Winter Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  “Hello the camp.”

  At the sound of her voice, Nash tossed her journal beneath her brown dress.

  “Hello,” he called back.

  “Seven beaver today!” She poked her head beneath the hide and smiled. He shifted, suddenly uncomfortable beneath her gaze. She grew prettier each day.

  Cordelia tied the last of the tanned hides on the stretching frame. The bearskin needed stretching as well. She had watched him stretch elk and fox, but never something this size.

  She chose a tree with a branch ten feet up and nearly parallel to the ground. She sat on the horse to reach the branch. It was not enough, so she carefully stood on his back, expecting at any moment to be thrown. But the horse merely looked at her as she shuffled cautiously to his rump.

  She looped the rawhide over the branch and cut it in long lengths so she could reach them from the ground. After dismounting, she drove stakes into the ground at one-foot intervals.

  Her arms ached by the time she had the bear’s skin hanging from the tree branch. The tree trunk, along with an adjoining tree, gave her the sides of her large frame. She yanked tight the rawhide, which held the bottom of the hide to the stakes.

  She stared in satisfaction at the taut hide. Her back throbbed abominably and she was more proud than when she won the spelling bee at Harper Normal School.

  She was so thirsty. The water skin was with Thomas. She crept back to the wigwam so as not to disturb him should he be napping. Just as she stooped to enter, she saw both his arms fly out in either direction.

  His hand gripped the Hawkins rifle.

  “Damnation, woman! You nearly took a year off my life. What are you doing creeping around like an Indian?”

  “I’m sorry, Thomas. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “Wake me. I almost shot you!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Next time holler first.”

  “But that will wake you.”

  “I was awake. If you walk in without calling I will shoot you. You understand?”

  “Yes.” His words deflated her pride and she turned to go.

  “What you want, anyways?”

  “I was thirsty after stretching the bear.”

  “You stretched the bearskin?”

  “I just said so.”

  He handed her the water pouch and she drank. The water washed the dust away.

  “I’d love to see it. Can you raise the buffalo robes a bit?”

  Her arms hurt just raising the water skin to her lips. She looked at him. His blue eyes shone hopefully. His hair was a ragged mess about his poor head. His ear looked dreadful, swollen and purple.

  “Of course,” she said.

  She had nearly caught him that time. Nash didn’t know if he should hide the journal or grab his gun. So he did both. When she knelt beside him, he realized the journal was only partially hidden beneath her small pile of belongings.

  She was out there skinning critters and stretching that bear, while he sneaked around reading her private thoughts.

  He snorted. Well, he’d surely done worse.

  The stakes beside him began to disappear one by one, as she knocked them away with the blunt end of her ax. What a remarkable woman. He wondered if he could have endured that winter. He didn’t understand until now how very difficult it was. She’d had no skills and had to learn from mistakes. But she had survived and had finally seen a white man again. And what did he do? He tried to get the Flatheads to keep her. Then he did everything he could to punish her for something that was none of her doing.

  Somehow he’d make it up to her. But how?

  Delia went up the stream to try to shoot duck. The bear meat was gone, except for the jerky and she didn’t fancy beaver tail again. Nash doubted she’d get lucky, but he gave her his pistol and shotgun. The Hawkins stayed with him.

  He looked out from beneath the frame of his hut at the beautiful golden fur of the bear. The skin was enormous. He was lucky to have survived, lucky and grateful.

  He reached for the buffalo horn. The surface was smooth enough now to work. He sketched a rough outline with a bit of charcoal, then set to work carefully scratching into the horn with his awl.

  He tried to ignore the persistent voice in his head. It urged him to pick up the journal again. He resisted at first then snatched up the leather notebook.

  October 15, 1834—As soon as I chinked the logs, I began gathering dry wood. Then I thought I had better bank earth around the outside of the shelter. I have cut logs for fuel and stacked them with the kindling against two outside walls. The stove is now inside the cabin along with the barrels of salted oxen. The snow is falling heavily now. I hope I am ready.

  Nash flipped back several pages.

  September 15, 1834—I searched up the mountain for John. I called until my voice went. I slept in the woods and searched again today. His trail ends just past the meadow on rocky ground. Where can he be? It has been five days! My heart is breaking with grief. What has happened to him? Please God, let him return to me or take me as well.

  The next entry was ten days later.

  September 25, 1834—No sign. I am alone. I do not want to live now. I wait for death. I am sure John is gone before me. All my prayers are unanswered.

  September 27, 1834—I found John yesterday. Scavengers had ravaged his poor body. I could not recognize him save for his clothing, and I cannot tell how he met his dreadful end. I pray he died quickly, but I fear it is not so. Will I ever forget the sight? Terrible, terrible. How I hate these evil mountains.

  I cannot find his gun and I have no shovel so I used my ax to hack a shallow grave and buried him there in the woods. I covered his burial place with rock upon rock so those vile creatures can never touch him again.

  Lord accept him into heaven and protect me alone in this wilderness. Forgive me, for I do not wish to live without him.

  Nash held the journal to his broken rib cage. Poor Delia, to find him all torn up by animals. He’d seen such, and the memories lingered still.

  A vivid image of his wife lying in white sheets, the smell of putrid flesh strong in the air, flashed in his mind. He shook it away and remembered her as she had been before the accident, young and whole.

  Lizzy had picked him out as a project. Her attempts to civilize him began with her teaching him to read and ended with their marriage. For two years he pushed a plow, planted tobacco and loved his wife with all his heart. She never took his sass and her gumption always made him laugh.

  He’d ignored his sad-eyed hound that seemed to call him to wander the woods and focused instead on building Lizzy a home. When she’d died something snapped inside him. He wanted to die as well. But first he wanted revenge. She’d known that, she’d known what he was planning, so Lizzy made him promise on her soul that he would not kill the man who ran her down.

  He promised.

  After her death, he sold his land and bought a good horse. Then he turned his back on everyone he’d ever known and found the most dangerous trade there was—trapping. Many of the men he had met at his first Rendezvous never made the second.

  But God liked to play tricks. The Flatheads took him in that first winter and he had lived. Come spring, he had nearly drowned in the Yellowstone when his raft came apart. Lost horse and beaver that day, but he’d made it to shore. Now, he’d outfoxed a grizzly. It seemed God didn’t want him.

  The date told him it was twenty days before she lifted her pen once more.

  October 16, 1834—The snow is deep now. I have rehung my door to open into the hut, as I could not push back the snow against it. There is four feet already and still it snows. I shoveled a path to the woodpile and climbed up onto the roof to clear the stovepipe. Thus far, the roof has held. It is dark as a crypt inside the cabin. I saw buffalo using their great heads to clear the snow and graze. But I have no gun.

  “Hello, Thomas, do not shoot me!”

  He slid the journal beneath the buffalo robe.

  “Hello,” he called
.

  The skin flipped up and her hand thrust beneath. In her small fist were two ducks.

  “You got one!”

  She peeked under the hides. “I got two.”

  Nine days after the bear attack Thomas was noticeably better. His breathing no longer came in shallow little pants. The fear that gnawed at her middle all week had vanished. She parted his hair to look at the stitches. The skin was pink and healthy. The scab had fallen away in places.

  She saw him wince and withdrew her prodding fingers.

  “Does it hurt you, Thomas?”

  “Smarts a bit when you pick at it.”

  “I’m afraid your poor ear will never be right.”

  “It works all right from the inside. Don’t care much for the outside. I never see it anyways.”

  There was a small piece of his ear missing and an angry scar ran through the center.

  “Stop gawking, it can’t be all that bad. Bear mighta taken my whole head.”

  “True. I thought he’d killed you. I was so frightened.”

  “I’ll be right soon enough. And you’re doing fine. Appears you don’t need me.”

  She looked at him with those warm brandy eyes. His gut tightened.

  “I need you, Thomas.”

  He looked away. The feelings she stirred in him were too disturbing. Not again, he thought. I don’t ever want to care that deeply about a woman again. It hurts too much. But he already did.

  “I need to get out of bed.”

  She nodded. He managed to crawl from the hut once a day. He rolled to his stomach and pulled himself up on all fours.

  “Bring my rifle,” he said.

  He used his gun and her body to pull himself up. His weight nearly buckled her knees. She walked with him to the large rocks at the edge of the woods and then left him there with his gun, as always.

  She sat beside the bearskin. Her fingers stroked the soft fur. Somehow now the great bear gave her comfort, like stroking a dog. She laid the shotgun beside her and picked up the first duck. Her fingers grasped the feathers tight and yanked them loose. She decided to save the down to make a pillow for her head. She could use what was left of her petticoat and bloomers for ticking.

  Her mind registered the movement. She wondered how Thomas had got this far without her. Her smile died on her lips as a scream tore from her throat.

  Before her stood an Indian.

  His face was painted entirely yellow with a vertical red stripe running from hairline to chin. He held his metal ax at his side. Behind him several comrades stood silently, watching her.

  “Thomas,” she called.

  She looked at the shotgun beside her. She could kill only one or two. There were ten men, motionless as cigar-store Indians.

  Where was Thomas? She turned and found him missing from his resting place. Two Indians dragged his inert body between them toward the others.

  “Thomas!” she cried, and dashed to his side. He groaned and she drew her hand over his head, finding a fresh lump forming. Fear momentarily flicked through her belly only to be replaced by a scalding rage. She looked at the man with his face painted yellow and raised a finger at his nose. “If you hurt him, I will kill you.”

  He held her shotgun. Another Indian gripped the Hawkins. What were they waiting for?

  Their leader pointed at the enormous hide behind her, then at Nash. Perhaps they wanted the one who killed the bear. Nash told her bears and buffalo were sacred animals to the Indians. Perhaps killing a sacred animal was a sin of some sort.

  She shook her head and lifted an imaginary gun to her shoulder and fired. Then thumped her own chest and pointed at the skin.

  Several eyebrows when up. The leader pointed at her again and she nodded. She moved to guard Nash, kneeling between him and his enemies. The Indians spoke to one another.

  Nash groaned again and lifted his head.

  “Are they Flatheads?” she whispered.

  “No—Crow,” he said.

  “I thought they killed people.”

  “They may get around to that.”

  Nash rolled to his back. She dragged his head and chest up onto her lap. Her breath came and went in frantic cadence.

  “I’m sorry, Thomas. I shall miss you.”

  “Delia, you’re the most remarkable female I ever met. Most women would be weeping hysterical right about now.”

  “That wouldn’t do any good.”

  “Practical to the end.”

  The Indian’s leader turned to her again. He moved his hands together and apart, touching his head and then chest.

  “What’s he doing?” she asked.

  “He’s asking your name.”

  Nash then spoke words she had never heard before.

  “You speak this language?” She was astonished.

  “Just Flathead and Crow,” he said. His eyes never left the leader.

  “He asks if you are the white woman who lived alone through the winter? Seems them Flatheads have been talking about you.”

  Nash spoke to them again.

  “I told him you killed the bear and skinned it yourself. Says his people call you Winter Woman. Seems you’re big magic. I don’t think they’re going to kill you, Delia.”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t know yet. Fetch my pipe and tobacco.”

  They blocked her way. Nash spoke to them and they allowed her to go with an escort. She snatched his possibles bag and the bear jerky and returned to the group.

  “Fill the pipe,” he said. She marveled at the calmness of his voice. He sounded as if he was leading a Bible-study group instead of a band of wild savages.

  “I brought the jerky,” she said.

  He spoke to the men and they sat. She offered them dried meat and they each accepted a piece. Hope tickled through her for the first time. The little clay pipe was passed from man to man. Smoke curled above dark heads. After a stretch of silence, the striped man spoke.

  “This here is the Mountain Crow. They ain’t the cold-blooded killers the Blackfoot are. They’re real curious about you, Delia. Want to know everything. Your hair is causing quite a stir. They never seen a white woman and you got special magic because you done what no one else ever has.”

  “Killing the bear?”

  “Naw. Surviving the winter alone. It can’t be done. But you did it.”

  The man with the yellow face spoke directly to her. She looked to Nash for explanation.

  “He says such a woman will not die by the hand of his people. He offers you this gift as a sign of peace between you.”

  The Indian withdrew his knife and tucked it into his belt. Then he untied the sheath and handed it to her.

  “Oh, it’s lovely. Thank you. Look, Nash, there’s a little green turtle painted on it. Thank him for me.”

  “Delia, you got to give him something.”

  The next man gave her a necklace with a large tooth in the center. Nash said the tooth was from a buffalo and very lucky. She looped the cord about her neck.

  “What should I give them?” She had nothing a man would want.

  “Something of yours, something of equal value.”

  She nodded to the men and went to the hut, returning several minutes later. She handed the leader a white lace handkerchief. He opened the little bundle. Inside sat a copper halfpenny and a bear claw. He nodded to her and held the packet before him with two hands.

  “He’s pleased,” said Nash.

  She gave the man who had presented her with the necklace a second handkerchief. He folded back a lacy edge to reveal a halfpenny and a brass thimble. He smiled at her and nodded.

  The Crow warriors held their little tokens together and talked in disturbed voices. Delia felt a knot twist her insides. Had she insulted them?

  “Nash, what’s wrong?”

  He raised his hand and gave her arm a little pat.

  “They think that’s you on the coin.” He laughed.

  “That’s Miss Liberty.”

  “The
y says it’s you.”

  “But it’s not. You must tell them.”

  “This proves the magic. Metal is real precious and there’s your face on each one.”

  “It doesn’t look a thing like me,” she insisted.

  “Delia, it’s magic. We won’t have no trouble with them Mountain Crow again.”

  The men rose and she followed them to the edge of camp.

  “Goodbye,” she said. “It was very nice to meet you. Thank you for my gifts.”

  They spoke to her in their language and she nodded politely, then watched them walk single file into the forest.

  Nash’s laughter brought her back to camp.

  “Damnedest thing I ever seen. You are magic, Delia.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I been thinking,” said Nash.

  “That explains the headaches,” she said.

  “Lordy, woman, are you jibbing me?” He squinted at her and she burst out laughing. “Well, it’s about time.”

  “I’m sorry, Thomas. What have you been thinking?” She rested the linen pillow casing in her lap and focused her attention on him. He lay reclining against a wide split log, resting against a tree. The position allowed him to work on leather and see about him. It also eased his breathing.

  “You’ve done real good. You’re trapping and hunting and keeping a clean camp. I reckon I’d be dead by that bear or them Crow if not for you.”

  “There’s no need to thank me, Thomas. You’ve kept me alive as well. I’m grateful for your chivalry.”

  “Will you hush up?”

  She pressed one finger to her lips and nodded.

  “I want to make you my partner.”

  A curious wave of excitement snaked through her. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I mean you’re doing all the work around here. I reckon that’s worth something. How about ten percent?”

  “You mean I’ll get ten percent of the furs?”

  “Ten percent of the profits when I sells them at the Rendezvous. You deserve a stake. It’ll be enough to make a start somewhere. What do you say?”

  She fell to her knees beside him, wrapping her arms about his chest.