by Jenna Kernan
Meeker nodded. “I’d like to see that.”
“Some other time.”
Meeker leaned forward. “When?”
Nash’s voice came from behind them. “Some other time is polite talk for no, you old buzzard.”
Meeker glanced at Delia for confirmation and she nodded.
“Now, Mrs. Channing—”
“Mr. Meeker, I have answered a great many questions. Perhaps, you would answer a few of mine.”
“It’d be an honor.” He swept off the ridiculous wolf turban that he wore as a hat. His hair was brown and curly beneath the monstrosity.
“Have you any word of a wagon train lead by Reverend Harcort?” She waited, her breath catching in her throat.
“Don’t reckon I do. I’ll ask Bridger. If anybody knows, he will.”
“Thank you.”
They rode in silence through the woods. Delia watched the golden splashes of sunlight dance across the green leaves above them.
“Anything else I can do for you?” Meeker asked.
She thought for a moment.
“Why do you call Mr. Nash, Tuck?”
“Wagh! That’s a tale. Milt and I were running from Mexicans and met up with Tuck on the Gila River. Navajo country, very tough. Tuck was there when old Tom took a ball in the leg. Shattered the bone, it did. We still outrun them. Poor Tom’s leg was flopping, plum ruined, it was. We stopped awhile and decided that he’d lose the leg to gangrene, sure. Nobody wanted to take her off, though. Finally Milt done it. Nash gave Tom some whiskey and stitched her up.”
She looked from one man to the other in disbelief.
“Did he live?”
“Sure! You’ll meet him upriver. Peg-leg Smith they calls him now.”
“But why Tuck?”
“Well, I’m getting ’round to that. Tuck was riding point along the river. Brush was kind of thick, you know and so he never sees the grizzly until he’s on her. The bear rears up and he hollers. We come running. I seen the bear tear into his leg. The horse throws him and there he is with his gun facing an eight-foot bear rearing up to make him lunch.”
He paused there to scratch his beard. She couldn’t resist asking, “What happened?”
“He fires his rifle and the bear doesn’t flinch. So he drops his gun and jumps into the air. Then he curls into a ball and rolls down the bank and into the river. Tucks up, you know?”
She nodded.
“So Smith shoots the bear in the mouth and then he tells us, ‘It gave her a terrible cough.’” He slapped his leg and laughed hardy. “Damn big bear.”
She thought of the puckering scar on his thigh—another grizzly. “When was that?”
“Oh, 1829, I think. That reminds me of another bear.” And so the new tale unfolded and then another until she could hear the shouts of men.
She saw more than a hundred campfires ahead glowing against the approaching night. There were tepees, lean-tos and several blankets thrown over a rope. Men sat about drinking in groups. Near the river, a wrestling match drew a rowdy crowd. The clang and rattle of pots and pans added to the ruckus.
“Wagh!” called Meeker. “Looky what I got?”
Several men came running. She found herself surrounded by many white men and several Indians. They stared up at her in wonder, some remembering to remove their fur caps.
Meeker raised his voice to make his announcement.
“This here is Mrs. Delia Channing, a missionary’s wife who survived the winter all alone in the Rockies and was asked to be an Indian queen. She be the only white woman this side of the divide. No doubt you heard of her. This be the Winter Woman.”
“Winter Woman?” cried an Indian.
“That’s her.”
“I thought she was a legend,” said the tall man, doffing his hat.
“She killed a grizzly with a shotgun,” Meeker continued.
A cheer rose from the men.
Delia looked over the shouting throng and saw more men running to see what the commotion was about. Her heart skipped in a nervous rhythm.
She turned back to Nash.
“Thomas?”
“You’re all right, Delia. Just smile and wave. They won’t hurt you.”
She waved and a second cheer rose. One man did a little jig.
“Mrs. Channing,” said a trapper with a wide black beard, “will you say something to us?”
“What shall I say?” Another cheer sounded. They were easy to please. She cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, I am pleased to see you all here and touched at your warm reception.”
“She talks like a real lady.”
“Look at her hair. Yeller as sunshine.”
“All right, boys.” Meeker lifted both his wide hands and the crowd instantly silenced. “You all can come by tonight. Mrs. Delia will be telling us how she survived the winter. Give her time to eat, is all.”
The men parted, allowing the horses to pass. Joe led her to his camp and he helped her dismount.
She saw Thomas and Milton attending to the deer. That poor man really should have a cane. She wondered what was wrong with his foot.
She turned to her escort.
“Mr. Meeker—”
“Please call me Joe.”
“All right then, Joe. I—”
“May I call you Delia?”
She looked to Thomas for his reaction. He nodded.
“That will be fine. Now, about this story I am supposed to tell. I really would rather not. I am not much of a yarn spinner. I don’t know where I would begin.”
Meeker rubbed his neck.
“In an hour you’ll have every man who isn’t drunk sitting around this fire. You’ll have to tell them something.”
She turned to Thomas for rescue. “What will I do?”
“You could read to them,” he said.
“I don’t have a book.” She glanced frantically about the camp looking for some rescue or escape. However could she entertain so many men?
“You do.” Thomas lifted up her bag. “You have your journal.”
She inhaled sharply. “I couldn’t. That is personal ramblings. It’s not fit for reading aloud.”
“You read it to me.” He reminded her.
“That was different. I mean, these men are strangers.”
“Only until you get to know us,” Meeker said. She drew reassurance from Milton’s smile. “They’re mostly young boys far from home. They miss their sweethearts and mothers. You being here is a real treat. They won’t let you lift a finger. I do assure you.”
Joe had a fire lit in record time. When the flames died to leave mostly coals, Milton set a rack of venison to cook above them.
Before the juices hit the fire, the first of the men arrived.
A young man with downy fuzz upon his cheeks laid a bundle beside her.
“For you, missus,” he said.
She smiled and thanked him as her fingers untied the red trade cloth.
“Oh, potatoes! And look, turnips! Oh, thank you. You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed them.”
Several men jumped up and darted into the darkness. Within the hour she sat beside a stack of potatoes as tall as she was. There was also dried corn, coffee and sugar. They brought enough food to host a wedding feast.
“Nash, I can’t accept all this,” she said.
“We’ll cook it and feed it back to them. It’ll be fine.”
Succotash in a large kettle was distributed to many empty bowls and cups. She tried to make biscuits, but two men took the flour from her hands and began to mix the batter.
“This is better than Christmas dinner.” She laughed. Joe was right, she did not have to lift a finger. The crisp apple cider washed away the dust from the trail. She held a hot potato in her lap, waiting for it to cool enough to eat. When she broke it open, two men were there to offer her salt. She noticed several trappers passing jugs around. The smell of liquor seeped through the night air.
Joe Meeker entertained the boys with a tale about how
he and his partner had rescued Milton’s wife, Mountain Lamb, from the clutches of the Crow.
Nash settled beside her for the story. She found herself drawn into the tale, leaning forward to catch Joe’s next word.
When he finished, she whispered in Thomas’s ear. “Is it true?”
“Only the part about her name being Mountain Lamb, though Milt calls her Isabel. You’ll be expected to tell a story next.”
“What should I do?”
“Look through your journal and find something you can read.” He handed her the book, safely wrapped in buckskin.
Joe Meeker held the crowd in rapture. “So we swoop down, guns flashing fire. Three of the warriors hit the ground. The others run off, leaving Mountain Lamb alone on the trail.”
As if summoned by the story, a beautiful Indian woman stepped into the circle of light. Her buckskin dress was stained bright green. Twin braids of black hair hung over the swell of her bosom. Her smile made her high cheekbones look even more exotic.
“There she be!” said Meeker. Mountain Lamb sat beside Milton Sublette.
“This is my wife, Isabel. Isabel, this is Mrs. Delia Channing.”
“I am pleased to meet you.” Isabel’s words were correct, but her accent made it difficult for Delia to understand. She extended her hand to the woman.
“It’s my pleasure.”
Isabel took her hand firmly and shook it once before releasing.
“You will tell a story now?” Isabel asked.
The gathering grew very quiet. She felt the weight of many gazes upon her. Men sat breathless, waiting. Suddenly she could hear the logs on the fire crackle and pop.
“Yes, I think I will read to you from my journal.” She glanced at Thomas. “Mr. Nash and I were guests of the Mountain tribe of the Crow Indians, while I recovered from an infection in my foot.” A whoop of approval rose from a group of Indians to her left. She opened her journal to the place she had marked with a blade of grass.
Thomas was unusually nervous, jumping at every sound. I could not understand his mood, until I heard the bloodthirsty cry and saw the Blackfoot Indians swarming down the hill toward the village.
She read on, raising her voice to nearly a shout so the men sitting quietly in the dark might hear her. She read about their daring escape up the mountain to the place where Thomas cut the packhorse loose. A groan rose from the crowd. She continued reading about their hiding place in a crack in the earth, how their enemy crawled over the rock above searching for them.
She marked her place and snapped the book shut.
“I will read from here tomorrow night.”
There were many groans and complaints that she could not stop there.
“We don’t know if you live or died,” one man complained.
A fellow slapped him over the head with his hat.
“Course she lived, idiot. There she is, ain’t she?”
Meeker rose and lifted his hands. “Miss Delia had a long ride and she done read over an hour to you. How about some gratitude, you stump heads?” Wild applause and whistles mingled with raucous cries. “Now get and don’t be bothering the lady tonight.”
The group departed calling farewells.
“That was a wonderful tale, Mrs. Channing,” Milton said. “I look forward to tomorrow night.”
Isabel helped him to his feet, then followed her husband into the darkness.
“You can have my lean-to tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll have the boys build you a cabin,” said Meeker, and then he, too, departed. She found herself with Thomas.
He stared at her, his eyes glowing with what looked like pride. Her heart accelerated at the warmth in his gaze. Surrounded by the bustle of camp, they were somehow alone. She wondered who would see if she kissed him?
“You did real fine, Delia. I told you that you have a gift. That journal is special.”
She basked in the warmth of his praise.
“Thank you, Thomas. I never could have done it without your encouragement.”
“What a place to leave them. Ha! They’ll all be talking about it tonight and wondering how we got away. And tomorrow they’ll hear about the river rapids. That was something.”
He stared off at the stars now, remembering, she felt certain, the wild ride.
“Yes, quite a trip.” She thought back on all their adventures, knowing that this was the most exciting occasion of her life. Never had she felt so alive as when she stood beside Thomas to face the wilderness. And now their time was finished. Soon she’d be out of the Rockies and never again see the pink snow on the high peaks as the sun set behind them. He was sending her back alone. Sublette had already offered her escort to St. Louis. Soon she’d be surrounded by buildings, starched collars and quilt circles. The images drowned her, flooding her mind with wave after wave of quiet desperation.
“Thomas, I don’t want to go back East.”
His gaze returned to her. His eyes no longer twinkled with happiness. Now they shone cold and clear.
“You have to.” He tossed down a buffalo robe, probably a gift from one of her admirers. “I got to see to some business.”
“Don’t you sign that contract, Thomas. I’ll never forgive you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
She likely wouldn’t forgive him. But Nash would get her home and for that he must have money. He found Joe drinking with Peg-leg Smith.
He thumped Smith on the back in greeting.
“Joe says you lost your catch to Blackfoot.”
Nash nodded and Smith passed him a jug. Nash tipped the heavy stoneware and fire burned down his throat. He passed it back.
“Well, that’s behind you. What now?”
“I’m planning on signing on with you fellas.” He believed the Rocky Mountain Fur Company would be glad to have him, having survived the test of nature, unlike the green recruits they brought in each year.
“Well,” said Meeker. “You’re welcome. You got traps?”
“Nope, only my horse and rifle.”
Meeker scratched his bristly cheek.
“So you’d be a company man?” Smith asked.
“That’s right.”
“Why you want to do that? You could be running your own outfit.” Joe slapped his hat on his knee.
“If I had traps. I need the signing money to send Delia East.”
“You done enough for the woman.” Meeker’s voice reminded him of his father’s during a lecture. “She’ll find a way back. Sublette can take her or one of the supply wagons.”
“She’s my responsibility.”
“How you figure that?” Smith returned his pipe to his mouth after speaking.
“I plan to marry her, if I can bring in a catch.”
“Times is hard,” said Smith. “Beaver is getting scarce. You had to go into Blackfoot country to get yourn. And look what that got you. You ought to head back with her, Tuck.”
Nash scowled. “You going to sign me or not?”
He nodded. “We’ll talk to Bridger tomorrow.”
“Fine.” He sat beside his friends and accepted the jug once more. Maybe if he drank enough he wouldn’t see the tears he caused Delia or think of the years ahead without her.
Delia regarded the lanky man before her. His arms showed wiry muscle and tendon. His wide-brimmed hat was low over his eyes. The skin she could see above his beard was tanned, the color of a hazelnut.
“Nash about?” he asked.
“I’m afraid he went upriver with Mr. Meeker, searching for a friend.”
All day the men had made excuses to see her. Looking for Nash was one of the most common ploys. You’d think Nash was the mayor, he was suddenly so popular. She smiled at the man. He looked different than most, older, with a wisdom in his hazel eyes. This man had seen what the mountains could do.
“I’m Jim Bridger.” He extended his hand.
Her eyes opened wide in surprise. Yes, he would be.
“How do you do, Mr. Bridger. Thomas has spoken of you with high regard. It is
you they went searching for. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
“We also came to see you.”
She looked past him now and for the first time noticed the well-dressed man standing just beyond him. Unlike most men here, he wore a woolen jacket and trousers rather than buckskin. His beard was closely trimmed. Pale skin, leather boots, this man was new to the mountains.
She was glad she’d changed into her faded blue dress. She’d pulled her hair up into a bun and tied it with a ribbon Isabel gave her. If not for her moccasins and tanned cheeks, she might also look like a newcomer.
He extended his hand. She felt the smooth palm of a man who did not engage in physical work.
Bridger spoke again. “This here is a friend of mine, Tyde Bonner.”
“A pleasure.” She turned her attention back to Bridger. “I wonder if you have any word about a wagon train led by Reverend Harcort?”
“They never made Three Forks,” he said. She stared at him, waiting. Her mouth dropped open in surprise and he paused. “Are you sure you want to hear?”
She needed to know. Slowly her head bobbed up and down.
“Blackfoot took them. Beckwourth found what was left of them in July. I’m sorry.”
His words hit like a blow to the chest. She had imagined them all safely in Oregon, farming and ministering to the Indians there. The illusion broke like a soap bubble. She sank to the log behind her. Nash was right. They never should have come west.
“Tyde, get some water.” The man trotted off, leaving her with Bridger. He squatted before her. “I heard you was a brave woman. I know it’s true, just looking at you. You’ll get by this. It ain’t your fault you lived and they didn’t. Those men had no business here.”
She stared up into his eyes. How could he know she felt those things?
“They didn’t deserve it,” she said.
“No one does. It happens. This here is wild country. You takes your chance or you stay home.”
“They never knew about the Blackfoot. One tribe was the same as the next.”
“Bad ideas to travel where you don’t know the trail. Sounds like your preacher had no right leading you folks across the Rockies.”
No, he didn’t. She saw that now. He had known nothing about this land or the dangers. He’d filled their heads with nonsense and dreams, and they’d followed him like sheep. How could she have been so stupid? The arrogance of the man, to lead them blindly into danger. Her hands were balled into fists, ready to strike out at past wrongs.
