by J. R. WRIGHT
“Come on,” Luke said and went to gather the saddle for the mule.
“Where are you going?” Chaska asked.
“To see Brave Fox.”
“Must not go! Spotted Horse angry! He no like it you bring gunpowder to village. This has made him look weak in eyes of people – that white man came with such a gift, when it is his job to provide such things.”
“To hell with Spotted Horse!” Luke said as he led the mule from the cave.
Chaska scurried through the hole, the way he had come in, gathered his horse from the hill above, and soon joined Luke in the valley below.
He followed Luke’s lead throughout the remainder of the day, all night, and into the next day before speaking.
Finally he got the nerve to ride up beside him. “Why Tom Hill wish to speak to old chief?”
“Breanne was my wife,” Luke said, his mind still whirling with possibilities.
It was a mile or more further before Chaska spoke again. “Tom Hill my father?”
With those words, Luke reined up on the mule. “Maybe I am,” he said, studying Chaska’s face for a reaction, and saw none. “Yes, I believe you are my son. I’ve thought that for a long time, but didn’t see how that could be possible. Now I’m beginning to wonder. I’ll know for sure, soon enough.”
When they neared the village, Luke handed Chaska the Hawken he had over his arm and said, “I am your prisoner. Take me to Brave Fox.”
Chaska immediately understood the plan and did as he was asked.
The people of the village gathered around and followed when they entered. Brave Fox was sunning himself in front of his lodge. He seemed surprised to see Luke, Chaska with a rifle trained on him. He attempted to rise but failed, and decided to remain sitting.
“Why come again to village of Lakhota, Tom Hill?” he asked. “Your gift of gunpowder and bullet lead was gratefully received by my people. Now they can hunt again. Already they want to make you chief.” The deeply wrinkled, white haired old man twisted up a smile and hissed through his teeth in faint laughter.
“I am here to visit with chief about a white woman who came to your village fifteen winters past.”
“Old chief’s memory growing dim. Does not remember of what you talk.” He looked into the faces of all those who had gathered around. “Old chief sleep now – go to lodge.” He reached out for someone to help him up.
Chaska obligingly gathered Brave Fox under the arms and lifted him to his feet. “Follow,” he said to Luke as he went about it. “He will speak with you inside, away from them.”
The old man was no sooner seated in the tepee than he began to talk in broken English, peppered with some signs to make it more understandable to Luke. “White woman come to village with two painted warriors of another tribe. I think they were Santee. These were the same painted warriors that came before to excite our young braves to raid a village to the north for horses. I was against it. I wanted no killing of people unfamiliar to me that had done us no harm in the past. Spotted Horse was young then. Easily persuaded. He did this evil thing without my blessing…”
Anxious to get on with it, Luke asked, “How long was this white woman in your village?”
“Till long time after baby born,” he gestured to Chaska. “She not know baby live. It was taken from her unaware and replaced with a stillborn.”
“So she never knew…?”
“Nah! She not know.” The old chief moved his head slowly from side to side and put a bitter look on his wrinkled face as if gravely disappointed that she never knew.
“Where did she go?”
The old chief shrugged. “I insisted she leave,” he said sadly. “Left with one we call Tanglute to I don’t know where.”
“Would this red bearded man be called Beaver Charlie?”
“Beaver man, yes.”
“Did this beaver man come to trade for furs?”
“Nah-nah, he come to eat. Beaver man Tanglute always hungry. Impossible to fill up!”
With that, Luke knew it was in fact Beaver Charlie who had come for Breanne, and laughed. The man was always hungry and was near impossible to fill up, as he remembered.
“Her name was Breanne?”
“Bree-Anne,” the old chief repeated and gave a firm nod.
“What did she look like?” Luke asked to be certain.
“Her image is there,” the old chief gestured to Chaska, who watched and listened intently. “Except she pretty!” he laughed. “She was with no meat on bones when come. Soon Taloma make healthy. She speak often of tall man who is no longer with her. She believe he search for her. She see him with her own eyes from afar many times, while she was with her captors. These thoughts always make her cry.”
This sent a shock through Luke that made him momentarily feel faint. Knowing he was that close at times, yet never once saw her, was disturbing. Although there were times, he remembered, when he had felt close, but not so close as to be seen by her or her captors. Poor Breanne; it must have been devastating, seeing him so close, and knowing he didn’t see her.
“She tell of big boats that belch fire, of small man who speak some in tongue of French, like Ojibwa. She has tooth missing at side, only when laughed…” He laughed and rambled on with more stories as his memory returned it.
“Did you ever hear from her again?” Luke thought the question stupid but asked it anyway.
“Nah, never,” Brave Fox sadly moved his head from side to side.
“Did Beaver Charlie ever return?’
“Nah,” he said quickly, but then looked about as if trying to remember. “No, not again.”
Once Luke was certain he had heard all Brave Fox had to offer, he thanked the old chief for his honesty and rapidly exited the tepee, only to come face to face with Spotted Horse.
“Why come back here when told to never return?” Spotted Horse shouted from a face twisted with anger. “Lakhota people do not need gifts from white man!” He spat to the ground.
“My word still speaks for my people,” Brave Fox said, first from his knees at the opening of the tepee, until Chaska stepped forward and lifted him to his feet. “Let this man go in peace!”
“He is not welcome here!” Spotted Horse argued.
“He has just brought us a great gift that puts much meat over our fires,” the old chief said in their native tongue, directing his attention to the many who were gathered about. “Let this man go in peace. Tom Hill is our friend. He shall not be harmed by any of you. He may someday be the one who must speak for our people with the Great White Father, so we may keep this place of happiness. He should be welcome in our village at each passing. Now go back to your chores, so he may leave in peace.”
With that the people began turning away, but not without some murmurings of agreement for what the chief had said. There was even an Ahu-poh or two heard among them.
“Old chief mistaken about the intentions of this man!” Spotted Horse started, shouting angrily. But no one waited around to hear what he had to say, and this made him even angrier. “The day will come,” he turned back to Brave Fox, towering over him.
“Yes,” Brave Fox returned undaunted. “Just not today. Maybe not tomorrow, either.”
With that, Spotted Horse stomped away, kicking up dust as he did.
Chaska gave Luke back his rifle, collected the mule from a nearby brave, and walked with him to the edge of the village.
“Will Spotted Horse be a problem once I’m gone?” Luke asked.
“Spotted Horse shamed by old chief. Very angry.”
“Will he cause trouble?”
“Must save face at council.”
“What do you mean?”
“He must find way to put shame on old chief.”
Luke knew what that meant and mounted the mule. “I have something for you,” he said and pulled the Kentucky rifle from its scabbard on the left side of the mule and handed it over.
With eyes locked on Luke, barely looking at the gun, Chaska said, “Does th
is mean I am now Tom Hill’s son?”
“Make me proud.” Luke laid a firm hand on his shoulder.
“I will, Father.”
With that, Luke handed over the bullet bag he had made up for the gun, reined over, and rode away, tears forming in the wells of his eyes. “I’ll be back!” he shouted as he kicked the mule to a lope and pointed her east. It would be a long ride, but he was determined to know for sure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The trail he took was not familiar at first, but Luke knew once across the Belle Fourche River, he needed to follow the north bank until reaching the Missouri. This time of year, mid-September, the Missouri would be low, he knew. He shouldn’t have great difficulty finding a place to cross it if the mule could swim. From there he would go northeast to the James and then on to the Big Sioux, which he would follow to the Red. Further north he would come to the clear water creek, where he hoped to find the trapping cabin and Breanne’s grave. The contents of that grave would reveal the final truth.
The calico mule traveled well, even better than when the chestnut was in tow. They averaged an estimated fifty miles per day, and the mule could have gone more. With traveling all hours of daylight and grazing most of the night, Luke figured the amazing animal would eventually tire, but strangely enough, she never weakened.
The cabin came into view on the thirteenth day, and to Luke’s surprise, a skiff of smoke was coming from the chimney. Reining up, he looked around to see if he was at the right place. The cabin appeared the same, except for some newer boards on the roof and an empty split rail corral off to one side.
No doubt this was it, but the place was occupied, which sent a twinge of regret through him. After all, this was his place. Or was it? Actually, no! He and Pierre had been squatters on Indian land when they built here. And so was whoever resided here now. But it was a special place, nonetheless. Breanne and Pierre were buried here. Well, at least Pierre for sure, and that made it hallowed ground, reason enough for regret someone had invaded it.
Nudging the mule ahead, he came close enough to see the graves were still there, pretty much as he and Sarah had left them, each covered with sizable creek rocks. And now that he was closer, and the afternoon sun was no longer in his eyes, he noticed Breanne’s steamer trunk on the porch, along with a rocking chair that wasn’t there before. And the remnants of a summer garden appeared on the sunny side of the cabin.
“Hold it right there, mister!” a woman’s voice came from inside the cabin.
Luke halted the mule. “I mean you no harm, ma’am. I just came to visit the graves. I put them under fifteen years ago now.”
The door to the cabin pushed open and a weathered, middle aged, very pregnant woman stepped onto the porch, a rifle in her hands trained on him. “Somebody special buried there?”
“Yes ma’am, my young wife, and a very dear friend.”
“Oh! Thank God, I thought they was kids. I put three under so far. I tend them occasionally – see that they are kept free of weeds and such. What was their names?”
“Breanne and Pierre.”
“Breanne and Pierre what?” she asked, lowering the old gun a bit.
“Breanne McKinney and Pierre LeBlanc,” Luke patiently responded.
“Then you must be McKinney?”
“Yes ma’am. Luke McKinney.” He hadn’t used the name in so long it seemed strange to hear it come from his own lips. “Now, do you mind telling me what you are doing here?”
“Well, my husband and I got real lucky. We struck out from Pembina three years ago looking for better trapping. We not only found it here, but it came with this cabin. I mean it isn’t much…. I’m sorry, did you people build this…?” She lowered the rifle completely and rested the muzzle on the porch boards at her feet.
“Yes. Pierre there, mostly,” he glanced back at the graves, letting his eyes linger there a moment, remembering how Pierre had slaved to give Breanne the cabin she wanted. All for not! She was dead before it was finished. Or was she?
Redirecting his attention to the woman, Luke said, “Ma’am, it’s getting late in the day, and I rode a long way to get here. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to take one more look at my wife, since I most likely won’t be coming this way again in this lifetime.”
“Well, I don’t see why not, being this was your place at one time,” she said, eyeing him strangely. “Did you say, take a look? You mean to dig her up?”
“Partly. Just her face. She had a beautiful face. I just wanted to see her again.”
“I don’t think that’s right,” she fumbled with the rifle as if ready to raise it again.
“Ma’am, do you have a name?”
“Of course I have a name, it’s Rosemary. Misses John Fowler.”
“Rosemary, let’s just say it was you in that grave for fifteen long years. Wouldn’t you be appreciative if your husband opened it up and smiled down on you, at least once during your long interment?”
“Now that you put it that way…,” she said, thinking on it. “I don’t know? I’m going to be awful uncomfortable watching you do that. My husband is going to be back in a day or so. Can’t it wait till then?”
“Where’s he gone to?”
“Pembina. He went to sell the season’s furs and pick up some supplies. Normally I go along, but he felt it would be too hard on the baby for me to go this time. We’ve buried three already… Did I tell you that?”
“Yes, ma’am. Misses Fowler, I just can’t wait for your husband to return. It’ll only take a few minutes. She’s not that deep.”
“Well, go ahead then. But I’m not going to watch,” she said, taking the rifle to the rocker where she sat and placed it across her knees.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Luke said and rode the mule on across the creek and up to the graves. “Down,” he told the mule and stepped off.
“My, your mule is trained awfully well.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Luke began removing the rocks from what he remembered to be the head end of the grave. When he got down to dirt over half the grave, he pulled his Bowie knife and began turning the earth.
“I have a spade shovel over on the garden side of the house,” Rosemary offered. “You can use it if you want.”
“Thank you,” he said and went for it.
After only a few minutes with the shovel, he turned up rotted parts of the blanket he had wrapped the charred body in. At that point he went back to using the knife for cleaning away around the head. “Please let this be someone other than Breanne – an Indian woman,” he said to himself. Perhaps one that stole Breanne’s boots at some point? The bones were black, he noticed; no burnt flesh remained as before.
His hand trembled as he carefully pulled the dirt away until the skull was exposed. Luke didn’t want to take it away from the rest of the bones. His heart raced as he carefully wiped away the decay and other matter. Finally, after he had fully uncovered the left side of the jaw, he moved back to let light into the hole. There they were – all pearly white – looking up at him. They were all there. No tooth missing – this was not Breanne. To be sure, he felt along both sides and found no missing teeth.
His heart instantly filled with joy. This was the final proof needed to satisfy him she lived. Unable to control himself, Luke screamed to the tree tops, “Naaaaaaaa Waaaaaa Teeeeeeee Naaaaaaaaaa!”
The Indian love call was so reverberating, the woman on the porch leaped to her feet, and the rifle fell with a thud to the floor. She bent down for it, but just as she did, felt a pain and had to sit back into the rocker. “What the hell!”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Luke said from the hole and began covering it over hurriedly.
Breathlessly, Rosemary said, “Mister McKinney…”
Luke stopped shoveling and looked up at her, sensing something was wrong by her tone. He saw her sprawled back in the rocker clutching her huge belly. “Ma’am…?” he said with concern.
“Mister McKinney, I think I’m going to need your help here!” she n
ear shouted this time.
“Oh, God no…!” He stepped away from the grave. “Are you having that baby?”
“I believe so. If you could help me inside, I think I can handle it from there. I’m an easy birther. Delivered the other three with no trouble. John usually helps me, but he ain’t here, is he?”
“No ma’am, he ain’t.” Luke climbed to the porch not knowing exactly how he was going to move this woman, or even assist. He just wasn’t experienced in such matters. He had assisted in the delivery of a foal once. But that was a horse. How this could be different he hadn’t a clue.
“You gonna just stand there?” Rosemary tossed out a hand.
With that, Luke snapped into action. He took Misses Fowler under the arms, lifted, then guided her into the cabin. There was an old iron bed against the far wall. He threw an arm under her legs, carried her over, and laid her gently on it.
“My, you’re strong.” Rosemary looked into his eyes. “John couldn’t do that.”
Luke didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t. He did think it strange, though, that she would even be thinking of such things in her condition.
“Just hand me that knife over there on the table, Mister McKinney. Then you can go back to what you were doing.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be just outside if you need any more of my help.”
“Get that grave covered! That thing being open is giving me the jeepers.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He left the cabin, closing the door behind him.
Once Luke had finished covering the grave, and the rocks were back in place, just as they had been before, he looked over at Pierre’s grave. How symbolic of his life it was to have an Indian woman resting next to him. Luke was certain he was pleased.
“Mister McKinney!”
“Yes ma’am,” he returned, already halfway back to the cabin.
“The baby ain’t breathin’!” she shouted frantically.
Luke burst through the door, took the baby girl from her, turned it up, and gave it a swat on its tiny rump. Momentarily she began to cry, miserably.
