He lifted the thin paper covering a picture in the front of the sketch book. George reached across, turned the book right side up. Peter held it only a moment. Then with just the slightest flicker of emotion crossing his face, handed it back.
Peter said: “It is not so bad a thought, our world ending, if the afterworld is good, as the Eagle tells us as he moves between the dream world and our own. The black robes say this of the afterworld, too. Still,” he held Joseph’s eyes, “I am hoping you are not this man with a book to change the way the land sits, the rivers run, our world.”
Joseph has said since he thought it was the missionaries and perhaps the Bible the Spokane story spoke of. But I wonder if Peter didn’t see in Joseph’s sketches that it was the land itself that mattered most to Peter’s people and so it was the surveyors and engineers who would so profoundly modify their world.
In the morning, a dense fog blanketed the canyon. Chilly and damp, Joseph helped Peter and George break camp at daylight. The men rounded the end of the grassy field dropping quickly to the flat rocks that led to the river where they crossed Buck Creek close to the mouth. The rocks were slick from the fog and the way treacherous. Joseph could hear the falls now, roaring and churning, but he could not see it. He could barely see his hand in front of him. He kept his eyes on Peter whose red-checked shirt sleeves beneath his vest drifted in and out of the muslin mist shrouding the river. George brought up the rear.
With relief, Joseph heard Peter’s horses thud-thud on the waterlogged timber of the bridge. He soon felt the log beneath his own horse who shied uneasily at the roaring water surging beneath them. The log creaked as they walked, single-file, across.
Peter circled his horses on the far side, waiting.
“We go to the reservation,” Peter said moving his hand south as Joseph’s pack mule pulled eagerly on the rope. “You will go that way, to The Dalles. Be above this in a little while,” he told Joseph. “The trail moves up the Tygh’s ridge. On top, you will find sun and trees and look down on this river. Today, it is a long white snake of cloud. But by noon, you will see the river’s blue and the white falls, if you wish to return.”
“Not likely,” Joseph told him. “And Fish Man will have a difficult time convincing me this foggy place is worth leaving California for every year.”
Peter laughed. “Who knows what takes a man from California. Everything looks better with the sun, anyway. You will see when you reach the top.”
Joseph shook Peter’s hand, gently, with the fingertips. He did the same with George, then headed north not imagining he would ever encounter these men again.
The fog lifted while Joseph was only part way out of the canyon and because it did, our lives were changed.
Joseph watched the white haze worm its way away from the rock walls and form a cocoon over the water. The stark and magnificent strength of the canyon walls then stood exposed; the sun shone and Joseph saw the gorge in its fullness. He caught his breath at its immenseness, the flat rocks cut by the twisting river, the deep pools of dark water swirling around rock caverns below the breaking fog. Like my first sight of the canyon, Joseph found the view stunning.
He spied the single log bridge he’d crossed not ten minutes before. It stretched between two rock ledges where the falls roared through a narrow cut below it. “It’s the place to build a bridge, all right. Solid foundation.” He petted the kelpie absently. “It would need to be wider, for a wagon or two.”
He laughed out loud then. “Listen to me,” he said. “Where’d a wagon be going in this isolated place?” He chuckled at his foolishness. “I see bridges and roads everywhere.” He scratched the kelpie’s neck. “Still, this place is an invitation,” he said, “moving into me like a prayer as I sit.” He shook himself of a prickly, light feeling, the kind experienced under the awesome influence of a measureless land. “Let’s head north,” he said finally, “see what else this vast country has to teach us.” He spurred the roan up the trail.
At the top of the ridge, Joseph rested a moment, stepping off his horse. Here again sprang tall grasses. He could see the mountain now, shining in the sun that was surprisingly hot on his face for September. He checked the pack ropes, tightened his saddle, inhaled air pungent with grasses and sage. He patted the roan’s neck and called the kelpie who came bounding through the bunch grass. But he couldn’t get the majesty of the canyon from his mind. Finally, feeling the heat of the morning, he told the kelpie: “Let’s ride along the edge of the firs. A bit off the trail but surely cooler.”
His mind still settled on the canyon, so he didn’t at first see the cloud of dust in the timber. When he did, he pulled his brass eyeglass from the pack. Through it, he saw a corral, five or six mules, and a skinny boy chasing them. “What on earth is he doing?” Joseph said out loud to the kelpie who perked his pointy ears toward the voice, not knowing his master was speaking of me.
Joseph stared a bit longer, then corrected himself with a soft whisper of amazement. “No, what on earth is she doing, Bandit? That skinny boy is a girl!”
THE PORCUPINE
DANCE
For some time I wondered what Joseph truly saw that day: a smudged face, pencil-lead straight body, skinny legs; defeat or defiance. The moment changed our lives although we did not look on it as such until much later.
“Sure, and it’ll be better without the stench,” the man said.
I jumped, startled by the accent and his seasoned voice. I had noticed a rider from a distance, but in my effort and irritation, I thought he’d done the gentlemanly thing and moved on, given a girl some privacy and peace while she watched her reptile pile burn. I guess he didn’t like being outside the fire.
I glanced at the smoke drifting away like a bad dream into the cloudless sky and turned to him when he spoke.
“Did I seek the opinion of an old man?” I said. I wanted my words to rip that smirky smile from his bearded face.
He sat up straighter on his horse. “Sassy little thing, aren’t you?” His eyes held humor.
I ignored it. “I don’t like being bothered, especially by some dandy carrying a slicker and a lunch who probably never dropped his bottom on the back of mule.” They were good insults, picked up from a quick survey of his saddle roll, unstained hat, good leather boots, and the coil of the horse-hair McCartys all attesting to a man who knew how to handle stock but liked his comforts, too.
“Whoa now, sister!” he said. He swung his leg over the saddle horn, tipped his hat back, and leaned on the crook of his leg. He was a big man, long-legged straight up to his chest. The accent was gone when he spoke next. “Didn’t mean to insult you.”
I stepped back as his funny-looking dog trotted up beside me and sat down. “What’d you do to your dog’s ears to make them stand so straight? Tie them up?”
He let that fall.
“Just wanted to help,” he said.
“So does an undertaker but nobody likes to see him coming.”
His words had been gentle, like he meant kindness but with frustration dripping along my cheeks, in my face, I didn’t care. I could tell by his look that he was wounded, not certain how to respond to me. I noticed I liked the feeling I found in his confusion.
The scent of the kerosene penetrated my senses. I wiped my hands on my skirt hiked up between my legs and stuffed into my belt like pants, and stood, hands on hips, not sure what to do next. I’d worked all morning at this, was hot and tired and didn’t really feel like defending my actions to some mail-order cowboy old enough to be my father, judging by some of the flecks of white in his beard, some crows feet near his eyes.
The leather of his fancy saddle creaked. He was moving.
In a moment, he stood quietly beside the gelding and rubbed his thumb smooth on the leather of the reins before he spoke. “Let me try this again,” he said politely. He removed his hat, took a deep breath, his blue eyes looking directly into mine. “You did a good job on the snakes. I’m not sure I would have thought of such an ingeniou
s method of eliminating them. Or had the courage to strike the flint.” His horse stomped impatiently in the dust behind him. “And I’m sure you know this, but the mules are probably frightened now, by the smell. Which is why they won’t go in the corral.”
His little dog scurried back to him as he spoke and he squatted down to pet him, looking up at me. “Maybe my horse can calm your stock.” He spoke without rushing and stood back up, towering over me like a badger over a mouse. “Any objections to my pulling up beside that tree beyond, see if your mules will come to him?”
“Go ahead,” I said, wishing I had a bell mare to lure them so I wouldn’t be relying on this stranger. My spitting-mad was just beginning to lose steam.
“Can you call them? By name?” he asked.
“Course. Think I’m stupid?”
He spoke calmly, carefully. “I think you’ve worked very hard without much to show for it.” He untied his mule from the gelding, and walked with them both slowly toward a fir tree far removed from the corral. He dropped the weight and tether to hold the horse, tied the mule to the tree. “I’ve known those kinds of days,” he said back over his shoulder, “Always wondered if I’d accept the help I was annoyed about not having.”
He didn’t raise his voice and he didn’t take my bait, so I actually heard what he said.
I had nothing to lose by letting him be helpful, except letting go of being right. Besides, Papa had said often enough that only a fool argues with a skunk, a cook, or a mule. And I had already argued most of my morning away.
“The big black one is Bessy,” I said, pointing. The man turned and walked back toward me. “The bay is Hard Times, and the one kicking up her heels is Jackson. The little one is Puddin’ Foot, though now that she’s full grown her feet actually look all right, don’t you think?” I didn’t wait for his response. “Pepperpot is standing off by himself. If we can get him, the others will follow. I’ll call him if you think that will help.”
He smiled at me then, a big, accepting smile and I saw his eyes drooped a bit, with a kind of swimming look before easing into crinkles. He flashed a line of straight teeth that looked even whiter in his sun-darkened face. He had thick, brown eyebrows, deep blue eyes, and a nose that had never been broken. I thought at the same time, as I noticed his thin lips, that maybe he wasn’t as old as my father.
Pepperpot took some coaxing, but eventually we moved my mule into the pack mule’s territory, got a rope on him, and tied him up. The other mules followed suit seemingly both annoyed by the reptile pile stench and by the little dog who backed his way toward the pack mule. The mules nudged toward the dog until they were caught up, just as this savvy man knew they would be. We smiled at each other with each caught-up mule and had seemed to form a wary bond by the time the animals stood grazing near the tree acting like they never did have a better day.
“I’m heading toward The Dalles,” he said when we finished tying Puddin’ Foot. “I’d be happy to help string them toward where you’re headed. Nice animals.” He patted Puddin’s behind and dust puffed up.
We had walked back to the log where my cooking fire still smoldered, rubbed our hands in the dirt to clean them of the sweaty smell.
I said, “About being so rude earlier—”
“I accept,” he interrupted. “It’s a sign of good character to welcome help, when needed, and apologize when acknowledging the delay—”
“I wasn’t asking your forgiveness,” I said, cutting him off. His rightness annoyed me. I’d actually been going to comment on his rudeness: not introducing himself, talking to a girl in the middle of nowhere. “And I certainly don’t welcome your opinion,” I said. The man had the power to turn my temperament from kind to cross in seconds. “You’ve been helpful. Now you’d best be on your way.”
He stared for a moment as if considering a response. Then he turned in the dust, walked without talking to his mule, tied it to his horse. He checked his saddle, pulled up the cast iron loop serving as the weight, mounted and patted his lanky leg and the dog jumped up into his lap. He tipped his flat-topped hat at me. “It’s been chirk,” he said and smiled.
His sarcasm irritated me more because I knew he couldn’t have meant he’d had a pleasant time. He pressed the reins against his horse’s neck and rode off.
The last thing I saw was the little dog peeking his pointy ears around his master and panting his pink tongue at me in their departure.
Chirk! Not likely. I felt righteously disappointed but not for long. There was always too much to do and I simply set to it.
Joseph said our first encounter stayed with him like a hangover, something he enjoyed getting to then wished would go away. He considered what he’d done to set me off as he rode north toward the big river, the Columbia. He talked to the kelpie about my volatile temperament and said he even commented about some poor soul marrying me someday and having to live with that sassy tongue forever. “Like dancing with a porcupine,” he told the kelpie. Still, the farther away from me he rode, the more he found himself chuckling, about my energy and grit, two qualities he found he appreciated but had never really expected to find in a very small girl he’d first mistaken as a boy.
I put out the fire, tied the mules to my rope, and climbed aboard Jackson, heading home, moving into a world that a summer with Sunmiet had pleasantly interrupted. Riding, I considered the stranger, thought about Sunmiet and Standing Tall, and remembered my last day at the river. Sunmiet and I had been relieved to learn that it was Bubbles who discovered the disaster first. A young man had slipped into the river. The ropes around his middle kept him alive though pounded by the surging water. Because she sat near the babies, Bubbles had an eagle’s-eye view of the scaffolding, had seen the young man fall. Bubbles’ bulk and surprising quickness saved him as she was the first to shout orders to others, then strain her arms on the rope, dragging him away from the sucking surf. It was Koosh who’d fallen, Standing Tall’s younger brother. Sunmiet’s intended reminded us that his words of warning had been wise, but then admitted: “One does not need to be a nana to be in danger at the river.” Sunmiet had nodded her head once in agreement and told me later how good her insides felt to have him hint that she was right.
It was a feeling I understood, this wishing to be right, not the cause of something wrong.
I rode into the yard. Mama was having one of her days that began after the tragedy. So when I pulled up with the mules, I didn’t have the time or energy to relate my encounter with the stranger with either her or Papa. We both kept out of her way those days knowing nothing we could do or say would make it right. Even Baby George learned to sit on his bed sucking the ends of his fingers, shaking himself smaller with each slam of a spider and iron in mama’s kitchen. Our only hope was time or a visitor, someone from the outside whose presence seemed to warm Mama into her old charm that often lasted well after any visitor was gone. My stranger stopping by now would have been a blessing and I would not have found him rude in the least.
No stranger came by and so I related the encounter to no one, not even my friend Sunmiet, at least until much later.
The stranger made his way into The Dalles. Joseph said the river and the giant rapids that marked it overshadowed the little town and only later did he come to appreciate the amenities it had to offer.
The Columbia River had captured Captain Lewis and Mr. Clark and most everyone who made their way west to find it. So massive it is, so rolling and wide, the wind often whipping up white-caps as it roars up the gorge. Especially at the rapids where the waters of a thousand miles of British territory and unsettled land pour into a canyon so treacherous that only fools or dreamers or men bent on suicide would ever attempt passage. Joseph sat at the top of the ridge looking down, in awe of a river so mighty, so broad, and so busy on its way to the Pacific.
Like tiny scraps of paper, rafts with wagons and stick-figures of men were sucked out into the current, heading downstream. Below the rapids, wharves jutted out into it, ships nudged into them l
eaving broken wakes trailing into the choppy water. A hotel of several stories with the name “Umatilla House” painted in huge letters on the side took up a good section of the shoreline.
Within the mist, Joseph caught glimpses of springboards, scaffoldings where men would fish. None were fishing now and so Joseph’s hope of locating Fish Man lessened.
To the east, he noticed several wagons camped on the hillside, away from the river. He took his sketch book out and made notations of the angles and grades of the huge ravines. Below him, more wagons circled closer to the river and he spied rafts of pine logs. People seemed to be living out of their wagons, close to the water, waiting. He saw one small pack string heading east and thought it odd. Putting his sketchbook back into the pack, he rode down the grassy hillside, through some timbered ravines, and into the town for his initial look at the community that would redirect his life.
The level of activity amazed him. Wagons rattled through the dusty streets. Dogs barked. Men clustered on corners, smoke rising from their cigars. Wide-faced Indians walked unfettered along the boardwalks, usually in twos. He caught a glimpse of a Chinese man in his blue silks disappearing into an alley. Bonneted women whisked out of the mercantile, children in hand followed by aproned men loaded with string-wrapped packages. A man yelled at Joseph, offering a price for the kelpie, claiming its hide would fetch a pretty price for shoes.
“No thanks!” Joseph said, shaking his head in wonder. He had already decided not to let the kelpie from his sight. He kept his promise to himself even while he left his horse and pack mule, his bed roll and whip at the livery and started with the dog toward the Umatilla House.
“Little dog will cost much dust at la maison,” the livery owner said. He stood like a nail, dark and straight and hard beside the wide pine doors of the livery. Black hair scruffed out beneath a blue handkerchief forming a jagged frame around his long, narrow face. He picked at his fingernails with a Bowie knife, carefully cleaning beneath them with the knife’s tip as he spoke a heavily accented English.
A Sweetness to the Soul Page 12