by J. R. WRIGHT
The smallpox had passed, taking with it nearly half the tribe. Mostly it had been the old and the very young that had died. Chief Brave Fox himself had suffered badly from the disease, but had recovered, deeply scarred.
“Does Brave Fox wish to see his son?” Taloma asked as she approached him one sunny afternoon a short time later.
“I have no son,” he replied looking away.
“The baby boy from the woman that first died of the sickness weeks ago,” she said in a effort to jog his memory.
“So much has happened. So many of my people have died. Now I have no children and no squaw to keep me warm,” he said, indicating his two daughters and wife had been among those who died.
“My chief, I grieve for you. I will go now and leave you to your sorrow,” Taloma said and turned to leave.
“No! Bring the baby. I will look at him.”
“He is here,” Taloma said, and moved around to his front so he could see.
It was then she caught sight of the deep scars on the old chief’s face. She was shocked, but did not let on. She held up the cradleboard so he could see the beautiful face before him.
“How come he live, and so many others die?”
“I moved him away from the village, as you asked. Away from the sickness,” Taloma explained.
“I will need son more now that I have no one,” Brave Fox finally said after a long time studying the boy. “The eyes, are they not blue?”
“No!” Taloma panicked. “The fever must have ruined Brave Fox’s ability to see colors as they are.”
“I still see the blue of the night sky, old woman. And the last I looked it was deep blue!”
“You don’t know what colors you see!” Taloma snatched up the baby and turned away, as if preparing to leave.
“Taloma will move to Chief’s lodge. Be there to help raise the boy, become wise.”
“Taloma too old to have need for a man.”
“Chief has no need for a woman. Have need for mother for son!” he shouted in anger at her insinuation.
“Good, then Taloma will move lodge next to chief’s. Mother in one lodge, father in other. Boy be raised by both,” she suggested to appease him.
“What have you named our son?”
“He has yet to be named,” Taloma answered, afraid to tell him that she had been calling him white woman’s son: cinks wasicun winyan.
“Then he will be called, Chaska – First Born Son,” he said.
Taloma immediately liked the name. It sounded of power and greatness. Since she was now considered the mother, she was even more elated.
“Good name for our son,” she said, handing the baby to Brave Fox as if he were to personally tell him what his new name was.
Brave Fox again looked closely at the boy. “Why is he pale as the winter snow? Is he becoming sick?”
“No!” She pulled the baby back. “The mare’s milk is not enough for him. He will get his color later when his strength returns. He is fine.” Taloma quickly walked away to avoid any further questions about the baby’s coloring.
After that she made sure Chaska got enough sunlight each day to take away the paleness. It was later that she found herself at a loss as to what to do: Chaska’s eyes were changing to an even brighter blue.
Taloma knew she had a choice to make. She could tell the old chief the truth and risk losing Chaska. Or, she could use her influence as a woman of wisdom, somehow convince him the boy was a gift from the gods, sent to someday deal with the whites as one of their own.
After all, no one could explain the white buffalo they had seen the season before. Many in the tribe considered it a friendly spirit, and some even worshipped it. And ultimately it was Brave Fox who ordered it not be killed.
Taloma chose to do the latter. The old Chief listened with great interest. Then, when she was finished, he simply grunted and walked away, as if not concerned. She was confused by his reaction, but knew the worst would come at another time, when she could no longer conceal his golden hair. What’s a normal boy to do if he’s not allowed to swim in the creek with the other youngsters? He will do it anyway, she knew.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
No sooner had Beaver Charlie deposited Breanne at his cabin, than he wandered off again. This time, however, he was gone for only a short while. The young white man he returned with was a Methodist missionary, who was sent to bring Christianity to the nearby village of Sauk Indians. He resided in a small, rather crude log cabin built by an earlier missionary who spent several years here.
“Ma’am, this here is the missionary I told you about,” Charlie told Breanne. She was sitting on a tree stump, exhausted from the days of walking. “Budd’s his name.”
“Mister Budd.” Breanne came to her feet and put on a smile as best she could under the circumstances.
Harry Budd was a smallish, dark haired, bespectacled man, of little attraction in his rumpled black suit. He had signed on to come west for a period of one year as part of his study to become a minister. That one year commitment, however, would soon be up, and he was very much looking forward to going home.
“Miss,” Budd returned and offered a limp hand.
“It’s Missus!” she returned sharply. “I am a married woman, Mister Budd.” She ignored the offered hand. She was in no mood for such chivalry.
“Of course, ma’am. I knew that from what Charlie has told me. But, as I understand it, your husband thinks you are dead.”
“Reviewing what may have caused him to think that, I can understand why. However, as you can see, I am, in fact, very much alive. Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Budd?”
“Yes, of course you are,” looking her over more closely now. No doubt she could be mistaken for an Indian woman, the way she wore the doeskin dress and moccasins. That is, if her braided hair was not so golden against the bronze tanned face. “But now it seems your husband is missing. Charlie tells me that he thinks Mister McKinney has vacated the area for good.”
“That may well be,” Breanne returned. “But I won’t be believing that till I see with my own eyes that Luke is not at the cabin. Will you take me there, Mister Budd?”
“I will be happy to, once my replacement arrives in a month or so. We can go by there on my way back to Fort Union. That is where I will catch a boat back to civilization. Will you join me, Missus McKinney?”
“Depends on what you call civilization.”
“Independence, St. Louis, New Orleans. From there, I will catch a steamer on back to New York.”
“Luke would never go back to St. Louis. New Orleans is out, as well. He may have gone back to Independence. I’ll go with you that far if he is not at the cabin, Mister Budd. But not a step further, if that’s agreeable with you?” She knew that if Luke wasn’t in Independence, then he had gone west from there. And if she could find out where west…
“Agreed,” Budd responded and produced the hand again. This time she took it for a hardy shake.
“Say,” Charlie said, “there was a paint horse left behind at your cabin. I brought it here figuring to return it, if ever Luke or Pierre returned there. You may as well take it. Brought the saddle, too, that was in the wagon.”
“Oh, thank you, Charlie!” Breanne said, suddenly elated with the prospects of finding Luke again. So elated that she ran to him with a big hug – a brief one, as Charlie’s young Indian wife suddenly appeared out in front of the cabin and was giving them both the evil eye.
Harry Budd’s replacement came nearly a month to the day later, as hoped. It was another young missionary that needed to be introduced among the Sauk Villagers and taught the ropes.
After a few days of this, Harry Budd and Breanne said their goodbyes and thank yous to Beaver Charlie and headed out. Three days later they arrived at the cabin by the creek. At first sight of it, Breanne reined in the paint horse and admired the structure she had never seen completed. It was even more adorable than she had imagined, nestled into the woods by the creek. Other than the door being of
f its rawhide hinges, it looked inhabitable. The porch she had requested was so welcoming with the shade it produced on a hot day like today.
After a time of looking about and seeing no one, they rode on across the creek. It was then Breanne spotted what were clearly two graves. She dismounted and slowly walked up to them. One, of course, was supposedly hers, from what Beaver Charlie had told her. But who was in the other one? This set her heart to racing as she knelt between the two of them and began removing rocks from each.
“What are you doing?” Harry Budd came down from his horse and rushed to her. “Desecration of a grave is sinful!”
“I have to know!” she shouted, near hysteria.
“Wait!” he said and pulled her up. “You can’t do this!”
That’s when she saw it. Beneath one of the rocks she had removed, something was peeking out from the dirt. Determinedly, she pulled away from his grasp and fell to the ground. Clawing away the dirt, she came up with a small, ten inch square piece of stiff rawhide caked with earth.
She raced to the creek with it and began washing off the black dirt. Almost immediately something scratched on it began to appear. Finally, when the entire message was revealed, she began to read.
“Here lies my pretty wife Breanne. She was killed by Indians spring 1840. Beside her is Pierre LeBlanc, a good friend, killed by Silas Jones, summer 1840. May they rest in peace. Luke McKinney”
“Who is this Pierre?” Harry Budd asked.
“Oh God, Harry. I can’t begin to tell you,” Breanne said in a near jubilant tone. “He was such a wonderful man.” She was so happy the other grave did not contain Luke; she found it difficult to be sad for the loss of Pierre. That would come later, she knew, and turned the piece of rawhide over where she saw more writing.
“And that Silas Jones fellow…?”
“It’s a long story, Harry. Now listen…” she said. “‘We are leaving this place today. Hope to make Independence by fall.’”
“Independence! He went to Independence…” But, who is the other person in ‘we’? Was it another man? Or was it a woman?
“Who went with him?” Budd sounded again.
“I wish I knew,” she came up from her knees at the creek’s edge and looked questioningly at him.
“Maybe it was someone who came with that Silas Jones?” Budd said.
Confused, Breanne went back to the graves, replaced the rawhide message, and re-covered them with the rocks.
“Sounds as though they have been gone for near a year now,” Budd said. That she already knew from what Beaver Charlie had told her at the Teton village before leaving from there with him.
At the doorway to the cabin, Breanne looked about in the semi-darkness to see the red eyes of several rats staring back at her. Seeing a cooking pot on the floor near the door, she picked it up and began banging it on the log wall, until they scurried into their holes in the dirt floor. Entering, she began looking about, followed closely by Harry Budd.
There wasn’t much there except for her steamer trunk sitting to one side, appearing intact. That is, until she opened the lid, and another rat jumped out, leaving behind a nest made of her shredded clothes. That sight brought tears to her eyes, until she saw her beautiful pearls embedded in the nest in perfect condition, except for some filth on them. The Mormon Bible was there as well. It was a bit nibbled around the edges, but otherwise intact. She looked to see if the notation of her and Luke’s wedding was still inside undamaged, and to her elation, it was.
Emptying everything else out onto the floor, Breanne saw the two inch rat hole bored through the bottom and reached in to remove the false bottom. Under it was a two inch deep space intended for keeping valuables. She was thrilled to see that the buckskin pouch was still where she had put it before leaving Independence to come here. It was what Luke had insisted she take of Hans’ gold, three hundred dollars.
“What’s that?” Harry asked.
“Gold,” she said with a huge smile. “Enough to get me to where Luke is, I hope.”
“You needn’t worry about the fare from Fort Union to Independence, or anywhere else I go, for that matter,” Harry said. “Most all steamboats allow missionaries and their companions to travel free. And I have plenty of money for any other expenses we may incur.”
“But I’m not your companion,” Breanne said.
“Perhaps not in respect to what you’re thinking,” Harry explained. “But you are a traveling companion, are you not?”
“I suppose so,” Breanne said. “Harry, can we stay here tonight? This cabin was built for me, and I would at least like to spend one night under its roof.”
“I have no objection to that, providing the roof you speak of is out on the porch. I won’t be bedding down with rats.”
“The porch will be fine.” She left the cabin with her salvaged treasures. “And I’ll be taking one more bath in that creek before I go, if that’s okay?”
“If you’ll be so kind as to wait till after dark, I would appreciate it. I am human, you know! I have enough trouble keeping my eyes off you as it is,” he said, and laughed.
“It’s not a sin to look, Harry. The sin is in the doing.”
“Now that was profound!” Harry laughed some more and watched as she went to the creek, peeling off clothes as she traveled. “Dear God, please strike me blind so as the beauty I now witness may forever be the final image on my mind!”
Soon thereafter he turned away, buried his face in his hands against the cabin wall, and said, “Please forgive her Lord, for she does not know the error in her ways!”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
When they arrived at Fort Union, the steamboat Millie B sat at the levee. There had been plenty of mountain snow melt this year, and the river was high, allowing for a summer run this far up the Missouri. Since the river was deep, they were taking on a heavy load of buffalo hides bound for the port of New Orleans. Nearly twenty thousand of them were to be loaded onto the riverboat’s decks before departing. It was a task that was expected to take the better part of a week.
Because of the delay, Harry Budd decided to spend his days at the nearby Assiniboine Indian Village, spreading the Word to any and all who would listen. Even though he invited Breanne to accompany him, she flatly refused. She had had quite enough of Indians for one lifetime, thank you. She chose, instead, to remain in the cabin assigned to them on the boat. That is, except for times when there was no breeze, and the rising stench of the buffalo hides drifting in through the open window became unbearable.
At these times she would take walks along the levee, being careful to not venture too far in either direction. It was on one of these outings that she encountered Albert Larsen, who had come there for a tally on the day’s loading of hides.
“How much longer?” she asked, having seen him there near every day of the last five.
“Ma’am.” Larson tipped his hat. He looked her over quickly. She was dressed in the Indian things Taloma had made for her. “We’ll finish loading tomorrow. Then you’ll be on your way.”
“Thank you,” Breanne said, and went on with her walk, overjoyed they would soon be underway.
“Ma’am,” Larson called after her.
“Yes?” she said and turned to face him again.
“Well,” he said, smoothing his neatly trimmed, sandy brown beard. “We don’t get many white women here. White men either, for that matter, except for the boat people. Well, I was just wondering if it wasn’t you that was here last summer about this time. You were with a tall man, hair about the color of yours. He had a pair of English riding horses, red in color. He bought a mackinaw boat from me. Traded beaver pelts for it and some other supplies.”
Breanne came up to him. “Was his name Luke McKinney?” she asked anxiously.
“No. I think it was Hill. Tom Hill, if my memory serves me,” Larson said. But the name Luke McKinney was familiar as well. In fact, he had a “wanted” poster up in his office at the fort with that name on it. But the drawi
ng on it didn’t in any way match the face of the man he saw last summer. Not even close. That Hill had no missing teeth. And the man on the poster looked much older than he. Didn’t matter anyway. He heard from a riverboat captain McKinney was dead – killed by some Comanche raiders out on the Santa Fe Trail. Sacrificed his life to save the people of the wagon train he was with. It was Bill Cooper, a reliable man, who had told him that. So he knew it was true.
“Sorry, ma’am. I guess it wasn’t you after all. That other woman was a bit taller. And her hair was more of a brown, not golden like yours.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Breanne responded, completely confused. His description of Tom Hill seemed to fit Luke. But if it was Luke, why had he given a false name?
“Good day, ma’am,” Larson tipped his hat and walked away.
Thinking of the woman now, Breanne hurried after him. “Did you happen to catch the name of the woman?”
“I don’t believe so… no. I just assumed she was his wife. When they left out of here, he steered the mackinaw, while she took the horses and traveled the river road there.” He pointed.
Breanne followed the finger to the well-worn trail beside the river. “You said two red horses?”
“Yep,” Larsen said, “one stallion and a filly.”
“Thank you,” she said, wondering where the other red horse had come from. Then she remembered Luke’s note said Pierre had been killed by Silas Jones. He must have come there on another red horse. It made sense to her for the moment. But then, what had become of Jones, that Luke had his horse? Oh well! She guessed Luke would answer that once she found him.
“Good day, ma’am,” Larson said again, and again went on his way.
That night when Harry returned to the cabin, Breanne tried to tell him about a conversation she had had with a man from the fort.
“Was his name Albert Larson?”
“I never asked. Why?”
“Because I talked to him just an hour ago. He told me the two of you had a chat.”
“Oh! Why were you at the fort?”
