Scalpdancers (28 page)

The action brought Lone Walker out of his trance. His eyes focused. Like a man emerging from a dream, he could remember none of what he'd seen in his mind's eye or where in his soul he had journeyed. Images would return to him throughout his life, allowing him to grasp more, just a little more, of all he had witnessed. Suddenly he bolted upright, seeing the white faces surrounding him. His hand closed around the hilt of his knife and he looked wildly about, trying to make some sense of his surroundings.

Reasoner moved closer. He limped when he walked, the legacy of a hostile Blackfoot encounter up in the high country. But Reasoner held no grudge. It was the way of the wilderness, one of the harsh lessons of survival a man must learn. And if all a man suffered was a clipped wing in the process, that man could count himself lucky. There were far worse fates. Reasoner had lived. He had faced down death, looked it square in the eye and grinned his broken-toothed grin.

“You are in the lodge of friends,” Reasoner said in Lone Walker's own tongue.

“A Scalpdancer has no friends among the white men,” the Indian replied. He had never been in a lodge so large as the church.

“You have come to a far place,” Reasoner replied. “It is not the same here.” He indicated the reverend, who had emerged unscathed from his initiation into the Clayoquat rites of passage. Julia too was present, but she blushed every time the Indian looked in her direction. “They wish you to be their guest. You can rest here. Find food and living water here,” Reasoner said.

Lone Walker did not reply, but his gaze centered on Morgan Penmerry.

“Mor-gan,” the Blackfoot said.

“There he goes again. What have I to do with anything?” Morgan blurted. The whole thing was eerie. First the brave appears out of thin air and says he knows him, then the strange behavior on the cliffs—and now this. “What does he want from me?”

Boudins Reasoner relayed the question and translated Lone Walker's response.

“He doesn't know, younker.” Reasoner sucked on his pipe, but the tobacco had already burned itself out. The trapper helped himself to another ember and blew another cloud. He offered the pipe to the Blackfoot.

“It may not mean much; then again it might keep him from slitting your throats while you sleep.” Reasoner held the pipe steady, insistent, refusing to be tricked by the Blackfoot's seeming indifference. At last Lone Walker accepted the pipe. “Good,” Reasoner said. “Smoke with him. It will seal the peace between you.” The trapper cocked an eye toward Julia. “You won't need to, Missy. His kind don't make war on women.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Julia glanced over at Lone Walker. A smile touched the corners of his mouth. Julia instantly reddened and averted her eyes.

Lone Walker turned his attention toward Emile Emerson, focusing on the small wooden cross the reverend had taken to wearing about his neck. He immediately recognized the symbol.

“Where is your black robe?” Lone Walker asked in English, pointing at Emerson, who appeared at a loss for words.

“He thinks you're a Jesuit,” Boudins Reasoner explained with a wink.

“Oh, heaven forbid.” Emerson glowered, thoroughly insulted. “I am a Methodist. A
Methodist
!” He could tell the Indian did not appreciate the difference, the term unfamiliar to him. “Tell him for me, Mr. Reasoner.”

Reasoner shrugged and turned to the brave, wondering how best to convey Emerson's remarks. Finally, he just shrugged and told the warrior that Emerson once had a black robe, but he had lost it, and that he was still a medicine man and could call the white man's God by name. Lone Walker relaxed his guard. He pulled himself upright and made an attempt to stand. The room swayed for a moment, then steadied. The brave glanced toward the blazing fire close at hand. His belly growled, but he was too proud to ask for food. He made his way unsteadily past the benches and down the aisle, his steps slow and measured. When he reached the door, he unslid the bolt and opened it and walked out onto the porch. A curtain of rain spilled from the roof and black clouds obscured the stars. No one followed him. The noise of the cloudburst flooded the room. Thunder reverberated within the walls of the church.

“Reckon, if you don't mind, I'll sleep out the storm as well,” Reasoner said, dismissing the notion of trying to return to camp. Something cooking smelled mighty good.

“You are more than welcome.” Emerson gave the trapper a stern look. “Just see you uncork whatever jug you've hidden in your possibles, outside on the porch. There will be no consumption of liquor in the house of God.”

Reasoner's weathered features assumed an air of innocence as if he'd never consider such a thing, but Emerson wasn't buying his act.

Julia crossed to the fire and with a long enameled spoon lifted the lid on a black kettle she had hung above the flames. The delicious aroma of venison stew wafted through the church. She filled several wooden bowls with meat and gravy and set them on a small rectangular table where she had also placed a round loaf of crusty bread and a heavy knife.

Morgan was the first at the table; he helped himself to a bowl and whispered, “We must talk.”

The other two men, Boudins Reasoner and Julia's father, gathered round before she could reply. Summoning her courage and what was left of her pride, Julia took one of the bowls in hand, added a chunk of bread, and walked down the aisle of the humble church to the porch, where Lone Walker watched the rain, his thoughts turned to the miles behind him and the miles that lay ahead.

He failed to notice the woman at first, for his attention was on the storm and his own disturbed heart.

Julia touched his elbow and Lone Walker reacted as if he had been burned; his arm jerked on reflex and he leapt back from her. Then he realized who she was. She offered him the wooden bowl of food. His stomach continued to growl and betrayed his hunger. Still he resisted, cautious to a fault. Several seconds passed; they were hours to Julia Emerson.

“Well, I don't intend to stand here all night,” she snapped and set the bowl in the palm of his sun-brown hand. “Eat or throw it out for the owls, Mister Lone Walker.”

She turned to leave. Lone Walker caught her and spun her around to face him. Her auburn hair spilled down over her shoulders as a gust of wind whipped the porch and momentarily sprayed them with a fine sheen of droplets. Julia gasped, half expecting the Indian to plunge a dagger into her breast. Instead, this strange newcomer smiled. Her spirit reminded him of Sparrow.

“It is good,” he said in labored English. He thought a moment, then continued. “My woman—is—many walks from here.” He wanted to tell her of the distance and the longing, of Sparrow's own fiery spirit and her gentle ways. He had no words to hold his meaning, to express his loneliness and his longing. He released her and turned to face the rain-driven night.

Julia left him in the privacy of his pain. She thought Lone Walker yearned for what he could not have and grieved for himself.

She was wrong.

16

With the first light of morning the song began. Julia heard it and, rising from beneath her down comforter, she unlatched the window and opened the shutter. She saw the Blackfoot was standing in the middle of the yard. Moisture sparkled on the trampled grass; puddles of rainwater glistened in the wagon-wheel ruts that crisscrossed the cleared ground. Lone Walker had taken a position near the river trail, where he could look across the Columbia to the forested hills lining the northern shore. Sunlight gleamed like the first morning in Eden, and Julia, after a troubled night's sleep, was grateful for dawn. On the previous night she had been unable to slip away with Morgan, and so whatever he needed to say had gone unsaid.

She knew she was supposed to feel immeasurable guilt for what had happened in the woods. Yet Julia knew only completeness and love. Yes, she loved Morgan Penmerry and refused to harbor regrets. She had given herself to him and he had reciprocated. How could it be a sin to celebrate the love God had placed in their hearts? Last night she had yearned to be with him, and this morning she wished he were at her side.

Julia was surprised to see her father appear on the front porch of the church and wondered why he had left the cabin without waking her. Did he suspect something? She prayed not. Then the source of her unrest emerged alongside her father. Morgan's labors here were finished. The church was built and that was all he had committed himself to. She had never asked him to change his life. She knew all too well that the sea was a jealous mistress and would vie for his affection and indeed his very life. Julia closed her eyes and listened to the warrior's song, whose words were a mystery to her ears.

“Appears you ain't the only holy man in these parts,” Boudins Reasoner said as he walked out from the shadowy interior of the church. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and scratched at his buckskin shirt. “Reckon I ain't the onliest one in this shirt.” He winced as if bit, and scratched energetically at his armpit.

“What do you mean?” Emerson asked, his eyes on the Blackfoot.

“The Injun's making some kind of prayer.” The trapper sniffed the air and noted with regret no one had started breakfast. Maybe there was some cold venison left in the pot. He decided to take a look-see before either of the others thought of it. He ambled back inside.

Emerson climbed down from the porch and sat on the steps. Morgan lingered behind him. They listened to Lone Walker as he lifted his voice in thanksgiving and praise.

“I've something to tell you,” Emerson announced. He searched his waistcoat pocket for his cross and brought it out and gripped it in his fist. The Clayoquat ceremony flitted through his mind: vivid images of red-skinned young girls in woven grass or deerskin dresses, their virginal flesh dabbed with paint, necklaces of shells draped about their slender throats. There was singing and feasting and ceremonial dances that mimicked the mating rituals of forest animals. The girls were becoming women, passing into adulthood and leaving their parents' lodges. He could not help but reflect on his own dutiful daughter, who had passed from girlhood to womanhood—so soon.

Emerson wanted to tell Morgan Penmerry that he was free to call on his daughter. But the words died aborning, the ties too close to be severed in a single blow. They'd have to be undone thread by thread. It was the best he could do.

Morgan stepped off the porch and came around in front of the reverend. He hooked his thumbs in the broad leather belt circling his waist. “I'm listening, Dr. Emerson.”

“Yes … well … I just wanted …” Emerson cursed his own failing courage. He was handling it poorly indeed. “I wanted to thank you for your splendid effort. For all your help.”

“I was paroled to you.” Morgan shrugged.

“No more than you agreed to be,” Emerson reminded him. “I am indebted.” He held out his hand. Morgan enclosed the reverend's stubby calloused fingers in his own hard grip.

“My daughter might need help, wood for a breakfast fire and all. I think I'll ride on down to McCorkle's. Maybe I can drum up a little business for the Lord.” He started toward the river trail, keeping a distance between himself and the Blackfoot.

Morgan, scarcely able to believe his good fortune, hurried off toward the cabin. Emerson spied Julia in the doorway, a robe pulled tight around her buxom figure.

“Wonder what I can trade for a Clayoquat ceremonial drum,” Emerson dolefully said under his breath. “I have a feeling I'm going to need it.”

The summer kitchen was a newly completed shelter, a pole construction whose cedar roof was supported by four stout columns of white pine. A stone fireplace was built at one end of the shelter. An eight-foot-long table with split-log benches to either side doubled as a dining room setting and a workbench.

Morgan carried an armload of kindling and deadwood branches to the fireplace just as Julia arrived from the cabin in her buckskin attire, her auburn hair gathered in a bun at the back of her neck. She balanced a tin of tea, a clay jar full of freshly gathered wild honey, and a large round loaf of crusty bread. There wasn't a place for her to set anything down, as the table itself was inch deep in shavings and littered with hammer and adz, wooden pegs, and other tools of Emerson's carpentry. A seven-foot wooden cross rested on its side, propped against one of the poles.

Morgan dropped the branches and kindling and hurried to clear the table. He shoved Emerson's tools aside and swept the shavings onto the dirt floor.

Julia dropped the tin tea box. It was painted black with gold snails crawling amid delicately etched flowers on the lid and sides. Tea leaves spilled onto the table. She managed the jar and the loaf of bread without mishap, but when she tried to brush the loose tea back in the tin, she accidentally nudged the jar of honey and tipped it over.

Morgan and Julia reached out at the same time. Their hands met and they righted the jar together. Honey glistened on her knuckles.

“I've always been clumsy,” she admitted.

Morgan lifted her hand to his lips and licked the honey from her hand.

“I wish you wouldn't do that,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because it makes me want to … do this,” Julia stammered. Her mouth covered his; her arms encircled his neck.

When the kiss ended, Morgan retreated a step to catch his breath. “I came to talk to you.”

“What is there to say?”

“I thought I knew,” Morgan said. “But now I'm not sure. By heaven, girl, you've gone and driven it out of my head.”

“Then perhaps it wasn't important,” she replied.

“I wanted to explain about—” Her fingertips traced the line of his jaw. He had to reach up and catch her wrist. Julia frowned and advanced on him, forcing him back.

“Explain about what happened between us. About yesterday, about—how everything was your fault. Well, Mr. Morgan Penmerry, it wasn't. And don't you dare try to explain about anything!”