A Light in the Wilderness (22 page)

The cows were scattered. Charity, gone. But Davey was most worried about the woman, fragile and frail. Her husband carried her over fallen trees. Davey’d carried one of the boys on his own back. They’d start making bad decisions soon. Intense wet and cold did that to a person, played tricks with the mind. He’d even known of men taking their clothes off in such states, no longer aware that what they felt wasn’t heat but numbing cold. He wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t. Letitia expected him to show up. He had to.

“Keep going. The snow’s letting up. We’ll find flat ground and make a camp. The packers’ll be calling back anytime now. Keep going.” He wished for a moon to light the dark. At least the snow had lessened.

“Grass ahead!”

Did he hear that?

A shout from one of the packers. “Found flat ground!” Their words, water to a parched throat.

Gathered beneath a large tree, one of the men shot into a pile of shavings that the packers had managed to whittle from a branch and a slow flame appeared. He’d never been so happy to see fire. Davey urged Mrs. Walden toward the flames. She was listless except for the shivering. As the fire grew, they brought her still a little closer and her husband gave her a biscuit, the last of any of their food. The fire thawed the woman, torturing her while saving her. Silent tears fell as she endured the pain of her limbs gaining feeling and then she’d cry out, a sound Davey was sure he’d never forget.

He dozed, kept the fire going. He knew they’d have to find the cattle. They’d been two days without food.

The morning with its blue skies and melted snow acted like a pretty girl flaunting her beauty and forgetting she’d teased her beau to distraction the night before.

“You and your boys stay and keep the fire,” Davey told Sarah Walden. He could see his breath in the cold. She nodded. She could
stand now and the fire through the night had dried her clothes. “We’ll find the cattle, right, men?” There were nods of encouragement.

The men backtracked and then climbed higher through brush and timber when Davey thought he heard something. “Shh!” The men stopped and he heard it again. A cowbell! “Hey boys, that’s a cowbell.”

Charity. It
has to be Charity.

He scrambled now, following where he thought the sound came from when the men entered a ravine. “Well, lookee here.” There stood the cattle huddled together under a long rock ledge, out of the wind and the snow.

“We shoulda been so lucky,” one of the drovers said.

Davey approached and grabbed Charity’s leather collar. He removed the bell from her neck, talked to her, then squatted beneath her and milked the cowbell full and drank his fill. He refilled it for each of the men. “Come on, boys, drink up. We need all the energy we can get afore I push this cow down the mountain. I’m praying the others will follow.”

But the cows weren’t having it. They’d shift a few feet then circle back, stumble and shake their heads. The men shouted, poked the bony ribs, pushed and pulled until exhausted, their faces full of sweat despite the cold air.

Davey wasn’t sure what changed the cows’ minds—with cows one never was—but they tired at last and let the men push them back toward the fire. It was noon. There they milked more into the cowbell for Sarah and the boys, who brought out branches of tiny blue berries, and with the milk ate a meal as satisfying as corn pone and pork. One of the men removed his hat, spoke thanksgiving.

“Right,” Davey added. “We thank the Lord and hope he’ll bring us by tomorrow where we’ll see fires in cabins and shelter ourselves with new neighbors.” And the next time he herded a bunch of cows he’d have Rothwell with him.

“Lookee, woman. What are you doing here?”

“I makes a change. A good woman thinks, don’t she?” Her eyes sought his and warmed at the joy she saw there.

“I guess. But I told you—”

“I’s here with Martha now. You’s here. My Charity here ’cuz I see her over there, hear that bell clanging. Roth happy to see you.”

“That bell saved our bacon. Not sure we would have found those cows without that.” He stroked Martha’s hair. “It was good you didn’t come with me, Tish. We met up with a small party and Mrs. Walden nearly died from the wet and cold. No, you were good to obey me.”

“I finds wisdom in what you wanted, so I chooses it.”

He frowned, then his eyes lit up and he grinned. “A good way to put it.” He touched Martha’s fingers that were outside of the leather wrap of the board. She jerked her little arms at him, reaching. “I was getting ready to come get you but wanted to spot out some land south first.”

“You have me wait weeks?”

“I knew you’d be safe.”

“I safest with you. Now what we do?”

“We’re crossing this Willamette River and heading south. Good land’s been claimed by many here for a few years already. But trappers say this valley is long and lush, so we’ll head south maybe fifty miles or more.”

She hoped they could stay here for a little while, maybe see Nancy Hawkins again, but the weather would continue to get worse. Already a misty rain visited daily. They’d have snow before long. She’d pay the postman to write out a letter to be left for Nancy. Other than that there was no one she wasn’t already with who needed to know where she was. That was a freedom too.

The Woman and Little Shoot halted so she could bind up her leggings. She would need new sinew before long. Though the snow rarely got deep nor lasted long, the cold would find her telling Little Shoot to wear his heavier leggings too. They made their way back toward the village where they’d winter. A cold, steady mist common in this “good month” made her pull her wolf coat closed. This good month is when the Missionaries celebrated the birth of a child, Jesus. Good food accompanied this celebration and she heard the story each year with happiness in her heart. She answered to the name Betsy then, though she thought of herself as The Woman.

She heard something changing the silence. Cattle, ten, twelve, many more animals, crashing through the timber, flaring out from the trapper’s trail that edged the prairie. They ripped at grasses where The Woman and Little Shoot many months earlier collected first camas. Little Shoot pointed and she nodded.

Behind the cattle rode a man on a horse followed by two mules packed with white cloth around mounds of supplies like the trappers
carried. A wagon rolled behind them all, driven by a small boy. The Woman’s mouth opened wide in surprise as the wagon rolled toward Soap Creek. The boy . . . no, woman . . . wore burnt-seed skin like the Kalapuya, but darker. The Woman watched the party, surprised even more by the board attached to the wagon seat.
There is a child.

Where the spring burbled onto the grasses, the travelers pulled up their horses and mules. The man looked here and there, pointed to the butte then Soap Creek. He called out to the woman and then he dismounted, walking back toward her to say something only she and the child could hear. But when he walked toward the spring on the side of the hill she was certain his face smiled despite being wrapped as it was in a beard the color of sunset in the budding month.

“Nothing stays as we know it,” she told the boy. “It is the only certainty a Kalapuya knows.” This is a thing to remember.

No one asked to see her papers. No one close could hear the
chink
!
chink
!
of Davey’s ax as he felled trees to build their home. The weight she carried on the overland journey lessened; here she faced each morning with a lifted spirit despite the ever-present rain dribbling onto the canvas over the wagon. No heavy winter storms pushed against them and the green beneath the trees reminded her of plantation lawns tended by slaves and grazing sheep. This was her home now, and she was reassured each day that coming west had been the right decision.

The ground wasn’t frozen, so before they started any other work, Letitia said they needed to plant the apple saplings.

“I’ll put the house here.” Davey walked the lines to serve as borders, pointed out the merits of being close to the spring and out of any high winds. “That creek doesn’t look very big so I’d say we build close to it.” Letitia had washed clothes in that creek water and she could see why the trappers called it “Soap” as it bubbled
her lye bar. “And if that spring dries up you’d be close to washing and drinking water. Yup, I’d say this is the spot.”

“I’s partial to the side hill, closer to the spring.”

“I told you, Tish: if the spring dries up you’ll be hauling water from the creek and it’ll be quite a trip up the hill.”

She wasn’t sure why but she liked being up higher, to see the valley and the creek, to notice sooner when the weather changed and came rolling in over the buttes that surrounded. “Likes I say: I’m partial to hillsides.”

“I told you why you don’t need to be.”

“I’s the one spending time in the house and I’s the one hauling water from the creek if the spring gives out. You can say ‘I told ya so.’ But I’m plantin’ the apple trees by the spring and I want it near my home.”

“You do that. And I’ll build the house near the creek.” He dug the heel of his brogans in the dirt, marking his intention.

Their disagreement sat like bad meat in her stomach. She could go with what Davey wanted just because he wanted it, but this was a new place and here she was allowed to speak her piece and now and then get her way, wasn’t she? She just didn’t know how to make it happen.

Within a week, Davey returned to Oregon City for more supplies and to file a claim of 640 acres with the provisional government. He’d walked the property, and with Soap Creek and the trapper’s trail and the spring and Coffin Butte Peak as landmarks, he was able to tell the land surveyor enough to stake his claim until that section of Oregon country was officially surveyed. He and Letitia knew that once Oregon country became a territory, he’d have to re-register, and when Oregon became a state, re-register again. But a section of free land “put wealth on the table,” as Davey described it.

He went without her to file the provisional land claim. He’d tell them he was a citizen—if they even asked. He’d heard they often
didn’t, just assumed if they’d come all that way across the country for free land that they’d have the right to it. Hadn’t he already renounced his beloved Ireland and the not-so-beloved queen? It wasn’t his fault the papers were late. He sent a little prayer that he wouldn’t be struck dead for his sin—and the postman would soon erase his lie.

With Rothwell, Letitia tried to keep their stock within sight. One day, Martha would walk with a stick to bring the cows up for milking. Today, Letitia saw them and then they’d disappear as the mist lowered itself onto the bushes like an old woman sinking into a chair she’d have trouble rising from.

“What’s harshin’ on you, Roth?” The dog growled low. Letitia looked to see what might be out there with the cows. “Wolves?” She did hear them at night, but they didn’t frighten her the way men did. Still, she’d be glad when she and Martha and Davey slept inside logs instead of the wagon. Rothwell barked then and she saw beyond the herd a man riding on the old trapper’s trail Davey had pointed out.

Letitia wished they’d set the tent further into the trees. She patted the dog’s head and before long he left her to do his duty, covering the scat with his nose like a house cat. She stayed near the tent and the gun Davey left her, watching the pack string make its way near their claim. Or their soon-to-be claim. A splice of sun broke through, promising a change in weather, but she’d learned that this little sun break said nothing about keeping the rain from falling within minutes.

“Howdy.” The lead man wore a fur hat and clothes of skins with the fur hides turned in against him. “Where you hail from?”

“Kentucky. Missouri.”

“Mighty right. Come with Black Harris? Meek?”

“Met ’em both. Meek’s our pilot ’til we broke off to follow English.”

“Come all that way alone, did you?”

“My man’s around.” The hair on her arms began to shimmer.

“Mighty right.”

The lead man spit onto the ground. His horse stomped, eager to move on, and they had a string of pack mules that threatened to get into trouble if they stopped too long. She’d seen that happen with other strings getting impatient, all lined up and nowhere to go.

“You got any tobacco? I could sure use a smoke and see there’s lots of bearberry around to mix it with.” This from another of the trappers midway in the string.

Letitia shook her head. She didn’t know what bearberry was nor did she have any tobacco left. It struck her as odd that if they were newly headed out they would have secured supplies at Fort Vancouver and shouldn’t be in need.

She stepped back, prayed Martha would not awake. They might be good men . . . or they might be trouble. Rothwell returned and stood beside her, his fishtail high over his back. She wished she’d picked up the pistol.

“You’re always out of tobacco,” the lead man said to the second.

“I lost two good twists,” the other defended.

“Mighty right. You lost ’em to cards. We mean you no harm, missus.” He must have seen worry on her face and offered to wash it away. “We’re moving on through to California, checking our traps as we go.”

“Have nothing to offer you, suh.” Then, “Wait.” She dipped inside the tent, stepped back out, the pistol in one hand kept in the folds of her skirt, fresh butter in the other. She handed him the packet wrapped in leaves.

“This’ll make good eating. Thank you, missus.” He removed his hat and tipped it at her. “You be careful now, you hear? They got a law in these parts forcing black folks into doing other people’s labor.”

“In Kentucky we calls that slavery.”

“Mighty right. That’s what I call it too, but there’s lots who wouldn’t and they as soon take you away to make butter for them as look at ya.”

“I thanks you for the warnin’.”

The men moved on then. Letitia was reminded that Davey had made a good choice staking a claim beside the trapper’s trail despite her earlier wish for privacy. Yes, there was risk. But next time she would sell her butter and cheese and whatever else she could come up with that those travelers might want. She’d also keep that pistol on her person, in case the men’s warnings came to pass.

The Woman made her way toward the wagon set well below the spring. Newly planted saplings leaned into the windless rain. A dog barked her arrival and for a moment she wished she’d brought Little Shoot with her to charm the animal. But she didn’t want any harm to come to him, so she went alone.

The dog continued to bark until the burnt-seed woman came out, carrying the “Oh” of surprise on her face. She held a baby on her hip, a little hat to ward off rain. Up close she was not much taller than The Woman was. The Woman gave her a basket filled with baked camas, pushing it toward her.

“Thank you. I’s Letitia Carson. This be Martha.” The burnt-seed woman took the basket, set it down out of the misting rain.

“Betsy.” She pointed her fingers to her breast. “Kalapuya. We dig camas here.” Palm up, she moved her hand across the meadows, her movement like a prelude to a soft-singing song.

“You speak good English. Better’n mine.”

The Woman knew it was not right to wave her own feather, but she liked knowing that her English was understandable by the Others. Little Shoot had an able teacher in her and this was good. The burnt-seed woman, Letitia, wore a round and open face full of curiosity but also respect. She did not ask questions that buzzed like mosquitoes as many Others did.

“At the Institute, closed now, Missionaries teach. Dr. White leaves and everything changes.”

Letitia squinted, as though the name held meaning for her.

“You know Dr. White?”

“I thinks we meet him and a colored man, heading to the states.”

“You will return to the states?” It was her turn to ask questions.

Letitia shook her head. “No. We stayin’.” She used her palm up to survey the same area of Betsy’s camas.

“Ayee.”

“You can collect your camas, still. Other plants and seeds too. Maybe you show me.”

There were no words to make the Others go away once they decided to stay. She had heard of people who tried this and many died, and still, more of the Others came. A thing to remember was to bring the Others the wisdom of the People’s ways and so live with peace in the shadow of these hills.

She looked with curiosity at Letitia’s face. She had not seen an Other with such dark skin. None of the Missionaries had burnt-seed faces.

This Letitia warmed her baby’s hands at a small fire.

The Woman noticed then logs laid out not far from the creek, marking a lodge, she imagined. “The creek.” She gestured. “Rises in budding time. Water fills this place we stand on.”

“It overflow?”

The Woman nodded.

“I want to build higher up. Near the spring.”

The
spring. Not “our spring,” not yet.
The Woman hoped the sadness on her face didn’t show. “You will let the People use the spring.”

“Yessum. And when we have apples you’ll eat.” She nodded toward the six new mounds surrounding the apple saplings. “Building nearer the spring keeps us safer?”

“Ayee.”

Letitia chewed her lower lip, adjusted the baby on her hip. The child looked with curiosity, big eyes the colors of a grey wolf and a bear.

“Betsy, you helps me pull these logs up the hill? We lays ’em where the water don’t reach.”