Heaven Sent (Small Town Swains)

by Pamela Morsi

  Henry Lee gathered up the jugs of whiskey for the three and together they walked upstream about a quarter of a mile and hid the jugs in the bushes. The Creeks continued to laugh at Henry Lee's painstaking attempts at subterfuge.

  They headed back to the house and Harjo turned serious as he spoke of the news from the Indian Territory. Now that it was flourishing, Tribal politicians were talking about entering the union as the forty-sixth state.

  "It's to be an Indian state," Harjo told him, "a land for us controlled by us."

  "It sounds too good," Henry Lee warned him. "Do you think it can really happen?"

  Harjo shrugged. "First they have to write a constitution, then the people in the territory have to vote. After all have agreed, only the President of the United States can stop it."

  "Would he be on our side?"

  "Who knows?" he questioned abstractly. "But change is already in the wind. The big men are trying to put on a very civilized appearance for the lawmakers in Washington."

  Henry Lee nodded. Corralling crime and corruption until after the declaration of statehood had been passed would be very important to the territorial leaders.

  "So many people still think of us as the "wild Indians," Harjo complained. "It's almost impossible to make the folks back East understand that in the territory, the natives are better educated and more financially independent than their white neighbors."

  Henry Lee nodded understanding. "And the outlaw problem hasn't helped us," he said. "Washington believes the Nations have a tolerant attitude toward crime, just because every thief and murderer from the surrounding states chooses to hide out here."

  "That's right," Harjo agreed. "Winning over the Congress would mean cracking down on crime. And that means the Federal marshals."

  Rolling his eyes, Henry Lee said in disgust, "The Federal marshals, out of Fort Smith, act like the people of this territory are either naughty children or dangerous madmen."

  Harjo was not totally in agreement. "You have to admit," he told Henry Lee, "that when Hanging Judge Parker ran the court, the tradition of swift and severe punishment for lawbreakers kept the criminal element either in hiding or on the run. The marshals have done a lot of good, ridding the territory of the worst of those mongrels. Chasing down and rooting out the gunslingers and outlaw gangs has brought us a long way toward catching up with the rest of the country and preparing the Nations for the new century."

  "Now, Harjo," Henry Lee said shaking his head. "You make it sound like the marshals are a bunch of starry-eyed heroes. Most I've met are just regular family men, who needed to make a living. And getting shot at by professional gunfighters and train robbers for lousy pay is not what most of them want to do. They'd rather earn their money arresting counterfeiters, con men, horse thieves, and poor hardworking whiskey peddlers, like myself."

  The last was spoken with a laugh and Harjo slapped his friend on the back. "That's another problem," Harjo declared. "The law concerning selling intoxicating beverages to persons of tribes is unjust and should be changed."

  "It's not going to happen," Henry Lee told him. "Those lawmakers in Washington are convinced that alcohol makes Indians prone to riot, assault, and murder. And the more they try to tell us we aren't allowed to drink, the more young boys are going to decide that drinking illegal whiskey is the way to prove their manhood."

  Harjo nodded in agreement. "The young men think that spending time in jail is a symbol of courage, just like bringing down their first deer."

  "It's a shame," Henry Lee admitted, then added sarcastically, "but, as far as my business is concerned, I couldn't have asked for a better law. As long as whiskey is illegal for the red man, I will be making a dang good living."

  The two men could only chuckle at the absurdity.

  "The marshals are raiding the whiskey once again," Harjo told him. "Last week they pulled in Pally Archambo." He said, shaking his head sadly, "Broke Pally's still to pieces. Now he waits and rots in Fort Smith jail. They say he may do ten years at hard labor."

  Henry Lee nodded solemnly. He had always been aware of the risks of his business. It kept the price of whiskey high and the competition manageable. He had never worried much about it before. He knew if he were caught he would do his time and start over when he got out. Now, he suddenly realized he had new responsibilities to concern him. What would happen to Hannah if he went to jail? And the child she carried, how would she manage to provide for the child alone?

  Harjo turned a stem look to Henry Lee. "Be very careful, Whiskey Man. I don't want that to happen to you."

  His concerned visage was suddenly replaced by a smile. "You make the best whiskey in the territory, you do us no good in jail!"

  The two laughed and Henry Lee forced his darker thoughts to the back of his mind. "Do you think statehood will be a good thing for us?"

  The Indian considered for a few minutes.

  "Maybe," he answered finally. "Washington is always chipping away at our rights. Every time that Congress seems to notice the T.T. they try again to break down the working, prosperous Indian nations."

  The two men stood still as Harjo allowed his gaze to wander across the horizon, as if memorizing the land in case it disappeared.

  "Dissolving the nations of the Five Civilized Tribes, dividing the land into pieces for each member, has turned brother against brother and fathers against sons. Those who see down the long road know that breaking it up into allotments that can be bought by white speculators is like a cancer eating away at the body of the nations."

  "That's true," Henry Lee admitted. "Think of when they paid the Cherokees for their western holdings, giving little bundles of cash to everyone right in the middle of town at high noon. Fast-talking white men swarmed like wasps after a rainstorm. A whole lot of Cherokees went home that night with no more than they had that morning."

  Harjo shook his head sadly. "I don't know what we will become. My children grow up in a world that has nothing of their grandfathers. They cannot learn the old ways, because they must live in the world of the whites. I understand this," he told Henry Lee, "but I cannot like it."

  Harjo shook his head, as if shaking off the gloomy thoughts, and cracked a smile at Henry Lee. "So, my friend, I drink to forget," he said mischievously. "And that is good news for my friend the whiskey man."

  By the time they reached the cabin, the two men had exhausted the subject of territorial politics. Harjo and his companions were anxious to get on their way, pick up their whiskey and begin what they hoped to be an exciting period of drunkenness. As they approached the split rail fence where their horses were tied, Hannah came out of the house and walked down to them. Her hair was more tidy and she'd put on a clean apron. Her smile was so warm and friendly that the men were slightly taken aback.

  "I've got your meal ready to serve," she announced. "But it’s so hot in the kitchen. I've spent the whole morning canning," she told them, gesturing to her appearance as if she needed to make some sort of apology. "If you would like, we could move the table out under the tree here and I could serve you outside."

  She looked at her husband for approval.

  Henry Lee was so surprised at the idea that she would serve a meal to his customers, that at first he only stared at her. Recovering himself, he assured her that an outdoor luncheon would be perfect and enlisted the help of Harjo's two companions in moving the table.

  The meal Hannah set before the men was a virtual banquet. The men, who had been anxious to get on with their planned amusement, had grumbled among themselves about having to eat a meal they didn't want, just to keep the whiskey man's wife from finding out his business. However, when they sat down to a feast of territorial delicacies, they quickly changed their minds.

  They ate eagerly and even accepted second helpings as Hannah endeavored to be charming and gracious to Henry Lee's friends.

  She wondered what they thought of her. How had Henry Lee explained his sudden marriage? She hoped that he had not told them about the trick she ha
d played. Immediately after having that thought she discarded it. Henry Lee was a man with honor. He would never embarrass his wife in such a way. She was certain that no matter what he had told them, it would not have been anything unkind.

  Henry Lee was inexplicably pleased with the meal she had prepared. She always fed him well, of course, but this was their first company dinner. He knew it was no small task to kill, clean, dress, and fry three chickens in such a short time. It was important, among farming people, for a man's wife to set a good table. It meant that the man was a good provider and enhanced his reputation. Henry Lee instinctively realized that somehow Hannah was paying him a very high compliment and he wanted to return the favor.

  "My wife is a pretty fine cook, wouldn't you say?" he prompted Harjo.

  The man smiled broadly and wiped his hands on his napkin. "Wish you could teach my wife to cook like this."

  Hannah blushed with pleasure at the compliment and Henry Lee beamed with pride in his new wife.

  "Mr. Harjo," she asked him politely, "do you and your wife have children?"

  "Yes, ma'am, we've four."

  "Girls or boys?"

  "Three boys and a girl."

  "Oh, I know she must be special to you," Hannah continued. In her nervousness, Hannah found it difficult to meet the gaze of Henry Lee's friends. Even as she talked to them, she kept her eyes either on her plate or on Henry Lee. She would look quickly in the direction of the guests, but her glance didn't linger there, afraid of what she might see. She was afraid that they might wonder at Henry Lee's choice of bride.

  In fact, her shyness was working in her favor. The Creek men and women normally did not look each other in the eye unless they were married. The straightforward gaze of white women was usually disconcerting. This white woman married to the whiskey man, however, seemed modest and unassuming and she certainly set a good table. While Hannah might have thought Henry Lee's friends were surprised at his choice of wife, Harjo was actually thinking that it was obviously a love match. The two seemed well suited to each other, and the way the eyes of each seemed to be drawn time and time again to the other, no other explanation was necessary.

  "My daughter is nearly grown now," Harjo told her. "She will soon marry and leave for her own home."

  "Are your sons still at home?" she asked.

  "They are all married, except the youngest," he answered. "That one is at Bacone School."

  Hannah had heard of the Bacone School, an college of higher learning in Muskogee.

  "So you are a Methodist?" Hannah asked.

  Harjo was somewhat taken aback. He hadn't really ever thought of himself as anything but Creek.

  "I guess that I am," he replied feeling a bit sheepish. "At least my wife and family are, I guess that makes me a Methodist, too."

  Hannah smiled tolerantly. "I think that Henry Lee thinks the same thing about being a Baptist. I guess your wife and I have something in common. We're both going to have to work harder to bring our husbands into the fold."

  The two men looked at each other, slightly embarrassed.

  "It looks to be a lifetime of work, ma'am," Harjo told her.

  Hannah laughed. It was a deep, throaty sound that Henry Lee found immediately disturbing. It set his pulse to racing and he was surprised to feel it spread a familiar warmth in the region of his lap. He quickly looked over at the other men. Had her sexy laugh had the same effect on them? They seemed not to have noticed.

  Harjo noticed the whiskey man was obviously very taken with her and a bit jealous to boot. He smiled to himself remembering the early days of his own marriage, when something as simple as his wife's laugh made him feel frisky. Right now, however, all he felt was the numbing pain of his bad leg going to sleep.

  He got up from the table and grabbed up a washtub that was leaning against the house. Bringing it back to the table, he resettled himself propping his bad leg on the tub to elevate it.

  Hannah watched his actions sympathetically, chiding herself for not thinking of his comfort earlier.

  "How did you injure your leg, Mr. Harjo?" she asked.

  The table was suddenly completely still. Even Harjo's companions, who ostensibly did not speak English, were frozen in place waiting to see their leader's reaction.

  Hannah immediately realized that she had made a mistake. Despairing at her clumsy attempt at being Henry Lee's hostess, she tried to apologize. “Forgive me for prying," she said. “It is truly none of my business."

  Harjo, who had in his youth decided that the best way to handle his disability was to knock the teeth out of anyone who mentioned it, decided to make an exception in this case. He found he liked the wife of the whiskey man and her question seemed more concern than curiosity.

  "It was not injured, ma'am," he told her. "I was bom with a leg shorter and crooked. The birthing woman told my father that I would never walk."

  "Well, you have certainly proven her to be wrong, haven't you." Hannah's smile was contagious and Harjo felt himself beginning to trust this woman.

  "When I was a boy," he said, surprising himself at his candidness, "the other children called me 'Gimpy- Harjo.' I got in the habit of shutting their mouths with my fist and now no one ever asks me about my limp."

  Hannah laughed again at his self-deprecating humor, and Harjo glanced at his friend the whiskey man. It was a pleasure to give Watson another jolt of his wife's laughter.

  For dessert, Hannah brought out a green tomato pie that she had thrown together while cooking the rest of the meal. She wished she had blackberries, or something else just as sweet. Her next project, after the canning, would be to scout out the area to see what kinds of fruits and herbs were growing nearby.

  The green tomato pie was still very hot from the over and came oozing out of the neat little triangles that she had cut. She was disappointed at this unattractive complication, but the men attacked the tart treat as if it were ambrosia.

  The three men, formerly so anxious to get their liquor and head out, sat contented now, leaning back in their chairs, hands across their bellies. Harjo thought he might simply stay the afternoon and help Henry Lee with his chores, maybe take a nap in the shade of the red oak.

  Then he remembered how short a time the couple had been married and the reaction that Henry Lee had suffered just hearing his wife giggle. Nodding his head wisely, he knew that Henry Lee undoubtedly would find a delightfully cool, shady spot by the creek and spend the afternoon loving on his pretty wife in thanks for the wonderful meal. Yes, he thought, that was probably what his friend had planned. So he and his companions would get their moonshine and go see what kind of fun they could stir up.

  Harjo thanked Hannah profusely for the meal and surprisingly agreed to return at a later date with his wife. He wondered what kind of tongue-lashing he would get from his woman for bringing her to a moonshiner's house. But, he thought to himself, if the whiskey man can keep his moonshining business from his own wife, Harjo ought to be able to keep it a secret from his.

  As they were recinching the horses Harjo warned Henry Lee again. "Remember what I said about the marshals. It will be very hard to keep your livelihood a secret from your wife when she is dragged into court beside you."

  “I’m careful," Henry Lee replied, a bit defensively. "I always know who I'm selling to and my still is well hidden."

  "Just don't trust everyone that you know," Harjo cautioned. "There is money to be made from helping the marshals, and people who would sell their grandmothers if the price is right."

  Henry Lee nodded in agreement. "I will watch it closely for a while."

  "If I hear anything about you, I will get word to you as best I can."

  "I appreciate that," Henry Lee said, shaking his and.

  As the three rode off, Harjo waved to the house, Henry Lee turned and saw Hannah standing by the back door. She had cleared the dishes off the table and was taking out the tablecloth as she watched the men ride way.

  Henry Lee felt a surge of pride. She was the kind
of woman any respectable man would want. And he decided that even being unrespectable, he wanted her, too. In fact, he wanted her right now.

  He started walking toward her. She's my wife, he told himself. I'll just walk up there, pull her into my arms and kiss her. Then I'll unbutton her dress and find those luscious white breasts and I'll suck and tickle them with my tongue till she begs me to get between her legs. Then I'll show her more pleasure than any man before who's ever touched her.

  As he reached the table, the crux of the problem was back again. Other men had touched her. She carried evidence of that touch in her belly right now. She looked so clean and sweet and so loving. But she had looked that way for other men, and other men had suckled her breasts and delved between her thighs. His hurt flashed as hot as his lust.

  "I'll move this table back in the kitchen," he told he gruffly.

  Hannah heard the anger in his voice. What had she done wrong? She had tried so hard to please him. She thought the meal she'd served was well received an appreciated. She had tried to make the small talk interesting. Even when she had inadvertently upset his guest by asking about his leg, she had managed to smooth it over What could she have possibly done to upset Henry Lee?

  "Thank you," she replied, wishing that she could lay down somewhere and just cry.

  Chapter Ten

  By Saturday, Hannah had simply decided that understanding Henry Lee Watson, and his strange flashes of temper, was something that would come in time. Just like love, she thought to herself, it will come in time.

  She was scrubbing carrots in a dishpan when this thought occurred to her. It stopped her in her tracks. She realized that it was not enough for her, anymore, to just make a good home and have a working marriage. She wanted her husband to have some real feeling for her. It was even worse than that, she realized. It wasn't an abstract thing like “her husband," she wanted Henry Lee Watson to have some real feeling for her. If only she'd known where she was heading before she'd conceived this ill-fated scheme. She had always believed herself to be totally practical and free of silly romantic notions. She hadn't really known herself at all.