“I guess you are in luck then. Do you have another shovel?”
“’Course I do. But I gotta know something first. Actually, I gotta know two somethings first. How did you learn to speak English so good, and why the hell do you want to help a white man build his home in Cheyenne territory? I paid the United States government three-hundred and twenty dollars for this parcel. That’s a dollar an acre. Took me eighteen years to save all that money. But I know you injuns don’t recognize our government, our laws, or our money. You trade in furs and such instead. I reckon this little scrap of paper don’t matter a hill of beans to the likes of you.” He tapped an interior pocket of his coat.
The injun shrugged. “It matters to you, so what difference does it make whether it matters to me?”
Jacob opened his mouth only to find he had no response.
“As to your first question, I learned English from a white preacher who took up with my tribe when I was a ka’eskone about this tall.” He made a flat-handed gesture at knee level. “He spoke proper English, not the slang one hears from most whites around these parts. He taught me how to read and write, too.”
“Well, knock me over with a feather. Not only do I find myself in the company of an injun who doesn’t seem to want to slice off the top of my head, but he also speaks proper English, and reads and writes to boot. Says he wants to help with my soddy, too. What’s next? Pigs flying out of my butt?”
“I would trade my fine animal to see that.”
Jacob laughed, then thrust his hand toward the man – after first wiping the dirt off on his dungarees. “I’m Jacob Payne. Pleasure to meet such an upstanding injun.”
“I am Shoemowetochawcawe. That is Cheyenne for high-backed wolf.” The feller returned his handshake. Dark-skinned fingers were calloused and warm in his own. A working man’s hand. Or maybe a fighting man’s hand. It was difficult to tell the difference.
“I’ll never be able to say that. Why do you people have such stinkin’ long names? I’ll call you Shoe. How’s that?”
“Hmmm. Very well. I will call you Jacob Payne.”
“You don’t have to say my last name once introductions have been made.”
“It shows respect to address a man by his full name.”
Was there a hint of annoyance in the tone? Too bad. He had no intention of trying to pronounce that lengthy name.
“And also, Jacob Payne, you should know my people find that word offensive.”
“What? Stinkin’?”
“No, ‘injun.’ It is insulting.”
“But that’s what you are.”
“No, it is an ignorant white man’s term for my people. How would you like it if I called you Ignorant White Man in casual conversation?”
“I reckon I wouldn’t like that at all.”
“Exactly.”
“Dang. You’re a tough nut. Why do you want to help me, Shoe? And why are you out here alone? Why aren’t you off with your tribe raiding the Sioux or the Arapaho?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Jacob Payne. Let us get to work. The answers can wait.” Shoe walked around the half-built sod house to the back where the implements were stacked.
Hours later, the soddy – two-thirds finished now – was a dark, house-shaped silhouette against the starlit sky. Smoke from the campfire wafted into Jacob’s nostrils, then continued heavenward. He had gotten used to the smell of burning buffalo chips instead of wood and had even begun to associate it with a sense of home – a sense of belonging. If all went according to plan, this speck of prairie dirt would be where he ended his days on Earth.
His gaze kept drifting to the silhouette. With the help of the injun...Shoe, rather...he had made five days’ progress in five hours’ time. A second worker made the process much more efficient and faster. If he could get the inj...Shoe...to stay around a couple more days, he would be snug and dry when the first snowflakes fell.
“What is in this stew?” Shoe asked through the smoke. Dung fires didn’t blaze and crackle like a wood fire, but they lasted a lot longer.
“Beef, potatoes, a few beans. Bacon fat gives it the flavor. I’m almost out of the spuds, so enjoy ‘em while they last. Not bad, huh?”
“It is adequate.”
“Adequate? You’re eating it like it’s the last meal you’ll ever have.”
Shoe chuckled but didn’t respond.
“My momma taught me how to cook when I wouldn’t stop asking questions about how she made her biscuits so fluffy, or why brown gravy went with beef steak and white gravy went with chicken, or why she added a pinch of salt to her apple pie crust before she rolled it out on the sideboard. She figured it was easier just to show me than to explain it all. Cooking ain’t manly work, but I enjoy it. Besides, there ain’t any womenfolk around to do it for me.”
“That is a fine pot. The womenfolk in my tribe would probably scalp you for it.” The braided head nodded in the direction of the caldron, suspended from a cast-iron tripod over the flames.
The set-up had cost a lot of money in Yankton, but it would be worth its weight in gold come winter, when it would be moved inside the house. He planned to keep a pottage simmering all the time. The ingredients would change – barley or corn meal, maybe some beans, and always some type of meat, bison or salt pork. But as long as he kept a fire under the cauldron, the pottage wouldn’t spoil and he’d have a hot meal. He would eat the hardtack and jerky only as a last resort if he ran out of everything else. The barrels of flour, salt, coffee, and sugar, along with the sacks of cornmeal, barley, and beans were all wrapped in oil cloth and buried in caches placed strategically around his homestead. He had taken pains to disguise the locations and was relieved everything he needed for the evening meal was already above-ground.
He liked this Cheyenne feller, but that didn’t mean he trusted him.
“Some bison liver would taste good in this,” Shoe said.
“That sounds godawful. You don’t put liver in stew. Here’s what you do with liver. You fry it up in a skillet with onions and spuds. Get it nice and crispy. Bacon fat is good for that, or some butter, if you have it. If you got a few hot peppers, throw ‘em in. Add a little salt, keep stirring so it don’t get burnt. Then when everything is cooked through, you eat the onions and the spuds and the peppers, and you toss the liver in the hog pen.”
Another chuckle. “Raw liver is a delicacy in my culture. We consume it fresh from the animal, along with the heart while it is still beating.”
Jacob shuddered. He had eaten a lot of unusual things in his life. His curious nature had compelled him to sample bull testicles, fried grasshoppers, and stewed chicken feet. But never any uncooked organs, especially if they were still warm from being inside the animal.
“If God meant people to eat such nonsense as raw liver, he never would have invented the cooking fire.”
“God did not invent it. Man did, and my people did it first.”
It was true that the native tribes of the American frontier were ancient. Maybe they had invented the cooking fire. If so, he was thankful for them. He could never have gotten by on raw meat.
“You heathens don’t believe in God, right?” he said.
“We heathens do not believe in the white man’s god.”
“What god do you believe in?”
“We believe in the spirit energy which resides in the mountains and prairies, in the trees and in the rivers, in the tall grasses and in the gentle breeze that blows through them, transforming their feathery tips into a golden sea. Spirit energy is in everything that is part of this world. We worship Mother Earth and Father Sky because we can see them and touch them, unlike an invisible white-bearded man who lives in the clouds.”
Jacob pondered the words for several minutes. They reminded him of the poetry he had read at the schoolhouse back in Missouri.
“You sure talk purty for a heathen. That preacher must have been something.”
“He was, indeed. He was an excellent instructor, and I was an eager studen
t.”
“What the heck was a white preacher doing living with heathens, anyways?”
“For the answer, consider the primary directive of evangelical Christians.”
Jacob did just that. “I see. He was trying to convert you.”
“You sure are smart for an ignorant white man.”
“Thank you. I took my book learning serious, but I only got through the fifth grade. I don’t have the words you do, but I can appreciate hearing them, at least.”
Shoe nodded. “I am sorry for calling you ignorant.”
“I’m sorry for calling you an injun. I’ll probably do it again, though. By accident, of course.”
“Of course.”
“He must have been better at teaching than preaching. Seems to me you’re still a heathen.”
“That I am. I am a spiritual heathen. Does it bother you being in the presence of a non-Christian?”
“Nope, so long as you keep working that sod shovel like you did today.”
“You want my help again tomorrow?”
Jacob realized how lonely he had been these past months since moving himself and all his worldly goods from Missouri to the remote, expansive plains of the Dakota Territory. He could use the man’s physical labor, and would appreciate his company.
“I don’t have much to trade for your work. I can feed you, though. If you like the stew, wait ‘til you taste my breakfast biscuits. They melt in your mouth. I got a jar of gooseberry jam to spread on ‘em, too.”
“I will stay, then. At least for one more day.”
He felt a rush of gratitude. In another day, they could well be close to getting the roof on. “Much obliged, Shoe. I’m ready to hit the sack. It’s a little chilly out tonight. You can bunk inside the soddy, if you’d like. The walls keep the wind off.”
“No thank you, Jacob Payne. If word got out that I slept in a white man’s house, I would never be welcome in my tribe again.”
“I reckon that makes sense. You’d be a kind of traitor? Is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, then. You can put your pony in the corral with my geldings. She won’t wander off that way.”
“Waynoka will not wander off. She has decided her place is by my side.”
“She told you that?”
“In her horsey words, yes,” Shoe said, then disappeared into the night.
Jacob stood in the doorway of his unfinished home, barely able to keep his eyes open after the hard day’s work.
“Hope he don’t come back and scalp me in my sleep,” he muttered to the darkness.
He slept with his Winchester by his side, as he had done every night since his arrival on the prairie. And like every night since his arrival on the prairie, he awoke in the morning with his noggin intact. He knew so because he reached up and felt the top of his head. Every morning while in injun country, he performed the same ritual.
Cheyenne country.
In a half-hour, the biscuits were made and baking nicely in the iron skillet he had purchased in Yankton along with the other cooking implements. He jumped a little when a voice came from just a few feet behind him.
“Smells good, Jacob Payne.”
“Dang it, Shoe, don’t do that. Nearly dropped the skillet.”
“Sorry. I thought you heard me.”
“No, I didn’t hear you. You people are quiet as mice.”
“Quieter. Mice can be loud.”
“If you say so.” He couldn’t deny the intense relief he felt at the appearance of his new friend. Shoe had come back to help. Or maybe to scalp him, but probably just to help.
The sun had edged above the horizon now, and an unfamiliar chill tinged the air. The cold temperature would have sparked more panic if a second pair of work hands hadn’t shown up.
“Reckon we can get the walls finished today?” Jacob said, placing hot biscuits on tin plates, then handing the jar of gooseberry jam to his breakfast companion. “Here’s a butter knife. It’s for spreading.”
“Really? I’m not supposed to stick it up my nose?”
“Why would you...oh. Very funny.”
“The preacher taught us white-man manners as well as white-man English.”
“That preacher feller gets more impressive by the hour,” Jacob said, biting into a hot biscuit. It was his mother’s secret recipe. He hoped he would have enough flour and baking powder to last through the winter.
He eyed Shoe’s enormous bites as the dark eyes half-closed with pleasure.
“Tasty, ain’t they? I’ll make something even more delicious for dinner. After we get those walls up.”
“They are adequate.”
“Uh-huh. Sure is a purty sunrise,” Jacob said, admiring the pink, lavender, and orange sky. The gentle hills were bathed in the fragile, golden light of a new day. He would never get tired of that sight.
“Yes, it is a pretty sunrise.”
“It ain’t purty?”
“No. The word is pretty.”
“I got an injun trying to teach me English?” He was embarrassed at his own ignorance. “That don’t seem right.”
“Doesn’t seem right.”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “I told you I only made it to the fifth grade.”
“I know. Your grammar is not your fault. If you would like, I can teach you, like the preacher taught me.”
“While we’re working?”
“Of course.”
Jacob nodded. “I think I’d like that. While we’re at it, I’d like to know more Cheyenne words. They’ll come in handy, I expect.”
“True. You are less likely to be scalped if you can speak to your would-be scalper in their native tongue.”
“Then I definitely want to learn. Where did you bunk last night, Shoe? It got purty...I mean pretty…cold.”
“My people are camped a few miles from here.”
“What? I got injuns living right next door?”
“No, you have an indigenous tribe living nearby. Don’t fret, Jacob Payne. They will be moving to their winter lands today.”
He felt a stab of alarm. “That mean you gotta go with them? I thought you were staying to work for a spell.”
“I will stay today, since that is what I said I would do. I can always catch up to them.”
“Whew. You got my heart a’pounding. If I only got you one more day, I’m gonna make the most of you.”
“You have me for one more day. Not got.”
“Was the first got right?”
“Yes, the first got was right.”
“See? I’m learning already. Let’s get to work.”
Hours later, when the sun had risen mid-sky and Jacob’s belly was telling him it was time for lunch, movement at the edge of his vision made him reach for his rifle.
“Do not do that,” Shoe said, his voice low. “Just keep working. Pretend you have not noticed them.”
Jacob shifted the movement of his hand and reached for his sweat-stained hat instead. He tugged at the brim, bringing more shade to his face, then stretched his back, trying to appear casual.
“Your people?” he asked, his eyes darting to the right where Shoe labored.
For the first time he studied the man’s garb – the fringed sleeves and the feathers worked into the bison-hide tunic; the breechcloth and leggings; the moccasins also made from bison hide; the knife sheath attached to the beaded sash. A pipe tomahawk dangled from the sash on the other side. The multipurpose hatchet could be thrown at an attacker or stuffed with tobacco and herbs then smoked by a campfire.
Jacob was thankful for the presence of the tomahawk. He hoped his new friend knew as much about throwing the thing as he did about white man’s English.
“No. My people went south at dawn.” Shoe stretched now too, glancing casually in the opposite direction of the three motionless braves sitting astride their ponies, perhaps a mile away.
“What should we do?” He tried to ignore the Winchester that was,
thankfully, within easy reach.
“Keep working,” Shoe repeated, then made a soft whistling sound.
Waynoka emerged from behind the soddy where she had been grazing next to the corral. She stopped a few feet shy of her human and dipped her head, continuing to tug at the grass as if nothing at all unusual was happening. Out of the corner of his eye, Jacob could see the bow and arrow-filled quiver straddling her back in some kind of intricate blanket-pouch get-up. He had never seen the leather rigging this close up before. Injuns didn’t use saddles, but they did have need to carry items on their horses. It looked ingenious. Later, if he survived the day, he would ask Shoe how it was made.
“You think they’ll attack?”
“That is a possibility. How many bullets are in your firearm?”
“It’s a Winchester New Model,” he replied, unable to keep the pride from his voice. “That firearm can hold fifteen rounds.”
“How accurate are you?”
“Ain’t had much time to practice with it. I’m a decent shot with my old Burnside, but I traded it along with a few silver pieces for this here lever-action beauty. I bought one of the very first models ‘fore I left Missouri. But I been so busy homesteading that I haven’t had a chance to fire more than a few shots at that herd of bison that went through last week.”
“Did you strike any?”
“Nope. They were pretty far away.”
“When the Sioux start toward us, they will be riding at full gallop. Then they will spread out just before they are in range of your bullets. That makes it harder to take them down. You aim at the one on the left.”
“They’re gonna attack for sure, then?”
“They are doing it now.” The braided head gestured in the direction of the three braves charging toward them.
“Dang it,” Jacob yelled, dropping his shovel and grabbing the rifle.
Before he even had the walnut stock in his hands, Shoe had retrieved the bow and arrows from Waynoka’s spotted side and was drawing a bead on the Sioux brave leading the charge.
The Sublime Seven Page 19
