The Rebellion of Miss Lucy Ann Lobdell (18 page)

I felt my blood rush. “Straight with you?”

“You told me you were twenty-five. Probably said the same to Flynn. But you handle an axe like a girl. Probably can’t shoot no better, neither. You’re no more than twenty.”

I wanted to curse, but I stayed even. “Yes. I’m not twenty-five. What’s it to you?”

“What else you ain’t tellin’ me? Why are you in Minnesota?”

I was just about ready to tell him—ready to take my shirt off and let him figure that out. “I told you that true,” I said. “I’m running away.”

“From what?”

“Well, why you want to know? Want to claim the reward?”

I think that shamed him. “Joseph,” he said, now looking at his feet, “I owe you for what you done for me at Galena, throwin’ down my stuff an’ all—”

“Listen,” I said, interrupting, “you don’t owe me. You’re stronger than I am and can do things I can’t. But I can shoot your eyeballs out at a hundred paces, and if you don’t think so, we can see to that when the sun comes up. And if you don’t want me here, just say so. I’ll go back. You’re acting like a bellyache. What haven’t you told me?”

Owen’s eyes avoided mine. “Nothin’,” he said. “Nobody’s got to go nowhere.”

After that night we did better. We found things to talk about, though I was the one who told most of the stories. Owen liked the one about the poker game, and he couldn’t get enough of my re-creations of the mate’s bloody screams on the deck of the
War Eagle
.

During the day I mostly I hunted on the near side of Lake Kasota. I bagged a couple of rabbits and two more geese, but there wouldn’t be any more of them, as they were leaving. I had yet to bring down a deer or even get a good shot at one. So one November morning, I went around the west end of the lake looking for better luck and was rewarded by finding fresh tracks. I was following them when I came upon a small clearing with charred remains. Something had been built there and then burnt. I kept following the deer, but never caught up. When I got back to the cabin, I told Owen about the burned place. He knew about it.

“There was a redskin huntin’ lodge out there,” he said. “Flynn’s men burned it—said the Dakotas had no more rights.”

“What if they come expecting it to be there?”

“That’s what I said, but it was already burnt.”

The two of us then talked about what we might do if there were trouble—how to better secure the door and signals we might give if danger came. Owen said he would make oak bars for the windows, so no one could come in on us while we were sleeping. For my part, I took a liking to a certain stray axe handle—a three-quarter hickory with a doe’s foot. Owen laughed as I waved it about, fending off an imagined savage. I held no hatred for the Indians, but I didn’t know what they thought about me. And we were very alone—the first of our race to live on this land. Beyond us, there was only the red man and his wilderness. We could travel a thousand miles and not come upon a road or a town or hear any word that we would understand.

* * *

The lake froze in early December, and a quiet fell over the land. Most of the birds had gone, and those that stayed weren’t singing for mates. One evening I went out for wood and was stopped by the stillness. Above me the moon was bright, and around it shone a halo, as though announcing the coming of a king. The next morning, long feather clouds reached across the sky. In the afternoon they dissolved into a gray curtain behind which the sun was a dull, yellow spot. Snow began to fall before dark, and when I woke the next morning, it was boot deep and still coming down.

I decided to hunt. Along Basket Creek, I had luck in the snow—tracking game was easy. Taking note of the fresh wind, I put on every piece of clothing I had. An oilcloth draped my shoulders, and a stitched deerskin covered my head.

I walked the near end of the lake and then east along the far shore. I saw no deer. Finally, I crouched in a hollow to get out of the wind. It was snowing harder, and every creature of right mind had taken shelter. Well chilled and thinking to do the same, I turned and started back. Then I thought that I’d save a lot of time, an hour perhaps, by walking across the lake. The ice was strong, so that wasn’t a worry, and even though I couldn’t see the other side, I was certain I could to go straight enough to land near where I wanted.

I went out onto the frozen lake, not afraid of seeing no land but rather wishing for it. I wanted to float free in a white world. I got my wish soon enough—every feature lost to the snow. The wind came from this way and that, and the flakes danced around in the air. We never think of air as a thing like water, because we can see water and carry water. But now, with the snow giving it form, I could see the air. And I could see that it did not move as one but had swirls and eddies, dances and jigs. And if one thought, as some do, that the souls of those who have gone before still live in the ether around us, then surely I was seeing them as well. Many were out that day, dashing about and having a rather merry time. I supposed that they were all Indian souls, but they seemed to wish me no harm.

And seeing the air this way made me wonder about what other things might be around us—things we cannot see or feel. After all, if we were born without hearing, would we be able to imagine it? And did God even try to give us every sense at birth? Or were there ones He withheld, so we might later be surprised?

The wind swirled around me, and the flakes became tiny buttons that bounced off my sleeve. I thought of the warm stove. I kept going, knowing that I would come upon a familiar shore, but the lake’s edge did not appear. I went farther. Nothing. I began to think I had turned somehow and was walking the length of the lake, away from the cabin, so I corrected for that. Still, I found no land. I remembered stories I had heard, stories about men who had gone out to the barn in a storm, their bodies found in the spring.

Finally, I came upon a shoreline, but none of it looked familiar. The snow had changed what little I could see, and for all I knew, I was, once more, on the far side of the lake. By this time my toes and fingers felt numb, but the choice was simple enough—I could go in one direction or the other. If I chose wrong, I would surely spend the night outside with no certainty of waking in the morning. Standing there shivering, I tried to imagine where I was—where the cabin might be. I shut my eyes as though some unknown sense would tell me, and indeed, I felt something glowing off to the right. The other way felt cold. I turned right and began walking through the woods, keeping the flat of the lake in sight. I saw nothing that I recognized, but then what would look familiar? I couldn’t see but twenty steps, and with snow on everything, it all looked the same. My foot caught a branch and I fell.

Down in the snow, the wind left me alone. I felt tired and thought I might stay there and rest. Perhaps the storm would slacken, and I would be able to see more. I began to get drowsy, but when I nodded, my face pressed into the snow. I made myself get up.

The storm did not slacken, and nothing familiar appeared. Finally I stopped, but it didn’t make sense to turn around. If I knew which direction to go, I still had the strength, but not knowing made me weak. I brushed the snow off a fallen tree and sat, not so much afraid as sad. I am telling this story, so we all know I survived, but at that moment my chances were fading with the daylight. I felt sorry for myself. No one fondly thinks about death, but we would all like, at the least, to have our passing noticed. But I knew that were I to die in that place, my death would cause no more ripples than that of a fly. Those back home wouldn’t know. Who would tell them? I tried again to let the warmth of the cabin call to me, but I could feel nothing warm ahead and nothing warm behind. And no warm spot overhead beckoning my soul—none that I could feel.

Then I heard a sound. It might have been a limb breaking or, then again, a gunshot, muffled by the snow. The sound had not come from the direction I was heading, but I couldn’t tell if it had come from behind me or from across the lake. I unwrapped my rifle and fired into the air. How far could it be heard? I waited. Then a dull report came in answer—definitely on my side of the lake. Heartened, I turned and trudged back through my tracks. After awhile, I fired my gun again. The reply came, louder now.

I stood close as Owen fed the stove—my fingers and toes still numb. “Thank you for coming out.”

Owen nodded. “Got to look after my little brother.” He then told me to get into bed. He’d make us something hot to eat.

I slept some, and when I woke, I heard the storm howling. Owen was at the stove mumbling, but I couldn’t make out the words. Then I heard a sharp curse, and another. I thought that he had burned himself, but when I got up, I found him just banging things around.

“What’s eating at you?”

Owen looked like he wanted to throw a shoe at me. “Well, maybe if you were older, you’d know.”

“Oh, really?” I said, wondering what had happened to the little brother talk. “And what might I know if I were older?”

“Something about women.”

“Is that all,” I said, bothered and a little angry. “I was in love once, you know.”

Owen’s eyes grew wide. “How did you know it was real? How could you tell?”

“It’s just something you know,” I said, wishing I had not brought it up. I wanted the conversation back on him. “What’s her name?”

“Allison Murphy,” he said, his eyes not leaving the floor.

“From where?”

“St. Paul.”

I was surprised, for I was expecting to hear Louisville, which is where he was from. “So what are you angry about?”

Owen let out a breath. “I want to marry her, but she don’t want to marry me.”

“Oh,” I said, “I guess there’s not a lot to be done then.” That generous verdict echoed about the cabin, while I wondered what was to be said next. Something cheery about Mr. Emerson? The silence was broken by a gust of wind that shrieked like a banshee. Owen sat there churning butter on his insides. Then he looked up with animal eyes.

“She’s a whore, Joseph. I bought her one night.”

I held my face steady. “And from that one night, you asked her to marry you?”

“Well, it wasn’t just one night.”

“But was she the first woman you had been with?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.”

“But there’s no one else I want.”

“How many times did you see her?”

“Four. On the last, I asked her to marry me. She patted me on the head and called me a
dear boy
. But I don’t want to be no dear boy. I had to leave St. Paul. But now I can’t stop thinking about her.”

What could I say to my friend? A woman like Allison Murphy had traded all respectability to live beyond the reach of a husband—to live on her own and have money of her own and die, perhaps young, her own master. Having given so much to gain that freedom, why would she trade back to live in a sod house where the roof would drip dirt?

“What will you do?” I asked.

“I’ll find some good land next spring,” he said, his voice a mixture of doubt and hope. “I’ll build a house, and when I’ve done that, I’ll return to St. Paul. She’ll marry me then.”

I gave what I hoped was an encouraging nod. “Maybe she will.”

We spoke no more of Allison Murphy, but I did hear her name again that night. I woke in the dark and heard Owen in great agitation, breathing hard and calling her name. I was aroused by these sounds. And by the thought of Owen’s strong arms, and what he had in hand.

I wanted to go to him. I wanted to go to him and play the part of Allison Murphy. The sounds coming from him were more desperate and passionate than any I had heard from George Slater. And if I could have gone to Owen, been his lady of the night and then played the violin to cast a spell by which he would have forgotten all by morning, I would have done it.

O
WEN PUSHED ON the door and stepped into snow that came to his knee. He muttered something and reached for the saw. A little later he returned with four saplings. Once they were warm, he bent them into bows and tied them back-to-back with soaked rawhide. Then the webbing. A day by the stove and they went stiff as iron.

It took some getting used to, but soon I was off hunting, fitted out with the trapper shoes Owen had made. I went away from the lake the first day but saw only one deer, and she a good ways off. The next day I couldn’t find her at all. Owen stayed inside and brooded. And who could tell what he was thinking? Allison Murphy was probably at the heart of it, but I didn’t care anymore. I was getting tired of his sullen moods and thought about paying a visit to Noah White. I had promised to cross a frozen tundra to return his book, and there just happened to be one right outside our door. I mentioned the idea to Owen and got a shrug in return.

I set out for Noah's on a still morning. The sky was a cold blue and sunlight leapt off every white thing. The snow made the land look smooth and easy, but traveling through it was slow and hard. My knees began to ache, and the sun had already sunk behind the trees when Noah’s place came into view. I fired a shot and pushed on to the cabin. Noah opened the door as I got near.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said. “What’s new in town?”

“Never mind that,” I replied. “What’s for dinner?”

Noah laughed and brought me inside, promising a meal of pork and beans. He seemed happy to see a human face, and I was happy to see his, though no one would think him a handsome man. He had the look of leftover parts—his ears didn’t match, and his nose was a dumpling. And if you were a settler and his face a landscape, you might not homestead there because of its crooked places. But if you had a free afternoon and were looking for somewhere to explore, you might well choose it. And after a time or two, you might look forward to its glens and thickets and be sad if they were any other way. His dark eyes were alive, and it was fun to meet them when we talked.

Noah had been soaking beans, and that night he cooked them with the promised pork in a sauce of sorghum. After the meal, we sat before the fire and talked about the St. Paul and Northern, Noah’s employer. The plan was to build a storehouse in the spring. Noah would run the depot for the men who would plot the track line.