Orphan Hero

by John Babb

  The men pulled up at their fire. “That water hot?”

  “Soon it will be when I add two buckets of hot.”

  The man that sat down in front of B. F. looked to be about half Indian in his clothing and his behavior. “Take care how ye cut this hair.”

  “Yessir.” B. F. wet his hands and began to moisten the man’s hair.

  The man flinched in pain. “Careful I said.”

  B. F. then noticed a ragged scar that began over the man’s right ear, circled the back of his head, and ended almost above his left ear. It was roughly done and had bits of skin that were sort of hanging loose. “Oh, I’m sorry mister. What happened here?”

  “Mescalero almost got my hair down south of Albuquerque along the Rio Grande. Hit me in the head with a rock. He was in the midst of takin’ my scalp with his knife when Alvin shot him.”

  The man in the tub spoke up. “Charlie was ‘bout as grey as you can get without bein’ dead. I sewed him up with my darnin’ needle. He was plumb crazy for a week or so, but he’s back to bein’ hissef now—only half crazy. You’re the first one to give him a haircut since that Apache almost did.”

  “I’ll be careful, mister. I’ll cut it so nobody can see the scar.”

  When they settled up, the man called Alvin said, “We got no American coins. But mebbe what we got is better.”

  B. F. was hoping for another deal in gold. But what was placed in his palm were two pieces of silver coinage that he’d never seen before. They were a bit thicker than U.S. coins and had very rough emblems of some sort on the coins. “Them’s Spanish silver—most calls ’em Pieces of Eight because ye can cut them into eight parts. Might be some of that old-timey stuff. We got them from a Mexican in Santa Fe.”

  Mr. Fitzwater picked one of the coins up and tried to make out the marks. B. F. wondered why he was so bent on deciphering the writing. The man couldn’t even read English, let alone Spanish. “Thanks mister. I hope you’re happy with those haircuts.”

  The one called Charlie looked at George Fitzwater and winked. “If we find a couple of them purty sportin’ gals, we’d be downright overjoyed. Will you’ns guarantee these here haircuts will make that happen?” Both men laughed at the prospect.

  They got back to the wagon before dark with eighteen dollars, as they’d gotten an even trade in dollars for the Spanish coins. As they unloaded, Jane came into camp with a big grin on her face. Her pa looked at first her and then his wife. “What luck did you have with the mattresses?”

  “We sewed twelve of them mattresses but decided we didn’t have no room for any more, so Janie been sellin’ since about three o’clock. Whilst she went around with the mattresses, I sewed some more. I plumb forgot the time.”

  Jane piped in. “I sold nine, pa. It didn’t take hardly any time. Once people laid down on them, they was quick to buy. Oh, and I raised the price to a dollar-fifty. That’s all right with you ain’t it?”

  Two more days of the same routine and they met once more for supper. As B. F. watched the meal preparation, he couldn’t help noticing that Mary used a knife to cut what appeared to be a cross on the top of her soda bread before she placed it in the Dutch oven. He turned to Jane. “Why did your ma cut that cross on the bread?”

  “Well, if you asked Pa, he’d say it was to help the bread bake through and through. But Ma claims that she cuts that cross to let the fairies out.”

  Thinking it was a joke, B. F. started to laugh, but caught himself just in time when he looked at Jane’s face. After the meal, they assessed their circumstances. They had taken in a total of ninety-six dollars between the four of them and only spent six dollars on canvas and hay. Plus there were twelve finished mattresses ready to sell in the morning.

  Mary was thoughtful. “We got two more days before we leave here. My knees tell me it’s fixin’ to rain tomorrow. If it does, mebbe Jane and me oughta sell them mattresses quick. And you two take the wagon to buy supplies. B. F. you better make yer deal for that pony and find you a mule. And if my rheumatism is wrong, then we can make some more money tomorrow and do our shoppin’ the next day.”

  B. F. figured thirty-four of those dollars belonged to him, based on his haircuts. He needed to buy supplies, but he also had to have somewhere to put them. He hoped his idea would appeal to them. “I’d like to buy something from you. I want one of those mattresses, and I want to buy enough space in your wagon for about one hundred fifty pounds of supplies. I can hunt, I can help look after Ethan, and I can help with chores. All I want besides that is about five dollars to trade for a mule. If you’ll buy the supplies, then all the rest of the money is yours.” He held his breath. There was no time now to start over if this didn’t work.

  They looked at one another and Mary Fitzwater spoke up. “I don’t think we got enough room to. . . .”

  Mr. Fitzwater quickly interrupted. “Now, Mary. B. F. here worked just as hard as we did for that money. If not for his sly ideas, its stuck right here in West Port we’d be instead of moving our family to Oregon. B. F., o’course you can have some wagon space. It’s happy we are to have ye with us.” B. F. tried not to notice that Mary’s face didn’t convey the same enthusiasm about the new arrangement as her husband.

  But B. F. could only be grateful that he had found good people. He felt tears on his cheeks and turned away so they wouldn’t see his reaction. He was so relieved he couldn’t say anything but “Thank you.” He remembered he still had four five-dollar gold pieces in his boots. He hoped he would have enough barbering money to buy what he needed, as he was pretty sure he’d need the remainder of his gold soon enough.

  Fourteen

  The Peace Medal

  West Port, Missouri 1849

  My story. On April 8 Year of 1849

  I shan’t give up on finding my pa but the longer I’m here in West Port without seeing him, the more I think he’s gone a different way to Calyfornia. Every day I have seen somebody who was about the right size, or walked the right way, or carried himself just so, and I always hurry to catch up to them to see if I might be right. But I have had no luck at all. No one here has ever heard of Daniel Windes.

  For these last two days, I will look harder than ever. Unless pa is traveling by ship, he should be here. No wagon trains have left for Calyfornia yet this spring. But one thing keeps bothering me that I try to push out of my mind. What if my pa was on the steamboat that wrecked just ahead of the boat I was on? As far as I can tell nobody knows a thing about that boat and so far nobody has claimed to have been on it. I can’t think like that. I just know he is still alive but I surely can’t figure where he is.

  True to form, Mary’s knees were on target, and the morning drizzle brought the pronouncement from Mister Fitzwater that it “’tis a gorgeous, soft day.” B. F. promised Mr. Fitzwater he’d meet him at McCoy’s to help load the wagon and headed out in the light rain toward a stock barn on the northeast corner of West Port.

  He passed by a very large two-story house—perhaps the biggest one in town—and noticed it belonged to Colonel A.G. Boone. Could it be this was yet another offspring of the famous woodsman? He tied his horse outside Bernard’s Livestock Sales and resolved to make a deal. He found William Bernard on his hands and knees behind the counter, pawing through a tangle of single-trees and harness on the bottom shelf.

  The man was balding on top and had what was left of his hair tied behind his head in the old style. “What for ye boy?” He wore a set of false teeth that he could barely keep in his mouth and kept putting his hand to his lips to keep them from falling on the floor. B. F. wanted to ask if this was an example of the guaranteed dental work of Joseph Halifax, but kept that to himself.

  “Have you seen a man by the name of Daniel Windes, sir?”

  “The only Daniel I know is my slave. I don’t believe he owns a surname.”

  “No, I was asking after my father.” He changed subjects. “I have a fine horse outside I’d like to sell, sir.”

  Mr. Bernard slowly pulled himself
to his feet. “There ain’t much market for horses hereabouts. What’s he look like?”

  “He’s there at your rail, sir. He looks real good when it’s not raining.”

  He shook his head slowly. “It’s a stretch to call that soggy animal a horse. He ain’t close to two year old.”

  “I’m interested in trading him for a mule. The saddle and bridle goes with me.”

  “Son, I’d have to ask for ten dollars boot. That pony’s gonna be hard to sell.”

  “I was figuring four dollars boot for a good mule. I can’t go ten, sir.”

  “Then we can’t deal.” The old man went back to his inventory.

  Dejected, B. F. rode back over to McCoy’s. It didn’t appear that Mr. Fitzwater was there yet with the wagon, so he went in the store and bought a knife scabbard then returned to the street to wait on his friend. There were two Indians sitting on their paint ponies, paying a lot of attention to his horse. The younger one had a travois rigged behind his own animal, which was loaded with hides. Not knowing exactly what they were up to, B. F. stood back by the door to keep an eye on them.

  The older man had on leggings and a vest that were made of relatively new deerskin. The vest had white shells and blue beads sewn in a circular pattern on the front, and he had some sort of wavy lines and circles in white paint on his bare arms. His hair looked like it had been rubbed with grease, and around his neck he wore a large silver amulet. From a distance, B. F. couldn’t be sure, but it looked like it bore the likeness of Thomas Jefferson on the front. Could it be this rough-looking character had one of the Peace Medals that he knew had been distributed to Indian chiefs across the west by Lewis and Clark? It was twice the size of a silver dollar and run through by a white bead necklace.

  The Indian looked closer at his pony and put his hand on the bridle. The steel bit and connecting rings were quite a contrast with his own bridle, which was made completely of braided leather. B. F.’s pony was visibly nervous. Perhaps it was the close presence and scent of the strange horse, or maybe it was the unfamiliar appearance of the Indian. B. F. stepped forward, pointing at the horse, then himself, and said, “My horse.” He patted the pony on the neck to quiet her.

  The Indians spoke together in a short-syllabled tongue. The older one pointed at the horse and then at his hides. He held up ten fingers. B. F. realized they were trying to trade for his pony. He didn’t know exactly what a buffalo hide was worth, but as many as were stacked around town on sidewalks and in sheds, even ten of them couldn’t be worth too much. He shook his head no and said, “No.”

  The Indian held up his hand, indicating that he should wait. He took a sturdy knife from a leather scabbard on his belt, pointed at it, and again indicated ten hides. B. F. held his hand out to see the knife. He noticed a “U.S.” stamped into the base of the blade. Somewhere in the past, this Indian had gotten hold of a U.S. Army issue knife. B. F. didn’t want to think about how that might have happened. Again, he declined.

  B. F. started to mount his horse, then stepped back a minute. He held up his hand for the man’s attention. He stepped back and looked at the paint mare, then at the horse’s teeth, felt her withers, and turned up her hooves. Of course, she was unshod, but her hooves seemed in good shape for all he could tell. He took the blanket and saddle off his pony, and set them on the sidewalk. First he pointed at the older man’s horse and to himself. Then he pointed to his pony and to the Indian. Then he went for the deal. He was standing close enough now that he could clearly see that the medallion held the profile of Mr. Jefferson himself. He pointed at the Peace Medal and to his chest to finish the deal.

  He couldn’t tell whether the Indian was shocked or insulted or just acting. He shook his head violently to indicate no deal and put his hand protectively over the medal. B. F. guessed it had probably been in his tribe—maybe even with the man’s own family—for forty-five years, since the Voyage of Discovery had gone up the Missouri River in 1804. For the rest of his life, he would tell how close he came to trading for a Peace Medal.

  But B. F. realized there was a deal to be made here. He turned away and picked up the saddle to put it back on his pony. The Indian got off his horse and grabbed B. F.’s arm. In his other hand he held out his reins and his knife. B. F. acted as though he was wavering, then finally nodded his head. The younger Indian let out a whoop of excitement. Apparently his father had been negotiating for him.

  Mr. Fitzwater was watching from his wagon across the street. He couldn’t believe the boy had made a trade face to face with a wild Indian. He walked over and patted B. F. on the back. “You must be part Irishman. That might explain how you just out-traded that Indian! I’ll get your saddle. Take that paint around to get shod. Then we can go see about all those supplies they say we’ve got to have.”

  They spent eighty-eight dollars and twenty cents on supplies. B. F. also used four and a half of his five dollars to shoe his horse and buy a new bridle, plus purchase six yards of blue and pink striped cotton material for Mary and Jane, some marbles for Ethan, and five thick sticks of licorice to share all around.

  Their final day in West Port, Jane asked for one more piece of canvas. She was determined to sell more mattresses before the day was out, while Mary was to spend most of the day arranging everything in the wagon so that necessary supplies were easily accessible. This was not a simple task, given the inside of the wagon was ten feet long and only forty-two inches wide. She placed a wooden trunk in front, underneath the wide board—called a jockeybox—that would provide a place for Jane and her to sit for the next five months. She also made sure there was at least space to walk down the middle of the wagon, as this narrow aisle-way would have to be Ethan’s area to play while they were traveling.

  B. F. and Mr. Fitzwater decided to spend the day at OK Creek. There wouldn’t be much reason for people on the trail to get a fancy haircut or take a tub bath, so they knew their business was finished when they departed West Port. B. F. walked up to McCoy’s to pick up his horse and Jane’s canvas, while Mr. Fitzwater headed to their business location.

  His new horse didn’t care for the saddle or the cinch. She’d never had anything fastened around her belly before except for a woven rope, and for a little while she shook herself and kicked a bit. But B. F. waited her out, and finally rode back to the tent city to deliver the canvas then out to the creek without any incident.

  One man had already had his bath and was waiting on a haircut, while another was in the tub when B. F. arrived. Both men had come from a place in west Texas, and had headed north to strike the Trail maybe two hundred miles east of Santa Fe. The one still in the tub was skin and bones. He had a terrible cough that he just couldn’t stop once he got started, and when he finally did stop, he was gasping for breath. His skin seemed to have a pasty gray color to it. B. F. was relieved that the man lived through his bath and wondered if they shouldn’t dump out the tub and start over as soon as they left. He knew he wouldn’t want to sit in that water, as it might harbor some of the contagion that had rinsed off the man.

  Both of the men were wearing necklaces made of unusual blue stones. They told how they had quite a few pieces of bracelets and amulets and necklaces made of the same kind of strange looking stones, saying they’d made a deal with some Indians for trade goods and decided to come to West Port to see what they could sell them for. But something in the way it was said made B. F. uneasy. He didn’t know why, but he was sure they were being lied to. No telling what they’d really done to get that jewelry.

  A group of six men crossed the creek about the time they were finished, and when the new arrivals didn’t pass on by, the two men paid up, and mounted their animals. The short one glanced back around. “You boys out here ever’ day?”

  B. F. stepped on Mr. Fitzwater’s foot and spoke up. “Yes. We’re right here every day.” The man nodded to his partner, and as they rode off, B. F. spoke quietly. “There’s something wrong with those two. I bet they figure on coming back in a day or so and taking ou
r money. But when they do, we’ll be gone.”

  “I know what you mean. Those boys stole those jewels, I figure. It’s downright fortunate we are that these fine gentlemen came along when they did.”

  In between customers, B. F. used his scissors on his horse. After trying unsuccessfully to work out the tangles and knots in her shaggy hair, he finally decided the simplest approach was to cut her mane very short, as it would grow out sooner or later. He was less able to do very much with the tail. He didn’t trust the horse enough to get behind her, but was able to cut some of the long hair off the back of her legs. By the time another set of customers rode in, Mr. Fitzwater couldn’t help but comment. “That little mare is beginning to look like another horse entirely. Of course, you might cut her hair off, but I doubt it’s possible to cut the wild Injun out of her.”

  They finished late in the afternoon, well satisfied to have earned twelve dollars apiece. Both of them had a fee to pay in the morning to the wagon master, so they were relieved to have enough to take care of Del Coggins without dipping very deeply into the remainder of their money.

  My story. On April 9 year of 1849

  Tomorrow we leave for Calyfornia. The Fitzwater wagon is packed to the canvas with gear and food. Good fortune has smiled on me so far, as barbering has paid my way. The sunset tonight was red and orange and even purple. Del says it means good weather tomorrow. I must say I am excited!

  I wish my pa was here to share it. I am pretty sure he is not here in West Port, so he must be traveling by ship. I reckon I will have to wait to find him when we get to Calyfornia. After supper, Mary tied a handful of pine needles and sage together in a little bundle. She made all of us stand at the back of the wagon while she lit the bundle afire. Then she waved the burning bundle back and forth and walked around all of us and the wagon. And I think she said, ‘Spirit of the heaven, conjure it. Spirit of the earth, conjure it.’ Jane said burning the bundle of pine and sage was called smudging and her ma was saying an old chant to pertect us from the evil eye on our journey. Reckon that really works?