A Corner in Glory Land

by Janie DeVos

  “I don’t know about that, Mr. Harjo. Just the mosquitoes alone are enough to make me reconsider this as a lifelong occupation.”

  Smiling, he said, “Well, I’ll say this much then, you’re hadcho.”

  “Now, what does that mean?” Somehow, it didn’t irritate me to be called by an Indian name the way it had that day at the docks, when he’d bestowed the title of kaccv hokte—tiger woman—upon me. This man was helping me, and asking nothing in return, so it was hard to get as irritated with him as I was before.

  “Hadcho means ‘crazy brave,’ Or, ‘you’re so brave, you’re almost crazy.’”

  “I don’t know whether to feel insulted or flattered,” I said as I mounted my horse. “But it sounds a lot like your own name, to tell you the truth.”

  “Aside from a good eye, little kaccv hokte, you’ve got a good ear,” he replied, mounting Sampson. “That’s the meaning of my name.”

  “So, you’re calling us both crazy and brave, then; is that it?” I asked, falling in behind him as he picked up the trail again.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Well, you’re only half right about that, Mr. Harjo. I’ll agree that I’m crazy to be out here doing this, but there’s nothing brave about it. I’m scared to death.”

  “And that makes you even braver, kaccv hokte.”

  We followed their dry trail for hours before a light, steady rain began. We kept moving though, and Max was still able to follow the broken needles and branches all the way to Withlacoochee. When we finally spotted the river from a good distance away, my immediate thought was how much it looked like the Ocklawaha. It was about as wide, and it was just as primitive looking. An abundance of foliage hugged her banks, including trees that hung out over the water and branches that submissively bowed down toward it.

  Max dismounted and walked along the shoreline for several minutes, trying to figure out what my sister and Moses had done once they’d reached this point. I needed to stay out of his way so as not to disturb any clues they’d left. I waited out of the rain beneath a massive oak and watched Max retrace his steps, as though looking for something he hadn’t yet found. After several minutes, he joined me under the tree. “They’re still riding,” he said as he climbed onto Sampson and urged the massive horse on.

  “Why do you think they decided to do that?” I fell into step behind him again. It had only seemed logical that they would travel by water since they’d headed for the river.

  “My guess is that Moses didn’t have a boat here, and didn’t want to take the time to build one—if he’s even capable of doing that. Emmitt seems to think he can, but working with someone on a canoe is a whole lot different from building one on your own, at least one that’s safe enough to travel a distance, especially with a pregnant woman. There’d be no point in giving up their horses if traveling on the river wasn’t a better option. One thing’s for sure, though; it’s going to be a lot faster tracking them now. Their horses’ prints are going to show up real clearly on this wet ground.”

  “That’s good!” My spirits rose with the confidence that we’d find them soon.

  “Not necessarily.” Max shook his head. “If we can follow them more easily, then your daddy can, too. He’s not gonna give up. And on that, I’d be willing to bet every dollar I have.”

  We rode late into the day and had just started to discuss the fact that we’d need to build a more substantial shelter when Max spotted an old cabin set back from the trail a ways. Though the windows were dark, and we couldn’t see any tracks leading up to it, we were still cautious as we approached. Simply because we didn’t see signs of life, that didn’t mean someone wasn’t holed up in the cabin.

  As Max very quietly reminded me, Ivy and Moses weren’t the only ones on the run in these parts. Most of Florida was still uninhabited, making it a likely destination for those seeking freedom. And if living a life of isolation in a harsh and unforgiving land seemed like a steep price to pay, those fleeing the law—or an enraged father—might consider it a real bargain.

  “Let’s ride out of view from that window. If anyone’s watching, I want ’em to think we didn’t see the place and rode on.” After we’d gotten to the point where it was difficult to see the cabin any longer, Max stopped us. “Wait here while I take a look around the place. Then I’ll come get you,” he said in a low voice. “But, if something should happen—”

  “Like what?” I whispered.

  “I’m not saying something will! But, if it should, then you take off as fast as you can. Don’t slow down, and don’t look back. I’ll catch up to you if I can.”

  I started to object, to suggest we just keep moving south, but he told me to hush and do as he said. Then he climbed off Sampson, and as quietly and stealthily as a thief in the night, he angled back through the rain-drenched woods to the cabin beyond. He stayed low and approached the cabin from the side, so that if someone should look out, it would be harder to see him. Slowly, he made his way around to the front window and cautiously raised himself up high enough to peek inside. Then he quietly moved to the back of the building. After a moment or two, he appeared on the trail again where I could see him, and just from the relaxed way he walked, I knew that there was no one home. I grabbed Sampson’s reins, and we walked back to meet him.

  “We’ll stay here tonight. Everyone’s got to sleep, and that includes us. We might as well be as comfortable as possible.”

  We secured the horses behind the cabin; then I followed Max up the rickety steps and through the unlocked door. Reaching into his pocket, Max produced a box of matches, lit one on the edge of his boot and quickly used the weak light to look for a candle or lamp. Sitting on a makeshift counter that was nothing more than several roughly hewn logs placed end to end was an oil lamp, and Max quickly lit the wick. Taking the lamp, he moved around the single room, assessing what was in it and what we might use. From the looks of things, it was an old fishing cabin. There were cane poles, and other items used by a serious fisherman, including an old net that Max retrieved from a nail in the wall.

  “Now, this we can use. It’s seen better days, but it’ll still work. Rummage around and see if you can find anything else we might need. I’m going to try to catch us some dinner before the light is completely gone. Be careful about reaching into dark corners and cabinets—places like that. We aren’t the only critters who prefer staying dry and sleeping under a roof.” Then he walked out the door, leaving me to find things we might need, and, perhaps, a few other things we didn’t.

  Chapter 23

  Muddy Mistakes

  Max returned about thirty minutes later with supper. It was nearly dark now, but he’d still had enough daylight to make his trip to the river’s edge very productive. In just a few attempts at casting the net, he’d caught two fat catfish. I’d already started a fire in the wood-burning stove so that we could dry our clothes, and I immediately set the fish to fry in an old iron skillet that was hanging from a hook on the wall. It would have been wonderful to have some bacon grease to cook them in, as well as a few potatoes to throw in, but I was grateful for what we had. It was certainly better than having another meal of jerky, or no meal at all.

  “Eve,” Max began as he pulled off his wet boots and socks. Hearing him call me by my Christian name startled me. I’d rarely heard him use it, so I knew he was about to say something important. “Other than nets and cane poles, what’s something else every respectable fisherman uses—at least one that doesn’t want to just limit his fishing to what he can catch from the bank?”

  “A boat,” I replied.

  “Yep. And down near the bank, not fifty yards up the trail from here, there’s one sitting there, tied to a tree, just waiting to be used. Had you and I gotten that far before we turned back to hole up here for the night, there’s no way we would have missed it.”

  “Okay,” I said, anxious for him to get to the point.
/>   “I walked over to take a look at it—to see if it was still usable—and it is. It looks completely watertight. But you know what else was there?” I was afraid to ask, so I just shook my head. “Horse tracks on the bank,” he continued, “and they’re the same ones we’ve been following. Even though it’s been raining hard, the horses are heavy, as if they’re carrying a load, and the mud is soft. Their tracks were deep enough that I could still make them out.”

  “So? Maybe they let their horses drink!” I was tired, hungry, dirty, worried, and in no mood for games.

  “Maybe so, but there are no tracks leading back up the bank. They crossed the river.”

  “That makes no sense! Why would they cross the river with their horses and leave a perfectly good canoe behind?”

  “Because they didn’t want to leave their horses behind. They intend on staying on the land—at least for now. But they’re getting sloppy, careless. When you hurry or you’re tired, you start making mistakes, and Moses is starting to make them. He tried to cover the tracks but left two that were still visible. I covered them, though. I don’t want your father to figure out they crossed the river, at least not yet. Hopefully, he’ll think the rain has washed out their tracks and that they’re still heading south, on this side of the river, especially once he sees that boat. He’ll figure they either didn’t see it, or didn’t want to use it. Eventually, he’ll figure out they’ve crossed, though, and I’m afraid it might be sooner rather than later.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because those two tracks weren’t the only thing I saw out there. In the distance, back to the north of us, I saw two flashes of light, but just briefly. Someone was trying to light somethin’. I watched for a while but didn’t see anything else. Honestly, it’s surprised me that we haven’t seen any sign of your father yet. I think something delayed him for a little while. Either that or he’s hittin’ the bottle, like you said. There’s always the possibility that it’s someone other than your father and Kite, and they’re intentionally stayin’ behind us to let us do all the hard work that will lead the way to your sister and Moses. No matter, that little speck of light told me we’re not alone out here.”

  “It’s good you’ve got excellent eyesight, Mr. Harjo.”

  “One thing’s for sure,” Max said, stretching his damp feet toward the fire, “we don’t need to run into anyone else. In the morning, you and I are going to take a swim. You do know how to swim, don’t you?”

  “I was brought up on the Ocklawaha. I can swim like a fish,” I assured him, but I wasn’t sure so about his plan. And I couldn’t imagine what Ivy’s strategy was. Were they just moving along aimlessly, or did they have some destination in mind? Because of their change in direction, I tended to believe they’d changed their minds about something.

  “I’m glad you’re a strong swimmer,” Max continued, “because God only knows what else will be swimming along with us and our horses. Let’s just hope our head count remains the same on the other side of the river as it is on this side.”

  Suddenly, the aroma of the cooking fish got his attention. “Are those about ready?” Seeing that they were, I carried the skillet over to the table, along with two forks and a couple of tin plates. I gave him a full fish and half of the other.

  “Have you lost your appetite?” he asked before shoving a large bite into his mouth.

  “That, and my confidence about Ivy getting across that river. She’s not the greatest swimmer, but neither is my father since he only has the one arm now.”

  “Your father’s physical limitations work in our favor. Ivy’ll be all right. She’s got Moses with her, and he’s a strong swimmer. I’d be willing to bet that their head count was still four, including their horses, when they climbed up that east bank.”

  “You know, Mr. Harjo, for someone who says he’s not a gambling man, you sure are willing to place a lot of bets.”

  “Only those I’m sure I’ll win, kaccv hokte. And you can bet on that.”

  Chapter 24

  Bitterness like Guilt

  After finishing our supper, Max remained at the table, repairing a couple of holes in the net using some twine he’d found in a box with other fishing gear. While he worked, I made some coffee I’d found in one of the cabinets. Though there was nothing fresh about it, it was still coffee, and it would taste like heaven after a long day of riding in the rain. When it was ready, I brought him a tin cup of it and sat across from him.

  “So, what happens once we make the crossing tomorrow, Mr. Harjo?”

  He didn’t look up to answer me, but kept his eyes focused on the net. “Dunno,” he honestly replied. “But we’ll know when we get there. We should be able to see some sign telling us which direction they’re going. One of their horses has a good-sized nick in its hoof. It’s making it a lot easier to be certain the tracks are theirs. And if the ground is as muddy over there as I think it’ll be, then it’s going to be as easy as following Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumb trail.”

  I was surprised to hear this tough, backwoods man use a children’s fairy tale as an analogy. “What do you know about Hazel and Gretel?” I laughed.

  He glanced up at me with a smile and turned his attention back to the net. “I was a little fella at one time, ya know.”

  “Where’re you from, Mr. Harjo, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Huntsville, Alabama. And when are you going to quit calling me ‘Mr. Harjo’?” He glanced up again.

  I wasn’t comfortable being on such casual terms with him, even though we were the only two together in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Still… “Do you have any family there?” I knew I was prying, but I wanted to learn something about this man. All I knew was that he was a hunter, an excellent tracker, and a friend of Ivy’s.

  “Other than some distant relatives, everyone else is gone. My mother died when I was twelve. She was a Creek Indian and not used to the white man’s world, but she learned to live in it when she married my father. He was a Scot, who’d come over here in the hopes of acquiring a land claim.”

  “If your father was a Scot, why do you have an Indian last name?”

  “Creeks live in a matrilineal society. Children always take their mother’s last name. My father allowed her to continue that tradition, so I was given his last name for my middle name. My full name is Max McCarty Harjo.”

  I was surprised he was willing to tell me so much, so I kept asking questions. “Whatever happened with the land claim your father was hoping to acquire? Did he receive one?

  “Yes, but the land wasn’t worth working. Instead, he became a hunter, met some of my mother’s people as a result of it, and then married my mother. She died of cholera, and so did my two siblings, an older sister and a younger brother.”

  So the rumors that he had lost a wife and child turned out to be overspun gossip, which was usually the case when people talked about things they knew little of. Max had lost a mother and siblings, not a wife and baby. Either way, though, it was terribly tragic.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Harjo,” I said softly.

  “It was a long time ago,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the net.

  “What happened to your father?”

  “He stayed around for a while longer, but I guess it was too hard for him to remain in a place where he’d lost so much. Eventually, he took off for parts unknown.”

  “And you haven’t seen him since?” I was amazed that a father could so cruelly turn his back on his young son, especially when that young son had lost his mother and siblings.

  “I saw him once more before he died. He had a bad heart. I guess it literally broke when he lost my mother, Adele, and Robby. Anyway, our paths crossed one time when we were both hunting up in the Florida panhandle. It was good to see him.”

  “You weren’t angry at him?”

  “Not really. I didn’t hold any b
ad feelings toward him.”

  “You’re a better person than I am, I’m afraid. I don’t think I could have ever forgiven him.”

  “What’s the point of hanging on to bitterness, kaccv hokte? It doesn’t change the past, only the future.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment as I digested his last statement. This man, who had the reputation of being a tough, ruthless hunter, was nothing like that. It was amazing how wrong everyone had been—including me.

  “So.” He glanced up and smiled. “Ivy tells me you’re a big-shot journalist now.” He was obviously ready to change the subject.

  “Well, I don’t know about being a big shot, but I’m writing for the Florida Times-Union in Jacksonville now. I’ve always wanted to be a journalist.”

  “She also tells me there’s a man back there that you’re very fond of. I guess he’s the one your father introduced at his party.”

  I was a little taken aback. I once wondered how much Ivy had divulged to Max about our family, and I was getting the picture that it was quite a lot. On one hand, it irritated me that she would so openly discuss my life. On the other hand, I was both touched and surprised that the goings-on in my life mattered so much to her. I was obviously on her mind more than I thought I was.

  However, I didn’t want to discuss David with Max. And for some reason, I didn’t want to offer up the fact that we were now engaged. It was a very intimate and personal part of my life. Oddly enough, I felt I’d be put in the position of having to defend David’s character. Perhaps it was because he was a land developer whereas Max was a lover of the land. There was also the possibility that Max, who hadn’t lived the privileged life that David had, might view him as weak and soft. And though Max’s opinion shouldn’t have mattered to me, for some strange reason, it did. I needed to change the subject.