Sometimes Lorenzo or Cousin George brought back the chewed-off foot of a beaver or a fox that got out of one of their traps, and it turned my stomach over to see it. Or they'd grin and show me a broken-winged crow or something else that got caught instead. “Looka here at this,” they'd say.
Although I hadn't noticed the chains when Lorenzo first sent me to the loft unawares, I couldn't shake from my mind the sight I had seen with Laura. The Indian was sitting on one of the straw-filled pallets that we kept in the loft. He had cuffs of iron fixed around both his ankles, right above his moccasins. A long piece of ox chain ran from the irons to a big bolt in the floor. Even though the Indian could move his arms and legs, I reckoned Pa was right—he would need to tear up half the plank floor to ever get away.
In the dim light of the loft, the man hadn't looked more than a few years older than Amos or Cousin George. There was a wide band of dark fur wrapped around his head, with a few tall feathers stuck on one side. Peculiar twists of hair dangled on each side of his face, and there were metal ornaments around his neck. Truth to speak, he appeared the way Amos or Cousin George might look in a nightmarish dream.
Still, even with how he looked, I couldn't help feeling pity for him being kept chained in our loft with the scuttling mice. And without much light to see or air to breathe. It seemed to me that the Indian could very well wither to dust and die sitting up there day after day.
I thought about those desperate foxes and beaver chewing off their own feet to survive. It made me shiver to imagine.
“You think Pa will keep him up there very long?” I asked Laura.
“I surely do hope not,” Laura said, setting the frying pan back down on the hearth.
“How long?”
Laura sighed. “I don't know, Reb.”
As I stacked the plates on the breakfast table, I said, “It's rather sorrowful seeing that Indian the way he is, with the chains and such. Don't you think?”
“What?” Laura stopped and stared at me as if I was addle-headed.
I hurried on. “I meant to say, it's dreadful sad seeing that Indian and knowing what he did. To that trapper.”
“Yes,” Laura said sharply, turning back to her work. “It's a terrible thing.”
All day, I tried to turn the current of my mind to do more thinking about the Indian's terrible crime and less about the mournful sight I had seen upstairs. The Indian murdered a man. That's what I tried to tell my mind. And even though the murdered man was a trapper, and trappers were a miserable lot of men mostly, it was still an awful thing to do. Maybe the dead trapper had been a God-fearing and good-hearted man who didn't deserve to die just then. Maybe he had left behind ten children and a grieving wife. I tried hard to reason that the savage Indian deserved to be kept in our loft, chained to the floor. But it wasn't easy.
And the next morning when me and Laura went upstairs to fetch the wooden bowl we had left with the Indian, my mind grew even more tossed and turned. Because when I lifted up the empty bowl to carry it downstairs, I saw that there were six glass beads inside.
my little daughter
Yellow Wing
is fond of beads.
in her rabbit skin bag,
she carries
the tiny spirit berries.
nashké! nashké! she laughs.
look! look!
white blue greenred,
they catch the sun
and trickle through her small fingers
like drops of
rainbow water.
in the wooden bowl
left by Bird Eyes and
Tall Girl Who Follows,
i place
six tiny beads
from my moccasins.
four white. two blue.
the spirit berries
roll
back and forth,
back and forth.
a trade.
Seeing the beads in the center of our wooden bowl, I could not imagine how they had come to be there at first. For a moment, I thought they were little berries.
As I carried the bowl downstairs, I squinted at them, trying to imagine how it was possible. Where had berries, ripe or unripe, come from at the end of April? In Ohio? And how had they found their way into the bowl we had left upstairs with the Indian?
“What are you staring at?” Laura asked when we reached the bottom of the stairs.
On account of her bad eyes, I held the bowl higher. The glass beads rolled in tiny circles. “There's something inside the empty bowl,” I replied. “Beads, I think. The Indian left us a handful of little beads.”
“What?” Laura leaned closer.
“Ain't they pretty,” I said, rocking the bowl gently so the glass beads turned and circled inside.
Pa was fond of saying that the Indians were so simple, they would trade everything they owned for a paltry handful of worthless trade beads. I had heard him tell folks that he could likely buy the whole state of Ohio—nay, the whole country—from the Indians for nothing but whiskey and blue glass beads if he was given half the chance.
But I had never seen any real Indian beads before, and I had to admit they were beautiful-looking things and maybe I would have given away something of my own to have them, too.
“Why would the Indian put beads inside our bowl?” Laura asked, rolling them back and forth with her finger.
“To thank us for bringing him food,” I said. “Perhaps?”
Laura gave me a sharp look. “That's purely foolish nonsense, Reb.”
“We gonna keep them?” I asked carefully.
Laura pressed her lips together. “You want to keep something from a murderer? What would the Lord in heaven think about that, Rebecca Ann Carver?”
“I don't see what's wrong with saving them,” I answered, holding the beads in a small chink of sunlight.
“Ma would say it was wrong,” Laura insisted. “Now wouldn't she, if she was alive?”
“I don't see why. How's keeping them gonna cause any harm?” I argued. “They didn't murder no one. They're nothing but a few glass beads.”
I'm not sure why I wanted those beads so fiercely, but I did. We didn't have many beautiful things of our own. Laura had a plain gold ring that belonged to our Ma, and a fine ivory comb from the East that was never used, and a piece of lace for her wedding gown someday. I had a silver teaspoon from Ma and a too-small pair of silk gloves. That was all.
Laura looked at me and heaved a sigh. “All right.” She turned the bowl on its side and poured the six beads into my hand. “But don't you dare tell Pa what I done,” she said.
And now I could count six handsome beads from an Indian as mine.
each morning,
Bird Eyes and
Tall Girl Who Follows
bring me
a wooden bowl
filled with
salty meat,
bitter yellow fruits,
and coarse bread
made from
dirt and dust.
i do not
refuse
their food.
but i eat
slowly,
and i think of
deer meat sweet with maple sugar,
pumpkins boiled soft
in the fat of the bear,
and thick corn soup
at sunrise.
By the time another week had passed, our fears about being kilt by the Indian were hushed some. To my way of thinking, the Indian wouldn't give me and Laura gifts of beads and such if he was planning to bring any terrible harm on our heads. And if we were bringing him plates of food, perhaps he understood he needn't fear a thing from us either.
I began to go up to the loft by myself again to fetch the things we needed for our cooking. Me and Lorenzo were the only ones who could walk beneath the sloping roof without stooping over much. When I went up for onions or some apples for a pie, I would often give a sideways glance at where the Indian was sitting.
Seemed like I noticed something
different about him each time. Something I hadn't seen before. “Do you know the Indian has a big piece of copper dangling from his neck?” I would tell Laura. “It's in the shape of a half-moon. I imagine it was from an old kettle, don't you think?”
Another morning, I noticed that the feathers on his head were hawk feathers, on account of how they were brown and square-shaped. And I saw he had two silver disks, the size of shillings, hanging from his earlobes.
I think Laura was as filled with curiosity as I was about the Indian. Every time I carried the empty bowl or dinner plate downstairs, she would hurry to ask what he had left for us. Sometimes it was beads, and other times it was odd and peculiar things like red-dyed porcupine quills or small tin cones with tufts of horsehair stuck inside. Once he even left a tarnished buckle that looked exactly like a little silver sun.
Still, Laura kept on worrying that Pa would find out about the gifts. “I should never have let you keep the beads in the first place,” she fretted. “If Pa learns what I did, he will punish me so severely, I might as well go and shake hands with the devil himself. Our Ma would be downright ashamed with how I'm raising you. Downright ashamed.”
I told Laura she was fine at raising me.
But I didn't tell her that I had started to give small things to the Indian, too.
i do not know why
the Bird Eye girl
leaves the nest
of the grass-weaving bird
near my moccasins.
or why she brings
the white flower
that heals sore eyes,
or the new green leaves
from the mouse-ear tree,
or one smooth brown acorn.
but i am pleased
to see them.
May 1812
When Mercy was being a pesky little bother one morning, I took out some of the beads and such for her to see. We kept all of the things from Indian John hidden in the chest at the foot of our bed. They were tucked underneath the embroidered pillowcases that Laura had stitched for her married life—when she found someone for marrying, that is.
Carefully, I put everything we had been given on the bed. They made a peculiar, colorful line. Mercy crawled onto the bed to watch and Laura perched on the edge of our wooden chest. She had just returned from the Hawleys, who had finally recovered their senses after two weeks of the fever.
“Look at this little quill, Mercy.” I waggled one of the red-dyed ones in front of her. The quill reminded me of a long stem of meadow grass, with tiny white ridges where it appeared to have been bent and folded.
“Lemme see,” Mercy demanded, reaching for it with her small fingers.
“Don't you ruin it,” I said loudly, and Laura glared at me.
I picked up another quill and held it in my hand, studying it. “What do you suppose the Indians use them for?” I asked Laura.
My sister leaned closer. “Weaving, maybe?”
“Ain't porcupine quills round?” I rubbed the quill between my fingers. “All of these are flat.”
Laura shrugged. “Perhaps the Indians make them that way.”
“Or,” I said, dangling the quill in front of Mercy's sour face, “maybe this here quill came from a flat red porcupine. You ever seen one of those in the woods before, Mercy, huh? Walking around like this on his flat red feet.” I pretended to stomp across the floor while Mercy giggled and laughed.
And right at that moment—as I was stomping across the floor and we had beads and trinkets scattered all over our bedclothes—someone halloed outside our cabin door.
“Git the door, Reb,” Laura hissed, scooping the beads and quills into her hands. “Quick, while I put these away.”
I cast my eyes around the room to see what else was out of place. The table was a mess of bowls and dishes. The slop jar still sat by the door, waiting to be emptied. Where to set it? The only place I could see fit to hide it was in the corner next to our food cupboard. I tore off my apron and threw it over the jar for good measure.
Then I made a dash for the door before the visitor decided to set foot inside.
“Yes sir, begging your pardon,” I said, opening the door halfway.
Outside stood a fellow who had all the appearances of a trapper. Unshaven face that hadn't seen a washbasin in weeks. Clothes that were nothing but shreds and patches. A sour smell coming off of him like clabbered milk. The fellow grinned at me and I saw that four of his teeth were missing in the front, as if he had lost them in an ear of corn.
“A sixpence to see the savage you got,” he said, and held up a worn, old coin.
“What?” came flying out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“I says, miss,” the fellow repeated slowly, “a sixpence for showing me the savage you got inside yer house.” He waggled the coin in front of my eyes and grinned without his teeth. “Indian John.”
A peculiar feeling came over me. I don't know why, but the sight of that trapper standing there with a sixpence sent a streak of anger right through me. I didn't want to let some ugly old trapper in our house so he could make a gazingstock out of Indian John. Wouldn't want people paying to stare at me—that's what I thought.
“No, matter of fact, you can't see the Indian, sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice polite and proper. “He ain't taking visitors today.”
“What?”
Now it was the trapper's turn to look surprised. He narrowed his eyes and took a step closer to me, as if I was nothing but a little mosquito he was planning to swat out of the way. “Ain't Major Carver yer Pa?” he said sharply.
I nodded.
“Then you run and git him, girl. Stop vexing me—”
But at that moment, Laura appeared behind me. “Our Pa and the boys ain't here,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height. Even the trapper seemed startled, looking her up and down again.
“Perhaps, if you don't mind, you could come back later.” Laura wiped her hands on her apron, as if he had caught us in the middle of baking or cleaning.
“You Miz Carver, his wife?” the trapper said, turning his head to the side and spitting a stream of brown tobacco, half of which dribbled down his chin. He didn't seem in any real hurry to leave.
“Daughter,” Laura answered. “I'm the oldest Carver daughter. Our Ma's dead. May her soul rest in peace.” I knew that by saying this to the trapper, Laura meant to give him the idea that in the absence of Ma, she was the one taking charge.
“I ain't here to cause you two gals no trouble,” the trapper said, making his voice sweet as tree sap. “Just want to get a glimpse at that captive Indian.”
“We're in the middle of our baking,” Laura said.
“Ain't gonna stay for more than one half minute.”
Me and Laura didn't have any choice, seemed like, but to let him in. We couldn't stand in the way of a grown man. Not if Pa got word of it. So, the trapper scraped his boots on the stone beside the door and pushed his way right inside. I could see his eyes darting from one thing to the next, taking account of everything we had—the pewter on the table, our big food cupboard, the red-painted chest from the East that sat at the foot of Pa's bed—
“Indian's upstairs,” Laura said, trying to hurry him on his way.
It wasn't long after the trapper went up the narrow steps that I knew something was wrong. There was a thumping noise, as if a large stone had been dropped on the floor, and then came the sound of the trapper's raspy old laughter. A sickly feeling crawled right into my stomach.
I couldn't hear all the words the trapper was saying to Indian John, but the few I could catch were ugly enough. There was more raspy laughter and scraping and thumping on the floor above our heads, as if the trapper was tormenting poor Indian John, who was desperate to move.
What happened next took me by surprise, though. Laura ran to the hearth, picked up the big frying pan, and flew up the steps to the loft.
“Out of our house,” she hollered at the trapper in a voice that didn't even sound like
her own. It was loud and booming, as if she was shouting into a barrel. “Out of our house before I smash you to bits.”
And believe me, by the sound of her voice, there was no question that she would smash the trapper's head flat as a rattlesnake's if given half the chance. I expect that the trapper must have believed this, too, because he left the loft so fast, he missed half of the steps coming down.
While he was shooting past me and out the door, I noticed that he had something in his hand. It looked like maybe it was a twist of brown paper, but I didn't pay it any real notice. I just stood by the hearth, with my knuckles squeezed white, praying for the cabin door to close and for us to be rid of him.
After the trapper had gone, Laura came back down the stairs. She didn't even glance in my direction. All she said was, “May the Lord forgive me for defending the life of a murderer,” and she dropped the pan on the hearth with a loud clang that made me jump. “And may the Lord keep Pa from finding out what I done, too,” she added.
Then she picked up a lump of bread dough we had left on the table and began to knead it furiously, as if she was trying to squeeze the life out of it.
“Any harm come to him?” I said finally.
“To whom?” Laura answered.
“Indian John.”
Laura's hands stopped right in the middle of her work. “Don't you show even the smallest kindness or pity for that Indian, Rebecca Carver,” she said fiercely. “Or I will take all of the things that you've hidden in our chest—the quills, the beads, everything—and I will burn them to ashes this very minute.”
Laura lifted up the dough and thudded it back on the table, lifted and thudded—hard enough to send up clouds of flour. To my way of thinking, she wasn't making the smallest bit of sense. First she saved Indian John from the no-good trapper and then she scolded me for asking a trifling question.
“I only wanted to know,” I kept on.
With the way Laura's eyes looked daggers at me, I didn't dare to open my mouth again. I didn't dare to ask if she saw the trapper carrying something when he left the loft, or if she thought he had stolen something from us or from Indian John.
Crooked River Page 3