Blood and gore caked Louisa up to her elbows, but she did not mind. Occasionally, while they worked, her arm brushed Stalking Coyote’s, and she minded that even less. Which both puzzled and amused her. Just yesterday she’d hated all Indians. Now here she was, supremely happy to be in the company of one. Was she fickle, as her pa always claimed women were? Could a person change their whole outlook in so short a time?
Zach wiped his hands on a piece of elk hide. It was time to fetch the packhorses. Another hour and they would be done. Tomorrow, they would dry the meat. By the day after, they could leave. He wondered how his folks would react to his new friend. Suddenly, a noise from down the slope made that the least of his worries. “The bear.”
Louisa was slicing meat off a hipbone. It was the last of the elk untouched by the grizzly. She thought of taking a dip in the stream in the morning. To wash off the blood, nothing more. “What about him?” she absently asked.
“He’s come back.”
Eight
Evelyn King was as happy as a squirrel with a big old pine cone to chew. Lying on a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace, she hugged Blaze, nuzzling his neck with her chin. “I love you so much,” she cooed, and was rewarded with a wet tongue on the tip of her nose. She giggled, then rubbed behind his ears. “I hope you never go away again.”
Seated in a rocking chair, Winona glanced up from her sewing and frowned. Her daughter was in for a disappointment. The wolf would not stay long. It never did anymore. That it came at all never ceased to amaze her. “Do not become too attached to him,” she cautioned.
“I already am, Ma.” Evelyn kissed Blaze on the forehead. “Don’t you know that by now?”
Nate King was at the table, cleaning his pistols and rifles. “Just remember he’s a wild animal, little one,” he said. “We can never truly tame him.”
“He’d never hurt any of us, Pa. Not ever.”
She had misunderstood, so Nate set her straight. “He likes us, yes, but his heart is in the deep woods, in the wild places his kind have roamed since the dawn of time. He likes his freedom. So one day soon he’ll just disappear again.”
Winona bent to her sewing, amused at how different men and women were. She had tried to spare her daughter’s feelings by not coming right out and saying it. But not Nate. Men were more direct about things; women had more compassion. Women were always less inclined to hurt another person.
Winona often wondered why the two sexes were so unlike. The Great Mystery – or God, as her husband called that which was above all else – had to have done it for a reason. Nothing in life ever happened without a reason. But it seemed to her that relations would be better all-around if women and men shared more traits in common. They would be less at odds. There would be less bickering, less fighting.
She remembered how shocked she had been their first year of married life. Here she’d thought she had known all there was to know about men. She had a father, did she not? And male cousins? She had lived among men all her life. So she could be excused for believing she had learned all there was to learn about their stubborn, strutting ways.
How wrong she had been! Only a woman who had lived with a -man for any length of time could appreciate how little unmarried women truly knew. All the strange things men did! So many quirks, it would take hours to detail them.
Her dearly beloved was a prime example. Nate had to have his clothes folded in half, no other way. His belongings must always be arranged in a certain order. When it came to neatness, he was fanatical, insisting the cabin be spotlessly clean. And where food was concerned, he was worse. His eggs had to be just so. His toast must never be too crispy. His meat must always be cooked rare. He could not abide loud noises when he was reading. And so on and so on. Enough to drive a woman to drink.
Winona looked at him and wondered if he thought the same about her. If he was nettled by her quirks. But no, that could not be. She had no quirks. She was too sensible. The normal one.
Evelyn had not said anything for a while. Now she rolled onto her side, propped her cheek in a hand, and asked, “When I get older, can I marry any man I want?”
Nate had started to shove the ramrod into the Hawken, and missed. “You’re a little young to be worrying about things like that, aren’t you?”
“I’ll be nine my next birthday. Not much younger than Red Fawn.”
Winona leaned back. So that was it. During their last visit to her people, they had learned that Red Fawn, the daughter of a close friend, had been promised to the son of a prominent warrior. Both were much too young to move into a lodge together anytime soon; the marriage would not take place until they came of age. She reminded Evelyn of that now.
“Oh, I know, Ma. But that’s not my point. Will Pa and you let me marry whoever I want? Or will you make me marry someone I might not care for?”
Nate was upset his own flesh and blood would even think he could do such a thing. ‘I’d never force you to do anything against your will, little one.”
Evelyn snickered. “You make me do the dishes. And make my bed. And clean up all the time. And I have to take turns with Zach feeding the horses.”
“Chores are different.”
Winona was pondering her daughter’s question. Pondering what might be the underlying cause. “Is Red Fawn unhappy that she must marry Tall Elk one day?” she asked Evelyn.
“Yes. She likes another boy better. She asked her father not to do it, but he told her the marriage would be good for her and for their family. Tall Elk’s pa has many horses.”
Which was another way of saying that, by Indian standards, Tall Elk’s father was wealthy. Winona could not fault Red Fawn’s father for wanting to improve the family’s lot in life, as her husband would say. Frequently, daughters were pledged to mates they had never met.
Nate sighed. He did not approve of the practice and never would. A girl should have the right to choose. Many decades ago arranged marriages had been common over in Europe, but in recent years the attitude had changed. Women were being granted more freedoms than ever before, although not nearly enough, in his estimation.
If asked, he would admit his own attitude had undergone a great change since his younger days, largely due to Shakespeare. Before he came West he had never given the status of women much thought. They were there. They had babies. They were fine mothers. What else counted?
Then one day some missionaries arrived at the annual Rendezvous. Marcus Whitman was the leader of that group, and at Whitman’s side was his remarkable wife, Narcissa. She befriended Winona, and two spent much time together.
Nate and Shakespeare had been watching them converse when Nate happened to remark, “That Narcissa is some woman. Never lets anything fluster her. Not even Joe Meek.” Meek was a notorious braggart who took delight in intimidating others.
Shakespeare laughed. “Yes, she’s as fine as they come. Forthright. Honest. Upstanding. Too bad she can’t vote, isn’t it?”
The odd comment perplexed Nate. “What does voting have to do with anything?”
“I would say it has everything to do with everything.”
“Speak plain for once. Your tongue could twist a rope into knots all by its lonesome.”
“You really think so?” Shakespeare was flattered. “As for voting, it’s the measure by which you can judge how free someone is.”
“I’ve lost your trail.”
“Follow me, then.” Shakespeare made himself comfortable on a stump and took out his pipe. “Do you and I have the right to vote?”
“If we were back in the States, yes, we would. But out here there is no government, so voting isn’t important.”
“Fie on thee, Horatio. Voting is always important. It separates the citizen from the lazy leech.” Shakespeare took a pouch containing tobacco from his possibles bag. “And quit being so literal. In the States you and I can vote, can we not?”
“Of course.”
“Can blacks vote?”
“No. Not the slaves. Freeborn bl
acks can.”
“A mere handful.” McNair began to fill the bowl. “As a general rule, can blacks vote?”
“No.”
“Can children?”
“That’s silly. No. They’re too young.”
“Can women?”
“No.”
“Why not? Are they too young?”
“No, of course not, but—”
“Are they slaves?”
“You’re being ridiculous. No, women are not slaves.”
“Yet we treat them just as if they are. Does that strike you as fair?”
Nate had never thought of it in that context before, and he was troubled. “No, I reckon it doesn’t.”
“Then there is hope for you yet.” Shakespeare chuckled. “But imagine how your own mother must have felt. All those years they were married, all those elections your father proudly took part in, doing his civic duty, and she wasn’t allowed to so much as set foot in a polling place. You never questioned the wisdom of that?”
“No,” Nate was ashamed to admit.
“Youth no less becomes the light and careless livery that it wears than settled age his sables and his weeds, importing health and graveness,” McNair then quoted. “Don’t feel bad. I might not have given it any thought either, if not for my first wife. She was as free a spirit as an eagle. And she keenly resented being treated inferior to anyone.”
Nate’s interest was piqued. “You never mentioned her before. Where is she now?”
“Martha? Dead.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Not anywhere near as sorry as I am. I loved her, loved her dearly.”
“How did she die, if I may ask?”
Shadows clouded Shakespeare’s craggy face. “She upped and left me, son. I’d worshiped the ground she walked on, but I was never quite good enough for her, never quite handsome enough or rich enough. So she took up with a perfect gentleman, or so she thought.” McNair spat. “True gentlemen are as rare as hen’s teeth, and this one turned out to be as false as politician. His name was Craven. He was a worthless rogue, a lazy scoundrel. He left her alone every night while he caroused with fallen doves.”
“He shouldn’t have,” Nate declared. While he may not have given much thought to the status of women in society, he did firmly believe that no man had the right to mistreat his wife. Not after having witnessed the abuse his mother had endured for so many years.
“My sentiments exactly,” Shakespeare said. “But the worst was yet to come. Martha came down sick and he didn’t lift a finger to help her. He never sent for a doctor. Nothing.”
“She lived, though?”
“In point of fact, she did not. Martha spent a week in the most awful agony, then died. I was at her side, holding her hand, the whole time.” The oldest living mountaineer bowed his white-maned head. “I had a physician come, but it was too late. She was too far gone. So I took it on myself to have her buried in the family cemetery. Invited everyone she knew. Even the scum who killed her.”
Nate was astounded. “I would have slit his throat.”
“We think alike, sweet Horatio,” Shakespeare responded. “Because that is exactly what I did. While he was standing there beside her grave, pretending to be grief-stricken, his hat in hand, I walked right up to him, looked him right in the eyes, and cut him from ear to ear. Damn near chopped off the bastard’s head.”
Nate felt a need to sit down. His expression must have given his thoughts away, for Shakespeare motioned testily.
“Do you condemn me for not letting the wretch live? Should I have played the fool and treated him as if nothing of consequence had occurred?” Shakespeare rubbed his eyes. “Lord help me, I could not. So I did what everyone there secretly wanted to do but could not bring themselves to carry out.”
“How much time did you spend in prison?”
“None. I fled.”
Insight flooded through Nate like water over a dam. “You headed for the frontier. Beyond the reach of the law.”
“Yes, Horatio, I did. So now, at long last, you know the real reason I was one of the first white men to venture west of the Mississippi. I wasn’t guided by a grand desire to explore the wilds. I had no hankering to see the Rockies. No, I came West because I did not want to spend the rest of my life behind bars. Or be hung by the neck until I was dead, dead, dead.”
Nate had often wondered why his mentor had traveled into the unknown at a time when most whites felt to do so was certain death. “You’ve never been back?”
“Never.”
“What about the rest of your family? They must have missed you terribly.”
“They disowned me.”
“No! How could they?”
Shakespeare stared at his pipe, then shoved it into his possibles bag. “Didn’t feel much liking smoking, anyhow.”
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
McNair frowned. “ ‘I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise fellow. Thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel.’ ” Removing his beaver hat, he ran his calloused fingers through his long hair. When next he spoke, his voice was so low Nate could barely hear it. “My father was a minister, son. As spiritual a person as you will ever meet. He was a firm believer in turning the other cheek. But he was not much on forgiveness. Not where his own son was involved.”
“He held it against you?”
“He forbade me to ever set foot in his house again. Or to have any contact with my mother or the rest of my siblings.” Shakespeare seemed to age another ten years. “I wrote them many times, but he never answered. Mother did once. My sister twice. They both mentioned how no one was allowed to talk about me or even speak my name. My father went so far as to blot it from the front of the family bible, where the record of our family history was kept. In its place, he wrote in large black letters, ‘Murderer Most Foul.’ ”
Nate did not know what to say, so he did not say anything.
“But do you know what, son? To this day I don’t regret what I did. I like to think that Martha looked up from her grave and smiled when she saw that vermin bleeding his life away.” McNair straightened and mustered a grin. “ ‘I do profess to be no less than I seem. To serve him truly that will put me in trust. To love him that is honest. To converse with him that is wise and says little. To fear judgment. To fight when I cannot choose, and to eat no fish.’ ”
What fish had to do with the whole affair, Nate could not say then, nor could he say now years later. Shaking himself, he gazed at his daughter. “When the time comes, you can marry whoever you want.”
“Thank you, Pa.”
“Just so long as he’s not a rogue and a scoundrel.”
Zachary King fed a broken branch to the fire, then sat back to stare at the sleeping girl across from him. He was mighty tired, too, but he had told her he would keep watch so she could catch up on her rest.
One of the packhorses nickered, and Zach had half a mind to chuck a stone at it. It was the same one that had strayed to the ridge earlier, after it had pulled free of the lead rope. He had mistaken it for the bear.
Louisa had rushed to his side, declaring, “We’ll fight it together!” When they saw it was the horse, they had laughed, and she had thrown her arms around his neck. Almost immediately she had stopped laughing and stepped back, embarrassed. “Sorry,” she had said softly.
Zach had not been, not one whit. He had liked the feel of her skin on his, of her being so close he could feel her heart pound in her chest. Yet it should not be. She was white, through and through. She did not have a drop of Indian blood in her. So why was he so attracted to her? He had always taken it for granted that when he felt these kind of feelings for a woman, it would be for an Indian woman. A Shoshone.
He rested his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. What was happening to him? Why could he not stop thinking of that fleeting embrace? Of earlier, when they had grappled? Of her charming smile? And the adoration in her eyes when she looked at him?
&nb
sp; Zach figured it must have something to do with the dreams he had been having for some time now. Dreams of women. Women who did things with him he had never imagined doing. Well, almost never. Sometimes he would awaken after one of these dreams, his whole body hot, and want to run down to the lake and jump in.
Long ago his father had told him there would come a day when he would think as highly of women as he did of his former pet wolf. Zach had laughed. Maybe it happened to other men, but it would never happen to him. He was different.
“Maybe I’m not so different after all,” he said aloud.
“Different how, Stalking Coyote?”
Zach jerked up, perturbed she had heard him. “I thought you were sound asleep.” He did not explain his comment.
Louisa slowly sat and stretched. “I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t doze off for the life of me.” Which should not be the case. She was exhausted. She felt exhausted. Every muscle, every fiber of her being craved sleep. Yet her mind was racing like a Thoroughbred. She could not stop thinking about him. And she had tried. Oh, how she had tried. She had scolded herself for being so childish, and sought to convince herself he was nothing special.
But now, admiring his handsome features out of the corner of an eye, Louisa could not deny the truth. He was special. She liked being with him. Liked how he talked and how he moved and how he looked at her sometimes when he thought she would not notice. “How old are you, exactly?” she asked.
“What difference does it make?”
“None,” Louisa lied. What if she were wrong and he was younger than she was? “I just wanted something to talk about and it was the first thing that popped into my head.”
“I’ve seen eighteen winters,” Zach hedged. His birthday was not for months yet, but it was close enough. “You?”
“Sixteen.”
“A very mature sixteen.”
Wilderness Double Edition 13 Page 10