Midwife of the Blue Ridge (53 page)

Tom. He’d hoped the Shawnee would be sympathetic to the no-

tion of a dream quest. Considered to be messages from the Great

Spirit, dreams were never taken lightly among the Ojibwe, and

extraordinary efforts were regularly expended to make sense of

one’s dream visions.

“In the awake world,” Tom began, his eyes locked with Mag-

gie’s, “I knew a woman. She was a very good woman, but I

treated her badly.” And though he knew she could not fathom a

word he said, Maggie seemed to understand nonetheless. She

drew a shuddered breath and her bottom lip caught on her teeth.

“The hunt called to me, and I left this good woman behind with

angry words.”

“The hunt . . .” Men nodded in understanding. “Left her

behind . . .” Women shook their heads in disgust.

Skootekitehi shot a glance over his shoulder at the old woman

who had taken the tobacco and suggested, “Life with a woman

can be trying.”

“Yes, Grandfather, but equally, life without a woman can be

more so. The woman I ill-used now haunts my dreams. Plagued

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by these visions, I find no rest. I have no appetite for good meat

and sugar. No desire for the hunt . . .”

“Coo-wigh!”
A sharp scream interrupted Tom’s speech.

Grunted complaints resounded through the crowd as Simon

muscled his way to the front lines, pushing and shoving to take a

stance at Maggie’s side. Tom duly noted the war club gripped in

Simon’s ready fi st.

“Coo-wigh-wigh-wigh!”
Simon screamed again, his sinister

face painted red across the eyes like the mask on a raccoon. Mag-

gie drew her blanket tight, shuffled sideways, and linked arms

with the medicine woman holding the fawn on its lead.

Clearly annoyed by Simon’s rude interruption, Skootekitehi

flicked his fingers. “Go on, Ghizhibatoo . . .”

Tom continued: “I woke with the moon high in the sky and

spied the white fawn shining beneath a laurel tree. I rubbed my

eyes, thinking myself still in the dreamworld. But I was awake,

and when the white fawn ran away, I was compelled to follow its

tracks.”

A murmur of agreement whiffl ed around the clearing.

“Of course.”

“Anyone would do the same.”

“Grandfathers and grandmothers! Brothers and sisters!” Tom

threw out his arms. “The white fawn led me here—to your vil-

lage.”

“O-ho!”

“The Long Knife lies!” Simon stepped forward, brandishing his

club. “His white-man tongue spreads lies like wind spreads fi re.”

Tom did not waver. He stood his ground and held his hands

out, palms up. “You can see I have come in peace, brother, un-

armed—”

“Brother!
Pah!
” Simon spat into the dirt.

“Control yourself, Penagashea,” Skootekitehi warned. “Ghi-

zhibatoo has the protection of the elders, and we would hear him

speak . . .”

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
375

Simon sputtered, “But he lies, Grandfather . . .”

The medicine woman grasped Simon by the arm, scolding,

“Show respect, little brother.”

“Leave me be, Noolektokie.” Simon shrugged free of her grip.

“I say he lies!”

Tom played to the audience, his arms outstretched. “The white

fawn did not lie to me, for I see my dream-vision woman stand-

ing among the Shawano—there!” He pointed to Maggie, whose

eyes grew wide in their dark circles.

“No!” Simon snarled. “Ghizhibatoo lies!”

“The white fawn does not lie,” someone shouted from the

crowd.

Simon protested. “No! Mag-kie is my woman. I saved her!”

“Penagashea

.

.

.” Noolektokie tried to reason with her

brother. “The white fawn showed him the way . . .”

“Listen to what the fawn tells us!” a woman called out.

“Wise ones!” Tom shouted above the uproar. “Let me have my

dream-vision woman!”

“
No!
Mag-kie belongs to
me
!” Simon grabbed Maggie by the

arm.

Maggie jerked away, stumbling backward.

With one hand, Noolektokie hung tight to the skittish fawn’s

lead; she laid the other on Simon’s shoulder. “Little brother, Ghi-

zhibatoo was brought here by the white fawn.”

With a growl, Simon tossed his war club away and shoved his

sister aside. Maggie moved back, pressing into the burgeoning

crowd. Tom rushed forward.

Catching the sun for an instant, bright steel fl ashed from Si-

mon’s sheath—and in the same instant, Simon drew his sharp

blade across the fawn’s white, white throat.

In the silence of stunned dismay, Tom grappled with Simon,

wrested the knife from his fist, and fl ung it aside. Others stepped

up to separate the pair. Struggling, Simon was restrained in a

grip between two big warriors.

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Blevins

The fawn staggered a few steps, then collapsed into a broken

pile. Noolektokie dropped to her knees beside it, tears streaming

down her face as she stroked the baby’s brow. Blood pulsed from

the gaping wound, pooling into a scarlet mirror around its head.

Pink eyes fl uttered to close.

Many amid the uneasy crowd clutched amulets for protection

against the bad medicine of seeing such a thing. The elders gath-

ered to stand over the dead fawn. Skootekitehi shook his head.

He turned his back on Simon and faced Tom.

“Ghizhibatoo of the Anishnaabe—you have honored us and

behaved as a true human being. Take your dream-woman, and

may the Great Spirit direct your way.”

Simon heaved himself forward like a spitting snake. His guards

held firm. He calmed, and a malevolent smile crossed his face. In

English he shouted, “The day will come soon when I fi nd you in

my sights, Tom Roberts!”

Tom turned and, in English, calmly replied, “And I’ll be wait-

ing for you. Grease it, paint it—no matter—that white skin of

yours makes a good mark to shoot at.”

“Let’s go”—Maggie’s fingers wrapped his wrist—“afore the

heathens change their minds.”

Tom caught Skootekitehi’s eye and called out, “Thank you,

Grandfather!”

The old chief drew himself tall and swept one arm up to the

sky, shooing them on their way. The crowd parted like prairie

grass in a high wind. Tom clasped Maggie’s hand in his, and to-

gether, they ran for the woods.

25

The Warrior’s Path

Tom held tight to Maggie’s hand as they ran into the forest. They

fl ew past the pawpaw trees, past the stand of black cohosh fl ow-

ers, darting between elm, oak, and maple, running deep into the

dense woods until even the faint deer track they followed disap-

peared. And just when Maggie’s legs began to falter and she

thought her burning lungs would burst, Tom careened to a halt

at the base of a huge, ancient chestnut.

Panting, he fell to his knees at the north side of a tree so large

it would take four men with arms outstretched to circle its girth.

He pawed through the pile of chestnut leaves and revealed a

makeshift stone wall blocking the vertical hollow formed where

a thick root curved up to meet the trunk. Tom tossed the rocks

aside, reached inside, and pulled out his cached gear—a worn

pair of moccasins, a bundle of clothes, rifle, knife, tomahawk,

and a rectangular rawhide parfl eche.

Maggie leaned forward, gulping air, her hands on her knees,

black braids swinging like twin pendulums. “Och, Tommy . . .”

she gasped, “but aren’t ye a sight for sore eyes!” She laughed in

relief. “A madman ye are—steppin’ willing into that nest o’

vipers—a madman!”

378 Christine

Blevins

“I do have a knowance of Indian ways.” Tom chuckled; hop-

ping on one foot, then the other, he tugged on his doeskin leg-

gings. “Worded in the proper fashion, accompanied by the proper

gifts . . . ’twere no great peril.” He led the legging strings along

his hip and tied them to the belt of his breechclout.

“No, Tom. There
is
peril in that village,” Maggie insisted, her

voice suddenly tense, her shoulders stiff. “They killed a man last

night. Tortured him.” She sank back to lean against the tree with

her hands to her ears. “And then, when I saw ye standin’ there

beside his scorched bones . . .” She shuddered. “I’ve no th’ words

to thank ye for comin’ for me.”

Tom rolled onto his seat and tugged on his moccasins. Spring-

ing up, he unfurled his faded blue hunting shirt with a snap,

pushed his arms into the sleeves. He checked the back trail over

his shoulder. “It doesn’t seem like anyone’s after us, but we ought

to get a move on nonetheless.”

Maggie nodded, sponging sweat from her face with the hem of

her loose calico blouse. “Keep movin’, aye—that Simon—he’ll be

after us for certain, na?”

“I looked the man square in the eye, Maggie, and there’s

somethin’ dead up that stream.” Tom dove inside his shirt and

popped his head through the neck hole. “I plan to lay many a

mile betwixt him and us . . .” He buckled a wide leather belt over

his shirt and shoved the handle of his tomahawk into it, seating

it firm. “I’m tellin’ true when I say I don’t intend to lose you

again.”

“Lose me!” Maggie drew a stuttered breath, pressed back

against the chestnut, bitter wariness furrowing her brow. “I was

never lost to you, Tom.”

Tom abruptly ceased his practical scrambling and pure re-

morse fi lled his blue eyes. “I was a fool to have left you behind.”

He stepped forward and took Maggie by the hand. “Believe me,

I’ve been plain

miserable—wanderin’ lost since the day we

parted.” He pulled her close and buried his face in the slope

Midwife of the Blue Ridge
379

where her shoulder met her neck, whispering rough into her ear,

“But now, Maggie—now with thee in my arms—I am found.”

Maggie twined her arms tight about his waist and breathed

deep. The smell of him—a fusion of sweat, gunpowder, leather,

and crushed leaves—soothed the raw patches scraped onto her

soul. She pressed palms to Tom’s broad shoulders, calmed by the

subtle motion of muscles moving over his bones. “Aye . . . so

we’re both found.”

In an awkward, halting movement, they met in a soft kiss.

Maggie dipped her head, placed an ear to his chest, and smiled at

the sound of his heart thrum-thrumming in unison with her own.

The treetops churned on a breeze and a scatter of yellow leaves

trickled down around them. Ripe chestnut burs loosened and

bounced rattling through the branches, thudding into the soft

forest fl oor. One thunked off the top of Tom’s head.

“Ouch!” Tom pulled away, rubbing his noggin. He picked up

the bristly bur and laughed. “I guess Grandfather Chestnut’s urgin’

us t’ get a move on.” Tom scrambled to shoulder his shot pouch

and powder horn. He pulled the plug on his horn to check the con-

dition of his powder. “Ah-yep, as dry as a nun’s—” Tom caught

Maggie’s eye and grinned without finishing the sentiment. “C’mon,

then . . . you carry this.” He handed the parfleche to Maggie.

She flipped open the flap on the stiff leather case. About two

dozen strips of venison jerky kept company with a handful of

dried apple slices and a small sack of parched corn. Maggie

slipped the braided jute strap over her head to lie diagonal across

her chest, positioning the parfleche to rest on her hip. “So

where’re we headin’?”

“I’ve a raft in the weeds a few miles downriver. We’ll pole

down the Scioto and cross the Ohio.

We’re afoot from then

on—following the Warrior’s Path to the Gap.” Tom dug through

his pouch and found his red garters. “I’m not goin’ t’ scrub

around it, Maggie. I am no faint heart, but I do not relish travel-

in’ with my back to Peavey’s rifle. So it’s goin’ to be a hard go

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from before daybreak to past nightfall.” Tom pointed to her feet.

“Best tighten the wangs on your footwear.”

Maggie nodded and dropped down to secure the laces of her

moccasins with a double knot. Tom knelt on one knee beside her,

tying fi nger-woven garters below each of his knees. He stood and

slipped the blade end of his hunting knife into the garter on his

right leg.

“If we’re clever and careful, Simon won’t be able to fi nd us.

Once we cross the mountains, he won’t know where t’ fi nd us.”

Tom took up his rifle. He flipped open the frizzen and blew the

prime from the pan. “We’ll be cold-campin’—no fire, no hunt-

ing.” He tapped fresh black powder granules into the pan, fl ipped

it shut, and nodded to the parfleche she carried. “What you carry

there and what we can forage along the way is all the provision

we have.” He slipped the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and

set his wide- brimmed hat on his head.

“I’ll take a few o’ these chestnuts.” Maggie gathered up the

half-dozen burs lying in the leaves around her, stuffing them into

her pockets. “They’re best roasted, but not so bad raw. Pawpaws

are ripe as well. We’ll do all right.”