Gone West (18 page)

Morning light found Johnny riding hard, always for the south. He was not an outdoorsman, but even he could follow the tracks left by Red Eagle through the plains grasses. The Indian had been either very sure of himself, or very much in a hurry to get his prize home. Perhaps both. Johnny castigated himself continuously for not keeping a closer eye on his wife, for believing, in pride, that his `superior intelligence’ had outsmarted the red man during their last encounter.

As he grew wearier and more worried his thoughts actually turned upon blaming Maggie. He’d never blamed her for anything, never even quarrelled with her before. But now, by heaven, he had a genuine bone to pick with the woman. What right had she to discount her beauty so completely? Had she no idea of what her form could do to other men? Had she really any idea of what it did to himself?

Thou has ravished my heart, my sister,
my
spouse; thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck . . . how much better is thy love than wine! and the smell of thine ointments than all spices!

When the stallion raised his head questioningly, Johnny realized he’d been thinking aloud. He’d been quoting Biblical love songs into a land of sudden darkness, as darkness itself; and of the shadow of death. Such this wilderness would become to him without his beloved. Had he ever told Meg her worth to him? Surely not often enough.

Self doubt set in as Johnny realized that
he
could be responsible for the hiding of Maggie’s light under a bushel. Could it be jealousy of other men? He’d never considered himself a jealous man. He’d just taken it all for granted. Meg’s beauty, her unconditional love for him~without strings of any sort~her total trust in him.

“Trust!” He growled the word aloud, then yelled it into the brightening sky.

“Trust!!”

She had entrusted her life into his hands, and what had he done? Dragged her away from a perfectly respectable, perfectly safe life in the East to fulfill his own selfish need for wandering.

Johnny castigated himself thus for another mile or so, resolving that when he got his woman back, a few things would change. The first being that she take a close look at herself and proceed accordingly. No more taking things for granted.

He’d get her back all right. He had no doubts on that account. How he’d get her back was another matter entirely. His mind and pulse were rushing too quickly to consider the hows with any intelligence. Not Shakespeare nor any of his books could help him now. All his quotes spread from here to Oregon would not make an ounce of difference.

Johnny tried to tear the years of study from his mind, to thrust all the words back into the early morning sky, to throw them at the heavens from whence they’d come. His mind must be clear and clean. It must be elemental, like that of his foe. For once Johnny Stuart must become a man of complete action. He’d find her, and he’d take her. That was that.

Gentle hands touched Maggie’s shoulders, her face, her hair. She looked up into the eyes of the two women. They were comforting now, sympathetic. The tall one, Corn Girl, gestured toward an open clay bowl nearby that Maggie’s first glance had missed. Water. She moved toward it and drank, then tried to splash it over her body. They stopped her. She stared at them, not comprehending. Slowly they pulled the destroyed gown over her head. Soothing noises came from their throats as they saw the bruises beginning to darken her body. With care and compassion Red Eagle’s two wives began to bathe her.

Corn Girl touched her enlarged breasts questioningly. She made motions of rocking a baby. Maggie nodded as tears came to her eyes again. She pointed toward what she felt was the direction of the camp, the direction of her baby daughter. Corn Girl touched a tear moving down Maggie’s face and pointed to a cradleboard sitting empty against the side of the hut. She made digging and burying motions. She had had a baby once. It had died. Maggie reached out her hand and felt Corn Girl’s scarred cheeks. Had the smallpox taken her baby? At her touch the woman nodded yes. Understanding was reached in the mutual grief of two women who had lost their children.

Soon she was clothed again, this time in a buckskin dress that obviously belonged to the taller woman. It must be her fancy dress, for it was fringed and beaded lovingly. Maggie forgot her predicament for a long moment to admire its decorations, to smile her approval into the eyes of its owner. Corn Girl smiled back, then blushed. Evening Star brought Maggie a bowl of corn mush.

Finally Maggie was prepared and led outside the lodge. The village was now deserted save for two braves obviously on sentry duty and several ancient women who sat hunched over primitive stone mortar and pestles, laboriously grinding corn into flour.

One of the braves turned. Maggie’s heart dropped. It was Snake. They stared into each other’s eyes for a defiant moment before Evening Star pulled impatiently at Maggie.

Where were they leading her? They hurried, as if late to work. They passed through the village quickly, then to its west, and Maggie understood.

Fields of young corn and squash spread out before her. Moving slowly between the rows were women and young girls with hoeing sticks. A few of them carried water pots which they shared sparingly, lovingly, with each individual plant. Maggie heard whoops of excitement and looked beyond the fields to where the boys were, playing war games, practicing with their bows and arrows.

Maggie began to understand how well the village was organized. These were far from primitive peoples. Each person had his own job. The boy-child must study to become a hunter and warrior, the girl-child to carry on the planting and housekeeping tasks of the community. Her appreciation was short-lived, however, because Evening Star was approaching, handing her a heavy jug and gesturing that watering was to be her duty.

Maggie accepted her chore. She must gain the trust of the women. If she were a good worker, she would be more readily accepted into their society. She would make their labor less, and thus be appreciated. She must play the game. She must elicit their trust. But tonight she would escape. Before the feast. Before the wedding.

She chose a parched row of struggling young corn and set into her task.

Johnny halted to rest his horses. There were two sets of tracks before him, diverging. Should he take the one bearing farther south, or the one to the west? Could he tell which tracks were the most recent?

He’d dismounted and was bending over the plains before him, considering, when he heard the sound of approaching horses. He raised his head, fully expecting to see Josh Chandler and his posse coming to meet him. He’d known he couldn’t keep Chandler at the camp for long. Johnny shaded his eyes and squinted into the rising sun.

“No! It’s not possible!”

The words thrust from his mouth with fury. Shock and confusion assailed him. It was not Chandler, but the Pawnee themselves! Johnny reached up to his saddle for his rifle, only to remember that he’d chosen not to bring it. God help him. What now?

Visions of Maggie being an Indian captive for life beset him. The nightmare of their two children left completely orphaned chased behind the first thought. What choice had he? Had he any choice?

The horses bore down, their hooves vibrating the ground beneath his feet. Johnny stood tall to meet the enemy.

Maggie had been watering for several hours, and the midmorning heat was becoming oppressive. She glanced toward the other women. Some sang softly to themselves, others paused to give directives to their daughters, or reach a reassuring hand to the papooses on their backs. None seemed wearied. Then again, none of them had been up all night, being abducted across the plains.

Maggie bowed low with her jug to deal with the next corn stalk. It was a wretchedly incompetent way to keep the plants alive. Hadn’t anyone explained the principles of irrigation to these people? That little stream flowing nearby, the one where the jugs were filled. It could quite easily be dammed. Channels could be dug to open into each row of the Pawnee fields. Lifegiving water would flow freely. The village women would be able to plant more, closer together. They would have a better and bigger crop. Why, if her father could spend one week with these people, their ways of farming could be changed forever, to the better.

A picture of Maggie’s strong, ascetic father crept into her mind. He was frowning. James McDonald would not approve of his eldest daughter spending the rest of her natural life among the heathen~married to one! And without the benefit of widowhood. Against her will as a marriage to Red Eagle might be, her father could only interpret it as living in sin. A fate worse than death.

Maggie paused, jug in hand, between sprouts. Was it really a fate worse than death? No. Nothing was worse than death. Death was too final, even with heaven on the other side. Try as she might, Maggie could not consider death as an alternative to her current plight. She must never despair, though like Paul she be “pressed out of measure, above strength.” She must trust in God for deliverance.

There was always hope. Hope for finding Johnny and her children again. She’d find them if she had to walk in their wake alone the next fifteen hundred miles. She’d walked the first piece, hadn’t she? Nothing could keep her from the hope that they would eventually make it to Oregon, together. Death would never find her willingly.

At that, Maggie felt an inordinate heat overtake her body. She collapsed into a dead swoon, her water jug cracked and abandoned at her side.

Johnny stood his ground while the hunting party circled. Finally they stopped, and Red Eagle confronted him.

“Stew-ert. Why do you trespass on our grounds?”

“You know. You have something that belongs to me.”

The Indian feigned innocence. “The Book of the Great Spirit was a gift.”

“True. But my wife was not!”

“Trade time gone. No more fourteen horses.” Red Eagle made a motion to swing his mount away.

“I don’t want the horses! I want my wife! And I shall get her!”

The Indian stayed his horse and those of the others with a simple motion of his hand. “Talk easy. I kill you now, she is mine.” He raised his rifle.

Johnny stood firm. “Is that the way of Pawnee warriors? To shoot a man who has no weapons? A man defenseless? I thought your honor was above that.”

“Sometimes honor is too much trouble.” But the bore of the rifle lowered an inch.

Johnny, grasping the only opportunity available to him, talked fast.

“Red Eagle. In my world we have a way to settle such disputes between men and their property, men and their women. Perhaps you have something like it in yours.” He paused and the Indian nodded that he was still listening. Johnny continued. “It is a way to settle things with complete honor. We call it a duel.”

Red Eagle raised an eyebrow quizzically. “What is this thing, this duel?”

“It means we fight, you and I, with none other involved. We fight anywhere you want, either until one of us is injured, or to the death. The winner takes and keeps my woman. Only then will it be fair and honorable. You may decide where we fight. You may choose if we fight till injured, or to the death. I will decide what weapons are to be used.”

The Indian considered, then nodded his head. “It is good. All will be final, honorable.” He swung around to his men, gave them a few sharp commands and returned his attention to Johnny.

“We fight at my village. To the death. My people will be made to understand. If you win, you and the woman may leave in freedom. Should I win, the marriage ritual will take place at once.”

He jabbed his mount and it reared up dramatically. “Onto your horse, Stew-ert. It is a handsome beast. I shall be glad to add it and the mare to my string when I have won.”

Johnny mounted the stallion with new hope. He had bought a little time. Now he must think hard and well about the proper weapon to use against the Pawnee chief. He knew he was at a disadvantage. He was not a man born to action. Neither had he any special martial skills to call to his aid. He did, however, have love and the right on his side. And as there was a God in the heavens, surely that would count for something.

In a haze of dust from the Indian ponies ahead of him, Johnny followed the braves back to their village, back to his woman.

Maggie woke, confused, in a dim, smoky cave. She opened her eyes wider and tried to understand her surroundings. She was lying on something soft and smoothly furry, with the smell of peat and smoke about it. It was a rich, strong aroma~a surprisingly comforting one. There was a scrape of pots next to her and she turned her head slightly to look into the face of an Indian woman. The nightmare returned. All of it: her foolish late walk to the spring; her capture by Red Eagle; his wife Corn Girl.

Maggie tried to sit, but a strong dizziness overcame her and she sank back into the buffalo robes. Corn Girl reached for a dampened scrap of buckskin and wiped Maggie’s face. She spoke slowly, comfortingly. Maggie wished she could understand the words. The woman moved away for a moment to return with something steaming in a bowl. She motioned for Maggie to try to sit up again, to taste from the bowl.