Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (42 page)

Warming to the anticipation in his voice, she shut the thought
of Jess away. In two weeks' time, when she could still travel
comfortably, they'd leave this dusty, crowded place. They'd go
west to make a home of their own. Home. Surely there was no
sweeter word than this.

The following days were spent readying for the journey, selecting the best horses to take them west, taking stock of supplies,
medicines, food. Queasiness gone, Morrow felt better than she
had in months. Stronger and more settled. Lighter in spirit.
Trapper Joe's parting words returned to her over and over like a
song she never tired of singing. Prime countryfor hunting, prime
country for living. Already Missouri felt like home to her, and
she sensed Red Shirt's excitement was as keen as her own.

Three days before their departure, Surrounded by the Enemy
arrived on his way east, a hundred or more Kispoko warriors
in his wake. They stood just beyond the fort's postern gate in the swirling dust of late spring, their tawny bodies glistening
with bear oil, their mounts tossing their heads and stamping the
ground as if aware they were part of an important procession.
Loramie greeted them on the grassy plain, Red Shirt with him.
Morrow followed at her husband's urging, more than a little
awed, mindful that this was likely the last time she'd see the man
who'd forged such an unlikely friendship with her father.

Surrounded took her by the shoulders, looking down at her
from his impossible height, a slight smile warming his face. "I
wish that I could return by way of the Red River and bring your
father to you. It would be good for him to see you so content and
soon to bear a child." The English words-seeming rusty with
disuse-were interspersed with Shawnee yet so full of feeling
they brought tears to her eyes.

She stood by Red Shirt and watched the procession move east
in a great swath, feathers fluttering and silver flashing. Though
they lacked war paint and were en route to a customary council, their faces were grim and they bore all the weapons of war.
Watching them leave, she felt a profound welling of relief that
Red Shirt remained behind. Yet she wondered ... deep down,
did he want to go?

She saw the grim set of his mouth, the little sun lines about
his eyes that creased in concern as the last man faded into the
distant tree line. But her thoughts were already turning to Missouri, far away from war talk and treaty-making, well beyond
the summons of American officers and Indian agents. She was
only too glad to resume packing.

Red Shirt turned to her amidst the chaos of the cabin and
studied her as he'd not done for days, distracted as he'd been
with the Missouri trip. "Morrow, I thought you beautiful before.
But now.. "

She flushed, her hands self-consciously covering her bulk.
"I'm only beautiful to you:"

Almost overnight it seemed she'd blossomed as wide and
pink as the wild roses scattered across the river bottoms. For
a fleeting moment, she saw concern darken his eyes. Was he
wondering if she was up to the trip, if she could travel so far,
heavy with child as she was becoming? Turning away, she resumed packing. Nothing must get in the way of their leaving.
Nothing. She, most of all.

Morrow spent her last afternoon at Loramie's Station along
the creek with Josee. The day was almost summerlike, the heat
ratcheting up as if driven by some devilish hand. Come morning they would leave for Missouri in a swirl of dust. She was all
but counting the hours, nearly bursting to begin, though the
trail west would be all ablaze. But better that than ankle-deep
in mud, she guessed. For now she tried to savor the cold water
and carefree play erupting all around her. With a shriek, Josee
splashed about with the children of trappers and Indians, the
boys clutching miniature bows and arrows, the little girls bearing
miniature cradle boards with rawhide dolls upon their backs.

Watching her charge at play in the water, Morrow hardly noticed the commotion at the front gate. But in time her eye was
drawn to the ponderous procession of horses stirring the dust
and one lone stallion pulling a litter. They moved slowly, the fine
mounts stripped of all the accoutrements the Shawnee were
known for-flashing silver and brightly colored cloth and fine
leather. How different they looked from Surrounded's proud party
two days before. These were horses of sorrow, of mourning.

Sweat beaded her brow, coursing from her hairline in itchy
trickles as she stood and brushed the dust off her muslin skirt.
Since early afternoon, a steady stream of frontiersmen and Indians had passed through the gates to trade. It was a day like any
other, save the unusual heat. Red Shirt was not out on a scout but inside the post with Loramie, looking at maps of the Missouri territory and finalizing the best routes for travel. Glancing
at the watch pinned to her bodice, she realized it was nearly
suppertime and remembered Angelique liked the girls to bathe
and dress beforehand.

"Josee;' she called, her eyes on the shimmering blueness where
Loramie's youngest daughter played. "We need to return to the
fort. 'Tis nearly time for supper."

She glanced again toward the post's gates, but the Shawnee
had disappeared behind the tall pickets. The Shawnee horses
she'd seen moments before now stood outside without their
riders, though the one bearing a litter had disappeared within.
Loramie was hurrying to a far blockhouse, hardly giving her
a glance. A deep dread clenched her insides as she sent Josee
into Angelique's waiting arms and began the short walk to her
cabin.

When she neared the largest blockhouse, she heard men's
voices. The wind gusted and sent a skiff of dust through the open
doorway, drawing her attention to the scene inside. A dozen
bare, tawny backs kept her from seeing the heart of the ordeal,
but the voice that reached her was Red Shirt's own. Though he
spoke Shawnee, it lacked the melodious quality she'd come to
know. He seemed to be stumbling over his words, each syllable
aggrieved.

She stepped over the threshold, and the distillation of sweat
and dust and bear grease nearly nauseated her. For a few moments she struggled to adjust to the dimness after the sun's
brilliance, and then the shadows assumed familiar forms. Surrounded lay on a military cot, Red Shirt beside him. A British surgeon hovered, his shadow dancing in the light of a tin
lantern.

Red Shirt's voice was the only sound in the suddenly still
room. "Father, do you know where you're going?"

The reply was a long time coming. "It is very dark over there,"
Surrounded finally said.

"It doesn't have to be;' Red Shirt answered.

She heard the catch of sorrow in his voice, and her heart
swelled. Breathless, she leaned against the rough log wall and
simply listened as Red Shirt switched to Shawnee. Angelique
came to stand beside her, whispering the translation in her ear.
Red Shirt was repeating Pa's poignant words of the past. Of
death being a new land, a new life. A beginning, not an end.
Light, not darkness.

Angelique was silent now, as if she could no longer grasp
the interchange between father and son. Confused, Morrow
looked across the room at Loramie. Even in the shadows, there
was no denying the alarm spelled across his thin face. His eyes
held a warning-a flicker of disbelief and profound dismay. The
voices hushed. Time seemed to have frozen still right there in
the suffocating heat of the blockhouse. The Shawnee in front
of her stood like stone. Finally Loramie came to her and took
her outside, where the flies buzzed and the sun beat down on
her stooped shoulders.

Surrounded by the Enemy was dead, Loramie said. His horse
had thrown and trampled him after only two days' travel to
Fort Pitt. As he lay dying, he cried out for his son and asked
for forgiveness.

For killing Ma and Euphemia and taking Jess.

Overwhelming anguish took hold of her, and she clamped a
hand over her mouth to keep it from spilling out. Before she could
turn away from Loramie, Red Shirt stepped outside, his dark eyes
fastening on her at once. The distress on his face was beyond anything she'd ever seen, and she felt as tenuous as shattered glass.

"Morrow.. "

She shook her head in denial, clutching her handkerchief
tight as if it could ground her. He took one step in her direction, and she folded like a paper fan. Bending down in the dust, he
gathered her up and took her inside their cabin, kicking a stool
and crate out of the way. Sitting in the cluttered room, he held
her and told her what she had no wish to hear.

"My father is dead, Morrow. There was some trouble with
the horses and he fell:" He swallowed hard, his hand a bit heavy
as he stroked her hair. "He confessed some things-"

"I know ... I heard ... heard it all:' All. The simple word
encompassed a bottomless pit of hurt and loss. She sensed his
struggle as he weighed how much to say-to hold back.

"He asked your father to forgive him. . "

Oh no ... She felt all the blood leave her face. The thought
of Pa hearing such a confession, having to forgive something so
terrible and irreversible was beyond understanding ... beyond
bearing.

"Your father forgave him. But neither he nor my father wanted
us to know"

Her voice broke. "Why?"

"They didn't want to destroy the love they saw between us:"

She was weeping now, grieving Pa all over again. "I'd rather
not know-not now."

"He was afraid we'd learn the truth another way. From the
warriors who were with him that day."

She shook her head, shaking now, nearly sick. "How could he
keep coming to the cabin ... pretending to be a friend-"

"Morrow, my father was grieved by what he'd done. When
he came to know your father-his God-he saw the evil in his
heart and was ashamed"

The truth trickled over her bit by bit, ushering in a blessed
numbness. She simply sat and listened dully as he said, "My
father wanted to bring your brother back, but too much time
had passed. He only remembers telling the other warriors to
take him north after the raid on your cabin."

Something inside her was extinguished at the revelation-a
tiny flame of hope kept alive since she was five. Jess.

She couldn't breathe and pushed Red Shirt away. He released
her reluctantly, a shadow darkening his face. He'd just lost his
own father. Surely she could understand that. But she couldn't
offer any sympathy-nor hear any more of what Pa had never
meant for her to know.

"Morrow.. "

She turned her head, unable to look at him, to handle both
his pain and hers. As she stepped away, Loramie came to stand
between them, uttering things about preparing the body for
burial at the nearest Indian town in keeping with Shawnee custom. Red Shirt left and she was glad to see him go, glad when
Angelique took her into their house to the upstairs room where
she'd been so ill the past winter.

Red Shirt returned the next morning, face drawn and eyes
bloodshot. But he stood stalwart before her, following her with
his eyes while she did the most menial tasks to avoid him. Finally
he said, "Morrow, I must go ... to Fort Pitt"

What? She whirled to face him, the words like a physical
blow. Grasping the back of a chair, she fastened her eyes on his
grieved face.

"I'm not asking you to understand-nor can I explain it to
you.

"But-"

"I don't want to leave you nor break the promise I made to
your father. Loramie has warned me against going as well-"

"Then why would you?" She grasped the chair harder, amazed
at his calm. "You're going because your father asked you to ...
as he lay dying. . "

"Not my earthly father, Morrow" He hesitated, the tense silence between them lengthening. His tired eyes held hers steadfastly and seemed to demand something of her. "Has God never
asked you to do anything?"

"W-what has God to do with this?" She was so angry she felt
the tick of her pulse in her forehead and wrist. She groped about
for words as hurt and confusion filled her. "You might not come
back-our baby may grow up without a father-"