by Chuck Tyrell
Dead end. For the first time, Cat wondered where Sam was going.
She stopped the horses and mule and let them drink from the pool, then graze as they would. Perhaps they were the first animals to eat that grass, perhaps not. Cat ate the last of Swayback’s pemmican.
She knew some plants and leaves were edible, but ... .
Sam had gone. She didn’t worry, but she became more vigilant. She wondered if they were going to spend the night by the pool, but before she could begin unsaddling the horses, Sam gave a bark.
Cat looked for him, but sound bouncing off the rock walls made it hard to tell where the bark came from. But that didn’t matter. Sam soon trotted into sight and sat, tongue lolling, until Cat mounted and led the other animals toward him. He waited until they got close, then again took the lead.
Anyone riding into the gorge-like canyon would miss where Sam led them. He went through a narrow opening between overlapping rock walls that looked continuous from straight on. Still, Cat noticed hoof prints and paw prints in the sand of the pathway, which led into a little box canyon that lay like a finger away from the gorge. The animals of the wild used the access, and that comforted her.
The entranceway went some distance back into the mountain, then debauched into a tiny, grassy glen that was not more than a mile long and a quarter of a mile wide. It was completely surrounded by towering walls of basalt.
Sam led them toward the far end of the glen, but turned to the right about halfway in. He stopped in front of a tangle of scrub oak.
“Well, what is it, Sam?” Cat spoke for the first time that day, and she thought her voice sounded somewhat rusty.
Sam gave her a sharp bark and disappeared back of the oaks.
Cat sat on Little Red and waited. Sam returned, barked at her again, and went back behind the scrub oaks.
“Oui. I understand.” Cat got off Little Red, leaving him ground-tied. She went to find Sam. The scrub oak was so thick she could not hope to penetrate it, so she went around, hoping there was enough room to squeeze between the trees and the rock wall.
Sam sat on his haunches, tongue lolling, as if he were completely in charge. Behind him, a ragged hole opened in the face of the granite cliff. A cave. Or perhaps a cavern. Cat stopped to ruffle Sam’s ears. “Good boy. A place to stay. Yes. A place for us.” She went to her knees and hugged the big dog to her. “Merci, Sam. Merci beaucoup.”
Chapter Fifteen
Cat and her family—Sam, Little Red, John’s Gray, and Mule—settled into the cave Sam found. It was large enough for the members of the family to have their own space and get comfortable.
Swayback’s pack of supplies gave Cat the necessities for survival. She had a good sharp hatchet with which to cut deadfalls into useable firewood. She had a box of lucifers, wrapped in oilcloth, to start fires when she needed them. Usually, a stick on the fire now and then kept the coals alive.
The pemmican was gone, but Cat found a large sack of coffee beans, another of pinto beans, a rather large bundle of dried meat, a bag of flour, and another small one of salt.
The big Bowie knife she’d taken from Swayback’s body served her well, but she found no use for the Colt pistol or the Winchester rifle. She placed them in the back of the cave where they were out of the way but easily grabbed if they were needed.
With her pack there, Cat felt no need to look for mankind. Besides, mankind dehumanized her. And Matt Stryker was nowhere around. Living with the dogs at the Absaroka village showed her that mankind had nothing superior to offer. Here she always had Sam. Little Red came at her call, followed by John’s Gray. Mule never wandered far. Cat thought at the moment she might be the happiest she had ever been. How little she wanted. How easily her wants were satisfied.
Sam brought game. Rabbits. Woodchucks. Squirrels. Grouse. Quails. And once a pheasant. Cat rarely thought of using flour to make any kind of bread. Nor did she roast any of the coffee beans. She found she did well drinking water alone and felt no need for acidic black coffee, though she knew that dark and black was how Matt Stryker preferred his.
On the second day, Sam disappeared for most of the afternoon. Cat did not worry, because she knew Sam’s love for her was stronger than any man’s. But Sam did not come back alone. He brought a companion, a she wolf. Small compared to Sam, but she still looked able to hold her own in a scrap.
Cat entered the cave and took a seat on a stone just inside the entrance. Sam came to set beside her. The she wolf stayed outside.
Sam barked.
“Now Sam. Don’t be impatient.” Cat rested her hand on Sam’s head, but he shook it off.
The she wolf crawled into the cave on her belly, inching closer and closer to Cat. She made a whining sound, as if she were begging to join the pack.
Cat went to her knees, her arms outstretched in welcome.
The she wolf crawled closer.
Sam rumbled deep in his chest. Not a growl, but still the sound carried a warning.
The wolf went over onto her side, and then belly up, exposing the most vulnerable part of her body to Cat, who moved closer on hands and knees.
Cat put her hand out so the wolf could smell it. Then rubbed the upturned belly after the wolf had moved her muzzle to make her submission complete. Up close, Cat could see the she wolf was older. Her teats hung like they’d suckled several litters. Her muzzle bore small scars. Perhaps from defending her pups.
“Madam,” Cat said. “Welcome. You may join our pack if Sam allows.”
Sam rumbled.
The wolf turned over and sat up on her haunches in front of Cat. Again, Cat went through her small ceremony of exchanging breath with the she wolf. “Welcome,” she said once more.
Sam stood and the wolf went to his flank. Together they padded off. Cat followed them outside and watched as the wolf and the dog met the horses and mule.
Later, as the shadows deepened in the glen, Cat noticed Sam and the wolf were not around. Not worried, of course, but she did wonder where they’d gone.
Sam returned with a fat squirrel in his mouth. The wolf came back with three half-grown cubs following her. Cat welcomed them as she had welcomed their mother. She buried the squirrel in the ashes at the edge of the fire and piled four good-sized sticks from her store on the coals to add more heat. By morning, the squirrel would be cooked in its own skin, ready to be picked apart and eaten. Cat now preferred her meat natural, with the aroma of wood smoke adding flavor that mere salt could never match.
Cat often ran around her glen, feet bare to the grass and earth. When the autumn sun splashed its light over the high walls and onto the still-green grass, Cat would shed her buckskins and luxuriate in the warmth of sunlight on her skin. Sometimes the half-grown wolf cubs wanted her to play with them, and she was more than happy to oblige. Thoughts of Belgium and the de Merode estate dimmed. After all, there she was just woman, one to be bartered off to some family of minor standing in Europe’s aristocracy. Here, she was a full member of the pack. None of the pack expected her to do what she could not. Nor did she want them to be more than what they naturally were. Still, sometimes she thought of Matt Stryker and wondered if the pack would allow him to join.
~*~
Smoking a ceremonial pipe in Walks’ teepee with Gewagan, Stryker told of his search for Catherine de Merode, though he did not call her by name.
“Lean Bear?” Gewagan drew on the pipe, filling his mouth with acrid smoke of juniper bark. “Cheyenne?”
“That is what I heard. His warriors killed some bluecoats and some other white men. All of them. But he took the white woman. Maybe for his lodge.”
“Your woman?”
Stryker received the pipe from his blood brother and filled his own mouth with smoke. He held the smoke until it cooled, then blew it up toward the teepee smoke hole. “Maybe,” he said.
Gewagan’s eyes twinkled. “You go very far, my brother, to look for the woman. And you say ‘maybe’?”
“Maybe.” Stryker stared at the tiny fi
re between him and Gewagan. “Where should I look for Lean Bear?”
“Cheyenne run north. Some Cheyenne go south. Shoshone stay here.”
“This I know.”
“Ask Crow.”
Stryker studied his brother’s face. “Crow?”
Gewagan nodded.
“Why Crow?”
“Crow people, Cheyenne people. Fight. Always fight.”
“Crow men ride with bluecoats.”
“Still fight Cheyenne.”
“Any fights lately?”
Gewagan shrugged. “We listen. Ask. Maybe find your woman, brother.”
Stryker placed his hands on his knees and inclined his head to Gewagan. “It is in me. I must find this woman.”
“You need rest, brother. Poison from the boy’s arrow maybe still inside.”
Stryker nodded. “If my brother says. I will rest. One more day. Maybe two.”
Gewan raised his voice. “Walks. Come. Walks!”
“No need to shout, crazy man.” Walks stepped inside the teepee.
“My brother would rest in your teepee, Walks.”
“Your brother. My brother. Same.”
Stryker gave Gewagan a sharp look. “Is this not your teepee, brother?”
Gewagan laughed. “Shoshone man fights. Hunts. Shoshone woman has teepee. Makes corn, sometimes. Digs food. Walks father, my father, same father.”
“You stay here.” Walks indicated a pallet against the teepee wall.
“Thank you,” Stryker said. “I wonder. Where is Will Benson?”
“Gone.”
“Gone where?”
Walks shrugged and left the teepee. Stryker got the idea she did not want to talk about Will Benson. Gone. But would he come back? And why had he disappeared, if not to escape Gewagan’s wrath for spooning his woman?”
Gewagan chuckled. “Maybe white man friend bring many horses. Pay for Walks. Maybe.”
Stryker joined the chuckle. “Just maybe,” he said.
As Gewagan predicted, Will Benson returned to the Shoshone camp leading five horses, which he tied in front of Walks’ teepee.
“Gegawan,” he said, nearly shouting.
Inside the teepee, Gewagan gave Stryker the semblance of a grin. “The white man comes. We go.”
Stryker followed Gewagan from the teepee.
“I am Gewagan of the Shoshone.”
Will swept his arm toward the five horses. The woman Walks has no man. Her son has no father. Gewagan is Walks’ older brother. I bring you horses. I would be Walks’ man.”
Gewagan raised his voice. “Walks!”
Walks came from the far side of the camp, her son at her side. He carried his boy’s bow and three arrows.
“Walks,” Gewagan spoke in English. “Here stands one man with five horses. He says he would be your man. Father to your son, who has no father. Do you say yes?”
“Haa.”
“She says you can be her man,” Gewagan said. He called a young man from the curious people who had gathered round, waved a hand at the horses, and told the youngster to take them to the pony herd. Will Benson’s proposal was accepted. Only two ceremonies remained: one to induct him into the Shoshone tribe and one to celebrate marriage to Walks.
Stryker expected the marriage ceremony to be with pounding drums and great displays of eagle feathers and beaded leather. But days went by with no indication that some great ceremony was to take place. He lived in Walks teepee and Will Benson lived somewhere else. As far as Stryker could tell, the betrothed didn’t sleep together.
“For a man who’s proposed and been accepted, you sure stay a long way from that woman.”
Stryker and Will Benson spent at least part of their days chopping wood for winter. Gewagan and the other men hunted, and most of the meat they brought was cut into thin strips and dried.
“Here ain’t like no other band of Injuns I ever saw,” Will said. “No hanky-panky. But that’s OK with me. I ain’t going nowhere.”
“When you two gonna hitch up?”
“Any day now. Just waiting for the preacher.”
“Preacher?”
“Yep. This here’s a good Christian Indian camp.”
“No kidding? Didn’t notice. And Gewagan made me fight in the ring.”
“And I had to bring five ponies to get that girl to marry me.”
“She ain’t done that yet.”
“Will.” Walks had come up behind the men without their noticing.
“Will what?” Stryker said.
“Will marry this man. I think he can be trusted. I think God wants us to marry.”
Stryker’s thoughts jumped to Catherin de Merode. What did God want him to do about her? Stryker never thought of God. God had let Americans slaughter Americans in the millions during the war. Didn’t do a man much good to think about God. “You figure God’s got a finger in your marriage, Will?”
“If Walks says so.”
“Tomorrow,” Walks said.
“Tomorrow?” Will was just as curious as Stryker. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
Walks gave one of her rare smiles. “True. Tomorrow Inkapompy comes. He is bishop. Will Benson be Walks’ man then.”
“Bishop?”
“Yes. Inkapompy. White man name, George Hill.”
Preparation started in the evening. Two more parties of Shoshone came and set up teepees nearby. In the early darkness, young men danced to throbbing drums. Young women danced in chaste lines, wearing white buckskin dresses that hung to their ankles and taking mincing steps to the drumbeat. But there was no whiskey. No drunkenness.
“Will, this is some band of Indians you’ve decided to hook up with,” Stryker said.
“Yep,” Will said. Walks kept hold on his arm and her young son was never far away.
The reveling lasted into the night, but everyone retired in plenty of time for enough sleep. The next day was a wedding day. First in a few years, Gewagan said. Stryker found it easy to sleep on his pallet in Walks’ teepee, and easy to awaken when the camp began to stir at dawn.
Will Benson made biscuits and broke out a slab of bacon he’d brought back when he came with the five horses. For the first time in days ... or was it weeks ... Stryker had hot biscuits and crispy fried bacon for breakfast, a welcome break for the normal camas root roasted in the ashes of last night’s fire.
A long ululating call came from the southern lookout. People abandoned whatever they were doing and gathered on the open ground before Gewagan’s camp. Stryker couldn’t help but think of it as his brother’s camp, even though he knew the women actually owned everything.
Wagons came through the gap south of the camp, and most of the Shoshone rushed out to meet them, singing. Not the throbbing sound most Indians made when drums beat, but a melody. Stryker listened, trying to make of the words, because it sounded to him like they sang in English, and it was one he had heard before. Long before. When he’d been lieutenant of cavalry, galvanized after the war, because like so many other Johnny Rebs, he’d had nothing to go home to and soldiering was all he knew.
Thousands traveled west in search of new lives, and many of the wagon trains stretched out along the Emigrant Trail from Independence, Missouri, to Fort Hall in Idaho, where it divided into California and Oregon trails. But Stryker had heard the song the Shoshone sang when he was stationed at Fort Kearny. Thousands upon thousands of migrants on the trail were Mormons. At night, they gathered around their central fire and sang hymns. And they always sang the song the Shoshone of Gewagan’s camp sang now.
Come, come ye saints
No toil nor labor fear
But with joy
Wend your way . . .
Every night that song wafted from Mormon camps along the Platte River. He always remembered the last verse . . .
And should we die
Before our journey’s through
Happy day! All is well.
We then are free
From toil and sorrow, too.
Wit
h the just,
We shall dwell.
All is well.
All is well.
What the hell? Shoshone Indians singing that Mormon anthem?
The wagons, three of them, rolled into camp as the Indians sang.
A man on the high seat of the first wagon stood and held his arms out wide. “Brothers and sisters.” His voice carried like he was used to speaking to large crowds. “Oh happy day. Oh happy day. Our sister Margaret is to wed this happy day.”
With flowing beard and hair that hung nearly to his shoulders—both beard and hair shot through with strands of white—the man looked like a prophet who’d just stepped from the pages of the Old Testament.
“Margaret?” Stryker said to Will.
“That’s Walks’ baptized name. One she chose for herself.”
“Baptized?”
“Yep.” Will sounded proud of the fact.
“Baptized what?”
“Mormon.”
“What! You? Will Benson? You’re gonna marry a Mormon Indian?”
“Yep.”
The wagons pulled to a stop and white people jumped off and began unloading and setting up tables—planks across saw horses—in the grassy open area fronting the camp.
The Moses-like man raised his arms again. “Listen to me,” he said. And he began to speak Shoshone. Will told Stryker what he said.”
“Brothers and sisters. Today is a holy day. Today is the day our sister Margaret Walks takes our brother Willard Joshua Benson into wedlock.”
“Who’s that man?”
“George Hill. He’s the bishop in these parts. Bishop to the Shoshone, that is.”
Old Testament prophet George Hill rambled on, but the jist of what he said was for Shoshone to dress for God’s Day, and after the wedding, they’d feast on the food brought in the wagons. Simple.
The Shoshone scattered, going to their teepees to put on finery for the ceremony, Stryker supposed.
George Hill climbed down off his wagon, taking care with each handhold and foot placement in a manner that spoke of age. Yet when he stood and strode about, he moved with the strength and grace of a woodsman.