Wolf! The Legend of Tom Sawyer's Island

by Nancy Temple Rodrigue

  Wals didn’t see. “Hostiles? I don’t know what you mean.” Falling back on the cot, some of the filler poking him in the back. “What’s this bed made out of? Rocks?”

  “My, we’re a little grumpy, aren’t we? You’ll feel better once you rest. I don’t see any permanent damage. No, its corn husks under you, not rocks.” Doc stood back, frowning, as he watched his disturbed patient try and settle into the cot. Wals was still soaking wet, but he could tell his outfit was some type of thin deerskin. It was probably some shade of yellow, fringe hanging off the arms and down the legs, brown moccasins on his feet. It was almost the attire of a hunter, but not quite. Doc couldn’t place his finger on what was wrong with it. “I’ll let the Major General know you’re here. Get some rest, Mr. Davis,” Doc said as a parting, blowing out the candle.

  “Major General?”

  “Andrew Jackson. In the Regimental Headquarters.”

  “Andrew Jackson,” Wals repeated back with a ghost of a smile. “Of course he is,” and fell promptly asleep.

  In the morning, when he awakened in darkness, Wals stumbled to the log wall near the door. He kept fumbling around, feeling over and over the rough wood about waist high, searching for a switch or something to make the darkness go away. What he did find was a latch that opened the door, allowing the morning light to stream in. As he blinked at the sudden brightness, he forgot whatever it was he had been looking for. Stepping onto the wooden porch, Wals wasn’t as surprised to see more of those blue Calvary uniforms. He made his way across the dusty parade grounds, nodding hello to the calico-dressed ladies as they smiled shyly and some not so shyly in his direction and went about their business inside the Fort. Stopping in the center of the parade grounds, he gazed in all directions trying to figure out why there was so much activity in all these wooden buildings. He even climbed the shaky stairs to one of the lookout towers. Apparently knowing about him, the sentry on guard just grunted hello, his rifle mounted on a stand and poking out through a narrow slit in the logs. Wals just looked over the River and the forested land surrounding the Fort. It all felt familiar, as if he had been there many times before.

  It was Market Day and there were a lot of people coming and going. Returning to ground level, he went inside the cantina and ordered a drink. Sitting in a wooden chair by the window, he just watched all the activity outside. His eyes strayed to an attractive blond-haired woman who had just ridden in on a brown mare. A private had taken her baskets and rudely pointed where she was to wait. His attention drawn to the lovely group of women chatting by the well, he didn’t notice the blond again until she had gone out the gate with Davy Crockett and Georgie Russel beside her.

  Wals looked down at the pewter mug in his hands. A wave of confusion again washed over him. Pewter? Was that right? A vision of a soft white cup entered his mind, twirled around for a moment and vanished like the morning fog on the River. He looked around the dimly lit room. There was some kind of oil lantern burning over the wooden bar, its blackened wick sending curling wisps of smoke to the darkened wooden ceiling. That, and the light coming in through the dirty window next to him, was the only illumination in the room. His fingers tapped on the scarred table top as his mind tried to figure out why he was so confused. His index finger started doodling in the layer of dust coating the table. His finger started drawing an arch, then a straight line that curved about an inch and went back under the first line. He connected that straight line up to meet the arch. A circle was drawn at each end of the bottom straight line. He then added a small standing rectangle inside the arch that touched the bottom line. He stared at the figure he had drawn. His mind painted it blue, the circles were black. Black wheels. Black tires….

  A feminine voice distracted him from his thoughts. “Hi there. I’m Yvette. You must be the new supply man. I was hoping you’d come in.”

  He looked up at the petite redhead dressed in a tightly laced black dress with a red frilly petticoat showing at the hem. The ruffled top was low enough to show her ample charms. And Wals was amply charmed. “You can call me Wals,” he smiled. “All my friends do.”

  “You have a lot of friends?” She bent over to wipe a damp rag over the scarred table, erasing the primitive drawing Wals had made of his Nissan 300ZX.

  “I…I think so….” Forgetting all about the car, his mind strayed to names and faces. Wolf, Chloe, Trey, Diane, Rose. “Rose?” he muttered aloud, wondering why there was no face to go with that particular name.

  Yvette did know that name and the face that went with it. And, she didn’t like it. She leaned over a little further and recaptured Wals wandering attention. “I think you need some new friends,” she smiled sweetly, her green eyes half closed. “You interested in going on a picnic at Castle Rock this Saturday? It’s in a nice secluded place near Injun Joe’s Cave. I can introduce you to a few of my friends.”

  “I would be charmed.” Charmed? Where the heck did that come from?

  Yvette flashed him another smile and took his empty mug back to the bar. He watched her swaying hips and gave a satisfied sigh.

  The wooden raft dock was built up on pillars that sunk down deep into the river bottom. Wals unhooked the leather straps from the holding piers and allowed the current to pull the log raft into the River. Using the long paddle attached to the back as a rudder, he expertly steered the raft across the wide River. Even after plying that raft for over a year now, for some reason, it still always surprised him how long it took to get to the other side. He felt it should have been two, three minutes top. Yet, now it always seemed to take over thirty minutes. The perplexing mystery receded as quickly as it came. Whistling, he bent to his task, his eyes on the nearing dock.

  The riverboat, the Mark Twain, sat waiting in her pristine white beauty with her two black smokestacks rising majestically into the air. Passengers strolled on each of the three decks. The women were in long elegant dresses with lacy parasols protecting them from the sun. The men were dressed in buff or black frock coats with tan breeches tucked into knee-high boots, tall beaver hats perched on their heads. As soon as the cargo was loaded, the Mark Twain would sound her shrill whistle and the ropes holding her tight against the dock would be loosened from the huge logs. The captain was in the wheelhouse, his black cap pushed back on his head, a black garter holding up the sleeves of his white, starched shirt. He was eager to get underway. This might be a sightseeing trip for his passengers, but he would also carry needed supplies to what was left of the mining community called Rainbow Ridge. The passengers were being served mint juleps on the lower level and a small band was tuning up to entertain them. They were in no hurry. The captain, however, was behind schedule and wanted to get going.

  Wals bumped the raft against the waiting dock and a deckhand from the Mark Twain hurriedly secured the raft with the straps. They worked quickly to unload the produce brought over from the Fort onto a waiting cart. Once finished, the deckhand ran the three-wheeled cart back to the waiting ship. The white picket railing was slid shut behind him just as soon as his feet hit the deck. Wals watched as the captain checked the surrounding water for smaller craft and let out a shrill blast from his steam whistle. Turning the huge wheel, the Mark Twain slowly slid away from the dock. The passengers gave a cheer and the band started playing “Yankee Doodle.” The green water from the River churned white as the paddlewheel turned faster and faster. Some people from the nearby city of New Orleans who were strolling along the River stopped and waved at the passengers. Wals watched until the ship went around that first big bend and was out of sight. The River water was still churning as some mallard ducks rode out the waves from the wake.

  Thinking he would like to take a ride on the Mark Twain someday, Wals turned back to unload the rest of his raft. Someone from New Orleans was supposed to be there to pick up the boxes. He then found the stack of goods marked for Fort Wilderness. With the practiced ease of someone long used to his job, he expertly piled the waiting boxes and crates onto the center of the raft to take th
em back to the Fort. He knew he had to get back soon. The soldiers had bartered some goods with the native village and they needed him to make the trade. That run would have to be made in one of the canoes. The raft would make the trip downriver just fine, but would be impossible to get upstream against the current. The Island was so large that it would take him days on the raft to go all the way around.

  Whistling “Yankee Doodle” to himself while he worked, Wals didn’t see the sharp blue eyes that watched him, hidden in the shrubbery around the eerie, white Mansion.

  The Island – 1817

  “Hallo the cabin!”

  The words, indistinct and faint, sounded as if they were coming from a great distance away or uttered with some unknown difficulty. The voice—it was definitely male. Rose’s head shot up from the sewing she had been trying to do by the inadequate firelight, turning quickly toward the front door of her cabin to make sure the beam had barred it shut. It’s too late at night for callers. Panicked, she glanced over at Wolf’s pallet and saw it was empty. A little more relieved, she knew he had already gone outside to investigate as the panel of his hidden door still swung from his abrupt exit. Throwing down the black vest she was trying to mend, she rushed to the fireplace. Reaching over the mantle, the flintlock rifle came easily off of its hooks. Testing the weight, the cold metal of the barrel felt reassuring as she licked her dry lips. The gun was already loaded.

  Louder now, closer to the cabin, she again heard the voice. “Hallo the….Ouch…dang it…”

  In the middle of that, Rose heard a distinct thump near her little garden. With a smug smile she realized whoever it was had just tripped over that exposed tree root she had refused to dig up. She had known it would come in useful some day. The blue curtains were slowly moved aside as the rifle barrel pointed out the window. Peering through the gun sight of the weapon, she spotted a figure lying facedown on the path from the River. About to warn him away, she recognized the clothes he was wearing. Expecting to see the dark blue of a Calvary uniform, the full moonlight instead revealed the mustard-yellow shirt and the fringe on the legs of the pants that were splayed out and deathly still.

  “Wals!” One of her hands unconsciously reached up to smooth her hair in place. Her heart started pounding. What was he doing here so late at night? Was he alone or was he with that dreadful Private Crain? Was this another attempt at an ambush? Where was Wolf? The questions that were going round and round in her head stopped when she realized Wals hadn’t moved since he last called out to her.

  Hesitating only a split second, she threw a shawl around her nightclothes. Unbarring the front door, she cautiously walked out of the cabin, the rifle easily nestled in the crook of her arm. “Mr. Davis? Are you hurt?” Still wary as she approached, her eyes darted over the edges of the surrounding dark forest. She couldn’t see anything or anyone else out there in the gloom, but, would she? Mindful of the distance to her front door and the safety it offered, she took another tentative step. “Mr. Davis?” Her voice became more anxious as he remained unmoving on her path, the toe of his moccasin still entangled in the protruding root.

  At the sound of her voice, Wals lifted his head. He could see her standing there, backlit by the light of the fireplace. She looked beautiful in the glow. Her golden blond hair had been loosened from the tight bun she usually wore. Held back from her forehead with a black ribbon, it cascaded in waves down her back. He gave a ghost of a smile at the lovely vision and tried to push himself upright. He was immediately sorry. Intense pain rushed through his body and he fell back onto the ground, lights twinkling around the dark edges of his vision. “Need some help here. Call 911,” he groaned, not sure if she could hear him or even if he had said it out loud.

  He heard a shrill whistle and the command, “Go search.” Hurting too bad to try and understand what it meant, he then felt the hesitant probing of fingertips on his back and softly moaned.

  “Where are you hurt, Mr. Davis? Is anything broken? Can you hear me?” She wasn’t sure where it was safe—or proper—to touch him.

  “My head,” he whispered, imagining he pointed to it with his good arm, but, in reality, not even moving an inch. “Just now hit my head in the Rapids. Banged up my arm. Fell on it again when I tripped on some dang rock….oh, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

  Rose gave a small smile in the darkness, her hand resting on his soggy back. “That’s alright, Mr. Davis. I’ve called it that myself once or twice. Do you think you can sit up?”

  “Thought I was.” Slowly his head lifted and opened his eyes. There was a groan when he realized he was still prone. “Oh. Guess not. I can try.”

  He felt her arm go around his back for support and, with her help, managed to get into a sitting position. Water from the River and sweat from the exertion dripped off his hair and his clothes. The path was quickly turning into a small mud puddle.

  She squatted down on her heels next to him. “Is that better, Mr. Davis?” He seemed stable enough to sit by himself and not fall over again. She reached out to smooth the hair off of his forehead, but pulled her hand back, blushing.

  Seeing the aborted movement, he looked into her anxious face. Her lavender shawl had fallen off and was lying forgotten on the dirty path behind her. With the help of the firelight coming through the open door of her cabin, he could see the outline of her body through her thin cotton nightwear. Gosh, she is so beautiful. His second thought was that this was neither the time nor place to act on his first thought. He shook his head to clear where his thoughts were running and immediately regretted the movement. Both his head and his arm were killing him. “I hate to impose, ma’am, but could I please dry off by your fire?” He lifted his good arm to show the water running off the fringe. Not waiting for her to answer, he made a feeble effort to get his feet under him. And failed miserably. “I don’t think I can stand up on my own.”

  Rose, unaware of the scene the firelight was giving Wals, came to her feet. “Of course. You’re drenched and it is getting colder.” In her concern for him, she reached out to help, pulled her arms back, and then reached for him again. She seemed flustered. “I don’t think I can lift you myself. I’ll get some help.”

  Confused, remembering the rumors that she lived alone, Wals looked oddly at her. But, before he could question her, she put her fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle. He winced as the sound bore straight through his ears. Within seconds, a huge black animal bounded out of the darkness to stand by her side, his head low and watchful.

  Wals eyes got huge. “That’s a big doggie you have there, ma’am.” He swallowed, now wondering if he should have taken his chances and stayed in the River.

  “He’s not a dog, Mr. Davis,” was all the explanation he would get. “You’re going to have to lean on him to get up. He won’t hurt you. Unless I give him the command.”

  He saw her pointed smile. Do I really want to ask? “What command is that?”

  “Kill.”

  “Ah.” Wals didn’t know if she was kidding or not. Wolf came and stood calmly next to him, keeping his face averted away from Wals. He didn’t want Wals to see his telltale sapphire-blue eyes just yet. There were some answers Wolf needed and hoped he might overhear something tonight if Wals stayed conscious long enough to start talking.

  Hearing about a huge wolf and having it standing right next to you are two completely different things. His breathing shallow from both the pain he was in and the nearness of a wolf, Wals put out a tentative hand toward the animal. The wolf seemed to be ignoring him. Assured a little, Wals put his good arm over the wolf’s broad shoulder. When the animal moved slightly, Wals suddenly tensed and then realized the wolf only seemed to be bracing himself for the added weight. Wals almost chuckled at his own reaction. Almost. It was still a wolf….

  Once he got into an upright position, the wolf was no longer able to assist him. Rose took over and put Wals’ good arm over her shoulder. Dragging the rifle behind her, she helped Wals into the log cabin. As soon as
he saw they were safely inside, the wolf disappeared into the darkness. Rose was going to let Wals rest in her rocking chair by the fire, but he resisted, saying the water and mud would ruin it. Thankful for his consideration, she helped him lower onto the handmade rag rug in front of the waning fire. Once another log was put on the blaze, a bright shower of sparks went up the chimney. Watching the display, he muttered, “Fireworks.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He looked from the brightness of the flames to her anxious face, glowing in the golden light of the fire. She is so lovely…. The vague thoughts of a pink castle dimmed from his mind. “Uh, nothing.”

  Seeing he was settled and somewhat more comfortable, she went to the wooden shelves in her tiny kitchen. “May I ask you a question, Mr. Davis?” When she rushed back, a small pot of coffee was set to steep near the glowing embers.

  Wals was gently feeling the bruises on his arm. It was going to be a glory of black and blue in a couple of days. “Ask away.”

  “Why were you in the River tonight? How did you get hurt? It is awfully late for calling.” Belatedly realizing her shawl was missing and that she was standing there in her nightclothes, her face blazed a bright red. “Oh, my!” as she hurriedly looked around for something else to make her decent.

  Wals was disappointed when she pulled some beaded, crocheted black thing around her shoulders and sat in the rocking chair next to him. “Oh, I wasn’t come calling, Mrs. Stephens. No reason for me to do that….” He broke off at the odd look on her face, not realizing he had just hurt the feelings of a very lonely woman. “No,” he continued quickly, with a covering, nervous cough, “I was in a canoe race with the Pinewood Indians from the village upriver a spell.”