Hannah Rogers was Peter’s mother, and from her letters he decided she must be a widow—and a poor one. Here he found an address. Dixon talked about people the Rogerses had known, but he seemed to be a friend rather than a relative. The letter signed Kate was postmarked Dallas, Texas, possibly written by Emma’s sister. There was no address, but perhaps the postmaster would forward a letter. He would write Hannah and Kate.
He picked up the journal and began to scan it, resting his head on his hand. The first entry was August: “Well, we are off to Oregon next week! Praise the Lord, He will be with us.”
The words saddened Zack, and he thought of the two graves ten miles away, hidden on one of the thousand folds of the mountains of Montana. God wasn’t with Pete and Emma after all, he mused gloomily. As he continued to read, he felt the table move slightly; then there was a sound of munching as the woman began to eat. He didn’t look up, but kept his head bent over the journal. It was a typical story, for people were moving west in large numbers. Pete and Emma had sold their farm, bought a wagon and set out for Oregon. Pete had been fearful to take a chance with a baby coming, but Emma was full of faith. “God will take care of us,” she had written over and over again.
The journey had been exciting at first, but an entry dated September 29 read: “Pete is very sick tonight, but I have anointed him with oil and prayed for him.” The next entry was October 10: “Pete is worse. Could not get up at all today. God willing, we will come to a town soon. My time is close!” Several entries described the tragedy briefly; always the husband was worse. Many times Emma recorded her prayer: “God, send a man to help us!” On October 23 she had written, “A son! I will call him Samuel, entrusting him to God as Hannah did her Samuel.”
Then on October 25 the stark words: “My beloved husband, Peter Thomas Rogers, went to be with Jesus this morning at dawn. As the sun came up, he took my hand and whispered, ‘I’ll be waiting for you and Samuel, Emma . . .’ Oh, I thank you, Lord Jesus, that he is past all suffering and resting with you.”
There was only one more entry, dated October 27: “I must go to be with my husband. The Indian promised to find a white man. Lord God, you have never failed me—never! Even as I pass from this life, I praise your holy name, for you are my strength and my redeemer. You will answer my prayer—you will bring a man of God, and he will care for my Samuel! Even if I die before that man comes, he will come, and I praise you for your faithfulness!”
That was all. Zack stared at the last passage for a long time. Finally he looked up at the woman who had finished eating and was back beside the children who lay quietly on the bed. He rose to his feet, put the books and letters on the mantel, and then said, “Blow the light out when you go to bed.” There was no ladder to the loft, so he leaped up, caught the lip of the opening, and with a surge of strength, pulled himself up chin high, and swung his legs up and over like an acrobat.
Choiya watched wide-eyed. She had been as tense as a spring ever since leaving the Indian camp, and now her shoulders slumped. She walked over to the water bucket and took a long drink of water. As she stood there, her eyes fell on the books the white man had been reading. Her head jerked up to the loft at the sound of stirring. When it was quiet again, she walked quickly to the mantel and grabbed the books. She leafed through the Bible, replaced it, and took the letters, opening to the first page of the journal. Reading it quickly, she returned that and the other letters to the mantel just as the white child began to cry. She picked him up and sat before the fire while she nursed. This child was so different from her own, the fine blond hair a sharp contrast to her dark-haired son.
The fire crackled as the logs shifted, and she watched the sparks fly upward. The wind moaned as it found the crevices between the logs, but the cabin was much warmer than the tepee where she would have been sleeping if Winslow had not come. Her eye fell on the skillet, and she pondered how he had cooked her food without a word. She could not understand it. For a long time after the baby was satisfied, she held him, thinking of what had happened to her—wondering how she and her baby would live in this new world with this strange white man.
One thing she knew. Every man she had known had brought her trouble. This one will be no different, she thought, and her heart hardened as she got up and put the baby down. He’s like all other men—he will come after me sooner or later—and when he does, I will put a knife in his heart!
****
“A baby? Where in the name of heaven did you get a baby, Zack?”
Two men looking at a rifle down the aisle of Parris Pfouts’ store gazed quizzically at Zack standing in front of the storekeeper. One of them laughed and said something under his breath that made the other smile.
A heavy-set woman who had been fingering a piece of checked cloth moved closer, her eyes avid with interest.
Zack ignored the customers and said, “Let’s go in the back, Parris.” As soon as they were in the back room, he snapped, “Did you have to broadcast it all over town? This couple died at Black Pigeon’s camp! The baby’s at my cabin, but there’s got to be some woman here who can take care of him!”
Parris stared at Zack, not certain whether to take him seriously. “You left a baby alone at your cabin in this snowstorm? He’ll freeze to death!”
“Well—I got an Indian woman to come along with me. She has a baby of her own, see? But I need to find some white woman to take care of him.”
Pfouts shook his head. “There’s no woman around with a baby that age.”
“Parris, you have to help me,” he insisted. “There’s got to be some way! I’ve written letters to some people back East—but it’ll take months to hear from them.”
“Zack,” Pfouts said stolidly, “I’d help if I could, but your best bet is to stay with that Indian woman—and thank God you’ve got her!”
Winslow stood there helplessly. “By gravy,” he muttered bitterly, “it’s come to a pretty pass when a poor hermit has to start a nursery and his best friends won’t even lend a hand!”
“Didn’t say that, Zack,” Pfouts countered. “I’ll work on it. Maybe we can find somebody at Bannack—or even at Helena. But for now there’s no choice, man!”
Zack bit his lip. Finally he reached out and slapped Pfouts on the shoulder, forcing a slight grin. “Sure—I was out of line, Parris.” He handed a paper to the storekeeper. “See how much of this stuff you can come up with, will you? I’ve got to get back before the passes close.”
Pfouts worked quickly, and soon they were loading Winslow’s purchases onto the mule he had brought along behind Ornery. As Zack pulled the strings of the pack tight, Pfouts said, concern on his face at the falling snow, “Hate to see you start out in a storm like this—but you’ll make it. I know you don’t believe God is in all this, my friend, but He is.”
Zack swung into the saddle. “Thanks. If you come up with an answer, Parris, send someone out to my place.”
“I’ll come myself,” Pfouts called out as Zack rode Ornery down the street at a fast trot, the mule kicking in protest.
The trip back was hard, and both animals stumbled from time to time on the rough snow-covered trail. The gulches undulated softly at first, then broke up into more rugged country. By three o’clock the snow stopped, and the temperature dropped sharply. Zack’s feet had gotten wet crossing Dancer Creek, and the freezing temperature sent chills through him. Soon it began to snow again, coming down like a thick curtain, clouding visibility to only a few feet ahead. He got down and led the animals, but by now he’d lost all feeling in both his hands and feet, so after a while he mounted the horse and rode the last mile, stopping often to check the trail. Finally he reached the cabin and guided Ornery under the shed, towing the mule, then forced his legs to move in order to dismount; as soon as they hit the ground, his legs collapsed. He beat his hands together, and got to his feet by holding on to the logs of the cabin. He stomped the ground until he could maneuver his feet enough to tie both animals and pull the pack off the mule and drag it to the wood pile.<
br />
With numb fingers he picked up the pack, staggered around to the front door, and almost fell inside as the door swung back. Choiya stepped back as he entered, watching as he dropped the pack on the floor, then stared at her almost drunkenly. His reflexes were slowed down by the cold, and he moved like an old man as he turned and went back outside. Can’t go into that warm room until I thaw out, he thought. He broke the ice on the barrel he kept filled, watered the animals, and jumped up and down, stamping his feet and swinging his arms furiously. Finally, sheltered from the wind, the feeling began to return to his hands and feet, and prickles on his face tingled. He walked back inside, the warm air hitting him like a blast from a furnace.
He picked up the coffeepot carefully, noting that it was empty, and moved to the food cabinet to get coffee. His body seemed reluctant to respond to his mind. Now I’m going to get some coffee out of the cabinet. But his arms moved very slowly, and he found it difficult to open the jar with his numbed fingers. Eventually he got the coffee in the pot, set it on the fire, then slumped down in the chair. Fatigue hit him like a blow, and he closed his eyes. Can’t sit here very long, he thought. Got to get my boots and socks off. It had been a close call, he realized, as he changed into dry socks. He could have lost both feet—if the cabin had been another couple of miles.
He almost dozed off, but snapped back when one of the babies cried. He struggled out of his chair, his hands beginning to tingle, and poured a cup of scalding coffee. He stared into the fire as he sipped the coffee. Not much between us and a grave, he thought. When his feet and hands began to throb with pain, he shoved a table under the loft to help hoist himself up mumbling as he sank into the warm space, “Most of the stuff I went for is in the pack.”
Choiya examined the food. He had brought even more than she had said the babies would need. Slowly she looked at the items, pausing more than once to look upward where he lay. Finally she began putting the foodstuffs in the cabinet, and then noticed he had brought several thick blankets. She was certain there was none in the loft, so she picked up one and walked to the table. She stared at the opening and was about to climb up and toss the blanket to him. Then she stopped, hesitated, and stepped back, her lips in a firm line. She wrapped the babies and herself in warm blankets, put another log on the fire, and went to bed.
CHAPTER FIVE
A NIGHT VISITOR
After the snowstorm, winter retreated in the face of a warm front from the south, and the ice on the creek melted. One morning in mid-November Zack rigged a line and went fishing. The sun soaked into his back as he searched for a good spot until he found a bed of plump red-eared perch. He threaded a cricket on the hook, swung the line gently over a deep place, and waited. It must have proven an irresistible sight to the fish, for suddenly the pole bent double and the line zigzagged wildly through the water.
Zack let out a wild yell. “You little darlin’!” he crooned as he removed the plump perch, “you and me have a date for supper tonight!” He slipped the fish into a cloth sack, secured the opening with string, then tied the sack to a sapling and tossed it out about two feet from the bank. The fish lived longer that way, he had found.
By three o’clock he made his way back to the cabin with his ample catch. He carried his rifle as usual, out of cautious habit. The Arapahos to the west had been on the warpath, and though he didn’t expect them to hit this far away, his caution let him take every measure of safety.
When he got back to the cabin, Choiya was outside boiling clothes over a fire in a black washpot. As usual she said nothing but watched him as he came into the yard. For two weeks she had communicated only what was necessary.
The first few days Zack had tried to establish some sort of relationship—an armed truce, at least. But when he saw her deliberate silence, he gave up. It had been uncomfortable, but he had grown accustomed to it. Now he went about his business making no attempt to speak with her. He kept the larder filled with fresh game and when he got hungry he cooked something, always making enough for her as well. She never made a meal for him, and apparently ate when he was gone. She didn’t do any cleaning in the cabin either, which irritated him, but he said nothing, doing what little was necessary.
As he started to clean the fish, he saw that she was washing some small blankets she had cut up out of one large one. Some of the cloths she used for swaddling clothes bobbed in the boiling water as well, and a red blouse she had worn once or twice. Wouldn’t kill her to wash out some of my things, he thought.
He picked up a worktable he had made and moved it away from the house, got a large washpan, and pulled a fish from the sack. It took no more than a minute to clean and scale each fish. He was so engrossed in the task, he was startled when she spoke.
“Leave the heads on some of them.”
He looked up and saw that she had come close to watch what he was doing. “Leave the heads on?”
“Yes. I like them.”
He studied her carefully, wondering if she was coming out of her shell. “You like fish heads?”
“It’s the best part of the fish,” she said. The evening sun made her smooth skin glow with a ruddy color, and her hair was clean and fresh, so he knew she had washed it while he was fishing.
“Like this?” He inserted the tip of the knife into the fish’s vent, ripped upward, then opened the slit and with deft movement removed the entrails. He turned the knife over and scaled it, then held it up.
“That is good,” she said. “You are very fast.” Suddenly aware that she was carrying on a conversation with him, her full lips turned up in disdain. “The men of my people do not clean fish. That is women’s work.”
He longed to say, If you’d do a little work, I wouldn’t have to clean fish. Instead, he shrugged and picked up another fish. Choiya had expected him to say exactly that, but when he refused to argue, a puzzled light filled her eyes. She went back and removed the clothes from the pot, wringing them dry. As she worked, she watched him surreptitiously. His whole attention focused on the fish—and that was the thing about him she could not understand.
She had been the beauty of her tribe since early girlhood, and as was the way with her people, had been courted from the time she was thirteen. Many braves had wanted her, and she quickly learned she could have any man. When she had gone to be White Eagle’s wife, she knew that men still watched her. After she had been captured and White Eagle killed, the men of Black Pigeon’s tribe had been after her constantly.
But this man did not watch her in that way. For weeks she had expected him to touch her, but he did not even give her those sly looks she could discern so expertly. This had been a relief. Now, she began to wonder if she had become ugly. The small shaving mirror on the wall told her she had not, and her figure was as slim as before Hawk was born. Still he ignored her.
A streak of perversity rose in her. She took the wet clothing inside to hang it in front of the fire. She fed both babies, and soon after, Zack came in with pink fish in the pan, all washed and ready to cook.
As usual he moved to the fire, stirring up the coals, then set the big black skillet on the iron grill. He walked over to get the bacon fat he kept in a jar, and she moved in the same direction. He had not expected her to do so; and as they both reached out to open the cabinet, her body brushed against him.
He jerked back as if he had touched a hot stove, and looked at her, startled. She had a strange expression in her eyes, waiting for something. Her touch had stirred him, but he simply said, “Sorry—didn’t see you.”
She stood absolutely motionless, waiting. She knew any man she had known would have interpreted her action as an invitation, but Winslow had retreated instantly. His reaction increased her determination to make him notice her, and she smiled for the first time. “I will cook the fish.”
“Why—that’d be handy,” Zack said. He moved away, hiding his confusion by saying, “We’re low on water. I’ll get a couple of buckets from the spring.”
As he hurried down the path
, she watched through the window. Her eyes narrowed, and she touched her cheek. Finally she nodded and turned to get the fat out of the cabinet.
Zack was gone a long time, and when he returned, the aroma of frying fish filled the cabin. “You like hush puppies?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“When the fish is done, put a little more fat in the skillet.”
Zack walked to the larder and began to put items on the table. She watched as he mixed cornmeal, baking powder, salt, a chopped onion, and flour together, then added some canned milk. He rolled the mixture into balls about two inches in diameter, and when she was finished with the fish, he stepped to the fireplace and dropped the balls into the pan. He browned them well, then placed the cornmeal balls on a tin plate.
He put the hush puppies on the table, noting that the fish was already there, along with some bread. He sat down to eat, placing a piece of fish and several hush puppies on his plate. He picked up the fish, and carefully began to pull at the top dorsal fin. The entire top section of the skeleton came out, and he tossed it on the table. Then he bit into the hot, sweet flesh that fell off in chunks. As he chewed, he picked up a hush puppy, dipped it in the bowl of butter and bit off half.
“Is that good!” he breathed. He looked up at Choiya, who was standing back from the table watching him eat, and remarked, “Fish is going to get cold.”
She hesitated, then with a decisive movement, sat down. He had no conception of her action, for she had never eaten with men. But she lifted her head proudly and put some fish and cornbread on her plate. She chose a fish with a head, and ate that first, nibbling delicately. When she saw him give an involuntary start, she smiled. “You waste the best part.” She picked up the hush puppy, dipped it in the butter as she had seen him do, and bit into it. Her eyes opened with surprise.
“Good?” Zack asked.
“Yes—but why do you call them hush puppy?”
The Wounded Yankee Page 5