Deep as the Rivers (Santa Fe Trilogy) (23 page)

   
“Yee-haw! Now git back to them younguns o’ yourn. Damn, if yew ain’t the plumb ugliest mother critter ever turned out o’ the’ woodshop o’ creation!” he bellowed at the bear.

   
Her rescuer placed himself between her and her attacker, poking a glowing, smoking faggot toward the animal’s sensitive nose. He advanced toward the bear brandishing the crude torch and yelling curses all the while.

   
The woodsman must have been six and a half feet tall with so much matted grizzled hair on his head and face that he nearly resembled a bear himself. His clothes were all of buckskin, elaborately fringed and beaded and he carried an arsenal of weapons on his person, including an enormous curved hunting knife the size of a scimitar strapped on one hip. A powder horn and shot pouch hung suspended from his shoulders and he clutched a rifle in his right hand.

   
“Shoot! For God’s sake, shoot!” Olivia shrieked in English as the bear reared up, swatting ineffectually at the torch, which was burning down almost to the great meaty fist that clutched it.

   
Suddenly the bear dropped back on all four feet and wheeled around clumsily, then lumbered away, heading back in the direction of her cubs. Olivia sat staring at the big black bear’s retreat, numb with disbelief, while her giant rescuer threw his makeshift torch to the ground and stomped out the flames. Then he turned back and extended one massive arm. His callused hand seemed larger than the bear’s paw. It enveloped Olivia’s arm as he pulled her to her feet.

   
“Yew all right, gal?” the giant queried. Solemn brown eyes swept from her tangled hair down to her muddy bare feet and back.

   
“
Oui
—yes, I’m all right,” she answered, amazed to be alive after so terrifying a brush with death. She felt the trembling begin then, from the soles of her feet traveling all the way up her body until her heart felt like it would burst and her head reeled with dizziness. “No, I’m not all right at all,” she murmured as her knees turned to jelly.

   
“Yew look plumb peeked ta me,” the big man said, squinting at her uncertainly. “Course, I have thet affect on lots o’ folks. Reckon I ain’t much better lookin’ than an ole buff’lo bull in full spring molt. Thet’s why I purty much keep ta myself in these here woods. I’m Micajah Johnstone, missy.” He made an awkward bow, touching in an old-fashioned courtly way, then set aside his rifle and steadied her by taking hold of her arm and leaning her against the trunk of a big oak tree.

   
Olivia looked down at the rifle and asked, “Why didn’t you just shoot the bear instead of risking your life with that torch?”

   
“Naw, I couldn’t do thet. Hit wuz a she-bar. Yew saw her young’uns. They’d die without her. Sides, I knowed I cud skeer her. I have me a camp jist upriver. Grabbed a stick out o’ th’ fire when I heered the ruckus. Bar’s ‘n all wild critters is afeared o’ fire. Come on ta my camp. I expect yew cud use some coffee ‘n grub.”

   
As he helped her stand, he asked, ‘‘Whut’s yore name, missy?”

   
“Olivia St. Etienne, Monsieur Johnstone. Thank you for saving my life. I am most grateful...and most hungry.”

   
He guffawed loudly. “I got me a big pot o’ stew simmerin’ ‘n coffee a boilin’ away. Should all be ready by now.”

   
Hot food sounded like heaven. Olivia’s mouth was watering before they ever reached the campsite, which was situated in a small clearing not far from where she had forded the river. A fire crackled merrily below a small iron kettle that was suspended above it on an iron bar. The coffeepot nestled in the coals near the edge of the fire pit. Nearby a large buckskin gelding grazed peacefully, secured only by a braided hackamore. A heavy travois was leaning against the trunk of a towering sycamore tree at the edge of the clearing.

   
Olivia sank down on a soft pile of buffalo robes and looked around. This must be a trapper’s camp, although she saw none of the small willow frames on which beavermen stretched and cured the hides of their catch. The only evidence of any hunting, besides the bedroll, was one deer, hanging suspended head down from the limb of a cottonwood. It had been gutted and the body was held gaping obscenely open by a series of wooden sticks wedged across the interior.

   
Micajah started to pour coffee into a big tin mug, then remembered that he had drunk from it before. Surreptitiously, he rubbed the rim with his greasy buckskin sleeve before filling it with the steaming black liquid. He offered it to the girl who sat enveloped in the mountain of his bedroll.

   
Olivia accepted it eagerly and watched as he ladled rich brown gravy, filled with chunks of meat, onions and other vegetables into a bowl. It smelled heavenly. She took a sip of coffee and found it was strong but not at all the inky bitter stuff the squaws and rivermen made. A small smile touched her lips as she recalled the hideous muddy bean mess she had made for Samuel.

   
“Good to see yew lookin’ a bit more pert, Miz St. E’tane,” he said, handing her the bowl of stew.

   
“You make much better coffee than I ever could.” She set down the cup and accepted the bowl with thanks, then dug in with the spoon.

   
“Ain’t nothin’ ta makin’ coffee ‘ceptin’ ta throw in a fist full o’ grounds fer a couple cups o’ water.”

   
“But you do have to grind the beans...and use water, not mud.” At his puzzled look she gave him a quick description of how she had performed the task and elicited a hearty thigh slapping laugh from him.

   
“Thet feller whut drunk hit must’ve been plumb poleaxed.”

   
She had been the one nearly poleaxed, but Olivia did not bring that up. “This is really delicious stew.” She took another big mouthful and closed her eyes with pleasure at the rich spicy flavor. “Is it venison?” she asked, looking over at the deer carcass hanging on the tree.

   
“Naw. I only jest kilt the deer ‘n bled hit out. This here stew’s been simmerin’ since’t early mornin’ when I lucked on thet skunk.”

   
“Skunk!” She dropped the spoon with a clatter and stared at him. Surely he could not mean...

   
“Hit’s a pure delicacy.” He pronounced delicacy “deli-kay-cee,” with great relish. “Sweetest tastin’ meat a feller ever snagged a tooth inta—thet is, if’n he gits th’ critter afore hit kin waggle hits tail. I got this’un clean. Alls yew got ta do is cut thet leetle sac out real careful like so’s hit don’t spill onta th’ meat,” he explained.

   
Oliver was torn between hunger pangs and the delicious aroma of the stew on one hand and the idea of eating vermin like a skunk on the other. Hunger won out and she dug in again. It did taste sweet.

   
Micajah watched her eat ravenously in spite of her initial aversion to the highly uncivilized treat. The little gal had grit. When she had fallen with that bear hot on her heels, she had been clutching a puny little knife in her fist ready to fight gamely to the last.

   
“Yew must be a city gal. What ‘er yew doin’ all alone here dressed like a tadpole?” he asked, studying her soft pale complexion and the scruffy boy’s clothes she wore.

   
“I was running away...from a man who betrayed me...no, actually from two men who betrayed me,” she added, taking a deep breath and looking into Micajah’s warm brown eyes. His face looked “used” by life, like a well-worn buffalo hide blanket, sun and wind blasted and just a bit greasy. Long dark hair and a full bushy beard were liberally sprinkled with gray but his big rawboned frame remained erect and powerful, although she judged him to be well past fifty.

   
For all the intimidation of his physical appearance there was an odd gentleness about the man. In her whole life Olivia had never had anyone to really confide in besides her parents. Micajah Johnstone looked to be a good listener. Before she realized, she was telling him the whole sad and star crossed tale of her parents’ deaths, her guardian’s treachery and, most painfully, Samuel’s betrayal and desertion.

   
He scratched his head when she had finished. “Sounds ta me like yew ain’t got no real kinfolk anywhere ‘ceptin’ mebee thet uncle down in New Orleens ‘n he’s probably no account, him turnin’ away yore ma and all. Way I figger hit, any man thet’d deny his own sister ain’t no better ‘n a he-cat on th’ prowl. Worse. Animals only do whut comes nat’ral but the good Lord gave humans a mite more ta live up ta. Not thet they do very often,” he added in a peculiar melancholy tone of voice.

   
“Is that why you live alone here in the wilderness?” Olivia asked. For some reason she felt a strange kinship with Micajah Johnstone, as if they had both been betrayed by life.

   
He looked at her with surprise. “Yore real keen fer bein’ so young. Yep, reckon I come here ta find peace. Nature is harsh but hit’s fair. Rules make sense. With people...” His voice faded as he stared at the fire.

   
“Do you have a family?” She knew he must have, to react so strongly when she told him about Uncle Charles rejecting
Maman
.

   
“I did once’t. Back in th’ Carolina mountains. My woman, Mariah, she wuz a good’un. We had us a small farm. I did some smithin’ when crops wuz bad. We had one daughter, no sons. She pined real bad on thet, until Waylon come ta live with us. Her sister’s boy. His ma died when he was a tadpole. Pa was a no ‘count who run off ‘n left him. We raised him like our own. He wuz sorta sickly when he was leetle. Mebbee thet’s why he got so wild later on, drinkin’ ‘n raisin’ hell with th’ gals in town until he got hisself in a passel o’ trouble. Plumb broke my Mariah’s heart when he got hisself kilt fer stealin’ a horse.”

   
“What happened to your daughter?” she asked hesitantly.

   
Micajah sighed. “She always wanted ta get clear o’ th’ hills. Hated bein’ pore. She up ‘n run off with a planter from Virginney when she was fifteen. Her ma had th’ preacher write her ta see how she was doin’. She sent back one letter, sayìn’ her new husband didn’t want no truck with hill folk. Never heerd a word from her after thet even though Mariah kept sendin’ letters, but hit didn’t do no good. Mariah took sick and died. After she wuz gone I decided ta move across th’ Cumberland.”

   
He grinned at Olivia, letting the harshness of the past fade. “Hell, alls I had ta do ta leave Carolina wuz pack up my horse, call th’ dawg, spit on th’ fire ‘n’ lite out.”

   
Olivia had believed that her life had been one of great adversity in recent years, but she felt humbled in the face of Micajah Johnstone’s suffering and his courage. “You traveled all the way from Carolina, crossed the Appalachians, then through Kentucky before you even reached the Mississippi?”

   
“Aw, shucks, I been a lot farther west n’ this. Took a leetle trip with a feller named Coulter a couply years back. Went up in th’ biggest danged mountains anywheres. They’s so tall they like ta scraped th’ clouds clean outta th’ sky. Seen a salt ocean and water ‘n mud boilin’ up outta th’ ground like they wuz shot from a cannon. Place smelled like Ole Scratch hisself wuz livin there. Thet’s when I decided ta hightail hit back ta th’ Missouri country.”

   
Olivia had heard secondhand the incredible descriptions of Coulter’s Hell, the boiling mud pits and geysers he claimed to have seen out west. Few in St. Louis believed him but watching Micajah’s eyes, the girl knew that he spoke the truth even though the route of Lewis and Clark did not encounter such natural wonders. “You’ve sure been a lot of places. Isn’t that what they call ‘seeing the elephant’?”

   
Micajah’s sides heaved with laughter. “Missy, I not only seen the elephant, I done shot him, skinned him ‘n et him.”

   
She felt a burble of laughter building up inside her. “Oh, and what did he taste like?”

   
He paused for a moment and considered, scratching his great woolly head and studying her with merry brown eyes. Finally he replied, “Wrinkled.”

   
They both laughed.

   
“Seems ta me yew seen yore share o’ th’ world, too—all them fancy Ur-o-peen places. Paris ‘n sechlike. I cain’t even think whut hit must be like ta cross a salt ocean.”

   
“For a long while I wanted to go back, but that was before my parents died.”

   
“ ‘N now?” he prompted.

   
Oliver shook her head. “No, there’s nothing there for me anymore. I’m an American now, just like you. Are you a trapper?” she asked, looking at the big deer hanging from the tree.

   
“Naw, I only kill fer meat. Them fancy gents across th’ ocean don’t need beaver hats so all fired bad that men here should take ever’ pelt betwixt th’ Mississip ‘n th’ western ocean. Killin’ a critter jest fer hits hide is purely a waste, ta my way o’ thinkin’.”

   
“If you don’t trap and you don’t farm, then how do you make a living in this wilderness?” She was frankly intrigued with his philosophy.

   
He chuckled good-naturedly. “Oh, I do a leetle o’ this ‘n a leetle o’ thet. Got me a comfortable cabin farther up th’ Gasconade. I farm some corn ‘n a few greens fer th’ pot. Got fruit ‘n nuts growin’ on trees, fish in th’ river ‘n all the deer, bar, buff’lo ‘n other game I need fer meat ‘n hides. Tracked this here critter fer miles.” He gestured to the buck.