Crooked River (5 page)

But I had never seen any real Indian beads before, and I had to admit they were beautiful-looking things and maybe I would have given away something of my own to have them, too.

“Why would the Indian put beads inside our bowl?” Laura asked, rolling them back and forth with her finger.

“To thank us for bringing him food,” I said. “Perhaps?”

Laura gave me a sharp look. “That's purely foolish nonsense, Reb.”

“We gonna keep them?” I asked carefully.

Laura pressed her lips together. “You want to keep something from a murderer? What would the Lord in heaven think about that, Rebecca Ann Carver?”

“I don't see what's wrong with saving them,” I answered, holding the beads in a small chink of sunlight.

“Ma would say it was wrong,” Laura insisted. “Now wouldn't she, if she was alive?”

“I don't see why. How's keeping them gonna cause any harm?” I argued. “They didn't murder no one. They're nothing but a few glass beads.”

I'm not sure why I wanted those beads so fiercely,
but I did. We didn't have many beautiful things of our own. Laura had a plain gold ring that belonged to our Ma, and a fine ivory comb from the East that was never used, and a piece of lace for her wedding gown someday. I had a silver teaspoon from Ma and a too-small pair of silk gloves. That was all.

Laura looked at me and heaved a sigh. “All right.” She turned the bowl on its side and poured the six beads into my hand. “But don't you dare tell Pa what I done,” she said.

And now I could count six handsome beads from an Indian as mine.

By the time another week had passed, our fears about being kilt by the Indian were hushed some. To my way of thinking, the Indian wouldn't give me and Laura gifts of beads and such if he was planning to bring any terrible harm on our heads. And if we were bringing him plates of food, perhaps he understood he needn't fear a thing from us either.

I began to go up to the loft by myself again to fetch the things we needed for our cooking. Me and Lorenzo were the only ones who could walk beneath the sloping roof without stooping over much. When I went up for onions or some apples for a pie, I would often give a sideways glance at where the Indian was sitting.

Seemed like I noticed something different about him each time. Something I hadn't seen before. “Do
you know the Indian has a big piece of copper dangling from his neck?” I would tell Laura. “It's in the shape of a half-moon. I imagine it was from an old kettle, don't you think?”

Another morning, I noticed that the feathers on his head were hawk feathers, on account of how they were brown and square-shaped. And I saw he had two silver disks, the size of shillings, hanging from his earlobes.

I think Laura was as filled with curiosity as I was about the Indian. Every time I carried the empty bowl or dinner plate downstairs, she would hurry to ask what he had left for us. Sometimes it was beads, and other times it was odd and peculiar things like red-dyed porcupine quills or small tin cones with tufts of horsehair stuck inside. Once he even left a tarnished buckle that looked exactly like a little silver sun.

Still, Laura kept on worrying that Pa would find out about the gifts. “I should never have let you keep the beads in the first place,” she fretted. “If Pa learns what I did, he will punish me so severely, I might as well go and shake hands with the devil himself. Our Ma would be downright ashamed with how I'm raising you. Downright ashamed.”

I told Laura she was fine at raising me.

But I didn't tell her that I had started to give small things to the Indian, too.

May 1812

When Mercy was being a pesky little bother one morning, I took out some of the beads and such for her to see. We kept all of the things from Indian John hidden in the chest at the foot of our bed. They were tucked underneath the embroidered pillowcases that Laura had stitched for her married life—when she found someone for marrying, that is.

Carefully, I put everything we had been given on the bed. They made a peculiar, colorful line. Mercy crawled onto the bed to watch and Laura perched on the edge of our wooden chest. She had just returned from the Hawleys, who had finally recovered their senses after two weeks of the fever.

“Look at this little quill, Mercy.” I waggled one of the red-dyed ones in front of her. The quill reminded me of a long stem of meadow grass, with tiny white ridges where it appeared to have been bent and folded.

“Lemme see,” Mercy demanded, reaching for it with her small fingers.

“Don't you ruin it,” I said loudly, and Laura glared at me.

I picked up another quill and held it in my hand, studying it. “What do you suppose the Indians use them for?” I asked Laura.

My sister leaned closer. “Weaving, maybe?”

“Ain't porcupine quills round?” I rubbed the quill between my fingers. “All of these are flat.”

Laura shrugged. “Perhaps the Indians make them that way.”

“Or,” I said, dangling the quill in front of Mercy's sour face, “maybe this here quill came from a flat red porcupine. You ever seen one of those in the woods before, Mercy, huh? Walking around like this on his flat red feet.” I pretended to stomp across the floor while Mercy giggled and laughed.

And right at that moment—as I was stomping across the floor and we had beads and trinkets scattered all over our bedclothes—someone halloed outside our cabin door.

“Git the door, Reb,” Laura hissed, scooping the beads and quills into her hands. “Quick, while I put these away.”

I cast my eyes around the room to see what else was out of place. The table was a mess of bowls and
dishes. The slop jar still sat by the door, waiting to be emptied. Where to set it? The only place I could see fit to hide it was in the corner next to our food cupboard. I tore off my apron and threw it over the jar for good measure.

Then I made a dash for the door before the visitor decided to set foot inside.

“Yes sir, begging your pardon,” I said, opening the door halfway.

Outside stood a fellow who had all the appearances of a trapper. Unshaven face that hadn't seen a washbasin in weeks. Clothes that were nothing but shreds and patches. A sour smell coming off of him like clabbered milk. The fellow grinned at me and I saw that four of his teeth were missing in the front, as if he had lost them in an ear of corn.

“A sixpence to see the savage you got,” he said, and held up a worn, old coin.

“What?” came flying out of my mouth before I could stop it.

“I says, miss,” the fellow repeated slowly, “a sixpence for showing me the savage you got inside yer house.” He waggled the coin in front of my eyes and grinned without his teeth. “Indian John.”

A peculiar feeling came over me. I don't know why, but the sight of that trapper standing there with a sixpence sent a streak of anger right through me. I didn't want to let some ugly old trapper in our house so he could make a gazingstock out of Indian John. Wouldn't want people paying to stare at me—that's what I thought.

“No, matter of fact, you can't see the Indian, sir,” I
said, trying to keep my voice polite and proper. “He ain't taking visitors today.”

“What?”

Now it was the trapper's turn to look surprised. He narrowed his eyes and took a step closer to me, as if I was nothing but a little mosquito he was planning to swat out of the way. “Ain't Major Carver yer Pa?” he said sharply.

I nodded.

“Then you run and git him, girl. Stop vexing me—”

But at that moment, Laura appeared behind me. “Our Pa and the boys ain't here,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height. Even the trapper seemed startled, looking her up and down again.

“Perhaps, if you don't mind, you could come back later.” Laura wiped her hands on her apron, as if he had caught us in the middle of baking or cleaning.

“You Miz Carver, his wife?” the trapper said, turning his head to the side and spitting a stream of brown tobacco, half of which dribbled down his chin. He didn't seem in any real hurry to leave.

“Daughter,” Laura answered. “I'm the oldest Carver daughter. Our Ma's dead. May her soul rest in peace.” I knew that by saying this to the trapper, Laura meant to give him the idea that in the absence of Ma, she was the one taking charge.

“I ain't here to cause you two gals no trouble,” the trapper said, making his voice sweet as tree sap. “Just want to get a glimpse at that captive Indian.”

“We're in the middle of our baking,” Laura said.

“Ain't gonna stay for more than one half minute.”

Me and Laura didn't have any choice, seemed
like, but to let him in. We couldn't stand in the way of a grown man. Not if Pa got word of it. So, the trapper scraped his boots on the stone beside the door and pushed his way right inside. I could see his eyes darting from one thing to the next, taking account of everything we had—the pewter on the table, our big food cupboard, the red-painted chest from the East that sat at the foot of Pa's bed—