by Mark Wildyr
“My word is no good with him. Will you speak to him, or do I send him away?” Cut’s face was clear. If he harbored jealousies, they did not show.
“I will talk to him, but don’t interfere.”
“Hah!” he said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Nonetheless, he gave the sign to call off the guard dog and beckoned Carcajou forward.
“I would hear Splitrum’s words,” the Pipe Stem said without preamble.
“You could have asked Cut Hand.”
“Why would he tell me the truth?”
“Because Cut Hand never lies. Even when it is to his profit, he does not lie. When you know that, you will have learned something valuable for the future.”
Carcajou eyed Cut Hand blandly. “Nor do I lie, Yanube.”
“Hear me, Carcajou,” I said sharply. “It is the same with me. I will never lie to you, and I will never lie with you. I belong to this man. If he dies by a stroke of lightning, I will still belong to him. If he dies by the hand of a Pipe Stem, I will still belong to him.”
“Does he need his win-tay wife to protect him?”
Cut reacted with a growl and reached for his knife, but I spoke loudly and stayed his hand. “He needs no protection from anyone. But there is no advantage in either of you killing the other. One day he will lead the Yanube, just as one day you will lead the Pipe Stem. The time will come when both fires need vigorous leaders who deal straight and fear no man. You are both courageous. I hope you can also be wise.”
Carcajou eyed Cut Hand before turning to face me. “Teacher, I will say this thing and then never speak of it again. You are different from others. That difference has pulled me toward you, but I now understand what you hold in your heart is not in the manner of some silly girl who plays with men. I am sorry for this misunderstanding, as I truly felt you held a list for me. This is finished.
“And to Cut Hand I apologize. I took your interest in this win-tay as a dalliance. Now I see you have truly taken him to wife. All who know of Cut Hand know he is a man. We will never be friends, but I now put aside our personal differences and vow to make no effort to harm you for private reasons. Should conflict arise from duty to my people, that is another matter.”
“I hear you, Carcajou. And while I would like to carve your belly, I also give my pledge. There will be no personal vengeance.”
The situation defused, I filled in the Pipe Stem scion on Split’s news and speculations. Carcajou asked a few questions and then rose. He did it like Cut. I envied both men their ability and grace. I always got up by degrees while they did it in one effortless movement.
I did not realize the depth of Cut Hand’s rage until the Pipe Stem left. He looked as if he wanted to crawl my hump. If he tried, he’d have a fight on his hands. We’d fight like men, not a man and his distaff.
“What did you do, make moon eyes at him?” he demanded.
“I swear I did nothing.” I assumed we were having a reasonable discussion. “Do not let Lodge Pole’s poison come between us.”
“It is not Lodge Pole standing between us, wife,” he said in a quiet voice. “Let me understand. Carcajou goes to the trouble of courting you and insulting me because you did nothing to show your interest in him?”
It was colder than the weather dictated at the Mead for three days. Cut remained on the peck, busying himself in the village to avoid confronting me. The second night he did not come home, doubtless to make me believe he was resting in some girl’s arms. At nightfall, my heart and mind concluded this was nonsense, but dawn found them in agreement on the obverse. He came riding up midmorning as I slung a pan of wash water over the end of the porch, very nearly hitting him in the face. Had I wanted, that’s where it would have landed for I timed it to perfection. Putting on an innocent face, I expressed false contrition.
Lone Eagle showed up after a week’s absence, and I was overjoyed when he spent the night because Cut would have to move back with me. Alas, I reckoned without a complete understanding of the situation. He threw Lone Eagle on the floor on the west side and claimed the bed opposite Otter. By right of age and standing, Lone Eagle dispossessed Otter, who rolled up in his blanket before the fireplace. I slept alone in a cold bed.
The thaw came the next day when Cut sent the two boys on some fool’s errand. He sat at the table while I prepared a meal.
“Come here, wife,” he said. I ignored him. “Billy, please come here.”
I claimed the chair opposite and leveled a look designed to inform him I would brook no nonsense. It was probably only calf’s eyes.
“I am sorry, Billy,” he said at great cost. “You have a way of taking the sting out of things, for making it easy to come over to your way. But sometimes when you do it, it hurts. You begged that Pipe Stem dog for my life.”
“Nay! I did no such thing. I put to rest once and for all the idea he could ever have me, and he apologized. From a man like that, an apology is something.”
“A man like that! You think he is a special man?”
“He is the Pipe Stem’s Cut Hand. That makes him very special.”
“Damnation! You always wiggle out of it. You speak in circles like all white men so nobody understands you.”
“Then let me make it clear. I love Cut Hand, scion of the Yanube. I love nobody else. I want Cut Hand. I want nobody else. I love him so much I won’t even ask where he was the night he did not come home. I love him so much I want him to fuck me in every orifice he can fit!”
He laughed then, and Pale Hunter danced a jig. “Lone Eagle and Otter will be back soon. Do you want to shock them?”
“That’s their problem. Mine is that I am excited beyond all reason by your presence. Only Dark Warrior knows how to settle that excitement.”
Sweat formed on his broad, clear brow as he worked over me. When the boys returned, Cut ignored their noises in the other side of the house while he finished what he started.
WE ACCOMPANIED the band on the trek to the winter quarters again. The Conestoga made heavy hauling so much easier that I decided on acquiring a wagon for their use next year. The winter camp was on the far side of the Yanube this season, about fifty miles south-southeast of the Mead. Since Yellow Puma entered the cold season an ill man, Cut wanted to remain in the encampment, but when his father insisted, we returned to the Mead. Joy at finally being alone was tempered by worry over Yellow Puma. My mate felt he should have remained with the tiospaye, and the cold northers, when they came, blew right through his heart.
Although I seldom accounted for the days, it must have been sometime near unto Christmas when the dogs alerted us to intruders. We found them barking at a wagon at the edge of the meadow. Curious, I called off the dogs and bade the man at the reins approach. From the way he stumbled through the knee-deep snow, he was in a bad way. Cut and I dragged him into the house.
“Family!” he mumbled, shivering violently. “Wagon!”
Shrugging into my heavy coat, I plowed through the snow and crawled up into the seat. A frightened young face stared down at me. The boy pointed a rifle that looked as frozen as he was.
“Easy, son. We’re just going to the house where it’s warm. Your pa’s already inside. Wouldn’t you like to put your feet to the fire too?”
There was no real comprehension on his face, but the lad allowed the barrel to waver away. A woman’s voice called from somewhere in the back of the wagon. A young female whimpered.
We set the whole family to thaw before the fireplace in the west porthern of the house while Cut and I moved their wagon into the lee of the building. Their horses joined our own in the barn. The animals were in poor shape, and I despaired of one of their number surviving. The towheaded boy of about ten clung to his father’s leg and moaned when Cut came into the house. The little girl, a year or so younger, shrieked and buried her head in her mother’s skirts. The wife visibly reacted as well. That was not a good sign. It was evening before Benjamin Bowers recovered sufficiently to tell his story.
Under the author
ity of a trailmaster called Boggs, ten wagons started out from St. Joseph, Missouri, much later in the year than was customary and delayed at Fort Ramson to await the arrival of spring. Courting an additional fee, the trailmaster induced three families bound for Yawktown to proceed the remaining hundred and fifty miles to Fort Yanube.
The party ran into a blue whistler of a storm and hunkered down to wait it out. When the weather cleared, the travelers found their food exhausted and the way blocked both fore and aft by mounds of fresh snow. The men formed a hunting party, fighting their way to a small stand of trees lining a frozen creek bank, where they came upon the carcass of a deer. As they fell upon it, three Indians stepped out of the forest and made clear by sign they claimed the slain animal. Since the kill was fresh, it is likely the red men spoke the truth, but at the moment, truth did not enter into play. When the warriors became insistent, the trail boss shot one of the natives. A small battle ensued over the deer. Surprise and superior firepower won the moment for the emigrants.
The meat provided by that deer proved costly indeed. The next morning, a group of Indians showed up to articulate their anger by shouts and forceful gestures. The trailmaster shot one of the warriors mortally. The others returned fire. Boggs, the cause of it all, recovered his mount and was last seen fighting snowdrifts to the southeast, drawing a goodly number of the attackers with him. The remainder pursued the assault on the wagons. All seemed lost until something called the Indians off. As the warriors beat a trail in the direction Boggs fled, Bowers assumed the coward had been caught.
Following the attack, Bowers discovered the rest of the party dead. Five adults—assuming Boggs received his just desserts—and one child, plus who knows how many of the Indians, died for a scoundrel’s greed and stupidity.
Fearing the Indians’ return, Bowers packed only the essentials for his new life, abandoning most of his personal goods to the elements. As they had covered more than half the journey to Fort Yanube, he hitched six of the strongest animals to a wagon designed for a team of four, killing two of the beasts fighting his way through drifts that should have stopped him cold. It was a testament to the courage and determination of that broad, stocky man that he made it as far as Teacher’s Mead. We now understood the children’s reaction to Cut Hand.
These four survivors were important testators. If Bowers told the true story of the battle to the army in the manner he related it to us, the thing might not have much of an afterclap. Otherwise, retribution could come to anyone in the area. Welcome or not, we had guests until the thaw. Fortunately our personal stores were adequate, but the strain of more large horses dependent on our fodder might prove a problem.
Cut immediately undertook a campaign to desensitize the children to his presence. He spoke only English and read stories aloud to Timothy and Beth. Further, he did something totally out of character by making himself useful to a flighty, finical Mrs. Bowers. Slowly he managed to blur the image of red men slaying women and children.
Bowers was a cooper by trade and spared as a locksmith. He was also a decent farrier. We used the long winter months to construct barrels and kegs, something always needed, and to replace our locks with more substantial devices from his depleted stock. All my heavy team animals received new shoes as Bowers sought to earn his keep and express his gratitude.
Cut made the children rackets, which they quickly learned to use. There was nothing of the climate-struck about the small fry. Both Timothy—who Cut dubbed Timo—and Little Beth, the appellation he attached to her, pitched in with chores and clamored to go trapping with us. Quite comfortable with me, the two grew slavishly devoted to Cut. The family was pleasant, although Mrs. Bowers, a thin, nervous woman, tended to be a croaker, always looking for disaster in every event.
In a sense, their misfortune was a boon. While I selfishly wanted Cut to myself, interacting with four additional souls diverted his attention from concern over his father and the matter that Yellow Puma’s illness foreshadowed. He reserved the dark hours of the night for these cares, which was why I overcame my reluctance to have congress while strangers were in the house and reached for him in the privacy of our bed.
THE FIRST signs of spring occasioned a debate among us. The drifts blocking the trail on our bank of the river were awesome, yet Ben Bowers was anxious to get to Yawktown. No doubt a cooperage would find adequate country custom, and, of course, he was also master of two other trades to fall back on if need be.
Reluctant to allow the family to proceed without going in aid of them, we concluded now would be the ideal time for Cut to visit the fort. Thereafter, we could cross the Yanube on a bridge just outside of town and make our way to the winter camp farther down the river. This would occasionally trespass deep into Pipe Stem territory, but it was a risk Cut was eager to take.
Hence, we set out for the fort fully a moon ahead of our intention. It is fortunate we went with the family. There were times when double-teaming was the only way to gain passage through a drift or hub-deep muck. I, of course, used the Conestoga to carry our furs and to assist the tiospaye’s move back north.
We were granted immediate admission to the commandant’s office. The news of the battle on the Yanube had not reached the military; indeed it had no idea wagons departed Fort Ramson so late in the season. Ben Bowers told his tale faithfully. Immediately, the officers in the room turned to me.
“Who were the tribesmen?”
“It was not the Yanube. They were on the far side of the river, some fifty miles to the south. So far as I know, the Pipe Stem were also south of the water.”
The major faced Cut. “You, sir—can you identify the raiders?”
Despite Cut’s understanding of the need to be courteous, he flushed a full shade darker. “Major, I can only tell you who they were not. As Mr. Strobaw said, my people were far to the south.”
The fort’s commander recovered himself. “Forgive me. It was not my intention to make accusations. As I understand it, you are the son of Yellow Puma, the leader of the Yanube band, is that correct?”
“Yes. My name is Cut Hand in your language.”
“Which you speak beautifully,” the major interjected, rising to extend a hand. Cut gave him a firm American shake. “Do you also agree it is unlikely the Pipe Stem were involved?”
“Yes,” my husband replied.
The major turned to the officers of his command. “That leaves the Sioux, gentlemen. The first of many encounters, I fear.”
Surprisingly, Bowers spoke up forcefully. “Sir, I would like to point out once again it was the natives who were set upon by Mr. Boggs. He proved to be a thoroughly disreputable character all around. He engaged in gross misconduct with us and did even worse to the inhabitants of the land. On my oath as a Christian, sir, Mr. Boggs killed that Indian with no warning at all. When they came in greater force to protest, he slew another.”
“Did you fire your weapon, sir?”
“I did, but only when the wagons were engaged. By that time, the devil had been unleashed, and there was no stopping the slaughter.”
The rest of us were dismissed while the major spent additional time with Cut Hand. Captain Jamieson took the opportunity to ask that the bodies of the settlers be delivered to the post when the thaw permitted. I declined, explaining Indians avoided the dead except to quickly dispose of their own, a prudent policy that helped avoid contagious diseases such as often swept the Europeans.
I returned to the commandant’s quarters in time to understand Major Wallston nursed a healthy respect for my mate. They had progressed to the point of discussing how certain flora and fauna were best prepared for eating.
Caleb Brown purchased our furs, giving us a near-decent price. He was pleased to meet Cut Hand, since he had very little contact with the original inhabitants of this country. Banker Crozier, somewhat flustered to find an Indian in his establishment, nonetheless overcame his trepidation and gave us the benefit of a few minutes of his time. Jones, the gunsmith, would be of some import in
Yawktown; consequently we spent time in his place of business as well. Cut, impressed with the armory’s range of goods, bought another scattergun since he once observed me bagging pigeons and waterfowl with mine. Before the day was done, we turned our wagon out of town and crossed the Yanube on the white man’s bridge.
Cut inundated me with countless questions about the fort and town. At first I perceived it as a thirst for knowledge about a foreign world, but by nightfall, I understood that in part it was merely a delay of a more painful subject never far from our minds. I broached it directly after we set up camp.
“It is time, Cut Hand,” I said simply.
“Billy, I cannot do this thing. I love you beyond all reason.”
That night, Cut rogered me with a quiet desperation and settled into my arms afterward. Normally he sheltered me with the afterglow of his embrace. Tonight, his broad back lay against my chest, revealing the depth of his inner turmoil.
At length he spoke again. “I have been thinking on this. Our life is good together. If this is so, why must we change it?”
Hope flared and died. “Because you are not with the People. You are of them, but apart. Your nights are spent at the Mead with me. You have no family to aid in understanding their needs. You have no wife to interact with the women of the band and draw them to you.”
He lifted his head slightly and smiled. “The women respect you.”
“Maybe so, but they do not discuss pregnancies or the prowess of their husbands or the flow of their menses with me.” I sighed so deeply, his torso shifted with my breath. “You must live among them.”
“And you won’t leave the Mead.” He stated a truth.
We were silent, each taking solace and strength from the other until we fell asleep in a hollow twenty yards from the wagon.
The following day we crossed into Pipe Stem territory. Though they probably had not moved from winter quarters, a few out-parties might be scouting. Nonetheless, Cut spent most of his time on the seat beside me except for occasional forays on Arrow to check for danger.
