Open Road

by M. M. Holaday

  “You weren’t much older than they are now when we got married.”

  “True enough, but you were! Men should be older when they marry, have some experience.”

  Jeb reached over and held Meg’s hand, already thinking about how he would make love to her that night. “Win left his mountain to us in his will, Meggie. But if something happens to him, we’re supposed to make sure Gray Wolf eventually owns it. He thinks the laws will change and Indians will be able to live wherever they want to someday.”

  “He thought he was going to die, didn’t he?” Meg shivered and pulled her shawl closer around her.

  “He had a pretty close call. He said something interesting. He said when he signed the deed, he realized it was the only indication that he’d ever been on this earth, and that knowledge troubled him.”

  Meg furrowed her brow. “That makes me sad. Here we are, so lucky to have two beautiful boys.” She squeezed Jeb’s hand. “I’m sorry I was so silly before you left. I just felt like something terrible was going to happen.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE: MEG

  Dawson Ranch, Summer 1886

  Meg hung the freshly oiled tack neatly on the wall, a habit learned from Gus. She heard the sound of the wagon. Charlie and Jeb were back from town.

  “Ma! James!” She and James exited the barn just as Charlie jumped from the wagon, waving a letter. Only a letter from Win could generate such excitement. It had been over a year since he’d written to announce his departure for Alaska. James and Charlie had grown into young men. She and Jeb planned to give James a brand new rifle for his seventeenth birthday. He and Charlie had been at the Carters’ store picking it up.

  Jeb waited for everyone to gather on the porch, another habit they’d developed over the years. Meg swore she felt Gus join them for Win’s letter readings. It couldn’t be a coincidence that, although no one ever sat in his favorite chair, it rocked ever so slightly whenever they gathered. Jeb explained that the chair moved from the vibration when everyone clambered up the porch steps, but Meg preferred believing that Gus had joined them.

  Jeb began:

  July 1885

  Dear family,

  Alaska is as muddy and ugly as any part of the world I’ve ever seen, and, at the same time, is more breathtaking than any vista in my memory. The stench from the fish cannery in Sitka burns the inside of my nose, yet, I make a trek inland and ache to share the splendor with all of you. It is mid-summer and the sky stays light almost continuously. The night is extremely short and I am filled with both energy and exhaustion.

  While the weather is mild, I have journeyed to stinking Sitka to mail a package to you. It contains Athabascan artwork made by a woman from a tribe who has readily taken me in, and to whom I will return when my business in Sitka is finished. I thought her work was particularly skilled and traded with her. We both believe we got the better trade. I am living near Talkeetna, a place where three rivers meet and where tribes hunt, trade, and gather together seasonally. I enjoy living with these friendly people, who are as eager to bring me along on a caribou hunt as they are to teach me their language.

  Our conversation with Miss Sinclair lingers in my head and I continue the debate within myself. Education appears to benefit the youth, if for no other reason than to communicate our differences with clearer understanding. Also, there is no doubt that those who learn English are far more likely to prosper in the new order. Defiance at change, while noble and even understandable, seems to bring nothing positive. Economic self-sufficiency will play an integral role in their success if one accepts Miss Sinclair’s pragmatic viewpoint that the native’s world has forever changed, like it or not. It seems economic independence is something they should have, at the very least. Finding a way to move forward peacefully is essential, as the native people are ill equipped to fight against the advanced weaponry and machinery we bring to their world.

  I feel confused about my purpose here. I want to protect what can be protected and preserve what can be preserved, yet my very presence brings changes that cannot be undone. A few of the Athabascan youth seek me out to hear stories of the land to the south and express interest in traveling with me when I return. Why I worry about their restlessness and not my own keeps me awake at night, along with the persistent daylight.

  We both turn forty this year, brother Jeb. Why round numbers stir introspection more than their neighbors just 12 months ahead or behind, I cannot say. There have been times when I never thought I’d make it this far, both in years and in distance. Although I feel welcome here, the only place where I have felt complete peace is the place where I send this letter. With it comes my wish for your good health and happiness.

  Win

  Jeb pulled a package out from hiding. “This arrived with the letter. What do you think we should do?”

  James gasped in surprise.

  “Open it!” Charlie shouted, who knew about the package and had been waiting patiently. James nodded in agreement.

  “I figured so.” Jeb broke the string that held the oilcloth wrapped around a piece of deerskin. Tucked inside was a note and elaborately decorated gifts: a knife and sheath, two pouches, and a necklace. The note indicated that the knife was for Jeb and the sheath was made from the hide of a caribou, an animal similar to an elk, but with different antlers and which ran in large herds. The necklace for Meg, made of abalone shells and colorful beads, was backed with deer hide softer than velvet against her skin. The two pouches for the boys were fashioned from caribou hide and decorated with porcupine quills and hundreds of beads.

  “Wow!” Charlie exclaimed, carefully running his hand over the beadwork. James whistled softly in amazement.

  “Those are fine gifts, boys. Your Uncle Win was very thoughtful,” Meg said. She put the necklace around her neck and looked to Jeb for his opinion.

  “It looks very pretty on you,” he said, smiling.

  “He sounds tired and alone,” she said, removing the necklace and looking carefully at it.

  “ ‘Move forward peacefully,’ he says. It seems unlikely, doesn’t it?”

  The fight James and Charlie had with Billy in the schoolyard years earlier was just the beginning of a problem that continued to grow in the area. Prejudice smoldered, never igniting fully, yet it could never be fully extinguished, either. Folks who hired Indians found they were limited by who would do business with them. Running Elk and Wash had been working at the Dawson ranch for so long they were considered more like family than ranch hands, but others who settled in the area were shocked when the Arapaho and the Pawnee brought horses to the livery and handled the business transactions. Why were Indians allowed to live among the white settlers when General Custer, a war hero, had been slaughtered by these savages only a few years earlier? How can anyone trust that they won’t turn on an unsuspecting white citizen? Meg grew more and more impatient with every ignorant remark.

  When Running Elk tried to pick up the new reaper-binder Jeb had ordered at the Lyonsville train depot, the machinery sat on the loading dock while Running Elk sat in jail, accused of attempted thievery. Prohibited from telegraphing a message or speaking to anyone, Running Elk was stuck until his absence worried Meg and Jeb left to search for him. Jeb returned with Running Elk and the machinery, saying he had to pay a hefty fine for his release. She asked what he’d done wrong and Running Elk replied, “Being Indian.” After that, either Jeb went himself to pick up orders, or they paid for extra shipping to have it sent to Paradise.

  Even Paradise was not free from ugliness. Anne was stopped in the street by a worker from a nearby ranch who asked her why she worked for Indian-lovers. Was she Indian, too? If so, was she from a tribe who ate human flesh, or murdered babies? Luckily, Angus was in the Carters’ store and overheard. He came to her defense and the ranch hand was sent on his way duly reprimanded, but not before warning Angus that Paradise would never prosper like Lyonsville if they continued to allow Indians in town.

  Tension mounted; the Dawsons stood their groun
d, along with other Paradise residents. The town grew, but erratically. Businesses opened and failed. One surprise success was Mrs. Finnegan’s bakery. The Irishwoman arrived by stage and declared she was opening a bakery next to the saloon. “Over my dead body,” was Angus’s initial reaction, until he tasted her potato bread and declared it a national treasure. He talked up her breads and pastries with every drink he poured. Soon her shop was busy and profitable. Angus persuaded Mrs. Finnegan to collaborate with him and together they produced their first batch of moonshine from a handmade still in back of their establishments. She welcomed any and all business; it made no difference to her whether her customers were ranchers, farmers, or Indian. She was the exception, however. Most businesses found better success in Lyonsville, which flourished as its residents enjoyed the presence of the railroad and the absence of people different from them—particularly Indians.

  Meg did not understand white resentment against Indians. Crazy Horse, their unifying leader, had been killed at Fort Robinson five years earlier. Settlers had flocked into the sacred land of the Black Hills. Chief Joseph of the Nez Percé tried to leave the country, but had to surrender forty miles from the Canadian border. It wasn’t only in battle that the Indians were defeated; seemingly well-meaning social reformers tried to mainstream the Indian, resulting in the near destruction of their culture. Outnumbered and poorly armed, prevented from self-sufficient living and with no place to go, the Indian race was brought to its knees. Even Gray Wolf and his small band of Arapaho were caught between two worlds. Conflict rose between Running Elk and his tribe; they didn’t think it was safe for him to live in the white man’s world, but he saw no other way to survive.

  Smoldering tension finally ignited one late-summer day in 1886 when Burton Cauley, Darryl Smith, and Phil Jenkins, three ranch hands at a neighboring spread to the south, walked into Mrs. Finnegan’s bakery. Wash and Running Elk had been hired to build a second brick oven for her. Meg heard voices rise and left the Carters’ store to investigate. She and Georgia heard Cauley complain that the baker should have given the job to white men, saying that Indians could dress white but would never be white—they were only dirty savages.

  Running Elk threw a punch at Cauley. Wash caught a blow when he got between them to try to stop the fight. Mrs. Finnegan screamed for help; Angus burst out of his saloon with a shotgun in hand and fired it into the air. “Hold on there! What are you fools doin’?”

  “We have as much right to be here as them.” Running Elk rubbed his knuckles.

  “You ain’t the fool I was talkin’ to.” Angus nodded in the direction of the three white men. “They’re the goddamn idiots who ain’t got a lick of brains between ’em. Did your mama drop you on your head when you was a baby, Cauley? Why would Miz Finnegan hire numbskulls to build her oven when she can hire two fellers who can get the job done? It’s a free country, or have you forgotten?”

  Cauley, Smith, and Jenkins glared at Angus and left without a word. Mrs. Finnegan threw her arms around Angus after they left, causing his face to blush bright red.

  “Oh, Mr. McPherson, aren’t you a brave lad!” Her Irish accent always got thicker when she spoke to him. “For a Scot, you’re quite the fine fellow!”

  “Ah, Mrs. Finnegan, those lugs oughta learn a thing or two from a Scotsman and a bonny Irish lass livin’ and workin’ side by side. ’Tain’t so hard.” He stole a kiss and she blushed, too.

  Meg smiled at the two, stumbling upon joy, as Gus would’ve called it. Still, the tension she’d just witnessed blocked the sun, chilling the air.

  Jeb and Meg were up late delivering a new foal when they saw a red glow coming from town. Jeb called to the bunkhouse for Running Elk and Wash. She heard the two hustle to get dressed; the urgency in his voice required no questions. They emerged moments later and, seeing that fire had broken out in town, headed for the barn to saddle horses.

  James appeared on the porch. “I’ll come, too, Pa.”

  “You stay here with your ma, son.” Meg helped them get saddled and on their way. Jeb kissed her before he jumped on his horse and said they’d be back as soon as the fire was out. Meg stood in the middle of the yard and watched Jeb, Running Elk, and Wash ride away.

  She returned to the house, but smelled smoke. She thought it was from Paradise until Charlie shouted that the barn was on fire. Meg ran out, horrified to see flames lick the side of the barn. She ran toward the fire, not seeing the stranger before he grabbed her.

  “Your dirty Indians shoulda stayed home. Then you woulda only lost some worthless savages, and not your whole ranch,” he said, his face inches from hers. She shoved the man away with strength she didn’t know she had. He fell back, but regained his balance and started toward her. James fired his shotgun, blasting the man off his feet. Meg was momentarily paralyzed, the shock closing her ears to nothing but a rushing sound. As though looking through distorted glass, Meg watched another man turn and run. He was forgotten as smoke began to billow out from under the barn door. A panicked whinny from one of the horses brought her sharply back to the crisis at hand. She raced to the barn behind James and Charlie.

  They were able to get the horses, including the new foal, out of their stalls and outside. Their milk cow got a wild look in her eye and tried to jump out of her stall in a panic. Her front hooves became stuck and she was thrashing in all directions to try to free herself. James kicked at the stall until it broke. Sadie freed herself and mooed loudly as she trotted from the burning barn.

  “Ma! Watch out!” Charlie shouted as her skirt brushed over burning straw. She jumped away and grabbed a bucket. The three began the futile task of fighting the flames by tossing buckets of water on them.

  Meg didn’t know exactly when Gray Wolf and Standing Horse arrived. They materialized and fought the fire alongside them throughout the night. It was endless, exhausting work. With the help of the wind, which shifted in direction and kept the flames away from the other buildings, they were able to save everything except the barn. They watched the fire consume the last of it.

  Smoke filled the air as the sky lightened. The charred remains of the barn collapsed. Gray Wolf told her they had run into a white man escaping into the night. He now lay on the forest floor, he said, his throat slit from ear to ear. Meg stared at the other man lying dead in their yard and wondered how James would carry the burden of taking a life. Jeb would have reassuring words. He’d know what to say. Standing Horse dragged the body out of sight.

  She stood in the yard with her sons—both of whom towered over her—her mind already calculating how long it would take to rebuild the barn. A couple of no-good vandals couldn’t stop them. With that on her mind, she did not comprehend at first why Georgia and Etta, in Etta’s carriage, arrived at the ranch just ahead of Mick and Blackie, who drove a wagon with Wash sitting in the back holding two bodies.

  Blackie climbed down, reached into the wagon bed, and took Jeb’s body from Wash. The giant of a man began to cry when he saw the look on Meg’s face. Her mind wouldn’t accept what she was seeing, even as her body reacted. She sank to the ground, her legs unable to support her. Blackie laid Jeb gently in her arms.

  Etta stepped out of her carriage and put her arms around the boys. Standing Horse and Gray Wolf lay Running Elk on the ground. Everyone stood helplessly by, rendered speechless by grief, shock, and exhaustion.

  Mick tried to find words. “They set fire to the saloon and the bakery. Miz Finnegan got out all right, thanks to Angus.” His voice broke. “But someone shot him, right there in the middle of the street.” He wiped his eyes and reached for Georgia, who buried her face in his shirt, crying. “He shot Running Elk, too, when he tried to save Angus. Jeb and I, we were able to find where the bastard was holed up, but there were two of them. And—” He couldn’t finish.

  “Jeb didn’t know what hit him,” Blackie managed to blurt out. “He didn’t suffer. I promise you, he didn’t suffer.”

  Meg stared at Jeb’s lifeless face. He looked asleep. He said h
e’d be back when the fire was out. He was supposed to talk to James. His chest was covered with a dish towel Meg recognized as Georgia’s. She didn’t remove it.

  The sun was up. As it rose higher, she expected Jeb to wake at the blinding rays, to blink, squint, and then squeeze his eyes shut. But his serene expression didn’t change. She shaded his face nevertheless, putting her hand between him and the harsh, uncomfortable light. She stared at the shadow and watched it move as the Earth turned—and would continue to turn without Jeb. Meg felt a cold hand reach into her chest and squeeze her heart. It hurt so much, tears fell from her cheeks onto Jeb’s. He didn’t flinch.

  Gray Wolf and Standing Horse began to chant the sacred song that connected creatures to their Creator, creating a bridge between this world and the next.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO: WIN

  Athabascan Village, Alaska, September 1886

  Win woke with a start, and before completely conscious, his dream was more real than the bedding of hides he lay on. He’d had the dream many times before—the dark-haired girl smiling at him.

  He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. He opened the flap of his newly built winter home. The day before, he’d covered the wood frame with birch bark, then moss, and finally topped it with dirt. Like all the other dwellings in camp, his was now covered with the first snowfall. From his doorway, he could see smoke curling out of the centers of several white-colored mounds. He closed the flap door, stirred the fire, and pulled a log from the woodpile against the wall. He tossed it into the embers and watched it crackle to life. He thought of Gray Wolf and their conversation just before he left the Dawson ranch. How many years now? He scratched his long, heavy beard. Four years, he figured.

  The last time Win visited the Dawsons, he’d ridden up the mountain to visit his old Arapaho friend. He’d brought Charlie with him. Together, they told Gray Wolf about the land Win had purchased, and, once again, Win struggled to explain the meaning of lines drawn on a map. The Indian humored his friend for a while and then let the matter drop. Gray Wolf had summered in the mountains and wintered in the canyon for years. He had defended his right to do so by maintaining a peaceful friendship with people he could trust, and with rifles against people he didn’t. Something written on paper didn’t change anything. Win wanted him to know, nonetheless. Gray Wolf accepted this with a nod of his head; the matter was as settled as it would ever be.