Courting Morrow Little: A Novel (51 page)

Beyond the cave, a shot sounded, and wary eyes fastened on
her, her guide's gaze communicating a dozen different things.
The sound reverberated for long moments, chilling her with its
crisp finality. As he edged closer to the entrance, fear swept over
her like a fever. On shaking legs, she retreated toward the back
of the cave, where the fire sizzled and the smell of roasting meat
thickened in the damp air and threatened to expose them.

For a panicked moment, she nearly gave in to stomping out
the fire with her foot. He disappeared from sight, then returned
when the turkey was so succulent it fell off the bone. But his
demeanor forbade any talking, and she served him in silence, knowing he needed the strength of a meal and the fire's warmth
even as her unasked questions created an ache in her chest.

As he ate, rifle at the ready, he never took his eyes off the
cave entrance. She sat beside him, in too much turmoil to take
even one bite, and he finally whispered, "We're being followed.
Whoever it is brought down a deer with that shot you heard,
but I couldn't get close enough to see who it was. Our trail is
pretty cold, but they're getting closer. Best stay here till I can
figure out who it is"

His intensity only fueled her angst, and she turned the facts
over in her mind. A lone hunter? Talks About Him? Oh, Red
Shirt, where are you? She bent her head and prayed, then ate
what she could. Beside her, Rosebud was cooing again and had
found her stocking-clad feet.

"I think everything will turn out all right," the man across
from her said quietly, passing her a canteen of water.

She nodded and tried to smile, her eyes returning again and
again to the cave entrance, where a fine fog hovered like a white
curtain. Her voice was a broken whisper. "I can never repay you
for what you've done"

He seemed to color slightly and lifted a hand to remove his
hat. The sight of the beaver felt resurrected a host of memories.
Pa had had such a hat, though they were common enough on the
frontier. She could view her guide plainly from beneath the brim's
shadow and now assessed him in one sweep. Rusty hair that might
have once been red. Cool blue gray eyes. He was long and lean
as leather string. A bit older than herself, she guessed.

When she dropped her eyes, she felt him studying her as well,
but it wasn't the way a man studied a woman he found pretty.
He seemed to look past her appearance, beyond the soiled Irish
linen dress and borrowed shoes, as if trying to place her.

"I keep thinking I've seen you before;' he said. "But I disremember"

She brightened. "I feel the same'

"Any ideas?" he asked.

Befuddled, she shook her head and began to hum a lullaby,
rocking Rosebud where she sat, the firelight dancing on the damp
walls. Across from her, he sat with his buffalo robe about his
shoulders, eyes on the cave opening, rifle in hand. She stopped
her humming, afraid the barest echo would alert the enemy. On
the other hand, might it bring Red Shirt back to her?

Rosebud looked up, her wee mouth puckered as if the silence
nettled. Morrow crawled into her bed of blankets, holding her
daughter close. The fire shifted and settled, and she closed her
eyes, a prayer already forming on her lips. She had a family ...
another baby on the way. She ached for her former life, unsettled as it was. Having blessed her so abundantly, the Almighty
wouldn't let it end. Would He?

On the third day they left the cave behind. The woods seemed
weighted with silence, as if they were the only living souls in the
entire wilderness. Morrow felt blindingly disoriented. If not for
this man, she wouldn't even know where she was. Hemmed in
by dense forest, unable to get her bearings, she fought the urge
to cling to him more closely. Even the birdsong was suspended
and the gloom of the day was unrelieved, as were her spirits.

"It's going to storm, her guide said, studying the sky. "Temperature's dropping, and we'll likely see snow by morning"

They'd stumbled onto a half-face camp on the side of a ridge,
abandoned by trappers, and he proceeded to build a fire. She
worked as best she could helping him unpack the horses, Rosebud growing heavy in her sling, while he made supper from the
provisions at hand. When they were seated in the shelter, she
served him and herself, smiling her appreciation when he said,
"Takuwah-nepi."

Bread water. The meal Red Shirt had made when they'd first
been on the trail. The memory only deepened the sadness inside her. She began feeding Rosebud and said, "You know a lot
about the Shawnee"

"I lived with them for a time. Married a Shawanoe woman."

Surprised, she took another bite of the gruel he'd laced generously with molasses, thinking of the tender care the Mekoche
midwife had shown her. "I suppose there's much to admire about
them-the Shawnee, I mean"

He nodded. "Intelligent. Brave. Eloquent. Tolerant of whites
who want to learn their ways. It's a shame it's so one-sided:"

She thought of Colonel Clark and McKie and all the Indian
haters she knew. But for Pa, she'd have been among them. "How
old was your little girl?" she dared to ask, not looking at him.

He hesitated, eyes on the fire. "Nearly two. She died of smallpox, same as my wife:"

"I'm sorry." The words, though heartfelt, seemed woefully
inadequate.

"You're no stranger to suffering yourself from the sound of
it. Didn't you say your father died last year?"

She nodded. "Pa had consumption. My mother and sister
died years before in an Indian raid ... and my brother was taken
captive. Pa tried to find him, participate in a prisoner exchange,
but nothing ever came of it'

"Sometimes white captives want to stay missing;' he said
simply.

She nodded, wiping Rosebud's mouth. "I've heard the same"

"Was it Shawnees who killed your ma and sister ... took
your brother?"

She hesitated, thinking of Surrounded. "Yes"

He eyed her thoughtfully. "How'd you come to make peace?"

"My father made peace with them. One winter he took in
a sick Indian boy during a blizzard and nursed him back to
health. He turned out to be the half-blood son of a chief. After
that the boy and his father kept coming back. Pa thought they
might know about Jess-"

"Your brother?"

She nodded. "He was a few years older than me, about ten
when he was taken. For a long time I couldn't forgive the Shawnee for what they'd done. But Pa ..." She hesitated, feeling the
familiar lump thicken in her throat. "Pa refused to hold a grudge.
I wanted to be like him, but it took time"

He nodded slowly as if understanding all she couldn't say.

"I heard you singing to your baby last night. Are you
French?"

"My mother was, but I don't remember much about her. I
guess I'm thinking of a song she sang to me."

"You've forgotten the last line, he told her, setting his bowl
aside. "It goes like this" He sang a few words in perfect French,
stunning her with his fine baritone.

"H-how did you know?"

He shrugged. "I've lived among the French all my life-traders
and trappers and their wives up around Vincennes. I know a
few ditties, most of them unmentionable"

She stared at him openly now, though he seemed not to notice,
busy as he was assembling shot and powder. Something about
the angle of his jaw, the way he held his mouth while speaking,
the smile that was bewilderingly familiar ...

She swallowed down her inhibitions and heard herself say,
"What's your name?"

The rough hands that cleaned the fine rifle stilled. "Louis."

Louis, or Lewis? First name, or last? She felt a stinging disappointment and began fussing with Rosebud, folding a length of
linen and swaddling her bottom before tying the ends off. She
wished he'd tell her more about himself and satisfy her curiosity,
but he'd put on his hat, and the simple gesture seemed to build a
wall between them. He kept busy with his rifle, his actions telling
her he was about to go hunting. When she looked up again, he
was handing her a weapon. The flintlock pistol gleamed silver
in the firelight, its handle smooth and worn.

"Know how to shoot?" he asked. When she shook her head,
he said, "Time you learned how. I've loaded it for you. All you
have to do is cock this here and pull the trigger"

She marveled at the weapon's strangeness, praying she'd have
no occasion to use it.

"I'll be back before long, hopefully with a bear or buffalo. We
need fresh meat and can jerk a bit for the rest of the trip. If you
see a panther or anything that spooks you, don't hesitate to use
it." His warning gaze slid into a grin. "Just don't shoot me"

She merely nodded and held Rosebud tighter, backing up
further into the shelter. At the sight of his retreating back, she
felt a sharp, cold lonesomeness.

When he'd reached a tall cedar almost out of sight, he turned
back to her, his deep voice cutting through the twilight. "You
stay put-don't even twitch-till I come back"

You stay put-don't even twitch-till I come back.

The words seemed to echo across time like the skimming
of a rock on a murky pond, each word a ripple, resurrecting
memories of a different place, a different life. They were Jess's
words, the same ones he'd uttered on the banks of the Red River
when the Shawnee first came. The last words she'd ever heard
him say. She lay Rosebud down and scrambled out of the shelter
after him, bewildered and disbelieving.

The cedar where he'd been standing stood stalwart, its graceful branches brushing her as they swayed in the wind. But he
was gone, and there was no sense running after him. The snow
he'd predicted was already erasing his tracks, falling and swirling
in a lovely winter's dance that nearly made her forget where and
who she was. For a few moments, she was five again, standing
alone on the riverbank with what was left of her shattered life.

The sound of Rosebud's cooing pulled her back. She returned
to the shelter, praying that Louis-for that is what he'd come to
be in her mind-would find his way back. All she had to do was
stay put and feed the fire at the front of the shelter. There was
no moon tonight, but it didn't seem to matter, for the snow was
bright as a lantern even with the last of daylight snuffed out.

He giveth snow like wool: he scattereth the hoarfrost like
ashes.

Just when it seemed her hope was spent, God had sent the
snow. The trail of man or beast was plain for all to see, though in
this unending forest it seemed of little consequence. Yet might
it lead Red Shirt to her? Or her to him? She dismissed all other
terrifying possibilities. The pistol lay beside her, and she eyed it
as she held Rosebud. Surely even a panther had sense enough
to take cover on such a night.

After a time she fell asleep, pulling the buffalo robe close
about her. But her dreams were disturbing, confused. She jerked
awake at the report of a rifle.

The world she awoke to was not the one of an hour before.
Just beyond the mouth of the shelter, the snow lay calf-deep.
Her gaze traveled from the dwindling fire to the far cedar, where
she saw a man. Not Louis. The shadow was too tall and moved
in an altogether different manner. One of Clark's men? Talks
About Him?

Panic rose up and seemed to smother her. Something told her
he'd not take her captive again but would kill her. Shaking, she
held up the gun. The cold metal seemed to hurt her hand.

Father, forgive me.

For Red Shirt she did this. And her babies.

When he was within twenty feet of the half-face shelter, she
cocked the gun. It snapped in the cold, inviting her to finish. She
held it with both hands to quell her trembling. Closer and closer
the shadow came till it stood between her and the fire.

"Morrow?"

With a cry she dropped the pistol, and it went off with a flash,
blinding her. Warily, Red Shirt bent over and began to make
his way toward them, while Rosebud cried with such ferocity it
seemed to shake the very shelter.