Only The Strong

Chapter Seven

Everyone took to the new member of their little party. At first the Worths held back, but after several days and nights of the old frontiersman’s smiles and chatter, they were won over. Randa, in particular, loved to hear his stories about all he had done and seen in his travels.

Everyone took to the new member—except for Winona King. She couldn’t say what it was about Harrod, but something about him bothered her. She kept it to herself, thinking it silly, until the morning of the fourth day. She was up before first light. Chickory was supposed to be keeping watch. They all took turns. But the boy had dozed off and let the fire go out.

Winona quietly rose from under the blankets so as not to awaken her husband. She stretched, then walked toward the charred embers, smoothing her dress. She didn’t look up until she was almost there.

Peleg Harrod was missing.

Winona gazed about the clearing. Everyone else was still asleep. But Harrod’s blankets were thrown back, and he was gone. She figured he had risen and gone off to wash up in the Platte. Kneeling, she set to rekindling the fire. Chickory let out a snore, and she grinned. Over the past weeks she had grown quite fond of the Worths. It had been her idea to have Nate ask them if they would like to settle in King Valley. Nate had proven reluctant, and she had probed to find out why.

“What is wrong, Husband? You do not want them to live near us because they are black?”

Nate had stiffened in indignation. “If I were that way, would I have married you?”

“I am red, or so your people say, and not black.”

“Don’t quibble. If you honestly and truly think that I judge people by the color of their skin, say so now and I’ll go off and live by myself.”

Winona had arched an eyebrow. “You are making more of this than it deserves.”

“Not when you just called me a bigot, I’m not.”

“Never in a million winters would I think that,” Winona had assured him. Placing her hand on his broad chest, she had smiled up into his troubled eyes. “I love you more than I love life. I am sorry if I have hurt your feelings.”

“That’s better.”

“So tell me why you do not want them to come to our valley? What reason could you have? It is not as if we want for space. There are three cabins and a lodge in a valley that is”—Winona had paused, trying to remember what he told her once—“big enough for a thousand families.”

“One more might not seem like a lot to you,” Nate had responded, “but when we first moved there, the idea was to get off by ourselves. We were too near the Oregon Trail, where we lived before. Too near the foothills.”

“I remember.” It had seemed to Winona as if strangers happened by every time she turned around.

“It was supposed to be only us and Zach and Lou and Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman. Then the Nansusequas showed up and you were too kindhearted to turn them away.”

“That was your decision, not mine,” Winona corrected. “You are the one with the kind heart, although you try to hide that you have one.”

Nate ignored her comment. “Now you’ve invited the Worths. At the rate we’re going, we’ll have us our very own city in no time.”

“Oh, Husband.” Winona had laughed heartily. “I understand, though. We will let the Worths stay, but no one else after them. Agreed?”

Nate had nodded and the matter was settled.

Now, as Winona poked a stick at the embers and thin wisps of smoke rose into the crisp morning air, she thought of how surprised her son and their friends the Nansusequas would be. New settlers were one thing; blacks were quite another. The Worths were so unlike her people and the whites, and yet so much like them, too. She looked forward to many a day spent in Emala’s company, learning all there was to learn about her kind.

One of the horses nickered, and Winona glanced up.

Harrod was coming back but not from the direction of the river. He was coming from the east, which struck Winona as strange. He saw her at the same instant she saw him, and he stopped short as if in surprise. Then, wearing his perpetual smile, he strolled into the clearing.

“Good morning, Mrs. King. You’re up awful early this fine morning. The sun hasn’t risen yet.”

“The same could be said of you.”

“Oh, I’ve always been an early riser,” Harrod said. #8220;I was raised on a farm, and we had to be up and out at the crack of dawn to milk the cows and collect chicken eggs and such.”

Bending to puff on a red ember, Winona asked, “See anything on your walk?”

“Just the usual. A few deer. A few birds.” Harrod coughed. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” When the flames were high enough to suit her, Winona picked up the coffeepot and shook it. “Empty. I need to make more. My husband is unable to start his day without a cup or two.”

“I’m the same way.” Harrod cradled his rifle. “How about if I walk with you? Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“In case a griz happens by. Or a cougar. Or a pack of wolves.” Harrod grinned. “Then there are the two-legged kind who wear paint and like to lift hair.”

“I have these,” Winona said, patting the flintlocks tucked under the leather belt she wore. “But you may come with me if you wish.” She went and got her own rifle.

“You sure are a cautious soul.”

“I take that as a compliment, Mr. Harrod. My husband likes to say that the more cautious we are, the longer we live.”

“Smart gent, that man of yours.”

“I have always thought so, yes.”

They were passing through a stand of cottonwoods, the trunks pale in the predawn light. Here and there were a few willows and oaks.

Winona breathed deep and admired the pink tinge on the eastern horizon.

“May I ask you a question, Mrs. King?”

“So long as it is not personal.”

“I was just wondering how it is that you chose to live with a white man when you likely could have had your pick of any buck in your tribe?”

Winona stopped and looked at him. “In the first place, I said no personal questions. But for your information, I married my husband because I love him. In the second place, I will thank you not to call the men of my tribe ‘bucks.’ ”

“What’s wrong? Whites do it all the time.”

“It is like calling me a squaw.”

Harrod shrugged, then smiled. “If I stepped over the line, I’m right sorry. I always aim to please.”

Winona walked on. Once again that feeling of distrust came over her. But other than ask a question he had no business asking, he had done nothing wrong. His next comment startled her.

“You don’t like me very much.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“It’s hard to put into words. Let’s say I feel it in my bones. But I don’t see why. I’ve always held females in high respect. Even red ones.”

“What is that white saying? Oh, yes. You keep putting your foot in your mouth.”

Harrod scratched his chin and studied her, more amused than offended. “The last thing I want is to have you upset with me. I’m grateful to your husband for letting me tag along. It gets lonesome crossing the prairie alone.”

Winona said nothing. She was amazed he had sensed her feelings. She wondered whether she had given them away somehow.

“It’s safer for me, traveling with you. I don’t mind admitting that’s one of the reasons I asked. But if you’re against it for some reason, say so now and I’ll go my own way.”

For one of the few times in her life, Winona went against her better judgment. “Where you got these notions from, I will never know. My husband invited you, so you are welcome to ride with us for as long as you like.”

“Thank you, ma’am. You’re about the sweetest gal I’ve ever come across, and I mean that sincerely.”

“Be careful not to overdo it.”

Harrod laughed. “Don’t you beat all. But don’t worry, I’ll try not to praise you if I can help it.”

The trees thinned and the ribbon of blue that was the Platte spread before them. Winona moved down the bank and knelt. She removed the top of the coffeepot and dipped the pot in the river. The water was pleasantly cool. She noticed the old frontiersman studying her again. “What?”

“I was just wondering.”

“About?”

“I’d better not. You’ll be even more upset with me.”

“Not if I can help it,” Winona assured him. She looked downriver and then upriver, and thought she saw movement in trees a half mile away. A hint of brown. Deer, she guessed.

“Since you insist, I’m curious: How come you and your husband have taken up with the Worths?”

“They are nice people.”

“That’s not what I meant. They’re black. Doesn’t that bother you any?”

“Should it?”

“Heavens, no. It’s just that I know a few folks it would bother. Some men who hate blacks just because they are black. Men who would put a slug between their eyes for no reason other than they think the world would be a better place without them.”

The irony of his words was not lost on Winona. Here she was being asked the very thing she had asked Nate. “I take people as they are. I judge them by how they act, not by their skin.”

“That’s mighty noble of you,” Harrod said, “but a lot of people don’t share your high ideals. Me, I’m the same as you. I take everyone pretty much as they are.”

Winona couldn’t let his bald-faced lie pass. “Yet you never forget their color, do you?” If her goal was to fluster him, it worked

“No, I don’t, and I’ll tell you why. People ain’t the same. I don’t care what anybody says, whites don’t act like blacks and blacks don’t act like whites and neither whites nor blacks act and think like the red.”

“We have more in common than you think.” Winona raised the pot out of the river. Water sloshed over the rim and splashed on her dress.

“Can you give me a for instance?”

“We have hearts, Mr. Harrod. Red people have hearts and white people have hearts and black people have hearts. And in those hearts are the same yearnings for happiness and love. That is what we have in common.”

“You don’t really believe that?”

“I would not say it if it were not true.” Wheeling, Winona headed back. He quickly caught up.

“Dang. You talk like no female I ever come across. Like no male, either. Where do you get these highfalutin notions? From your husband?”

“I get them from life, Mr. Harrod. Do you know that among my people, the Shoshones, there is one trait held in higher esteem than any other? Can you guess what that trait is?”

“Esteem, you say? That’s where you think highly of something or other, right? If I was to guess, I’d say that for Shoshone warriors, counting coup counts more than anything else.”

“We are bloodthirsty savages, is that it?” Winona sighed sadly. “No, Mr. Harrod. The trait my people admire most is wisdom.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“I would never touch so much as your toe, Mr. Harrod.”

“But wisdom? What does that mean, exactly? What is wisdom? Is your wisdom the same as mine or anybody else’s?”

“Among my people, a wise leader is one who looks out for their welfare. A wise warrior is one who knows when to count coup and when not to count coup. A wise woman is one who keeps her lodge in order and imparts to her children the things they must know to live a long, happy life.”

“How you talk…” Harrod marveled. “You make flowers of words.”

“It is your tongue, Mr. Harrod. Why whites do not learn it better has always puzzled me.”

“You sure are something,” the frontiersman went on. “No wonder your husband is so powerful fond of you. Too bad I didn’t meet you before he did. You might be mine instead of his.”

“That would never be.”

“Why not?”

“You are not him.”

Nate was up, adjusting his powder horn and ammo pouch across his chest. “There you two are. I wondered where you got to.”

“This wife of yours is a wonderment,” Harrod said. “If more females were like her, there’d be less for us men to grumble about.”

“You get no argument from me.”

Harrod nodded at him and smiled at Winona and walked off whistling, as happy as could be.

“Nice man,” Nate remarked.

“He is full of flattery,” Winona said. “In the past ten minutes he has praised me more than you do in a year.”

“That just shows how nice he is.”

“No, Husband. It shows we must not trust him any farther than you can throw a buffalo.”