by Lucy Inglis
‘I am at my own wedding and you didn’t even tell me? Or ask me? Or anything?’
You stood, looking helpless. ‘I didn’t know they were planning it! They wanted to do it for us as a surprise. I just thought we’d let them celebrate and it would be a party. That’s all. It doesn’t have to mean anything.’
‘How can you say that?’ I gestured to the food, to the clothes. ‘Look at all the effort Clear Water has gone to!’ The wind gusted, chill, into my face, bringing with it the first drop of rain but I was too upset to care.
You were trying to find words to placate me, then Lucky spoke, a long string of harsh consonants. You looked as if someone had struck you. Even Rose looked abashed, fiddling with the tie on her knee-high boot. Clear Water was close to tears.
‘What did he say?’ I asked over the rising wind.
Silence.
‘What did he say?’
There was a long pause before you replied, but you didn’t look at me. ‘He wants to know why you won’t be my wife. He wants you to tell him, to his face, if it’s because I’m a cripple, and you think I won’t be able to provide for you.’
I stared at you, astonished. Your infirmity meant less than nothing to me. I was so surprised at Lucky’s logic that I couldn’t speak, and blinked stupidly. Why would they think that?
Rain began to fall around us in earnest. Wounded, Clear Water darted forward and gathered up the dress and leggings, wrapping them back up in their oilcloth. Lucky was staring at me, his eyes like granite. Rose gave a hard, cynical laugh. I felt small and friendless.
‘Fuck this,’ you said suddenly. The worst of all your bad words.
‘Nate!’
‘Fuck this and fuck you,’ you muttered, walking away as quickly as you could.
I turned to Lucky and shook my head furiously, eyes stinging with tears as the rain soaked through my shirt. He watched me through his narrow eyes, face unreadable in the firelight. I bolted after you, bare feet slipping on the wet grass.
‘Nate! Wait! I would never—’
You spun and I cannoned into you, your hands already in my hair, holding me still as your mouth stopped my apology, thunder cracking all around us. You were so angry I could taste it as you kissed and kissed me, all your gentle caution gone. I stood, passive in your grip, hoping you would understand it was the only way I had of trying to say I was so very sorry for my stupidity. Tolerance, the pamphlet had said. Now, I realize of course, that such passivity was the very worst thing I could have done; you needed reassurance that Lucky was wrong, not mere tolerance. The rain fell hard, soaking our hair and clothes.
You let me go abruptly, as if you could not bear me. We stared at each other.
‘Just go away, Emily.’
You pushed me in the chest, harder than you perhaps meant to, and I stepped back to keep my balance, raising my hands. I took a breath to speak but you turned and walked away into the rain-soaked dark without looking back. I stared after you, mouth bruised, face scraped by your stubble, scalp stinging from your fingers in my hair.
And then I knew: I had never been the captive.
The night passed awkwardly. Hope swaddled herself in the blanket and the fragile quilt, leaving the other blanket and the buffalo hide for Cal. She’d pretended to be asleep when he’d come into the cabin but perhaps the stress of their situation had tired her, because she slept soundly until sunup. When she woke, the door was open and Cal was sitting outside with Buddy, scratching the dog’s ears.
She came out, still wrapped in the blanket against the morning chill.
Cal glanced up at her. ‘You OK?’
She shrugged.
‘I’ll go and try and find us something to eat. Didn’t want you to think I’d abandoned you.’ He got to his feet and shouldered the rifle. ‘Stick around the cabin, OK?’
She nodded and watched him go, Buddy at his heels. It was going to be another beautiful day. After attending to Nature she huddled back up in the quilt, the diary in her lap. She examined it as an object, the worn leather that spoke of years of handling. The pages were so fine, the writing closely packed. In places, the ink changed slightly, indicating a break. She turned to where she had left off.
So deep in thought was she that she didn’t hear Cal and Buddy return sometime later. She was staring down the mountain at the dozens of shades of blue and green radiating from the lake and trees when he arrived at the side railing by the tub, surprising her. In his hands was a selection of plants and greenery.
‘Well, we’re a little heavy on the salad,’ he said, ‘but I guess you’re used to that.’ He came to the front steps. ‘Reading again?’
She didn’t look at him. ‘The satchel, the beaded one we used for the fish, it’s in here. I think.’ She lifted the diary. ‘A possibles bag?’
He nodded. ‘That’s what they’re called. They come in different sizes for travelling, or for hanging up inside. Anything else?’
‘There are hunters massacring the buffalo on the plains. But Nate’s Indian family have turned up.’
‘Yeah? What are they like?’
‘A half-brother he calls Lucky but is really Little Elk, his half-sister Rose, who sounds totally insane, but good insane, and Lucky’s wife, Clear Water. Rose is furious about the massacre and wants to go to a tribe called the Blackfoot to ask them for help to stop the hunting.’
Cal hesitated, then climbed the steps and sat down next to her. ‘The Blackfoot? They’re the tribe that used to be north of here. There’s still a pretty big rez. And the buffalo massacre was real.’
Buddy slumped across Hope’s feet.
‘It’s so sad.’
He nodded, rubbing the dog’s head. ‘Yeah. You know they killed something like twenty-five million of them in less than twenty years?’
‘But why?’ Curiosity was overcoming her reserve.
‘Three main reasons. First, the hides were in demand back East; and second, they were there, in such numbers it probably seemed like they could never push them to the edge of extinction; and third, Rose is right, the government wanted to drive them, the Indians, off the plains and on to the reservations. Montana was a new state, only three years old in 1867. Country was getting divided up, settled. Government didn’t want nomadic tribes.’ He snorted. ‘But unregulated hunting of millions of animals to the brink of extinction, hell, that’s fine.’
‘It’s rubbish,’ Hope said inadequately.
He glanced across at her. ‘Here we are and I’m running on about environmental issues.’
‘Tell me, I’d like to hear.’
So they sat by the fire pit and prepared a scanty breakfast of cold, smoky trout and some flowers, and Cal told Hope about the near-extinction of the American Plains bison. Buddy disappeared and arrived back on the porch with bloody chops and some sort of fur clinging to his snout. Hope grimaced and shoved him away when he wanted to lick her face. ‘Buddy, gross.’
‘Our ranch was one of the original five to become a sanctuary for the buffalo. In 1871, there were less than seven hundred head left in the wild. Ten years later, it was less than a hundred. We divided them up and bred between the ranches until the thirties, when there was enough to start putting back into the wild. There’s about four thousand buffalo in Yellowstone now.’ There was an unmistakable note of pride in Cal’s voice.
Hope crossed her legs beneath her. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘Yeah. So many others didn’t make it though. The Passenger pigeons Emily saw from the train? Went from billions to just one, called Martha. Died in captivity in 1914. River otters, nearly lost them too, to the fur trappers.’ He shook his head. ‘Ignorance is all it is. Ignorance and greed.’
She looked at the mountain range and the lake, at its vast beauty, teeming with life despite its savageness. ‘I kind of see now why you love this place so much.’
He glanced across at her. ‘Only kind of?’
She ducked her head. ‘I see. Now.’
Elbowing her gently, he looked over a
t her. ‘Friends?’
She nodded. ‘Friends.’
He stood and held out his hand. ‘Then let’s take a walk.’
Hope put her fingers in his, letting him pull her to her feet, leaving the diary on the boards as they passed the porch. He swung their hands. Buddy paced after them. They came to the log shelter leaning brokenly against the cabin’s back wall.
‘Great. Look at that!’ He picked up what looked like a net cage, the green nylon webbing clinging to a rusted wire frame. ‘We might be able to eat something good today after all.’
‘What is it?’
‘Crawfish cage. Pops probably brought it up here – I remember catching crawfish with him. It’ll do the fishing for us. Easy one-pot supper.’
Cal showed Hope how to set the trap in the stream, anchoring it firmly and placing it to face upstream.
‘See? This way they get washed in and can’t get back out.’
They continued exploring the area around the cabin. Hope surveyed the landscape. ‘It must have been really nice here, with chickens and everything working.’
‘The people who built it sure knew what they were doing.’ He ruffed up the fur on Buddy’s neck.
‘I wish we knew who they were and what happened to them. I mean, why did they leave here after putting so much effort into it?’
Cal shrugged. ‘Like thousands of other frontier people, I guess, it just didn’t work out and they moved on.’
‘Maybe they got sick.’
‘Maybe. Or maybe they just got lonely, like Nate said.’
‘He talks about loneliness like it’s a disease.’
‘Yeah. I’ve heard old-timers talk about it like that. Apparently it happened a lot in the Depression, especially in remote places.’
Buddy sunbathed in front of them.
‘What do you want from your life, Hope?’ Cal asked after a while.
She thought, and shrugged. ‘Probably the same as you.’
‘You want to breed buffalo and rare cattle?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘And the very finest American horses?’
‘That’s it?’ she teased. ‘That’s all you want to do?’
He took a breath. ‘Be happy?’
Hope smiled. ‘Yeah, being happy would be nice.’
‘So . . . what will make you happy?’
Hugging her elbows in tight, Hope pressed her fingers to her lips. ‘I want to write books.’ She stretched out her arms as wide as she could. ‘Tell stories, big ones, that stay with people.’ She stopped, embarrassed, and hugged herself again. Wrists on his thighs, he watched her but said nothing.
‘You’re not going to tell me it’s a stupid thing to want? That it won’t work out and I should have a real plan instead?’
‘Why would I? But you gotta tell your mom, not let her make your plans for you.’
Hope sighed. ‘I’m not brave enough.’
He squinted into the sunshine. ‘Yeah, you are. Just hard to find the words sometimes.’
When she tucked her hair behind her ears, pulling her knees up, he kept his eyes on her, even though she was too shy to look at him. ‘We’re going to stay in touch, aren’t we? After this.’ She played with the laces on her boots, poking the tips into the lappet eyes.
‘I think we probably are, yes,’ he said at last.
Unable to read his tone, Hope shrugged. ‘Yeah, that’s right, Crow. Play it cool, I would. We’ve only known each other less than a week and you’ve nearly killed me already, we’re lost in the wilderness and we’re almost starving to death. Now is definitely the time to be cool.’
‘Don’t exaggerate,’ he said severely. ‘We are not starving.’
Hope pushed him, then dodged off the rock as he grabbed for her and broke into a run. She was already shrieking with laughter before he caught her around the waist and swung her in a circle.
Seconds later she was breathless. ‘Stop! Stop!’
They collapsed on the ground in front of the cabin, winded, Cal breaking her fall. She lay on him, laughing, hair hanging in curtains around them. His eyes searched hers and his hands tightened slightly on her ribs.
Hope chickened out. ‘I . . . I should . . .’ She pushed herself up quickly. ‘Natural break.’
Cal said nothing, just put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. Buddy padded after Hope. Great, because I need an audience.
She returned less than a minute later and halted by the cabin, fear clenching her gut. Cal lay, frozen on the grass. Scrabbling at the leftover breakfast fish in the fire pit was the biggest bear ever. Hope’s knees weakened. Buddy’s hackles rose and he began to growl.
Cal spoke, voice clear but quiet. ‘It’s OK, he’s just hungry. He’s been in hibernation. Look, the pads of his paws are shedding and he’s disoriented. Don’t panic. You need to get my rifle from the porch.’
Hope grabbed the side rail and climbed under it, stepping through the broken washtub. She picked up the rifle where it lay against the planks.
‘Got it.’
‘I’m going to try and get back to you without attracting his attention. Everything’s going to be fine, but I want you to look at the gun and slip the safety. The small catch by—’
‘Got it.’ Hope clicked it with trembling fingers. He pushed up on his elbows a little more and edged backwards.
‘Good. Now hold it tight by your side and point it towards him, finger on the trigger. Don’t put it near your shoulder – if you have to fire the recoil will hurt you. Pull the trigger slowly until it tenses.’
Hope did as she was told. The bear was shoving the fish scraps into its mouth clumsily. Its coat was patchy dark and light and it seemed unfocused. Suddenly Buddy paced forwards, shoulders dropped and hackles high.
‘Buddy, you stay back. Now, damn you.’ Cal tried to pull his feet beneath him. The action alerted the bear. It dropped to all fours and began to lumber towards Cal, covering the ground at astonishing speed.
‘RUN!’ Hope yelled, terrified.
Cal scrambled backwards. The bear charged. Buddy launched himself at the massive animal, tearing at its face. The bear swiped the puppy away and Buddy hit the ground with a yelp. There was a huge crack as Hope pulled the trigger, the sound rebounding across the mountain, the single shot sounding like a dozen. The bear bellowed and sheared off, towards the stream. It bounded through it, water splashing, and disappeared into the forest behind.
Hope almost dropped the gun in shock, running with Cal to where Buddy lay, limp, on his side.
‘No!’ Cal’s voice was broken. He skidded to his knees in the grass and dirt. ‘Oh no.’
Hope knelt next to him, putting the rifle down. Buddy’s flank was raked with blood. The puppy’s breathing was shallow, thin ribs pumping with the effort to stay alive.
‘What can we do?’ Hope held his head.
Cal’s expression was raw. ‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t say that. He’s just a baby.’
‘Fucking look at him! I can see his insides!’
Hope stroked his head, kissing his grey and white muzzle. He tried to lick her tears. ‘Oh, Buddy.’
They stroked him very carefully. He died a few long minutes later, his last breaths almost inaudible.
Hope was sobbing. ‘But the bear was just hungry.’
‘Stupid,’ Cal chastised himself. ‘Idiotic. I’ve been taught better than leaving evidence of food around. I don’t know what I was thinking.’ Carefully they gathered Buddy up, cradled against Cal’s chest. ‘We have to bury him. Somewhere. Leaving him out for the scavengers would be wrong.’
Hope nodded.
‘There, if we take him over there by that tree, and get two good stones, I think we could dig a grave deep enough so it won’t be disturbed.’
Slowly they walked to a wind-blown and stunted tree at the edge of the forest. It was a good spot. By the time they were there, Hope had found two flat, sharp stones that could be held in two hands. The earth was hard, but soon they began to make progress, hacking away grass ro
ots and lumps of soil. It took them hours. Buddy was going cold beside them, his limpness stiffening into rigor. Cal refused to look, working as if on a chain gang. Sweat gathered across his forehead and bunched in his shirt beneath the arms.
By midday they had dug a pit almost a metre deep, their hands sore and bleeding. Placing Buddy inside, they began to throw earth on his body with shaky fingers, piling it in until there was just a small mound in front of them. Their hands and knees were filthy. Hope began to cry again.
‘Poor Buddy.’ She choked on a sob.
He hooked her head against his chest with a brown elbow. ‘Hope, please. Don’t keep crying. You’re breaking my heart. We’ll have to be more careful, is all.’ He put his lips to her forehead. ‘Thank you. You saved my life.’
Hope scrubbed her wet cheek with the cuff of the jersey miserably. ‘But not Buddy’s. Will the bear come back?’ she asked into his shirt.
‘Hopefully not, but I’m not sure you got a clean shot and an injured grizzly is dangerous so let’s just play it safe, OK? We’ll be safe enough if we just stay with the cabin, get the fire going and keep our eyes open.’
They sat on the porch, sometimes talking, sometimes not, watching the fire Cal had reignited in the fire pit. Finally the silence got too much for Hope.
‘Should we read some more?’
He eyed it. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Why?’
Cal shrugged, settling his back against the boards of the cabin. ‘Forget it. Sure. That would be good.’
Hope read aloud the visit to the Blackfoot camp. ‘Pale Eye. It suits him.’
Cal spoke after thinking. ‘It would have marked him out. Blue eyes were prized among the Indians at that stage. Grey ones even more so.’
He was sitting, feet apart, back propped against the cabin wall, wrists resting on his knees. She sat next to him, their shoulders touching, and twisted her hair into its messy knot.
‘. . . and the last thing I saw, high in the heavens, was a star shooting across the glittering ceiling of the sky.’ Hope closed the diary. The leather cover was starting to feel like home beneath her fingers. She rubbed her hand over the front of it and looked out at the view. It was hard to imagine something so different to her London life. And it was beautiful.