by Robin Moore
After a long climb, Jake peered down. Fifty feet below, dug into the side of the hill, was a neat log cabin, perfectly concealed from the river by a stand of tall hemlocks. Jake nodded in appreciation. If it hadn't been for the chimney smoke, they might have passed within a hundred paces of the cabin without ever knowing it was there.
Jake watched for a while. There didn't seem to be any activity in the clearing around the cabin. He decided to slip down for a better look. Jake worked his way down the hillside and up through the grove of trees.
As he got closer, Jake noticed other details: in the clearing was a square-hewn log house, built into the side of the hills, its roof heavy with snow, a large set of elk antlers pegged up over the doorway. Under the eves of the roof, half-covered with snow, lay a birchbark canoe.
Then Jake noticed something else, something curious: tied to a post driven into the snow by the doorway were three long ropes, each leading to a different spot in the clearing. One led to a small, sturdily-built shed, another to a woodpile under a grove of trees, and a third to a place at the far edge of the clearing where the snow was dirty with garbage and waste.
At first, Jake thought these might be be lines for hanging wet clothing. But he discarded that idea, they were too close to the ground. Then it came to him: these were handlines, maybe to be used in a storm, to guide a person around the clearing.
But before he could form any other theories, the cabin door creaked open and tall figure stepped out. He was dressed in hide clothing, like a trapper might wear, with one strange addition: he was wearing an large cloth blindfold. He groped around like a blind man. Jake watched him for a while as he worked his way down the hand-line toward the firewood pile.
Jake decided to take the direct approach. He stood up and shouted out a greeting, filling the clearing with his voice.
"Ho there fella!" he shouted, "Kin ya share yer fire with a poor traveler?"
The blindfolded man dropped down in the snow and whirled in Jake's direction. Jake saw a gleam of metal in the fading light. Then a deafening explosion filled the tiny clearing.
At the same instant, a heavy chunk of wood, torn from a nearby tree, struck Jake hard on the side of the head, making his ears ring. When Jake looked again, the blindfolded man was crouched in the snow with smoke curling from the barrel of his flintlock pistol.
Chapter Five
Jake skittered back behind a tree and cocked back the hammer on his rifle. He peered back into the clearing. He could see now that the blind man had drawn a pistol from his belt and had fired off a wild shot in Jake's direction, hoping to hit something.
"Don't mean any harm, fella." Jake shouted, "I was just passing through and thought you might like some company. Look, I know you only got one shot there. And I kin see that ya might be a bit skittish. If ya don't want any company, I'll just move along."
"No!" the man shouted back. "I haven't seen a human for two months. Fact is, I haven't seen anything for maybe a week. I didn't mean to part your hair. I guess I am a little jumpy. Being alone in the darkness can do that to a man."
Jake cautiously rose and walked out into the clearing, keeping an eye on the man's hands. But Jake could see that he meant no harm.
"Yer blind ain't ya?" Jake asked, when he was within a few paces.
The man nodded, turning his face in the direction of Jake's voice. "Snowblind. I been in darkness these seven days. My eyes hurt me like all getout."
The old man nodded. "I know, I've had a touch of the snowblindness myself at times. That sun coming up bright off the snow just makes the eyes close down and quit workin'. But you did the right thing with that blindfold. You keep the light from her eyes and in a few more days and yer vision will come back good as ever."
"You think so?"
"Sure thing. I've seen it happen many a time. Anyway," Jake chuckled, "that was a pretty good shot fer a blind man, you about took my topknot off."
Jake reached out and gripped the man's hand.
"My name's Jake Logan," he said.
"It's good to hear another human voice, "the big man said, "My name's Rory Garvin." They shook on it.
Just then, they heard a dog's bark down by the river. Rory raised his head, "You got a dog?"
"Yep, I s'pose I do," Jake admitted, "Listen, I didn't give ya the whole story. I'm traveling with a porcupine-eatin' dog and a spunky girl, name of Maggie Callahan, from the settlements down south. You got room fer us to hunker down with you tonight?"
The big man smiled. "Come on in. I haven't had nothin' but the wind to talk to these two months. We'll sit up by the fire and thaw ourselves and make some jaw music."
"Sounds good, "Jake said. Then he looked down through the trees and saw Poordevil loping ahead in long strides, coming up to Rory and growling.
"It's all right, you dumb dog," Jake said, "this here is our inn-keeper fer the night."
Just then, Maggie trudged up into the clearing, hauling the toboggan behind her.
"I heard the shot," Maggie said, breathless, "and I hurried down here as quick as I could. I thought maybe you were in trouble."
Jake shook his head. "Naw, this young fella here was just showing me some blind shootin'. Maggie, meet Rory Garvin. He's a bit snowblinded now."
Maggie got out of her harness and came across the clearing to shake his hand, "Glad to meet you, Mr. Garvin. Say, have you got any tea?"
Rory nodded. "Yes, I have a little. I ration it out so's it'll last. But I can spare a cup or two for you and your friend. "
"No," Maggie said, "That's not what I meant. I'm not asking for us. I know a remedy for snowblindness. We can use the tea to make up some hot compresses and lay them over your eyes.”
"Well, that does sound soothin'. I swear, my eyeballs feel like they been fried in hot fat. "
Jake gestured towards the sled.
"We got a toboggan of provisions here, where should we stow it?"
Rory nodded. "You'll have to unload it and set your bags in the smokehouse there. There's wolves up in these hills and they'll eat anything that not locked up. Just let me get a load of firewood here and I'll get us situated for the night."
"That's alright, fella, me and Maggie will get the firewood. You just make yer way back up inta the cabin and we'll meet ya there."
They did the small chores quickly. Maggie and Jake unloaded their goods, stowed them, and secured the smokehouse door. Jake drew the toboggan up under the eaves of the cabin, placing it safe beside the canoe.
It was dark now and getting very cold. But inside the tiny cabin, the fire glowed warmly. Jake, Maggie and Poordevil came inside and the old man shoved the door shut against the wind.
Maggie's eyes rolled over the firelit walls. Hanging from the rafters were trapping implements, hides and bundles of dried corn and leathered beans.
Jake glanced around, setting his rifle in the corner and stomping his feet on the dirt floor. Along the far wall was a bunk covered by a huge bearskin. A carefully-laid stone fireplace held a cheerful fire. The walls were covered with shelves upon shelves, everything neat and in its place.
They settled themselves by the fire. Maggie slipped out of her frozen clothing. She didn't have to worry about privacy, with Rory snowblind and Jake turning his back as he customarily did when they were changing clothing on the trail. Jake was old-fashioned that way.
The old man had brought in their blankets and extra clothing. The travelers changed into dry clothing and moccasins and poured themselves a hot cup of tea. Poordevil stretched out on the dirt floor, near the hearth. Rory rummaged around through a soiled bag and found the dog a huge bear's thighbone. Poordevil's eyes grew wide with delight as he carried it to his place and began toothing it.
"I can't tell you what a pain it is losin' yer sight," Rory said, "I spent the first couple days just looking for stuff. But I'm pretty well organized now. And cooking—why I just about burnt my hands up trying to get the hang of lighting and caring for a fire."
"Listen," Maggie suggested,
"before it gets any later, let's get those compresses on your eyes, it'll take some of the pain away for you."
The big man told Maggie where to find the sack of tea and she mixed up a slurry of crumbled tea leaves and hot water.
Then she spooned the leaves out into a long strip of white cloth, folding it over several times.
"Lay back on that bunk," Maggie said. She bent over him and unwound the head-wraps. She could see that he was not a bad-looking fellow, although it was obvious he had been through a lot. His beard was long and shaggy, his hair fell to below his shoulders. She wondered what color his eyes were, closed so tightly against even the faint light of the fire.
"Now you tell me if this is too hot."
Then she laid the compresses over his bared eyelids.
Rory gave a sudden jerk.
"Too hot?" she asked.
"No, Miss Callahan, that feels fine. Just gave me a start there for a minute. How long do you think I should keep these on?"
"Long as you can. Just rest easy and let the remedy do its work. A day or two of this and your eyes should come back as good as new."
Rory smiled. "Wisht I woulda known this trick days ago."
"Say, "Jake said, "I noticed yer smokehouse out there, you smoke up your own meat?"
Rory grinned. "Garvin-smoked bear hams are the specialty of the house. There's a haunch of it over there on the table. Cut yourself a slice."
Jake drew his knife and made for it.
"That smokehouse was the first thing I built when I moved here six years ago. I lived in a tent while I finished the cabin. Made my livin' the first few years here by huntin' bear, rendering the hat and smokin' the hams. Traded with the Seneca villages here on the river."
Jake poured himself another cup of tea. "You got along well with them?"
"Tolerably well. Until the war started. Then they got partnered up with the British and things fell apart. But I had a few good years up here anyway. I traded mostly with the band over at Buccaloons."
Maggie recognized the name of the ruined village along the Allegheny. Jake brought her a slice of the smoked bear meat and Maggie bit into it, letting the smoky mixture slid around on her tongue.
"This is the best smoked meat I've ever tasted," she said. "What's your secret?"
Rory smiled. "I use shagbark hickory chips. Every year, in the fall, I hang the meat up in that smokehouse, each ham hanging from the rafters in there, then I build a low smoky fire on the dirt floor. The smoke curls up around them hams and dried them out, preservin' them for the winter and givin' them that smoky taste. Of course, the bear huntin' isn't what it used to be."
Jake nodded. "No huntin' is. Once these farmers start movin' in, the game just disappears."
Maggie smiled. "I'll warn you, Mr. Garvin, don't get Jake going on the evils of civilization or we'll be up all night."
Garvin laughed. "Well, what's the point of havin' company if you can't stay up all night? Besides, I don't usually find someone what agrees with me that progress ain't all it's cracked up to be."
"Now ain't that the truth," Jake said, warming to the subject. But before he could continue, Maggie interrupted.
"Listen, I've already had this discussion hundreds of times. If you men don't mind, I'll go out and bring in a bag of wheat flour and make up some bread."
Rory's mouth twitched. "Real bread, risen bread?"
Jake nodded, "This is the Callahan bread, rises up light and airy, makes a man's mouth glad to chomp inta."
"I haven't had a taste of real bread in months. You got all the fixins?"
"Just like you've got your ham-smoking," Maggie said, "We have sort of a specialty in our family."
She reached down into the neckline of her shirt and drew out a leather pouch, about the size of her fist, hung around her throat by a leather thong.
"I know you can't see it, but inside this pouch I carry around my neck is the most precious thing I own. It's the great Callahan Spook Yeast, passed down for seven generations by the women in our family."
"Spook Yeast? That's a new one on me. What's it do?"
"It's the sourdough starter to make the bread rise. Without this yeast, the bread would be as flat as a brick. It's simple: nothing but flour and water, left to ferment. The yeast creatures fly through the air and come down to make a home in the dough. "That's how the first Callahan bread got started, back in Ireland, years ago.The yeast creatures livin' in this dough can trace their lineage all the way back to Dublin, in one long, unbroken chain.
"I'll mix up some wheat dough and then add these yeasties to it, let it rise overnight. Then I'll knead it down in the morning and rise it again. I'll bake us up some loaves tomorrow and we'll have fresh bread by noontime.
"It was my Aunt Franny who taught me to bake and passed the Spook Yeast along to me. She always said that the yeasties are a livin' thing and that if you add them to your bread, the bread comes alive, too.
"I see you have a cast-iron kettle here. I can make an oven of that."
"Go right ahead, "Rory grinned. "Now, Jake, getting back to what you were sayin'. I think the main problem is that the peoples came over from Europe and they never stopped to consider that this was a new land, with new ways. They just wanted to make it just like the old country."
Jake slapped his buckskinned thigh. "Now that's just what I've been sayin' myself for years. Now you take the French, when they came over here, they weren't interested in farmin', they started trappin'."
"'Course, that's got its own problems, "Rory said, interrupting, "Thanks to the fur trade, the streams is just about trapped out now, the Indians all has guns and whiskey and all kindsa diseases—"
"That's just what I've been sayin' for years!" Jake said.
Maggie set to work on her bread dough, kneading it and listening to the men talk, letting the calming motion of rolling and kneading the floured dough take her back to who she was and where she came from.
That night, when the four inhabitants of the cabin turned in, it was cramped but comfortable. Maggie lay in her blankets on the floor by the hearth. The fire had burned down low now, bathing the interior of the cabin in reddish-golden light.
Maggie stared up at the rafters in the half-darkness. She inhaled the smells of the cabin—the wild fragrances of the bear and beaver and deer skins, the manly odor of the buckskinned men asleep nearby, the gamey smell of Poordevil, and the delectable scent of rising bread dough laced with the sharp, smoky aroma of the hams.
Maggie closed her eyes and drifted off. Outside, the wind blew hard, whipping the snow around.
Chapter Six
When Maggie rose the next morning, the dough was puffed up in the pan, light and airy and ready to bake. She rolled out of bed, with the men still asleep beside her, and laid some dry wood on the hardwood coals. Outside, she could hear the wind whipping around the cabin. She rose and, clutching her blanket, peered out through the door. A heavy snow had fallen the night before and now a storm was coming in, drifting the snow across the clearing, covering the rope lines Rory had set up.
Poordevil stretched himself and pulled himself up on all fours, wanting to go out. Maggie let him slip by her and out into the snow.
"Well," Maggie thought to herself, "Maybe we can stay holed up here for a while." She had to admit, she was enjoying the rest from the cold and the hardship of the trail.
When Maggie turned back to the fire, it was burning brightly.
Jake was coming around now, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Rory shifted in his bearskins. "Nice to wake up to a warm fire," Garvin commented, "How'd you folks sleep?"
Maggie grinned, "Like bear in hibernation. "
Jake just growled.
Rory laughed. "Well, yes, it seemed like that a little at times. How's that bread coming?"
Maggie was kneeling by the fire now. "We'll wait until the fire's burned down to coals then I'll lay that dough into the oven, put the top on and put a shovelful of coals on the lid. Then we'll have fresh bread in a half hour.
"
Just as Maggie said, the bread was baked to perfection. Maggie, Jake and Rory sat down to a warm breakfast of steaming sourdough bread, dipped in melted bear fat, and hot spearmint tea, sweetened with maple syrup.
After they cleared away the breakfast things, Maggie put on her coat and brought in a load of firewood. Poordevil slipped in behind her.
"It's storming' out there," she said as she closed the door, "Mind if we stay until it let's up?"
Rory grinned. "Glad to have ya. Stay on a day 'er two if ya like. It would actually be a help to me until I get my eyes back. Besides, there's no sense fightin' the storm."
It occurred to Maggie that although Rory had given her many details about his own life, he had never asked her why she was out on the Allegheny in this bitter weather. True to the frontier custom, she knew it was considered bad manners to ask a traveler where they had come from and where they were going.
What a person left behind was their own business. Almost everybody on the frontier had left behind something they didn't want to talk about. And where a person was headed was their own business as well. But Maggie saw no harm in telling him.
"We can't stay long," Maggie remarked, "We've got a long way to go. We're headed up the Genesee into the Seneca country."
Rory gave a low whistle. "That's a long ways," he said, "you two must have a mighty good reason fer goin' that far in this kinda weather."
It was not a question, just a statement that might or might not receive an reply.
"I spec' we do," Jake said, "But this here's for Maggie to tell, if she wants to—"
"I don't mind."
Then the whole story came pouring out— Maggie told how she had been captured by the Seneca years before, how the warriors had carried her up north to Little Beard's Village, where she had been married off to a Seneca, how they had had a son, how she had lost her Little Hoot Owl and vowed to get him back.