by Robin Moore
“Bread ain’t bread less’n it’s rised up light and airy. Makes a man’s mouth glad ta chomp inta!”
Enjoy your bread, my friends….
And Now…
Maggie Among The Seneca
Book Two
of
The Bread Sister Trilogy
Robin Moore
Chapter One
It was a warm summer night, crickets singing, owls hooting in the pine branches overhead, no moon. Maggie sat with her back up against a tree, staring into the fire. She was a fine-looking girl, sixteen years old that summer, Irish, her hair red like fire, the lines of her face cut sure and clear. She was wearing simple clothes: an ankle-length dress and short blouse, an apron with her sheath knife tucked into the waistband, elk-hide moccasins.
She stared across the fire at the old man, watching him as he laid some kindling wood on the flames. It was he, more than anyone, who had kept her alive since she had first come to the frontier in summer 1776, two years before. He was the wildest-looking character she had ever seen: dressed head to toe in smoke-stained buckskins, moccasins, a bearskin cap on his head, a long beard trailing down the front of his hunting shirt. His knowledge of the woods had saved Maggie more than once, and on this journey, as always, she was grateful for his company.
"Jake," she said at last, "what are the chances of us findin' her?"
The old man looked up from the flames. "Yer Aunt Franny? Oh, we'll find 'er, don't you worry 'bout that. I'll bet my eyebrows on it."
"But I thought you told me that when folks went west, they were gone for good, never to be found again."
"Well, that's gen'rally true. But I think it'll be different with Franny and yer Uncle Thomas." "Why do you say that?"
"Think about it fer a minute. When they lived back in Penn's Valley, didn't everybody know 'em fer miles around?"
Maggie had to admit he was right.
"And why was zat?"
Maggie didn't have to think hard on that one.
"It was because of Franny's bread bakin'," she said. "You said yourself, people would come from all over for a taste of that Callahan bread."
The old man nodded. "Now that's 'zackly what I mean. Don't it start to make sense now? I figure if Franny's still bakin' that bread, folks out in the Ohio will know about it. We'll jest start askin' around and let the reputation of that bread lead us right to 'em."
Maggie nodded. She had to admit, Jake had a point.
Just then they were startled by a shout that came from the main trail, down along the creek bed.
"Ho!" the voice said. "Kin ya share yer fire with an ol' fella?"
Jake reached out and snatched up his long-barreled flintlock rifle. He and Maggie scuttled back out of the ring of firelight.
"Ho!" the voice shouted again. "Got two squirrels here, be glad to share with ya."
"Step ahead," Jake shouted, "up inta the firelight. Let's git a look at ya."
"Comin' in," the man said amiably, "comin' in. Don't blame you folks fer bein' careful. If a stranger walked up on my camp at night, I'd do the same."
He was coming up into the firelight now. Maggie could see that he was old, even older than Jake. Maybe sixty winters. On his bony shoulders he carried a hunter's shooting pouch, a blanket roll, and a flintlock, like Jake's. He was dressed in buckskins, wore a slouchy felt hat, and from the looks of his lower jaw, didn't have a tooth in his mouth. He limped a little.
Jake squinted into the firelight. "Gimp, is zat you?"
The old man squinted back. "Well, a course it's me. Who in creation are you?"
Jake came up into the firelight. "Ya couldn't fergit this face, couldya?"
The old fellow laughed. "Logan, you old dog!"
The two men shook hands warmly. Jake put his arm around the older man and turned to Maggie.
"It's all right, girl. This here's Gimpy Weaver, an old huntin' partner o' mine and a sure-enough mountain man."
Maggie came up into the light. Gimpy took off his hat.
"Glad to meet ya, miss." He turned to Jake. "Is this yer granddaughter?"
"No, this here's Maggie Callahan, recently of the settlements. Her and I are travelin' west, lookin' fer her family."
Gimpy nodded. "Kin I offer ya these squirrels?" Maggie reached up and took them.
"Thank you, Mr. Weaver. I'll get these skinned out and roastin' on the fire." Maggie drew her knife and went to work as the old men settled themselves by the fire.
"Where ya comin' from, Gimp?" Jake asked.
"Jest comin' back from the Ohio Country."
Jake raised his eyebrows. "Don't say? We're headed that way now."
"Yer takin' the Raystown Road?"
"The same."
"Well, I jest come back that way. Ya know how to git on the road from here?"
"Not 'zackly," Jake admitted. "I jest figured I'd angle out west of here and hit 'er sooner or later."
Gimpy nodded. "I spec' ya would. But here, I kin show ya a quick way."
Gimpy used his hand to smooth out the dirt by the fire. He picked up a twig and began sketching out a map.
"No special trick to it," he began. "Jest keep down this creek bed, foller that main trail until it turns south, then split off west. You'll have to cross these here hills, then you'll run dead inta that road. Five, six days of travel and you'll be on the banks o' the Allegheny River, joins with the Ohio further south."
Jake crouched by the fire, making a picture of the map in his mind.
"And one more thing," Gimpy said. "When ya get to the Allegheny, do yerself a favor. Stop at the tavern by the river and git yerself a good meal."
Jake grinned. "I'll do that, Gimp."
Maggie was spearing the squirrels up on green sticks now and setting them to roast over a low bed of coals.
As Maggie leaned out over the fire, a deerskin pouch, hung around her neck by a leather thong, swung out into the firelight.
"Beggin' yer pardon, miss," Gimpy said, "but I taken notice o' that pouch round yer neck. Are you an herb doctor?"
Maggie smiled. "No. There's no herbs in this pouch."
"But it's somethin' jest as healin'," Jake said. "Tell of Gimp 'bout yer bread bakin'."
Maggie held the palm-sized pouch up in the firelight.
"Inside this pouch is the most precious thing I own." Maggie explained. "It's somethin' we call spook yeast, passed down for seven generations in our family, the secret to bakin' the Callahan bread."
Gimpy smacked his lips. "That Callahan bread," he said appreciatively, "best thing I ever sunk my teeth inta."
Maggie and Jake shot a glance at each other.
Jake squinted across the fire at the old man. "Gimp, you had some o' this bread before?"
"Why, shore," Gimpy said. "Not ten days ago, I feasted on a steamin' chunk o' that savory concoction."
"Where was this?" Maggie asked urgently.
Gimpy gestured casually to the west. "Out there, at that tavern at Kittanning I told ya 'bout, on the banks of the Allegheny. There's a woman out there, Anna, she can bake up a bread—"
Jake leaned forward. "Franny, don't ya mean? Wasn't it Franny Callahan you saw?"
Gimpy shrugged. "Franny, Anna ... I didn't take much notice, I was so busy chewin' ..."
"And her husband," Maggie put in, "his name's Thomas."
Gimp nodded. "That's them all right."
Maggie and Jake both let out a whoop and a holler, jumped to their feet, and started dancing around the fire. Startled, Gimpy scampered back from the fire a few feet. But Maggie came over, grabbed him by his bony arms, and started dancing him around the clearing.
"Thank you, Mr. Weaver, thank you!" she shouted to the stars.
Gimpy shook himself free and hobbled away a few feet, watching the girl and the old man frolicking around the flames.
"What is wrong with you people?" he asked. "Are you touched in the head or what?"
Jake stopped dancing and laughed. "Not as much as ya might think, Gimp. S
ee, that there woman, she's Maggie's aunt, the one we were settin' out ta find."
"Thank you," Maggie said again. "I can't thank you enough." She came over to shake his hand.
The old man backed up. "That's all right, you thanked me aplenty already. Ya near jigged my arms outa my shoulder joints."
They settled themselves by the fire. Maggie pulled one of the squirrels off the fire, divided up three portions—one for herself and one for each of the men—then she began to eat. Her thoughts flew ahead, to Franny and the tavern on the banks of the Allegheny.
As she ate, a great hunger rose up in her, a hunger just as strong as the body feels for food. It was the hunger to be with her family, to be held close and secure, to be among her own kind.
As far as Maggie knew, Aunt Franny and Uncle Thomas were the only family she had in the colonies. She had relatives in Ireland, of course. But that was far off, across hundreds of watery miles.
Her father was still alive, at least she hoped he was. But he was somewhere far out at sea and hadn't been back to the house in Philadelphia since before Maggie's mother died. Sometimes she tried to picture his face, but it was shadowy and indistinct, like something seen through muddy water.
But there was still Franny, Maggie thought. There would always be her. She was the last link to the family Maggie had known.
When Maggie's thoughts returned to the fireside in the woods, she could hear Jake and Gimpy talking.
"So, Gimp," Jake said, "you ain't told us where yer headed."
"Up north, place called New England."
"What business ya got there?"
"I got family there, a sister and I think a brother still alive. I mean to pass out my days on the of family farm."
Jake frowned. "No, Gimp. A true mountain man like you, hoein' corn?"
"Don't mean to hoe no corn. But a body gits to be my age, it's time to quit scramblin' round these mountains. Might fall one day and break a hip. Then where would I be?"
Jake looked into the flames. "Well, Gimp, I spec' yer right."
"This is my last ramble," the older man said. "Mebee you'll understand someday when ya git to be my age, Logan. Time jest creeps up on a man. But enjoy the ramblin' while ya kin. It's the finest pleasure a body kin have, ramblin' the woods, seein' it while it's still wild.
"And now," Gimp said, "now that I've shared yer fire and enjoyed yer hospitality, I'll be movin' along."
"No," Maggie protested. "At least camp here with us for the night."
"No, miss, yer very kind, but I like travelin' at night. It's cool and quiet and I jest don't seem to need sleep like I usta. Don't worry after me, I'll make out."
The men got to their feet and shook hands across the fire.
"Take care of yerself, Gimp," Jake said.
Gimpy settled his hat on his head. "Yep, be careful yer own self." Then he was gone.
Maggie looked down. "He hardly touched his squirrel."
Jake smiled sadly. "Ya kin have it. OF fella like Gimp, he don't need to eat much. Jest lives on sunlight and air and mountain spring water, like an of elm tree."
"Let's put out the fire and get some sleep," Maggie offered. She fetched a noggin of water from the creek and used it to douse the fire, and then they scattered the ashes in the dark.
"Tomorrow we got a good day's walk ta the road," Jake said, "but when ya know where yer goin', doesn't seem so far."
Jake felt around for his rifle and hunting pouch.
"Let's find us a rabbit hole," he said.
It was a trick Jake had showed Maggie their first night on the trail.
"If yer travelin' in strange country," Jake had explained, "and ya want ta sleep safe and sound, jest do what the rabbit does: He finds hisself the thorniest, tangliest briar thicket he kin and he climbs right inta the middle of it. He knows that whatever comes sneakin' up on him gotta come through them briars first."
They walked uphill a short distance to a blackberry thicket Jake had noticed while it was still daylight. He went belly down and snaked his way in among the blackberry canes. Maggie dropped to her hands and knees and followed, bending the canes back into position behind her. They made their leafy beds a few feet apart in the center of the thicket.
Maggie untied her white apron and draped it over her head to keep the bugs off. She lay on her back, staring up through the briars at the great starry sky. Maggie closed her eyes and settled herself for sleep, turning her thoughts to bread baking at the tavern on the Allegheny with her Aunt Franny. She had never guessed that finding her aunt would be this easy. Then Maggie drifted off to sleep, feeling safe and secure in the circle of the briarwood.
Chapter Two
At first, Maggie wasn't sure what had awakened her. But whatever it was, Jake had heard it too. They both sat up in the chilly dawn and listened.
Someone was coming on the main trail down by the creek bed. Maggie's first thought was that it might be Gimpy, changing his mind and coming back to join them. She rose to her knees and peered through the tangle of thorns. There was just enough light to make out shapes.
Then Maggie saw them.
"God A'mighty," she whispered. "Indians!"
Jake laid a quieting hand on her shoulder. "Seneca war party. Jest set still," he breathed. "Mebee they'll pass by."
Maggie could see them coming up into the clearing now, a dozen warriors, some carrying heavy packs. They were heavily armed and dressed for war.
Near the head of the column was one man who attracted Maggie's attention. He was older than the rest and seemed to be the leader.
He was bare chested, wearing only a loincloth, buckskin leggings, and moccasins. But it was his paint that gave him such a shocking appearance: His body was streaked with yellow and green so he blended with the foliage. His face was a mask of black paint. His eyes shone out, sharp and alert, like the eyes of an animal moving through danger. His head was shaved except for a single, crowning tuft of hair. In his right hand he carried a short-barreled trade musket. Tucked into his belt was a hatchet, its cutting edge and handle stained with blood.
Then Maggie caught sight of the scalps, dangling from the warriors' belts. They were palm-sized circlets of hair, black and blond. The blood from the scalps still ran in rivulets down the warriors' naked thighs.
Maggie felt the fear rising in her. She hoped Jake would be right about them passing by. But he wasn't. They dropped their bundles and slumped down to rest, scarcely a stone's throw from where Maggie and Jake hid.
Maggie watched as they took turns drinking springwater and eating bread from the bundles they carried.
Then one of the warriors pointed uphill, toward the briar patch. He rummaged through the bags and pulled out a pewter teapot.
He walked lazily toward them, the teapot cradled under his arm. He was coming to pick blackberries.
Jake leaned close. "Don't run les'n ya have ta. We kin still git outa this if we sit tight."
Maggie nodded and crouched low in the briars.
The warrior began picking on the rim of the thicket. But, as always, the best and juiciest berries were in the center. He worked his way through the patch, dropping berries in the teapot as he went. At last he was standing so close to Maggie that she could have reached out and touched his leg.
Suddenly the warrior stopped and peered down through the thicket. He had seen the white of Maggie's apron.
Jake knew the time for hiding was over. He rose straight up through the thicket and swung the barrel of his flintlock, cracking the warrior hard across the ribs. The young man screamed as he collapsed into the thorns.
"Run fer it!" Jake yelled.
Maggie didn't take time to argue. She ripped her way through the thicket and began racing uphill. Before she plunged into the trees, she threw a glance back over her shoulder. She saw Jake, standing up to his armpits in briars, swinging wildly with his rifle as the warriors drew their tomahawks and waded into the thicket after him.
Maggie ran on sheer terror, not rea
lly watching where she was going. Then, up ahead, she saw a deer trail angling up the mountainside. She broke onto the trail, dashed up into the trees, and climbed into a cluster of rocks to hide. Gasping for breath, Maggie peered down the trail. For a moment, she thought she had gotten away.
Then she saw him, coming up the trail behind her: a young warrior, his face streaked with blue paint. He had drawn his tomahawk and was quickly closing the distance between them.
Maggie turned to run but tripped over a tree root and fell headlong on the ground. Before she could rise, the warrior was upon her. She drew her sheath knife with her right hand and held up her left to fend off the tomahawk blow.
But it never came. Just as the young man was raising his arm, the war leader came up behind him, grabbed him by the shoulders, and threw him to the ground.
Quick as a cat, the blue-faced warrior was on his feet, facing the war leader, his hatchet drawn. The older man still had his hatchet in his belt.
The young man pointed to the scalp at his belt and to Maggie's red hair. Maggie watched in terror, willing herself not to scream as he talked hot and fast for several seconds. The older man locked eyes with him for a moment, then made a sign with his hand, a sign that in any language means: "This conversation is finished." They glared at each other for several moments, then the younger man dropped his glance and trotted back to the clearing.
The warrior gestured for Maggie to drop her knife. She let it fall.
He reached into his belt and withdrew a length of strong cord made from twisted rawhide. One end was formed into a noose. He slipped it over Maggie's head and tightened it snugly around her throat. He paid out four feet of line and looped the other end around his left wrist. He gestured back along the trail, toward the clearing.
Maggie walked ahead the best she could, feeling the cord taut around her neck.
As she stumbled down the trail, her secure thoughts from the night before came back, as if to mock her. Franny and Uncle Thomas and the tavern on the river seemed far away now. A wave of fear washed over her, making her feel weak and empty inside.