Wilderness Days (6 page)

Really, it all went back to Sally Biddle.

Picture a perfect girl with golden curls, a tiny waist, and all the best connections. Add to that an uncanny ability to make one cry with a single word, and that is Sally Biddle. Just thinking about her made all the misery come rushing back. How she used to say that my hair resembled a squirrel’s nest, and whisper that I was plump, and belittle our house on Walnut Street, saying that it looked like a stable.

Perhaps the lone advantage of Shoalwater Bay was that it was situated a continent away from Sally Biddle in Philadelphia.

Mrs. Frink continued chatting from the other side of the
curtain. “‘But Mr. Frink,’ I said, ‘I can’t imagine that there will be much call for a hotel here on the frontier.’”

I fingered the newly bald patch on the side of my head. It was the size of a silver dollar. Blasted cow. There was no helping it. I tugged on my worn bonnet and came around the curtain in a determined fashion. I was not about to let this woman intimidate me the way Sally Biddle had in the past.

“What a charming dress!” Mrs. Frink exclaimed. “Such a lovely print.”

“Thank you,” I said cautiously. “I sewed it myself.”

“How perfectly clever of you! Perhaps you would consider sewing a dress for me?”

I looked blankly at her immaculate dress.

“Oh,” she said with a self-conscious laugh. “This is the only decent dress I have left. The rest were all quite ruined on the trail. This only survived because I packed it away.”

I smiled at her. “I’d be happy to.” I felt something tight in my chest loosen. She wasn’t like Sally Biddle at all. She was more like what I imagined an older sister would be.

I poured her a cup of coffee and brought the sugar and milk to the table. It reminded me of Miss Hepplewhite’s, the soothing ritual of pouring tea.

She clapped her hands happily. “You use tin, too, I see.”

“Tin?”

“Tin cups, my dear. They’re ever so practical.” She lowered her voice. “I used our good china on the first week of the journey, but I grew so worried about breaking something that I
packed it away and adopted the pioneer method of using tin plates and cups. It’s ever so much more practical.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “And then, of course, our box of china fell out of our wagon during a stampede of buffalo somewhere back along the Platte River, so I have little choice now. I jumped out of the wagon after it and tried to shoo away the dratted animals with a broom, but I declare that they are the stupidest animals that ever lived, and the china was all smashed to bits except for the butter dish, which somehow lodged itself in a buffalo chip.”

The image of proper Mrs. Frink brandishing a broom at stampeding buffalo in order to rescue her china was too much. I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. I think I had not laughed since receiving word of Papa’s death, and it felt so good, like a sneeze after being tickled.

Mrs. Frink looked affronted for a brief moment then giggled herself. “Mr. Frink was very vexed with me for jumping off the wagon,” she confided. “‘But Mr. Frink,’ I said, ‘good china is worth being trampled over!’”

“At least you rescued the butter dish,” I said, wiping a tear away.

She nodded seriously and giggled again, “Yes, although I must confess, I have no desire to use it. I cannot seem to rid myself of the sight of it lodged in manure.”

After we had finished our coffee, I offered to give Mrs. Frink a tour. At last, another lady! I had so many questions for her.

“It is so wonderful to be back in civilization!” Mrs. Frink declared happily.

I bit my tongue. The settlement was hardly civilization, unless you considered a pack of unwashed men who debated the finer points of chewing tobacco good company.

She turned to me. “I should very much like to meet the other ladies.”

“Well,” I hedged, as we stood on the porch surveying the cabins and tents that dotted the landscape. “I’m rather afraid that I am the only young lady present.”

One elegant eyebrow raised slightly. “I see.”

I rushed to reassure. “But the Chinook women are very kind, and quite a few speak English. They live that way,” I said, pointing at the stream.

“Chinook? Do you mean Indians?”

I nodded.

“I see,” she said again, an inscrutable expression on her face. “And who exactly lives in this cabin?” Mrs. Frink asked, wrinkling her small nose.

I twisted my hands. For all her stories of the trail, Mrs. Frink seemed a very proper sort of lady. Her gloves were spotless. I imagined she would be horrified to learn that I had been living unchaperoned in a cabin with assorted men these many past months. It would be utterly inappropriate behavior for a respectable young lady under ordinary circumstances.

I swallowed hard. “Well, myself, and Mr. Russell, and Mr. Swan, and sometimes Keer-ukso, and, and … and sometimes
whatever men are passing through,” I finished in an awkward rush.

She eyed the cabin coolly. “My, but what a luxury to have a proper roof over one’s head,” she said with real longing.

My mouth fell open.

“I have been sleeping under the stars or in our wagon for the past six months. The canvas covering our wagon is in a very sad state, I fear.”

I was taken aback by her candor.

“Although,” she said, her voice softening, “I must confess to growing accustomed to falling asleep with stars over my head. The most beautiful sight I have ever seen was when I lay on the plains at night, the starry sky stretching above us like a quilt.” She blinked and laughed. “Of course, I was worried to death that Indians would steal our horses.”

“Did they?”

“Once, but they let us buy them back.” She eyed the well-worn trail leading away from the cabin. “Shall we meet your neighbors?”

“Of course,” I said. “Right this way.”

“So do you think, Miss Peck, that there will be much call for a hotel out here?” she asked in a serious voice, as if she truly valued my opinion.

“There are many men around here who would be happy for a proper bed and a cooked meal. A hotel might be quite popular, actually. I imagine I’d be the first to stay there. Especially if there were a bathtub.”

She laughed, a bright tinkly laugh that made me smile. “We are going to be such great friends, Miss Peck. I just know it.”

We followed the stream down past a small, neat building with a cedar plank roof. A cross jutted from the ceiling.

“That is Father Joseph’s chapel. He’s a French Catholic missionary. He came on the same boat I did.”

“Is he having much success spreading the faith?”

“I’m afraid not,” I said.

“Poor man.” She grinned at me impishly. “But then again, who likes to be told what to do, even by a man of the cloth?”

We rounded a bend in the trail and entered the large grassy clearing where the huge cedar lodges of Chief Toke’s village were clustered.

“Are those the Indians?” Mrs. Frink asked.

I looked about. Nearby, chopping a pile of firewood with axes, was a group of the men I had hired to harvest the oysters, all wearing identical shirts.

“Well, yes,” I said.

“How very interesting,” she said. “I thought they’d be more like the Indians on the trail. But here they are, all dressed up like us!”

Sootie came running straight at me, chattering happily, and dragging her doll.

“Boston Jane! Boston Jane!” Sootie yelled. “Is this your sister? She looks just like you, except your hair is prettier. But I like her dress better.”

Mrs. Frink and I looked at each other in embarrassment.

“Sootie,” I said, trying to slow the rush of words. “This is Mrs. Frink.”

“What a charming child!” Mrs. Frink exclaimed. “Is that a doll you have there?”

Sootie held out her doll for inspection. “Boston Jane made my dolly a new dress,” she informed her importantly.

“And it’s quite a lovely dress, too,” Mrs. Frink complimented, and I smiled at the woman for her kindness.

“Sootie is Chief Toke’s daughter,” I said. “He is the chief, or
tyee
, of this village.”

“A chief?” Mrs. Frink said, impressed.

“That’s right!” Sootie said proudly. “Because he is the most rich.”

“Sootie, do you know where your father is?” I asked.

She pressed her lips together for a minute and then said, “He is with Mr. Russell and Mr. Swan and some other man. I don’t like Mr. Russell very much,” she informed Mrs. Frink. “And he has a cow that keeps us up all night sometimes.”

“Was that the gentleman with whom you were milking the cow when I arrived?” Mrs. Frink asked.

“Yes. He was the first pioneer to come here.” I was preparing to launch into an explanation of Mr. Russell’s business and character when Mr. Swan, Mr. Russell, and a man who I supposed must be Mr. Frink came sauntering over to where we stood.

“Ah, Jane, there you are. Capital,” Mr. Swan announced.

“Miss Peck has been very kindly giving me a tour,” Mrs.
Frink said, patting the man on his arm. “Miss Peck, may I introduce my husband, Mr. Frink?”

Mr. Frink, who in distinct contrast to his wife, looked like he had just spent six months on the trail in his worn boots and dirty shirt, shook my hand.

Mrs. Frink turned her attention to Mr. Russell. “Miss Peck tells me you were the first pioneer in the area, Mr. Russell.”

“First but not last, ma’am. We’re real pleased to have you here.” To my utter astonishment, Mr. Russell removed his hat and smoothed back his hair. “We don’t get too many ladies out this way.”

What about me? I was a lady! He had never once, in all my time on Shoalwater Bay, removed his hat because of my presence!

“We’re very happy to be here,” Mrs. Frink replied with a gay smile.

“That’s a real pretty dress you’re wearing, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Mr. Russell added, blushing furiously.

“Why, Miss Peck, you didn’t tell me what a charming man Mr. Russell was,” Mrs. Frink said with a wide smile, extending her arm to him.

Mr. Russell took it gallantly and led her toward the cabin.

All I could do was stare.

All at once, the
men of Shoalwater Bay found it very important to bathe and wash and generally look presentable.

They cut their hair. They scrubbed their hands. They brushed their teeth. Even Mr. Russell attempted to shave his straggly beard in order to look more respectable, but he succeeded only in carving his face.

They vied to spend a moment in Mrs. Frink’s presence. With a simple smile, she had a cabin built. With a downward sweep of her lashes, she had acquired an outhouse. With an upward turn of her lips, her garden was dug.

It was perfectly astonishing. It was almost as if she were the first lady to arrive on the bay, when I had been here for months and months! The men had never treated me the way they did Mrs. Frink—with a mix of awe and respect and admiration.

After much worry on my part, I invited the Frinks to supper one late-November day. They had taken up residence in their
new cabin, which was situated on a lovely patch of land with a view of the bay. And which, I might add, the men of the settlement had built without having to be bribed with whiskey.

I spent two days carefully planning the menu. I had learned how to cook while on Shoalwater Bay, but while I regularly cooked for men, I had never cooked for another lady. I was well aware that the men ate anything I put before them, especially Mr. Russell, but I expected that Mrs. Frink would have a more refined palate.

In the end I settled on roast chicken, biscuits and gravy, and a pie for dessert. Not that it mattered, for the men were far too busy paying attention to Mrs. Frink to compliment me on the excellent meal I had prepared. All they could do was listen to Mrs. Frink’s witty stories of her travels west, and by the time I started clearing dishes, the men were hanging on her every word. These men, who belched and spat at every opportunity, somehow managed to contain their belches and not spit once during the entire meal.

Mrs. Frink was relating a story in which she had stayed up all night to watch the campsite because the men on the wagon train were so exhausted. Her husband, whom I had yet to hear speak, sat quietly at her side, smoking his pipe.

“My poor Mr. Frink,” Mrs. Frink said, patting her husband’s hand, “had worked the work of four men. Why, he single-handedly pulled our wagon out of a ditch as deep as I am tall! What else could I do but let the perfect man sleep?”

Mr. Frink just puffed on his pipe.

“Then what happened?” Mr. Russell asked anxiously, gray
whiskers twitching. He had procured a clean shirt from somewhere, although the sleeve already had a gravy stain from where he’d used it as his napkin.

“Yes, well, that was the time I shot the coyote, of course.”

“You can shoot?” I asked, aghast. Not only was she a lady, but she could shoot?

She inclined her head slightly. “I’m a very good shot, Miss Peck. Mr. Frink taught me how to shoot.”

The men nodded admiringly.

I remembered with some embarrassment my lone attempt at wielding a rifle. A cougar had been sneaking into the encampment, and I had fired at it and missed. Still, at least it had run off.

Mr. Russell leaned forward, intent on capturing every word that tripped off her tongue.

“You see, a coyote snuck into camp and tried to make away with our best piece of bacon. Well, I fired right at the scamp’s tail, and it went yelping off into the night—and that was the last we saw of that coyote!” She gave a little laugh. “That was also the last time I left the bacon out.”

The men clapped.

I began clearing away the plates, feeling a little like a maid. Jehu quietly stood up and began gathering plates as well.

“Oh, do sit down, Mr. Scudder. I shall help, Jane,” Mrs. Frink offered grandly, standing. There was a clatter as, all at once, chairs were shoved back and Mr. Russell, Mr. Swan, Mr. Frink, and Keer-ukso stood. “Miss Peck,” Mrs. Frink tittered, “you are so fortunate to be surrounded by so many gentlemen.”

The men blushed.

I shot them all a dark look. Really, no one ever bothered to stand when I got up from the table. I furiously began to carve the pie I had made earlier that day. Mrs. Frink appeared with a covered dish in her hand.