ in on that big black wagon. Wot-joo transportin in there?”

“My library,” Wynonna replied before downing another shot of rotgut.

“I reckin’ yer the prettiest thing I ever did see. Will you marry me?”

Aware that her arrival was greeted with quieted interest, she cringed distastefully at the multiple sets of ogling eyes looking her up and down, like she was a prize piece of beef. Deciding that this was the best opportunity to relay her intentions, Wynonna addressed the inquisitive nosey parker.

“Where’s that accent from, Cowboy?”

“I’s from Bolivar, Tennessee ‘an I reckin’ I lurv you.”

Observing several leering sneers emanating from some of the saloon’s patrons, Wynonna’s returning poise took a step backwards on its path of recall.

“Well, Tennessee,” she prepped him for his unsuspecting put-down. “I ain’t available. But I’m sure you have at least half-a-dozen first cousins back in bumfuck Bolivar - some probably with a few teeth still in their heads - that would be more than happy to take you up on that tempting matrimonial offer.”

In an outburst of spontaneous laughter, the whole saloon agreed with Wynonna’s remark, sending the dusty cowboy shucks-ing away, tail affixed tightly between his legs.

“Where can I get something to eat?” Wynonna enquired with the bartender.

“We got a dining room,” he replied – to Wynonna’s surprise. “It’s through that door off to my right. You can check into the hotel through there as well.”

Leaving a couple of coins on the bar, Wynonna headed for the dining room, leaving the rest of the bar patrons to return noisily back to life.

Entering the lobby of the hotel, Wynonna spotted an adjoining room with several male diners seated and eating. Quickly checking in, she instructed the clerk to fetch her bag from her wagon, then take it to her room. Graciously Accepting the clerk’s offer of unhitching her horse and dropping it at the livery stable, Wynonna pressed a silver dollar into his hand, then delicately dusted herself down before entering the dining room.

A young girl of no more than sixteen years of age, motioned for Wynonna to take a seat at a vacant table situated at the opposite end of the room - next to a window that looked out onto the town’s only thoroughfare.

“You got any steak and eggs?”

“Yes, mam,” replied the young girl. “This is cattle country. Steak, we have in abundance.”

“And coffee, strong, please.”

“One Six-Shooter Coffee comin’ right up, Mam.”

“It’s Miss.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Wynonna.”

“Yes, Miss Wynonna. I’m, Ruby.”

“I couldn’t help notice,” Wynonna noted in attempted conversation. “This is a remarkably large building for a small town.”

“It is, Miss Wynonna. First in town. I hear there were big plans for Holbrook when it was built.”

“So, what happened?”

“Well, if you believe my daddy – the mayor. The local Injuns got madder than an old wet hen - what with more white folks tramplin’ on their lands. So, they’d often rampage through town stealin’ and killin’ whatever and whoever they wanted.”

“It looks to me that things have quietened down a bit.”

“Thanks to the cavalry at Fort Apache,” stated Ruby. “But that’s all over and done with now. In fact, we see a lot of local Injuns comin’ into town trading this and that. There was this one time, when an old Injun tried to trade a stolen saddle back to the man he stole it from. Ain’t that a screamer? After the sheriff was called, the Apache agreed to take a Stetson hat for the saddle. I sure feel sorry for them - being forced onto reservations ‘an all that. I reckin’ white folk would have had a lot to answer for, if the cavalry hadn’t been sent to protect us. You know, there’s a very handsome captain at that there Fort Apache. I seen him ride through here once or twice. He’s just rightly dreamy all over. A right Belvidere of a man.”

“That, he is, Ruby. That, he most certainly is.”

“You seen him too, Miss Wynonna?”

“Captain Calhoun is a dear friend.”

“Oh.”

Ruby’s disappointment at hearing the target of her schoolgirl crush had a female friend, was visibly apparent, and did not escape Wynonna’s attention.

“I’m sure he’ll make someone a fine husband someday,” Wynonna added – trying to prop up Ruby’s fallen crest.

“So, why don’t you marry him, then?” Ruby boldly asked.

“My dear child. I ain’t the marrying kind. There’s still a big old world out there to discover before I ever think of settling down.”

“Well, you better watch out, Miss Wynonna,” Ruby’s enthusiastic tone happily warned. “Coz next time you come through here, he just might be taken. I’m almost a grown woman and my daddy says when the time comes, I can start a-courtin’. An, I plan allot upon startin’ at Fort Apache, don’t you mind.”

“Your ambition is quite refreshing, Ruby, but don’t you have any interest in anyone here in town?”

“Hell, no, Miss Wynonna. It’s bad enough they all look upon me as being an Angelica – you know, an unmarried woman. But suddenly, someone’s got a bee in his bonnet about some festival in Irishland across the sea and so has started a copycat one here.”

Thinking out loud, Wynonna clarified Ruby’s statement with, “You mean the matchmaking festival in Lisdoonvarna, Ireland?”

“How’d you know?”

“I read about it recently. Seems, it started several years ago where farmers too busy to court, started a wife-finding festival.”

“Well, I’ll choose who I want and when I want. No man’s gonna decide who I hitch up with. Unless it’s that handsome Captain Calhoun.”

“I would imagine he may have a few other suitors, don’t you?” Wynonna interjected.

“Look around you, Miss Wynonna,” Ruby instructed. “You see a lot of women folk in here?”

“Come to mention it,” Wynonna whispered. “We do seem to be the only two females in this building.”

“Uh huh,” Ruby confirmed. “You get proposed to, yet?”

“As a matter of fact, in the saloon.”

“You didn’t see the Wanted posters?” Asked Ruby pointing to a poster mounted on the wall right behind Wynonna’s head.

“Wanted, Spread for a wife,” Wynonna read out loud.

“Uh huh,” Ruby once again confirmed. “You know how many proposals I had today already? Twenty-five and countin’. Only a man could make a call for romance resemble a Dead or Alive poster.”

“That’s why I pack my six-shooters,” Wynonna explained. “There’s not many a contemptible hombre willing to tackle a girl with big pistols.”

“Why, Miss Wynonna,” Ruby blushed. “You are playin’ to the gallery with that one. But what’s this world comin’ to when a girl can’t get through her day without being accosted and objectified by some lonely old Banco, Bunko Steerer, Roper, or Barber’s Clerk that hates his own company and is tired of batch-ing himself?”

“Batching?” Wynonna queried.

“It’s when a man keeps house without a woman’s help. You know, as a Batchelor.”

“Oh, of course,” Wynonna chuckled.

“I’ll go get your coffee.”

Giggling to herself, Ruby hurried back to the kitchen, leaving Wynonna studying the poster.

“Are you part of this nonsense?” A male voice interrogated from an adjacent table.

Turning to face him, Wynonna addressed his question with the bluntest of replies.

“Do I look like a bitch in heat, Mister?”

Taken aback, the smartly dressed man recoiled slightly, then clarified his question.

“Begging your pardon, Miss. You must forgive my intrusive manner. Walter Higgins – the Lord’s disciple at your service. I too deplore the lascivious undertakings this festival has brought to the town. There are decent people living here that are put under threat by these activities. The Lord did not make Eve to be auctioned off to the highest bidder offering a piece of land as a prize. He created her as a companion to Adam, and not as a commodity for sale. This festival makes it unsafe for any woman to walk the streets unaccompanied.”

“Yeah, well judging by the lack of females I ain’t seen so far, there’s not much for folks to worry about,” Wynonna pointed out.

Before the preacher could say anything further, a man ran into the dining room shouting, “There’s an Injun in the saloon dressed as a woman,” before rushing back out. All, except Wynonna, excitedly followed the thrilled messenger through to the saloon.

Exiting the kitchen, a breathless Ruby ran to Wynonna with further news.

“Did you hear, Miss Wynonna? I don’t know what to make of it. A grown Injun dressed as a female, walking like a female, and talking in a feminine way, in Apache. He’s catchin’ all sorts of hell from the cowboys. I think they wanna string him up.”

Hungry and tired as she was, Wynonna had a feeling about the cross-dressing native, so resigned herself to eating later than desired and stood up to follow Ruby into the saloon. As she entered the bar area, a cacophony of voices divided into scornful and derisive catcalls, hollered in unison at the feminine-looking native man. Some bullies took it upon themselves to jostle him and push him around while imitating native war cries and blowing kisses at him. However, no matter the level of hostility displayed toward him, he remained calm, like he was waiting for the whole place to quieten down. There seemed to be no hope in hell of that happening, but when several men started tugging at his leather-beaded purse and clawing at his long dress and leggings, Wynonna felt the need to intervene. One discharge of a Colt pistol into the rafters silenced the whole room.

“Now, I want all you Chuckleheads here to listen to what I have to say, cause I’m only saying it once,” Wynonna declared. “I don’t care for those that show a lack of hospitality to newcomers, and I certainly despise bullying of any kind whatsoever.”

“Amen, sister,” interrupted the preacher. “But it is ungodly for any man - red, white, brown, or other, to act like a woman. It is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord.”

The preacher’s words caused more verbal abuse to spread across the room, but Wynonna quietened them again.

“Luke chapter twenty-three, verse thirty-four,” Wynonna shouted. “And Jesus said, Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

“Why are you quoting the good book to me, sister?” The preacher asked.

“First of all,” Wynonna stated. “I ain’t your sister, and secondly, I’m just letting y’all know what ignorant fucks you all are.”

Unexpectedly, the crowd in the room took offence at Wynonna’s comment and several angry insults were thrown in her direction, until, once again; she chose to fire another bullet into the ceiling rafters, resulting in everyone giving her their undivided attention.

“Does anyone have any idea why this Apache is dressed like a woman?”

“Yeah,” shouted a voice from the back of the room. “He’s after a piece of old Blind Booney’s land. But I reckin’ Booney will quickly figure out what’s pokin’ him in the back at night.”

The room exploded into raptures of laughter.

“This man, gentlemen,” Wynonna shouted. “Is what the natives call a Berdache – an Indian man who dresses and lives entirely as a woman. If any of you ever chose reading over drinking once-in-a-while, you would have come across an article by a good friend of mine who writes for the London Illustrated News. He once wrote about the time spent living with an Indian tribe not too far from here. In this article, he discussed in detail the life of a Berdache, and discovered that Indians living as women is a common practice among tribes. Some - Preacher Man - are given religious powers. Some are leaders of ceremonial dances, visionaries, predictors of the future. And some – as I suspect in this man – are responsible for matchmaking. So, I would hazard a guess that his arrival today during your buy-a-wife festivities is to help you find a solution to y’all’s conundrum.”

“Say what?” The reappeared Tennessean asked.”

“I believe, Tennessee, that this man is here to solve your female shortage by offering some of his tribe’s women as wives to those accepting. The wife receives a spread of land, the population grows, trade flourishes, and maybe this town won’t end up like Canyon Diablo.” Continuing in jest, Wynonna cheerfully explained, “So, Tennessee, you can go telegraph your cousins to tell them the wedding’s off.”

Murmurs of “I hear Injun women are animals in bed” and “Is it legal?” spread around the room. The crowd seemed to favour the idea, until the preacher with bible in hand and an intent to dampen spirits, mounted a chair to recite the gospel.

“You shall not intermarry with them giving your daughters to their sons or taking their daughters for your sons,” he yelled above the chatter. “For they would turn away your sons from following me, to serve other gods. Then the anger of the Lord would be kindled against you, and he would destroy you quickly. Deuteronomy Chapter Seven, verse three to four.”

“Reverend,” Wynonna interrupted. “When it comes to preventing female companionship for these love starved Lushingtons, your Deuteronomy can stick his preachings up his ass. Now, who here speaks any Apache?”

“That’ll be me,” the Tennessean volunteered.

“Why, I declare, Tennessee. You certainly are a dark horse, indeed.”

“Shucks, Miss. I’m a sucker for sweet talk. You sure you don’t wanna marry me?”

Striking up a conversation with the Apache matchmaker, confirmed Wynonna’s theory, as Tennessee translated the Berdache’s terms for the partnering of native women with palefaces. The matchmaker explained that the local tribes were suffering from a shortage of men, so their combined situation presented a prosperous opportunity for all.

As the saloon returned to life with talk of “Injun wives,” a distracting movement at the saloon door caught Wynonna’s attention, causing her to flash a warm smile toward the figure entering. The smart cavalry uniform, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes were unmistakable. Captain ‘Irish’ James Calhoun had arrived a day early, causing a rush of blush to Wynonna’s cheeks at the possibility of a handsome companion joining her for dinner. Even though she was dog tired, the night – she thought – was still young…