Dances Naked (20 page)

“They’re called eyes but what they really are, are places where the sprouts s
tart for a new plant. By spring
time, you’ll see what I mean. What you need to do is cut each potato into segments so that each one has about three,” he held up three fingers and wiggled them, “sprouts. Let the potato cuts dry out for a few days and then plant each chunk, that is, piece, in a trench, about two feet apart. Only put about so much,” he spread his fingers about an inch apart, “dirt on top. The little sprouts will start to turn into leaves. Keep burying the new plants with a bit more dirt every week or two until you have a hill. New little potatoes will form underground. If you get hungry and can’t wait until harvest, that’s after the plant has bloomed and then withered, you can burrow into the hills and pull out what they call new potatoes. They don’t have the tough skin on them and you can’t save them as long as the mature ones
,
but they taste even better, at least to me they do. So, do you think you can be the chief cook, bottle washer
,
and farmer?” he asked with a smile.

“Bottle washer?” Rachel asked. She already knew what cooks and farmers were.

“Oh, just, I mean, the one to take care of feeding the babies,” he fumbled. She wouldn’t under
stand the innuendo about breast
feeding
,
bottle-feeding
and washing bottles anyhow.

“Yes, I can take care of the babies
,
and Big Sister helps with the cooking
,
and I’m sure she’ll help with the farming, too. But I don’t think they have any bottles around here so that’s a good thing, I think,” she said, still confused.

Suddenly everyone’s attention was at the far end of the camp. Old Woman had been tottering back to her makeshift palace with her cronies when something startled her. “Blah, blah, blah!” she shouted then repeated her threat again, verbatim, “Blah, blah, blah!”

The three braves rushed to her aid
.
Big Sister pulled Rachel and the babies back to her, protecting them as only a six-year-old with an attitude could. ‘Stay with me
.
I won’t let anyone hurt you,’ she said with her stance.

Then Marty heard it. Or rather
,
he heard her. “I don’t mean you any harm. I was just looking for the white man who came to our store earlier,” she said, a false bravado unsuccessfully trying to cover the squeak of fear as the word ‘our’ came out.

Marty hopped over the fire, skipped then ran over to the gathering, hoping to avert any problems before they started. Old Woman was shaking her staff at a white woman, trying to terrorize her with the end of it from a safe ten pac
es away. They were both scared—
that he could see. Red Shirt was at the perimeter of the fracas. Marty couldn’t see his face but he’d just about bet that he was smiling at the confrontation.

“Hi, you were looking for me?” he
asked
as he stepped into the low glow of the campfire. The old women had been at the dinner party and had let their fire burn low. He stooped down and threw a couple more faggots onto the embers. The light would hopefully brighten the attitude and douse the eerie feeling that the low light created.

“Yes, I thought that, um,” she faltered then inhaled sharply. She had already made her decision and now she would have to stick with it. She started again, “I thought that you might need a pot for all those beans that you got…and maybe a bread pan or two,” she added, suddenly feeling braver.

A young, fine-figured white woman with an oversized cap walked into the light, a lumpy green cotton print bag in one hand
,
a
fancy
, carpetbag satchel in the other. She pulled her shoulders back proudly then walked toward Marty, her head bowing sharply just before she got to him, hiding something.

“Why, I thank you for the gift, gifts,” he corrected then leaned sideways to see why she was hiding her face. “Is there something wrong?” he asked. “I mean, surely you shouldn’t be out here at night, all by yourself, should you?”

“No and yes. Or yes and no. Shoot,” she exclaimed, suddenly frustrated and showing a true emotion for the first time. She took two small steps back away from him and began her heartfelt explanation. “I guess I’m running away from home. I overheard you tell my father that you had a big family and, and, well…I’m running away from home and would like to stay with you.” Her confidence faded quickly as she added, “But I didn’t think you had an Indian family. I mean, I only heard you, I didn’t see you. I mean, I didn’t know you didn’t wear pants!” she said in exasperation.

“Well, I do sometimes,” Marty admitted with a chuckle. “It’s just I got such a good deal on a trade for this…” he joked as he flipped the edge of his breechclout. Marty looked around at the stern faces of the old women, Red Shirt and the other two braves. They weren’t impressed with his casual banter with the female intruder. He had to do some quick damage control.

“I think you’ve put us at risk,” he said somberly. “It’s going to look like you’ve been kidnapped, at least. White women don’t just walk up to Indians and say I want to be part of your family.”

“Yes, they do,” Rachel piped up, Junior on her hip
,
Big Sister on the other side, holding Baby Brother.

“Well, not very often,” Marty corrected. “But you didn’t have any family, not really,” he added softly to Rachel, “and you do,” he said sternly to the woman, her age still indeterminable. “Are you the one who your father wa
s hoping would get married soon;
that he was saving the big ham for your wedding?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied dejectedly. “But I didn’t want to get married, to, ugh, the man he wanted me to marry. And anyone that I, um, liked, wouldn’t look at me, at least look at me twice.” The young woman set her bags down at her side and walked closer to Marty and the firelight
, and
then pulled back her wide flounced mobcap. “See,” she said with a shrug of her shoulder.

Old Woman started in again, “Blah, blah, blah! Blah, blah, blah!”

Marty looked over at her and said coldly, “Shut up, Old Woman.” He heard Red Shirt and Number Two snort quickly, an outburst of laughter sneaking past their lips then contained just as fast as it had slipped out. Marty looked back to the generous visitor and said, “Okay, so you’ve got a port wine stain birthmark on your cheek. So what? You seem intelligent, obviously have a kind heart or you wouldn’t be sharing,
must be
healthy if you could walk all the way here…You did walk, didn’t you? I mean, I’d hate to be
accused of horse stealing, too.
”

“No, I walked,” she said.

“But you’ve placed us in an awkward position.
As
I was saying, I’m sure your father will be out looking for you in the morning
,
if he isn’t already. Say, how did you find us? I mean, I had a hard time finding this place and I’d been here before and had a guide.”

“I, um, cut a hole in one of the bags of cornmeal. It wasn’t a big hole
,
just enough
so a
few grains of meal slipped out.” The woman saw Marty’s stern sco
wl and added, “But I only saw the trail
because I was looking for it. You must have stopped once because there was a bigger pile of it
by some rocks,
but I covered it up with dirt. Nobody will find me, us. I promise. Besides, I left a note
for my father
. I
said I was going to Washington
to catch a ship and sail to England. I have an uncle there and he
said I could stay with him anytime.” T
he girl huffed with confidence at her cleverness, just coming short of issuing an ‘hmph!’ in satisfaction.

“Washington? D.C.?” Marty asked. Surely
,
she
couldn’t mean Washington State—
that was still wild country and on the northwest coast of America.

“No,” she replied and shook her head, wondering what he was talking about. “They used to call it Forks of the Tar. They changed the name a few years ago in honor of General George Washington. Big ships come in and go out of there all the time. I was going to sell my pendant for passage to England.” The young
woman
smiled broadly. “At least that’s what I said in the letter. I know it’s a sin to lie
,
but I told father that the tinker agreed to take me to Washington as a favor to him, not to worry about me
,
and that I would write to him when I got to England and Uncle Remus.”

Marty looked to Red Shirt for
the
answer to the question on everyone’s mind: what are we going to do with her? He was just the interrogator. If Red Shirt didn’t understand everything she had said, he at least got the gist of her story. Letting her stay with them was a gamble. Either way, they couldn’t send her back in the middle of the night. She’d have to stay at least until morning.

Red Shirt canted his head at Marty then looked to the pretty woman with the purple mark on her face. ‘Bring h
er to our camp—
she can stay the night,’ he said with his body language.

“Well, it looks like you can stay here at least until morning. I’m Marty Melbourne
,
by the way. And you are?” he asked, waiting for her to answer.

“Prudence. Prudence Huntsman,
but I’ll take any name they want to give me,” she said as she nodded to the apparent man in charge.

Marty watched the three braves watch the
woman as she watched
them. Number Two’s eyes were smiling even if his mouth wasn’t. His brother-in-law had just found a
white wife—
maybe he could have this one.

“Come on, Miss Waiting-for-a-new-name,” Marty said as he moved toward her bags. Number Two rushed over and picked up her carpet bag before Marty could retrieve it then reached around
her
and grabbed the kitchen cookware duffel,
too,
wordlessly offering his services as porter. Marty tucked his chin in and dropped his jaw, surprised at the white glove service the problematic intruder was receiving. Maybe there was going to be a new Mrs. Number Two soon.

“Why, thank you,”
she said and smiled at the good-
looking man who had just taken the bags for her. “You are such a gentleman.”

‘Maybe ‘very’ soon,’ Marty thought silently. It could be that Rachel and Big Sister would have help with the cooking, farming
,
and bottle washing.

N

umber Two led the ladies to the campfire, dropped the bags without a word or even a grunt
,
then went into the shadows. He would watch this new white woman and see if she should stay or be returned to her family. It would be Red Shirt’s decision but he would ask for her if he thought she would be a good wife and mother to his children.

Big Sister took Prudence’s hand and pointed to the cleared area on the other side of her bedding. “Please,” she said, offering her the warmest place available. 

“Thank you,” she replied then sat down, crossing her legs under her ample skirts
,
covertly surveying
the isolated location. Yes, this place would not be easy to find without a g
uide, good directions, or a corn
meal trail. Even if her father suspected that she had followed Marty, he still wouldn’t be able to locate this site.

Big Sister situated herself next to the lady with the big, strange hat, shifting her brother to her shoulder so she could sit closer to her. “She’s beautiful,” Prudence commented then frowned and lifted the tyke’s long shirt. “He’s very handsome,” she said, correcting herself. “Where’s your mother?” she asked cautiously as she accepted the boy into her arms, glowing at the trust the young girl was showing her by letting her hold the baby.

“She died, of the measles, I think,” Rachel answered in resignation as she came to sit down in the empty spot in the little impromptu parlor. “I’ve only been with this tribe for two days. I’m Rachel, Red Shirt’s wife,” she said politely in introduction. Her arms suddenly felt v
ery empty. Red Shirt had Junior,
she’d have to let his fat
her give him a new, better name;
and Prudence was holding Baby Brother, Big Sister cuddled next to her. “So, why do you want to be here?” she asked brusquely, her tone changing with the subconscious threat of another adult woman in the tribe, stealing the attentions of her newfound family.

“Well,” Prudence started, feeling uncomfortable with the direct cross-examination she was getting from a white woman who appeared to be about ten years her junior. “I, um, well, I wasn’t happy.”

Rachel gave her a snort and a sharp stare: what difference does that make? Isn’t that how life is most of the time?

Prudence saw ‘the look’ and changed approaches. “My father was very controlling. I was, am, ugly and no man wanted to marry me. So, my father was going to pay this pig of a person to be my husband. He was fat and ugly and rude and when my father wasn’t looking, he’d grab me. ‘Ooh, nice bosoms,’ he’d say or pat my bottom and tell me that I was sweeter than a two dollar whore. He had red bumpy spots on his arms and face. My father said that I shouldn’t pay them any mind. After all, I had this one big one on mine,” she
said
as she touched the birthmark that covered a large part of the left side of her face.