by Stephen Bly
“It was an old lady, and she looked just like my Great- grandma Cutler without her false teeth,” Retta reported.
“You really traded the purple dress of yours for the buckskin?” Christen asked.
“It was pansy-plum-colored.”
“Were you scared?” Gilson pressed.
“Nope.”
Christen leaned her shoulder against Retta’s. “Did you puff your cheeks out?”
“I guess.”
“You were scared then.”
The others nodded agreement.
“Well, maybe a little ... at first.”
Joslyn rubbed her hand along the beadwork on Retta’s cuffs. “Can I wear your buckskin dress sometime?”
“Sure.”
“We all want to wear that dress,” Christen added.
“It’s very comfortable,” Retta admitted.
Ben Weaver pushed his way into the group gathered at the back of the Barres’ covered wagon. “Retta, did you talk to them in sign language. Did they have bows and arrows or guns—or both? Did they have any scalps in their belts?” Ben wants to talk to me now? He never wants to talk to me. She stared for a minute until Joslyn poked her in the ribs. “Oh, I didn’t need to use sign language. Two Bears speaks English very well.”
Ben stepped closer until he was only a foot away from Retta. He towered over her. “The man’s name is Two Bears?”
Retta tried to step back, but Joslyn shoved her forward. “Yes, and his wife is named Lucy Two Bears. One son is Bear Heart. The daughter I traded dresses with is Shy Bear.”
“How old is Bear Heart?” Joslyn asked.
“He’s younger than we are. He wasn’t even as tall as his horse stick.”
“His what?” Ben asked.
“Eh, it’s a long story,” Retta said.
“Can you tell it to me sometime?” Ben pressed.
Christen shoved her elbow into Retta’s ribs and giggled.
“Sure,” Retta said. Then she turned to Joslyn. “Two Bears does have older boys, but I didn’t learn their names. Yet.”
“Yet? You mean, you’re going back?” Joslyn exclaimed.
Ansley carried a pink parasol and tiptoed across the muddy trail. Everyone paused as she approached. “My father says it’s very dangerous for you to go near Indians.” She pushed her way past Ben Weaver.
Retta glanced around the group, who waited for her to speak. “These were not dangerous Indians.”
“How do you know?” Ansley challenged.
“They were just a family. How dangerous can a mother with a baby and an old lady without teeth be?”
“Did you call them by their Indian names?” Johnny Dillard asked.
Sprinkles dripped off Ansley’s parasol. Retta scooted away so they wouldn’t mark her buckskin dress. “Yes. They even gave me an Indian name.”
“Really?” Ben blurted out. “What is it? Is it really awful?”
“No, I like it. They said I have the same name they have.”
“What do you mean?” Gilson asked.
“Both of us pronounce our last names ‘Bear.’ Two Bears thought my first name, Retta, sounded sort of like red. So he called me ‘Red Bear.’”
“You don’t have red hair. You can’t be called ‘Red.’” Ansley spun the parasol in her hand, showering those around her. “You have to have the characteristic before you can have the nickname. I simply won’t share it with a brunette.”
Gilson stared down at her black high-top, lace-up shoes. “You get mad if any of us call you ‘Red,’” she murmured.
“Yes, that’s my right, don’t you see?” Ansley insisted.
Joslyn spun her parasol and water splashed across Ansley’s face. “Your daddy is sometimes called ‘Tiny,’ and he weighs over three hundred pounds. A person doesn’t always need the characteristic to be called something.”
“That’s quite different,” Ansley huffed.
“Retta, are you going to visit them again?” Ben asked.
“If I can. They did invite me back.”
“How can you go back?” Travis Lott pulled off his felt hat and slapped it against the back of the wagon. “The wagon train will be on down the trail.”
“I believe we’ll be stuck in the mud for a couple of days.”
“Who says? It hasn’t rained that much,” Johnny challenged.
“You wait and see,” Retta maintained.
“If you go to visit them Indians again, can I go?” Ben asked.
“I guess. But you can’t take your gun.”
“We all want to go,” Joslyn proclaimed.
“Well, I don’t. I think that’s terribly foolish,” Ansley taunted.
“Maybe ’cause you’re scared and Retta isn’t,” Joslyn offered.
Ansley’s neck stiffened. “Posh. Ansley MacGregor is afraid of nothing.”
“You were afraid of that scorpion the other day when your folks were busy with the sick ox. I had to come rescue you,” Ben reminded her.
“Oh, when was this, Ansley? We didn’t hear,” Christen prodded.
“It was nothing,” Ansley mumbled.
“That ain’t what you said that day,” Ben reported. Lerryn Barre poked her head out of the back of the wagon. “Miss Pocahontas had better start helping mother with supper.”
“We better get back to our wagons. I think it’s starting to rain harder,” Christen observed.
“Two Bears said it would be a downpour,” Retta informed her.
“Can I talk to you later about the Indians?” Ben asked her.
Joslyn poked Retta in the ribs.
“Sure,” Retta blurted out.
Thunder rolled across the dark low-hanging clouds. Retta felt the rain pelt her face.
“You can walk under my parasol,” Ansley called to Ben.
“I don’t need no umbrella,” he hollered as he jogged through the downpour. “I ain’t goin’ to melt.”
Mr. Barre had pitched a white canvas awning next to their wagon. Retta squatted near the smoldering chip fire. Her mother gazed into the black cast-iron pot that hung from a hook.
“I don’t know if we’re goin’ to have warm stew or cold,” Mrs. Barre fumed.
Retta fanned the smoldering chips with a cedar shingle with a picture of a horse on it. She had painted the picture. “Mama, did you know in a Shoshone camp, the old women tend the fire?”
Her mother repeatedly rubbed her temples with her fingertips.
“Do you feel okay, Mama?”
“I’m sick to my stomach. I can’t believe your father let you wander off like that. If I told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times, ‘Eugene Barre, don’t you be dragging us off to Oregon and jeopardize the safety of my children.’”
“I guess we’re Papa’s children too, Mama.”
Mrs. Barre stood straight and rubbed her hand slowly over her apron-covered stomach. “Sometimes he doesn’t act like it.”
“I didn’t wander off, Mama. I was warning the men to bring the cattle in like you asked me to.”
“And I told you to go with someone.”
“They were all busy or asleep. What was I supposed to do?”
Mrs. Barre stared off into the stormy clouds. One hand rested on the pole that suspended the white canvas awning. The other hand pressed against the small part of her back. “You were supposed to use discretion, young lady—not go traipsing off with wild Indians.”
Retta scooted next to her. “Mama, I prayed about it. Honest, I did.”
Mrs. Barre stood two inches taller as she put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “You could have gotten into horrible trouble, Coretta Emily.”
“But I didn’t.” Retta laced her fingers in her mother’s. “The Lord looked after me.”
Mrs. Barre squeezed her hand. “I don’t think you should go to an Indian camp again. There’s no reason to try God’s patience.”
“But they’re my friends.”
Mrs. Barre pulled a skinny loaf of bread from the large wooden box n
ear the fire. She sliced it as if killing snakes.
“Nonsense. They are Indians. They are totally different from us.”
“That’s not completely true,” Retta mumbled.
“What did you say?” Mrs. Barre snapped.
“Nothing, Mama.” Retta stirred up the fire and retrieved another dry chip from under the wagon. Lord, it surely seems to me all families are sort of alike, aren’t they? I mean, Jesus died for us all, so we must all be in about the same mess. “Mama, when we left Independence, you said I should try to be more friendly. I was just trying to be friendly.”
“I meant with your own kind.”
“Who is my kind, Mama?”
“Coretta Emily, don’t you sass your mama.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. But Lerryn’s kind is you, and William’s and Andrew’s kind is Papa. But how about me, Mama? Who are my kind?”
“You are one of a kind, Coretta Emily. There is no one just like you.”
“Maybe I don’t have a kind.”
“Coretta!”
“I didn’t mean to be mouthy. I’m just trying to understand.”
Mrs. Barre put her hand on her forehead and let out a long sigh. “It’s okay, darlin’. I know I’m jumpy. I can never seem to get rid of this headache. Sometimes I can’t even see straight, let alone think straight. Did you see Andrew?”
“He’s taking his turn on the perimeter.”
“He seems young to stand guard.”
“Mr. Bouchet says Andy is the best horse wrangler in the whole camp, not counting him and Colonel Graves.”
“I suppose William went with your father. Not that anyone asked my permission.”
“William’s twenty, Mama. He sort of likes to make up his own mind. You know that.”
Mrs. Barre stared across the prairie at the rainstorm. Retta saw her eyes narrow and jaw tighten. “I don’t know why he had to go out there. It’s getting dark and pouring rain.”
“Really, Mama, they’ll be fine. They just wanted to meet my friend Two Bears. ”
“Yes, and there was nothing I could do to stop your father. He should be here, and he knows it. What if there’s trouble? What if the Indians show up here? What if I need him?”
Retta saw tears trickle down her mother’s cheeks.
“It’s all right, Mama. Papa can take care of himself, and I can take care of you.”
“That’s the job of Colonel Graves and Mr. Bouchet. I don’t know why Eugene always has to ride off.” The stew spoon began to quiver in her hand.
“Two Bears and his family are very nice and mean us no harm.”
“Baby, there are other Indians out there. If good ones can camp that close without us knowing it, so can the mean ones. I don’t know what we’re doing out here. All I ever wanted was our little white house in Barresville. I don’t know why I’m out here on this deserted prairie,” Mrs. Barre sobbed.
Retta hugged her mother’s waist. “It’s okay, Mama. Papa will be fine. You wait and see.”
“We’re gone two months, and what do we have to show for it? We’re stuck in this mud. I don’t like the rain, baby. I just don’t like the rain. I didn’t like the rain in Ohio. I don’t like the rain here. And I know I’m not going to like the rain in Oregon.”
“We can trust the Lord.”
Mrs. Barre hugged her daughter just as Lerryn scampered under the awning with a black parasol over her head. “Mama, Mrs. Wingate traded a cup of raisins for the sugar.”
“Good. If we stay put long enough, I’ll bake raisin bread.”
“We’re going to be here three days,” Retta announced. “Oh?”
“I heard if the wagons get stuck, it will take three days to dry out the ground enough to drive out of here.”
“Three days with nothing to do but sit around and gossip,” Mrs. Barre fumed.
“The whole wagon train is already talking about the Barre girl who escaped capture by the Indians,” Lerryn reported.
“Capture? They didn’t capture me. They just let me stand in their cave so I could get out of the rain,” Retta corrected her.
“Don’t worry about it.” Lerryn waltzed around under the awning. “Most of them think it was me.”
“You?”
“They kept stopping me to ask me when I was going to wear my new buckskin dress.”
Retta twirled around next to the fire. “My dress is pretty, isn’t it?”
“I wonder if I altered it a little if it would fit me?” Lerryn pondered.
Retta puffed out her cheeks. “It’s my dress,” she muttered.
“Coretta is right,” Mrs. Barre said. “It’s all right for a little girl to play in such a dress, but you’re much too old. Besides, I don’t want you both dressed like wild Indians.”
“I’m not exactly a little girl,” Retta protested.
“Look,” Lerryn shouted. “Here come Papa and William.”
* * * * *
The fire smoldered.
The rain pelted down.
The canvas wagon top and awning dripped.
The air cooled.
The thunder growled.
Lightning assailed the prairie.
And Retta Barre was the talk of the camp.
After supper Mr. Barre put on a dry shirt and left it unbuttoned as he sipped coffee by the fire. “Do you want some coffee?” he asked.
Retta took a sip from his tin cup. “You couldn’t find any trace of the Indians?”
“Nope. The rain came up, and there were no tracks at all.”
“Did you find the cave back in the riverbed?” she pressed.
“No. And we rode up and down the river half a dozen times.”
“But it was there. I saw it. I was standing in it with Two Bears and his family.”
“I believe you, darlin’. You’re wearin’ the proof.”
“Do you like my dress, Papa?”
“Darlin’, any dress you wore would look beautiful.”
“I love you, Papa.” She hugged him tight and laid her head on his hard, muscled bare chest.
“I love you too, darlin’.” He ran his fingers through her thick, dark brown hair. “But Mama’s right. No more explorin’ the river by yourself. Mr. Bouchet said the farther west we get, the more dangerous the Indians are.”
“You mean, if someone goes with me, I could go see them again?”
“Perhaps. I’ll talk to your mama about it. But I reckon the band you ran across moved out, ’cause we surely didn’t find them.”
“You want me to keep the fire going, Papa?”
“Is Mama lyin’ down to rest?”
“Yes. She got very worried when you and William left. Her head was hurting again.”
“You know how Mama is. She loves us all so much it scares her sometimes,” he added as he buttoned his shirt.
“I know, Papa. I love us all, too.”
“Keep the fire hot for Andrew. I’ll go spell him off.” Retta squatted down next to the fire in the dark. The only light flickered from a lamp inside the covered wagon and the smoldering coals. William and Lerryn scooted off toward the lamps of other wagons.
This had been a very adventuresome day. Retta wondered if a person could have too much adventure. I believe this was just the right amount. I’m the only one who has met Indians. I wonder why. Did You want me to say something to them about You?
She had the dishes washed, dried, and packed in the crate when she heard a scuffling noise from under the covered wagon.
“Pssst ... Red Bear!”
Retta leaped away from the wagon and looked under the canvas sling that held the chips. “Who’s there? Is that you, Ben Weaver?” She sauntered back to the wagon, squatted down, and whispered, “Ben Weaver, you shouldn’t be here. If my mama finds out, she’ll pitch a fit.”
She heard no reply.
“I know you’re there, Ben. This isn’t funny. Did Travis and Johnny put you up to this?” She reached her hand into the dark. “Now come on out before you get us both in trouble.”
“I am not who you think I am, Red Bear.”
A bare, dark-skinned arm reached out and latched onto her hand.
This time she recognized the voice. “Two Bears?” Retta gasped.
Chapter 6
Who is Benweaver?” The voice sounded somewhere between a laugh and growl.
Retta dropped to her knees and peeked under the wagon. “Two Bears, what are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Is Benweaver your boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Oh. Do lots of boys crawl under your wagon to peek at you?”
“No. I mean, Ben Weaver is my best friend’s brother, and he has sort of a cute smile and—what are you doing here?”
Even in the dark his white teeth shone. “Visiting my relative, Red Bear.”
“How did you get here without anyone seeing you?”
“I simply went where they didn’t look for me. I have a question. Why were the white men looking for me?”
“I think they just wanted to visit, to make sure you weren’t going to attack the wagon train.”
“Attack the wagon train with two boys and some women and a baby?”
“I told them not to worry, but I don’t think they believed me.”
“Why don’t they believe you, Red Bear? Do you lie often?”
“No. But I’m just a girl.”
“They don’t believe girls?”
“Sometimes they don’t,” Retta admitted. “Anyway, everyone is kind of afraid of Indians. They didn’t find your cave.”
“Of course not. Should I be afraid of them?”
“No. My papa isn’t scary, and neither is my brother William.”
“Who is the gray-bearded man?”
“Mr. Bouchet. He’s our scout.”
“He looks familiar.”
“You saw him?”
“They came within a few feet of where I stood.”
“And they didn’t see you?”
“Of course not.”
A deep male voice echoed out of the dark, and she stood straight up. “Li’l sis, you got a lamp?”
She waited for him to come within view. “Hi, Andrew.” He reached into the back of the wagon and pulled out the lamp. “Who were you talkin’ to, Retta?”
“Oh, you know how I am.”
He laughed. “I know. You’re always pretendin’.”