by J. R. WRIGHT
“Thanks…!” Breanne cut him short, thinking if she didn’t, he’d go on the rest of the day. She got the message anyway and figured if it was okay with God what Luke had done back at the river, then it didn’t seem so wrong to her anymore.
Ten minutes reading this Mormon Bible, and she felt better already. Now she anxiously read on, hoping the feeling would continue, or perhaps even multiply. She would not be bored any longer, not as long as there were still words to be read from this book, she thought happily. She had heard about Adam and Eve, and now wondered if she could find it in here.
Broken and frazzled, they finally made it to the James River.
“Most of the Sioux tribes call it Tchansansan,” Pierre said as he guided the mules to a wide shallow spot and proceeded across. “It means woody river.”
“Where did the James come from then?” Luke asked.
“Reviere Jacques was on a map given to me by a French trapper, way back. Jacques is French for James. All those old trapper maps have been put into English, thanks to Meriwether Lewis.”
“So the French were here first,” Luke said.
“Here and all over the Missouri River country. At least a hundred years before the English came.”
This past week had been hectic. First, one of the young mules had locked up and refused to go another step. Then when Barney Sparks’ small paint horse was brought up to take its place, not being broke to the harness, he lunged and bucked around until he eventually broke the wagon tongue. This took hours to repair, only to discover the other young mule now refused to move, and it too was cut loose. That left them with Timmons’ horse and Sir Henry, both too large for the harness, and the two pack mules already exhausted from a day of service, except for the paint horse in harness.
It seemed now they were left with no other choice but to rest the pack mules for a day. That was, until Luke suggested saddling Timmons’ horse, which was the largest, to assist in the pull via a long rope. Pierre agreed to give it a try. After some changes in the rigging, they went for nearly twelve hours in this fashion, Luke in the saddle, and Pierre on the wagon. That brought them nearly to the James River, and needless to say, both men were spent. They would have rested here had the James not been in sight. So they moved the pack mules back up and pressed on. Now that they were nearly out of American Fur Company’s territory, they all breathed easier.
“Where will we camp?” Luke asked as the wagon climbed the far bank of the James and rolled out onto the grassy plains beyond.
Pierre took a long look around and concluded that from here they could see for miles in any direction. And since they needed to be close to water anyway, and the next river to cross was a day’s travel, he pulled up and stopped.
“How’s this?”
The sun was out but it was cold. Patches of snow still remained scattered across the prairie. Pierre had never been a calendar person. He preferred to let nature tell him the season and what may be expected next. And he knew right now this winter, this far north, was not over, not by a long shot. There would be plenty of snow yet to come before spring.
Glad to finally stop, Breanne put down the Bible and hopped from the wagon.
“How long will we stay?” she asked, eyeing the cold river below. Time for a bath would be nice, she thought. Luke had come out of his slump the previous night, and regardless of how great it was at the time, she yearned for a good scrubbing now.
“A few days,” Pierre said. “The animals need it.”
Hearing that, she pulled the oval shaped twenty gallon copper boiler from the back of the wagon and headed for the river. She would gather some driftwood and build a fire there for her hot bath.
Once the horses and remaining mules were staked out to graze on lifeless tuffs of grass, Luke joined her there. The tub was too small to sit in, but it was great for standing and scrubbing with the warm fire nearby. Once she was finished and wrapped in a blanket, Luke took a turn as well. Then, as she was helping him scrub off, he became aroused, and she dutifully stepped back into the tub. After a time of struggling to make something work in this confined space to no avail, something Breanne had read in that bible came to mind. It was quite tantalizing in places. She didn’t completely understand it, but thought she knew what was meant.
‘and the women made like asses, the men mounted like stallions.’
Quickly she got into position and gripped the edge of the tub. After that Luke mysteriously knew what to do and held her tightly throughout.
Breanne was so pleased with this new discovery that afterward she playfully scrubbed Luke once again, hoping for the same outcome. There seemed to be no end to the joy she had already gleaned from that little black book, and, thankfully, there were plenty of pages left for the discovering.
CHAPTER TWENTY
After breakfast and a short nap, Pierre saddled up Timmons’ near black appaloosa horse and headed out in search of game. They had been subsisting mostly on bacon since leaving the fort; now it was time for some fresh red meat for a change. He was gone only for an hour or so when he rode back into camp at a gallop.
“Injuns coming down river!” he shouted. “Bring out those guns from the three – Jones’ and the other two. I’ll need them for a peace offering.”
With that, Luke and Breanne came from the bed and scrambled to dress into their buckskins and heavy coats. Then they went for the guns.
“Give them to me,” he said from horseback. “And the gear that goes with them. You’ll need to hide yourself in the wagon, girl. We don’t want those Injuns getting any ideas of that nature.”
Breanne quickly gathered what he meant. She wasted no time in burying herself behind the remaining bags of feed oats in the wagon and covering herself completely with the bear robes.
“Keep the big bore handy just in case,” Pierre gave one last order, then looping the powder horns and bullet bags over the saddle horn, he rode off, the three rifles cradled in his lap.
After traveling only a few hundred yards, he pulled up and waited. It was then Luke saw a dozen or so mounted Indians emerge from a cluster of willows up river. They, too, stopped once clear of them. There was a gap of a hundred yards between them. After a time it appeared neither side was going to budge another inch.
“What’s happening?” Breanne asked from her hiding place, half scared out of her wits.
“Nothing is happening. They’re just looking each other over, I guess. That appaloosa Pierre is on, the way he’s skittering about, doesn’t seem to care much for them Indians though.”
Pierre held up a hand signaling peace. It took him this long to identify the tribe of those he was facing, and now that he felt more comfortable knowing who they were, he would approach, and did.
“He’s going in,” Luke reported, then went to the wagon and pulled out the big bore.
“Lakhota!” Pierre said, as he moved slowly in. “Hunkpapa!” It was to let them know he knew who they were and came as a friend bearing gifts.
The Appaloosa bolted, and Pierre had all he could handle with the guns and only one free hand to rein him in. It was then several of the Indians loped up to assist in corralling the unruly horse.
Seeing that, Luke ran out a ways and leveled the big bore. He had no idea the reason for what had just happened. But when he eventually saw Pierre was alright, he went back to the wagon and reported to Breanne.
“He must be making some kind of deal. His free hand is moving around a lot. Now he’s pointing to the north and making all kinds of gestures. Now he handed one of them a gun. More haggling, it appears. There goes the other two rifles and the gear. Now he’s coming back.”
“Where are the Indians?”
“Two of them are following a ways behind Pierre. The others are still back at the willows.”
“Oh God!” Breanne said and made sure she was completely hidden.
“They seem friendly enough,” he assured her.
“They want the horse,” Pierre said as he rode up and dismounted. “The
y like his spirit. They want him as a stud in their tribal herd.”
With that, Pierre pulled off the saddle and bridle and smacked the appaloosa on the rump. As the horse galloped away, the two riders circled in behind it. The rest joined in as they passed by, then went whooping and hollering off into the distance, and eventually disappeared over a ridge.
“Can I come out now?”
“Not yet,” Pierre responded to Breanne’s request. “They’re coming back.”
“What for?” Luke asked, thinking the ordeal was over.
“Their hunters are over that distant ridge. They promised game. That’s their gift to us for the many fine gifts – that, and our safe passage to the Red River country.”
“You know the tribe?”
“Lakota: one of the Sioux tribes. They have merged with some Hunkpapa, that’s why I had trouble making out the markings on their horses – some of each. There’s been a lot of warring in these parts recently. They merged for strength against the Ojibwa.”
“Where are they?” Luke said concernedly.
“No time,” Pierre said. “We need to build up this fire like we’re ready to receive their gift when they bring it. I told them we were hungry and needed food. So it’s best we look like we’re ready to cook it.”
Acknowledging that, Luke headed off to the river to gather driftwood. There wasn’t much to be found on the plain around the camp.
As promised, sometime later after the fire was blazing high, a lone rider entered camp, tossed off a fresh killed antelope, and rode out whooping as the others had.
Pierre and Luke went right to work gutting and skinning the antelope, forgetting Breanne was in the wagon. And as it turned out, it was a good thing they did, because moments later two more young riders raced into camp. One tossed out a deer and the other five rabbits. But these two didn’t leave right away. Pierre needed to do some palavering before that happened.
“What was that about?” Luke asked.
“He said they wouldn’t be back, so we can let the woman out of the wagon now,” Pierre laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Breanne said from the wagon.
“They know you’re here. They saw you taking a bath.”
Breanne came out of the wagon.
“Where were they?” She looked around to see where they may have been hiding.
“Anywhere and everywhere. Those people can hide in that grass over yonder and you will never know they are there. Just best not be afraid,” he said seeing her tense up. “Most Indians respect bravery. They won’t tolerate a coward.”
With that, Breanne shook it off and went to help with the butchering.
“What else did they see?” she asked.
Pierre pointed his bloody knife at Luke and laughed again.
“Oh no!” Breanne said, glaring at Luke. “Now I have to worry about that too.”
“Get used to it. You’re in Indian country now,” Pierre said. “Best just let them see what they want to see and be on their way. If not, they’ll shadow you for miles till they do.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Sure. What choice do we have?” Pierre said.
“Luke?”
Luke shrugged his shoulders. “Sure.”
“Okay,” Breanne said, “but they’re going to need to be hid pretty good to catch me doing any of that again, out in the open.”
In her anger she grabbed a rabbit, cut the skin at the neck, then swiftly yanked the hide off in one pull, as if she were removing a sock.
Luke wanted to laugh at that, but knew he best not.
By mid-afternoon they had all the meat hanging in strips from green willow poles over the fire, except the rabbits, which were in a pot being boiled for a stew. Pierre was out now looking for Indian potatoes among the willows along the river. If found, they would be included for added flavor.
It was the morning of the fifth day when the meat was taken from the green willow poles and packed away in cloth bags for future consumption. With nothing to keep them here any longer, they packed up and traveled on. The Lakota, during this time, had, from a distance, kept a watchful eye on them, as they were this morning from a nearby hilltop.
“Will they ever leave us alone?” Breanne asked from the seat of the wagon as Pierre drove. Luke, having tended the fire throughout the night, rested in the back of the wagon.
“You best hope not,” Pierre said. “They’re honoring their promise of safe passage.”
“For how long?”
“Till we get to the Cheyenne. They won’t go beyond that,” Pierre said, gumming his morning pipe.
“Why?”
“Bad spirits. They believe the devil lives there in the marsh lands around the lakes on the other side.”
“Does he?” Breanne asked, having a little knowledge about such things now that she was reading that Mormon Bible.
“The devil is everywhere. I have my doubts he is just there,” Pierre said. “Many years ago, when their people were driven here from the east by white settlers, they came to that marsh. Half the tribe wanted to go around, while the other half wanted to go through. Well, as it turned out, the half that went through never came out the other side.”
“Oh no!” she said. “And are we going through there?”
“Around,” he said, and removed the pipe to draw a map in the air. “We want to be on the other side at the creeks and streams that flow into the Red River to the east.”
Relieved, she asked, “How far?”
“A week, maybe.”
“Will we have a cabin, like Luke said?”
“Where the beaver are good, we’ll build the cabin,” Pierre said to appease her. If Luke had promised it, then he would help make it a reality, but building roots was not the way of the average trapper. Things changed. Streams got trapped out, which required moving on to new creeks, sometimes far away. And building a cabin at each new location just wasn’t practical, seeing as how they may be there only one season.
What Pierre affirmed gave her hope for a future, and she took in her surroundings. Would she be calling this country home for a time? For the remainder of her life? Would she bear and raise children here? Would she eventually die here? Perhaps, but only God knows for sure. At least that is what the book said, and who was she to doubt those words?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It started to snow that afternoon, large lazy flakes, and continued doing so all the way to the Cheyenne six days later. There was at least a foot on the ground when they pulled up to make camp on the river’s gravelly banks, and it was still coming down.
What to do with the animals was a question now. With only two bags of oats remaining, there certainly wasn’t enough to stretch through the horses and still have enough for the mules’ twice daily ration the remainder of the trip. After some discussion, Pierre suggested they cut the horses loose. Left to roam, they may paw up enough green shoots and grass roots to survive. Luke hated to see the great horse Sir Henry go, but what needed to be, needed to be, he reasoned.
The following morning the storm broke, and a bright orange sun eased up over the low hills to the east. It felt good on Breanne’s face as she and Luke kicked through the knee deep snow among the naked trees that bordered the river in search of firewood. It was a winter wonderland like she had never experienced before, and she gloried in the purity of it all. Even the spiny tree branches had snow stacked high on them, presenting a ghostly appearance. The river sat dark and lifeless, recessed into the deep white that confined it.
Huge stacks of dead tree branches were made, and new territories were scouted, until a great supply was stockpiled. No telling how long they would need to be here or if it may snow some more before then.
Coming back to camp after hours of being gone, they were surprised to see Pierre was not alone. Near the fire was a bearlike man inside a grizzly bear robe. He had a rusty red beard that hid his large face near completely and made it difficult to tell where the grizzly ended and the man began. A
top all of that was a beaver cap that covered the rest of him, except for the eyes, dark and piercing.
Luke held Breanne back for a time until it became evident there was no danger in this stranger’s presence.
“Tracking a bull moose till I lost him in the fresh snow a day back,” the stranger was saying as they came up, arms laden with firewood. “Howdy-do!”
“Howdy,” Luke said as he dropped his load near the fire and reached out to take the hand offered.
“This here is Charlie…” Pierre said.
“Beaver Charlie, they called me in the mountains. They call me Tanglute in these parts. It’s Sioux for Red Beard. Haven’t heard Charlie mentioned for a goodly spell now. To my woman I’m just Mato. It means bear,” he laughed through a near full set of yellow brown teeth.
“So what do we call you then?” Luke asked.
“Call me anything you want, but just so you know, my rightful name is Charles Fitzpatrick, born in Boston eighteen ought one. Got to reading about Lewis and Clark during my schooling and had to come look for myself. Came when I was nineteen and been wandering ever since. Wondering why!” He laughed some more.
“Luke McKinney. And this is my wife, Breanne.”
“Best keep her under wraps,” Charlie glared at Breanne. “Plenty inviting for a young buck on the prowl. That yellow hair might ought to be kept covered or blackened with some pine soot. Many Indians never saw that before, I’m sure. May get them to thinking you’re special, like a white buffalo, or the snowshoe rabbit.”
Luke couldn’t see how that could put her in danger if the color was special, but he would talk to Pierre about it once this Charlie Fitzpatrick was gone.
Hearing that as well, Breanne went directly to the wagon and returned with the blue flowered bonnet Effie Nelson had given her as a parting gift, and put it on. Little did she know now that Effie and Tom Nelson were no longer alive, thanks to Jeb Dunlap. In fact, they were killed the very day she had been gifted the bonnet, the morning they left out for Independence. What a happy day that was for her, she remembered now. And that happiness remained with her yet, regardless of dangers that popped up occasionally. She just knew everything would work out in the end, once they arrived at where they were going and the cabin was built.
