Zach was as angry at himself for not resisting as he was at the white youth for binding him. The first chance he got, he was going to give the upstart a walloping he would never forget.
Lou walked to the elk. An hour earlier she had beaned a small rabbit with a rock, rather than shoot it and risk having the shot heard. It was only her second meal since the tragedy. But elk meat was tastier. She helped herself, slicing off a chunk large enough to feed five.
Zach grew madder by the second. Stealing someone else’s food was about as low as a person could sink. It was not quite as rotten as stealing a horse, but he wouldn’t put it past the youth to do that before they were done.
Cradling the bloody meat under her left arm, Lou pointed her flintlock. “All right. I’m taking you back with me. No funny business, you red heathen.”
It was too stupid for words, Zach reflected. The fool kept on talking to him even though he supposedly did not understand a lick of English. In Shoshone, he responded, “You are the dumbest white boy I have ever met. Your mother was an ox, your father a lizard. When I get loose, I am going to beat you within an inch of your life.”
Louisa smiled. “Well, that’s a start. At least you’re trying to communicate.”
Zach sighed.
“You’ll have to bear with me,” Lou told him. “It’s nothing personal. But your kind are as treacherous as rattlers.”
Your kind. The supreme insult. Zach bristled and replied coldly in Shoshone, “Were you dropped on your head as a child? You think you are better than me. But you are dung. Less than that. You are the maggots that eat dung.”
Lou gnawed on her lip, a habit in moments of stress. She dearly desired to understand. So as not to discourage him, she widened her smile and said, “Believe you me, you’re in no danger so long as you cooperate. Truth is, for a red devil you’re sort of cute.”
Zach was dumbfounded. Cute? The white boy had called him cute?
Louisa snickered at her boldness. If her pa had ever heard her talk like that, he’d scold her for being a shameless hussy. But what harm was there, especially when the Indian had no idea what she was saying? “I like that chin of yours. Square. Rugged. My grandma raised me to believe you can tell a person’s character by the shape of their chin. What do you think?”
“I think your grandmother is an idiot and so are you,” Zach said, still in Shoshone. Chins did not denote character. Any simpleton knew that. It was the shape of the ears that counted.
Clutching the sorrel’s reins, then the lead rope, Lou bobbed her head at the top of the ridge. “Up and over we go. I’ll be right behind you, so don’t get any ideas.”
Zach balked. He had gone to considerable effort to track the elk down, and was loathe to leave it unguarded. The scent of a fresh kill would attract every predator for miles around. By morning half the bull would be gone.
“What are you waiting for?” Lou asked. She feared he would raise a fuss and she would have to kill him. While she had shot practically every kind of game there was, she’d never slain a human being. So what if it was an Indian? Indians were flesh and blood, just as she was.
Zach came within a whisker of tucking at the waist and barreling into his captor. The flintlock deterred him; it might go off. Boiling like an untended pot, he stalked toward the crest. All that meat going to waste! What a shame!
Lou was tickled that the redskin had given in. Renewed confidence invigorated her as she trailed him. Exactly why she was so happy eluded her. Maybe it was having three extra horses now. Maybe it was capturing the Indian all by her lonesome. Or maybe – just maybe – she was happy because she had someone to talk to, even if it was a potential enemy.
A trapper’s life was a lonely one. During all those weeks she and her pa were in that valley, they had not come across another living soul until the savages showed up. The work itself was downright grueling, backbreaking labor that winnowed out the weak from the strong, the determined from the dreamers. She had accompanied her pa many a morning, and always wound up utterly exhausted. How her father had abided the strenuous toil day in and day out was a mystery.
Or was it? Louisa remembered an evening when they had been relaxing after a day spent battling icy currents to set new traps. “I’m so sore I can barely move,” she had complained.
“A little work never hurt anybody,” her pa had said. “You call what we did today a little! I hate to see what you’d call a lot.”
“Always remember, daughter. No one can ford a river without getting wet.”
Lou had grinned. Her pa was forever coming up with homey sayings, half of which made no sense. “Why ford it at all if there’s a bridge handy?”
Zebulon had arched an eyebrow. “I swear. Sometimes you worry me, girl. You’re always so set on taking the easy way out. In my day a body took sweat and aggravation in stride. It’s the price we pay for going after our dreams.”
“In your day? You make it sound as if you’re a hundred years old, Pa.”
“Truth to tell, I feel that old.”
Something in his tone had made Lou look up. “You do?”
“Ever since your ma died I’ve felt downright ancient.” Her father had peered into his battered tin coffee cup. “When you’ve lived forty winters like I have, maybe then you’ll understand. I shouldn’t say this, but there are days, child, when I’m tired of living. When I want to put a pistol in my mouth and end it.”
“Pa!”
Zeb had shrugged. “Don’t fret. I’m not about give up the ghost voluntarily.” He’d winked. “Not while you’re alive, anyhow.”
Lou had been appalled. Her father had been despondent ever since her mother died, and who could blame him? But this? She had not known what to say or do to change his outlook, so she had joked, “In that case, you’re never passing on. I aim to stick around a good long while. You’ll be hobbling around on a cane before I die.”
“You’d do that to me, wouldn’t you?” Zeb had laughed, but the laughter had not touched his eyes. “It’s my own fault, I reckon. It’s what I get for giving birth to a woman as bullheaded as I am.”
Taken aback, Louisa had felt herself flush. “That’s the first time you’ve ever called me a woman, Pa. I’m not, though. I’m still a little girl.”
“Sixteen is hardly little. You’re as tall as your ma was. All you need to do is fill out some and you’ll be her spitting image.” He’d then developed an unusual interest in some pebbles near his foot.
“I’ll never be as pretty as she was.”
“You’ll be prettier.” Zeb had flicked one of the pebbles. “No, I can’t lie to you, Lou. You’ll always be rather plain. It’s not your fault, though. We can’t help how we’re born. And being plain won’t keep you from catching a fine man. Your ma snared me, didn’t she?”
It was one of the tenderest moments they’d ever shared. Louisa had blushed a darker shade and responded, “I’m not interested in boys yet, Pa. You know that.”
“You will be, soon enough. And when you start trolling for nibbles, don’t settle for the first fish that takes the hook. Look around. Find yourself someone who will treat you decent. A man who loves you, heart and soul.”
Lou had not been able to shed her embarrassment. Discussing intimate matters was rarely done, even when her mother was alive. “I’ll do my best. But those days are still a ways off.”
“Your ma wasn’t much older than you when we met,” her father had pointed out. Then, as if divining her discomfort, he’d chuckled and added, “Being plain has it benefits. You’d never have been able to pass yourself off as a boy if you were a raving beauty.”
The ruse had been Louisa’s brainstorm.
They had been in St. Louis, several days shy of departing, when they’d encountered a grizzled mountaineer fresh in from the Rockies. During a pleasant supper, the oldster had mentioned how scarce women were west of the Mississippi. White women, that is. And how white men flocked to them like bears to honey.
“You’d best be mighty careful
, gal,” the trapper had cautioned. “Being young won’t keep the hounds from baying at your heels. When a man’s in the mood, he’ll move heaven and earth to soothe his craving.”
It had been food for thought. The next day Lou had proposed posing as a boy to her father.
“It’ll never work,” he’d said.
“Why not? I’m plain enough to pass for one. You said so yourself. All it would take is some baggy clothes, and no one could tell the difference.”
“Your voice would give you away.”
“Why? It’s deeper than most of the girls my age. So long as I don’t let anyone hug me, I’ll be safe.”
Zeb had given in, with reservations. “Yep. Just like your ma. Once you set your mind to something, there’s no changing it. We’ll give your idea a try. If it works, fine and dandy. If it don’t, I’ll shoot the first son of a jackass who lays a finger on you.”
Fortunately for the beaver brigade, the ploy had worked. No one had suspected the truth. Lou had been extremely careful not to let anyone get too close.
The only mistake she’d made had come during the Rendezvous. On the fourth day she had gone off to locate somewhere safe to wash up. A mile south of the encampment had been a secluded pool partly ringed by briars. She had stripped off her buckskins and had been wading in when she’d caught sight of someone else already in the water. Someone who’d had the same notion.
An Indian woman had been hunkered in the river up to her neck. A beautiful woman, with luxurious raven tresses and a full bosom. She had shocked Louisa by saying in flawless English, “Do not be alarmed. I am the wife of a trapper. You are most welcome to join me. The pool is big enough for the two of us.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” Lou had blurted out. “I didn’t think I’d find anyone else so far down the Green.”
“I like to bathe every day. This is one of the few safe spots. The men are too lazy to come all this way to relieve themselves.”
Lou had cackled, then covered her mouth lest she be heard by a stray rider. “Sorry. But you sure have menfolk pegged.”
The woman’s lovely eyes had twinkled. “Red or white, it does not matter. They like to puff out their chests and strut like quail. They like to boast of their deeds in war. They will wrestle one another for hours, or run miles to win a footrace. But they will not take more than ten steps from their lodge to empty their bladders.”
“Your husband is the same?”
“No. He does not like to sleep on the floor.”
It had taken a bit to sink in, and when it had, Louisa had laughed for pure joy at the woman’s frankness.
“I do not like to give advice unless it is asked for,” the woman had said. “But for your sake, little one, I will share the secret of a long and happy marriage.”
“What is it?” Lou had breathlessly inquired. “Training.”
“Ma’am?”
“Have you ever had a pet dog?”
“We’ve owned three. Two were big hounds killed by a nasty old bear. The third was a mongrel that followed us home from church one Sunday. Pa wanted to chase it off with a broom, but Ma had taken a shine to it. So I got to keep him. Rufus, we called him.”
“Did you train Rufus to fetch? To sit?”
“Oh, I taught him to do all sorts of tricks. He would roll over and beg and hop on his hind legs.”
“You must do the same with your husband. Train him early on to do the things he should. No matter how much he objects. It will spare you much heartache later on, when you have been together so long that you grate on each other’s nerves.”
“Don’t you get along with your man?”
“Oh, yes, very much so.” The Indian woman had moved toward the grassy bank. “But when I was a girl I would dream about taking a husband. I imagined he would be tall and handsome. That he would work day and night to please me. That he would do all the things he should without my having to nag. I imagined he would be perfect.” She had glanced back and winked. “There is no such thing as a perfect man.”
Out of shyness, Lou had averted her gaze when her new acquaintance rose up out of the water. “Thanks for chatting, ma’am. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Call me Winona. I do not recall seeing you at the Rendezvous before. What is your name?”
Not until that moment had Louisa realized the woman was privy to her secret. Admitting who she was might land her in a heap of grief, if word got out. As much as she’d liked Winona, as much as she’d felt Winona could be trusted, she’d fibbed. Racking her brain, she’d blurted out the first name that popped into her head. “Abigail. I’m Abigail Adams. We got here a short while ago.”
Winona had been about to don a fine buckskin dress. “Adams? One of the Great Fathers of your country had that name, did he not?” She’d begun to slip it on. “I’m sorry. You call them presidents. The one I am thinking of was called John, and he had a wife named Abigail.”
Louisa had been stunned. “How in the world did you know that?”
“My husband has many books. Each evening he reads to us. I have learned much about your people and your government.”
“My ma named me after Abigail Adams,” Louisa had explained, compounding her lie. Otherwise, Winona might have become suspicious.
“What does your name mean?”
Lou had had no idea. “I forget. How about yours?”
“One who gives.”
“Gives what?”
Winona had smiled warmly. “One who gives of herself.” She’d walked up the bank to the break in the briars. “I am honored to have met you, Abigail Adams. Remember, men often leave their shirts tucked out.” On that enigmatic note, she had waved and left.
To this day, Louisa was unsure whether the woman had guessed the whole truth. Now, as she dogged the Indian youth’s footsteps into the stand of trees, she regretted not learning which tribe Winona belonged to. Instinct had told her the woman would help her, and that she would feel more comfortable going to someone she knew rather than someone she had seen just once, and never talked to.
“Roost on that log yonder,” Lou now commanded her captive, jabbing her pistol at it so he would catch on.
Zach simmered like a stew. He was tired of being tied up, tired of being bossed around. The moment the white boy lowered his guard, he would turn the tables. He sat on the end of the log, his body balanced on the balls of his feet.
Louisa deposited the meat near the fire, then slipped what was left of the rope from the sorrel’s saddle horn. “I’m sorry. I’m not fond of having a blade stuck into me in the middle of the night. I’ve got to tie your legs, too.”
Opening his mouth, Zach came close to telling her to go to Hell. Instead, he bowed his chin and drooped his shoulders as if all his spunk had fled.
Lou halted. Against her will she was beginning to feel sorry for him. He’d done her no harm, even when he could have. “Listen, Indian. Since we’re going to be together a spell, the least we can do is make the best of it. I’m Lou.” Tapping her chest, she repeated it a number of times.
Zach could not have cared less. He was poised to lash out, to bowl the fool over and kick him senseless.
“What’s your handle?” Louisa wanted to know. “Do you savvy?” She touched herself, then poked a thumb his way.
To humor the greenhorn, Zach gave his Shoshone name. “Stalking Coyote.”
“Why are you heathens always named after animals and plants and such?” Lou asked. She unwound the rope, took another step, then stiffened as a lightning bolt ripped through her from head to toe. “English! That was English!”
Zach was as flabbergasted as she was. He’d made a boneheaded mistake and lost his advantage.
“You’ve been playing me for an idiot all along! You do speak our tongue!” Lou raised the pistol. “Why? What are you up to? Letting me babble while you kept quiet. I’d forgotten how sneaky you red vermin are.”
Now that his ruse had been discovered, Zach saw no need to go on acting. “You’ve got yo
ur nerve, you bastard. I was minding my own business. You had no call to go waving a gun in my face.”
Memories of her father’s last moments tore at Louisa’s heartstrings, threatening to tear them asunder. “How dare you!” And how could she have felt sorry for him? An Indian was responsible for Zeb’s death! An Indian as devious and spiteful as Stalking Coyote! Not one of them was worth a handful of beans. Well, maybe one. Winona.
“Go ahead! Shoot!” Zach taunted. “It’s just like a white cur to kill someone who is unarmed and hogtied.”
“Enough!” Lou’s arm was shaking. There was only so much a person could take!
Zach started to stand, heedless of the flintlock.
Louisa steadied her hand and took a deep breath. She had warned him and he hadn’t listened. Now he had to die!
Four
At that exact moment, thirty miles to the north, in a picturesque cabin situated in a lush valley bordered by magnificent jagged peaks, a young girl paused in the doorway to declare, “I’m going down to the lake to see if the flowers have bloomed yet, Ma.”
Winona King was mending a hunting shirt. Seated at a sturdy oak table built by her mate, she set the shirt down and glanced out the window. It would be dark in a couple of hours. “All right. But do not dawdle.”
“I won’t,” Evelyn King promised. Picking flowers was a daily pastime of hers when they were in season. She loved flowers, loved how pretty they were, loved their scent, loved to decorate the cabin with them. Now that winter was about over, she was eager to begin collecting again.
“And keep your eyes peeled,” Winona said. “Remember those wolf tracks we’ve been seeing.”
Evelyn patted the leather bag slung over her left shoulder. “Don’t fret, Ma. I have my pistol.” It was a small flintlock, half the size of her father’s, a gift from him on her last birthday.
“Still, you be careful. And leave the door open.” From where she sat, Winona could see the lake off through the pines. Should she need to, she could reach it quickly.
“No silly wolf will bother me,” Evelyn said, and merrily skipped across an open space to a well-worn trail. She hummed as she went, her arms swinging. After being cooped up in the cabin most of the day, she was happy to be out and about.
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