Gone West (16 page)

Maggie picked up the wandering Charlotte and handed her to Gwen. “Hold the baby for me, please. And Jamie, you stay out of harm’s way, hear?”

His eyes were wide. “Yes, ma’am.”

Maggie finally found the courage to raise her head. She was alone. Abandoned. The other women had scampered away like frightened sparrows. She couldn’t find it in her heart to blame them. She herself would prefer running. But she did not. She stood straight and proud, waiting for her husband and Chandler to finish escorting Red Eagle to the Stuart campsite.

Their walk across the center of the circle seemed to take forever. Johnny was walking tall, and she could see he was thinking hard. A frown of concentration filled his face. And then they were before her.

“Meg,” Johnny spoke first. “Meg, this is Red Eagle, chief of his band of Pawnee.”

Maggie stood stock still before the man, taking him in. Was she supposed to shake hands with him? It did seem to be a formal introduction. She felt the nerves in her fingers twitching with the effort to make the decision. To move or not to move. Finally, she willed her right hand still, and nodded her head.

The man was handsome, in a primitive way. As tall as Johnny, he was got up in what certainly appeared to be his fanciest outfit: soft, decorated buckskin, and an imposing headdress of feathers which reached far down his back. His high, smooth cheekbones outlined a face deeply bronzed, punctuated by a strongly hooked nose, and eyes that were black, but appeared as sharp and merciless as his namesake’s.

“Red Eagle,” Johnny continued, “was told of you by one of his braves. It must have been the one that kicked Bacon~”

“I will speak now,” interrupted the Indian.

Johnny took a halfstep away, and nodded acquiescence.

The Indian’s eyes were fixated by Maggie’s hair glowing in the last rays of the dying sun. His hand lifted now to touch it.

“My special medicine is red. I am Red Eagle.” He gestured to the signs painted on his covered chest, pointing things out. “The sun. Coming up. Going down. The birds who hunt. You will be good medicine for me. You will be my wife.”

“But~” Maggie spluttered.

He silenced her. “It will be. It is written in the heavens.” He motioned toward the still falling sun. It did seem to be taking its time tonight, almost hesitating in place before making its final journey below the horizon.

“Look. The sun waits to smile longer upon you, to let me look upon you again.” He turned to Johnny.

“I trade you for this woman. Make good trade, in good faith. Ten horses.”

Johnny blanched.

“Twelve horses.”

Gathering his courage, Johnny answered. “I would rather not trade her, sir. I am quite accustomed to her, you understand. She is a good cook, a good mother to our children.”

Red Eagle considered. “Good woman maybe worth more. Fourteen horses. Final offer. I have horses here. Take her with me now.”

Maggie stared at Johnny, longing to be within the protection of his arms. His tanned face had gone white. He was beginning to believe how deadly serious this Indian really was. At the same time she knew he was struggling mightily to find the proper words to keep the discussion amicable, not to insult the chief. She could also see Chandler in the background. He was fondling his rifle, bristling.

“We have a baby, a girl child,” Johnny tried. “The baby needs her mother’s milk.”

“Bring baby here!”

The Indian spoke the words with such authority that Maggie quivered.
Please God, don’t get the children involved in this!

Johnny, deeply troubled, motioned Gwen out of the background shadows. Gwen advanced very tentatively, clutching Charlotte as if she were her own daughter. Red Eagle inspected the child carefully, touching her hair, poking in her ears, even thrusting a finger into her mouth. Maggie tried to control herself, but one more poke would have had her screaming. The Indian finally waved Gwen and Charlotte away.

“Will take girl baby, but no more horses.”

Johnny shuffled his feet uncomfortably and tried again. “Then there’s our son. He would be sorely tried by his mother’s absence.”

“Bring boy!”

Jamie edged from behind the wagon of his own accord and walked up manfully. Red Eagle went through the same process, but when he thrust a finger into the boy’s mouth to check his teeth, Jamie bit him, hard. The Indian held his bitten finger gravely, and Maggie could have sworn she saw the ghost of a smile in the man’s eyes.

“Take boy, too. Give one pony for him.” He turned from Johnny as if the subject were closed.

Johnny ran a hand through his curly hair. He was sweating with the effort of the challenge before him.

“Red Eagle.” The authority in his voice caught the Indian’s attention. He swerved back to face Johnny again.

“We are both men, and can talk like men. Your offer for my family is a great honor. Fourteen horses is a great many horses for a mere woman, even an extraordinary woman, as my woman is. One pony is fair for the boy. He is a good boy. As the baby is yet a baby, her worth is unknown. Your offer to accept her is also fair.” Johnny paused to further summon his thoughts.

“Unfortunately, this woman and these children are great medicine for me, too. Without them I would lose my own strength. I would sicken and die. To die from the loss of one’s medicine, one’s charm, is not the way for a man to die. A man should die in battle. He should die honorably, by fighting his foes, by the taking of scalps.” He waited to observe the effect of his words.

A gleam of understanding began to show in the Indian’s eyes. Johnny took heart and continued.

“We are both men, so can understand this thing. I cannot live without these people, and I do not wish to die less than a man. I cannot accept the offer you make in good faith. Many horses may make a man rich in belongings, but many horses cannot cure the sickness here.” Johnny held a clenched fist evocatively over his heart. “It is better to remain poor and keep one’s honor with the Great Spirit.”

“You understand the Great Spirit?”

“I do. I have words and pictures from the Great Spirit himself.”

The Indian started. “How can that be?”

Johnny held the Pawnee chief’s eyes. “Not all white men are concerned only with destroying that which the Great Spirit, and that which the Earth Mother has given us. There are some who study the good things around us. They put them into words and pictures from the Spirit.”

Johnny was slowly moving toward the book wagon. Now he reached it, unfastened the side hooks, and carefully opened his display of books. His hand went unerringly to a large volume. He pulled it out and brought it close to the light from the fire.

“Come. See.”

Maggie gasped. Johnny had chosen his most treasured book, a folio volume of Audubon’s birds. He’d searched long and bargained hard to get it. Her husband stooped near the fire to gain more light upon the pages, and motioned for the Indian to follow. In a moment they were squatting almost companionably next to each other, the Indian’s eyes widening as he registered the lovingly drawn pictures.

“This book,” Johnny motioned, “this book was made by the voice and hand of the Great Spirit. It contains many wonders, the spirits of many birds of the air. It even contains the spirit of your own namesake.” Miraculously, Johnny turned to a picture of an eagle. The Indian grunted. Johnny locked into the chief’s eyes.

“Its worth is more than fifteen horses. Its worth is more than many, many buffalo robes.”

Red Eagle nodded in understanding.

Johnny turned several more pages. Finally, ritualistically, he closed the book and put it into the chief’s hands.

“I make a gift of this to you. You will be a great chief with this book. You will be able to call upon the spirit of the eagle whenever you wish . . . and I will keep my family and my medicine. I will keep my soul.”

Apparently accepting the offer, Red Eagle nodded and rose. The sun had finally set, leaving lingering streaks of vermillion slashed across the western sky. He glanced off at his braves hovering at the edge of the falling darkness. Following his unspoken instructions they began to move out of the circle of the wagons, toward their waiting horses. The chief turned once more.

“What is your name, you who understand the Great Spirit?”

“John Stuart.”

“Stew-ert. So.” And Red Eagle, too, was gone.

The camp retained a deathly silence until the hoof beats of the Indians’ horses echoed far into the distance. At last Chandler eased up on the death grip he’d held on his rifle. He came forward to clap Johnny on the back.

“I never figured words could take the place of bullets. Nor books, neither. But them books of yours come through just fine. Well done, Stuart. It was a mite tetchy there for awhile.”

“Yes, sir, it was.”

Trembling, Johnny went to Maggie and took her into his arms. They held each other until they felt strong enough to speak. Johnny pulled out of the embrace first, trying to make light of the incident.

“I just swore you were a good cook. I hope the dinner wasn’t ruined by this little affair.”

“Little affair, my foot! But I should not even be looking upon you. I’m a mere woman, after all, while
you
converse regularly with the Great Spirit!”

He pulled her back into his arms. “But you are my medicine! And never forget that I gave up fourteen good horses for you.” He touched her hair wonderingly. “Like the sunset and the sunrise you are to me, indeed. The Indians can teach me a few things about loving you, Meg . . . I was so afraid of losing you!”

Jamie shot out of the shadows to hug at Maggie’s skirts, unwilling to let go. Charlotte was thrust into her arms, crying for her dinner. The whole world~at least the small world of the camp~was upon the Stuarts, chattering with excitement and congratulations.

All but for the Reverend Winslow, who stood aside with his family, an `I told you so’ expression upon his face, and in his heart the knowledge that his prophecies were beginning to take place.

Spurred by the latest Pawnee visit, the train fairly flew across the plains over the next days. The stock could always quench its thirst in the Platte, but the emigrants were delighted to come upon Cottonwood Springs, the last pure water for several hundred miles. They camped at twilight and Chandler sent word from wagon to wagon that the next day would be one of rest.

Maggie lay under their tent that night trying to fight off swarms of mosquitoes and gnats that had descended out of nowhere. She finally pulled herself up, sweaty and uncomfortable. Johnny was on guard duty and she missed him. Hardly thinking, she gathered her nightgown around her and began to unbutton the tent flaps. She was feeling so restless. She’d just wander down to the spring to bathe in privacy. It might cool her off~her body as well as her mind.

Swatting at the constant drone in her ear, Maggie tiptoed between the wagons, hugging the gown to her. Best to check in with the nearest night watch first, although how she could be mistaken for an Indian evaded her.

She searched, eyes adjusting to the star-filled night. Drat. The Reverend Winslow had duty on the side nearest the spring. That gaunt, hawklike form couldn’t be mistaken. Why couldn’t it have been Johnny? Winslow had spotted her now, though, and she couldn’t very well retreat. The two figures moved within a respectable ten yards of each other.

“Good Evening, Reverend.”

He nodded curtly.

“I won’t disturb you. I’m just going to the spring to refresh myself. The night is so warm.”

He shifted his rifle to slap at a swarm of insects hovering over him. Even his cloak of sanctity wasn’t sufficient to keep him in a halo of air free from the hungry creatures.

“It’s against regulations. I must ask you to return to your wagon.”

“Oh, for goodness sake. You know where I’ll be. There’s but one cottonwood on the whole plain before us, and you can see most of it from here.”

“Nevertheless~”

“I’m going, nevertheless. If you bump into Johnny you may tell him.” She started walking off, but his low, grating voice stopped her.

“Were I your master, I would husband you more carefully.”

“You’re not my master, nor is any other man. Johnny is my husband, chosen by free-will, and I’ll not stand out here debating this or any other matter with you all night. I’m going to the spring.” Picking up the skirt of her nightgown, Maggie rushed on.

Once at the spring, hidden by the lone tree, Maggie shook her head in defiance, shrugged off her sticky nightgown, and knelt down to scoop the deliciously cold water over her body. In the haste of her sudden decision, she’d not thought to bring soap, or even a drying cloth. Small matter. She’d linger here a while to dry in the small gully whose gravel bed moved on, right into the Platte.

Refreshed, she stood, her water-dappled body outlined against the sky. Maggie took in the night’s sudden goodness: the sliver of a moon beginning to wane; the bright constellations she could now name after the last few nights of Johnny’s lessons. And streaking through the very center of this sky was something bright, shiny, effervescent.

Could it be a falling star? She’d seen only one before. It had been midsummer’s night in Ohio, when she was fourteen. She’d been sitting on the porch with Johnny. He’d been telling her about the magic of that special night, recounting stories from Shakespeare about Puck and Titania and Bottom. He’d whispered in her ear, too. Shy words that couldn’t possibly have been spoken in the bold light of day. The words had been thrilling to a girl-child on the brink of womanhood, sitting with her beloved. It was the one night of the year that anything could happen, he promised~to lovers.

That was the first time she’d laid her head on Johnny’s shoulder, though she’d dreamed of it through the long winter before his coming. It was the first time he’d ventured to throw his arm around her, tentatively, innocently. There was a yellow moon beginning to disappear through the trees. That’s when they’d seen the falling star. But Johnny had called it a
rising
star. Oh stars, these blessed candles of the night. Their star.

Maggie made a sudden pirouette in the prairie night, as star-struck and love sick again as she had been at fourteen. Perhaps Johnny was watching this same star with her now, from the other side of the camp.

Her arms raised to the heavens fell suddenly to her side. An unexpected quiver ran through her spine, bringing her eyes back to the earth. The quiver wasn’t caused by thoughts of Johnny or even of that long ago night. Maggie suddenly felt, suddenly knew that something or someone else was watching in this night, and it was not watching the stars.