The Gatherers by Marla Fair – Chapter seven
oooooooooo
He'd hoped to make it home that night, but with the uncertain footing on the ridge, Charles decided to stay where he was until the sun rose and he could see what he was doing. It had taken them longer to cross than he'd anticipated, and it was pretty late in the day before Winona's grandparents' cabin appeared on the horizon. He was sure glad to see it and to put his boots on again too! Theirs was a modest home, better than some, with split log sides and a good solid roof and porch. It would have been more proper to call it a log house than a cabin, but that's the word Winona used. When he got closer he realized why. The structure had been modified over time and most likely started life as a temporary building not meant to last.
If he and Caroline had stayed in Kansas, they might have done the same thing.
Winona's grandparents were friendly enough folk. It surprised him, though he didn't know why, when her ailing grandmother turned out to be a full-blood Sioux. Her name was Chapa, or Beaver in the white man's tongue. The older woman had caught her leg on a nail a few days before and had a right good infection going. The local doctor had been out earlier that day and said it was healing at last. Winona went right to her, leaving him alone with her grandfather, who was a white man. Considering how old they were, that meant the pair of them had married in the eighteen-twenties. Turns out Clarence – that was his name – had followed in the wake of Lewis and Clark and been one of the first engineers to settle in the area. He'd helped the natives by showing them how to shore up a bank that was threatening to cave in and flood their village. When they married, there were few people in the area and no one really cared.
Things had changed since then.
Clarence explained how his wife's son and his family had been taken by force to the reservation back in 1851. They'd lived there a few years and then run away and lived on their own until they were caught again around 1858, when the trouble with the Dakota happened. So Winona had spent the first seven years of her life livin' free. Her parents died when a fever swept through the reservation. When her grandparents found out, they petitioned the government to let them raise her. Since she was half-white, it was allowed.
She'd been livin' with them ever since.
He was served an excellent supper, and then he and Clarence talked some more before he bedded down for the night in their mud room. When he woke up, Winona had breakfast waitin'. She thanked him for bringing her home and told him she hoped they would meet again one day, and then gave him a bear claw necklace. The native woman told him it was a sign of strength and wisdom and added, with a smile, that 'bear' was a healer too. He asked her if he should rub the claw on his sore feet.
She said it wouldn't hurt!
After that, he took off. From the log house to the ridge was about a three hour walk. It was a pleasant one. The sun had been sleeping when he left, and Charles watched it rise in all its glory as he traveled. The air was crisp, but not cold. When he came to the ridge, he hesitated, considering whether or not he should take his boots off again. His feet hurt enough as it was without a repeat journey over the rough, uneven rock so, in the end, he decided to leave them on.
After all, how much could the ridge have changed in one night?
He'd been walking about an hour – it took two and a bit more to make it all the way across – when Charles realized there was someone approaching him. They were comin' from the east, so the sun was in his eyes and he couldn't tell anything about them. Wary, the farmer removed Sam's ancient pistol from his pack, primed it, and tucked the loaded weapon behind his belt. After that there was nothing to it, but to continue on. He could have backtracked, he supposed, but that wouldn't have accomplished anything. Besides, more than likely, the people approaching were travelers like him, heading home or maybe out hunting.
He knew he'd made a mistake when the sun dipped behind a cloud and he saw the men's clothing.
They were native.
Not that being native necessarily meant the men were hostile, but there was a good chance they would be. Since the 1850s all Indians had been confined to the reservations. Most, but not all of them still roamin' wild were renegades.
They really didn't have much choice.
Charles made sure his coat covered the weapon behind his belt and then halted and waited.
By the look of them, two of the three were in their thirties. One was younger. Maybe twenty, but probably less. The Indians' skin was baked dark by the sun. That confirmed they lived out of doors and weren't confined to the poor housing on the reservation. He had a pack filled with supplies on his back. They did too, only bigger, so they were lookin' at a long journey.
"Mornin'," Charles said as they met.
The men pointedly ignored his greeting. They talked amongst themselves for a moment in their native tongue and then one of the older ones pointed in his direction and gave a command. It was obviously intended for the youth, whose reply was short, terse, and – from the look of things – disrespectful. The older man spoke again and the youth hung his head.
Then he dropped his pack and headed his way.
Charles gave him a nod and a friendly smile as the young man stopped about a yard away. The farmer had to admit he was puzzled. Usually it was the eldest who took the lead.
He tried again. "Howdy."
The sullen youth stared at him – so long it began to make him uncomfortable. "Who you are?" the native demanded in broken English. "Why, here you are?"
He was a good-looking boy; fifteen, maybe sixteen years old. In the early morning light his hair, which he wore long and loose and undecorated, shone like dark copper penny. Charles would have called him 'handsome' if it had not been for the angry cast to his face. It was obvious, whoever he was, he had no time for white men. It was also obvious why he had been chosen to be the spokesman. He spoke English.
Sort of.
The farmer tapped his chest. "Charles Ingalls."
"Chetan!" the youth replied, striking his. "Hawk!"
Charles heard one of the older men make a noise he recognized. It was close to a sigh. He hid his smile. Natives rarely gave their names until you had earned the right to know them.
There was a lecture waitin' at the end of the road for this young'un.
"As to why I'm here…." The farmer hesitated. 'Keep it simple', he told himself. "I'm on my way home."
Hawk scowled. "Home?" he repeated as he pointed toward Winona's house.
"No." Charles shook his head. He pointed the other way. "My home is in Walnut Grove. That way."
The scowl deepened. Hawk turned and addressed the older men behind him. One shook his head and the other shrugged.
They were getting nowhere fast.
"I have a friend." The farmer pointed at himself as he repeated the word. "Friend." Then he pointed behind him. "She was with me. She's not now. I left Winona…."
Hawk's gaze had moved from his face to his chest. Charles sucked in a breath. Good Lord! If the gun was showing…. He looked and it wasn't, but Winona's bear claw necklace was. He'd forgotten he'd tossed it over his head before he left. The curly-haired man lifted a hand to catch it and bring it forward. Before he could, a set of strong, deeply-tanned fingers closed about his and the tip of a knife pressed into his throat.
Gone was the broken English. The young man was shouting in his own tongue. Charles might have known a few words – the language was Sioux – but it was a little hard to concentrate when the blade jammed up against his flesh was drawing blood.
One of the older men spoke a sharp word. Hawk stiffened. He didn't turn or let go, but called something back over his shoulder.
The older man answered and began to move toward them.
"Look," Charles tried. It was hard to talk without swallowing, which was definitely not a good idea. "I don't know…what's got you riled up…but…."
The young man caught the bear claw in his free hand. His black eyes were nearly as piercing as the knife's tip. "Wenonah!" he cried, and then added something else in Sioux.
Suddenly, Charles understood. The Indian thought he'd done something to Winona – perhaps killed her and taken the necklace as a souvenir. The farmer shook his head as best he could. "Friend," he repeated. "Winona's…friend."
The older man had stopped behind Hawk. Looking from one to the other, Charles realized they looked alike. Then, he realized another thing.
They both looked like Winona.
'Two brothers', she said. She had two brothers. He glanced at Hawk. Or maybe three?
Charles thought hard. The Sioux language was so complicated, he was sure he would get it wrong, but he tried. "La…Lakota…friend."
The older man clapped a hand on the younger one's shoulder and spoke three sharp words. Hawk's jaw was set; his eyes keen as the glinting edge of his knife. He held his position for several long heartbeats, and then stepped back.
The knife went with him.
Charles released the breath he didn't know he'd drawn as Hawk turned to his elder and began to argue. As he did, the farmer's gaze went to the rock-strewn ridge beneath his feet. It was narrow; only six or seven feet wide. Barely big enough to hold the three of them abreast. If he'd had another foot or two, he would have tried to make his way around the pair and then run like the dickens! Unexpectedly, his gaze locked with the third Indian. The older man rolled his eyes as if to say 'kids!'
Charles answered the gesture with a wan smile.
The elder speaking to Hawk was done arguing. The angry youth stood with his fists clenched, obviously fuming at the dressing down he had taken – in front of a white man. The older Indian barked an order, and then moved past the boy to his side. Charles braced himself as their eyes met. Showing fear was something he knew not to do. The Indian studied him for a moment before reaching out to take hold of the bear claw necklace.
"Lakota?" he asked.
Charles nodded. "Yes. Friend. Winona is my friend."
The older man nodded toward the path behind him. "Ki?" he asked.
He sure hoped that meant 'home'.
"Yes, Winona is home. I took her home."
The older man studied his face for a long time and then nodded. "Iyaye!" he declared and then stepped aside.
Did that mean he was free to go?
Charles inclined his head, "Thank you." When the older man said nothing more, he took a step – and then another one.
As he came alongside Hawk, the angry youth growled low in his throat and grudgingly moved out of his way.
The farmer gave him a smile and took another step –
Trouble was, he had a little help from Hawk, and that next step took him right off the edge of the ridge and straight down Avalanche.
oooooooooo
The burly man with wavy, grizzled hair had been walking ankle-deep in a burbling stream when he felt a sudden urge to stop. He'd learned long ago not to ignore such 'urges' and so, leaving the stream behind, had taken a seat on a rock overlooking it, bowed his head, and waited. He and the stream were friends and the words it spoke as it rushed past were for his benefit.
They reminded him of how much he loved this place.
In the course of his long life, he had come to understand that special places, such as this one, were in truth no different from ordinary places. Above his head was sky; below his feet, pebble and stone. The sun rose and set here as everywhere else. Soft and hard rain fell. No, it was not the place itself that made it special, but the memories it held. In such a place as this the sky was brighter; the stone more sound and sure. The rising of the sun affected him deeply, but nowhere more deeply than here. Here its light was closer, somehow.
More profound.
The burly man leaned back until the sunlight played fully across his heavy features. Many were his memories of this place, but it was one memory in particular that made it special; the memory of a dear child long since departed from him. Seldom had he encountered such a spirit! Human beings were amazing creatures, full of conflicting emotions – anger and good humor, trust and fear, kindness and selfishness, joy and grief….
Innocence and guilt.
"And how about you, my little friend?" the man asked the soft furry rabbit that nestled up against his thigh as he ran his fingers over its tiny head. "Do you have any secrets?"
The bunny's giant black eyes fastened on his and its nose twitched.
"Or you?" he inquired of the fox lying near his feet.
The fox lazily lifted its head, but said nothing.
"People keep secrets," the man said, almost to himself. "They put them in boxes and lock them up tight and keep them in the dark. Often they hide them so well that even they forget what they are." His pale blue eyes looked into the distance. "It takes someone opening a door to let in the light so they can find the key."
The fox rose and stretched. It turned around a few times, as if it would settle in again, but stopped suddenly and looked to the north. Its angular head cocked as it listened and then it let out a series of sharp barks.
The man picked up the rabbit and rose with it in his arms. "Did you hear it too, my little friend?" he asked.
The man had, of course, heard what the fox heard. His ears were exceptionally fine-tuned.
The sound of rocks sliding. A shot. A cry and a body tumbling end for end.
A thud.
Silence.
Oh yes, he heard the silence. A silence so profound it burst upon the noisy world commanding attention.
His attention.
One of God's creatures was in need.
oooooooooo
Charles opened his eyes and groaned. Both were good signs.
They meant he wasn't dead.
Although he wasn't so sure he wouldn't have preferred it.
Lightning flashed before his eyes as he moved his head, gingerly angling it to the right so he could look up. A sheer wall of brown rock and gorse rose beside him, eclipsing the light. A mountain? Or, maybe a cliff? Whatever it was, he lay in half in and half out of the sea of shadows it cast. The farmer shifted and groaned again as pain pounded through him. Or maybe it was night. Maybe he'd been unconscious for hours. It was morning when he fell, wasn't it? And he did fall.
Didn't he?
The wounded man drew a breath and waited. The lightning didn't go away. It decided to whirl around his head instead and became a pack of stars. It took a lot of courage to close his eyes, but Charles mustered it and did the deed, hoping when he opened them that the outcome would be different. He counted slowly –one number for each shallow breath. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Then he opened them again. The mountain was still there, as were the shadows, but the lightning had moved into the distance. It was then he remembered something.
Something important.
He didn't fall. He was pushed.
As to 'who' pushed him and why, well, that hadn't quite come back yet, but he was pretty sure it would as soon as he could concentrate on something other than the pain ripping through his back and head. Since closing his eyes seemed to keep the pain at bay – sort of – he did it again. Charles lay there in the dark, listening to the pounding of the blood in his veins and his rapidly beating heart for some time before daring to open them once more. Caroline would have had his hide for the words that crossed his lips when he did. The sun had moved and the sea of shadow along with it. It had swallowed him.
So, it had been hours.
Charles felt a sudden impulse – a desperate need, really – to escape those shadows before he drowned in them. It was foolish and he knew it, but that was how he felt. A sudden memory had stabbed him with the power of a finely-honed blade. They were crossing the river. He'd jumped out of the wagon in order to guide the horses to land. There'd been no way of knowing a sudden wash of water was coming that would swell the stream to twice its normal size and depth. He felt the rushing water hit him; heard Caroline screaming his name.
And went under.
He should have died, but he didn't.
Just like he should have died in that fall off of Avalanche.
Why didn't he die?
Not that he wasn't grateful, mind you, but there in the water and – here in the shadows – it seemed, well, impossible that he could make it.
Here in the shadows. Nobody knewhe was here in the shadows.
Nobody knew he was here.
Panic seized him. He had to get out of here! He had to get back to Caroline and the girls. Charles' gaze shifted to the sunlit trees to his left. It appeared to be midday. He'd told Caroline he'd be home by nightfall. Was that tonight, or had it been the night before?
How long had he been here?
His head was whirling like those stars – and they were still there, by the way. Determined to rise, the wounded man drew several shallow breaths and shifted his arms back in an attempt to lift his body.
So far so good. He was on his elbows. It worked.
That was, if he didn't pass out from the effort.
Charles waited, breathing heavily, until the dark clouds lifted and the stars returned before he tried again. Working wood had made him strong. He was well-built and there was power in his arms. Both of them shook like jelly as he made the attempt. He succeeded in rising up about another inch before everything gave out – his chest, his arms, his back, his head….
Hope.
He'd made it out of that river.
He'd survived the fall off the ridge.
Charles dry lips cracked with a wry smile.
"Third times the charm, I suppose," he breathed.
Just before he passed out.
oooooooooo
to be continued…..