Next Spring an Oriole (2 page)

The rain was everywhere. It poured off the brim of Papa’s hat so that he could hardly see. It lay in puddles on the top of the wagon’s canvas roof. If we brushed against the canvas, water dripped into the wagon. The rain slid down the backs of Ned and Dan and got into their ears so that they flicked them and shook their heads.

The trail became soft and squishy. The wagon wheels sunk deeper and deeper. Papa jumped down from the wagon so it would be lighter. He pulled on the horses’ bridles and coaxed them along. After a little while Mama climbed down and walked alongside Papa. In minutes her dress and shawl were soaked through. Her wet skirt clung to her legs, and its hem was scalloped with mud.

We came to a long hill so slick with mud that Papa had to tie a dead tree to the wagon. He and Mama climbed back into the wagon so it would be heavy and wouldn’t go sliding down the slippery hill. Ned and Dan kept pulling. They were tired and moving slowly, and their hoofs made an awful sucking sound each time they pulled them out of the mud.

At the bottom of the hill we found a stream. The rain was letting up and we all got out of the wagon to see how deep the water was. Then the sun came out; a hot June sun. The banks on either side of the river began to steam with heat. Papa threw off his hat and jacket. “The river is swollen from the rain,”
he said. “We’d better camp here. In the morning the water will be lower and we’ll make it across.” He looked at Mama, whose clothes and face and hair were plastered with mud. Papa began to laugh. Mama looked angry for a minute. Then she laughed too.

“You look just as bad as I do, Rob Mitchell, and it’s time you had a bath.” With that she pushed him into the river and then waded in herself. In a minute I jumped in too. We splashed one another and scrubbed off the mud and washed our clothes. When we were clean, we waded out of the stream and lay down on the grass. Mama had washed her hair and spread it out in the sun to dry. When I touched it, it was so warm from the sun it seemed almost alive.

Papa led Ned and Dan down to the river-bank and sloshed them with pails of water. While Papa was washing down the horses, Mama got out her sketchbook and drew Papa’s picture. I like to watch her draw. She catches her lower lip between her teeth and frowns a little, and she always finds more to put in her picture than I can see. I was watching Papa sluice down the horses, but I hadn’t seen the fond look he gave them or the gentleness in his hands. All that was in Mama’s drawing.

In the morning the river was down and we forded the stream easily. Once on the other
side, the trail gave out. It looked like we could go one way as well as another. Papa shook his head. “You and Libby stay with the wagon,” he told Mama, “and I’ll ride Ned a little way into the woods and see where these trails lead.” He took his musket with him. “I’ll find us some partridge for dinner,” he promised.

When Papa came riding back, an Indian was walking alongside him. We had seen Indians on our trip and they had done us no harm, but I had never been so close to one. This man had on deerskin trousers, leggings, and a long shirt. On his feet were moccasins. His long black hair, all but a few locks, hung down his back. The few locks were coiled into a little heap on the top of his head and were stuck through with feathers. He carried a musket like Papa’s.

“Vinnie,” said Papa, “this man is a Potawatomi. He and his family are camped near here. They were on their way to Saginaw to sell some skins to the fur company, but their daughter is very ill and they can’t travel until she is better.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Mama asked.

“She has measles,” Papa said. He turned to me. “You remember, Libby, when you had them two years ago. We had a hard time keeping you in bed. But when the Indians get measles it is much more serious. The little girl looks feverish.”

“Rob, tell them we will take the child in our wagon. She can rest on our bed and I can nurse her.”

Papa and the Indian were soon back. Between them they carried a kind of movable bed made of two long poles and strips of birch bark. On the cot was the Indian girl, and walking along behind her was an Indian woman and a small boy. Papa carried the girl into our wagon and laid her down gently. She was a little older than I. Her long black hair lay spread over the pillow. She wore a plain
shift that came to her knees. She was moaning softly and seemed barely able to open her eyes. When she saw us standing over her, she looked frightened, as though, were she able, she would surely run away.

“We must do something about her fever,” Mama said. She bathed the girl with cool water and brewed some tea from sage leaves for her. The girl slept most of the afternoon. Mama said as long as I was quiet I might sit near the bed. In spite of the red measles on her face, I thought the Indian girl so pretty I couldn’t take my eyes from her. I was happy to know, too, that somewhere in the woods there was a girl nearly my age.

At dinnertime the girl drank a little broth Mama made for her from a partridge Papa had shot. We shared our dinner with the girl’s mama and papa and little brother, but they would not sit by the fire with us. Instead, they carried their partridge and corn cakes a little way off from the wagon. While they ate they never took their eyes from us. This made us uneasy. “They seem not to trust us, Rob,” Mama said.

“They have little reason to. First the white man buys the Indians’ land for a pittance, and now I hear tell they want to round up all the Potawatomis and take them west of the Mississippi.”

That night the Indians slept under the trees, wrapped in their blankets to protect them from the mosquitoes.

The girl was better in the morning, and it was decided that she could rest in the wagon while we continued on our way. The Indians followed along, keeping a little distance between themselves and the wagon, but never letting us out of their sight.

The girl’s eyes were open now and she watched everything we did. I wanted to try to talk with her but Mama said she must rest, and anyhow, she probably would not understand me. At this I saw the girl’s eyes open a little wider, but she said nothing. She drank the tea and broth Mama fixed for her and even took the medicine she was given without a murmur. When I had the measles and had to take it, I complained loudly that it was bitter and bad tasting.

The next day the Indian girl was well enough to return to her family. Had it been our family, there would have been much hugging and joyful words when we were reunited. The Indians took back their daughter in silence.

The Potawatomis led us to a narrow trail and, indicating the direction we were to take, left us without once looking back. We were only a short time on the road when we came to a stand of trees whose very newest leaves were brown and withered. Papa showed me circles that had been cut into the bark of all the trunks. “They girdle the trees,” he said, “so the leaves die. Then they have enough sunlight to grow a crop.” We could see where the ground had been plowed, the furrows winding in and out of the trees. “I suppose the farmers must clear the land if they are to eat, but I hate to see a sight like this, for the trees are wasted.”

Moments later we saw a cabin. There were no windows in the cabin, but a man stood in the doorway. He was the largest, fattest man
I have ever seen. He looked us up and down, and then he said, “Welcome to Saginaw, the end of the world, and the Lord have mercy upon you.”

III

The man was most friendly to us and told us his name was Herbert LaBelle. He had a funny way of saying his words. Mama said he was a Frenchman. I couldn’t help staring at him. On his head he wore a fur hat that Papa said was mink, and over his prodigious body he wore a great cape so that he looked like a small mountain. His wife came to welcome us. A friendly woman, as thin as her husband was fat, she was attended by several small children dressed in ragged clothes. The children’s faces were dirty and their hair was cut so short it stood up on their heads like the quills of a porcupine.

As the LaBelles were leading us toward
their cabin we heard a great stirring and rumbling. In the twilight we could make out the shape of a huge animal tethered to a stake. The beast reared up and I hid behind Papa.

Mr. LaBelle said, “Don’t mind him. It’s just our bear, Voltaire. We keep him for a watchdog. Mind you don’t get too close. He’s not particular if his supper is cooked or uncooked or if it walks on four legs or two.”

Mrs. LaBelle urged us into their cabin, and as graciously as if they had been fine chairs, pulled up some tree stumps for us to sit upon. There was only a dirt floor and it was not well swept. Bedclothes were piled here and there, and the walls were covered with all kinds of dried animal skins. Wooden dishes were scattered over a long plank that served as a table. There were no candles, only long strips of pork fat coiled into a tin cup. Sizzling and splattering as it burned, it gave hardly any light. There was very little food on the table, but Mrs. LaBelle and her husband hastened to share it with us.

The many little children tumbled over one another to assist their mother. They must not have seen many visitors, for they crept close to us, staring up at Mama and Papa and me and touching our clothes. They took after their father with their chubby little bodies
and round faces. Their short haircuts and strange clothes made it difficult to tell which were girls and which were boys, but after a while I sorted them out into three little girls and two boys.