The Diary Of Mattie Spenser (22 page)

Johnnie is the best boy that ever was. He is steady on his feet and loves to chatter. I try to develop his mind by pointing to objects and naming them so that he will learn such words as house and chair and horse. Luke caught me at it and naughtily indicated the cow, saying, “Elephant.” Husband does not often joke, and I burst into laughter. A gold-seeker can now “see the elephant” at our Prairie Home and not trouble himself with the mountains. I point to Carrie’s picture and say very clearly, “Pretty lady,” and Johnnie attempts to repeat it. What a smart boy I have!

Yesterday, after Luke inquired whether I was raising a girl, I cut Boykins’s hair for the first time, an event that occasioned tears on Mother’s part. But Johnnie enjoyed the attention, and he laughed as he threw the severed curls into the wind, all but one, which his mother saves in this little book.

Our crops do somewhat better this summer. Luke believes our success depends on development of a drought-resistant grain. He talks of returning to Fort Madison after harvest to consult with agrarians, though how a farmer on the Mississippi can advise on dryland crops, I do not know. On one point, I am clear: If he goes, Johnnie and I shall accompany him.

My favorite hour is sunset, which begins with prairie and sky both blue. The setting sun turns the grasses golden. The sky is swirled and streaked with pink and scarlet and lilac; then slowly it turns to claret, and both land and sky fade into blackness. I am finding much to like about this place.

August 15, 1867. Prairie Home.

Tom came in his wagon to fetch the three of us for a call on Mr. Bondurant, but Luke had gone to the lady homesteaders, who had asked his advice on harvesting. I protested that I could not go with Tom, saying it was not proper for a married woman to accompany a man on a social call without her husband’s permission. Of course, such manners are not much observed here, but after our conversation about the Amidons, I felt the need to distance myself a little from Tom.

Nothing would do but that I go, however. Tom gave me no reason, but from his insistent manner, I knew it was a matter of some importance. Besides, at the idea of riding in a wagon, Johnnie clapped his hand and chatted away, and I could not deny him the pleasure.

“He’s so smart, you’d almost believe he’s saying real words,” Tom observed.

“He is.”

“You are the finest mother I ever observed.”

I blushed furiously, because even Luke has not paid me such a compliment, although I hope he believes it to be so. Sometimes, Tom is too familiar.

“Is Mr. Bondurant ill?” I inquired.

“I think he has never been so healthy.” Tom blushed himself, for what reason I did not know.

When we arrived at Mr. Bondurant’s place, everything seemed in perfect order, including its owner, who rushed to meet us.

“Get you down,” he called, muttering something over his shoulder, which I could not make out. He picked up Johnnie, throwing him into the air, which made Boykins squeal. Then he helped me from the wagon, all but hugging me, so glad was he for our visit.

“You have told her, then?” Mr. Bondurant asked, hopping from one foot to the other in his excitement.

Tom shook his head. “I thought I’d let you do the honors.”

The smile left Mr. Bejoy’s face. “So you’re ignorant of it?”

As I looked at him in confusion, someone came from the soddy and stood quietly in the doorway. I stared in such astonishment that Mr. Bondurant turned and beckoned to the figure, who was dressed in the tanned skins of animals.

“This be Mrs. Bondurant. We get along fine. You bet. Her people named her Bird Woman, but I call her Kitty.” There was as much pride in his voice as if she had been a white woman.

Kitty was pretty in the way of the Indian maiden, very young and shy, her eyes on the ground like any blushing bride. Still, that ground was knocked up from under me, and I blurted out, “An Indian?”

“Arapaho,” Mr. Bondurant said.

“Arapaho women are known for their chaste ways,” Tom added.

I did not know what to reply, and I am ashamed to record here that upon meeting Kitty, I could not even extend my hand to her, for fear of that hand being stained with Christian blood. Mr. Bondurant himself had told me on our trip to Colorado that the only good Indian was a dead one, and I could not understand how he could choose a savage for his bride.

His disappointment in me was clear, as was Tom’s, and we stood awkwardly, excepting for Johnnie, who sat down in the dirt and played with sticks he found there. Mr. Bondurant muttered something to Kitty, who went into the soddy, returning with tin cups of cool water. Before I could stop her, she handed Johnnie a scrap of buckskin.

“It’s a doll. My Arapaho ain’t so good, and she thinks Johnnie’s a girl. She made it herself. Handiest woman I ever saw,” Mr. Bondurant said. “There’s nothing like an Indian squaw for work. Come inside and see for yourself. Kitty can’t do nothing but that she does it decent.”

Mr. Bondurant entered the house, but Tom held me back to whisper, “I know you’re angry with me, but I couldn’t tell you, for fear you wouldn’t come. Ben’s counting on you. O, he doesn’t expect you to throw a housewarming, but he hopes if you treat Kitty nice, the others will, too. If Kitty’s not welcome, then the two of them might go off and live with the Arapaho.”

“I thought he didn’t like savages. He’s told me as much.”

“Love does strange things to a fellow. Besides, he’s learned to know them better and says Indians are people, just like white folks. He thought you’d agree.”

“He has no right to presume.” I entered the dark room, which was lighted only by the doorway, letting my eyes get used to the dimness. My nose needed no time to adjust, and I was aware that the Bondurant place no longer smelled like the home of an old batch, for now it was filled with the sweet odor of prairie grasses. When I could make out the room, I observed it was as tidy as any home I ever saw, with blankets neatly folded and household items in place. The walls were hung with beading, which Mr. Bondurant informed me was the work of Kitty’s hands. “She sews ‘most as good as I read,” he said with a wink.

I could not help but laugh at his jest, which eased the tension a little.

“Sit,” Mr. Bondurant ordered, and we did so. “How come us to marry?” He asked the question I had not, then answered it himself. “I’m not attached to batching.” He nodded at Kitty, who went without, returning with plates heaped with stew. “I already teached her to use plates, but she won’t touch the cookstove. She’ll like it come winter.”

I was not hungry, and I did not care to eat something prepared by an Indian, for I did not know what it contained, but Tom and Mr. Bondurant “dug in,” as the saying is here, and at last, I sampled the fare, finding it was as good as any stew I ever prepared, and certainly better than any I had cooked over a campfire.

“Very tasty,” I told Kitty, who watched us eat but did not join in. She frowned at my words, not understanding them. So I repeated slowly and loudly. “Very tasty.”

“She ain’t deaf,” Mr. Bondurant said, then turned to Kitty and said something in her language.

She lowered her eyes and replied to Mr. Bondurant.

“She says, ‘It’s no botherment.’ ”

“Won’t she join us?” I asked.

“Indian women don’t eat with their men, just stand around taking care of them and eat what’s left over, if there be leavings,” Mr. Bondurant explained.

“Well, I think that is a very poor policy indeed,” I said hotly. “Women need sustenance as much as their men. It is my observation that the Indian woman needs more, because she does most of the work.” I looked at Mr. Bondurant to defy me, but I found he and Tom were laughing instead.

“You’re not so glad she’s here, but you take her part,” Mr. Bondurant said, and as he was right, I joined the laughter.

After we had eaten, Kitty sat down with us, and in a few minutes, she was playing with Johnnie with such warmth that this mother’s heart softened toward her.

I do not approve of the amalgamation of the races, but Mr. Bondurant’s consort shall not be scorned by me. I will not condemn the union of one who has proven himself so faithful a friend. To convey that conclusion, I extended a hand to Kitty as I left—to her confusion, for she is not familiar with our custom of shaking hands.

When Luke returned that evening, I told him of Mr. Bondurant’s companion, and he said he had heard as much that day. The Smiths are outraged, and others are not fond of having a savage in our midst, but as for Luke, he thinks it is not his affair. “Out here, we make allowances,” said he. His response surprised me a great deal, for he has very high standards, but upon reflection, I believe him to be right. I, too, make allowances for the ways of the country.

August 22, 1867. Prairie Home.

The gossips are at work, and our neighbors are much vexed with the new Mrs. Bondurant, declaring Mr. Bondurant guilty of mongrelization. At our last meeting, the Sabbath group spoke more about Kitty than the Savior. Some of the displeasure comes because none knows how this union came about. Mr. Bondurant has enlightened no one on the particulars of his matrimonial partner. There is some thought that he bought her with a barrel of whiskey. Mr. Bondurant was heard to say that “if nobody don’t like my way of going about this interesting business, I don’t care. It’s none of their funeral.”

Mr. Garfield heard about Kitty at Mingo, and it is said he was in a rage, calling her, “Our nig.”

September 1, 1867. Prairie Home.

Mr. Bondurant brought Kitty to call on me. She presented Johnnie with the gift of an Indian top, patiently showing him how to spin it, but Boykins had his own idea and uses it for teething. As I had baked a dessert for our supper, I served refreshments. Kitty was pleased with the coffee, but she showed confusion when presented with a fork for her rhubarb pie. She watched Mr. Bondurant, then copied him, doing about as well as I would eating the pastry with a Chinaman’s chopsticks. In many ways, Kitty is the idea helpmeet, smiling much and talking not at all.

Mr. Bondurant told me Kitty’s people have been poorly treated by many of our race, and he knows of more than one occasion when white men have shot Indians for sport. “The Indians was willing to share the land, but white peoples just want it all. And they’d rather murder the Indians than live peaceably with them,” said he. Upon reflection, I believe there may be some truth in what he says. Perhaps I should revise my views of the Red Men. If all were like Kitty, I would have no objection to any of them.

When the two callers left, Kitty jumped upon her horse, which was unsaddled, and rode off, the best horsewoman I ever saw, but perhaps that was because she rode astride like a man. I should think that painful.

As she rode off, an interesting thought presented itself: Perhaps Kitty can attend me in my confinement. She is clean and gentle, and Jessie once said the Indian woman knows a great deal about herbs and medicines to ease in parturition.

Mr. Bondurant and wife were scarcely over the horizon and I had barely returned to my tasks when the Amidon family halloed the house. Poor Luke, for the Amidons made quick work of what remained of the pie, and now he shall have nothing for his dessert.

“I’ve come to say good-bye,” Emmie Lou said as Mr. Amidon watered the horses. “Elbert doesn’t want me to speak of it, but you have been a true friend, and a note would not do. We’re going east.”

“O, I shall miss you.”

“We leave next week.”

“Who will care for the farm?”

“Elbert won’t accompany us. Only the girls and I are going.”

“I shall count the days until you return.”

“You don’t understand. I won’t return.” Her eyes followed Mr. Amidon as he rubbed down the horses. “O, Elbert will say it about that I’ve gone only for a visit, but I shan’t be back.” She sniffed away tears, for her little ones were playing nearby and she did not want to alarm them.

I put my hand on hers. “I shall miss you, Emmie Lou, but I understand. This is a hard place in which to find happiness.”

“I’ve found Hell and Colorado are the same, although I am at fault, too, for I was ill-prepared for the hardships.”

“As were we all. You saw how it was with me, with my Delft plate and silver spoons. Why, I had calling cards printed just before I left home.”

Emmie Lou laughed, then was quiet for a moment. “I think you know the way it is with Elbert. Mrs. Connor gave me a potion of rhubarb and pepper. I took it in the spring, when I thought I was pregnant again. I should not care quite so much about this infernal childbearing if I was among my own kind, but you are the only one of my class in this wretched place, and we don’t see each other but once a month at most. Elbert doesn’t understand a woman’s need for friends and family.”

“Men don’t,” I agreed. Then I inquired as to where she would go.

“Philadelphia. That’s where my people live. They’ve encouraged me to return, as they don’t care much for Elbert, and they fear I shall succumb to hysteria if I stay. I should have listened to them and never come here in the first place.”

“Perhaps Mr. Amidon will go east later on.”

“Never! He has said it! We had quite a spat, and he told me, ‘Go yourself, then, and let us be done with it.’ ”

“Will you divorce?” I asked boldly.

Emmie Lou examined her hands, which could have belonged to a woman twice her age, so rough and worn were they. “It’s not my intention, but Elbert may want to marry again one day. I care for him. I do not want to disgrace him.” She sniffed back tears. “I wonder that you can stay in this place. Colorado is fine for men and mules, but not for women.

“I think it is not so fine for mules, either.”

With Emmie Lou gone, this journal, more than ever, is my valued confidante.

September 8, 1867. Prairie Home.

Now, it was Kitty’s turn to be forgotten at Sabbath services, as everyone talked of Emmie Lou’s departure. It is the general opinion that Emmie Lou is at fault in the marriage, being too refined for this place, that being considered a great imperfection. I could not violate her confidence, so I said only that I believed she had gone for a visit.

“Mark my words. She won’t be back, that one. She’s too conceited, and not cut out for work,” said Missus, who has often been the recipient of the Amidons’ hospitality. “Ain’t this the place, Old Smith? A piano in one sod house and an Indian squaw in another.”