by Shirl Henke
He chuckled good-naturedly. “Oh, I do a leetle o’ this ‘n a leetle o’ thet. Got me a comfortable cabin farther up th’ Gasconade. I farm some corn ‘n a few greens fer th’ pot. Got fruit ‘n nuts growin’ on trees, fish in th’ river ‘n all the deer, bar, buff’lo ‘n other game I need fer meat ‘n hides. Tracked this here critter fer miles.” He gestured to the buck.
She dimpled, her eyes alight with mischief as she said, “But you don’t believe in killing bears.”
“Never kill any female whut’s breedin’ ‘er got young’uns. Thet’s purely wrong unless hit’s in self-defense. I done kilt bar when they wuz no way round hit. Good sweet meat ‘n warm bed robes.”
“I’m glad this time the bear got to keep her hide and I got to keep mine,” she said with a laugh.
He looked at her empty bowl. “Yew still hungry? I got more.”
“No, thank you, Monsieur Johnstone, but it was delicious.”
“Even if’n hit wuz skunk?”
“Even if it was skunk,” she averred.
“I’d be obliged if’n yew’d call me by my Christian name, Miz St. E’tane. Onliest one whut ever called me mister wuz ole Judge Braddock when he fined me ten dollars for runnin’ a still back in Claxton County.”
“Please call me Olivia. Do you have a still at your cabin on the Gasconade? I’ve heard mountain men make some fiercely powerful whiskey.”
“Naw, mine’s flatland whiskey, jist strong ‘nough to make a man right frisky, yessir. Smooth as a lady’s silk stockin’, too, but I don’t make much ‘n I never trade hit to th’ Injuns. Plumb ruins ‘em.” He scratched his head. “Course, hit plumb ruins lots of white men, too.”
“That’s why you only make what you can drink yourself,” she said.
“Yep, ‘n a wee bit more, jest in case I git visitors. A feller’s got ta be hospitable, doncha know?”
“Well, you’ve certainly been hospitable to me even without the whiskey.”
He hesitated a moment, then looked her in the eyes and asked, “Whut yew figger ta do now thet yew got yoreself so far from home?”
A strange faraway look came into her eyes. “Home,” she said softly. “I’m not sure I ever really had one. My parents were aristocratic gypsies, if you can imagine that. I’ve spent my life traveling from country to country. The longest time I’ve ever spent in one place was the past three years with Emory Wescott.” She shuddered. “I certainly have no wish to go back there.”
“I cud take yew back ta St. Louie, but if’n I did, how’d yew figger ta get ta New Orleens?”
She brightened. “I have a letter of credit from—well, never mind, I just have the credit and I can exchange it for passage on a steamer downriver.” Suddenly a thought struck her. “Oh, it’s in my bedroll. I left it at the river when the bear chased me. Everything I have in the world is in that pack.”
“Don’t go a gettin’ all het up. We kin go back ‘n fetch yore fixins soon’s thet mama bar takes her youngun’s off. Let me finish cleanin’ out thet deer. The way should be clear by then.”
He stood up and walked over to the carcass, then began removing the sticks inside the body cavity.
Olivia swallowed the bile rising in her throat and watched. At least the entrails had already been disposed of and she was far enough away not to smell the meat. She was surprised to find that she was curious in spite of the gristly nature of the task. Somehow when Micajah explained his philosophy about killing game only to provide for his basic needs, it made the gory task less repulsive. She had watched rivermen shoot wildlife from a moving flatboat just for target practice, or for the pure fun of killing, and it had sickened her.
Thoughts of how she had reacted to the deer Samuel had brought in for the squaws to clean came to mind. She squelched them and asked Micajah, “Why do you have those sticks holding the body open like that?”
“Got ta let hit git th’ air so’s hit starts ta cure and don’t go bad.” As he explained the various nuances of the butchering, he worked with a long, wickedly gleaming blade, carefully scraping out and cleaning the body cavity of the deer, tossing the offal into the grass some distance from the camp—for the possums and raccoons to scavenge, he explained.
As soon as he had completed his task, he washed his hands down at the edge of the river and then they retraced their path back to the place where Olivia had forded. When they reached the boulders, she shrieked in horror and dashed over to where the remains of her pack lay scattered across the ground. The blanket was in pieces, her clothes had been tossed hither and yon as if by a tornado. The worst of the damage was to the leather pouch in which the sacks of pemmican were stored, along with her few personal belongings. A tiny miniature of her parents lay unharmed in the dirt. She seized it with a sob, clutching it as she searched through the debris for the letter of credit. All that remained were a few badly shredded pieces of paper. She picked them up and tried to put them back together, but they had been water stained until the ink ran and several sections were missing.
Olivia knelt on the hard rocky ground, staring at her only means of passage out of the wilderness. Destroyed, utterly useless.
Micajah looked around, shaking his head. “Thet bear was lookin’ ferth’ pemmican sacks. See where she tore inta ‘em? I’m afeerd she pretty much tore up ever’thin’ else jist lookin’ fer vittles.”
“I’m trapped. Without that letter of credit, there’s no way for me to buy passage to New Orleans.” She blinked back tears. “I have nowhere to go.”
Micajah Johnstone hesitated awkwardly for several minutes as he watched the silvery droplets coarse silently down her cheeks. Shifting from one foot to the other, he cleared his throat and said, “Yew got grit, gal. I cud tell thet when yew faced up ta th’ bar. I expect yew cud make a pretty considerable o’ a woodsman...if’n yew wuz a mind ta. If’n yew want ta, yore plumb welcome ta come with me.” He raised his hands quickly as she looked up. “I don’t mean as my squaw ‘er nothing like thet neither. When my Mariah up ‘n died thet part o’ my life wuz done. Our daughter, Jo-Beth, looked a leetle like yew, only her hair wuz darker red like her ma’s. Sometimes I miss her...” His voice trailed off as he watched Olivia and waited for her to reply.
She smiled slowly and stood, looking up into the big man’s face. “So you expect I could be a woodsman—as good as Mr. Daniel Boone?” I’ll show you, Samuel Shelby, see if I don’t!
Micajah grinned. “Hell, yes, gal, as good as ole Dan’l hisself. Course now, tho’ I dislike ta brag, he warn’t ne’er as good as me.”
Olivia threw back her head and laughed.
Chapter Twelve
“White Hair says he has touched the feather. He will not betray the Americans,” Man Whipper said in disgust, wiping rivulets of sweat from his hairless brow with the back of his forearm. The autumn sun beat down blisteringly hot on the open grassland, causing the air to shimmer before their faces as they sat in a circle.
Stuart Pardee studied the young Osage warrior patiently. He had been searching for months for the small group of young renegades led by Man Whipper. His earlier attempts to bring his whiskey to the big villages on the Osage River had failed. That damnable presidential agent Shelby had beaten him to the council and convinced them to remain loyal to their treaty with the Americans. The Englishman had narrowly missed killing the bloody bastard and fully planned to finish the job as soon as circumstances permitted.
The summer had not been a total waste though. He had experienced far more success in his dealings with the Osages’ ancient enemies the Sauks and Foxes to the east. After securing their allegiance for the British, he had moved north and received assurances from the Sioux and the Rees that they would also support the father king, although they were too distant geographically to matter much. Now his most difficult task faced him, getting the most powerful of the Missouri River nations to fall in line.
His pale gray eyes penetrated the youth’s arrogant armor of self-assurance like two sharpened war lances. “And are you
afraid of this old man White Hair?”
Bad Temper, apparently second-in-command of the band, bristled and clutched the hatchet at his waist but Man Whipper only tossed his long scalplock over his shoulder and laughed disdainfully. “The Englishman must be a fool. He knows nothing of the council of the Little Old Men. White Hair is too strong with them to challenge openly—unless the English score a great victory in the east.” He turned to Pardee, raising the naked skin of his shaven eyebrows. “Have you such victory?”
“Soon there will be. Already the word spreads from the north to the south, far away as the place where the Father of Waters empties itself out into the great ocean,” Pardee said, gesturing dramatically. “Your brothers of the great Shawnee Nation move among all the tribes that live along the great river and far to the east of it. The Muskogee and the Seminoles, the Cherokee and the Choctaw, all listen to our father king’s friend Tecumseh. The chief of the Shawnee speaks of a vast confederacy stretching from the Great Lakes of the north to the ocean of the south. If all these tribes follow Tecumseh into war against the Americans, will the Osage be the only ones to sit beside their fires like women?”
“Your tongue is brave here, but would you speak thus in front of our council of elders?” Bad Temper dared.
Pardee narrowed his eyes. “Try me.”
Man Whipper considered as he took a desultory puff from the long clay pipe the three had been smoking, the tobacco a gift from the Englishman. He wanted to gain ascendancy in the tribal leadership by becoming war chief, but the position was nominally hereditary and appointed by the tribal council called the Little Old Men. Although not born into the line of chiefs, he might persuade the council to give him the position if he could impress them—and defeat Pawhuska, old White Hair, his bitter enemy. Perhaps the canny Englishman was just the ally he needed.
“When all the scattered bands return to the great village on the river to harvest their crops and prepare for winter, I will get you a hearing before the council, if you will speak loudly and offer enough presents to convince them of your father king’s generosity.”
“Only give my father king the opportunity, Man Whipper. He can be most generous,” Pardee replied, “most generous indeed.”
With that he produced a bottle of whiskey and handed it to Bad Temper, who uncorked it and took a deep swallow. Yes, only give my father king—and me—the chance...
* * * *
The autumn sun beat down on Olivia’s back as she dug potatoes from their small garden. It had been an unseasonably warm fall and the winter promised to be mild, which was good for the harvest and the hunt. She had already pulled carrots and selected several choice ears of young corn for the pot. Now all their evening meal lacked would be a fistful of wild onion that she would gather down in the woods. Smiling as a light breeze cooled the sweat trickling down her temple, she sat back on her heels and looked around the small beautiful valley that had become her home over the past months.
Micajah’s cabin was situated near the banks of the Gasconade, a twisting crystal clear river that snaked through beautiful rolling woodlands and into the foothills of a small mountain range to the south. The dwelling was made of cedar logs snugly chinked with mud and straw to keep the winter winds at bay. A simple one-story square of small dimensions, it had a flat roof made of poles interwoven with tough field grasses and covered with more of the claylike mud mixture that filled the walls, forming a waterproof barrier to summer rain and winter snow. Two windows and a door were the only openings to admit light, but the door stood wide-open and the greased parchment window coverings were neatly rolled up during warm weather.
Two crude flower boxes were attached to the sills, filled with a bright profusion of black-eyed Susan, butterfly weed and bergamot. Olivia could still remember her amazement when she saw the fierce looking mountain man pointing with such pride to the flower garden he had planted alongside rows of corn, beans, potatoes and other vegetables. He also grew herbs for cooking: thyme, parsley, sage and rosemary. Micajah was a man of many parts, who continually amazed her with the apparent contradiction between his fierce outer appearance and his gentle inner being.
“Only a fool ‘ed live on biled meat without no greens. I seen dozens o’ men die o’ th’ grippe from eatin’ nothin’ but meat. A man needs pone ‘n honey, too. Thet’s why I grow corn an’ keep a eye out fer a good bee tree whenever th’ honey supply gets low.”
“What about the spices and the flowers?” she had teased.
“Herbs make cookin’ taste better. My Mariah, she always grew ‘em. She loved flowers, too. Said they wuz a aid ta digestion. I carried th’ seeds with me all th’ ways from Carolina. I like th’ smell o’ flowers around th’ windeys when I look out,” he had added unabashed.
He was a dear man, patient and sensitive, with a lusty sense of humor. And he played a fierce fiddle to boot. Humming one of his Carolina mountain tunes, she carried her vegetables down to the water’s edge, stopping along the trail to pluck a few wild onions. He had taught her how to ferret out the bounty of nature, wild fruits, nuts and berries, as well as roots and tubers that were tasty in the stew pot, and what poisonous plants to avoid, such as the pretty grapelike berries of the nightshade vine.
Her first attempts to cook in the big granite fireplace in the cabin had been near disasters, but after suffering cuts and blisters and eating hard dry corn pone and rubbery venison, she was learning to simmer a tender roast in the Dutch oven and bake up light, crisp corn pone in a heavy iron skillet. She could even dry venison and buffalo jerky and pound it together with suet and berries to make tasty pemmican far superior to the greasy gray stuff Walks Fast had prepared.
The city girl was learning all the skills necessary to survive in the wilderness. She could skin out a buffalo, scrape the hide clean with an iron adz, then rub brains and ashes into the skin to cure and soften it. The first time she followed Micajah’s guidance and dug her hands into the squishy gray mass, working it into the buffalo hide, she remembered the queasy spoiled girl who had vomited when Samuel had ordered her to help the squaws clean a deer. She had vowed never again to let the sight or smell of blood affect her so.
Micajah took her hunting small game, teaching her how to patiently set a snare. She had mastered dressing plump wild rabbits for the pot as well as squirrels and turkeys, although her marksmanship was only now getting good enough for her to bring down wild game with a clean shot. She had learned to track prey through the woods and each day her aim grew better as she continued to practice on targets that Micajah devised. They killed only what they needed to eat, although Micajah had explained they would salt down an extra supply of big game to see them through the winter months. She was eager to go on the hunt, which they would undertake within the week.
Olivia washed the vegetables at the edge of the stream, then headed back to the cabin. A few yards from the front door a cooking pot hung on an iron spit suspended across a low bank of coals which glowed brightly in the afternoon sun. In warm weather they cooked outdoors to keep the cabin cooler for sleeping. She knelt at the side of the fire and removed the lid of the ancient iron pot. The rich succulent aroma of venison and rosemary wafted up. She stirred the thick stew, then quickly pared the clean vegetables and added them to it. While it simmered over the next several hours, she worked on cutting a carefully cured deer hide to make herself a warm winter coat.
“For a woman who never even learned to thread a needle while she was growing up, I’m not doing too badly,” she murmured to herself as she patiently plied the big steel needle through the tough leather the way Micajah had instructed her.
Around noontime she heard the sound of voices echoing down the valley and stood up with an anticipatory smile of welcome on her face.
“Umm, mm, somethin’ smells powerful good, Lil’ Sparky,” Micajah called out from across the clearing. He had given her the affectionate nickname not only because of her fiery hair but also because of her sometimes equally fiery temperament. He emerged from a d
ense stand of cottonwoods that grew up the side of the hill. A huge dirty white hound with a badly chewed right ear bounded past Micajah and raced to greet her, tail wagging as he let out a long, high-pitched howl.
“Dirt Devil, you old rascal you,” she said, reaching out to envelop him in a fierce hug as he nearly knocked her sprawling onto the ground. His liquid brown eyes filled with adoration and a big grayish tongue snaked out and slurped her with kisses.
Laughing heartily, she wrestled affectionately with the big dog, remembering how frightened of him she had been the first time she set eyes on his grizzled mangy old hide as he stood bristling, guarding the cabin door. It had not taken her more than an hour to win him from baring his yellow fangs to rolling on his back for scratches. Micajah had pronounced it nothing less than a full-blown miracle since the old hound had been abused as a pup, before he rescued him from a couple of drunken trappers. Dirt Devil had hated every other human he had ever come into contact with—until Olivia. Quickly they had become boon companions. She fed the hound choice tidbits and lay in front of the fire in the evenings scratching his belly and singing to him as Micajah played the fiddle.
“I brung us company,” Micajah said, as he neared the roughhousing pair. A tall, lithe Osage man walked beside him.
“Iron Kite, welcome,” Olivia said, rising and bowing respectfully to the fierce looking warrior. As was the custom of his people, he plucked all his facial hair and shaved his head except for the long scalp lock at the crown, which hung down his back adorned with feathers and shells. His lean, muscular body was a dark copper-bronze color, naked except for a breechclout, and covered with elaborate blue tattoos depicting his exploits in battle. His ears were pierced and the lobes greatly elongated by the weight of bone and glass bead earrings. Several heavy beaded necklaces hugged his throat. Iron Kite carried himself in barbaric splendor.
