South Wind Paperback - 1999

Excerpt

The Grove

1846

Suzannah finished sweeping the rammed-earth floor of the little cabin, and stood in the doorway, enjoying the warmth of the spring morning. It was good. Her husband should be back soon, and that would be even better. She longed to see him. She would never have thought her life could be like this, missing him every moment of his absence, yet happy with the expectation of his return.

A smile came to her face as she thought of how they had met. Three years they had been together now, but it had only been a year since Jed had decided to settle here at the Grove. He had built the cabin, promising her a better house as soon as they could. She could wait. This was so much better than anything she had expected when he bought her. It seemed impossible now that it had happened at all.

But she could shut her eyes and still see the horror of that morning in New Orleans. Her master, always kind to her, had been killed in a poker game on a riverboat. She had found herself half naked on the auction block, while men joked and laughed and made ribald remarks about her anatomy. She dreaded the touch of the highest bidder, who seemed so sure of himself. He had been pointed out earlier as a buyer of female flesh for the brothels. In a panic, she thought of killing herself as soon as she could.

Then, out of the crowd strode a tall, middle-aged man, well dressed, who made a single bid, and she was his. She had resented him, too, of course, and had reason to suspect his intentions. At least, he had not made her skin crawl at the thought of his hands on her body.

It was a complete surprise, then, to find that he had no such motives. He had only been passing by and on a whim had tried to help her. Only much later did she learn that he had practically impoverished himself to do so. He had been reminded by her looks, he said, of his dead wife, who had been a Pawnee. She had been killed a few years earlier. To his credit, he had never made a comparison.

Jed's background was as unlikely as her own. He, too, was well educated, but had been living as a trapper, trader, guide, and hunter. She did not know that until they reached St. Louis. He had schemed to get her out of the area where slave law would be a threat. She still had no idea what his original plan might have been, or if he had one. To free her, possibly. But in Memphis, where they changed boats, he had bought her some genteel clothing, and she had been mistaken for his wife.

It was easy to let it pass, and she had shared his first-class cabin instead of being relegated to the slave holding area on deck. It was there, on the packet steamer upriver, that they had realized their need for each other.  They "jumped the broom," figuratively speaking, and became man and wife.

In St. Louis, he had changed to buckskins, which made the whole thing much easier. Many of the frontiersmen had Indian wives. The attitude of the public was not always approving, but it was acceptable. . . . Another mountain man with a younger, dusky wife . . . A "squaw man."

They had considered several places to settle. Jed did not want to rejoin his wife's people. They visited the Cherokees in the "Nations," and were welcomed, but felt like outsiders in the unfamiliar culture. Similarly, among Creeks. They talked of the buffalo tribes that he knew, Kiowa or Cheyenne, but he was not happy with any of these possibilities.

Eventually they found themselves at the Council Grove, which seemed a logical place to settle. It was Indian Territory, but her husband seemed to get along with them quite well. In fact, he was sometimes in demand for his ability to use the hand signs and some of the Indian tongues. She was proud of him.

They had hardly moved into the cabin, however, when the Kaws were relocated from farther east and assigned the area around the Grove. Jed assured her that it would make no difference. A few more whites, maybe. This had been Osage country when he came west, but they too had now been relocated, to a more southern part of the Indian Territory. In fact, their boundaries were adjacent to those of the Cherokee Nation. There had been border incidents while she and Jed were there, one of the deciding factors in choosing the Grove instead.

It was familiar country to Jed, a traditional meeting place for centuries for the natives. It lay on the old Southwest Trail, now called the Santa Fe Trail by the whites. This grove, Jed had told her, was the last point where there were any hardwood trees on the road west. Many had been cut now to use as material for replacement wagon tongues and axles for the freight wagons. Still, there were many magnificent oaks and walnuts and sycamores. Beyond that, to the west, mostly treeless prairie. A few trees along the rivers to the south, maybe, Jed told her. But not on the Trail. Just willows and cottonwoods, not usable for wagon repair.

Commerce on the old Santa Fe Trail had been slowed for a time because of impending war with Mexico, but would surely recover. Even now there was talk that the United States would win the contested lands from Mexico when the war was over. The Texas Republic had just become a state. Wagon trains were beginning to organize to start on down the trail with trade goods for the new territory, replacing the trade with Mexico.

From where the cabin stood on the west bank of the river, she could see the big freight wagons easing their way down the hill and onto the trail toward the ford. They'd pause at the Post Office Oak sometimes to pick up messages left by previous travelers. Then on across the river into the main part of the Grove.

Beyond, the grass . . . She was fascinated by the grassland, a panorama she had never seen before. Wide, open skies with far horizons. Tall stalks in autumn, bearing seed heads that nodded above her. Jed had told her, that first season together, that this would come, but she hardly believed him. As tall as a man on a horse, he said, and she thought he was teasing. Maybe he was talking about a canebrake.

But no, during their first September together she saw the slender seed stalks shoot up almost overnight and open into the three-awned seed head that gave that variety its Indian name. Turkey-foot . . . Jed had ridden his horse into a growth of this tall grass to show her its height. She could hardly see him. As a joke, he took a stalk from each side of the horse and tied them in a knot over the saddle without breaking or uprooting them. This grass was also called "big bluestem," she learned, because of its color in the earlier season. There were several other grasses, too. She especially liked another tall variety called Indian grass, with a feathery golden plume.

Farther west, Jed told her, was "shortgrass country." He showed her patches of a short, curly blue-green variety, never more than a few inches tall. Buffalo grass, he called it, a favorite graze of the great herds. Suzannah had seen a few buffalo but none of the great migrations yet.

She sighed, impatient for his return. He had expected to be home this week, but it was never a sure thing. He might be hindered by any one of a number of unavoidable delays. The military was like that, and this was his present mission. . . . Helping with the relocation of some of the Indian Nations, in his role as interpreter. She knew that he was trusted by both the natives and the military in this role.

But I need him, too! she thought. Well, maybe this afternoon . . . She must be patient. . . .

* * *

"Mr. Sterling?  Jedediah Sterling?"

"Yes . . . What is it, sir?"

"I would speak with you. . . . I am told you might be able to guide a party for a tour of the Rocky Mountains?"

The man in buckskins did not take long to answer. "Not likely. But I'll listen."

"Of course . . . Allow me to introduce myself, sir. Parkman . . . Francis Parkman . . . I am here in Westport to organize an expedition."

"For what purpose, may I ask?" Jed inquired.

The man shrugged, a confident smile playing over his features.

"Curiosity . . .  Amusement . . . I propose to follow the Oregon Trail past Leavenworth. We've been told that there are many travelers from Missouri and Illinois, heading for the West from there."

"That's true, I guess. You'd travel with them?"

"Partway. But we hear there are Mormons starting from St. Joseph. We would hate to encounter them."

Jed nodded. "Your Illinois folks aren't on good terms with 'em. Well, Missourians, either. But I've been to St. Joe recently. I heard nothing about such a party."

"But that was not my main concern, sir," Parkman went on. "I intend a pleasant summer in the mountains, and then return via the same Oregon Road."

Jed looked the man over more carefully. A "gentleman," to all appearances. He was wearing a trendy outfit such as an affluent dandy might choose to explore the woods. . . . Well, for "curiosity and amusement . . ." His boots were of expensive make, not interchangeable right and left like most. These were expensively custom made, not on a single last, but on two, one right, one left. . . .

"I'm afraid you're looking for trouble, Mr. Parkman," he said. "The Oregon Trail's probably safe enough if you join a wagon train. But there's disease. . . . Cholera, dysentery . . ."

"But we won't stay with them," protested Parkman. "That's why I need someone like you. A man who knows the mountains. We'll leave the Trail when we approach the eastern slopes, and explore on our own."

Jed sighed inwardly. It was bad enough to have the hundreds of inexperienced travelers setting out for the promised land, without such men as this, looking for "amusement" in the country of the Cheyenne and Arapaho. I'm getting too old for this, he thought.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm on my way home. My wife is expecting me."

"Pity," mused Parkman. "I'm certain we could get on well. But perhaps you can tell me . . . Mr. Parks, the owner of the trading post here . . . He is an Indian?  A savage?"

It rankled Jed, just a trifle, the way the man said it. A slight curl of the lip, a touch of contempt . . . Even if I were able and needed the work, he thought, I doubt that I could work with this man.

"That's true," he said aloud. "Joseph Parks is a chief of the Shawnees. He has the store, a large farm operation, and a considerable number of slaves."

"I see. . . . That accounts for the nigras I've seen. But tell me . . . which is the best route to the fort?"

"Leavenworth?"

"Yes, that's the route I had planned."

Without much information with which to plan, Jed thought. But there was little point in arguing.

"Follow this road," he pointed. "You'll pass the Shawnee Mission, and then you'll see some of Mr. Parks's fields. . . . Corn, tobacco, although most of his crops aren't up yet. You'll hit a north-south road, which is the military road from Fort Leavenworth to Fort Scott, to Fort Gibson. Turn north on that trail. You strike the river. . . . The Kansas, at what they call the Lower Delaware Crossing. You'll need rafts for your wagons. You can probably make one or buy one that others have used. That's a good crossing."

"I thank you for the information, sir. Are you certain you won't change your mind and join my expedition?"

"Quite sure . . . My wife . . ."

"Yes, yes . . ."

Jed turned away. Suzannah would be expecting him. If he hurried, and there were no storms, he could still reach home in a few days. He hated to be longer.

It worried him to leave her alone. Odd, when he had been married to Raven he had always felt that she was safe with her people. Now, with Suzannah living among whites, he was more concerned. There were so many coming into the area, with so many different purposes. Suzannah might be safer among some of his Indian friends. Yet, Raven had been killed in a raid by Delawares on her people. Raven and their two children, along with others. That was a lifetime ago.

There was, too, the ever-present fact that Suzannah had been a slave. One of light complexion, she could pass for an Indian or even a dark-skinned European. But it bothered him. A few years ago, he would hardly have noticed the slaves of Joseph Parks farming the plantation near the Shawnee Mission. Now, he observed them more closely. Some were quite dark skinned, others little different in complexion from Suzannah. They had her papers. . . . A bill of sale documenting his purchase of her. His written page giving her freedom, signed and sealed by a judge. Still he was uneasy. If something should happen to him . . . Papers can be lost, sometimes intentionally. Besides, there were no laws yet, except those of the natives, in this new territory.

And, there was so much more feeling about the whole matter of slavery now. People moving into the area, sometimes for the express purpose of forcing their views on others. He might not have noticed, a few years ago, the rising resentments on both sides. Now, it was closer to home.

There would be a nearly full moon tonight. . . . Maybe he could travel, at least partway, and save a day on the road home to Suzannah. He turned toward the hitch rail, untied and mounted his horse.



    


From the Hardcover edition.

Media reviews

Praise for South Wind:

"Intriguing...prove[s] once again Coldsmith's appeal as a reteller of history."
--Publishers Weekly

Praise for Tallgrass:

"Coldsmith is a master storyteller."
--Publishers Weekly

"Coldsmith tells his stories well....The best Don Coldsmith novel I've read."
--The Kansas City Star

Runestone:

"Gripping and imaginative...believable characters, realistic (and often witty) dialogue, vivid prose and nonstop action."
--Publishers Weekly

"Coldsmith blends his extensive knowledge of history with daring speculation and a vivid imagination."
--Ron McCoy, Center for Great Plains Studies, Emporia State University


From the Hardcover edition.