by Gary Paulsen
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Mr. Tucket
Call Me Francis Tucket
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Tuckets Home
MR. TUCKET
To Angenette
FRANCIS ALPHONSE TUCKET came back to life slowly. He didn't open his eyes. He didn't want to open his eyes until he remembered everything that had happened.
Yesterday had been Francis's fourteenth birthday, and he had celebrated it quietly. Usually his mother and father—and even his nine-year-old sister Rebecca—made a big thing of birthdays. They had friends in, and a giant cake cooked to perfection on his mother's huge wood-burning stove, and by four in the afternoon everybody was so full of homemade ice cream and cake they couldn't move.
But that was how it had been on the farm in Missouri, where they had had the big house and barn. Yesterday they had celebrated Francis's birthday on the tailgate of a Conestoga wagon at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, It was June 13, 1847—a warm summer Tuesday in a new country and they were with a wagon train on its way to Oregon. Francis, on awakening that morning, thought that even without any sort of birthday party, it would be his best birthday yet. How many boys of fourteen had ever seen drawings of the Rockies, let alone the real thing? That was an adventure in itself, not to mention crossing the great Kansas plains and watching the train scout, Mr. Bal-lard, hunt buffalo for the wagon train.
But then there had been a party—or at least a sort of party. As the wagons had squared away for the day's journey westward, Francis's mother called him from helping his father hitch some oxen to The yoke and tongue of The wagon. He went to the rear, where she was, and there, sitting on the tailgate, was a cake. He had no idea how she had done it—her stove was way back in Missouri, too heavy for the wagon. And he had not seen her doing anything special on the buffalo-chip fire that morning—but there it was, a cake. And easily one of the nicest cakes he'd ever seen.
“Happy fourteenth birthday, Alphonse,” she said, with a smile. She had always called him Alphonse. His father always called him Francis.
For a long moment he didn't answer, just stood staring at the cake. Then he thanked her, knowing it would do no good to ask her how she'd done it. She would just answer, “Where there's a will, there's a way,” as she always explained things that seemed impossible to Francis.
“Would you like a piece now?” she asked. “Or would you rather wait until tonight? The train is going to stop early today. Mr. Ballard wants to check all the wagons before we get to the mountains.”
He wanted a piece so badly his mouth was watering, but he knew that wasn't what she expected, so he hid his eagerness. “We could have a sort of party,” he suggested. “I could ask Ike and Max over and maybe offer them some cake.” Ike and Max were the only other two boys in the train. There were five girls, but they kind of kept to themselves after Max threw a garter snake on one of them.
“That's a good idea,” his mother said, nodding. “I'll wrap it in muslin and save it for this evening.”
He could tell that he had pleased her. In all truth, he didn't really want to share the cake with Ike and Max. Oh, they were nice enough, but they weren't really friends. It just happened that they were the only other boys, and Francis was more or less forced to do things with them. Ike would have been all right except that he talked funny and did things in an odd way. He said “thee” and “thou” and his folks always made him wear black clothes and a black flat-brimmed hat. Francis's father had said they were Quakers from the East somewhere, and that they all talked like that, but Francis still found it hard to get used to somebody calling him “friend” all the time.
Max was an out-and-out bully, and Francis wouldn't talk to him at all under normal conditions. But in the wagon train he had to. Max kept finding him when the wagons stopped for the night, and it was either talk or fight. They had fought several times, before Francis had found it easier to talk.
And in fighting they were pretty evenly matched. Their worst fight had taken place the time Max had teased Ike—short for Ichabod. Ike wouldn't fight, no matter how many bad names Max called him. Finally Max had hit Ike on the shoulder. That had made Francis mad and he'd torn into Max and given him a bloody nose, which got him a licking from his father that night, but he didn't care. The licking hadn't been much—he knew his father was doing it because there was no other way to keep Max's mother from complaining all over the train—and his father hadn't used a switch the way he did when Francis did something really bad. He had used his hand, and had smacked only twice, lightly, hiding a grin.
So Francis wasn't all that eager to share his cake with Ike and Max, but it pleased his mother—and he hadn't expected a cake anyway.
The idea of getting a present wasn't even on his mind that Tuesday morning. The nearest store was over five hundred miles away and he knew, or thought he knew, every item in the wagon. He'd helped load it, and there hadn't been any presents, or anything that had looked like presents. But they'd fooled him again. When he got back to the front of the wagon, to help his father finish with the oxen, he was handed a long, thin bundle wrapped in butcher's paper.
“Happy birthday, Francis,” his father said, smiling. “We figured that it was about time you had one of these.”
Francis was really puzzled, until his fingers tore away some of the paper. He didn't need to unwrap it all to know what it was. Already the sun hit a brass fitting, some dark, hand-rubbed walnut, and the brown sheen of polished steel.
“A rifle.” His voice was soft. “A new rifle. But how … I mean, I helped load the wagon, and I didn't see it.”
“The Petersons carried it in their wagon for me,” his father said. “I brought it over to ours last night while you were sleeping. Do you like it?”
By this time Francis had torn off the rest of the paper and was finding it hard to keep from bouncing in excitement.
“It's a Lancaster,” his father explained. “I think probably the only one of its kind. I thought about buying you a Hawkens in St. Louis, but they only make heavy rifles that fire heavy balls. When I talked to Mr. Lancaster, he said that a smaller caliber was more accurate, and with just a bit more powder, gave as much power as a big ball. Oh, The bullet mold, percussion caps, and powder flask are still in Mr. Peterson's wagon.”
Francis could do nothing but stare at the rifle. Its stock, going only halfway up the barrel and bound to the metal with hand-forged brass bands, was of burled walnut. The lock, hammer, and trigger had been case-hardened in new oil, so they looked like etched marble instead of steel, and the barrel was the deepest, richest brown he had ever seen. The whole weapon had been made smaller than a full-sized rifle—just right for a fourteen-year-old boy. Even the sights, full elk-horn design for easy sighting, seemed to be in miniature.
“You mean …” Francis hesitated. There was really no way
he could express enough thanks. “Did you really have this made just for me?”
“Then you do like it,” his father said, smiling again. “I was worried about that. I thought maybe you wouldn't think too much of owning a rifle.” His eyes crinkled. ‘Tm sure there must be a couple of thousand things a boy would rather own than a rifle—”
“I don't know about other boys,” Francis interrupted. “But there isn't even one thing I'm want before a rifle. I've been wanting a rifle of my own ever since Mr. Ballard took me out and taught me how to shoot his buffalo gun.”
They laughed, both of them remembering how the first shot Francis had taken with the scout's big .60-caliber gun had knocked him back on his rear.
“Well, you don't have to worry about getting knocked over with this one,” his father assured Francis. “This is only a .40 caliber. Mr. Lancaster said it was fast, but wouldn't kick too much. The only way to find out is to shoot it, I guess. Why don't you go over to the Petersons’ wagon and get the mold, caps, and powder? There's also a bag of lead balls already molded. Then when we pull out, you can drop back of the last wagon and practice shooting buffalo chips.”
“Alone?” Francis asked.
“I don't see why not. You know how to handle a weapon—I watched you the other day with Mr. Bal-lard. Just make sure you don't shoot toward the train. It wouldn't do to break somebody's prize punch bowl.”
Francis grinned. The only one in the wagon train foolish enough to carry a punch bowl had been Max's mother—and she bragged about it every chance she got. No, it wouldn't do to break it— especially if he did it.
“I'll be careful,” Francis said, and started for the Petersons’ wagon.
“And make sure you don't stray out of sight,” his father called. “Mr. Ballard says there've been some Pawnee in this area. They might like to get their hands on that little rifle of yours.”
This time they both smiled. The idea of Indians being around was pretty fanny. All across the Kansas plains there had been talk of Indian trouble, and everybody worried about the Comanches. And they hadn't, not once in the whole trip, even seen a feather—let alone an Indian. Francis was almost disappointed. He had looked forward to seeing Indians nearly as much as seeing the mountains.
Francis dropped back from The rear of the train, and failed to notice that he was falling too far back. His forgetfulness was caused by the little rifle. Shooting it was a dream. He couldn't seem to miss, and it didn't kick at all. He got so engrossed in firing it that he didn't see the last wagon pull far ahead.
He lay still now, and tried to remember exactly what happened. He had fired about ten times, he knew, liking the little rifle more each time. On the eleventh or so shot, as he was loading, a large brown hand had clamped itself over his mouth.
His rifle had been grabbed first. There had been seven Indians—six young men and an older warrior. Probably a hunting party, because they hadn't been wearing paint. Then Francis made his first mistake; instead of just relaxing and biding his time until he could get a chance to escape, he fought them. Kicking and swinging and biting, more out of fear than courage, he had given the seven Pawnees a rough few minutes. Finally they'd hit him, just a little tap in back of his ear with his own rifle butt, and he had fallen like a stone.
They had ridden all that day, with Francis draped head-down across the old man's lap, bouncing like a sack of meal. He had passed into and out of consciousness on the trip, and had no idea where they finally dropped him—except that it was a dark and smelly place.
Now it was time to open his eyes. He opened them—then shut them as fast as he could.
Sitting above him, giving him a toothless grin, was the ugliest old person he'd ever seen—he couldn't tell at first if it was a man or a woman. Just a wrinkled face and toothless mouth that smiled when Francis's eyes came open.
FRANCIS'S CAMP LIFE with the Pawnees began that very morning. The old woman—as it turned out—was the wife of the old man who had been with the hunting party. She tied a rope around his neck and dragged him around the camp like a new puppy. At each lodge she would stop and call the whole family out. Then she would point at Francis and gabble something he couldn't understand. He guessed that she was bragging about her new “son.” But he didn't much like what followed. The women would pinch his arms and push his lips back to look at his teeth, while the children—if there were any at the lodge—came out and kicked him.
Francis didn't stand for it at first. When another boy his age kicked him, he kicked right back, and landed a fairly good blow. This made all the adults laugh, but his “mother” shook her head and pulled his neck rope so tight it nearly strangled him. He figured finally that it was easier to play along and let them kick him. For the present it was enough just to stay alive and learn as much as possible about the Pawnees. He might need the information later to escape. And he would escape; he was sure of it. Either alone, or with somebody from the train—probably Mr. Ballard—who would come to rescue him.
In the meantime, he might as well make it as easy as possible on himself. To this end, he smiled at his new “mother.”
That was his second mistake. Immediately she returned the smile and took the rope off his neck. That much he liked. But before he could get accustomed to the freedom of movement, three young Indian boys jumped him, and he had to fight like a demon just to stay on his feet. It would have been pretty fair if just one of the young Indians had tackled him. But with three of them climbing all over him Francis had no choice but to fight back any way he could—which meant hitting, biting, and kicking.
What surprised and angered him most was that none of the elders—not even his “mother”—made any move to stop the fight. Instead they just gathered around and cheered. None of them, it seemed, was on Francis's side, and this didn't help him keep his temper. Neither did the fact that he knew he couldn't win against the three boys. After the first five minutes, he decided that if he was going to lose anyway, he might as well do as much damage as possible on the way down. He picked the largest of the Indian hoys and went after him. The other two might as well not have been there. One jumped on his back and another grabbed at his legs, but it was all too late to save the boy Francis had concentrated on—he was underneath Francis when the other two forced him down. And for every blow the two boys should have landed, Francis gave the Indian boy under him one on the nose. Even if they killed him for it, he was going to make that boy sorry he'd ever picked a fight.
“Hoka-ha!”
Francis didn't hear the yell, but the two boys on top of him jumped away. Francis just kept hammering away at the boy beneath him, who had now curled into a ball and covered his head with his arms.
“Hoka-ha,” came the gruff voice a second time. “It is enough! You fight with fists—the way a girl fights.”
Francis felt himself lifted roughly by the back of his belt and dropped in the dirt. Immediately he swung around and attacked the man who had lifted him. He was struck such a blow that it knocked him head over heels.
“It is enough! I will not say it again.”
Francis wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He had expected to see a tall, or at least a strong-looking man. Instead he found himself looking at a short, wiry Indian with his hair in one braid. At the bottom of the braid there was one feather, hanging straight down. The man wore plain buckskins, un-beaded moccasins, and carried a rifle in his left hand. It was Francis's rifle.
“Enough my foot,” he said, glaring up at the Indian. “They started it, not me. You want to start knocking somebody around, why not give them a lick or two? And if you're so tough, why do you have to steal rifles from boys?”
In a sudden hush of the people gathered around the fighting area, Francis watched in horror as the Indian raised the muzzle of the rifle until it pointed dead between his eyes.
“Bravery in youth is a good thing,” the Indian said. He wasn't smiling. “It is not good to be stupid, little white-eyed wolf. It is stupid to insult the man who holds your gun.
It is stupid to insult your elders. If you do it again, I will kill you.”
The Indian let the rifle down easily and spun away. Francis watched him go, kneeling there in the dirt. He had never seen such a pure, cold look in a man's eyes, and he knew that he would have to be very careful whenever the one-braided warrior was around.
THREE WEEKS AFTER he came to the Pawnee camp, Francis learned that the brave who had threatened to kill him, and had purchased the rifle for two good horses from the old man who had led the party, was named Braid. Braid was a war leader. He was not a chief, but any time there was a need for a raid, Braid was the man who led the war party. In camp he was just another warrior, except that he was so mean that many people feared him. He had the scalps of many “victories” braided around the doorway to his lodge. He did not dress in finery, the way many warriors did, because he didn't need to impress anybody. His scalps did that for him.
Francis hated Braid more than anything on earth. He watched him lead out a big party of more than forty warriors. They were gone all that day and through the night until the next morning.
When they returned it was obvious that they had been on a big raid. Four of the braves were dead, draped across their horses. More were wounded. But even while the women of the dead men sent up their wailing and covered their faces with ashes, the rest of the tribe prepared for dancing and celebration.
One of the braves, Francis saw, had a scalp with blond hair. The party must have made a raid against a group of white people, and the only white people in the area were in his wagon train. It sickened him to realize that Braid had probably used his rifle to shoot at them.
Braid sought out Francis immediately upon the return of the raiding party.
“They will not be coming for you,” the wiry Indian said smirking. “Not now, not ever. I have given them reason to fear the Pawnees. They will not risk fighting us for one stupid little white-eyes.”
