River Bend Page 7

  He took deep, measured gulps of sea air into his lungs, filling his body and mind with its salty freshness, hoping to erase the memories of Mrs. Strong for the moment. He surveyed his surroundings—clouds scudding off to the west and nothing but sun on the horizon. His crew performed before his eyes like a perfectly-tuned precision instrument. Smiling, he went below deck to check on his goods.

  Later, Jake stretched out on his captain’s bed with his large, calloused hands clasped behind his head, and the familiar vision of the green-eyed vixen appeared. He rose to a sitting position and lashed out in anger.

  “Why are you such a jackass, Jake? She’s probably back east now and more than likely married again—this time to some dapper-dressed, rich merchant with soft, lily-white skin. Wears a bowler when he gets out in the sun and doesn’t know what a callous looks like.”

  He paused in his solitary dialogue, realizing he had partially described his half-brother, Stephen. Although they were business partners in the trading post, Jake would never again call him brother. They were only half-brothers anyway. Stephen’s mother died in childbirth, and Jake was born when their father married again. As children, Stephen was praised superior in all things and bore the status of a favored first son.

  In their teens, Jake could outshoot, outride, outwork, and outdo Stephen in almost everything, yet he always felt inferior. But not anymore. As adults, they had formed a partnership in the trading post, but each had other interests, Stephen having invested in slaves and land while Jake succeeded in his own trading and shipping business. But now, Jake thought he had the upper hand due to the admiration and loyalty of all the trappers. That was a wealth greater than money, land, and slaves. Jake also had high self-esteem, a commodity he believed Stephen coveted.

  All of a sudden, Jake stood and slammed his fist down on the captain’s desk, scattering the writing plumes and almost smashing it into pieces. “I wonder,” he said, his long strides taking him immediately to the cabin door. He jerked it open and roared, “Bring me that stowaway.”

  The crew stared at one another, no doubt wondering what had come over their captain. Trader Jake expected and received hard work from his men but seldom displayed such a black mood. Three men scurried toward the aft deck, yelling the slave’s name. “Absalom!”

  Shaking with fear, Absalom tapped on the open door of the captain’s quarters. His black eyes shone like wet puddles surrounded by white saucers, framed by his smooth, ebony cheeks.

  Jake looked into the young slave’s terrified face and spoke in a soft tone to put him at ease. “It’s all right, boy, you’re not in trouble. Just relax and answer my questions.”

  “Yas, suh,” Absalom said, panting after his run to answer the captain’s summons.

  Jake hesitated for the boy to catch his breath and his fear to recede, although he remained tense. “Your name, son?”

  “Absalom, suh.”

  “You were the one who brought Mr. Strong to the doctor?”

  “Yas, suh.”

  Jake knew the answers, having scolded Absalom when they found him on the riverboat, hiding under a bale of bearskins. They were already a half-day down the river before they discovered him, too far downstream to take him back. The boy would never have made it overland without getting lost or winding up as a scalp on some Indian’s lance pole. Jake allowed Absalom to work for his keep until they reached the seacoast. By then, the slave had proven to be an asset to the crew so Jake allowed him to sail with them. When they completed the sea voyage, he planned to return Absalom to his master.

  Jake smoothed his heavy beard and studied the boy. “Absalom, how well do you know Stephen Owens?”

  “He’s ma masta, suh.” Absalom snapped to attention.

  Jake smiled. “Relax, boy. Does your master treat you well?”

  “Yas, suh.”

  “Does he starve you? Or beat you?”

  Absalom answered without reservation. “No, suh.” Then, a frown crossed his brow.

  “Will he beat you when I return you to him?”

  “Yas, suh,” Absalom answered, scraping his calloused, bare feet on the plank floor. “We all knows not to run away.”

  “Then why,” Jake asked, “did you take such a chance? Why did you stow away on my vessel?”

  Chapter Nine

  Trader Jake stood with muscles tense, his gun pointed toward a noise in the thick timber, the dense fog hanging too low to see more than twenty feet. He had heard the call of a dove and answered with two hoots of an owl.

  The dove called twice more.

  Jake relaxed, turned his back to the timber, and called over his shoulder. “Come on in, you rascal.” He continued his attempts to start a fire with wet limbs he had gathered.

  When The Eagle Speaks appeared out of the viscous gray and unceremoniously dropped his burden of dry logs on the non-existent flame. He hunched down beside Jake and watched in quiet fascination as tufts of dry grass ignited and caught the dry bark of the logs.

  When the welcome flames began to warm their knees, the two men stood, stretching out their long, muscular legs. They turned to look at each other and watched the crinkling of skin around each other’s eyes as slow grins appeared.

  “It’s good to see you, When The Eagle Speaks.” Jake extended his right arm and shook hands with his Indian friend. “Why, you rascal, where’d you get that dry wood?”

  “Hi-hites. It is good to see you, my friend,” When The Eagle Speaks said. He grasped Jake’s biceps in a more formal Comanche greeting.

  Jake returned the greeting and smiled. “Your English is good, my red-skinned friend.”

  When The Eagle Speaks smiled, ignoring the question about the wood. “My skin is no redder than yours, my friend, when you come back from your islands.”

  Jake chuckled.

  They stood by the fire, first warming their fronts, then turning to warm their backsides before they sat again to gaze into the hypnotic flames. When The Eagle Speaks produced a smoking pipe, and after he filled and tapped it, lit it with a glowing ember from the campfire. He offered it first to all four directions, to the earth and to the sky. Then he puffed once and presented the pipe to Jake. They smoked, passing the pipe back and forth between them, blowing smoke rings until the tobacco disappeared.

  “Tell me, my noble friend, what you know of a lone white woman, a Mrs. Strong.” Jake shifted to a more comfortable position, hoping the answer would be easier to swallow. “Did she go back east?”

  When The Eagle Speaks paused before he spoke. “Heepet, how much do you want to know?”

  “Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out.”

  “You speak of a beautiful woman with hair soft and gleaming like new corn silk, but it is the color of red leaves of the Spanish Oak in the fall.”

  Jake turned away from his Indian friend to shield his face from scrutiny. He feared his face might reveal the look of a man lost in daydreams.

  When The Eagle Speaks chuckled. “You have dreams of this woman? The Comanche does not work so hard to choose a woman. He has only to rest, and women will come to him in his sleeping robes.” He laughed. “You tiwas, you white men, exert far too much effort when choosing a woman.”

  Jake gave his friend a stern look to impress upon him the need to continue.

  “She is not far from here. Shall I guide you?”

  “No, not yet. Tell me what you know of her.” Jake decided to be more specific. “Does she still dress in black?”

  “Yes, and her dark copper hair, paph, would make a prized scalp on my lance pole.”

  Jake had his knife in his hand before he saw the grin on his friend’s face. “You rascal, quit goading me. Now, before I use this, tell me more.”

  When The Eagle Speaks challenged him. “You will need your skinning knife for protection when you approach her. She is a brave warrior-woman, this woman with copper paph. We call her Woman Of Copper Not Afraid.”

  Jake’s eyes widened. Never had he heard of a white woman who had been giv
en an Indian name unless she had been traded or captured. Even though he doubted there had been a formal naming ceremony, and it was only a nickname, still…

  When The Eagle Speaks continued, his tone imparting nothing unusual about the story he was telling. “She counted coup on Angry Wolf. Now, he is called Too Ugly To Be A Wolf. He retains his wolf medicine, but it is not very strong if Woman Of Copper Not Afraid can count coup on him. He must work hard to regain his old name.”

  Jake knew it was rude to interrupt a story in progress, but this account was unbelievable. “She counts coup on a warrior? I don’t believe my ears. Tell me how.”

  When The Eagle Speaks took great pride in recounting the incident that proved so embarrassing to Angry Wolf. “Some wanted to call him Lively Rabbit because of the way he hopped around until he removed the needle from his hand.” When The Eagle Speaks grinned like an opossum. “We are still waiting on Too Ugly To Be A Wolf to teach us the new dance he hopped that day.”

  At first, Jake thought his friend was pulling his leg and making this up but decided no one would make up a story and recount it with such detail just for a joke. A brave would fabricate a much more creative battle where he was the victor, not something as incredible and unconvincing as this.

  “Osh-a-him, how do you say woman who coughs flame?”

  Jake rubbed the side of his bewhiskered face while he pondered. “You mean a spitfire?”

  “Haa, yes. I could not remember the word.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “This woman of your dreams is a spitfire. Maybe we should rename her Woman Who Spits Fire.”

  Full of questions, Jake blurted out, “Was she able to survive out here in the wilderness? Did anyone protect her?” A frown creased his brow. “Does she have a man? Did a white man, a tiwa, move in with her?”

  When The Eagle Speaks held up his hand for silence. “Kee, no. But wait, my friend, only one request at a time.” He told Jake everything about the copper-haired white woman, including her encounter with Laughing Maiden in the berry thicket and how Laughing Maiden had taught her much maw-ta-quoip, hand talk.

  Amused by his friend’s narrative, Jake stretched out on his bedroll, propping against his well-worn saddle, broken in and comfortable. He closed his eyes and wondered what to do about the green-eyed vixen, or as When The Eagle Speaks put it, the copper-haired beauty—the spitfire. Jake remembered the first time he had spoken with her on the ferry, and he too had labelled her a spitfire.

  After a few moments, When The Eagle Speaks cleared his throat. “There is more.”

  Jake opened one eye to stare at his friend.

  “She is with child. Laughing Maiden says it will come when the first snow falls.”

  Jake frowned and closed his eye.

  “Does she bear your child?”

  “No,” Jake said while a lump welled up in his throat. This changes everything. I can’t intrude in her life at this special time. She is in mourning, and now she will have a child to remember her husband. A child. He kept repeating it in his mind, finding it impossible to believe her exquisitely-shaped body would be burdened with child.

  After a few moments, Jake made one of the most difficult decisions of his life. He would never try to see her again, never try to hold her again, and never dream of her again.

  Never dream of her again, now that’s a good one. Jake’s eyes flew open, and he laughed aloud, startling When The Eagle Speaks. Then, he voiced a sober request.

  “Keep watch over her, my Indian friend. Try to convince her to go back to her people, the tiwas, as soon as she’s able. Promise me that you and Laughing Maiden will keep her out of harm’s way.”

  “I promise,” said When The Eagle Speaks, “and Ehawee promises also.”

  Jake turned away but knew his friend had already sensed his sorrow. Neither spoke as When The Eagle Speaks stoked the fire one last time and walked without a sound back into the timber.

  Jake drifted off into fitful slumber, willing himself not to dream of the young widow Strong, but the green-eyed girl with dark copper hair danced about in his head all night, laughing and taunting him, prancing just a step away from his outstretched arms.

  Chapter Ten

  A great, red hawk soared over the beautiful Indian summer landscape where the settlement at Horseshoe Bend was growing. Some of the northern trappers chose to winter there for a spell, and talk of the military coming through raised a few eyebrows. More people seemed to be stopping overnight at the hotel. The Owens brothers were making a good income in their trading post which Stephen now referred to as his mercantile. In this wilderness, it remained the only store in the area.

  Having less money on his person today, Trader Jake studied his new purchase, contemplating improvements it needed. He watched the former hotel owner wave goodbye to Horseshoe Bend, the man on his way back to Kentucky to raise blooded horses, Jake’s money jingling in his saddlebags.

  Absalom stepped up on the wooden sidewalk in front of the hotel, facing his new owner. Looking down at his bare feet and crumpling his old and battered, brown hat in his hands, he spoke in a soft voice. “Thank yo’ fo’ buyin’ me, suh, Masta, suh.”

  Jake scrutinized him for a moment, then barked orders. “Boy, you look me in the eye when you speak to me, and you just forget all that master business. Call me sir and only sir, not masta sir.” He waited for Absalom to look up before he continued.

  “Now get over to the trading post, pick out some new clothes and some boots too to wear on those bare feet. And you wash those feet first before you put on a new pair of boots, you hear?”

  Absalom’s eyes lit up bright as a candle’s flame.

  The boy may have never worn a pair of boots, let alone owned a pair—a new pair at that. Jake’s tone softened. “Pick you out a new hat, too.”

  Absalom’s mouth spread into a grin, almost stretching from one ear to the other.

  “When you work in a hotel, I want you to look like you work there—not look like some ordinary field slave.”

  “Yas, suh, masta, suh. I mean, yas, suh, suh,” Absalom shouted and sprinted toward the trading post.

  Jake turned to his other employee.

  Thick, gray waves bounced on top of the Welshman’s head as he pumped Jake’s big hand. “I don’t know how to thank you, Mister?” He paused.

  “Jake.”

  “I know you’re Jake, Trader Jake, but I can’t call my employer that,” the man from Wales said. “Mr. What?”

  “Mr. Burcham, I don’t hold with my last name. Just call me Jake like everyone else does.”

  The Welshman shrugged, confusion written on his lined face. “All right, Mr. Jake, sir, it’s your name and your hotel. I’m mighty proud to be associated with you both.”

  Jake smiled at the older gent and felt more than proud to have found Burcham. Elated is more like it. Jake recalled his earlier encounter with the man from Wales.

  Eli Burcham, like so many of his countrymen, had come to America to make his fortune in furs before sending for his family to join him in this rich country. But it hadn’t worked out that way. Trapping up north in last year’s bitter winter nearly destroyed him, his lumbago and a bout with consumption sapping his strength. It had taken him all spring and summer to recuperate enough to return to Horseshoe Bend where he stayed until he could afford passage overseas. A down-trodden, depressed man, he dreaded going home to his family. Defeated, he planned to return to Wales, hoping to work again at the King’s Hotel in Newport where he had eked out a meager living years before. But now, with Jake’s offer of employment, he wouldn’t have to accept defeat and could revive his dream of bringing his family to this new continent.

  “Don’t worry about thanking me,” Jake said. “King’s Hotel must have kept you busy with visiting coal magnates since Newport is Wale’s largest coal-exporting port. You run my hotel the way it ought to be run, and that’ll be thanks enough.”

  Burcham looked at him with moist eyes. “You’ll never have a minute’
s worry, Mr. Jake.” “I’ll also teach Absalom to work in the hotel. I don’t know much about trapping, but I do know hotels.”

  “I’m counting on that,” Jake said. I’ve found a diamond in the rough. “We’ll get word to your family to pack their trunks, and one of my ships will bring them here next spring.”

  The older man hugged Jake, his gray mane even with the hotel owner’s powerful chest. “I am in your debt, sir. I long to see my Mary Elizabeth and our wee ones, but they may not be so wee anymore.” Burcham released Jake and backed up to look the tall man in the eye. “Good day, sir. I have work a-waiting.” He disappeared into the crudely-furnished hotel.

  Chapter Eleven

  The buckboard and wagon loomed like two dark specks in the distance when Belle first spied them. While waiting for George and Margaret Campbell to transport her to the settlement to buy supplies for the long winter ahead, she pulled her light-weight, woolen cape tighter around her burgeoning body to ward off the chill.

  Winter will be here before I know it. She patted her swollen belly. Before we know it. She hoped to make today’s trip without mishap.

  Rubbing her belly with both hands, Belle scratched through her clothes, where faint stretch marks hid, to massage the area around her protruding navel. How much more growing will I have to do before giving birth?

  “Probably a few more weeks, little one, and we’ll get to meet you.” She stopped the unlady-like scratching and sat on top of one of the trunks brought overland months ago. Both trunks held quilts, representing years of the young woman’s labor. Inside the dugout, she kept the last two quilts she and her mother had made together—the lily quilt, because it held so much meaning for her, and the bride’s quilt—plus two more recent ones for her rope bed. That left ten quilts, five in each trunk.