As I stood there, I deliberated the idea of strikin’ up a conversation with her. I thought of all those times she’d given me the cold shoulder, or just downright cold silence, when I tried to talk with her. I was turnin’ to head back to the tradin’ post and to bed when a different sort of thought echoed in my mind.
I asked myself why I should have to fight shy of Little Doe when I’d worked so hard and traveled so far to put distance betwixt us. I reminded myself that I didn’t ask her to come here. She chose to follow me here with her brother, and so why should I have to live on pins and needles on her account? And so what if she gives me the cold treatment again? What kind of man really gives two damns ‘bout what a woman does or says against him, lest it’s some worthless, lily-livered, jack-a-dandy who ain’t worth his salt no how.
I quietly edged from around the massive tree. “Good evenin’, Little Doe.”
She turned to face me, her eyes reflectin’ the sparkle of the moonlight, her long, black hair swirlin’ with the movement of her body. “Osiyo, Tawadidi Ga Do Li.”
I didn’t know what she said, but her words sounded just as pretty as her little singsongs.
“Ah, you can talk.”
She had been facin’ the tree she was standin’ against, but she turned to face me and her dark eyes glowed in the autumn moonlight. “Yes, I can talk.”
“Only never to me.”
“You forget that I did speak to you once. I thought you were like the rest of the white men my people have known – arrogant and deceitful. In all my life, I’d never known a white man who did anything but look out for himself and his own kind. That has been the case all the way back before my people left their native lands to come west. I’d no reason to believe you were any different from all the other white men we Cherokee have encountered. But now – now I know I was wrong, and so I have come to make you my husband.”
I gotta tell you that comment hit me against the head like an axe handle! She’d hardly ever uttered a word to me – not even a part of a word – and now when she does say something it’s a declaration of intended marriage! I could’ve been toppled over with the touch of a finger.
She went on, and the tone of her words gave me to know she was all business.
“When I first saw you at the stickball game, long before you had noticed me after the game was through, my estimation of you was low. There you were with your long golden locks of hair, your strange eyes, and your Indian-sounding name. I asked myself, ‘Who is this white man who would deceive us with a look so very different from all other white men, men who carry great bellies and who grow unsightly whiskers along their jaws and who lie when their lips move? I laughed when I thought of how they would have to drag you from the field. But that never happened. You answered the players in bravery and determination, even though you had never played the game. You made yourself get up every time they knocked you down, and I knew you played with great pain. Then, you approached me after the game and I thought you showed great arrogance and undue audacity by your words. You might deceive others, I thought, but you would not deceive me.
“Then, as time went by, you saw me on other occasions and spoke to me again and again, whilst I remained silent. My opinion of you had not changed, even though Tickerneeskee told me you were a great hunter whose use of the rifle was uncommonly superior to that of most other men. That mattered not at all to me, as you could turn those guns on a Cherokee just as easily as you could a deer in the forest. At the same time, other Cherokee women said things in your favor, and asked me why I chose to rebuff you time after time. I became infuriated when they told me these things, as their words sounded like the remarks of giddy young girls.
“Then came the day when you rode by while I bathed in the river. I saw you long before you saw me, and I surely knew your behavior would be just as coarse as the typical white man who finds himself riding up on an unclothed woman bathing in the water. I watched you as you rode nearer, and I was watching you the very moment you first saw me. Then you did the unexpected – you rode away from the river bank so as to keep me shielded from your view. I still told myself that I did not like you, but your thoughtful behavior on that day heartened me and caused me to sing. Maybe you heard me?
“I watched you as you rode away. I heard the steps of your horse as you made your way farther along the trail. I told myself that even though you showed yourself different from most other white men, you still had a white man’s heart and were not to be trusted.
“Of course, I never knew how you came to find me at almost the same moment as did the ferocious cat. But you were there. You pulled off the great cat and handled him with your bare hands. Even as I lay there frightened, I knew your actions had been those of a great warrior, a warrior who risked his own life to help someone else. You will remember that I did speak to you then, for I asked you to bring the cat to Tahlequah so everyone could see what my great warrior had done to save my life. At that moment, I was so proud to be a Cherokee woman whose life was saved by such as warrior as you. I knew I would be the envy of every Cherokee woman. You brought me to Tahlequah, and I did not see you again until I came here.
“On the morning after you saved me from the cat, I awoke giving great thought to all that had happened. I did not know if my feelings toward you were love, but I knew that I would give my life to any warrior such as you, for I know such men are uncommon among all peoples. I told this to Tickerneeskee and then, against my instructions, he went to you. I did not profess to my brother my love for you, for I was, even then, unsure. But, when he saw you, he spoke of my great love. Of course, you did not believe him, for all you had ever received from me was childish behavior. Tickerneeskee told me you would not shackle me in a marriage with no love, and that the fear of doing so sent you away from us. It was then that I knew that I had been so very wrong, and it was then that I knew my feelings for you were born of true love. I whispered to the Great Spirit that I would love only one man in my whole life, and that one man would be Hawk Eyes. But you were gone and my heart beat heavy with a song of sadness.
“In the days after you left us, my songs were the croons of an empty heart, my cries those of a dove who has lost her life’s mate. Tickerneeksee, true to the Cherokees of the Corn Tassel Clan, told me of his plans to venture west of the Cross Timbers to find you, to return to you your horse and your totem, to see new lands and new peoples. He had other reasons, too. I know his love for you as a brother rivals only my love for you as my future warrior husband. I told my brother that I – a Corn Tassel woman – would follow him to the far horizons to see the same new lands and peoples, but I knew I mostly wanted to see you. He knows this as well. Out of fear there would be those who would thwart us, we told no one of our plans. Like Sequoyah, another Corn Tassel Cherokee who went before, we left Tahlequah in the dark of night for the far lands.
“And so now I am here, to proclaim my love for you, to give you my love for all eternity, to give you myself forever. If you will take me for your own, I will show you how a Cherokee woman can love one man for as long as the wind blows fair and the moon shows itself in the night sky.”
Well, I’d heard words spoken before, words of politicians and preachers, swindlers and big talkers, and they all seem to run in the same herd, but I’d never heard words like these. These words flowed straight from the heart of bona fide woman, a Cherokee woman!
Some fellers might’ve taken it hard to hear that Little Doe had nearly hated ’em for so long a time, and that it had taken a near miracle to turn her around – but not me. I understood exactly what she was sayin’ ’bout the Cherokee’s suspicion of white men, and they’d every right to feel as they did. No other tribe in the country had been lied to and kicked around like the Cherokee, a group of folks who worked mighty hard to get along with white men. If she hadn’t already won me over the first time I laid eyes on her, she certainly had won me over there on the banks of the North Canadian River underneath those endless stars and that big autumn moon. I belon
ged to her the first time I saw her, I belonged to her there on the banks of the North Canadian, I belong to her now, and I will belong to her forever. When she finished her words to me, I placed my hands alongside her beautiful brown face, ran my fingers through her raven-black hair, and kissed her on those rose petal lips that tasted as soft as cotton and as sweet as store bought candy.
For many days thereafter, Little Doe and me stood hand-in-hand and walked step-by-step. We never left each other’s sight. Of course, we talked of our future together. We talked long into those crisp fall nights, makin’ plans to see the far western lands and bringin’ our children into the world. But, Little Doe made it real clear to me that there would be no love makin’ until we’d been married right and proper, either in a traditional Cherokee ceremony, which was her first choice, or by a white preacher man if I insisted. I didn’t insist.
By my estimation, we were husband and wife that night on the North Canadian when she professed her love for me. Those were the most beautiful words ever spoken to me – before or since – and I figured that was all the weddin’ ceremony I’d ever need. Just like I would do on many another occasion, I gladly gave in to Little Doe, promisin’ her that we would surely get married and we would do so in a Cherokee-style weddin’. This made her some happy, and I never wanted to see her any other way.
The main thing we’d need in order to have us a Cherokee weddin’, Little Doe said, was a recognized Cherokee priest or priestess. Well, I weren’t seein’ any of those fallin’ out of the sky, so I knew it might be some time before we could get ourselves hitched as man and wife.
None of that mattered to me at all, because, I gotta tell you, me and Little Doe became the closest pards a man and woman can ever hope to be. She told me she wanted to set out on a hunt with me just as soon as we could and before the first snows of winter blew. She told me Tickerneeskee had spoken of our hunts back in the Cherokee Nation and had often bragged ‘bout my trackin’ skills and shootin’ accuracy.
I replied that Tickerneeskee was over statin’ things a mite, but she insisted that we set off on the good hunt together so she could witness firsthand what her brother had been talkin’ ’bout.
She held her head high with her chin out and boasted she could dress out any game I brought down, carvin’ out the choice meats for dryin’ and savin’ the hides for clothes she could make herself. Who the hell was I to argue any of that? My aim was to spend every wakin’ hour with her for the rest of my life, so settin’ out on a long hunt with her sounded just fine and I told her so. She shrieked with glee and said she was ready to set out at once, that we would make the best huntin’ team on the frontier. Of course, when I saw that she was just as excited with the thought of bein’ with me as I was with her, well I knew that everything was just fine in the world.
My idea was for us to head into that Cimarron River country to the north, as I’d already seen some of that country to the south of us along the South Canadian. It’s always been in my nature to strike out for the new country, to somewhere I haven’t been before, around the next bend and beyond the farthest peak.
No man was more familiar with the country thereabouts than Chisholm. Little Doe and I set down with him whilst he explained all of that country to the north, such as where lay the quicksand in the river bottoms and where were the noticeable landmarks. Little Doe was just as attentive and understandin’ to what he said as I was, and it was then that I began to see her natural-born frontier savvy.
So off we rode one chill mornin’, me atop Amigo and her atop Red, a horse she’d grown accustomed to whilst on the trip westward from Tahlequah with Tickerneeskee. We rode equipped with enough dried venison to last us a month. Of course, we aimed to cook fresh meat over our campfires of a night. Behind our saddles were tied our bedrolls, such as we would need against the chill night air that would kiss against us on those wide-open plains. I was in all my glory to tell you true. There I was ridin’ out with my life’s true love, a beautiful Cherokee maiden just as excited to begin her life with me. I can’t begin to tell you what she saw in a no-account like me, but I also wasn’t askin’ any questions.
We made the fifty or so miles north to the Cimarron River in a couple of days, Little Doe and me takin’ in the sights, sounds, and smells of the wide-open country along the way. We’d no sooner made camp in a grove of cottonwoods along the river before Little Doe went to work. She commenced cuttin’ poles to use for hide tannin’ frames. She commenced lookin’ along the ground for old cottonwood logs what had lost their bark. She said we’d drape our hides over these softer logs for scrapin’. She told me newly cut logs were too hard for hide scrapin’, that when you ran scrapin’ tools over a hide draped against a hard log you risked rippin’ holes in the hide. I told her this made sense to me and we went to work and found several of the kind of logs she wanted. Then, she put me to work findin’ all of the rotten wood I could find. She told me we’d use the rotten wood for hide tannin’. She said to find all I could and to put it in a big pile, and so I spent the first full day along the Cimarron doin’ just that.
When I’d made a pile ’bout ten feet wide and two feet tall, she laughed and said we’d need even more rotten wood than that. So, I went ’bout makin’ another pile the same size as the first. When I asked her if this would be enough, she smiled her beautiful smile at me and said that maybe that would be enough but that we’d have to see.
Of course, Little Doe could tell me to build a pile of rotten wood the size of house and I’d have done it. Hell, I was some interested to see just how she was going to put all of this wood to use, anyhow.
It weren’t anytime at all that I started bringin’ in whitetails. We both worked at dressin’ these deer out, keepin’ the choice meat for dryin’ and cookin’ the back straps right then.
I soon found out that Little Doe was a master at workin’ a hide soft. She spent most of her time softenin’ the hide to use for clothin’, and the tannin’ of the skin came after and was not as important to her, even though she was master of that, too.
No sooner had I brought in a good size whitetail and had helped Little Doe in dressin’ it out, she’d start workin’ the hide immediately. She carried hand-carved bone tools used for the scrapin’ of the flesh side of the hide. She’d have this work mostly done before layin’ the hide in the ice-cold waters of the Cimarron and coverin’ it with heavy stones to keep it from floatin’ downstream. The hides would soak for five or six days in the cold water and this would work to loosen the hair considerable.
Once removed from the cold water, she placed the hide over the old cottonwood logs I mentioned before. She used an elk horn with one end shaped like a hoe to scrape off the sinew, fat, and flesh. If any stubborn hair was left on the hide she would sprinkle in a lye made of wood ashes, roll the hide up real tight, and then allow a loosenin’ effect to take place. In no time, the hair was loose enough to remove.
Once she had the hide cleaned up pretty good, she stretched it tightly across the wood frames she’d made. She then went to massagin’ into the hide a paste made from the brains of the very deer whose hide she was workin’. She said the brains from one deer were enough to work into one hide to help make it soft and pliable. After the brains had been worked into the hide, she removed it from the frame and began a process of soakin’ and wringin’, and she did this again and again.
Then the tannin’ part happened. She shaped the hide into a sort of bag, usin’ sticks to keep one end open. She placed the hide bag over a fire of rotten wood, the same rotten wood I’d spent so much time collectin’ some days before. The reason she preferred a fire of rotten wood is because it produced the kind of heavy smoke necessary for the tannin’ of the skins. The open end of the hide bag faced down toward the fire so as to evenly catch the bulk of the smoke, the other end of the hide bag she tied to a tree limb, keepin’ the bag suspended over the fire.
She seemed to watch constantly over this step, sayin’ it was important to maintain an even flow of smoke in
to the hide bag in order to achieve a consistent color of yellow, tan, or light brown. She aimed for a tan color with all of our hides. Little Doe was some proud of her finished work, sayin’ these buckskins would outlast any cloth the white man ever made, and I never doubted her for a minute.
“You are a great hunter, just as Tickerneeskee bragged. We will take our meat back to Chisholm’s to help hold all of us against the upcoming winter nights, and I will use these hides to make my husband the clothing of a warrior. I will make clothing for the one woman fit to be his wife.”
I knew we had enough hides for her to do all of that and then some, and I knew she’d be every bit as good as her word. I couldn’t wait to see the clothin’ she’d fashion for us. I knew that whatever she created I wouldn’t trade for any fancy outfit made back east, or even in Paris.
After several weeks of good huntin’ along the Cimarron, we decided to begin the ride back to Chisholm’s. It seemed like we’d had great luck on the hunt and I could tell this made me to sit well in the eyes of Little Doe. Of course, the main reason we’d done so well was because I made it a point to stay on the hunt and away from Little Doe as much as possible whilst we were out there along the Cimarron. Had I stayed in camp with her, my mind would’ve drifted to thoughts of love makin’ and not huntin’, and I wouldn’t be bringin’ in fresh kills and she wouldn’t have any hides to work.
As much as I was happy to be all alone with Little Doe out there on those wide-open plains, there was a part of me glad to be gettin’ us back among folks. I figured there’d be less temptation on my part that way, and we were both hungry for any news Chisholm might have from around the country thereabouts.
Hawk Eyes Page 12
