"How's that?" Mike asked tolerantly.
"This here's three-fourths tobacco juice. Now, there's no law that says you can't drink tobacco juice above the 50th parallel."
"How about the other one-quarter?" Mike asked.
"Hell," said Baldy, "that's flavoring." But in spite of his protests, Mike kept the bottle. He guided us into the lodge and sat us down in a corner. While the people filed in he told me about the ceremony.
"It began in the old days when Earth Man, who was the first man on the earth, heard the first thunder. After the thunder came the rain, and the rain ripened the first fruits. Since that time, whoever hears the first thunder calls for a feast."
Everyone had crowded into the lodge, and all eyes were turned
expectantly toward the entrance. An old man came in, he who had heard the first thunder. He walked to the center of the lodge and squatted beside a rectangular pit. Handfuls of sweet grass were passed in and placed in the pit. A fire was lighted there, and the old man purified his hands by holding them to the smoke. When this was done he began to unwrap the pipe. It was covered with many layers of furs, and there was a song for each layer, so it took quite a while to get it unwrapped. The stem was brilliantly plumed with many feathers. The old man pointed it toward the sun, toward the earth, and in the four directions of the world, asking health and happiness and long life. Now five hot stones were passed in and laid upon the smoldering sweet grass, one in each corner and one in the center.
"They represent the thunders," Mike whispered.
An ear of corn was set on each stone. Then the old man dipped a blade of grass into the water and sprinkled the corn and the stones. He sang four songs, and the people sang after him.
The giver of the feast invoked Gitche Manito and gave thanks that men ate corn. The sun was asked to work faithfully to ripen the yet-unripened stalks; they reminded him that he was put there for that purpose. The thunders were asked for rain, and the earth was asked to bring forth more corn, that the children of men might grow old.
The lodge door was opened. We walked out and received an ear of corn from the great kettles that were used only on this feast day. The people drifted into groups, eating and talking. A little boy ran around holding his stomach and crying, "Meesook, meesook." Everybody laughed. The word meant dinnertime. The women were busy turning spits of buffalo tongue and deer meat. I felt responsible for the food and was relieved to see that, no matter how many times they went back for more, there was more there. At last even the hungriest were filled up.
Stories were told, and little knots of listeners formed. The women exchanged the gossip of the villages, and some who had come farthest spread out their blankets and slept. The children both napped, so I decided we could stay for the dancing.
Dusk was setting in when the weird gambling chant arose again. Mike took part for a while and lost a knife. This time it was a game played with two bones, one painted red and one black. You try to guess in which of your opponent's hands the red one lies.
"Funny," Mike said. "The colors are the same as roulette," and after he'd lost the knife, "and I always had rotten luck at that too."
The pulsating beat of the drums led us away from the games and up to the circle of dancers. All day Oh-Be-Joyful had followed me around. She bent her head over Ralph and moved silently through the festivities. Nothing touched her. She did not see the glances of the young men. Her feet did not quicken to the throb of the drums.
The first dance called for the maidens and the young men of the tribes. The girls gathered at one end, and the young men faced them across a circle of space. A girl ran up to us and caught Oh-Be-Joyful's hand.
"Mamanowatum," she said.
Oh-Be-Joyful shook her head, but now a dozen young women were around her.
"Come, come," they said, "the eagle moon is filling out," and they pulled her unwillingly into the dance.
She looked back at me. "Mrs. Mike!"
But I would not help her.
The line of girls danced forward to the line of boys. On toe and heel they moved, and Oh-Be-Joyful moved with them. Then the line of girls swept back, and the young men surged forward, step, hop, step, in exaggerated rhythm.
A harmonica, playing "The Red River Jig," cut in upon the austere pattern of drumbeats. The 'breeds and whites had started a dance of their own. A little way back they cut pigeon wings and did the double shuffle, leaping and springing in the air. They drew a crowd of their own, that clapped hands and thighs in time to the harmonica. A fiddler joined them.
I turned back to the Indians. The commotion had no effect on
them. They pounded their feet into the ground in unbroken measures. Oh-Be-Joyful, dancing in her white furs, was transformed with joy and beauty. She did not laugh or smile, but she could not keep the excitement from her eyes. The young men and the young women rushed together and fell back. Jonathan was dancing with the men. Fiercely, exultingly, he leaped and crouched in the prescribed positions of the dance. A murmur ran through the watchers. I heard an old man tell another, "Like a thistle he leaped among them."
Suddenly the line broke. The women wove among the men. As Oh-Be-Joyful passed them, boy after boy called to her. But she moved as swiftly as the restricting patterns of the dance allowed. She stopped in front of Jonathan and, lifting the scarf from her head, threw it around his shoulders. The other girls did the same, each catching a young man with her shawl. Everyone laughed and whooped and shouted.
Most of the couples broke up, a few walked away together. But Jonathan and Oh-Be-Joyful stood where they were when the drums stopped. I didn't see him ask the question. I didn't see her answer it—but when Jonathan walked across the village, she went with him. At the edge of the wood he stopped and caught some branches from her path. They swung back into place, and she was gone. She had followed her maker of canoes. He would build her a tepee of willow; they would lie on balsam and on furs. She would follow his steps through the paths of the forest.
Oh be joyful, Mamanowatum.
Twenty-two
I SAT DOWN to darn socks and wondered where the time went. Here it was January 1911, and I hadn't heard from Oh-Be-Joyful for nearly a year and a half. I'd had less trouble over her disappearance than I expected. Mother Superior had sent plump Sister Teresa to see me. Over tea and bannocks she mourned that even if we found Oh-Be-Joyful, it would probably be too late, didn't I think so?
"Too late?" I asked.
"Well, you know what emotional creatures they are."
I nodded gravely and admitted that it probably was already too late.
That was two summers ago. I couldn't expect Oh-Be-Joyful to visit me, or even write. Who was there to carry her letters? But I kept hoping there was some way she could let me know she was all right, and that Jonathan—that Jonathan had made a life for her as Mike had for me.
At the desk Mike was making out his semiannual report. It was only nine in the morning, but he was working by candlelight. In winter our mornings were dark until eleven. I didn't like getting up in the dark. I'd just as soon have been as lazy as the sun. But the babies woke up at seven-thirty, and that was that. I finished the dishes and settled down to mend a pair of Mary Aroon's overalls.
"Damn!" Mike said. I was startled. Then I heard it too, the low, drawn-out howl of a wolf. I bent my head over my sewing because I didn't want Mike to see me laughing. But it was really funny—Mike and that wolf. The wolf had been hanging around for a couple of months. I'd seen him several times, a big fellow with a silver-gray coat and a limp. What he wanted at our place I don't know. We had no cattle at all, our half of Bessie being kept with Larry's half in Larry's stable. In fact, Larry did a good deal of complaining. After visiting us, the wolf would drop by his place for dinner. Apparently he had learned the sound Larry made when he called his turkeys. The wolf would hide behind the trough or a barrel halfway between the feeding ground and the turkeys. Then as they streamed by he'd pick off any loiterers.
> Mike had said, and this was two months ago, that he would come over and help Larry shoot the marauder. So he went, and sure enough, as soon as Larry gave his turkey call, old wolf hove in sight. However, this time he didn't come up to the trough, or even as far as the apple barrel. In fact, he didn't come into the clearing at all, but slipped back and forth, a gray shadow among the trees. Mike said he was gunwise and wouldn't come in while they were holding rifles.
To test this theory, the men put their guns in the kitchen, and while they were gone the gray wolf got another turkey.
Since then Mike had made up his mind to get him. He knew this was a wise old wolf, and he prepared his bait accordingly. He set aside a plump juicy rabbit and carefully stirred three-eighths of an ounce of strychnine through its flesh, blood, and entrails. Mike wore gloves while doing this to kill his scent, and as a last artistic effect he bought a vial of oil of anise from Sarah and sprinkled a trail of it leading up to the poisoned carcass. Turning in, that night, he said with satisfaction that he estimated the wolf would give up the ghost approximately two hundred yards from the bait.
The next morning he took care to be out early so the dogs wouldn't get sick eating the dead wolf. But the rabbit lay undisturbed where Mike had put it. There were wolf tracks, though, and Mike was partly consoled because they did come in along the oil of anise trail he had laid. Apparently the wolf had drawn in close to the bait, had circled it once, and then hoisted a leg over it. Mike pointed out the yellow stain in the ice.
"Look at that!" he said indignantly.
"Maybe he had to," I said.
"He didn't have to. He did it to show what he thought of that trap. It's a typical wolf way of expressing contempt."
"Mike," I argued, "wolves are just like dogs. I'm sure there's nothing personal in it."
"There is," Mike said, "and I'll be damned if I'll let a wolf sneer at me."
"Mike," I said, "it's ridiculous to get worked up over what a wolf thinks of you. Besides, animals don't know how to sneer."
"Oh, no? I once saw a couple of male wolves fight. As soon as one went down, the victor stood over him and deliberately lifted a leg."
"But how do you know he did it maliciously?"
"I could tell by the look on his face," Mike said stubbornly. And from then on he was doubly determined to get the big silver wolf.
He consulted with the Indians and dug pits. They were carefully constructed pits and represented a good deal of labor, as they were five feet across and twenty feet deep. But, although gray wolf investigated them and expressed his opinion of them in the usual manner, he never fell in. Mike returned the taunts of the wolf with craftier traps and more tempting poisons. But in the morning the gray wolf's contempt was clearly discernible in the snow.
In spite of Mike's efforts, the lame wolf had adopted us. One morning I saw him cavorting around our back yard with a thistle in his mouth, shaking it furiously, dropping it and capering after it again. He was such a handsome creature that I was secretly glad Mike hadn't succeeded in killing him.
We'd always know when he was around because the dogs went crazy. Especially Juno, who returned howl for howl in a way that made me wonder how far back you had to go in her ancestry to find a large silver wolf.
Mike went on with his report. It was going slowly because he was using his best penmanship and literary style. The wolf continued his sad wailing call, and Mike frowned deeper in an attempt to concentrate.
Ralph began to cry. Mary Aroon had taken his rag doll away from him.
"Mary Aroon," I said, "shame on you for taking the baby's doll. You give it back to Brother like a good girl."
She regarded me silently, and I saw her little fist tighten over the doll. She ran to Mike and threw herself against his knee. The impact was so sudden that the tail of the "Y" he was writing went shooting up into the clear space between the lines.
"Kathy," Mike said angrily, "can't you keep her away when I'm busy?"
I felt hurt. I couldn't be expected to run after her every minute, especially when I had a lap full of sewing.
"She's your child too," I said and hauled her back. "Now you keep away from there, Mary Aroon. Your father's busy." I went back to my sewing.
The baying of the wolf sounded closer. Juno lifted her head off the hearth and sang out a dismal answer. Mike said he could detect the difference between a wolf and a husky howl. But I couldn't, and it startled me to hear the answering cry come from behind my back. Poor Juno! I turned to watch her. She was going to have a litter any day now, and I suppose that's why a wolf in close to the house worried her. I bent down and petted her, but she still whined nervously.
A wail of despair came from Mary Aroon. I whirled around.
"Now you've done it!" Mike yelled.
And it was true, she had done it—the bottle of ink was rolling uncorked across his carefully made out report.
Mary Aroon raced past me screaming bloody murder and making for the bedroom. Mike made a half-hearted attempt to blot the paper, then jumped up and ran after her.
He never had spanked the children before, but I knew by his face he was going to now. I was so scared that I ran after Mary Aroon, Mike right behind me.
Mary had thrown herself face down on the bed, a strategic error. With some vague notion of protecting her, I threw myself, face down, on top of her. Mike didn't hesitate an instant. I don't know if he even knew who was on top, but I got the worst spanking of my life.
I cried, Mary Aroon cried, and Mike—well, there were tears on his face and he was making some half-smothered sound and shaking all over. I thought, and I've always thought he was laughing. But when I accused him of it he became very grave and begged my pardon. I remained sulky. He went further—he promised to devote the afternoon to me. What did I want to do?
I thought about it and decided I wanted to take the children out in the new sled he had made for them.
Mike dressed Mary Aroon because, being older, she stood still better and was easier to handle, and I dressed Ralph. We stripped them to the long wool underwear that went down to wrist and ankles. Over this came the outdoor underwear, which was red flannel and covered the other completely. Next came the little lumberman's shirt which I made by the dozen from Mike's. Then miniature mackinaw pants. Sometimes I longed for ruffles and bows, the dotted swiss and fine linens that my babies would never wear. We tugged on hip-length beaver coats, beaver caps, and beaver mitts that came to their elbows and had a string through them so they couldn't be lost. Then came the footwear. Three pairs of wool socks and over them the larrigans.
By this time the children were panting, and we set them down outside to wait till we got dressed. They looked as roly-poly as a couple of little fat bears.
While Mike was pulling on his red flannel union suit over his white wool one, I began to laugh. He looked like a red gander. I kept on laughing. I fell down on top of my furs and laughed till my stomach hurt. When I feel like laughing, all the funny things crowd into my brain together, and the funniest thing of all was my spanking.
"Did you know who was on top?" I asked him.
"No," said Mike, "and I didn't care." He pulled my cap over my ears. "Come on."
The snow was hard-packed and icy. It made wonderful sledding. Our sled was an old wagon Mike had found in the back room of the store. He'd taken off its wheels and put on runners. The only difficulty had been that, because of its tall wagon sides, only three of us could get in at a time, and even then the grownup had to sit crossed legs. But Mike had remodeled it by cutting a foot-high hole in the back side. Then the way we worked it was this: First Mike would get in, lying full length on his stomach, his legs sticking out the hole. Then, with the baby in my arms, I would flop on top of him, my legs also going out the hole, just on top of his. And Mary Aroon would climb in and squeeze down wherever she could, usually in my ribs. We were ready then for the flight downhill. It was really a long gentle grade, but with Mike whooping and the wind sting
ing our faces and whipping our clothes, it seemed wild enough. The children arrived at the bottom breathless and glowing.
"Give me this apple," Mike said, pinching Mary Aroon's red cheek.
"No!" she shouted.
"Well, what about this little cherry?" and he pulled her nose. That was her cue for the attack, and she pushed him into a snowbank. They wallowed and rolled until I decided they had enough snow in their mouths and down their necks for one day. I bundled the children into the sled, and Mike and I started for home at a brisk pace. Mary Aroon began fussing. I told Mike not to notice it. But he was afraid she was cold and went back to see if the robe was tucked around them.
"Holy St. Patrick!" he said and pointed. Ralph was sitting playing in the snow about ten feet behind us. He had evidently fallen out the hole. I rode the rest of the way in the wagon. I held the baby tight in my arms and tried hard to explain to Mary Aroon why this time she got praised for crying.
We hadn't started for home any too soon either. The Wind-maker was driving gusts of snow into our faces.
"Look at that," Mike said as we came into our yard. He kicked with the toe of his boot what I thought was dog dung and muttered, "Wolf!"
"It's probably one of the dogs," I said to soothe him.
Mike stood down and examined it. "There's hair in it," he said. "That's the way you tell the difference between wolf and dog. A wolf's has the hair of game animals in it." He straightened up.
"I don't like it. Why, he came in practically to our porch. I'm going to quit fooling around and really get that guy."
As if in answer, there came a lonesome bay. We strained our eyes in the direction of the sound. On a rock overlooking the frozen level of the lake stood a gray wolf. He was excited by the storm and calling a challenge to it.
"Is it our wolf?" I asked.
Mike snorted at my phrase. "It's the wolf I'm going to get, if that's what you mean."
"Maybe it's a dog," I said, peering through the confusion of snowflakes, "a renegade dog, one that's gone wild and now he's sorry and wants to have a home."
Mrs. Mike Page 25
