by Shirl Henke
Once she would have gone faint at the sight of such an awesome savage, but since coming to live with Micajah Johnstone, she had learned to deal with many of the local tribes, especially the dominant Osage. Micajah was friendly with all the Indians and traded fine steel hatchets, knives and other survival tools made by the whites in exchange for whatever took his fancy, or what he could trade to the white rivermen: fine buckskin vests worked with porcupine quills, beaded moccasins, clay pottery and water-tight rush baskets.
Iron Kite returned her greeting gravely, nodding to the “boy-daughter” of the Great Bear, as Johnstone was known among his people. She was dressed in buckskin leggings and a short cotton tunic similar to those her adopted father wore, and she hunted and lived as a Long Knife in the wilderness. He did not understand such a way for a female, but he had learned to accept her because of his respect for Great Bear. They conversed in a polyglot of English, Spanish and Osage.
“It is good to see you again. Are you prepared for the fall hunt with all your butchering tools sharpened?” Iron Kite asked with the hint of a smile dancing in his eyes. He knew the “boy-daughter” was going to hunt with Great Bear, not sit with the squaws until the killing was done.
Olivia smiled, calmly ladling up two big bowls of stew and handing one to their guest.
“Great Bear and I bring our sharp tools...and our sharp eyes to hunt the buffalo,” she replied.
Micajah slapped his thigh and guffawed. “I done tole yew my Lil’ Sparky’s got grit. Yew shouldda seen her th’ first time I put a carbine in her hands ‘n tole her she wuz gonna learn ta shoot.” Micajah took his bowl of stew and squatted down in the shade of the big cottonwood beside the house next to Iron Kite to continue his story. Contrary to Osage custom, Olivia served herself at once and went to eat with the men.
As Micajah was warming up to the story about her first encounter with a rifle last spring, she could still remember it as if it were yesterday. She relived it as he described it to their guest.
Micajah had insisted that she carry the unloaded rifle every time she left the cabin. “Git yew used ta th’ heft o’ hit,” he had said. She had practiced lining up the sights and squeezing the trigger. For days he drilled her, until she had “killed” scores of rocks, saplings, soaring hawks and scampering squirrels. At last he pronounced her ready to actually load and fire the .69 caliber dragoon flintlock carbine.
Under the big man’s careful scrutiny, she began just as he had taught her to do. She finished priming the pan and then stood ready. Micajah nodded his approval. “Touch slow, but yew’ll pick up speed with practice. Now, thet’s yore mark.” He pointed at an oak about seventy-five yards away where he had shaved off a knot on the trunk, forming a white blaze a little larger than one of his hamlike fists.
Olivia started to cock the hammer. “Hold thar, Sparky. Lookee. Whenever yew git th’ chance, use a rest. Jist lean yore left shoulder agin’ thet dogwood yore standin’ next ta. Hit’ll help steady the barrel. Thet’s fine. Now let ‘er rip.”
As she had practiced a hundred times, Olivia cocked the rifle, brought it to her shoulder, took a breath, and exhaled slowly, lining up the sights on the blaze. The trick was, her mentor had taught her, to do everything in one smooth motion. As soon as the sights “found” the target, squeeze, not pull, the trigger. The rifle cracked loudly, belching forth a cloud of smoke. Prepared for neither the deafening report nor the choking smoke—not to mention the kick of the rifle butt against her shoulder—Olivia dropped the weapon.
Her shocked glance flew to Micajah, who was staring at the distant oak while scratching his chin hidden beneath the dense undergrowth of whiskers. “Well now, yew missed yore mark. Hit the tree, though, seen the bark fly.” He turned his attention to the rifle at Olivia’s feet. “Cain’t be throwin’ down yore piece after ever’ shot, Sparky. Makes reloadin’ powerful slow.” He walked closer, carrying the flint that had been dislodged from the flash pan. “Kindey hard on th’ piece, too.”
Olivia pretended to be looking down at the weapon as she chewed her lip, blinking back tears of humiliation.
“All right, Sparky,” the big man said patiently, “put thet carbine back together and load ‘er up agin. I’ll see whar yore ball hit.”
As he walked slowly toward the target, Olivia refixed the flash pan flint and prepared the rifle for another shot. She was ready when Micajah returned. His fingers were once again buried in his whiskers, searching for his skin, and he was smiling. “Reckon my eyes ain’t so good’s they used ta’ be. Did a mite better’n jist hit th’ tree, Sparky. Yore ball’s only a whisker below th’ mark, but dead center. I knowed fellers couldn’t do thet good after a lifetime. Yew jist might shine at this bidness.” Olivia flushed with sheer joy. “All right, now, try ‘er agin.”
She raised the rifle smoothly and confidently aimed. This time she missed the entire tree! She looked in astonishment at Micajah, who threw back his head with a roar of laughter. After a moment, Olivia could not help but join in.
“Okay, gal, load ‘er up agin n’ try ta remember yew ain’t Miz Dan’l Boone yet. Don’t be gittin’ too cocky.”
Then Micajah’ s voice brought her back to the present as he said, “Iron Kite here tells me he seen a pretty smart scatter ‘o buff lo where th’ Osage runs inta th’ Big Muddy.”
“That close! I expected we’d have to travel all the way to the plains where the Kaws hunt,” she replied, excited at the prospect of seeing and participating in her first buffalo hunt.
“The last hunt of the year will begin as soon as the crops are gathered. In one moon,” Iron Kite gestured holding up his index finger dramatically, “we will rendezvous at the place of the two rivers. Then the Osage men shall perhaps take a lesson in hunting from the Great Bear’s boy-daughter, Ember Woman.”
“You do me great honor to allow me to ride with such mighty hunters as the Osage. I will do my utmost to prove worthy,” she replied gravely.
Olivia knew the warrior had offered a fine bride price for her, which Micajah had very politely turned down, explaining that she already had a husband, a Long Knife who had entrusted her to the Great Bear’s care while he was away soldiering for the Americans. Although the idea struck painfully close to her memories of Samuel, Olivia agreed that it was the best solution to a ticklish situation for as long as she remained with him in the wilderness.
After the hunt they would return to prepare for winter by salting down meat, making more pemmican and drying the vegetables and fruits they had harvested. Although the snowy season in the Missouri woodlands was not unduly harsh compared to the fierce icy blasts on the upper reaches of the great rivers, it was still best to respect Mother Nature by preparing in case snows were deep, game scarce or in the worst case, if one of them became ill or injured.
Once spring arrived, Micajah would make his annual journey to St. Louis for the few simple necessities he bartered for with the city merchants. Olivia pondered what she would do when they returned to what used to be her home. Now and again, Micajah broached the subject of Samuel, speculating about whether he might be stationed at Fort Bellefontaine.
The canny old mountain man knew she still had feelings for the unprincipled rogue. Perhaps he even considered dragging the colonel at gunpoint to wed her. The very idea made Olivia shudder. Always she remained cool and noncommittal about Shelby since that first foolish unburdening she had made to Micajah when he had rescued her from the bear last spring. How she wished she could call back her teary confession about thinking the young colonel was the man of her dreams! Such dreams were the stuff of which ashes were made. She pushed all her fears about the future from her mind. Right now she would enjoy her new life, exhilarated by a newfound sense of self-sufficiency and freedom, the likes of which she had never imagined when confined by city streets.
Come spring she would decide what direction her life would take. The one course she knew it would not follow was that which went anywhere near Colonel Samuel Sheridan Shelby.
&nbs
p; * * * *
Samuel’s summer and fall had proven not nearly so productive or enjoyable as had Olivia’s. After leaving Lisa’s party, he had spent weeks trekking from one small Osage camp to the next, smoking the ceremonial pipe with the elders and explaining about the coming war between the Americans and the English from across the ocean.
He had beaten the English agent to White Hair’s band, but at many other encampments it seemed the Englishman, stirring up discontent with his weapons and his whiskey, was always one step ahead of him.
Samuel was very careful to make clear that the Englishman’s king lived far across the ocean and had no permanent interest in the Osage, nor could he protect them from their enemies, while the American president would continue to be a presence along the Missouri. It was with the American government that the Osage must treat and it was the Americans who would win the war that would be fought on their own soil. Therefore it would be in the best interest of the Osage Nation to continue their treaty commitments with President Madison, the white father in Washington.
Shelby hoped his speeches had made a favorable impression, but reading the impassive faces of Indians had never been a particular skill of his, in spite of spending several summers among the Lipan Apaches with Liza and Santiago. Often he wished that he possessed his brother-in-law’s background so that he could deal more effectively with the Indians, but then he conceded ruefully, if he had been raised among them and lived as one with them, he would not be Jemmy Madison’s emissary.
By the end of summer, the trail of the illusive English agent had taken him all the way across the Mississippi into Indiana Territory where he found the Sauk, Fox and Shawnee already firmly allied with the British. After a brief conference with William Henry Harrison, the territorial governor and military leader of the region, a harsh young martinet whom he instinctively disliked, Shelby realized that open and bloody warfare between American settlers and those tribes was already a foregone and unavoidable calamity, welcomed by both sides.
He had finally returned to Louisiana Territory the past month. If he could redeem nothing else, he must at least speak before the Osage grand tribal council. Someone there would be able to lead him to the Englishman. If he could keep the land west of the Mississippi at peace, he would have to trust that Governor Harrison could deal with Indiana Territory, although he entertained strong doubts about the latter. The arrogant Harrison had a well-organized militia prepared to fight, but they would pay a price. Samuel knew the cost of defeating the pro-British forces led by Tecumseh would be dear indeed.
“Santiago was right,” he muttered to himself as he sat beside his morning campfire waiting for the coffee to boil. “Our government has bungled the situation with the Shawnee Confederacy.” American settlers had been allowed to usurp tribal land, then rely on the government to come in and enforce treaties, continually pushing the Red Man farther and farther to the west. “Now that we’ve taken claim to the whole upper Missouri all the way to the Pacific, what will be left for any of the Indians?” he wondered aloud, sipping the bitter rich coffee he had poured.
He swirled the black liquid around in the big tin cup and smiled, recalling the horrific muddy mess with which Olivia had almost choked him. Where was the little fire-haired hoyden by now? Certainly back in civilization. He wondered if there was any chance he might find her waiting for him in the house on Plum Street. Just thinking of her lying with all that flaming hair spread on the white sheets of his big bed made his pulse leap and his body grow hard.
If only he had been able to return within the few months he had projected for the mission. But circumstances had dictated otherwise and he had no way to find out if the beautiful mademoiselle was sleeping in his bed while he was out chasing about the wilderness. In all likelihood she had not spent any time in his house, he was forced to admit. She probably took the letter of credit and bought herself passage on the first steamer headed to New Orleans and that supposed uncle, who was more likely an old lover.
Somehow the thought of her exotic young beauty being enjoyed by a decadent older Creole gentleman made his guts clench. “Best I forget the damned vixen. I’ll never see her again.” He stood up and tossed the remaining coffee into the fire, knowing in his heart of hearts that he still hoped to find her waiting for him when he returned to St. Louis. Fool.
When the big piebald he had bought in Pawhuska’s village whickered, Samuel looked around, his hand immediately going to the Martial Pistol in his sash. Although well out of hostile country, there were always small bands of renegade Osage not adverse to disobeying the elders’ orders, eager to lift a white scalp. With a silent oath, he kicked out the remainder of the small campfire, the first such luxury he had allowed himself in several days. Someone was in the dense stand of hickory trees upwind from his horse. And, ominously, they were not showing themselves.
He picked up the rifle that had been leaning against the log on which he had been sitting, and cautiously walked toward the horse, which had its hackamore on. He could swing up on its back and ride hell-bent, if need dictated. Still no overt sign of movement. Suddenly a lone Osage warrior showed himself across the clearing, approaching unarmed. In spite of the Indian’s friendly demeanor, a prickle of warning shivered up Shelby’s spine. He recognized him as Man Whipper, a young troublemaker from the big Osage village. His worst fear was being captured by Osage renegades who would ignore Pawhuska’s wishes. Slowly, Samuel shifted his grip on his rifle, holding it loosely in the crook of his arm, waiting to see what his visitor wanted.
Then without warning a blinding blaze of light seared his eyeballs as something struck the back of his head with sledgehammer impact. He stumbled to his knees and pitched forward. Everything faded to black.
Man Whipper grinned broadly as Bad Temper and a dozen of his followers filed into the clearing and peered down at the fallen Long Knife. A small pool of blood was forming at the crown of the soldier’s head where the war club had found its mark. Hurled from a distance, it had not cleft his skull in two as it would have if wielded directly, but the blow was sufficient to render their foe unconscious.
They stood over him while Man Whipper used the toe of his moccasin to kick Shelby in the ribs, turning him onto his back. “This is the one Pardee told us of, the one who hunts him.”
“Let us take the Long Knife’s scalp to the Englishman. He will be pleased,” one of the others said.
“No!” Bad Temper replied. “His hair is black, not bright. It will make only an ordinary trophy. Better that we have some sport before he dies. Wake him,” he commanded.
When Man Whipper nodded, two of the braves hauled Shelby up by his arms and a third poured the remains of his waterskin over the unconscious man’s head.
Samuel awakened with a severe headache pounding from the nape of his neck, wrapping all the way around to his eyeballs. The brackish taste of stale water combined with the subtly sweet substance of blood trickling into his mouth. He shook his head, then instantly regretted the rash act as a thousand war drums reverberated inside.
His arms felt as if they were being pulled from their sockets. He knew he was being restrained. Then gradually he recalled the scene with the lone Osage, and he knew it had been a trap. They had hit him from behind and disarmed him, then awakened him. But at least he was not dead…yet.
Slowly he raised his head and shook free of the two men holding him up, then stood his ground and sized them up. If only his vision would clear so he could count straight. Even if he was not seeing double, there were still too damn many Indians!
“I am Shelby, emissary from the great white father in Washington,” he began in Spanish, the commonest European language spoken among the Osage. “I travel under safe conduct from White Hair, peace chief of the Little Ones. I have seen you in the village of the great chief. You know I speak truly.”
Bad Temper scoffed. “You are our prisoner. White Hair is not here.”
“You are still honor bound to free me because of his word,” Samuel repli
ed, stalling for time, wondering what their game was.
“Our honor is our own,” Man Whipper replied arrogantly, “Something white men do not share. Your fate lies in my hands, not that of any other man.”
“I think it does lie with another man...another white man. The one known as the Englishman. He has sent you after me, hasn’t he? Is he then too much a coward to fight his own battle with me, face-to-face? Then all might see who is strongest—his king or my president.”
“We care for no king or president—for no white chief of any sort. We are Osage and this is our land,” Bad Temper said belligerently.
“So, the Long Knife would fight,” Man Whipper interjected, stepping between the soldier and the other warrior. Although Shelby was over six feet, Man Whipper had a good two inches on him and took full advantage of the fact, puffing up his chest and posturing as he continued, “We will give you a chance to save your life...if you are bold enough to take it.”
“What chance?” Shelby asked with careless bravado, knowing that to show fear or reluctance would more quickly seal his fate.
“How fast can you run, Long Knife?” Bad Temper asked, smiling nastily.
Within minutes they had stripped him of his shirt and boots, leaving him barefoot and completely unarmed, clad only in his buckskin breeches. Two rows of Indians lined up five feet apart, each man brandishing a stick, spear or club with great relish. He would have to run the gauntlet between a dozen armed men. If he survived it, then what?
As if intuiting his question, Man Whipper said, “Pass through this ordeal and we will see how strong your medicine is. We will see how fleet your feet are. After the first trial you must outrun us...if you have the heart to do either.”
Shelby looked from his own bare feet to the Osage’s thick moccasins with scathing contempt. “My heart is strong enough. It is you who lack, else you’d not have taken my boots.” It was a gamble. The savage might simply shoot him out of hand. Or, perhaps not. Man Whipper was young and full of himself. Perhaps he might be bothered to hear the unfairness of the contest so boldly pointed out.
