“My Lacy wasn’t but sixteen when we married,” Ned pointed out. “She wasn’t much older than Jewel, and she was a lot smaller built.”
Zeke decided that there was no point in debating the matter any longer. Ned had his mind made up, on top of which they were running out of whiskey.
“You got my permission to ask her,” Zeke said, standing up.
“Couldn’t you ask her for me?” Ned said. “I’ve not spoken to her much. I might choke on my tongue, if I tried to come out with a question like that.”
“Nope,” Zeke said flatly. “If you ain’t man enough to ask her, then I doubt you’ll be man enough to make her a decent husband.”
Ned stood up, feeling shaky. He was six foot four, and Zeke’s smokehouse was not much taller than that. When he rose, he smacked right into a hindquarter of the white shoat Zeke had butchered. It hung from a hook just above him. In his eagerness to have Zeke Proctor accept his suit, he had forgotten they were in the smokehouse.
The sight of Ned smacking himself in the eye with a slab of shoat struck Zeke as hilarious, and he howled with laughter. Zeke’s funny bone was easily tickled, even in the worst of times, and when he had downed a quart or two of whiskey, he found plenty to laugh about in the wild ways that prevailed in the Going Snake District.
“Dern—now I guess I got blood in my hair,” Ned said, galled with himself. His old Grandmother Christie had taught him to take care of his hair. She told him there was power in it—he ought to not let women cut it—and also to avoid barbers generally, as being of low worth.
“Don’t be letting anybody barber you like a white man,” his old Granny Christie told him, and he had taken the advice to heart: no barber had ever touched his hair. Now he was worried that Jewel would not want him, if he showed up to propose with blood in his hair.
“No, but you’re a little salty,” Zeke informed him. “We salted this pig down pretty good. Let’s go get this courtin’ over with, then we can eat.”
“Not if Jewel says no,” Ned said. “If she turns me down, I won’t have an appetite for weeks.”
As they walked to the house, Ned kept trying to brush the salt out of his hair, a sight which amused Zeke. He himself had always been bold with women. He preferred to walk up and grab them, a tactic that had so far won him three feisty wives and the favors of Polly Beck—a woman who was feisty, if she was anything.
Ned, though, was clearly not up to the bold approach. He was walking unsteadily, not from the whiskey but from the thought of having to propose to Jewel.
“Why, Ned—I believe you’re shy,” Zeke said, a wide smile on his face.
Ned heard a wild gobbling sound. It was as if a flock of wild turkeys had suddenly run inside Zeke’s big house. It startled him, but when he heard the wild giggling of the triplets, he remembered that Tuxie had been sent inside to gobble for them.
“Listen to that,” Zeke said. “Old Tuxie missed his calling. He’d have done better as a turkey!”
4
NED CHRISTIE SAT THROUGH A MEAL OF PORK CHOPS AND GREEN beans without saying a word.
Once or twice, he raised his eyes to Jewel, but he immediately lowered them again. He felt he had no small words in him—just the big words he had to say to Jewel, and he had to protect the big words until the time was right. He did not even compliment Becca on the cooking, so anxious was he to hold on to the big words.
Jewel knew Ned wanted to take power over her. She felt a fluttering deep inside at the thought, but not so strongly as it had felt when she saw him riding up with Zeke and Tuxie Miller. She thought she was ready to accept it, if Ned really wanted her. Her sister Liza did not even notice. She had always been the wordy sister, and she yapped all through the meal.
Becca did notice. When Jewel looked at her mother for reassurance, Becca turned her eyes away, or went to the pots to dish up more food. She would not look at the daughter she was about to lose. Becca knew the ways of men and women; knew that Jewel was of an age to marry; and had known for some time that a man would soon be coming for her daughter. Now that man was here at her table. He was a handsome man, too, and from what she had seen and heard, well able to provide for a wife. Still, it made her lonely to think that her girl would be going away. She herself was not well, and Jewel’s quiet good spirit had been a help to her on days when she had the megrims so badly that she could hardly do her work. Jewel was a worker, unlike Liza, who was mostly talk. Liza fussed and frittered, talking a blue streak all the time.
Becca rarely cried, especially not in sight of Zeke. He could not tolerate a weepy woman. At the first sign of tears, he would jump on his horse and leave, often for a week or more. He expected his womenfolk to be smiling when he returned, too. Becca looked at Jewel, and looked at Ned; she knew the time had come when her daughter would be going. Twice she had to leave the table to hide behind the big chimney, to wipe her eyes with her apron so as not to disturb her husband, who was eating with a good appetite—though not so good an appetite as Tuxie Miller’s. Tuxie was renowned throughout the Going Snake District for his prodigious appetite. On this occasion, he ate ten fried eggs, twelve pork chops, and most of the bucket of green beans Liza and Jewel had snapped.
Zeke, who liked Tuxie, was nonetheless a little sobered by the man’s intake.
“I don’t think he’s gonna leave us a thing,” he remarked, more in awe than in anger. “He’s et most of that pig, and the whole bean patch.”
“Throwing up makes you empty,” Tuxie remarked, without apology. He was hoping Becca Proctor would send one of the girls out to the henhouse for a few more eggs. He seldom got such a good feed at his own house. Dale, his wife, had borne him nine babies, and she was a lot more interested in making more babies than she was in cooking up vittles. The last time Tuxie had pork chops in such quantity was when he killed a wild pig, but that stroke of luck was a good three years back.
“I can’t figure out where he’s putting that food,” Zeke said, to Ned. “He’s skinny as a fence rail . . . it must be slidin’ down into his legs.”
Zeke spoke mainly to take his mind off Ned Christie and his dilemma. Ned had a powerful presence, and at the moment, a troublesome presence—he was staring at his plate so hard that Zeke feared the plate might crack. He wanted to help Ned come out with his question, if only to lighten the atmosphere a little, but he could not figure out how. Ned was so gloomy, he was making everybody else at the table miserable, everybody except Tuxie, who was still forking green beans into his mouth at a rapid rate.
Jewel kept her eyes downcast, waiting. Even the chatty Liza had fallen quiet. Becca kept getting up and running behind the chimney. Outside, it got dark; a rain squall came in with a little hail, peppering the shingles above them like buckshot—but still, Ned Christie was silent. Zeke got annoyed, finally; he hated gloomy meals. It was plain to him from the way Jewel sat there, still as a doe in hiding, that she was not going to turn Ned down. Why wouldn’t the man speak?
Ned was thinking maybe everybody would leave the table soon and get on with their chores. But everybody seemed numbed. Even Tuxie, now that he had eaten everything there was to eat, had a vacant look in his eye. The hail had stopped; when Ned looked out the window, he could see the white pebbles speckling the muddy lots where Zeke penned his heifers.
Jewel sat right across from him, waiting. Ned had never felt so awkward in his whole life. Proposing to Lacy had not been near such a chore. Lacy had been a friend of his sister’s, and had mostly done her growing up in their house. Jewel, though, lived far from Shady Mountain, and he had only seen her five times. For all he knew, she already had a beau. For all he knew, she might turn him down flat.
He could feel everybody at the table waiting. It was as if all activity had braked to a screeching halt, while he and Jewel were resolving their future. But he could not help it. His tongue would not come out with the big words.
Then he risked a glance, and met Jewel’s eye. They both risked a glance at the same time, and their glances s
macked together. Both hastily looked down, then up again; their glances smacked together a second time.
Jewel wanted to smile at the tall man, but she was too afraid.
Ned felt emboldened by the two glances. Jewel did not seem to mind looking at him, at least.
“With all this rain, the creeks will be high,” he said. This time, he did not drop his eyes when Jewel returned his gaze.
“If you’d like to get your things and come with me, we ought to be getting on home,” Ned continued. “It’s a long ride.”
Jewel felt a rush of happiness—yet, he had put the matter differently from what she had expected. She looked at her mother, to see if her mother felt matters had been stated correctly.
Becca did not feel they had, but she knew men were awkward about such matters, and she did not want to blight her daughter’s chances just because Ned Christie was tongue-tied.
“But Ned, what do you intend?” Becca asked.
Ned suddenly felt deeply embarrassed. He realized he had forgotten to mention marriage. In his mind, he had said the word fifty times, but it had not found its way out of his mouth. Becca was frowning, and who could blame her?
“Why, I was hoping Jewel would marry me,” he said. “The preacher will be on the Mountain this weekend . . . he could marry us then. I don’t think we need to wait.”
“No, you don’t need to wait,” Becca agreed.
“Zeke, does that suit you?” Ned asked. He worried that he had annoyed Zeke by his omission. Zeke just sat there, with a mild look on his face.
It was Becca who suddenly turned on him, fierce.
“It don’t matter what Zeke thinks—I’m her ma!” she pronounced. “It’s what Jewel thinks, and what I think, that you need to worry about. I won’t be sending my daughter off, unless she’ll be married proper.”
“Why, she will be—proper as a preacher can do it,” Ned said. “I didn’t ride all this way to ask Jewel to be no concubine. I want her to be my wife, if she’ll agree.”
Becca looked at Jewel again. Though Jewel was a quiet girl, there was an eager happiness in her face.
It was a hard thing: Becca knew she had to let her daughter go.
While the men went back outside to the smokehouse, to whittle and gossip, Becca took Jewel upstairs, and she and Liza helped her pack her few things. Liza chattered like a magpie, but Jewel was mostly quiet. Becca Proctor had the feeling that she herself would not be living long, but she choked down her sorrow and saw to it that Jewel did not forget anything she might need.
When it came time to leave, Jewel kissed Liza, and then she turned to her mother.
“Oh, Jewel,” was all Becca could say, when she hugged her daughter good-bye.
It was still drizzling when Jewel climbed up behind Ned on his big horse. Soon they were across the creek, and out of sight in the misty valley.
Tuxie Miller was a little disappointed. He had been hoping matters might drag on until suppertime. One more hearty meal before he left the Proctors would have suited him just fine.
5
SULLY EAGLE WAS SLOW BUT SURE.
Sully, one of the oldest men in the Cherokee Nation, was known throughout the Going Snake District for this meandering pace—he moved slower than cold molasses poured. He had worked for Zeke off and on for years, and though Zeke might fault his speed, he did not fault his trustworthiness. Sully could be trusted with anything: grain, cattle, even money. He would invariably deliver whatever was put in his care, whether to a bank, to a mill, or to a pasture. Becca in particular despaired whenever Zeke sent Sully into Tahlequah or Siloam Springs for supplies, because she knew she might have to wait weeks for the supplies to arrive, even though neither town was far away. Sully was prone to side trips; he would often ramble all over the Going Snake, collecting oddments of gossip before he showed up with Becca’s supplies. Zeke tried to persuade Becca that there were benefits to Sully’s tendency to ramble. Sometimes he would arrive with a nice string of fish, or a couple of fat possums skinned and ready for the pot. But Becca was not mollified. The fact that Sully was old, lame, blind in one eye, and practically stone deaf did not interest her, or soften her much toward Sully. Becca wanted her supplies, and she did not countenance waiting a month for them.
So when Zeke looked up from mending a harness and saw Sully Eagle driving the wagon full tilt toward the lots, he knew something was wrong—perhaps something seriously wrong.
Sully had been sent off to the mill just three days before with a wagon full of corn to grind. Zeke had not really expected him back for a couple of weeks, and yet here he was, hitting the creek at a fast clip. Zeke did not know what to make of it. He rushed out of the work shed so fast, he stubbed his toe on the anvil in his eagerness to get the news.
His fear was that something might have happened to Polly Beck, wife of T. Spade Beck, the man who owned the mill. Maybe the witch who was supposed to be witching T. Spade had got mixed up and witched Polly instead. It was an awful thought. Zeke was counting on Polly Beck being a second wife to him, and in the near future, too, as soon as her cranky old husband, T. Spade, could be persuaded to get drunk and drown in the creek.
“Take a look at this corn, Zeke,” Sully said, in his old croak of a voice. Sully had gossiped so much over the years that he had nearly worn out his voice. The team of brown mules was lathered, from the pace Sully had set.
“What’s wrong with it?” Zeke asked, relieved it was only the grain Sully was in a fret about. Maybe the grind had been too coarse; if that was all, it only meant that Becca would have to cook it longer. He could grind more corn, but he would not be likely to find a woman in the Going Snake District as winsome as the lovely Polly Beck. Polly was short, buxom, and feisty. Polly’s father, Joseph Squirrel, was a full-blood Cherokee; her mother was Irish, with flaming red hair. Polly’s own hair, red like her mother’s, hung to her waist in a wild, bewitching tangle. Becca had lost her enthusiasm for his embraces since the birth of the triplets, which made Zeke gloomy. He had not broached the subject of a second wife with Becca, though he surmised that she might welcome an extra pair of hands around the house to help out with the triplets. Since Jewel’s departure, the triplets had been running them all ragged.
“T Spade weeviled up this corn,” Sully said in his froggy old voice.
“What?” Zeke asked. The ground corn was neatly sacked and stacked in the wagon, like ground corn ought to be. Sully had such bad eyes that it was doubtful he could see a weevil if one was crawling on his eyeball.
“T Spade’s got a room in that mill where he breeds up weevils,” Sully insisted.
“T Spade’s a miller,” Zeke said—he had never heard anything so foolish. “Why would a miller be crazy enough to breed up weevils? He’d put himself out of business quick.”
“Nope, he’s got a room out back of the mill where he throws rotten grain,” Sully said. “That’s where he breeds up his weevils.”
“Breeds ’em, and does what with ’em?” Zeke asked.
“Open one of them sacks and you’ll know,” Sully said. “T. Spade don’t like you. He don’t like Cherokees, and I doubt he likes Choctaws, either. He shoveled a bunch of them weevils into your corn.”
Zeke clambered up in the wagon, and began to open the sacks. He saw immediately that Sully was telling the truth: the corn meal was boiling over with weevils. Zeke kept on opening sacks, until he had opened them all. Every sack was thick with weevils. The best corn crop he’d harvested in years was ruined.
“The son-of-a-bitch,” he said when he’d opened the last sack. “You should have shot him.”
“I would have, but I didn’t have no bullets,” Sully informed him.
Zeke was beginning to steam. Sully Eagle had killed men in his day; he had killed Bear Grimmet’s father, for one, in a dispute over a colt. Why had he let T Spade Beck ruin the corn crop he had been entrusted with? It was a blot on Sully’s otherwise spotless record.
“You had bullets when you left here,” Zeke reminded hi
m. “What became of them?”
“I shot ’em all at a bear,” Sully said. “I jumped him over by Siloam Creek. He was a fat young bear, I think he would’ve made good eating.”
“Where is he, then?” Zeke asked.
“He run off into a thicket,” Sully admitted. “I hit him twice, but he kept on going. I guess he was too fat to die.”
“This is a fine damned stew!” Zeke said. “Now we ain’t got no corn, and no bear meat, either.”
“You can feed the corn to your cattle,” Sully pointed out. “Cattle don’t mind weevils.”
“I didn’t work all spring to grow every bit of my corn for the dern heifers,” Zeke said. “You need to unhitch those mules, they’re winded.”
“All right,” Sully said. “I’ll go back and look for that bear after a while. He would make good eating.”
“Nope, I’ll tend to Mr. Bear,” Zeke said. “I’ll tend to T Spade, too. You stay here and help Becca with the chores.”
Sully was disappointed. He had once been an above-average tracker, and was convinced he could locate such a fat little bear, given a day or two, even with his diminished eyesight. But Zeke was in a temper; it would not do to argue with him at such a time. Sully got down from the wagon, and began to unhitch the mules.
Zeke headed at once for the house to collect his guns. Now that he’d had a moment to think, he realized there might be a bright side to what had happened. T. Spade Beck had declared war when he weeviled his corn. Ruining a man’s corn crop was a deadly insult; Zeke could simply go and kill him. He would not have to wait for the results of the witching.
Becca and Liza were staring into the fire when Zeke came inside to gather up his arsenal. Since Jewel left, they had both been low, so low that Zeke was sort of relieved to have an excuse to go. The triplets clung to his pants leg, but he shook them off and gave them each a kiss. He gave Becca a quick peck on the cheek, but she did not even look up.