Deep as the Rivers (Santa Fe Trilogy) (25 page)

   
He was a dear man, patient and sensitive, with a lusty sense of humor. And he played a fierce fiddle to boot. Humming one of his Carolina mountain tunes, she carried her vegetables down to the water’s edge, stopping along the trail to pluck a few wild onions. He had taught her how to ferret out the bounty of nature, wild fruits, nuts and berries, as well as roots and tubers that were tasty in the stew pot, and what poisonous plants to avoid, such as the pretty grapelike berries of the nightshade vine.

   
Her first attempts to cook in the big granite fireplace in the cabin had been near disasters, but after suffering cuts and blisters and eating hard dry corn pone and rubbery venison, she was learning to simmer a tender roast in the Dutch oven and bake up light, crisp corn pone in a heavy iron skillet. She could even dry venison and buffalo jerky and pound it together with suet and berries to make tasty pemmican far superior to the greasy gray stuff Walks Fast had prepared.

   
The city girl was learning all the skills necessary to survive in the wilderness. She could skin out a buffalo, scrape the hide clean with an iron adz, then rub brains and ashes into the skin to cure and soften it. The first time she followed Micajah’s guidance and dug her hands into the squishy gray mass, working it into the buffalo hide, she remembered the queasy spoiled girl who had vomited when Samuel had ordered her to help the squaws clean a deer. She had vowed never again to let the sight or smell of blood affect her so.

   
Micajah took her hunting small game, teaching her how to patiently set a snare. She had mastered dressing plump wild rabbits for the pot as well as squirrels and turkeys, although her marksmanship was only now getting good enough for her to bring down wild game with a clean shot. She had learned to track prey through the woods and each day her aim grew better as she continued to practice on targets that Micajah devised. They killed only what they needed to eat, although Micajah had explained they would salt down an extra supply of big game to see them through the winter months. She was eager to go on the hunt, which they would undertake within the week.

   
Olivia washed the vegetables at the edge of the stream, then headed back to the cabin. A few yards from the front door a cooking pot hung on an iron spit suspended across a low bank of coals which glowed brightly in the afternoon sun. In warm weather they cooked outdoors to keep the cabin cooler for sleeping. She knelt at the side of the fire and removed the lid of the ancient iron pot. The rich succulent aroma of venison and rosemary wafted up. She stirred the thick stew, then quickly pared the clean vegetables and added them to it. While it simmered over the next several hours, she worked on cutting a carefully cured deer hide to make herself a warm winter coat.

   
“For a woman who never even learned to thread a needle while she was growing up, I’m not doing too badly,” she murmured to herself as she patiently plied the big steel needle through the tough leather the way Micajah had instructed her.

   
Around noontime she heard the sound of voices echoing down the valley and stood up with an anticipatory smile of welcome on her face.

   
“Umm, mm, somethin’ smells powerful good, Lil’ Sparky,” Micajah called out from across the clearing. He had given her the affectionate nickname not only because of her fiery hair but also because of her sometimes equally fiery temperament. He emerged from a dense stand of cottonwoods that grew up the side of the hill. A huge dirty white hound with a badly chewed right ear bounded past Micajah and raced to greet her, tail wagging as he let out a long, high-pitched howl.

   
“Dirt Devil, you old rascal you,” she said, reaching out to envelop him in a fierce hug as he nearly knocked her sprawling onto the ground. His liquid brown eyes filled with adoration and a big grayish tongue snaked out and slurped her with kisses.

   
Laughing heartily, she wrestled affectionately with the big dog, remembering how frightened of him she had been the first time she set eyes on his grizzled mangy old hide as he stood bristling, guarding the cabin door. It had not taken her more than an hour to win him from baring his yellow fangs to rolling on his back for scratches. Micajah had pronounced it nothing less than a full-blown miracle since the old hound had been abused as a pup, before he rescued him from a couple of drunken trappers. Dirt Devil had hated every other human he had ever come into contact with—until Olivia. Quickly they had become boon companions. She fed the hound choice tidbits and lay in front of the fire in the evenings scratching his belly and singing to him as Micajah played the fiddle.

   
“I brung us company,” Micajah said, as he neared the roughhousing pair. A tall, lithe Osage man walked beside him.

   
“Iron Kite, welcome,” Olivia said, rising and bowing respectfully to the fierce looking warrior. As was the custom of his people, he plucked all his facial hair and shaved his head except for the long scalp lock at the crown, which hung down his back adorned with feathers and shells. His lean, muscular body was a dark copper-bronze color, naked except for a breechclout, and covered with elaborate blue tattoos depicting his exploits in battle. His ears were pierced and the lobes greatly elongated by the weight of bone and glass bead earrings. Several heavy beaded necklaces hugged his throat. Iron Kite carried himself in barbaric splendor.

   
Once she would have gone faint at the sight of such an awesome savage, but since coming to live with Micajah Johnstone, she had learned to deal with many of the local tribes, especially the dominant Osage. Micajah was friendly with all the Indians and traded fine steel hatchets, knives and other survival tools made by the whites in exchange for whatever took his fancy, or what he could trade to the white rivermen: fine buckskin vests worked with porcupine quills, beaded moccasins, clay pottery and water-tight rush baskets.

   
Iron Kite returned her greeting gravely, nodding to the “boy-daughter” of the Great Bear, as Johnstone was known among his people. She was dressed in buckskin leggings and a short cotton tunic similar to those her adopted father wore, and she hunted and lived as a Long Knife in the wilderness. He did not understand such a way for a female, but he had learned to accept her because of his respect for Great Bear. They conversed in a polyglot of English, Spanish and Osage.

   
“It is good to see you again. Are you prepared for the fall hunt with all your butchering tools sharpened?” Iron Kite asked with the hint of a smile dancing in his eyes. He knew the “boy-daughter” was going to hunt with Great Bear, not sit with the squaws until the killing was done.

   
Olivia smiled, calmly ladling up two big bowls of stew and handing one to their guest.

   
“Great Bear and I bring our sharp tools...and our sharp eyes to hunt the buffalo,” she replied.

   
Micajah slapped his thigh and guffawed. “I done tole yew my Lil’ Sparky’s got grit. Yew shouldda seen her th’ first time I put a carbine in her hands ‘n tole her she wuz gonna learn ta shoot.” Micajah took his bowl of stew and squatted down in the shade of the big cottonwood beside the house next to Iron Kite to continue his story. Contrary to Osage custom, Olivia served herself at once and went to eat with the men.

   
As Micajah was warming up to the story about her first encounter with a rifle last spring, she could still remember it as if it were yesterday. She relived it as he described it to their guest.

   
Micajah had insisted that she carry the unloaded rifle every time she left the cabin. “Git yew used ta th’ heft o’ hit,” he had said. She had practiced lining up the sights and squeezing the trigger. For days he drilled her, until she had “killed” scores of rocks, saplings, soaring hawks and scampering squirrels. At last he pronounced her ready to actually load and fire the .69 caliber dragoon flintlock carbine.

   
Under the big man’s careful scrutiny, she began just as he had taught her to do. She finished priming the pan and then stood ready. Micajah nodded his approval. “Touch slow, but yew’ll pick up speed with practice. Now, thet’s yore mark.” He pointed at an oak about seventy-five yards away where he had shaved off a knot on the trunk, forming a white blaze a little larger than one of his hamlike fists.

   
Olivia started to cock the hammer. “Hold thar, Sparky. Lookee. Whenever yew git th’ chance, use a rest. Jist lean yore left shoulder agin’ thet dogwood yore standin’ next ta. Hit’ll help steady the barrel. Thet’s fine. Now let ‘er rip.”

   
As she had practiced a hundred times, Olivia cocked the rifle, brought it to her shoulder, took a breath, and exhaled slowly, lining up the sights on the blaze. The trick was, her mentor had taught her, to do everything in one smooth motion. As soon as the sights “found” the target, squeeze, not pull, the trigger. The rifle cracked loudly, belching forth a cloud of smoke. Prepared for neither the deafening report nor the choking smoke—not to mention the kick of the rifle butt against her shoulder—Olivia dropped the weapon.

   
Her shocked glance flew to Micajah, who was staring at the distant oak while scratching his chin hidden beneath the dense undergrowth of whiskers. “Well now, yew missed yore mark. Hit the tree, though, seen the bark fly.” He turned his attention to the rifle at Olivia’s feet. “Cain’t be throwin’ down yore piece after ever’ shot, Sparky. Makes reloadin’ powerful slow.” He walked closer, carrying the flint that had been dislodged from the flash pan. “Kindey hard on th’ piece, too.”

   
Olivia pretended to be looking down at the weapon as she chewed her lip, blinking back tears of humiliation.

   
“All right, Sparky,” the big man said patiently, “put thet carbine back together and load ‘er up agin. I’ll see whar yore ball hit.”

   
As he walked slowly toward the target, Olivia refixed the flash pan flint and prepared the rifle for another shot. She was ready when Micajah returned. His fingers were once again buried in his whiskers, searching for his skin, and he was smiling. “Reckon my eyes ain’t so good’s they used ta’ be. Did a mite better’n jist hit th’ tree, Sparky. Yore ball’s only a whisker below th’ mark, but dead center. I knowed fellers couldn’t do thet good after a lifetime. Yew jist might shine at this bidness.” Olivia flushed with sheer joy. “All right, now, try ‘er agin.”

   
She raised the rifle smoothly and confidently aimed. This time she missed the entire tree! She looked in astonishment at Micajah, who threw back his head with a roar of laughter. After a moment, Olivia could not help but join in.

   
“Okay, gal, load ‘er up agin n’ try ta remember yew ain’t Miz Dan’l Boone yet. Don’t be gittin’ too cocky.”

   
Then Micajah’ s voice brought her back to the present as he said, “Iron Kite here tells me he seen a pretty smart scatter ‘o buff lo where th’ Osage runs inta th’ Big Muddy.”

   
“That close! I expected we’d have to travel all the way to the plains where the Kaws hunt,” she replied, excited at the prospect of seeing and participating in her first buffalo hunt.

   
“The last hunt of the year will begin as soon as the crops are gathered. In one moon,” Iron Kite gestured holding up his index finger dramatically, “we will rendezvous at the place of the two rivers. Then the Osage men shall perhaps take a lesson in hunting from the Great Bear’s boy-daughter, Ember Woman.”

   
“You do me great honor to allow me to ride with such mighty hunters as the Osage. I will do my utmost to prove worthy,” she replied gravely.

   
Olivia knew the warrior had offered a fine bride price for her, which Micajah had very politely turned down, explaining that she already had a husband, a Long Knife who had entrusted her to the Great Bear’s care while he was away soldiering for the Americans. Although the idea struck painfully close to her memories of Samuel, Olivia agreed that it was the best solution to a ticklish situation for as long as she remained with him in the wilderness.

   
After the hunt they would return to prepare for winter by salting down meat, making more pemmican and drying the vegetables and fruits they had harvested. Although the snowy season in the Missouri woodlands was not unduly harsh compared to the fierce icy blasts on the upper reaches of the great rivers, it was still best to respect Mother Nature by preparing in case snows were deep, game scarce or in the worst case, if one of them became ill or injured.

   
Once spring arrived, Micajah would make his annual journey to St. Louis for the few simple necessities he bartered for with the city merchants. Olivia pondered what she would do when they returned to what used to be her home. Now and again, Micajah broached the subject of Samuel, speculating about whether he might be stationed at Fort Bellefontaine.

   
The canny old mountain man knew she still had feelings for the unprincipled rogue. Perhaps he even considered dragging the colonel at gunpoint to wed her. The very idea made Olivia shudder. Always she remained cool and noncommittal about Shelby since that first foolish unburdening she had made to Micajah when he had rescued her from the bear last spring. How she wished she could call back her teary confession about thinking the young colonel was the man of her dreams! Such dreams were the stuff of which ashes were made. She pushed all her fears about the future from her mind. Right now she would enjoy her new life, exhilarated by a newfound sense of self-sufficiency and freedom, the likes of which she had never imagined when confined by city streets.