“Dang. You talk like no female I ever come across. Like no male, either. Where do you get these highfalutin notions? From your husband?”
“I get them from life, Mr. Harrod. Do you know that among my people, the Shoshones, there is one trait held in higher esteem than any other? Can you guess what that trait is?”
“Esteem, you say? That’s where you think highly of something or other, right? If I was to guess, I’d say that for Shoshone warriors, counting coup counts more than anything else.”
“We are bloodthirsty savages, is that it?” Winona sighed sadly. “No, Mr. Harrod. The trait my people admire most is wisdom.”
“You’re pulling my leg.”
“I would never touch so much as your toe, Mr. Harrod.”
“But wisdom? What does that mean, exactly? What is wisdom? Is your wisdom the same as mine or anybody else’s?”
“Among my people, a wise leader is one who looks out for their welfare. A wise warrior is one who knows when to count coup and when not to count coup. A wise woman is one who keeps her lodge in order and imparts to her children the things they must know to live a long, happy life.”
“How you talk…” Harrod marveled. “You make flowers of words.”
“It is your tongue, Mr. Harrod. Why whites do not learn it better has always puzzled me.”
“You sure are something,” the frontiersman went on. “No wonder your husband is so powerful fond of you. Too bad I didn’t meet you before he did. You might be mine instead of his.”
“That would never be.”
“Why not?”
“You are not him.”
Nate was up, adjusting his powder horn and ammo pouch across his chest. “There you two are. I wondered where you got to.”
“This wife of yours is a wonderment,” Harrod said. “If more females were like her, there’d be less for us men to grumble about.”
“You get no argument from me.”
Harrod nodded at him and smiled at Winona and walked off whistling, as happy as could be.
“Nice man,” Nate remarked.
“He is full of flattery,” Winona said. “In the past ten minutes he has praised me more than you do in a year.”
“That just shows how nice he is.”
“No, Husband. It shows we must not trust him any farther than you can throw a buffalo.”
Chapter Eight
Chickory Worth lost sight of the buck he had been following and frowned. He had been gone from camp too long. His parents would worry. They’d likely ask Nate King to come find him, which would embarrass him something awful. It was sometimes hard being the youngest.
Chickory was fourteen, three years younger than Randa, but it was the difference between being treated like a man and being treated like a child. Randa, his parents thought of as a grown woman, but him, he might as well have been ten. It upset him no end.
Chickory was trying his best to show how mature he could be. He helped with camp chores. He took a turn standing watch at night. He never complained. But one thing he hadn’t done, and would very much like to do, was to contribute to the supper pot. Nate and Winona shot game all the time. The newcomer, Harrod, had brought down a buck and a grouse in the few days he had been with them. His own pa shot a rabbit once.
So it was that when they had stopped at noon to rest the horses, Chickory went over to where his father was sitting. He was careful to make sure his mother was busy with Winona King before he quietly said, “I have somethin’ to ask you, Pa.”
“Ask away.”
“Do you suppose you could lend me that pistol Mr. King bought for you back in Missouri?”
His father had glanced up. “What on earth do you want that for? And don’t you remember your mother sayin’ you weren’t to touch it no matter what?”
“I remember,” Chickory admitted. “But she doesn’t understand things like you do.”
“False praise is no praise, Son. Suppose you come right out with it and let me be the judge.”
Afraid the answer would be no, Chickory poked at the ground with his toe. “All right. I want to do some huntin’ while everyone is restin’. I won’t be long. I promise.”
“Huntin’?” Samual repeated.
“Yes, sir. For somethin’ to eat. I want to show Mr. King I can do my share.”
“Help with the horses. Tote water. Those sorts of things. Leave the huntin’ for them as is hunters.”
“Please, Pa. I never ask you for much, do I? But I’d sure like the chance. It’d mean a lot to me.”
“You ain’t never fired a gun before but once,” Samuel reminded him.
“But I remember how it’s done.” Chickory had put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Please, Pa.”
“Damnation.” Samuel had looked toward Emala and lowered his voice. “If your ma hears of this, she’ll take the gun from you and use it to club me to death.”
“I won’t say a word. I promise. I’ll sneak off and sneak back and she’ll never know.”
“How are you goin’ to sneak back with a dead animal over your horse?”
“Please.”
Now here Chickory was, riding parallel with the Platte, the heavy flintlock in his hand, his thumb on the hammer. He needed to get close. Pistols didn’t shoot as far as rifles. Even he knew that. “Where did you get to?” he wondered under his breath.
Some sparrows took wing, chirping merrily, and Chickory watched them in amusement. He loved the wild, loved all the creatures, the birds and the butterflies and the many other kinds of animals.
Most of all, Chickory loved being free. He never liked being a slave, never liked it at all. To be owned by someone else, to have to answer to their every whim, to work from dawn till dusk and have nothing to show for it but calluses and scrapes—that wasn’t the life for him. He was all for running when his pa brought it up.
Better to run free than to die as property.
Chickory couldn’t wait to reach the valley the Kings had told them about. They’d have their own cabin. They could hunt and fish and plant crops; Winona said she had seeds they could have. They could do what ever they wanted with no one to tell them different.
That was the glory of being free.
Chickory had long imagined how wonderful it would be. But it was even better. To have the right to decide for himself what he should do with each day, instead of being told what to do. To be his own— what was it his pa called it?—his own lord and master. There was nothing finer.
Suddenly movement under the trees caught Chickory’s eye. The buck had stopped and was staring at him. He raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger but nothing happened; he’d forgotten to pull back the hammer. Quickly, he remedied his mistake, but when he went to take aim, the buck had moved into a stand of cottonwoods, and he didn’t have a clear shot.
Chickory jabbed his heels against his horse. He would give himself five more minutes. If he didn’t shoot the buck by then, he’d turn around and head back. Anxiously, he scanned the cottonwoods. The buck had somehow disappeared.
“Where did you get to, you tricky critter?”
Chickory reined to the right to go around the cottonwoods, thinking he could beat the buck to the other side. Intent on spotting it, he didn’t realize he was no longer alone until someone laughed.
“Blind as a bat, ain’t he?”
Startled, Chickory drew rein. Fear clutched at him as he laid eyes on six riders who had appeared out of nowhere. He recognized one of them—the lean, hawk-faced man in buckskins, holding a Kentucky rifle.
“You!”
“Me,” the man said.
“You’re that slave hunter,” Chickory blurted. “The one they call…”—he strained to remember— “the one they call Wesley.”
“Good memory, darkie.”
“You’re after my family and me.” Chickory went to raise the flintlock but a whole bunch of metallic clicks changed his mind. The other five were pointing rifles at him.
“Don’t try it, boy,”
said a short man whose dark eyes glittered with the threat of violence.
Wesley brought his mount up next to Chickory’s and held out his hand. “The pistol.”
Chickory hesitated.
“The pistol, or die.”
Emala wrung her pudgy hands and paced. She gazed anxiously back the way they had come and declared, “You shouldn’t have let him go.”
“He wanted to help out,” Samuel said.
“And you for certain shouldn’t have given him that gun. He’s just a slip of a boy. What on earth were you thinkin’?”
“In case you ain’t noticed, he’s pretty near a man. He has to learn to hunt anyway, and it might as well be now as later.”
“What you know about huntin’ wouldn’t fill a thimble.”
“Careful, woman,” Samuel said. “You’re much too free with insults these days.”
“Can you blame me, with the strain I’ve been under?” Emala felt her eyes moisten. “The trials I’ve endured. The tribulations you’ve brought down on our heads.”
“Me?”
“You’re the one who took it on himself to make runaways of us. You’re the one who hit Master Brent.”
“Would you rather he raped our daughter?”
“Don’t change the subject. We’re talkin’ about you.” Emala gnawed on her lip. “Oh, Lordy. What will we do?”
From behind them came a kindly voice. “Perhaps I can help. What has you so upset?”
“Mrs. King!”
Winona had overheard a few of their remarks and divined from Emala’s expression that something was wrong.
“We’ve imposed on you enough as it is,” Emala said. “Since my Samuel was the one who let him leave, he should be the one who goes after him.”
“Him?” Winona counted heads and horses. “Your son is not back from his ride yet?”
“It wasn’t so much a ride as a hunt,” Samuel said. “I told him we were only stoppin’ for an hour or so, and he promised me he’d be back in plenty of time.”
“Only he’s not here,” Emala said accusingly.
Samuel turned toward the horses. “But you’re right. It’s my doin’. I’ll go after him. If we’re not back before Mr. King returns, go on without us and we’ll catch up.”
Winona walked up to them. “My husband took Mr. Harrod and went to scout ahead. One can never be too careful near Sioux country.”
“Oh, Lordy. What if they got my Chickory?”
“You three wait here. I’ll go find him,” Winona offered.
Samuel shook his head. “I’m his pa. It’s mine to do.”
“Begging your pardon,” Winona said politely, “but it needs to be done quickly. I am a better rider and I have more experience at tracking.” She also knew the landmarks and the wildlife, but she didn’t bring that up.
Emala nodded vigorously. “Let her go, Samuel. She’ll find Chickory and be back in half the time it would take you.”
Winona hurried to her mare, swung on, and reined around.
“You be careful out there,” Emala urged. “What with buffalo and bears and snakes and things, this country is enough to give a body fits.”
“Stay here until I get back. It should not take long.” Winona goaded her mare.
The tracks were plain enough. Chickory had gone east, back the way they came, staying close to the river so he wouldn’t lose his way. Smart of the boy, Winona mused. It made his absence more puzzling.
Winona rode with her Hawken cradled in the crook of her elbow. She wasn’t overly worried. There hadn’t been any sign of hostiles. Nor had she heard any shots or roars or screams. What ever had happened to the boy, she was sure it would turn out to be something minor. Maybe he had just lost track of time. Maybe he had climbed down from his horse for some reason, and the horse had wandered off. It could be any number of things.
Winona smiled as she rode. She was fond of the Platte. It wasn’t much as rivers went; in the mountains it would be called a stream. But it flowed year round, and in the driest months it was the only source of water to be had over hundreds of miles of prairie. All sorts of animals depended on that water.
The oaks, cottonwoods and willows were home to squirrels and birds. The brush was home to deer and elk. Rabbits were everywhere. Raccoons, skunks and opossums roamed its banks at night. Herds of buffalo came to drink, churning the water brown and trampling the vegetation.
Winona spied a pair of ducks paddling quaintly in a pool. A male and female, judging by their markings. Mallards, her husband called them. They betrayed no alarm. She wanted to stop and admire them, but she had the boy to find.
The tracks continued to point east.
Winona figured it was safe to cup a hand to her mouth. “Chickory? Chickory Worth? Where are you?
Other than the twittering of sparrows, there was no answer.
Winona leaned down. She had found where the boy rode fast, and soon she came on the cause. Chickory was after a buck. She knew it was a buck because she found where it had urinated. Does always squatted. This deer hadn’t.
Winona admired his gumption if not his judgment. Bucks were extremely wary. To get close enough for a shot took considerable skill, skill the boy didn’t have. Odds were the buck would tire of the cat-and-mouse game and vanish, if it hadn’t already.
A jay squawked and was mimicked by another. Winona saw them fly from tree to tree. Raiding nests to eat the hatchlings, she reckoned, as did crows and ravens, which was why the three were at the bottom of her list of favorite birds.
Winona rounded a bend—and drew rein in surprise. Directly ahead, its reins tied to a bush, was Chickory’s horse—but no Chickory. She called his name but got no reply.
Winona kneed her mare up next to the sorrel and slid down. She shouted the boy’s name again. Puzzled, she walked in a circle around the sorrel. The sorrel’s tracks went past where it was tied and then came back again. Evidently, Chickory had ridden past this point, returned, tied his horse to the bush, and gone on afoot.
Why would he do that? Winona wondered. The only answer she could think of was that he was stalking the buck.
Winona started after him. She assumed he hadn’t gone far, but she covered the distance three arrows could fly without spotting him. She stopped, debating whether to go on or wait there.
A low sound carried to her ears.
Winona couldn’t quite identify it, but it might have been the groan of an animal in pain. Leveling her Hawken, she crept toward a cluster of cottonwoods. She scoured the ground for tracks and discovered the prints of other horses, all of them shod. She was bending to examine them when the groan was repeated.
Winona looked up, and her blood changed to ice water.
His arms outspread, Chickory Worth had been tied by his wrists to two cottonwoods. Someone had beaten him; blood trickled down his brow and red drops dribbled from his chin. He was barely conscious. He groaned a third time, and his eyelids fluttered.
Winona moved to help him.
That was when the undergrowth rustled and parted, and figures closed in from all sides.
Chapter Nine
It was a gorgeous, sunny day, painting the prairie in vivid hues with added splashes of color from wild-flowers.
Nate King loved days like this—the sun warm on his face, the fragrances in the air. He breathed deep and felt some of the tension drain from him like water from a sieve.
Nate had spent the past two hours scouting the river for sign. He hadn’t found any, hostile or otherwise. Drawing rein, he swung down. “We’ll water the horses and then head back.”
“Fine by me, hoss,” Peleg Harrod said. He dismounted stiffly and put a hand to the small of his back. “These old bones of mine ain’t what they used to be. Too much saddle and I’m a bundle of aches.”
“You’re spry enough for someone your age.” Nate brought his bay to the water’s edge. “My wife will be happy to hear there aren’t any Sioux about. We’ve tangled with them a time or two.”
“Who hasn
’t?” Harrod laughed. “They love to count coup on whites more than they love to count coup on just about anyone. Except maybe the Shoshones.”
Nate grunted. The long-standing animosity between his adopted people and the Sioux was well known. “It’s too bad all the tribes can’t live in peace.”
“Peace ain’t human nature. Red or white, they live to make war.” Harrod led his own horse over.
“Most folks I know favor peace over spilling blood.”
“Maybe they say they do. But name me one time in all history when there wasn’t a war somewhere. Killing is in our blood. Has been since Cain and Abel.”
“So we forget about the part where it says ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”
Harrod chortled. “This from a coon who, from what I hear, has sent a heap of souls into the hereafter. Don’t take this wrong, but you’re a fine one to talk.”
Nate squatted and dipped his hand in the river. He couldn’t deny his past. But he could, and did, defend his deeds. “I’ve only ever taken a life when I had to.”
“Is that a fact? Then that ‘Thou shalt not kill’ doesn’t count when it’s not convenient?”
“I don’t know as I like your tone.”
“Sorry. It’s just that a lot of those who say they live as God wants them to live tend to break His rules as much as the rest of us.”
Nate splashed water on his neck and felt cool drops trickle under his buckskin shirt and down his chest. “I can’t argue with that. I’m only saying most people would be glad to go through their entire lives without taking someone else’s.”
Harrod picked up a small flat stone. He threw it, skipping it across the surface as boys were wont to do. “I’d have been content to go through my life that way. But it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Life never goes as we think it should.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Harrod picked up another flat stone and skipped it—four times before it sank. Searching for more, he came around the bay. “You probably never figured on nursemaidin’ a black family, did you?”
Nate glanced up. “Why mention them?”
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