But they weren’t there, and Jewel was, white as death except for the bruises on her face and arms. Dale said she was bruised from head to toe, but I didn’t look. I’d seen enough to prompt some hard strangling, if I ever caught up with the men who used her so rough.
In my arms, Jewel cried and cried. I think she wanted to tell me about losing the baby, but she couldn’t get it out. I noticed that her feet were coated with mud, and asked Dale about it.
“She burned her feet bad, getting Ned out of his hiding place,” Dale told me. “I guess the stairs were on fire when she got back here and found him. The mud from the pigpen’s all I have to soothe her feet.
“She saved him, though,” Dale added. “He’d have died when the roof fell, if Jewel hadn’t made it back here, walked up the stairs, and pulled him out.”
“I don’t see how she did it,” I said, and I didn’t. “She’s so weak now I doubt she could stand, much less pull Ned out of a fire.”
“That’s from the bleeding,” Dale told me. “We almost lost Jewel from the bleeding last night, Zeke.”
For a minute, Dale had that thousand-year-old look—the same as Becca had, when she was rocking on our porch. Maybe it came to women from seeing young ones die, or almost die. Dale was stout as a post, but for a moment she looked as if she might be having a spell of my weakness. She was ashy, too, like Tuxie. When I asked her about it, she said she had been trying to salvage a pot or two from the kitchen.
“It’s hard, what Jewel went through,” Dale said. Jewel seemed to doze, and we walked outside.
“Hard what you went through, too,” I told her. “First Tuxie’s leg, and then now this.”
Dale looked at me as if to say that I didn’t know what hard was, and shouldn’t be presuming to talk to her about it. She looked as if she wanted to peck me like a hen pecks a bug.
But she didn’t.
“Yes, it’s hard on all of us,” she said. “Hard—but your Liza’s the only one of us who’s dead, Zeke.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Ned might get his sight back, and Jewel might have another fine baby yet. My Liza’s the one that won’t be among the living no more.”
Dale looked at me hard again, as if she wanted to say more. But the baby was fussing at her—I expect it was wanting the breast—and Dale turned away.
Maybe she figured that whatever she had to say to me could wait, which was my opinion, too.
7
JEWEL GOT WORSE IN THE NIGHT. WE BROUGHT NED DOWN TO SIT by her, which helped a little. Jewel got so weak we thought she was going. Ned persuaded Tuxie to go off looking for Old Turtle Man, though none of us had any confidence that Tuxie could find him in time, or find him at all, for that matter. Unless the moon was bright, Tuxie Miller was hard put to find his way home. Mainly, he relied on his horse for direction.
I offered to go. I knew the hills better than Tuxie, but Jewel didn’t want me to leave.
“Stay, Pa,” she whispered. And that was all she said.
Ned couldn’t see her; he had no idea how bruised and torn she was, though he did know that she had lost the child. Later, when she was better, Jewel told me that she was glad Ned was blinded when she walked home and pulled him out of the house. The possemen hadn’t left her a stitch, and the only clothes she could find were an old pair of overalls that Ned hung on a nail in the barn, and only wore when he had to cut a calf or a shoat, or do other bloody work.
She had been wearing the overalls when Dale and Tuxie found her, laying by Ned under the tree. There was so much old blood on the overalls that it took Dale a while to realize there was new blood, too— Jewel’s blood.
That’s when she knew the child was lost.
“Zeke, what if she dies?” Ned said to me several times in the night. “What’ll I do, if she dies?”
“She won’t die,” I told him. I was trying to believe it myself.
“Well, but why won’t she? Dale says she’s bled out,” Ned said.
“Jewel’s strong. She won’t die,” I told him.
It was a hope, mostly. I knew I would nearly die myself if I had to go back to Becca and tell her our Jewel was gone.
My hope was not to fail. It was a good hour after sunup before Tuxie got back with the old healer, and by then the crisis had passed. Dale was feeding her brood chicken soup out of a big kettle Ned kept in the barn to render lye. Dale cleaned the kettle, and threw a chicken in it every time she could catch one. Jewel even took a little nourishment; I spooned her a few swallows of soup myself. The spoon was burned black from the fire, but it still held soup.
The old healer stayed for two days. He made a poultice that dried up Jewel’s bleeding, and another that he tied around Ned’s eyes. One problem was a shortage of pots. Dale refused to give up the big kettle. She needed it to feed her brood. Old Turtle Man had to brew his potions in a bucket, which didn’t suit him. He fussed at Dale, and she fussed back. Finally, Tuxie rode home and brought back the Miller’s big kettle, which settled the dispute.
Old Turtle Man made Ned lay flat on his back. He bound the poultice tight around his eyes, and told him to leave it that way for a week. Jewel was to change it twice a day.
Ned was vexed at the order.
“I can’t be doing without my eyes for a week,” he announced, but the old man lectured him soundly. No doubt he had heard patients complain before.
The upshot of it was that Ned lost the sight in his left eye forever. Old Turtle Man thought the other eye would recover, if Ned was mindful.
“You better mind him, Ned,” Dale told him. “If you lose that other eye, Jewel will have to wait on you hand and foot for the rest of your life.”
“I despise being waited on,” Ned said. Except for his eye, he had not suffered a scratch, which made it hard for him to keep still. I couldn’t blame him; I like to be up and doing myself.
Jewel began to get some of her strength back, enough that she could help Dale a little with the tots. But a sadness had settled in my Jewel’s eyes—no doubt she had seen sights no woman ought ever to see. She lost the sparkle in her eyes, up on that hillside.
Jewel’s only hope and joy was Ned Christie. She sat by Ned all day. When his poultice needed changing, she changed it; if he requested grub, she brought it. I don’t suppose I’ve ever seen a closer couple than my Jewel and her Ned.
8
IT WAS THE NEXT DAY I SHOT THE BUCK DEER THAT WANDERED OUT of the woods while I was grieving by Liza’s grave.
Tuxie Miller skinned it out, and we had venison that night. Everybody was hungry for meat. It was a small buck, and fifteen of us eating, but we got our fill. Tuxie Miller hadn’t said two words since I arrived— I think he was shocked that he no longer had a house—but at least he was healthy in the appetite department. He ate most of that deer’s hindquarter all by himself. Tuxie was a noisy eater, too. Ned got tired of listening to him chomp.
“Sounds like you’re eating it bone and all,” he complained. “A pig could eat quieter than you, Tuxie.”
Tuxie was too busy chomping to reply. Dale Miller was slicing the deer guts into sections; I expect she was planning to make sausage. Dale was a worker, I’ll say that for her. The rest of us would wear ourselves to a nub, and Dale would still be working.
That night, when things had settled down, I noticed that Ned was wakeful. He kept sitting up, which he wasn’t supposed to do, twisting his head around toward the Mountain. Ned was said to have exceptional hearing; I wondered if he heard something I couldn’t hear. I suppose that posse could have taken on reinforcements and be headed back to finish Ned.
“Is it horses?” I asked.
“No horses,” Ned said. “I’m just smelling the air.”
I thought since he was awake, it might be a good time to mention my notion of a militia. The posse might not be on its way that night, but posses would come again, and keep coming until we showed them we wouldn’t take it.
But Ned hardly listened to my talk of a militia. He kept craning his head
around toward the Mountain, though he had the poultice tied around his eyes and couldn’t see.
“You can get up a militia if you want to, Zeke,” he said. “I expect it would help the folks down in the flats, if you did.”
“It would help you, too, if it was a strong militia,” I told him.
“Nope. What I need is a fort,” he said. “I aim to go as high up the Mountain as I can, and build one for me and Jewel. I aim to start the day I get my eyesight back.
“I won’t be burned out again,” Ned declared. “I aim to get some land on top of the Mountain and build a fort with walls so thick the white law can’t burn it—not unless they bring fire from hell.”
I saw his mind was set. I didn’t say more about the militia. We shared some tobacco and sat on the grass, not saying much. Ned was in no mood for sleep, and neither was I. I wanted to get home to Becca and my triplets, but I felt I mustn’t run off hasty again—not with Ned blinded, and unable to shoot.
If Tuxie Miller could have shot as well as he ate, he could have held off any amount of law. But the fact was, he couldn’t shoot a fence-post at five feet.
I passed a week with Ned and Jewel and the Millers, helping out as best I could. Jewel’s bruises healed, and she got most of her strength back. Jewel was quieter than ever, and she scarcely left Ned’s side, unless it was to help Dale Miller with some chore. The sparkle was still gone from her eyes.
Long before the week was up, Ned wanted to yank the poultice off, but Dale Miller fussed at him so hard, he let be.
When he did take it off, he could see as good as ever, though only out of the one eye. To prove it, Ned and Tuxie and me went squirrel hunting, high in the woods. Ned’s rifle had been found, no worse for wear. His shooting was no worse for wear, either. One-eyed or not, he shot the limbs out from under six tasty squirrels, not missing one time. Tuxie and me popped away at squirrels all afternoon, and only killed two.
When finally it was time for me to go home to Becca, Ned walked up to my horse and told me he had taken a vow never to speak the
English language again. The bullet had left Ned’s nose twisted a little to the side, and he wasn’t quite as handsome as he used to be. But he was still a great warrior in the eyes of the Cherokee Nation. He had survived attack, and so had my Jewel, his wife; he wanted me to spread the word among our people. He wanted them to know that he would never speak the enemy’s tongue again. Becca was fluent in Cherokee and English. Being that the Cherokees were the only Indians with a written alphabet, Becca had made certain Jewel learned how to speak and write in both languages, too. She had crooned all our babies to sleep by singing hymns to them in Cherokee, and Jewel knew most of the words to those songs herself. I figured, rightly, that Jewel would be able to keep up with Ned in the language department. To my knowledge, Ned Christie kept his word: he only spoke the Cherokee tongue for the rest of his life.
9
BECCA HAD THE TRIPLETS THERE, WHEN I GOT HOME.
From the look of the new grave, Sully had been well buried in back of the garden. I guess that big old rattler didn’t care to stay, with Sully gone. I never saw it again.
Pete was whimpering when I came in; Willie had stuck Pete’s tail in the fire. When they saw me, the triplets came at me like a swarm of honeybees. I was about wore out from my trip to Ned’s, but I tussled with them and yarned with them all till bedtime.
Becca was quiet during supper. She didn’t want to talk about the troubles in front of the triplets.
We were in bed and had blown out the lantern, when Becca finally got around to asking about Jewel and Liza.
“Liza’s buried in a pretty spot,” I told her. “The grave’s at the edge of the trees. It’s grassy all around it.”
It was a few minutes before she asked about Jewel. I thought she might have fallen asleep, but she was just laying there in the dark, thinking about our Liza, I’m certain.
“Was Jewel poorly, Zeke?” Becca asked, in a whisper.
“Yes . . . they were rough on her,” I admitted. “She lost the baby, and I was afraid the first night that we were going to lose her, too, Bec. But Old Turtle Man came, and she got better. She was up and doing, when I left.”
Becca got quiet again. She didn’t say another word, not for a long time. It made me uneasy, Becca being so quiet for so long. Sometimes the quiet can seem louder than noise, late at night.
“Jewel’s a young woman,” I reminded her. “She’s but seventeen. She’s got Ned, and she’s got time to heal up and get over this.”
Becca shifted around a little in the bed, before she answered me.
“There’s some wounds time can’t heal, Zeke,” Becca said. “You ought to know that by now.”
10
THEN THE NEWS CAME THAT TAILCOAT JONES HAD DROWNED, unexpected news for sure.
Rat Squirrel brought it. He was perplexed by the disappearance of his best mule, and came by to ask if I had seen any fresh mule tracks. I hadn’t; then Rat came out with the news about Tailcoat Jones.
“Drowned?” I said. “Why was the man in the water?”
“All I heard was that he went out in a boat with a whore, and they got caught in a bad storm,” Rat said. “Maybe the storm turned the boat over—nobody knows.”
“Why take a whore out in a boat? There’s better places to take a whore,” I remarked.
“I don’t know,” Rat confessed. “I hope a dern storm didn’t drown my mule. It’ll be hard to get the plowing done, without that mule.”
11
THE NEXT WEEK, I WENT IN TO TAHLEQUAH AND MADE A SPEECH IN the Cherokee Senate about the need for a well-equipped militia. I had hoped Ned would be able to come, but he couldn’t. He felt it best not to leave Jewel just yet.
That being the case, I felt free to speak for him. Chief Bushyhead was annoyed that I had let Pete come in the Senate building with me, and he picked Pete up by the scruff of his neck and threw him out in the street. Pete sat under the window and whimpered for the rest of the session, making it difficult to hear the speeches, but Chief Bushy-head didn’t care. He was too deaf to hear much of the speeches anyway. Chief Bushyhead knew what he thought about most of the questions before he even called the Senate into session. Speechifying made little impression on him.
“A militia will only aggravate the white people and lead to more fighting and bloodshed,” he told the Senate—whereupon the notion was promptly voted down.
The fact that my notion had been voted down so promptly riled me, I have to admit. Also, I didn’t appreciate having my dog thrown out the door. There was no rule on the books saying personal dogs couldn’t attend Senate sessions.
While riled, I made my speech.
“You are a bunch of goddamn cowards,” I said. “Ned Christie, our noble warrior, has taken a vow never to speak the English language again. There have been depredations visited on our land and our people, so many I can’t keep count anymore. Our women have been mistreated and murdered, valuable structures have been burned, and livestock have been lost, as a result. I say we band together into a militia and smite our enemies, next time they show up to burn and rape.”
I thought I made a fair speech, but I might as well have been talking to the chickens, for all the good it did. The old deaf Chief got his way.
All right, then, I thought, I’ll raise my own damn militia. By sundown, I had ten men, only two of them drunk. Arch Scraper, Tail Sixkiller, Blackhaw Sixkiller, John Walkingstick, Thomas Walking-stick, George Beanstalk, Duck-Wa Beemer, Jesse Still, Ned Still, and John Looney were the men. They all promised to avoid horse races and stay out of gambling halls, in case the white law showed up in force.
Later, as I was about to head home, well pleased with my militia, Sheriff Charley Bobtail informed me that my name was one of five on Judge Parker’s arrest list, along with Ned Christie and three of the Becks.
“He’ll play hell arresting me now, unless he’s got most of the United States Army over there in Fort Smith,” I said.
Charley Bobtail had no opinion about the matter. Charley had looked a little poorly ever since the big shootout in the courtroom. In my view, Charley Bobtail had too mild a disposition to be a sheriff, besides which he couldn’t cook worth a damn. A sheriff who’s expected to keep the health of his prisoners ought to be able to cook, in my view.
“Why don’t you resign, Charley, and avoid all this hell?” I asked, before I rode off. “You could just sit there on your farming place, and grow sweet potatoes for the rest of your life.”
Charley got a gleam in his eye, when I mentioned the sweet potatoes.
12
THE NEXT NEWS I HEARD OF NED CHRISTIE WAS HE HAD BOUGHT A steam engine, and a fine pair of mules. I expect he borrowed money from his pa for such a purchase. The mules were to drag the logs for his fort; the steam engine was to power a little sawmill he used for the cutting. Frank Beck brought me that news.
Frank Beck was turning into a fine neighbour. He said Davie had left the Territory, planning to find a gold mine in Colorado. I could only suppose with his wild brother gone, Frank wanted to be shut of the bad blood between us.
Frank didn’t mention White Sut, and I didn’t inquire.
“If he’s got a sawmill and two big mules, I guess he’s building his fort,” I told Becca later. “Ned’s a good builder. Jewel will be safe, once he gets that fort finished.”
Becca was churning butter. I don’t know if she didn’t hear me, or if she wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t say a word.
13
IT WAS BECAUSE OF THE MILITIA THAT I ENDED UP GETTING MY amnesty from President Ulysses S. Grant himself. I would never have supposed President Grant would be required to take notice of me at all, or of our militia, which we called the Keetoowah Militia, because most of the boys in it belonged to the Keetoowah Society and did their best to keep to the old Cherokee ways and customs—ways that our people had practiced in the Old Place, before the white men came and inflicted their ways upon us.