After they pitched camp, Ben wandered off by himself and pulled a small green book out of his pocket, which he read intently until the light grew dim. Occasionally, he lowered the volume and gazed off into space, a crease appearing between his dark eyebrows. It was a habit he performed every evening, and Chance figured the book must be a Bible. His companion had once said that before the war he’d thought of becoming a preacher.
Chance could barely read himself, and never felt the need to learn. Almanacs were useful, true, but a real farmer didn’t need a book to tell when it was time to sow or when to reap. The sun, the feel of the air, and the look of the plants themselves told Chance all he needed to know. Finally, he cleared his throat loudly, but his companion read on, oblivious. Growing annoyed, the Iowan strode over and snatched the volume out of Ben’s hands.
“This ain’t no Bible,” he said, staring at it. Instead of a gold cross stamped across the front, the cover bore a group of strange markings that looked like prairie grass.
Ben reached for the book. “It’s poetry.”
“Poetry!” Chance snorted, but he handed it back, more confused than ever. He’d figured that if the book wasn’t scripture, it might at least give useful information like prices for grain or cures for colic. What use was poetry?
Ben Marlowe went back to reading, but eventually he returned to the fire, leaning his shoulders against his saddle and moodily looking into the flames, and Chance began to regret his rude outburst. He knew some humorous limericks, and even one or two real poems, like “The Old Oaken Bucket.” Chance had recited the latter at his father’s funeral, bringing all listeners to tears.
As if sensing his friend’s curiosity, Ben explained, “This book is called Leaves of Grass, by a fellow named Walt Whitman.” He opened it and showed Chance an engraving inside the front cover. It was a portrait of an ordinary-looking working man, who was wearing a loose-fitting shirt and broad-brimmed hat as if he were about to hoe a garden or chop wood. “Mr. Whitman was volunteering as a nurse at the military hospital in Washington, DC, where I was a patient. He gave me this book.”
“That’s him?” Chance’s eyebrows rose. “That bearded fellow in work clothes is a poet?”
Ben nodded. “After Mr. Whitman’s brother was injured in the war, he felt it his duty to help wounded soldiers. He’s a bit odd, but he’s the most honest man I’ve met.” He paused. “Except you, Chance. As a matter of fact, I told him about you.”
“You told that fellow about me?” Chance stared at the picture incredulously. “Why?”
“Mr. Whitman was fascinated by the fact that so many soldiers like you gave up their homes and previous occupations to help preserve the union. He’s writing another book of poetry all about them. It’s called Drum Taps.”
Chance peered at the small green volume again. “Hmm. Read me a few lines, would you?”
The other man opened to the first page and read aloud:
Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
Chance hid his disappointment. The poem was awful. It didn’t even rhyme. Each line was a different length, as if the poet couldn’t make up his mind to make them long or short.
Ben read a few more stanzas, then put away the book. The sun melted into the horizon, and the evening sky darkened to velvety aquamarine. Fireflies darted about like sparks from the fire. Suddenly he spoke. “I’m not going to Oregon.”
“Why not?”
Ben shrugged. “After three years fighting slavery, I’ve no mind to enter it myself.”
“Slavery? What do you mean?”
The other man spoke slowly, as if sorting his words. “We fought this war to set men free, yet now many of us are ready to go back and enslave ourselves, not with shackles and whips, perhaps, but to fulfill other people’s expectations.”
“Does this have anything to do with that book of poetry?” Chance asked with a flash of insight. Ben’s words were the same kind of crazy talk.
His companion folded his arms behind his head. “I suppose it does. Those poems are like my own thoughts, about the divine nature of the human spirit, the importance of free will, the need to love all mankind no matter their race or social position. The notion that we should be the sole masters of our fate. In my opinion, Whitman ranks with philosophers like Plato, Goethe, and Kant.”
The unfamiliar names sounded like a man spitting. “Is that so? What exactly does a phil … er … philosopher fellow do?”
“He thinks.”
“Thinks?”
Ben smiled. “About important questions of life.”
“Like how the crops are gonna grow next year? How to cure someone from the ague? Or how to tell if your girl is seeing another fellow behind your back?”
Ben shook his head. “Questions about the meaning of life, the nature of right and wrong, the origin of the universe, of law, of men’s relationship to each other, and of God’s relationship to man.”
Chance knew his companion must be joking, although Ben seemed perfectly serious. “Heck, I can tell you that. The meaning of life is to work hard, raise a passel of kids, and stay out of trouble. Right and wrong means no stealing or murder, and leave your neighbor’s wife alone.” He paused. “You really had to go to college to learn that?”
“Oh, they don’t teach those kind of answers at college.” Ben smiled at Chance. “I know Walt Whitman would have liked you. You’re just the kind of person he writes about in his poems. Honest, plainspoken, hardworking. The Common Man.”
“Common, huh?” Chance growled.
Ben bowed his head in apology. “My mistake. Any Iowa farmer who’d give up cussing because he gave his word is anything but common.”
Slightly mollified, Chance reached for the last biscuit and popped it in his mouth. “So if you didn’t learn anything useful at college, what did you learn from this Whitman fellow?”
“To live life to its fullest. To love humanity without getting entangled in anyone else’s expectations.” Ben began to look moody again. “If only it were that easy. By contrast, war seems simple.”
Chance wondered what Ben Marlowe meant. He liked the New Yorker, even admired him, but, Chance thought, glancing over at the other man’s shadowed features, he would never understand the fellow.
The closer Ben and Chance got to Baker’s Crossing, the harder it was for Chance to resist urging Sally to a gallop. He could hardly wait to pick up the traces of his old life, although regret tempered excitement. Despite their different outlooks on life, he had become good friends with Benjamin Marlowe and would miss the New Yorker’s company, even their strange conversations. The former army captain was adamant about moving on west, however. He even refused to stop in Baker’s Crossing and meet Chance’s family.
“Why not stay a spell and rest up?” Chance blinked at him in disbelief. “You never tasted anything worth eating till you’ve eaten my ma’s corn pones and gooseberry pie.”
“I’d be honored to meet your family. It’s just that I’ve been thinking—”
“You think too much. That’s your trouble.”
Ben chuckled. “Maybe so, but the truth is I want to start the rest of my journey without encumbrances.”
Encumbrances? Chance sourly thought that his friend used too many fancy words. What was the use of talking if no one could make out what the fellow meant?
“It may sound silly,” Ben admitted as if reading Chance’s thoughts, “but what if I like River Bend as much as you do? I might settle down there, and then I’d never see everything else there is to see in the country. Walt Whitman warned against that in one of his poems.”
“I’m starting to dislike this Whitman fellow,” Chance mumbled, and Ben laughed again.
On the last night of their journey, Chance wrenched a bite of meat with his strong teeth, enjoying his full belly and the fire’s crackle, and thinking about Betty waiting for him less
than a day’s ride away. A couple of jack rabbits he’d shot earlier that day were roasting to juicy perfection over the fire and would make a satisfying addition to their usual meal of beans and biscuits. Suddenly, Ben sat upright, staring at a small creature, which had hopped out of a hole nearby. Hardly bigger than a squirrel, it stood upright and stared at them with bright black eyes, the tip of its nose quivering.
“Well, bless my soul,” he exclaimed. “That must be a prairie dog!”
“You’ll see plenty more of those when you keep heading west.” Chance was amused at his friend’s obvious inexperience. It felt good to teach the former Harvard student a thing or two. “Watch out for their towns. The tunnels can spread for miles, and your horse could break a leg, easy.”
“Clever little fellow,” Ben murmured. He held out a morsel of biscuit, and the small creature crept from its home and walked up, sniffing. “Ha! Friendly as can be.” Ben fed it the crumb. “I might take him along with me. He’ll fit right in my pocket.” Ben reached for the prairie dog, which promptly sank its teeth into his finger. Ben yelled like a Southern rebel and scrambled to his feet. Stubbornly, the animal clung on until, with an oath, Ben managed to flip it away.
Chance chortled as Ben wrapped his bleeding finger in a handkerchief, but when the cloth grew red, he stopped. “Well, now, that fellow really got you. I was about to warn you those little tykes know how to bite.”
“You might have told me sooner,” Ben grumbled.
The horses shuffled restively by their pickets, and the roan mare whickered nervously. Both men forgot the groundhog. The burly Iowan put his hand to his holster, halfway to his feet, when Ben reached out his unbitten hand to stop him.
The Indian was forty feet away, sitting astride an exhausted-looking pinto. One arm was raised palm outward in the sign for peace. Chance’s hand hovered near his pistol, although he had to admit the newcomer didn’t look threatening. With an Indian, though, you never knew.
The stranger wore the tattered remains of white man’s clothing over greasy buckskin trousers: an old flannel shirt with the elbows missing, and a wide-brimmed slouch hat with a broken crown, ornamented by a single drooping feather. Black hair straggled over his shoulders. Chance could see no weapons, just an ancient beaded parflèche strung across the pony’s back. He knew arrows might be pointing from behind screening bushes, although if other red men were nearby, he and his companion would likely be dead by now.
Ben slowly stood up and patted his belly. He tilted his head at the fire. “Food.” It was an obvious invitation.
Chance glared, but it was too late to object. The Indian dismounted and settled his bony legs next to the campfire, while Ben pushed the remains of the beans toward him. He seemed as fascinated by the stranger as he had been by the prairie dog, and not at all worried.
The Indian devoured the food with relish and licked his fingers. His face had a pinched look to it as if he hadn’t eaten in a long time. Perhaps that was why he had dared to enter the white man’s camp alone.
Ben glanced at Chance across the fire, his eyes dancing as if this was one of the great “adventures” he’d been looking forward to. Chance, however, was no dreamer with crazy notions of noble savages. He knew this fellow might want nothing more than a hot meal now, but might very well come back and slash their throats later. He remembered stories of how his aunt had been scalped by Pawnees in Kansas, seventeen years ago. You couldn’t trust a redskin any farther than you could throw one, not even a starving one. Especially a starving one.
The red man was sizing Chance up as well. A wry expression in the hooded eyes indicated he knew what the burly farmer was thinking. The newcomer said nothing, however, focusing his attention back on the food. Chance transferred his anger to his friend. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.
“I heard it’s better to feed the natives than to fight them.” Ben’s tone was mild.
“We’ll see how you feel about that when this fellow comes back later with his friends!”
“He could have killed us already,” Ben pointed out. “Who knows how long he was watching us before we even knew he was there?” He turned back toward their uninvited guest and tried to communicate with a mixture of English words and improvised sign language.
Chance thought his friend’s efforts looked ridiculous. The Indian showed little interest as he used the remaining biscuits to sop up the gravy. If he were alone, Chance thought with growing resentment, he’d shoo away the interloper with the Colt .45 he’d bought from the Southern rebel, nestled in the holster on his hip. But his partner gave him no choice but to go along with this foolishness.
Surprisingly, Ben managed to elicit a few words from the Indian, who, it turned out, spoke some English. Soon thereafter, the two were conversing as awkwardly as a Conestoga wagon lurching on mismatched wheels. The Indian scraped his plate clean and took out a clay pipe, showing no inclination to leave. Apparently he expected to share their campfire all night.
Chance pulled up his blanket, keeping his hand on his revolver as the other two continued their mix of talking and gestures. He’d never have taken Ben for an Indian lover, he thought with irritation. If the New Yorker knew anything of plains life, he’d never put them in this predicament.
Through slitted eyelids he peered at the other men. The flickering firelight turned the planes of Ben’s face crimson like war paint. The second silhouette was a mirror image except for its long braids. Scowling, Chance rolled over and threw the blanket over his head. He vowed to stay awake all night, pistol at the ready. He and Ben would be lucky to be alive in the morning.
Chapter Eleven
Annabelle
Cascade Mountains, Oregon
Spring, 1861
When the snow melted that first year in the valley, Annabelle and Richard emerged from the lodge to hunt for roots and berries. They’d built a lean-to for Millie, whose milk had been a blessing before it finally dried up, helping to get the children through the winter. They couldn’t bring themselves to slaughter her for meat because the cow was practically part of the family, a comforting reminder of the old days, and Annabelle had been able to gather enough dried grass from under the snow to keep her alive.
Now, near the river, they found a clump of small, hard elderberries. The berries were not quite ripe, but Richard gorged himself in spite of her warnings and soon after he went behind a bush, emerging minutes later looking pale. Annabelle, more careful, picked only the darkest berries while trying to ignore her own hunger pangs.
After their hunger ebbed slightly, they turned their attention to clearing land to plant seeds so they would have enough to eat for the coming year.
“I wish we hadn’t lost the oxen,” Annabelle said, although she knew it was no use regretting what couldn’t be changed. They had searched and searched, but the animals had never turned up. At least the chickens had survived, the ones that had wandered back after the bandits had set them free. Without the chickens and their eggs, she knew that Richard’s and her situation would have been far worse.
“Why not use Millie to pull the plow?” Richard asked.
“A dairy cow?” Annabelle asked incredulously. She had never heard of anyone using a cow to pull a plow. “Why, Millie wouldn’t even fit in the yoke.”
“She’s stronger than us, and we could find a way to make the yoke fit. It’s been months since Millie’s given milk, anyway.”
Annabelle eyed Millie. The small brown-and-white cow was less powerful than their big oxen had been, but Richard was right. The only other option was to pull the plow themselves. “I suppose we can try.”
The youngsters had trouble convincing Millie to pull the plow even after they’d figured out a way to attach the yoke to her slighter build, and even then, it seemed the valley floor consisted more of rocks than soil. However, at last they readied a small field and sowed corn and potatoes from the stores they’d saved during the winter. Soon, small tender shoots began to peek out of the earth, and Annabelle and
Richard could at last turn their attention toward building a cabin.
Annabelle raised the heavy axe and swung. The blade sliced into the trunk of the pine tree she’d selected, but after what seemed hours of chopping, the axe only penetrated a few inches. Her enthusiasm dimmed. Building a cabin would be harder than she’d thought.
Biting her lip, Annabelle redoubled her efforts until her back and shoulders ached and blisters formed on her palms. Dropping the axe, she sank to the ground.
Richard stepped forward and picked up the heavy axe, whose handle was nearly as tall as he was.
“It’s no use.” Annabelle’s shoulders drooped. “Neither of us is strong enough.”
Instead of answering, her brother hefted the axe with both arms and aimed it in the direction of the tree. The blow bounced off the bark with a high-pitched ringing sound, causing him to stagger backward.
“I told you, it’s hopeless, Richard. I guess we’ll just have to make do living in the beaver dam.”
Instead of answering, Richard jutted his chin. Raising the axe, he struck again, and again, until eventually he found a sort of rough rhythm. The sharp blade began to bite into the firm wood. Nursing her sore hands, Annabelle watched skeptically at first, impressed with his persistence. Soon the axe spat out small white chips as regularly as a piston, and the V began to deepen.
When Richard could chop no more, Annabelle stood up and took the axe. Her blisters burst as she chopped the wood, and new ones formed over them, but she wrapped her hands in rags and kept on.
Except for a few breaks to drink from the creek and dash cold water over their sweating faces, they worked in tandem until only a thin piece of trunk held the tree upright. Then, they heard an encouraging creaking noise, and the entire tree shivered. At first, nothing happened. Then, the uppermost branches seemed to shake a little, like a bird fluffing its wings. Slowly, the tree leaned backward and, with gathering speed, it toppled and crashed, leaving a ragged stump sticking out of the ground.
Chance's Bluff Page 6