Happiness Is a Cold Nose

[ramblin_rosie]

So sholio is hosting another comment-fic meme over on DW, and I'll post a round-up of my other fills soonish; but this one turned out long enough to stand alone. It's based on two main prompts, one from sholio ("Any or original, covered with puppies or kittens") and one from rachelmanija ("Any fandom or original, someone in need of rest and safety discovers a secret, cozy hideaway"). Sort of follows Bequests, Birthrights, and Brothers, but you don't have to read that one first. Warning for post-traumatic depression and survivor guilt--but it's much more comfort than hurt.

Summary: In the aftermath of the Little Bighorn, Tom and Bronco have found Cheyenne ill, injured, and isolated. They can help with the physical wounds, but the mental ones might require a different form of therapy.


Happiness Is a Cold Nose
By San Antonio Rose
"Well?" Tom Brewster asked anxiously as Bronco Layne rode into the barnyard on the abandoned homestead.

"I got a few answers," Bronco hedged and dismounted. "How is he?"

Tom sighed and glanced over his shoulder toward the barn, where their friend Cheyenne Bodie lay wounded and withdrawn. "Not much change. I mean, the fever's come down, an' I got 'im to eat some, but he still won't let me move 'im into the house. Won't talk to me, either, 'cept to say it ain't our fault an' he's sorry he ain't been in touch."

It had been over a year since Tom and Bronco had last seen Cheyenne and three awful months since they'd each read the news of the Battle of the Little Bighorn and, knowing Cheyenne had been recalled by the Army to serve as a civilian scout under Custer, feared the worst. The fact that they'd managed to stumble upon him here, dangerously ill from the infected gash in his side and wracked with horrible fever-dreams, could only be chalked up to Divine Providence. The nearest town was half a day's ride away, so the pair of them had had to doctor him themselves as best they could. But however he'd been wounded, something seemed to be haunting Cheyenne--something that he couldn't or wouldn't talk about. When Tom had declared the day before that Cheyenne was healing well enough for him to handle alone, Bronco had gone to town to get supplies... and wire Fred Benteen and Marcus Reno in search of answers.

"I ain't seen 'im like this since his pa died," Tom concluded softly.

Bronco nodded. "Well, Benteen couldn't give many answers by wire. He said he'd mail us a copy of Bodie's testimony from Reno's hearin' so's Bodie won't have to tell us the whole story of what happened at the Little Bighorn. Reno said the last time he saw Bodie, two things happened: Bodie found out for sure that Miss Travers was plannin' to marry Reno after all, an' when Bodie left the fort, he swore he was gonna track down the scout who betrayed Custer for Sittin' Bull."

Tom let out a low whistle, and not just because of Cheyenne's vow of vengeance. When the three of them had ridden together from Judas Basin to Fort Abraham Lincoln the year before to investigate the sale of arms to Crazy Horse, Cheyenne had told them about his love for Irene Travers, his rivalry with Reno for her hand, and her refusal to understand his respect for the Sioux and for the Fort Laramie Treaty. At the time, he'd still seemed to hold out some hope that he could win her over, so for her to go back to Reno after the Little Bighorn must have added heartbreaking insult to metaphorical injury.

"Benteen said more about the hunt for the scout," Bronco continued. "Apparently Bodie knew he wouldn't have to go far to find 'im 'cause the scout had repeated the same lie durin' the hearin'. So Bodie waited outside the fort until the scout left an' then gave 'im a choice: go back an' stand trial or die there in front of his wife. The scout attacked, so Bodie overpowered 'im an' took 'im back to the fort, beat up but still breathin'. But I reckon the scout got Bodie with a knife or somethin'. Whether he didn’t know it was as bad as it is or whether he just didn't want to stick around the post while Reno an' Miss Travers were there...." He sighed and shook his head. "Stubborn cuss."

"Bronco, he's grievin'."

"Don't change the fact that he coulda died out here."

"I know, I know. I just... don't be too hard on 'im, all right?"

Instead of answering, Bronco pulled his saddlebags off Buttons and onto his shoulder, then took Buttons' reins in one hand to lead the horse into the barn. But both men were stopped short by squeaky noises from inside the barn, followed by a quiet bass rumble that could only be Cheyenne's voice, then more squeaks and more rumbling. Tom and Bronco exchanged a confused look before resuming their walk to the barn door... where they stopped short again and exchanged another look of relieved amusement.

Whatever had caused the homesteaders who'd built this place to leave, they hadn't taken their dogs with them. Tom and Bronco had seen at least two dogs but had heard others fussing quietly somewhere in the barn, although they hadn't tried to look because Cheyenne had needed their full attention when they were awake. The dogs had evidently sensed Cheyenne's sorrow, however, because while the adult dogs stood watch beside the hay bales that were serving as Cheyenne's bed, the big man's chest was now thoroughly buried under a wriggling, yipping, face-licking, tail-lashing mess of puppies. And given the ghost of a smile on Cheyenne's face and the way he was crooning (there was no other word for it) to the puppies in his first language, the puppies were already having the desired effect.

As Tom and Bronco entered the barn and Bronco led Buttons to a stall, one of the adult dogs trotted over to Tom, sat down, and put one paw on Tom's knee with an anxious whine. Tom understood the implicit question--he was still mighty worried about Cheyenne himself--but there was only one answer to give under the circumstances.

"Good dog," he whispered and reached down to give the now-grinning dog a scratch behind the ears.

---

Cheyenne woke slowly to the sensation of something small, warm, and wet swiping over his chin. Puppies, he remembered finally: the dogs had brought him their puppies the day before, and most, if not all, of them had snuggled up with him for the night. He'd fallen asleep before nightfall, but that would explain the warm fuzzy bodies he could feel surrounding him. So now one was on his chest and trying to wake him up in the usual doggy way. Well, there were worse options.

With that mystery solved, the next thing Cheyenne noticed was that his blanket had been pulled up over his head. Raising his hand to pet his tiny alarm clock shifted the blanket's weight enough that he could tell someone had layered more blankets over him as well. Between that, the hay, and the puppies, he was plenty warm--almost too warm--but he could breathe well enough. Even so, when he turned his head a little, he could hear a slight crackle as the frost on the topmost blanket--

--frost?!

"Tom! Bronco!" he cried, sitting bolt upright in his panic and getting yelps of protest as the motion scattered the puppies. Had his friends had enough blankets left to survive the night? Had they noticed the temperature drop in time to save themselves? Had they--

"There he is," Bronco's voice said from outside.

Cheyenne's relief was cut short as the icy air bit into his exposed skin and burned his lungs.

"Mornin', Cheyenne," a pink-cheeked Tom said, coming in with a steaming cup in one hand while cradling something else inside his coat with the other arm. "Coffee or shirt first?"

Cheyenne shivered hard. "Both at once?" He was probably still feverish, but his chest was bare aside from the bandage, and the temperature change wasn't doing him any good.

Tom smiled, put the coffee cup in Cheyenne's right hand, and reached into his coat to pull out the one flannel shirt Cheyenne had had with him. Then, while Cheyenne drank, Tom eased the shirt onto him and wrapped a couple of the blankets around his shoulders. The shirt was soft and started out warm, as if Tom had been sitting close to the fire with it, but somehow the pressure of the fabric still hurt Cheyenne's skin.

"Reckon we'll have to get you a new coat in town," Tom said as Cheyenne finished his coffee and started working on the buttons. "We couldn't find one in your saddlebags, sorry."

Cheyenne shook his head. "That's all right. Thanks. What happened?"

"Norther blew through last night, after you fell asleep but before we turned in. Took Bronc an' me both by surprise. We did all right; the dogs slept with us, and there were plenty of horse blankets to cover up with. Not sure how long it'll stay this cold, though."

Cheyenne huffed and smiled ruefully. "All right, I'll stop bein' an idiot. We'd better take the dogs in the house with us, just in case."

Tom smiled back but didn't comment on Cheyenne's being an idiot. "Move now, you think, or eat first? Bronc's about got breakfast ready."

"Eat first, then." Cheyenne was embarrassed by the way his hand was shaking under the comparatively slight weight of the cup; he didn't think it was just from the cold. He wasn't sure how long it had been between his last good meal and Tom coaxing some sort of broth into him, but he was sure that he hadn't been eating nearly enough the past... days? weeks? Ugh, he hated being so badly injured he lost time.

Tom just nodded and brought over a water bucket, which he broke the ice on, then left to fetch Bronco. Cheyenne took a moment to apologize to the puppies before he washed up. He'd just dried his hands on his shirt tail when Tom and Bronco came back in with plates of bacon and eggs and the coffee pot, and the three of them ate and drank as quickly as they could before the food could get cold. Cheyenne wasn't able to eat much, but at least it was solid, which was an improvement. Then he had Tom help him to the privy while Bronco and the dogs cleaned up what was left of breakfast.

As Tom finally helped Cheyenne over to the house, Bronco laughed and called, "Look out, Grey Fox, the hounds are on your tail!"

Cheyenne looked over his shoulder, and sure enough, the puppies were romping after him. "Sure they're not after Tom?" he called back. "He is a sugarfoot, after all!"

"Ha!" said Tom. "If we hadn't had bacon for breakfast, I'd say they smelled ham."

Cheyenne couldn't help laughing at that reminder of the undercover assignment that required him to replace an actor who'd looked just like him. "Why did I ever tell you fellas that story?"

"Beats me, but better us than Smitty. At least we'll let you live it down occasionally."

Cheyenne laughed again as Tom lowered him onto a chair on the porch and went over to what seemed to be the back door. It was a two-story frame house, new or nearly new, much larger than the usual sodbuster hut one found on homesteads around here, with glass in the windows and the walls painted yellow and the woodwork and porch painted white--a kit house, more than likely. The gingerbread pattern reminded Cheyenne of one he'd seen in an engraving in a Montgomery Ward catalog. Frankly, it would have been better suited to a town or someplace on the Gulf Coast; to Cheyenne's mind, a log house was still the best choice for fending off the fury of a Dakota winter. But... it was here, and it would have at least one fireplace and a stove for Tom and Bronco to cook on, and it should be better shelter than the barn. And the sky was clearing, so even though it would be another cold night, at least they wouldn't have to worry about snow just yet.

One of the puppies was trying desperately to jump into Cheyenne's lap, so he picked it up and settled back in the chair with a sigh. Then he looked over at Tom and was surprised to see him kneeling in front of the door and... attempting to pick the lock. "What on earth...."

"Well, it was this or use a knife to open a window," said Tom flatly. "An' I'm not sure I could do that without damagin' the window frame."

"Where did you even learn to pick locks?"

Tom's shoulders hunched slightly. "Chris Colt made me, the first time he wanted me to be Canary. He said Alabama would blow my cover in two seconds if I couldn't even pick a lock."

"Oh," said Cheyenne and let the subject drop. Everybody had a double, but at least James Thornton Merritt had only been a drunken jellyfish. Poor Tom was stuck looking like Abram Thomas, the Canary Kid--who also happened to be his cousin.

"Didn't you try the doors when you got here, Bodie?" Bronco asked, joining them.

"I don't remember," Cheyenne admitted. "Seems like the place was dark, so I just went straight to the barn."

"Why, 'cause you didn't want to break in? Or did you think you didn't deserve the comfort?"

Cheyenne winced. He wouldn't have said such a thing out loud; he wasn't even completely sure why he'd been so resistant to moving out of the barn until now. But truth be told, such thoughts had crossed his mind a few times in the weeks he'd been on the run until Fred Benteen and Irene Travers had found him and begged him to return for Marc Reno's court of inquiry. If anyone had asked him why he'd stuck to camping in waste places without more than the smallest of fires to cook on, he'd have said that he hadn't wanted to get anyone into trouble for harboring a deserter (and he still resented Custer's posting him for desertion, although by the grace of God, Indian Agent Brady had told Gen. Sheridan enough about his plan to negotiate Sitting Bull's surrender that Gen. Sheridan had believed Cheyenne's testimony and dismissed the charge). But there had been a part of him--might still be--that had felt that after having failed to sway Dull Knife and thus having failed Brady, the Army, and the People so disastrously, he didn't deserve to have so much as a blanket over his head. Yet the gently chiding way Bronco had asked that question revealed the folly of that line of thought.

"I dunno what I was thinkin'," Cheyenne answered quietly. "I'm not sure I was thinkin'... not clearly, anyway."

Bronco looked like he was about to be less gentle in his chiding, but whatever he was about to say was forestalled by a small noise of triumph from Tom as he finally got the door to open. So Cheyenne gathered the puppy up from his lap and let Bronco help him inside while Tom called the rest of the dogs.

If anything, the inside of the house was even nicer than the outside. The floors were plain wood but polished to a shine, and the walls bore floral wallpaper and rows of recent Currier & Ives lithographs. The house was still furnished, too; they passed a well-stocked kitchen, a washroom and butler's pantry, and a dining room with a mahogany table, chairs, sideboard, and china cabinet on their way through the hall toward the stairs.

"You sure this place is abandoned?" Cheyenne wondered. "The furniture ain't even covered."

"As sure as we can be without askin' someone," said Bronco. "Judgin' from the state of the outhouse, the henhouse, and the summer kitchen, nobody's been here since May, maybe even longer. And if they left any livestock in the barn, it's all either escaped or been stolen months ago."

Cheyenne hummed thoughtfully.

"If the owner comes back while we're here, we can apologize," Tom added, shutting the door behind them. "But at least this place is weather-tight, an' we can have a fire."

The remainder of the first-floor rooms turned out to be a study, a sitting room, and a parlor. There weren't many personal touches like photographs or embroideries with a name, but there were definite signs of a lady's influence--velvet drapes in the parlor, crocheted doilies on the end tables, china ornaments on the mantle. And in the sitting room, which was where the three men agreed Cheyenne should wait while Tom and Bronco checked the upstairs, there were bookcases built into the wall on either side of the fireplace. The shelves were full of books, and the wood box was full of wood... but there were no other signs in this room that anyone had lived here.

"Think I'd like to take a look at the books," Cheyenne said and passed the puppy he was holding to Tom.

"Sure you can manage?" Tom asked. "I can go see if one of the chairs in the study has wheels on it."

Cheyenne shook his head. "I'll be all right, thanks."

Bronco looked skeptical but propped Cheyenne against the nearer set of shelves. "Holler if you need us," he said and left with Tom.

The books were leatherbound, Cheyenne discovered, mostly classics but with a few newer titles like The Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain and The Survivors of the Chancellor by Jules Verne. One shelf held the complete works of Shakespeare; another had the Summa Theologica and The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. But they all smelled of new leather and fresh ink; like the house, they'd probably been ordered as a set from a catalog. He'd begun wondering if anyone ever had lived here, but as he eased himself along the mantle to reach the other set of shelves, he looked into the fireplace and saw a fine dusting of ash in the bottom, scored with marks left by the bristles of a whisk broom. So maybe the owner had come west to build the place for his new bride and had now gone back to fetch her, or maybe the family had simply lost everything to a fire or flood and decided to start over here.

Still, the signs didn't bode well for the fate of the owners. Why spend so much money and then leave it all behind?

In the hope of dispelling his gloomy mood, Cheyenne settled on a volume of sermons by John Wesley. The binding crackled and creaked when he opened it, and some of the pages were still stuck together by the gilt edging; but his eye caught the phrase I design plain truth for plain people in the preface, which made him think the content would be of greater value to him than the fancy package. He'd liked most of the Methodist preachers he'd met, so he'd probably like the founder of their church, too.

He was just trying to figure out the best way to get across to a chair when Tom came back. "Found you the perfect bedroom," Tom announced. "Even has its own fireplace. Think you can make it on your own?"

"Eh, probably not," Cheyenne confessed.

Tom nodded and came over to support Cheyenne from his good side--and just in time, as Cheyenne's knees buckled as soon as he tried to straighten away from the bookcase. Tom caught him, however, and once he got his feet back under him, Tom helped him up the stairs.

"The master bedroom's down yonder," Tom said, nodding down the hall as they reached the top of the stairs. "An' there's another bedroom, probably a guest room, at the other end. But we reckon this'n was meant for either an invalid child or an aged parent--it's got a real nice brass bed, a wingback chair by the fire, an' a toilet chair with a chamber pot so's you won't have to go clear out to the outhouse all the time. Got its own door to the bathin' room, too, an' a west-facin' window, so you'll get sun in the afternoon."

Whether by their own effort or not, the puppies had all made it up to the second floor and were busily exploring the room Tom had described but stopped to greet Cheyenne and Tom with a chorus of joyful barks and bounces. Cheyenne set the book on the bedside table before Tom eased him into the chair beside the newly-lighted fire, and it was a good thing he did because no sooner had he sat down than two puppies struggled up into his lap and demanded pets. He couldn't help chuckling as he complied.

"Bronco's down in the kitchen," Tom said before Cheyenne could ask. "It's about time for us to change your bandage, so he's seein' what he can find in the way of healin' herbs."

Cheyenne nodded. "What had you been usin'?"

"I dunno the names of the stuff, but Bronco found some powders an' ointments in the tack room that he said would work as well on a human wound as they do on a horse. Found some yarrow out in the garden, too, an' that helped a lot--'course, he did a lot o' fussin' about how it'd work better to pack the wound with... can't remember if it was ball moss or Spanish moss, but it don't grow up here."

Cheyenne chuckled.

Just then, Bronco came in with a tray full of bottles and jars and a mixing bowl. "Better go ahead an' take your shirt off, Bodie," he said, going to a table at the other end of the room. "Let Brewster take a look while I get this salve mixed."

"All right," said Cheyenne and shooed the puppies out of his lap, much to their disappointment.

"So how did you get that scratch?" Bronco asked as he started his salve and Cheyenne unbuttoned his shirt. "Was it the fight with that scout?"

"Oh, Wasna?" Cheyenne wasn't sure what he might have said while he was out of his mind with fever; he hoped it had been intelligible. "No, that was all unarmed--he mighta tried to knife me if we'd been alone, but he couldn't pull anything that dishonorable in front o' Singin' Waters. This was... a week or two later, I guess. Stopped in a saloon to get somethin' to eat, an' this fella was talkin' big about the Little Bighorn, lyin' about Reno an' Benteen an' the men from the Grey Horse Troop who disappeared. Finally, I told 'im he didn't know what he was talkin' about. He called me a liar an' a coward. I knocked 'im down, an' he went for his gun. I fired first, but he got off a shot 'fore he died." He paused with a wince when trying to get the shirt past his shoulders pulled wrong on his side.

Tom took over removing the shirt. "So why didn't you get to a doctor there?"

Cheyenne sighed. "Couldn't. The sheriff saw the whole thing, and so did half the town. They all agreed it was self-defense. But the man's father owns the town, and we all know how that works out."

"Too well," Bronco agreed.

"So the sheriff said if I left town that instant, they'd tell the old man enough of the truth to make 'im think I'd died somewhere out of town, so he wouldn't swear out a warrant an' send a posse or a lynch mob after me. Didn't have much choice, so I left, patched myself up as best I could once I was out of sight. Meant to find a doctor in the next town... only I never found the next town." Cheyenne shook his head. "Musta been God's own hand that led you to me."

"I think it was," Tom said quietly and started to remove the bandage.

The conversation paused there while Tom and Bronco did their work. Cheyenne didn't know what all Bronco was putting into his salve, but he thought he smelled honey, rosewater, lavender, arnica, and goldenseal at minimum. Tom got the bandage off and declared that the wound was looking much better, then washed it out with whiskey, which burned worse than corn pollen. By the time Cheyenne could think past the pain, Bronco had finished mixing the salve and came over to slather it onto the wound, which brought near-instant relief.

"Want your shirt back on?" Tom asked as he wrapped a fresh bandage around Cheyenne's chest.

Cheyenne considered it but shook his head. "Not right now, thanks. Think I'd best lie down. Fire's warmin' things up pretty well, anyway."

"This is the most you've done since we found you," Bronco noted, setting the bowl aside out of puppy range and taking Cheyenne's boots off. "No surprise you'd be worn out already. We'll let you rest while we figure out somethin' for lunch."

"Chicken with rosemary an' sage?" Tom suggested, tying off the bandage in a neat flat knot.

"Might work better for supper."

"Or lunch tomorrow," Cheyenne agreed. "Reckon it'll be at least a week 'fore I'm fit to ride again."

Tom conceded with a tilt of his head. "Y'know, Cheyenne, unless the owners come back... nobody knows we're here. I mean, there's folks who'll need to know we're in the area, but not here. You can rest as long as you need to--we could even stay all winter if you want to."

Bronco nodded. "Might could even claim the homestead if the owners ain't back by spring."

Cheyenne shook his head. "I dunno, fellas. Must be some reason the homestead failed. 'Sides, I should be back on my feet 'fore the weather gets too bad to travel--no sense stayin' longer'n we have to when we ain't been invited."

Bronco looked skeptical, but all he said was, "We'll see."

Tom helped Cheyenne to his feet then and over to the bed, which had soft cotton sheets and an even softer mattress that he sank into, thinking it had to be stuffed with goose down. Once he was settled, Tom lifted several of the puppies onto the bed with him.

"Gonna have to find homes for them 'fore we leave," Cheyenne noted. "Can't exactly take puppies with us."

"We can figure that out when the time comes," Tom replied and patted Cheyenne's shoulder. "You just worry about gettin' well."

With that, Bronco gathered up his salve-making tray and left, Tom and the rest of the puppies at his heels. And Cheyenne, not being quite ready to sleep yet, picked up the book of sermons and started to read while some of the puppies played around his knees and the others plonked themselves down to sleep.

He'd just finished the second sermon when the last puppy standing climbed up on his pillow, turned around as all dogs do, flopped down along the top of his shoulder, gave a squeaky yawn, and snuggled its head under Cheyenne's chin, then heaved a contented sigh and fell asleep. Smiling, Cheyenne set the book aside and gave the puppy a few gentle scratches before letting the warmth of fire and sun and dogs pull him into slumber.

Maybe this place wasn't quite real. Maybe Cheyenne didn't deserve it; maybe it was the sort of miraculous grace no one could deserve. It certainly didn't seem like the home he'd been searching for all his adult life. But for now, with these friends, with these blessings... it was enough.