Wilderness Days

by Jennifer L. Holm

  “Mr. Black is after you!”

  He blinked. “Who?”

  “Mr. Abraham Black! He came through the settlement. He’s coming to kill you.”

  Jehu shoved forward, Keer-ukso right behind him. “We know all about it. M’Carty told us,” I went on.

  “What are you talking about, my dear?” Mr. Swan asked in a curious voice.

  “Mr. Black, he wants to kill you,” Keer-ukso added.

  “I don’t know anyone called Black,” Mr. Russell said with a shrug.

  “Yes, but M’Carty said that Mr. Black was after you, and that he would kill you if he caught you!”

  Mr. Swan and Mr. Russell exchanged a glance. “Had M’Carty been”—here Mr. Swan gestured as if tipping a glass—“had M’Carty been imbibing?”

  “Yes, but it was just whiskey,” I said, recalling the nearly empty bottle.

  “My dear,” Mr. Swan began. “M’Carty has a habit of … how do I say this?” He cleared his throat loudly. “He has a habit of conjuring up tales when he is imbibing whiskey.”

  “But he didn’t make it up! I saw Mr. Black!” I insisted.

  Mr. Russell didn’t seem the least bit concerned. “Told ya, gal, I don’t know any fella named Black.”

  “But you must! We traveled so far and we got caught in the mountains and a bear chased me and I nearly drowned and now you mean to tell me that you don’t even know Mr. Black?” I shouted. I was so vexed I wanted to kill the man myself.

  “Yep,” Mr. Russell said in a laconic voice, gray whiskers twitching. He spit a huge wad of tobacco.

  “But you were a fur trapper, weren’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you trapped for the Rocky Mountain Fur Company?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then you know about the Silencers!”

  “Silencers?”

  “Yes,” I hissed. “The other men you trapped with! The Silencers.”

  Mr. Russell chomped on his tobacco for a moment. “I trapped alone, gal. Didn’t trap with no one else.”

  Jehu and Keer-ukso and I shared a skeptical look.

  “But M’Carty said—”

  “My dear,” Mr. Swan interjected smoothly. “I do believe M’Carty has filled your ears with some very tall tales.” A rifle was fired loudly quite near us and we all flinched. A moment later the distinct sound of a brawl broke out.

  “What’s going on here?” Jehu asked.

  Mr. Swan looked very harried. “I’m rather afraid the negotiations are not going very well at all. As you can see, there are representatives from all the tribes in the area in attendance. It’s been a rather lengthy affair, as the governor has been obliged to speak the terms of the treaty in English, which are then translated into the Jargon, and then into the individual languages of all the tribes.”

  “And the terms of the treaty?” I asked.

  “The Indians are to sell them their land, and then they are all to move onto one designated reservation.”

  “For what?” Keer-ukso asked flatly.

  “A fee for the land, paid in installments, as well as the government’s promise to supply carpenters, blacksmiths, a school, a doctor, a sawmill, and farming equipment. There would be no liquor permitted, and the Indians would be allowed to come and go as they pleased from the reservation,” Mr. Swan explained. “Which, in some cases, unfortunately means that Indians shall be obliged to move away from land where they’ve lived forever.”

  Keer-ukso snorted at this point. “Why leave ancestors’ graves? Why live with all tribes on reservation? Everyone will fight.”

  Mr. Swan smiled weakly. “That is exactly what everyone is objecting to, my dear fellow. A Chehalis tyee named Tleyuk didn’t think this was fair at all.”

  Keer-ukso nodded. “I know Tleyuk.”

  “It became even more complicated,” Swan went on, “when the governor reluctantly acknowledged that even after the Indians signed the treaty, it would have to be sent back to Washington for approval.”

  “I see their point,” Jehu said. “If he doesn’t have any real authority to negotiate with them, why should they bother?”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid it all came to a head when Tleyuk’s father, who had retired as tyee because of his weakness for liquor, got his hands on some whiskey,” Mr. Swan finished lamely.

  “Or was given it,” Mr. Russell growled.

  “It seems to be a weakness of many men in the territory,” I said, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

  Mr. Swan’s cheeks reddened, but he soldiered on. “Anyway, Tleyuk’s father began mumbling some rather incoherent support for his son, and the governor lost his temper and began yelling at the old man to sit down, and then everyone started shouting and it all fell apart. Tleyuk was the angriest of all because the governor had promised that there was to be no liquor at the meeting. He accused the governor of getting his father drunk on purpose. He said that the governor was probably just going to put all the Indians on ships and send them north, and that the governor could no longer be trusted.”

  “That sounds like something your old friend William would suggest,” Jehu said dryly.

  “Tleyuk is smart,” Keer-ukso agreed.

  Mr. Swan patted his forehead with a handkerchief. “Tleyuk is also very charismatic, and now he is refusing to sign the treaty. It’s been chaos ever since the negotiations broke up. It’s quite likely that the other tribes shall follow Tleyuk. I do believe the governor is in for some trouble.”

  “What happens now?” Jehu asked.

  There was a flurry of fighting nearby, and what looked to be one of the governor’s men went sprawling headfirst into the dirt. We stepped away.

  “If we survive the night, I imagine we get back to negotiations. Although it does appear to be a capital mess at the moment.” Mr. Swan yawned. “I do believe I’ll turn in. Coming, Mr. Russell?”

  Mr. Russell grunted and followed him, deftly avoiding a flying chicken leg.

  We watched as the two men disappeared into the throng.

  “Do you believe Mr. Russell?” I asked, dumbfounded.

  Jehu shook his head as if to clear it. “I don’t know what to believe.”

  Keer-ukso said, “Mr. Russell, he is not scared.”

  “You’re right about that. If I had a murderer on my tail, I’d look a lot more worried. And M’Carty had been drinking because of his leg,” Jehu mused.

  “For many days,” Keer-ukso said in agreement.

  “But what about Mr. Black’s scarred back?” I asked. “I saw it.”

  “You said it was kind of foggy, though, right?”

  “Yes, well, I suppose it was foggy, but I know what I saw.”

  Jehu sighed. “We have to take him at his word.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I said to no one in particular.

  “At least Mr. Russell is not dead,” Keer-ukso observed.

  “Not yet, at least,” I said darkly.

  “Jane,” Jehu said, “the man has no reason to lie.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I admitted. Indeed, Mr. Russell did not seem the least bit perturbed. The only thing he had seemed upset about was that I had abandoned his precious cow.

  After the best supper I’d had in days, I collapsed, sleeping restlessly because of all the noise and fighting. The next morning, as I was pouring a cup of coffee, a voice I knew all too well said, “Jane.”

  “William,” I answered flatly.

  “You’re looking …,” he said, his eyes raking over my outfit, pausing on my long, loose, tangled hair, “well.”

  I was immediately aware of my travel-worn outfit. My hand went to my hair to tame it, and once again I felt like the unpolished eleven-year-old girl who had been so eager to impress and bend and please a man she worshipped. I forced myself to put my hand at my side.

  “What brings you here?” he asked.

  I could hardly tell him the real reason, so I improvised. “I was delivering a very important communication to Mr. Swan.”


  He seemed amused by this. “Really?”

  “How are the negotiations going?” I challenged.

  “They are going as well as can be expected when negotiating with savages,” he said in a dismissive voice. He sighed in a world-weary way. “It seems that it will take some time. One of the savages is particularly tiresome, and a troublemaker as well. I have advised the governor to take him firmly in hand before his mutiny spreads.”

  Maybe he doesn’t like being bossed around by an egotistical man! I wanted to shout, but I just stared at him.

  “Jane, perhaps you should find somewhere to clean up. You must be embarrassed to be seen by everyone as you are,” William said abruptly. “If you run along to my tent, you can ask my wife for some suitable clothes.”

  I couldn’t help but think that his gray eyes, which I had once so admired, greatly resembled dishwater. How had I ever thought him handsome?

  “Jehu was right,” I blurted. “Mika kahkwa pelton.”

  You are a fool.

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh sorry, I forgot that you don’t understand the Jargon,” I said in an innocent voice.

  His face reddened.

  Mr. Swan appeared as if summoned. “My dear,” he asked, pulling me aside gently. “Would you please go find Mr. Russell? The negotiations are ready to resume.”

  “Of course,” I said, eager to be as far away from William Baldt as possible.

  “Capital. I believe he was cleaning the breakfast dishes in the stream over yonder, behind the tents.”

  I practically ran in the direction of the stream, crashing through the thick woods. Who did William Baldt think he was to criticize me? The man was positively infuriating. And besides, Jehu liked my hair just the way it was!

  I was so lost in thought that I almost screamed when I heard the soft voice whisper through the trees.

  “Obediah.”

  The whole landscape went still, the birds’ chirping fading in some strange muted way so that the only sound I heard was the soft wind blowing. I crept forward in the direction of the voice and saw Mr. Russell at the edge of the stream, hands frozen over a tin plate.

  Mr. Black was standing behind him, his hand casually resting on the butt of his pistol.

  “You’re looking older, Obediah,” Mr. Black said. “Your hair’s gone gray.”

  Mr. Russell’s shoulders sagged in weary acceptance, as if he had been expecting this for a long time. He turned around, his face lined and tired. He looked like an old man. “We’re both a lot older, Abe.”

  “That we are.” Mr. Black rubbed the handle of his gun. “Well then. I reckon you know why I’m here.”

  “Reckon I do,” Mr. Russell replied in a defeated voice. His left hand was shaking. “Mind if I finish with the rest of these?” he asked, holding up a dirty tin plate.

  Mr. Black shrugged. “Don’t see as if it’ll make any difference. Go on ahead.”

  I watched in suspense as Mr. Russell proceeded to clean the rest of the plates while Mr. Black stood by patiently, like an executioner waiting for the condemned to finish a last meal. After a few minutes there was a neat pile of clean plates.

  “I’m finished,” Mr. Russell said, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants.

  “Might as well get on with it, then,” Mr. Black said.

  “Might as well.”

  Mr. Black drew his gun, and Mr. Russell stared stubbornly down at the ground. He was just going to stand there and let Mr. Black shoot him?

  “Stop!” I shouted, rushing out of the trees and in front of Mr. Russell.

  Mr. Black looked startled. “Miss Peck?”

  “Gal?” Mr. Russell said in a shocked voice.

  “You can’t kill Mr. Russell!”

  “Gal, get on out of here,” Mr. Russell said, shoving me away.

  “No!” I whispered fiercely.

  “Miss Peck, I have no quarrel with you. None at all. But I’ve traveled a long way to put a bullet between that man’s eyes, and I’m not leaving until I do just that.”

  Mr. Russell went white.

  “You can’t kill Mr. Russell!” I said.

  “I’m a good enough shot that I can hit him between the eyes even with you standing there,” he said simply.

  “But he’s a good man!”

  “Good man? Do you have any idea what this good man did, my dear young lady?” he asked with a grim laugh.

  “No,” I said through the thick undercurrent of menace. Anything to keep him talking. Keep him from shooting Mr. Russell.

  “This good man,” he said in a mocking voice, “left me to rot after a grizzly ripped my back off like it was a piece of hide. This man took my food, my horse, my gear, and left me to die.” He laughed low, a mean laugh. “Except, I didn’t die. Bet you didn’t count on that, eh, Obediah? I know Toby, and Elijah, and Jack were real surprised to see me walking and breathing. Why, I didn’t even have to put a bullet through Toby—he just plumb dropped dead when he saw me standing there.” He gave a spooky grin. “Thought I was a ghost.”

  Mr. Russell flinched as if struck.

  “But I’m no dead man. See, I was born again on that mountain, Miss Peck, and I’ve got the scars to prove it.” His eyes narrowed. “But then again, I think you already know that.”

  “Please,” I whispered. “You must believe that they never would have left you there if they thought you were alive. They truly believed you were dead!”

  He laughed harshly. “Believe me, Miss Peck,” he said, his eyes still locked with Mr. Russell’s, “when I woke up I wished I was dead.” His face went dark in remembered pain. “For the first couple of hours I screamed for him, I screamed for them all. But they were gone. Long gone. Don’t know how long I laid there, my back festering from where that bear had clawed me.”

  I held my breath.

  “Do you know what I had to do?” he asked matter-of-factly, as if we were having a polite conversation.

  “What?”

  “I crawled, Miss Peck. I crawled for an entire day to get from where you’re standing to where I stand, and then I scraped the grubs from under a rotten log and laid on them. You ever sleep in a pile of grubs, Miss Peck?”

  I wanted to say that Sleeping in Grubs was not part of the curriculum at the Young Ladies Academy, but didn’t think he’d appreciate my joke.

  “Those grubs saved my life. Ate out the infection. But that was just the beginning. See, I still couldn’t walk, and they hadn’t left me any food, and they took my gear, so I survived for months on berries and bugs and tree bark. Whatever I could get to, crawling on my elbows. I don’t believe I’ll ever get the taste of tree bark out of my mouth.” He swallowed hard at that memory.

  This was perfectly awful. I could practically taste the bark myself.

  “By the time I reached the fort months later, my clothes had rotted away and I looked like a skeleton. That’s what the boy who found me thought I was. He screamed when he saw me.” He looked blankly at Mr. Russell. “I crawled the whole way, Obediah. Crawled two hundred miles through Indian country without even a knife.”

  He paused, looking up at the sky.

  “Took me nearly five months to be able to walk again. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. No,” he said, shaking his head. “The worst was finding out that my dear Lucinda, my only reason for living, was gone because this man here”—he punctuated the words by stabbing his pistol at Mr. Russell—“told her I was dead.”

  “Abe,” Mr. Russell said.

  “Not a word,” he said in a voice cold as death itself. “You killed her just as surely as if you’d shot her through the heart. You just walked up and killed my Lucinda. I can forgive you for the rest, but I can’t never forgive you for that.”

  Mr. Russell sighed in resignation.

  “Now you go on and move away, Miss Peck,” Mr. Black said, waving his gun. “You’re a good girl. But you should’ve taken my advice and gone back home.”

  “You don’t understand!” I said despe
rately.

  “I understand that I’m gonna shoot Obediah.”

  “This man saved my life!” I burst out.

  In the distance I heard the shouting of voices as the negotiations began.

  “What do you mean, he saved your life?” Mr. Black asked in a deceptively quiet voice.

  “When I found out that Papa had died, I wanted to die. I took to my bed in the cabin and refused to get up.”

  Mr. Black stood motionless.

  “I wanted to die,” I said passionately, “just like your Lucinda. You see, I couldn’t bear the thought of living in a world without Papa. I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone.” I twisted my hands. “I—I—stopped eating and—” Here I felt the old despair well up in me for a brief moment. “And everyone tried to help me, I know they did. But I was determined and …”

  “And then?” Mr. Black said in a voice devoid of emotion.

  I looked into his impenetrable eyes. “But Mr. Russell was more determined that I should live. He made me get out of bed. He saved my life,” I finished quietly.

  Mr. Black didn’t lower his gun. “So how’s that change anything?”

  “This, this”—I confess I almost said filthy man!—“this noble man is my family!” I declared earnestly. “He is all the family I know. If you kill him, you will be killing the only family I have.” I paused. “And me with him, because I tell you I cannot bear to lose another person.”

  Mr. Russell held his breath.

  “I beg you, please. Whatever wrong was committed to you was done by another man, a younger man, and he is not the same man. He has suffered and paid for his sins. You said I reminded you of another lady. Was it your wife? Was it Lucinda?”

  Mr. Black nodded mutely. “She had hair the exact shade as yours,” he said, his voice thick with grief.

  “Then please,” I begged, “in her memory, spare his life. She would not want his blood on your hands.”

  The gun was shaking in his hand, his face working with unnamed emotions.

  “She was my friend, too, Abe,” Mr. Russell said huskily, his eyes wet.

  Mr. Russell and Mr. Black just stood there, staring across the clearing, seeing each other as they truly were: two old men whose lives had been twisted by sorrow and anger and regret.