Smoke Through the Pines

by Sarah Goodwin

  Pressed skin to skin on the scratchy blankets, our kisses deepened, until we were panting into each other’s mouths. I gasped against her lips when her hands planted themselves firmly on my buttocks, kneading and cradling them and making me blush to the roots of my hair. The fine coppery hairs on my legs caught against hers and my skin felt alive with touch and closeness in a way it never had before.

  Laura’s fingers trembled but she cupped my sex firmly. I did not know where her courage came from, but I responded in kind, using all my bravery to press my hand between her legs. The touch of those intimate curls against my fingers made me flush all over and I felt dampness on them that drove me to press for more.

  Her fingers found me as I found her, and the parting of her to me made my breath came in a rush and my eyes squeeze shut. I felt, with all my being, and soaked up each feeling, new and unimagined as they were, savouring them as I had nothing else. Through it all, each tender stroke and curious exploration, we kissed each other breathless. I pressed kisses on her breasts, losing my fear and shame in the darkness.

  I did not consider that this was the first of many times we could, and would, lay ourselves down together. That dizzying realisation would come to me later. I was instead chagrined by my lack of ability to bring Laura to the crisis she elicited in me. Panting hard, I came unwound at the behest of her fingers. She unravelled me like a skein of thread, her touch wet from me, touching me until I could not control my movements and only clung to her.

  She brushed away my stumbling apologies as she brushed aside my unruly, half-grown hair, cupping my cheek with her hot, damp fingers. She only kissed me and pulled me close, holding me and breathing, just breathing. I held her too, and as the fire’s glow failed us, and true darkness came, I realised that I was at last known, truly, by someone else. Laura had my heart, and had seen all I had, as I had seen her, and myself, for the first time.

  *

  The next day we set out, with little ceremony and a sack of scraps to keep us going until we could restock in town. Against my protests Laura gave me her thicker coat and her gloves to wear, vowing that on my return she would knit me some of my own. Her hands lingered at the collar as she fussed, settling the coat on me. Our eyes met, and I thought I saw a blush on her cheeks, and a fierce longing in her eyes that made me wish I did not have to leave her side that day. Or ever again.

  At last though, it was time to leave. The air was smoky with the promise of more snow. I had raided the barns nearly inexhaustible supply of old feed sacks to line my boots against the cold. Rachel, similarly swaddled, would be able to take refuge under blankets and canvas on the sled. Laura and Tom waved us off, and I wished I could have kissed her cheek, and told her I’d be home again soon.

  We walked through the woods, which, away from camp, turned eerily silent. The birds did not sing or fly about and there were no leaves to rustle in the wind. All there was to be heard was the cracking of the icy snow crust under our boots and the occasional whimper of the wind through the trees.

  That night, frozen to the bones and unable to feel our feet, we built a small campfire and reheated a pot of beans over it. Rachel’s teeth chattered as we waited for the food to cook.

  “Do you need an extra blanket?” I asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  It was the first time one of Laura’s children had been left in my care and I kept a careful watch over Rachel in case she should take a chill or freeze her small hands in the winter night. We slept on the sled, to keep off the ground. Rachel bundled herself into my arms as though she had done so a hundred times before. To be trusted so kept me warmer inside than any pot of stew.

  As we walked on the next day Rachel kept slipping away and walking a few feet into the trees. She returned only to go off again in another direction, eyes glued to the ground.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “Tracks.”

  “What kind of tracks?”

  She shrugged and came back to my side. “All kinds. Pisspot Gill’s been showing me which is which while he eats his midday meal.”

  “I doubt your mother would approve of you saying things like ‘Pisspot’.”

  “But that’s his name,” Rachel said blankly, though with a quirk of the brow that suggested she knew exactly how such language was viewed and didn’t care one bit.

  A little ways on she pointed out a small scattering of what I took to be fresh earth.

  “That’s droppings,” she said, “maybe deer, or something like it.”

  “You’ve learnt a lot from Gill.”

  “That was Leehorn. He shows me things now that the stream’s frozen and we can’t fish. We’ve been making lures and he’s telling me about making maple sugar. He used to live even more north than here.”

  Once this vein of conversation was tapped there was no stopping her. It was the most we’d ever talked. As the miles of frozen ground crunched away under our feet she told me all about Leehorn’s maple sugar enterprises, what he’d shared of the fur trade and his exploits in chasing after rare pelts and being chased by bears himself. She told me of an Gorta Mór, which Irish had told her meant ‘The Great Famine’, which had sent him over the sea to Minnesota. His whole family, two little girls and a young wife, were buried in Ireland, thanks to the disease that had killed off all the potatoes and left them with next to nothing. His job there had been to cart food to the ports, to be sent to the British at high prices that he could not afford.

  It was from her that I learned Irish’s real name – Connor. This at least meant one less nickname to remember. My mind fairly swam with all the ‘Irishes’ we had. Unless they were within sight it was impossible to talk about them and be sure you were understood.

  “Did you see that Billy and Carter are gone now?” Rachel asked, as we set up our fire for the night.

  “Who’re they?” I asked, not knowing many of the men by name, but only by sight.

  “Some of the mulattos. They’re not there anymore and they’re not the only ones.” Rachel held her hands out to the struggling flames to heat them. “Connor says they got rough treatment from some of the others, ‘cause some’ve ‘em are from far south. They don’t like sleeping near Negroes, or sharin’ a pot with ‘em.”

  I sighed. “I think that’s just the start of things changing here, I’m afraid. This territory’s open for settlement and soon it’ll be like where we’ve just come from.”

  Rachel glared into the fire. “It’s not fair. I like it here. There’s people and no fields anywhere. Billy was telling me about the Spanish, now he’s not here anymore, just ‘cause of some meanness, from farmers that’ve just got here.”

  “I think you’re right, but it seems this is the way things go, here, in Indian Territory…people are pushed from one place to another when farmers and traders come in from the east. One day we’ll run out of places to push people.”

  Rachel didn’t seem satisfied with my answer, and in truth I didn’t think it was much of one myself. I had no say in who could live where and knew little of what transpired between the government and the tribes they bought land from. Where those tribes went afterwards, how they lived, was a mystery to me, as was the fate of mulattos like Billy.

  Since we’d been at the camp I’d let myself imagine that we were hidden from the world, that the march of onward progress would pass us by, as though we were an island in a river. I had been foolish. More men were arriving all the time, or passing through on their way to other camps. With each tree that was felled, what passed for civilisation seemed to creep closer, and before it went the scattering of the half-Indians and the mulattos at camp.

  I wondered when we would ourselves become dislodged. How long before a man came with his wife to do our work in a more ‘decent’ and ‘civilised’ way? How long until the forest was shorn down to stumps and men like William Deene and Jamison came with their unhappy women to claim it, to plant it up and set about defending it as theirs?

  *

  We reac
hed town on the fifth day. By that time the hems of our skirts were frozen and had been that way for some time. The snow rolled itself up in the edges, dragging us down. I had made my mind up to buy fabric so that we could sew up more practical trousers.

  Town was five buildings, one with a row of sheds behind. All the buildings were made of logs and mortared to keep out the wind that brought down gouts of fresh snow into the street. There were wagons and carts drawn up into a square near to the saloon and its range of sheds, from these wagons figures bundled in woollens and furs cried out their wares.

  I’d expected the place to be deserted, but there were many people walking to and from the different wagons and buildings. I was to learn that now the snow had come and the land was frozen, travel by sled was easier than travel by cart had been when the rains had bogged everything up.

  With Rachel at my side I tried to put on a brave face. In truth I was startled by the place, which seemed already to be much rougher than the towns we’d passed through on our way north. In Indian Territory, our nearest town had been mostly of a decent kind. The saloon had its handful of whores, but for the most part there were respectable businesses, and Doctor Greaves earning an honest living as an experienced physician.

  I had barely gone two steps before a man clad in stinking furs burst from a wagon clutching his jaw. He spat blood onto the snow and raised a gargling voice to curse and yell at the owner of the wagon, who only stood and watched, pliers in hand.

  The bloodied trapper picked up a handful of red-tinged ice and snow, hurling it at the impassive man on the wagon steps.

  “Next time, save for the ether!” barked the tooth-puller, slamming his way back into the wagon. Bloody snow dripped down the advertisement pasted to the door, listing tooth pulling, amputation, bone setting and the lancing of boils amongst other procedures, all of which could be performed with or without pain relief at the customer’s discretion.

  Other wagons provided similarly grisly services; on a trestle tables outside the wagons there were men dividing carcases for fur and meat, some helped by their wives. Hot blood melted snow and the smells of fresh and not so fresh meat were in the air. Fish from the lakes were gutted and hung for the inspection of customers, their innards cast into buckets already brimming with frozen guts.

  “Where do we need to go?” Rachel asked, looking about her with interest.

  “I need to find the store Leehorn spoke of,” I said, casting about me for any sign or indication where this could be found. I nearly jumped out of my boots when a gunshot carried through the air. Two men burst from the saloon door and ran across the street, disappearing into the woods. Those around me paused, looked about, and then carried on their business. In short order a man was dragged out of the saloon and left in the snow with a sack over his face.

  I took Rachel’s hand. “We’d best go this way. Stay close by me.”

  We walked on, pulling the sled behind us. As we passed the saloon we narrowly avoided being doused in effluent. Stale urine hit the snow and a shutter banged above. Upon looking up I found myself under the beady glare of an aged whore, caked in powder and poxy about the mouth.

  “Mind out the way then!” she screeched, apparently seeing my disgust from where she stood in the window. “Silly bitch!”

  When she banged the shutters to I saw that there were bullet holes in them.

  Pulling Rachel and the sled onwards, we reached the furthest building, on which was a small sign saying ‘Clarkes General Store’. I tied the sled to a post outside, and, still fearful someone would steal it, entered the store.

  I was glad to see that it was much the same as many stores I’d encountered previously, namely dirty and full of dust, but not sporting any bloodstains or bullet holes that I could see.

  Against instructions Rachel immediately let go of my hand and went to browse the overstuffed shelves. I followed her with a wary eye, but thought she would be safe in the store, where I’d hear anyone if they approached her.

  The store stocked mostly things that would be needed by the trappers and lumber camps in the vicinity – there was a severe lack of those oddments prized by children and women, namely sweets, cloth, ribbon or soap. There were plenty of casks of liquor and boxes of tobacco. After some hunting about I managed to find the red wool and the strange woollen fabric that the men at camp had their clothes made from – the cloth was a rather bright blue, presumably so that the men could be seen in amongst the trees. Still, blue pants were better than none.

  Once I’d haggled over the sacks of staple foods and the few practical items we were in need of, I went in search of Rachel. At the rear of the shop she had found a selection of very wicked looking animal traps, and was examining them with interest.

  “All done, let’s go,” I said, “we should get some food and set up a camp as far from town as we can manage.”

  Tearing her eyes from the traps Rachel nodded. I was not accustomed to such obedience in her, and felt rather pleased with myself. I was handling my role as guardian very well.

  On the way out of town, skirting the now frozen urine pool, I stopped to see the wares being sold at the various waggons. Our own goods were tied down securely under canvas, but I still kept a close watch on them. I bought a bundle of low quality mixed skins, sold cheap by a woman barely visible under a thick shawl and coat. The last thing I purchased was a double helping of meat stew (what meat I could not discern, most likely squirrel) which was doled out into our empty basin.

  I was glad to be out of the town. Hauling the full sled was much harder than pulling it empty and I had to keep stopping to ease my back and get my strength back. Even with Rachel helping we struggled. I started to worry I’d bought too much to get back to camp. By the time it grew too dark to carry on, I was exhausted. My nerves were still raw from being in that town, and I couldn’t shake the worry that we would be followed and attacked for our wares.

  I built a fire to reheat our stew and Rachel spread canvas on the snow for us to sleep on. It was as I was putting the empty basin away that I noticed her tucking something away on the sled, under a sack of dried beans.

  “Rachel, what’s that?”

  She turned sharply. “Just a loose cover.”

  “Rachel,” I said, warningly.

  As I went to take what she’d squirrelled away, she tried to grab it from me. I fended her off and pulled a chipped tin box from under the sack. Inside were fishing hooks, a spool of line, and a few pieces of metal I could not identify.

  “Rachel Deene…did you take this?” I asked.

  She only glared at me, refusing to be cowed by my outrage.

  “Rachel, your mother would not approve of you stealing, and neither do I. What if you’d been caught? That storekeeper would have had you arrested.”

  “There’s no law there, Leehorn said.”

  “That doesn’t mean that there is no such thing as right and wrong,” I said. “Would you like to live in that town? Day after day, beside those people? Would you want men to be shot down and left in the street in front of your house?”

  Her brow furrowed. While her eyes still glittered with stubbornness I could see that she understood my meaning.

  “Rachel, even if you are not caught. Even if there’s no one around to see it. Even if there’s no sheriff or officer to arrest you – there is a right and a wrong way in which to conduct yourself. You must always be aware of the right thing, and try to do it.”

  “Why, when it doesn’t help anyone!” she exploded.

  I blinked.

  “Ma was always right and she never got anything good from it! Nora and Beth died, and they were good too. Beth never had fits over things like me, and Nora was only a little baby, she never did anything bad in her whole life!”

  I set the box down on the sled and knelt in the snow, putting my hands on Rachel’s furiously tensed shoulders. Hot tears had formed at the creases of her eyes, and her cheeks were reddened as if by the internal furnace of her heart, stoked by each perceived i
njustice.

  “Rachel, I’ve no doubt that your sisters were good children, I’m certain that they were…welcomed in heaven. But…heaven is for when God takes us. While we’re here, we must be good to one another. We must strive to do the right thing, not for a reward, not for the promise of eternal life, but so that we can lay ourselves down at night and sleep the sleep of the just, knowing that we have lived another day doing or best for ourselves and those around us. And that is why your Ma is such a good woman, because she lives that way.”

  “Taking that box doesn’t make me feel bad. I won’t lose any sleep over it. He won’t even know it’s missing.”

  “That may be true. But supposing we get back to camp and find that someone has stolen from your Ma, will you be able to sleep knowing that you are just as guilty as whoever hurt her that way?”

  Rachel was silent. I could not help but think of her father’s death, a death she had been responsible for. Did she really feel no more guilt for that act than she did over the theft of the fishing box?

  “Rachel, I want you to do good, to be honest. I want for you to be the kind of person your Ma is; and after all that’s happened, does she steal?”

  Slowly, Rachel shook her head.

  “She doesn’t. Because she knows that, while it might get her what she wants, it would be at the cost of someone else’s livelihood, and they would suffer. So, if you feel tempted to do something like that, you must think of how it would feel to have it done to you, and stop yourself, as you wish those that do you wrong would stop themselves.”

  She finally looked away, and I knew my words had found a home in her heart. How long they would stay there for, I had no way of knowing. I could only hope that she would come to feel the wish behind my talk – that she should try to become the person she most wished had been there to help her, that last, terrible summer on the prairie.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll take that box back to the store, and maybe one day you will have earnt the money to buy one like it.”

  Rachel said nothing, only nodded stiffly and started to arrange the blankets for bed. She did not speak again and I sensed that she was thinking very deeply, about what I could only guess at. We would be delayed in heading back to camp, thanks to my decision to return to town. I could only hope that Laura would manage without us for an extra day or so.