by Nancy Radke
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, sort of hesitant like. “You should see it out there, Abigail. The wind blowin’ off the water. It makes you feel alive.”
“I like the mountains. And trees.”
“There’s mountains. Higher than these. And the trees are so big it takes a day to walk around one. If you cut one down, you can build a whole town with the lumber.”
“So?”
“You were always doing something for someone. I wanted better for you—for us. I built us a place in California. Near that ocean. Hired a man to care for it while I come to fetch you and the boys. That is, if you’ll leave this here farm. We’ll have a fine living on my new place. Soil is good and black. And deep. We won’t have to plow around the boulders.”
When Jacob had left, I’d refused to go with him. Our youngest, Razzel, was only twelve, and I had heard of the western lands and the wild Indians and the blizzards and wildfires. I’d wanted no part of it.
Now, what was here for me? A farm that had taken the best years of my life and almost killed me a few times? And would certainly kill me this winter. I didn’t owe it anything. And if it had been the strongest house on the mountain, I wouldn’t have stayed. If Jacob was leaving, I was going with him. This time I wasn’t about to be left behind.
“I know you’re attached to this place, but—”
“Not attached. Not any longer. Oh, Jacob, I’ve missed you so much.” And I started to bawl, louder than Aggie when she wants milking bad.
He stepped near and circled me with those long, strong arms of his. “And I missed you, too. You were too stubborn to go with me, while I was bound and determined to find us a better place than this.”
“I wasn’t being stubborn, Jacob. I was afraid.” But too stubborn to admit it.
“You? Afraid?”
“I didn’t want to take my boys out in that wild land. This place was so secure.”
“They went anyway,” he said, leading the way to the house. He slapped his hand on the side of his leg, and Barney shot out ahead of us, tail wagging.
“Yes. First Gage, the week after you left. If you remember right, he was twenty. Then Daniel, then the rest of them, whenever they reached sixteen.”
We went inside. I looked around. It was the only home my boys had known. “What if they come back and I’m not here?” I worried.
“We’ll tell the Buchanans.”
“They’re both dead.” I told him what had happened to them. “Only Mally is alive, and she went to Missouri to live with kin.”
“Good for her.”
“I don’t know how we could leave a message.”
“We’ll tell people as we go along, mentioning California. If any of those boys do look for you, they’ll come. I ain’t waiting here for ‘em.”
“Then I won’t either.”
He drew me into the firelight, looked me up and down and kissed me soundly. I loved his kisses. It was how he’d wooed me away from that young flatlander who thought he’d get a chance with me.
“I love you, Mrs. Courtney. I’ve been a long time waiting. I’d ‘ave been back a lot sooner, if I could’ve. Got swept up into that there war. Man with a gun said I either joined them or I was the enemy. So I became a Union soldier. Wasn’t particularly fighting for anything, except to stay alive and get back to you.”
I believed him. “I love you, Jacob. Just don’t leave me again.”
“Never.” He pulled off his boots and I shucked out of my dress, then stood there in my raggedy chemise, as he took off his shirt, then his britches.
I was thinking hard. I knew I’d forgotten something.
As he grabbed my hand to pull me into bed, I stopped him, saying, “Wait! Jacob, the goose!”
THE END
THE BEST FRIENDS IN THE COUNTRY
(A short story exclusive to The Trahern Collection)
By Nancy Radke
“Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
“So long, Charlie Web.”
They were a’leaving and I was purty glad to see ‘em go. My job was over. I had brung those pilgrims out from the east, tenderfoots all, across the breadth of the land. It took me a heap of patience, for some of their crazy greenhorn stunts would’ve tried a saint.
I’d always crossed the country with just me and my horse. I figured followin’ the wagon road would be a bit easier than some of them Injun trails I’d ridden over, but it warn’t.
Things were fine till we hit the Rockies. We finally had firewood a’plenty, but the goin’ got worse.
I knew those mountains, and they were as hard as their name. Solid granite and straight up. The first time we come upon a canyon, those men all looked at me like I knew what to do. The wagon road stopped at the top of the rim and started up at the bottom, and I figured it started up again over there on the other side. In between was enough space to put a whole town. Even the horses couldn’t get down by themselves at this point.
Well, we could tell other people had done it, although I could see the remains of a few wagons down at the bottom.
“Get out the ropes,” I said, since no one else was a’sayin’ it. “We’ll take them down one at a time.”
We looked the situation over. We could see where certain trees had the bark removed, probably from where the ropes were wrapped around to lower the wagons.
We lowered two men on ahead, to hold ropes to keep the wagons from banging into the cliff. Then we put ropes on the wagons, and let them down, one by one. Next we lowered the team for each wagon, one animal at a time. Then our riding animals. It took us five days.
We crossed the floor of the canyon and found a foot trail to the top. We carried up our ropes, and the strongest men pulled up a few of the mules. We used the mules to pull up the other animals. Then all the animals, hitched into two teams, to raise the wagons. That took a full week.
We went on for a few days and came to another canyon. We had to repeat the procedure. After awhile, we got purty good at it.
We almost lost little Wylie Gunther on the second cliff. He fell and luckily landed on an outcrop. I had to drop my rope to him, get him to tie himself on, then pull him up. I was the only one who heard him shout. I’d gotten used to listening for him.
He was not quite seven, and would follow me around when I was in camp, trying to see what I was doing so he could copy me.
He was the kid everything happened to. Snakebite? He got bit. I had to put a tourniquet on him. Tossed out of the wagon on a rough patch? He came flying out and fortunately landed on his head. River crossing? He couldn’t swim, so I had to lasso him and pull him out. Twice. Bee stung? He was climbing a tree and fell on a hornet’s nest. Stung every part of his body. We made a pool of mud, stripped him and put him in it while the mud dried.
That kid was plumb lucky to survive, but he made it when others didn’t. Some stayed in the wagons with their mother, and were killed with pneumonia. Others fell off a horse and were killed. But Wylie fell and bounced and got back up again. He was one tough little kid.
When we reached the Grande Ronde Valley, the whole wagon train got together and made a big dinner. Some had been able to get fresh vegetables for the pot, so it tasted wonderful—we call it hiyu muka muck. After dinner we all shook hands and said goodbye. Some were going north, and others down the Columbia to farm along the western rivers. The Gunthers headed to Oregon. Wylie wanted to come with me, and I had to persuade him to stay with his family.
I headed up to Fort Walla Walla with the portion of the train that had decided to go north, which had better grass and water. They chose to cross the Snake at the Three Island Crossing. The crossing was dangerous, but not as bad as when I’d gone east and the water was higher. We blocked up the wagons carefully and took them across one at a time. Most floated purty well, but one took on enough water to almost swamp it.
I’d told Trey and Mally to go to Walla Walla, mentioning the fine land just east of the little settlement. I went there now and looked aro
und. They weren’t there of course. I was ahead of them, and didn’t know if they would come or not.
It was no longer a small settlement. It had growed like many western towns that almost spring up overnight. The place had a favorable location, and many people, bound for Oregon, stopped when they got here.
The land was there, waiting for someone to clear it and use it for either farming or ranching. I’d been a mountain man for too long to want to do anything but hunt and trap, but this would be a fine place to come to when I got older and needed to retire. Just enough land for a house and a garden. That was all I needed.
I knew my wife, Kimana, would be concerned when I was late getting back, but she was with her tribe, the Shoshone, and her folks could use some money. The settlers had paid me well to be their guide, and I had been careful to make sure I didn’t betray their trust.
After buying the land I still had a little money left, but a little money was all that was needed to buy food at the end of the winter when supplies ran out. It could be the difference between living and dying for some of her people.
My pa had died, so I’d traveled to Kentucky to bury him and straighten out his things. My brother came to help me. We’d spent one evening recalling some of the childish pranks we’d done. I gave him all of Pa’s things, keeping only the silver ring Pa had given my mother. I had it in my saddlebags, in a small pouch. If Kimana didn’t want it, I’d keep it for our children when we had some.
I bought some provisions in Walla Walla, and took enough time to look around and buy ten acres on Mill Creek, out by Kooskooskie. I said ‘Hello’ to my neighbor, Alan, and let him know I’d be back. Then I headed into the mountains of Idaho.
Kimana’s family group had moved, but I asked around as I traveled, and finally caught up to someone who was sure they had gone up the Columbia River to fish for salmon. So I reversed direction and followed the Columbia north until I ran into her family group. They all came out to greet me, but Kimana wasn’t with them.
I was about ready to panic, when her father told me she was out with a cousin, picking berries.
He pointed out the direction and I fairly ran the whole way. I missed that gal, and the closer I got to her, the stronger her pull on me.
Her name meant “butterfly,” and she was aptly named, being both beautiful and gentle. I stopped when I saw her, then ran on down the hill towards where she was picking. She had a cradleboard strapped to her back, and I wondered whose baby she was tending. She looked up as I rushed towards her.
“Kimana!”
“Charlie! Oh, Charlie.” She started to cry. “I didn’t know if you were coming back.”
Now lots of things can happen to a western man, especially in the wilds. He can have his horse stumble and fall on him, get snake-bit, scalped, et by a mountain lion or a bear, or shoot himself accidentally-like. Or he can just not bother to come back. I had told Kimana I expected to return in two months, and it was almost six. It had taken me a long time to find them, onct I got back.
Autumn was finishing up, along with all its color. Her family would be retuning to their home at the bottom of the Snake River Canyon, where it stayed warmer during the winter.
I ran the last ten yards to Kimana, threw my arms around her and hit the papoose. The baby started crying.
I’d forgot about it, and asked her, “Whose kid is this?”
“Ours,” she said.
You could’ve knocked me over with a bent straw. “What? When?”
“I knew before you left, but wanted you to go honor your father. I expected you to be back sooner.”
“I would’ve, if I’d a’known.”
I stepped around her and gazed at the crying child. Lots of black hair and a tiny nose. Beautiful child. Mine. I think my love for Kimana doubled, if possible.
“Boy or girl?” I asked.
“Girl. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. What’s her name?”
“We haven’t given her one. I thought it best to see what you wanted to call her.”
Me, a daddy. “I bought some land for us to live on,” I told her. “I led a wagon train out from back east, and they paid me. I figured we could use the money.”
“Land? For us?”
“Ten acres.”
“The land belongs to everyone.”
“Not in a white man’s world. And by the looks of the wagon trains comin’, it will soon be that.”
“My tribe has a place now where we have agreed to live. Wind River. With another tribe. We agreed to this rather than fight your army. Our chief got us land where we already lived. It is our land now.”
I hoped it would stay that way. “Because we are married, we will live on my land. I bought a place next to a stream with a good current flow, so I can build a mill there, if we wish. The soil is good and deep and we can grow enough to always have food. And we are right at the edge of the forest, so I can trap and hunt and add to our food that way.”
I was glad I had gone back and seen my brother. He was the one who had showed me the sawmill he owned. The water ran the mill. You could hold the logs in a water pond while waiting to cut them. I had looked it over carefully, thinking that it was something I could do once I got old.
But with a child, I didn’t want Kimana traveling all over the country where I couldn’t find her. I’d seen how readily the settlers looked for a gun when an Indian came around. Greenhorns, they couldn’t tell one tribe from another, so didn’t know a peaceful tribe, like the Shoshone, from a warring one.
Kimana started picking berries again and my daughter stopped crying. She looked at me with big eyes. She was beautiful. What should I call her?
She was going to live in my world, so she better have a Christian name. Sarah? It was my mother’s name and meant princess. Knowing my mother’s generous heart, she would want her name on her granddaughter.
I told this to Kimana and she smiled and agreed.
“I want you to choose a middle name for her. A second name, for her to have, too. How about your mother’s name?”
She smiled and nodded.
I could already see the toll the constant traveling and hard work was taking on Kimana’s mother. She looked ten years older than when I left. Most Indians didn’t live to be fifty. They looked older than they were.
I didn’t want that hard life for Kimana.
That night I told her father what I was going to do, and where I had bought my land. I gave them all the money I had left over, so that they could buy supplies if the winter proved longer than their food. They had their salmon dry and packed, ready to go, so the next morning he led their family toward the Wind River country and I took Kimana south to the Blue Mountains.
I brung her home, careful-like, her on the horse and me walking. It took us nigh onto a week to get there.
All that traipsing around took time, and when we got to my place, it was beginning to freeze.
Kimana helped me build a wickiup, a temporary shelter, then I cut some trees to build a cabin for the winter. I was trimming them with my axe when it glanced off and caught me in the leg.
I was trying to hurry. I knew better.
I ran inside the wickiup to where Kimana was nursing the baby. “I need a clean cloth,” I told her.
She pointed to where they were. I used one of the baby’s wipes to wash off the wound, then bound the hanging flesh back to my leg. Thankfully I had missed the bone, but I was really going to be slowed down now. I wondered if I’d get a cabin built before it started to snow.
The answer was no. It started snowing that night. The wickiup was cold and the baby cried, even though we took turns holding her to keep her warm. I’d had no time hunt or trap. No time to bring in any furs or meat. No money to buy blankets.
I was a poor excuse for a husband.
The snow soon stopped and started to melt, making things all wet. My neighbor, Alan, rode by on his way to town, and stopped when he saw the bloody bandage on my leg.
“What
happened?”
“Working too fast. Whacked myself with my axe.”
“Did you call the doctor?”
“I thought we didn’t have one in this neck of the woods.”
“She’s just as good.”
“I can’t afford anyone,” I admitted. It hurt to say that. I’d always been self-sufficient. In trying to care for my wife and child, I’d failed them both.
“She don’t charge. Just goes and helps. I’ll ride past their place and tell her where you are.”
“Thank you.”
“Need help with your cabin?”
“I…” Now pride would have had me telling him, ‘No.’ But pride wouldn’t keep Kimana and Sarah warm. “Yes. Any I can get,” I admitted.
He nodded and rode off.
I tried to work, but the blood kept seeping through and after half an hour I finally had to stop.
“Kimana, I’m going to need more cloth.”
“It isn’t dry. I had to wash everything I had.”
She reached down and took the baby’s blanket. “Maybe if you cut this up?”
“No. Put that back.”
I figured wet with blood was as effective as wet with water. And there was no way I was going to take my daughter’s blanket. I was angry at myself for the mess I’d created. I’d have to do something. But what?
“Hello, the house.”
The voice sounded familiar, and as I stepped outside, I saw why.
“Trey? Mally?” I couldn’t believe it. I’d left them at Fort Kearney.
“That’s for sure. Howdy, Web.” They both dismounted, grinning from ear to ear. “We heard someone over here needed a doctor, and some help. Didn’t know it was you, here, or we’d have been over a mite sooner. Alan just said, “Charlie.”
Kimana had come outside carrying Sarah. “This is my wife, Kimana, and my daughter, Sarah. My good friends,” I told her. “from the wagon train.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ma’am,” said Trey, as Mally smiled and said, “Hello.”
Mally looked at my blood-soaked leg. “Looks like you done yourself in.”
“Sure as shootin. I whacked myself a good one, but at least it were a glancing blow.”