Mulatto nudged Bodin. ‘If you were not seeing this too, I would think my eyes play tricks on me.’
‘There are stupid people, and then there are stupid people,’ Bodin whispered, a vicious grin showing his delight. ‘Stay put. I’ll test the waters.’
‘Want me to get the others?’
‘There are only three of them, and one a female. If I can’t do it by my lonesome, I should take up the plow or become a clerk.’ Slowly rising, Bodin cradled his rifle in the crook of his elbow, and adopting as friendly a smile as he knew how, he advanced, hollering, ‘Hallo, the camp!’
Instantly, the young men rose with rifles in their hands, and the young woman dashed around the fire to stand behind them.
‘Who’s there?’ the taller man demanded. ‘Who is that?’
‘Don’t shoot, hoss!’ Bodin yelled good-naturedly. ‘I didn’t mean to spook you. I’m harmless.’
‘A white man, by God!’ declared the other young man, whose hair was the same color as the woman’s.
‘White clean through,’ Bodin said. ‘If it’s red heathens you are afraid of, I haven’t struck sign of any in a coon’s age.’
‘Come closer,’ the tall man said. He had an outthrust chin and a cocky manner. ‘Let us have a look at you.’
‘Look all you want,’ Bodin responded, his smile still in place. ‘It surprised me considerable, finding you folks so far from any of the trails.’
‘We’re on our way to Texas,’ the tall pilgrim revealed. ‘We found this spot a couple of days ago and decided to let our animals rest a spell.’
‘Texas?’ Bodin repeated. ‘You’ve missed it by about a thousand miles. Most folks head southwest from Missouri.’
The tall man laughed. ‘No, you don’t understand. We were on our way to Oregon Country and got as far as South Pass when we changed our minds.’
‘You don’t say.’
Nodding, the tall man said, ‘It was my Abigail’s doing. She has kin in Texas, and it was her wish all along to go there instead of Oregon.’ He shrugged. ‘I finally gave in. And before you say anything—yes, I know it would be smarter to stick to the main trail, but we wanted to strike off on our own.’
‘You did, anyway,’ Abigail said.
The husband lowered his rifle and held out a hand. ‘Harold Stonebury. This other gent is Chester Morton, Abby’s brother.’
‘I am right pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Bodin said sincerely. ‘And may I say how much I admire your grit?’
Harold smugly smiled at his wife. ‘See, dear? Not everyone is as skittish as you.’
Abigail folded her arms. ‘I still say we should have signed on with other wagons and been led by a pilot.’
‘Why spend money we don’t need to?’ Harold rebutted. ‘What does a pilot do that I can’t?’
‘That coffee sure smells good,’ Bodin said.
Harold gestured. ‘Where are our manners? Have a seat, why don’t you, and tell us who you are and what you’re doing out here.’
‘My handle is Rafer Bodin. I hail from Kentucky. The past five years, or thereabouts, I’ve lived in Arkansas. Now I’m on my way to the Rockies, where I expect to spend a good long while.’ Bodin leaned his rifle against his leg and accepted a tin cup from Abigail. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’
‘You’re traveling by your lonesome?’ Chester Morton was amazed. ‘Aren’t you the least bit worried about redskins? Or the white renegades we heard tell so much about?’
Bodin patted his rifle. ‘So long as I have this, I’m not worried. Besides, most Injuns leave us be if we leave them be. As for the renegades, you three don’t strike me as cutthroats.’
Chester chortled. ‘You are a caution, mister. I wasn’t talking about us. They say that bands of white killers roam these wilds, slaying who they will.’
‘They said the same about Arkansas,’ Bodin noted, ‘but here I am, still breathing.’ The wagon, he noted, was laden with furniture and other items for their new homestead. The mules were in their prime, the horse a fine sorrel.
‘Folks do exaggerate, don’t they?’ Harold said. ‘I always thought it couldn’t be as bad out here as most everyone claimed. To listen to some people, a body couldn’t trust another living soul.’
‘The hell of it is,’ Bodin said, setting down the tin cup and drawing both of his flintlocks, ‘you can’t.’ He cocked the pistol in his right hand and shot Harold Stonebury in the center of the forehead. The heavy-caliber ball burst out the rear of Harold’s cranium, spraying hair and bone and blood all over Abigail, who screamed. Chester gaped at his dead brother-in-law, then at his screaming sister, and grabbed for his rifle. But by then Bodin had cocked his other flintlock, and he shot Chester in the temple.
Mandingo came running out of the brush and grinned at the slaughter. ‘You didn’t save any for me.’
‘There’s still her,’ Bodin said, wagging a pistol at Abigail. ‘But not until we’ve had our fun, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Mandingo echoed.
Abigail’s hands were pressed to her throat, and her eyes were as wide as walnuts. ‘Dear Lord, no!’ she mewed, and turned to flee.
Mandingo was on her before she took two steps. The thud of his rifle butt slamming against her head was quite loud. But he only hit her hard enough to stun her. Standing over her folded form, he turned as Graf and Teak came crashing into the clearing.
‘I’ll be switched!’ Teak exclaimed. ‘A wagon and a horse and a female, to boot. We must be living right.’
‘You can take turns with the woman tonight,’ Bodin said. ‘We leave in the morning.’
Graf licked his thick lips and hitched at his wide belt. ‘I almost feel sorry for any homesteaders we run across. They’ll end up the same as these.’
‘That they will,’ Rafer Bodin said. ‘There are two kinds of people in this world: sheep and wolves. And we are not sheep.’
One
Evelyn King did not understand it.
She did not understand how the world had changed.
It used to be, she woke up every morning, ate breakfast, puttered around doing her chores, and then either helped her mother sew or knit or cure hides, or went for long strolls along the lake or in the woods. Day in and day out, it was always the same—always perfectly ordinary.
Evelyn liked the lake and the woods, and especially the flowers. She liked them in the same way she liked a vivid sunset. She was grateful to live where she did, deep in the heart of the Rockies. She admired the splendor around her. If she were asked to describe it in one word, that word would be pretty.
Then a strange thing happened.
The world became prettier.
Evelyn could not say exactly when she first noticed the change. Maybe it was the morning she and Dega had watched the sun rise, and never in the almost seventeen years of her existence had a sunrise been so spectacular. Maybe it was the afternoon she and Dega had been up in a high-country meadow, picking columbines and other flowers, and she breathed deep of their fragrance and stretched her arms to the heavens, and never, ever had she felt so alive. Or maybe it had been the night she and Dega stood under the stars, and she was stirred to the depths of her soul by their sparkling brilliance and sheer numbers.
No, Evelyn could not understand the change. It mystified her. It perplexed her. One day the world was perfectly ordinary, and the next it was so very special.
That had been a month ago.
The caw of a raven woke Evelyn, and she lay still in the predawn dark, warm and cozy under the heavy quilt her mother had made. That high up in the mountains, she used the quilt nearly all year long. Nights, even in summer, were brisk, thanks to the wind that howled down off the glacier overlooking their hidden valley deep in the Rockies.
The raven was cawing up a storm.
Evelyn never much liked ravens. They were too noisy, for one thing. For another, once she’d heard a ruckus in a pine and looked up to see a raven raiding the nest of a pair of warblers. The raven was not after the e
ggs; it was after the hatchlings. As she stared in horror, it had torn the newly hatched young to bits with its beak and gobbled the bits while the frantic parents flew about the nest in despair. But there was nothing they could do. The raven was many times their size. Ever since, Evelyn would as soon shoot a raven as look at it.
Normally when she heard one, she frowned, remembering the poor warblers. But on this particular morning she didn’t mind. She had a lot to do and wanted to get up early. The raven had done her a favor.
Evelyn slid out of bed with the quilt wrapped around her and pattered to the doorway. She was the first up. Shuffling to the fireplace, she jabbed at the charred embers with the poker until she uncovered a few that glowed red. She added kindling and soon flames flared. She had been tending the fire for so many years, she could kindle it blindfolded. Firewood was stacked next to the fireplace. She picked several logs and set them in.
Evelyn went to the counter by the window and checked the water bucket. It was empty. One of her chores was to fill it each night before she went to bed, but she was prone to forget. No matter, she thought, and threw the bolt on the front door. Leaving it open, she shuffled toward the lake. Her parents’ cabin, like that of her brother and his wife, and that of her father’s best friend and his wife, was situated along the shore.
Humming softly, Evelyn was halfway to the water’s edge when a guttural grunt brought her to a halt. She glanced to her right and stiffened. Standing out against the backdrop of stars was a large four-legged creature. Larger than a mountain lion but not quite as large as a mountain buffalo, it did not have antlers. A bear, Evelyn guessed. But whether it was a black bear or a grizzly, she could not tell. She hoped it was the former. Black bears usually ran from people. Grizzlies tended to regard humans as meals.
Evelyn realized she had forgotten her rifle and pistols. Her father would be mad if he found out. If he had told her once, he had told her a million times: never venture outdoors without a weapon. ‘A mistake like that can cost you your life,’ he repeatedly cautioned.
The grunt was repeated. The creature sniffed noisily, then took several stiff-legged steps toward her. Evelyn tensed to flee. She could not outrun a bear, but she would try to make it inside. If the bear did not charge, if it was more curious than hungry, she might make it. If, if, if, Evelyn thought, and was on the verge of whirling when the creature wheeled and trotted toward the forest. She saw its silhouette clearly now, and giggled at her silliness. Of course it did not have antlers. It was a cow elk. Five feet at the shoulders and weighing between six and seven hundred pounds, cow elk were huge, but they posed no threat.
The underbrush crackling, it vanished into the gloom.
Evelyn walked to the water’s edge but did not dip the bucket in. Instead, she followed the shore for another thirty feet, to where a stream fed into the lake. A stream with water so clear and cold and delicious, she had never had any water like it. Her father said it was runoff from the glacier. Another stream, several hundred feet further, did not have the glacier as its source, and the water tasted different. Good, yes, but not as tasty.
Evelyn dipped the bucket in with one hand but had to pull it out with both. When full, it was heavy. She made for the cabin, doing her best not to slosh water over the brim.
She gazed to the north. Her brother’s cabin across the lake was still dark. So was Shakespeare McNair’s, to the east. McNair had taught her father practically everything he knew about wood-lore and survival, and the two were fast friends. She had long been of the opinion that they were more than that, that they were more like a father and son.
Well beyond McNair’s cabin, along the edge of the lake, grew ancient forest. The trees were tall and big around; her mother said they had been there for hundreds of years. At the moment they were mired in the ink of night. It prevented Evelyn from seeing the lodge that stood amid them. She sighed in disappointment but was not aware that she sighed, and moments later she closed the cabin door behind her. She threw the bolt and carried the bucket to the counter.
Remembering the fire, Evelyn crossed to the fireplace. The logs had caught and were burning nicely.
Evelyn returned to the counter and took down the flour and a measuring cup. From under the counter she produced a pan. She was as quiet as she could be, but she could not help making a little noise.
‘I must be dreaming.’
The woman who stood in the doorway of the other bedroom, shrugging into a robe, gazed at Evelyn in disbelief. Long black hair flowed past her slender shoulders. The nightgown she wore under the robe had been bought for her by her husband. The blue beads that decorated it were her touch.
‘You’re hilarious, Ma,’ Evelyn said. ‘Keep at it and you’ll be as funny as Zach.’ Her brother had a penchant for slinging verbal darts at her.
‘The fire is lit, you have fetched water, you are making breakfast,’ Winona King recited, amazed. ‘Yes, I am definitely dreaming.’ Her English was impeccable. Unlike her husband, who wrestled with new tongues, Winona was, as Nate liked to say, ‘a natural-born linguist.’
Evelyn began pouring the flour into the measuring cup. ‘You make it sound like I never do anything around here.’
‘You must admit, Daughter,’ Winona said, ‘that you have never been fond of doing chores.’
‘Who is?’ Evelyn rejoined. ‘You can’t tell me that you like all the sewing and mending and cleaning and whatnot you do.’
‘It has to be done,’ Winona said. ‘The fact that I do it out of love for all of you makes it bearable.’
‘I don’t see how,’ Evelyn said. ‘Love or not, drudgery is still drudgery.’ She prepared hotcakes as she talked. ‘It seems to me the men have the best of it. While they’re off hunting and having fun, we women sweep and scrub and sew and cook.’
‘Fun?’ Winona said. ‘When they might run into a grizzly or a war party at any time? When they stand to lose a lot more than we who stay home cooking and sewing?’
‘I still don’t think it’s fair.’
Winona came across the room and opened a drawer to take out silverware. ‘I imagine you will change your mind once you have a husband of your own.’
‘If I ever do,’ Evelyn said. ‘I’m too young yet to think about tying myself to a man.’
A smile curled Winona’s lips, but she did not say anything.
‘To be honest, I may never marry,’ Evelyn asserted. ‘I like my freedom. I like being able to do what I want when I want. And I hate scrubbing floors as much as I hate anything.’
‘Is Dega aware of your feelings?’ Winona said.
Evelyn paused in the act of stirring. Degamawaku had become her best friend in all the world. His family lived in the lodge at the end of the lake. They were from east of the Mississippi River, and had been forced to flee when whites destroyed their village and wiped out their people. ‘What does he have to do with it?’
‘You have been spending a lot of time in his company,’ Winona noted.
‘Oh, please, Ma,’ Evelyn said, and laughed. ‘Dega is my friend. Nothing more. He and I like to do things together. Don’t make it out to be something it isn’t.’
‘I would never do that, Daughter,’ Winona said, turning away so Evelyn would not see her grin.
‘As a matter of fact, he is coming over here in a bit,’ Evelyn revealed. ‘We’re going riding.’
‘This early?’
‘The sun will be up by the time we leave,’ Evelyn said. ‘I invited him to breakfast first.’
‘Oh my,’ Winona said.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. But if we are having a guest, I should get dressed. And let your father know so he can join us.’
Evelyn set down the pan. ‘I was sort of hoping he and I could eat alone. We won’t take long. Then you and Pa can have your own breakfast.’
Winona arched an eyebrow. ‘When were you planning to tell me? When he knocked on the door?’
‘Sorry, Ma,’ Evelyn said. ‘I should have mentioned it last night,
but I plumb forgot.’ She looked down at herself. ‘I’ve got to hurry. I need to get dressed and fetch eggs from the chicken coop and cook the meal.’
‘Very well, daughter,’ Winona said. ‘Your father and I will honor your request. We will wait for Dega and you to leave before we come out.’
Evelyn beamed and went up and gave her mother a hug. ‘I knew I could count on you, but I wasn’t so sure about Pa.’
‘Your father loves you as dearly as I do,’ Winona remarked as she walked to the bedroom she shared with her mate. ‘He will not mind.’ Entering, she closed the door but left it open a crack in case she should want to peek out. Soft snoring issued from the bed. She waited a bit for her eyes to adjust, then stretched out on her side. ‘Husband,’ she whispered.
Nate King did not stir.
‘Grizzly Killer,’ Winona tried again, using the name by which her people, the Shoshones, knew him.
Nate was on his stomach. He was so big he took up more than half the bed, one arm hanging over the edge to the floor. Slowing raising his head, he looked about them at the dark. ‘Morning already?’
‘No,’ Winona said. ‘The sun will not rise for half an hour yet.’
‘Then why did you wake me?’ Nate asked. ‘Are the Blackfeet attacking?’
‘No.’
‘Did a mountain lion get at the horses?’
‘No.’
‘Did a coyote raid the chicken coop?’
‘No.’
By then Nate was propped on his elbow and blinking in confusion. ‘Then what’s so blamed important?’ He suddenly gave a start as if struck by an idea. His teeth flashed in the gloom and he reached for her.
‘Not that, either,’ Winona said, and swatted his hand.
‘Then what?’
‘Our daughter is in love.’
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