“Many years ago, mon père, who was a trapper and trader from Canada, used that river to trade with the Cherokee. His father before him was also a trapper. The Tsalagi resisted contact with the whites for many years, except for a few French traders they believed trustworthy. Back then the game was plentiful, and one could make a living from the land. It is no more; the bounty of the land has long been overused. As a young man, I accompanied my father on many of his trips here to the south. When I met Meggie on one of those trips—for me it was coup de foudre—love at first sight. We were married soon after. That was when I settled here.
“With strong ties of three generations, I have a deep regard for this Indian land. Now I cannot imagine living anywhere else. Meggie and Yonah’s bond to this land go back hundreds, perhaps even thousands of years. Giving this up will be tres difficult for Yonah, Little Squirrel.”
“Yeah, man, I do understand how difficult it’s gonna be. He and a whole heap of Cherokees are about to be put through a butt load of suffering and loss. I made some good friends in the short time I’ve been here, and it pisses me off to see them mistreated like this.”
“C’est la vie, mon ami. It is heartbreaking. I share your anger, but anger will do no good. The people will do what they will do.”
“Yeah, dude, I guess you’re right. But now, because of me, Yonah has gotta live like an outlaw. I hate to think what will happen if they catch the old dude, and it’s all my fault.”
Henri’s immense eyes widened. “Sottises, Little Squirrel. Nonsense, you are not to blame; he acted to save your life. Were you not willing to suffer abuse to protect him? What would you have him do? You do not understand Yonah very well if you believe he could stand impassive while a friend’s life is endangered!”
Sal acknowledged him with a grunt. He had been with Yonah long enough to know that what Henri said was true. He also knew that there would have been no reason for Yonah to shoot the man if he hadn’t allowed himself to be captured.
Henri sensed that Sal was still feeling guilty about Yonah, and the pain he was feeling from his beating was evident. In spite of Henri’s rough, mountain-man appearance, his heart was as big as the rest of him. He felt compassion for Sal, and wished there was something he could do to help him feel better. He suddenly brightened as a solution came to mind.
“Come with me, Little Squirrel. Between your look of pain, your blackened eyes, and your dour mood, you are not going to enjoy my little tour. I have just thought of something that may help you feel better.”
He led Sal past a stable and corral. Several horses nickered and ran to the fence when they saw Henri, who whispered soothingly in French to them as he passed. He continued walking toward a large storage shed, breaking into a French song. Sal’s French wasn’t good enough to make out all the words, but he could make out enough of the bawdry lyrics to realize Henri’s song wasn’t exactly Frere Jacques.
Henri pulled opened the shed door, continuing to sing and motioned for Sal to enter. They picked their way through, stepping over heaps of feed sacks and farm implements until they reached a dusty old cabinet buried behind a mishmash of items at the very back of the building. Henri began moving things away from the cabinet, slinging them to the tune of his song until he made enough room to open the creaky cabinet door. Great clouds of dust rose from his efforts, setting off a sneezing and coughing fit from Sal.
“Good god!” Sal coughed, waving the dust from his face. “What the heck are you up to, Goliath? You got the family heirlooms hidden in there or what?”
“Je suis désolé, mon petit ami,” he apologized. “No heirlooms; only this.” He held up a brown, dust-covered jug for Sal to see. “This was given to me by an old trader friend passing through long ago. It is what we call calvados. In this country they call it applejack. I have kept it here in case there was ever a, uh, medicinal need.”
He wiped the dust from the neck of the jug, pulled the cork, handed the jug to Sal and said, “A drink or two of this will help ease your pain.”
Applejack is produced by distilling hard cider. If done properly, the final product can be as strong as eighty-proof liquor. Henri’s calvados had aged while stored in the cabinet, increasing the alcohol content considerably.
Sal took a sniff of the open jug. It had the smell of strong liquor, but with a sweet, pleasant apple overtone. He figured Henri was right; a good, stiff drink would probably help ease his pain. He took a swig.
“Sweet suffering superman!” he whispered hoarsely. The calvados tasted more like pure grain alcohol than apples. The burning in his throat took his breath away and made his eyes water.
“Oh ho!” said Henri. “Maybe the drink has become too strong? I should have sampled it first.”
Sal handed the jug back to him. “Be my guest, dude,” he said, recovering slightly from the unexpected assault on his throat.
“Perhaps just a drop,” Henri said, accepting the jug and taking a long pull. “Mais oui, it has aged well.”
“Aged? I think it’s gone senile. You could remove paint with that stuff, man!”
“It is a taste one must grow accustomed to. I myself have all but given up strong alcohol, but I hoped a small imbibe might lessen your pain.”
Sal had to admit that his pain was beginning to dull as the warmth of the drink spread through his body. “You know, I think it might be helping a little after all.”
Henri grinned broadly and passed the jug back to Sal. “C’est grand! Perhaps a bit more, then?”
Sal took another drink, this time a little more tentatively, and found that the second swallow went down much more smoothly. He was able to detect the sweet undertone of apples that the beverage had retained. Sal seldom drank hard liquor, despite an outward show of the wild lifestyle he tended to present. He occasionally enjoyed a glass of wine with dinner or a cold beer on a hot day, eschewing drinking just for the sake of drinking. It wasn’t that he had anything against sensible drinking; he’d done plenty of partying when he was younger. More recently though, his career and other activities filled his life and he had gradually become estranged from the party crowd. It wasn’t really a conscious decision; just something that happened as he grew older.
“Not quite as rough the second time,” Sal said and passed the jug back. “Why do you keep it buried out here in the shed, Goliath? Hiding it from the missus?”
“Not so much of the hiding, Little Squirrel. The strong spirits have been most harmful to many of the Tsalagi people. To some of my French-Canadian friends, the wine and spirits are douceur de vivre and they could not imagine doing without it. For myself—prenez-le ou laissez-le—I can take it or leave it as you say,” he said. He took another swig, wiped his sleeve across his bearded mouth, and continued. “Some of the Cherokee seem to have something in them that makes them like it too much. Both Meggie and Yonah have seen many of their kinsmen’s lives ruined by the drink, and because of this they have developed strong feelings against any form of alcoholic drink. It is for this reason I do not keep it in the house; to respect their wishes. I think they would not approve even of medicinal use,” he said sheepishly, “so it may be wise to not speak of it to them.”
“Mum’s the word, big guy,” Sal winked. The third gulp began to deaden the ache in his back and replace it with a warm glow. “Hey, I wouldn’t want to disrespect them either, you know. I feel the way you do; I can take it or leave it. I’ve also seen folks whose lives have been devastated by drinking too. Back in Jersey, I had a bud who was killed in an accident while he was drunk, so I can understand why someone who had to put up with a family member with a drinking problem might have strong feelings against alcohol.”
Agreeing that they understood Yonah and Meggie’s feelings about alcoholic drink, they continued to pass the jug between them, certain that because they could not be seen, they were doing nothing offensive. Sal’s pain faded a little with each drink, and Henri’s social etiquette demanded he not let Sal drink alone.
“Say, Goliath,” said
Sal, slurring slightly, but feeling much better. “What was that tune you were singing on the way here? It was kind of catchy.”
“Tune? Oh, oui. It was Chevaliers de la Table Ronde. Just an old song we used to sing when good friends got together. I still remember most of the words.” He began to sing, his huge barrel-chest producing a rich baritone.
“Chevaliers de la table ronde, Goutons voir si le vin est bon. Goutons voir si le vin est bon. Goutons voir, oui oui oui. Goutons voir, non non non. Goutons voir si le vin est bon.”
Sal understood enough French to recognize that the song was about the Knights of the Round Table, but not much more than that. His pain had been significantly dulled by the calvados, and despite their conversation moments ago about alcoholic drink, the pair continued to pass the jug of applejack between them. The song seemed to have endless verses, and Henri sang them heartily. Between the buzz from the applejack and the hooking melody of the song, it wasn’t long before Sal joined in, singing the “oui, oui, oui,” and the “non, non, non” lines of every verse. The singing stopped abruptly when the door swung open and a man stepped into the shed.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est? Qui vive?” Henri whispered, then “John Carter!” he boomed. “Osiyo, mon ami. I did not hear you coming,” he said more timidly. Sal stood holding the jug of applejack, for the moment too startled to speak.
“Osiyo, Henri,” John replied. “I am not surprised you did not hear me. Such caterwauling! I whistled to announce my presence, but it was drowned out by the braying. I even watered and placed my horse in your corral and still you did not hear me.”
“Je suis désolé. I was giving the little Squirrel-man here a tour, and we were distracted by song.”
“I believe you two were more distracted by the jug Sal is holding. Is that the same jug you have been hiding out here for so many years? Osiyo, Sal Lolliman. What has happened to your face? Do not tell me Yonah has done this to you.”
“Yonah? No way, dude,” Sal replied, recovering from the shock of John’s sudden appearance. He hiccupped and handed the jug to Henri, who gently placed it back into the cabinet. “Good seeing you again, Squanto. It’s a long story, but among other things I was attacked this morning by some thieves who snuck up on me. I probably wouldn’t even be here if not for Yonah saving my butt.”
“Snuck up on you, you say. I would think that would make you want to be more vigilant rather than dulling your senses with applejack. Suppose I was another attacker? Both of you would have been caught unawares.”
Embarrassed by John’s admonishment, Sal and Henri offered their poor excuse that they were partaking of the applejack only as a pain reliever for Sal. John Carter snorted and made no further comment, but his expression made it clear that he did not find their explanation satisfactory. He was more concerned about their lack of vigilance than their partaking of drink.
“You are right, mon ami,” Henri conceded. “It has been a difficult day and we have yet to tell you all that has occurred. We have no good excuse for not being more watchful. Yonah and Meggie are at the cabin saying their farewells, and the situation calls for us to be on guard. We have been négligents.”
“Farewells?” John said. “What has taken place?”
Henri and Sal brought John up to date, beginning with the shooting on the river, and ending with the attack at Yonah’s cabin this morning. John followed the story intently, stone-faced as usual, until they got to the part about Yonah killing the white man. At this, John’s cool expression turned apprehensive.
“I have been dreading that something of this nature would happen. A killing even in self-defense will only add fuel to an already inflammatory state of affairs.”
“Yonah is planning to take a circuitous route to the western territory,” said Henri, “hoping to avoid retribution here. He believes he may be treated more fairly if he can delay his capture.”
John Carter rubbed his chin as he considered Yonah’s quandary. “I was on my way to Yonah’s place to bring him news of Guwaya. There may be an alternative for him to consider. I will go and speak to him now. You two should first take a walk to clear your heads of applejack, and then we will all have a sober discussion to make our plans. I will not mention the drinking to Yonah and Meggie.”
Henri nodded gratefully. John’s sudden appearance had already startled most of the intoxicating effects of the applejack from them. Nevertheless, he and Sal took the long river path while John headed directly to the cabin. By the time they completed their walk, Henri and Sal were quite clear-headed. At Henri’s cabin, they found John listening to Yonah retell his story. Apparently true to his word, John had not mentioned the applejack.
While they spoke, Meggie prepared an herb and willow potion for Sal. The pain relief from the applejack was short-lived, and now he had a headache in addition to his other aches. He hoped Meggie’s willow potion would prove to be more long-lasting than the applejack.
John proceeded to tell them of Guwaya’s decision to move his family to the caves. He expressed his concern about the plan, but admitted that the place was well hidden and well stocked, and that Guwaya had worked hard to prepare the cave for his family. He stopped short of suggesting that Yonah change his plans, merely planting the seed of the idea and letting it germinate. It didn’t take long to show signs of life.
Yonah scratched the back of his neck as he contemplated John Carter’s news. “Perhaps they would not mind if I joined them,” he said. “Guwaya has always been a good friend, and I may be of some use to him. It will be a long journey, and I am likely to be captured along the way, although no more likely than if I followed my original plan.”
“It will not be such a long journey on horseback, mon ami,” said Henri. “I will provide you with a horse. And one for the little Squirrel-man if he is also to accompany you.”
“You bet, Goliath. I’ve come this far with the old bear,” said Sal. “Can’t hardly desert him now.”
“Wado, brother-in-law. And to you, Squirrel-man; your company will be most welcome,” said Yonah.
“I am returning there as well,” said John, “So the three of us will ride together. I suggest we leave at first light. I might have suggested leaving immediately, but I am certain Meggie will not allow you to depart without being well-fed.” No one would object to a delay if it involved partaking in one of Meggie’s delicious meals.
“You are right, John Carter,” said Meggie. “I will not miss what may be my last chance to cook for my brother. You and he will need a good meal to travel on, and the little squirrel could also stand to be fattened up a bit.”
Chapter forty-four
Er, howdy, boys,” Tom said in his best southern drawl. He’d gotten plenty of chance to practice it when he first moved north. On more than one occasion he had been treated to a bad impersonation of Gomer Pyle by some bonehead wise-ass whose entire knowledge of the south came from watching re-runs of The Andy Griffith Show. It used to annoy him, but he learned that if he put on his own good ol’ boy act it baffled them; not knowing whether he was putting them on or not.
This time it was no joke. His life just might depend on how convincing he could sound to these two men; and whether they were gullible enough to swallow the king-sized helping of baloney he was about to feed them.
“Howdy, hell!” said the taller of the two young men, who was blocking Tom’s exit through Guwaya’s cabin door. Tom surmised that this man was the leader of the two. He had a slightly more intelligent look about him, though neither appeared to be Mensa candidates. The shorter man just stared at him, slack-jawed and dim-witted, but there was a wild meanness in his look that conveyed danger.
“I’ll ask you agin,” he said, moving closer to Tom, “who the hell are you and what the hell are you doin’ in here?”
“Give me a chance, boys!” Tom gave them a toothy gee-whiz grin. “That’s a helluva lot of hell fer me to git through all at once.” He stalled to steady his nerves and focus his racing mind. He already had his back-story prepared
, but had been hoping he wasn’t going to need it.
“Well, you best be gettin’ through it right quick like, afore I put somethin’ else through ya’,” he said, placing his hand on a pistol stuck in his belt.
“Easy now, fellas.” Tom leaned back and held up the open palm of his free hand. “No need to be gettin’ yourself all riled up.” He had weapons of his own; unfortunately both were muzzleloaders and not prepared to fire. He figured that was probably the case with the other man’s pistol, but he couldn’t be sure. He knew Samuel Colt was working on his patent for the revolver about this time, although he was pretty sure pre-made ammunition hadn’t become commonplace much before the time of the Civil War. Still, he wasn’t going to gamble his life upon it.
“Name’s Tom,” he said with a toothy grin. He offered his hand to them in a gesture of friendship. Neither of them took him up on the handshake. He withdrew his hand, looked at his palm with a shrug, and then wiped it on his shirt as if their refusal to shake was due to some nonexistent grunge.
“I was just out doin’ me some huntin’ an’ came across this here cabin. Thought I’d be neighborly and stop fer a visit. This here your place, boys? Sure is right homey.”
“Knock off the hogwash, cornball,” the taller man said. “You expect us to believe you came in here to be neighborly? We know what yer up to.”
Tom’s heart sank. Maybe these guys weren’t as stupid as they looked. He kept the disappointment out of his eyes and stuck with his act.
“Honest, fellas,” he said. “I sure as heck wasn’t up to nothin’. Jus’ hopin’ to make yer acquaintance. Maybe get a cup o’ coffee, that’s all.”
“Cup o’ coffee my hairy ass. Ya’ ain’t out here this far from nowhere lookin’ fer new friends. Ya’ know’d this here’s an injun cabin, and you be a-scavengin’ it. We be with the militia roundin’ up them critters an’ takin’ ‘em to the fort, so we git first dibs on everythin’ in here.”
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