the
knife, Good Robe cut her own slice, smiling at the first bite.
"Oui-sah;' she said.
"That's Shawnee for `good', Joe said, wiping the steel blade
clean in the grass and returning it to its worn sheath. He turned
to take her in. "Seen them two Shawanoe lately?"
She darted a look at him and almost sighed aloud. Not once
in Philadelphia had people talked of Indians. Now that she'd
returned home, it seemed they talked of nothing else. "No sign
of them since I've come back;' she murmured.
He grunted and finished his pie in three bites, wiping his
mouth with a loose linen sleeve. "You're liable to see them again
shortly, once huntin' and trappin' commence."
Tamping down her dismay, she removed her bonnet and
used the limp brim to fan herself. "I keep thinking they'll stop
coming"
"This is still their territory, remember," he said, gaze sharp.
"There's an abandoned Shawanoe village near here called Es-
kippakithiki" At this, Good Robe looked up, her eyes fixed on
his face. "Word is they have a silver mine where the Red River
empties into Kettle Creek." Morrow stopped her fanning and
he shrugged. "'Course, I ain't seen any evidence of such, just
hearsay, mostly what Good Robe told me. The big silver mines
are up north near the Indian towns."
Morrow shot an apologetic glance at the Indian girl, but she
seemed content to be left out of the conversation, examining the
tiny clothes Morrow had made and smiling her appreciation.
Joe was studying her again, his eyes needle sharp. "Somethin' the matter with your pa? He ain't one to let you out of his
sight'
"Pa's feeling poorly," she said, a bit embarrassed at the admis sion, accurate though it was. She was almost ashamed to say he'd
caught another cold, as if it was somehow her doing.
"He ain't been well since you left. I keep hopin, now that
you're back, he'll right himself."
"I'd best not stay overlong lest he come looking for me:" She
stood up, a bit light-headed from the heat. Sweat beaded her
brow and upper lip, and she pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her face. The subtle scent of
rose water clung to the sultry air and then vanished when she
tucked the handkerchief away.
"Don't be a stranger," she said with a smile, catching up her
empty basket. "Our door's always open"
"Much obliged for the pie;' Trapper Joe said. "Give my regards
to Elias"
Good Robe raised a hand. "Paselo."
"7hank you"? Morrow wondered. Or `farewell"?
As she pushed the canoe into the current, holding her shoes
and skirts above the cool water, she half expected to see Pa
waiting. He liked to ferry her about, admiring the fine lines and
buoyancy of the boat and the smooth curve of the oak paddle.
But he was resting as needs be, and she felt an inexplicable urge
to get back to him.
Joe's booming voice called after her. "Best fetch me next time
them Shawnee come callin' I've got a terrible hankerin' to meet
em.
She merely nodded, anxious to get away from his unwelcome
words, glad when the blue water separated them. As the wind
brushed her back and pushed her upriver, she shivered, her
thoughts on the Shawnee and Joe's prediction of their coming.
Each slap of the paddle on the still water seemed to stir her
emotions until they became a breathless, desperate prayer.
Please, Lord. No more visits. No more kinnikinnik or canoes
or horses. Let the Shawnee leave us alone.
As soon as she stepped through the open cabin door, Morrow
realized something was amiss. The air was thick with the scent
of Indian tobacco, its peculiar bluish white smoke stinging her
eyes. For a fleeting moment she felt she'd walked into a trap.
Pa and the Indian she remembered all too well stood near the
hearth, backs to her. She started to turn away, words of welcome
dying in her throat.
Pa swung round to face her, stopping her before she slipped
out the door. "Morrow, if you remember, this is Surrounded by
the Enemy, a principal chief of the
knife, Good Robe cut her own slice, smiling at the first bite.
"Oui-sah;' she said.
"That's Shawnee for `good', Joe said, wiping the steel blade
clean in the grass and returning it to its worn sheath. He turned
to take her in. "Seen them two Shawanoe lately?"
She darted a look at him and almost sighed aloud. Not once
in Philadelphia had people talked of Indians. Now that she'd
returned home, it seemed they talked of nothing else. "No sign
of them since I've come back;' she murmured.
He grunted and finished his pie in three bites, wiping his
mouth with a loose linen sleeve. "You're liable to see them again
shortly, once huntin' and trappin' commence."
Tamping down her dismay, she removed her bonnet and
used the limp brim to fan herself. "I keep thinking they'll stop
coming"
"This is still their territory, remember," he said, gaze sharp.
"There's an abandoned Shawanoe village near here called Es-
kippakithiki" At this, Good Robe looked up, her eyes fixed on
his face. "Word is they have a silver mine where the Red River
empties into Kettle Creek." Morrow stopped her fanning and
he shrugged. "'Course, I ain't seen any evidence of such, just
hearsay, mostly what Good Robe told me. The big silver mines
are up north near the Indian towns."
Morrow shot an apologetic glance at the Indian girl, but she
seemed content to be left out of the conversation, examining the
tiny clothes Morrow had made and smiling her appreciation.
Joe was studying her again, his eyes needle sharp. "Somethin' the matter with your pa? He ain't one to let you out of his
sight'
"Pa's feeling poorly," she said, a bit embarrassed at the admis sion, accurate though it was. She was almost ashamed to say he'd
caught another cold, as if it was somehow her doing.
"He ain't been well since you left. I keep hopin, now that
you're back, he'll right himself."
"I'd best not stay overlong lest he come looking for me:" She
stood up, a bit light-headed from the heat. Sweat beaded her
brow and upper lip, and she pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her face. The subtle scent of
rose water clung to the sultry air and then vanished when she
tucked the handkerchief away.
"Don't be a stranger," she said with a smile, catching up her
empty basket. "Our door's always open"
"Much obliged for the pie;' Trapper Joe said. "Give my regards
to Elias"
Good Robe raised a hand. "Paselo."
"7hank you"? Morrow wondered. Or `farewell"?
As she pushed the canoe into the current, holding her shoes
and skirts above the cool water, she half expected to see Pa
waiting. He liked to ferry her about, admiring the fine lines and
buoyancy of the boat and the smooth curve of the oak paddle.
But he was resting as needs be, and she felt an inexplicable urge
to get back to him.
Joe's booming voice called after her. "Best fetch me next time
them Shawnee come callin' I've got a terrible hankerin' to meet
em.
She merely nodded, anxious to get away from his unwelcome
words, glad when the blue water separated them. As the wind
brushed her back and pushed her upriver, she shivered, her
thoughts on the Shawnee and Joe's prediction of their coming.
Each slap of the paddle on the still water seemed to stir her
emotions until they became a breathless, desperate prayer.
Please, Lord. No more visits. No more kinnikinnik or canoes
or horses. Let the Shawnee leave us alone.
As soon as she stepped through the open cabin door, Morrow
realized something was amiss. The air was thick with the scent
of Indian tobacco, its peculiar bluish white smoke stinging her
eyes. For a fleeting moment she felt she'd walked into a trap.
Pa and the Indian she remembered all too well stood near the
hearth, backs to her. She started to turn away, words of welcome
dying in her throat.
Pa swung round to face her, stopping her before she slipped
out the door. "Morrow, if you remember, this is Surrounded by
the Enemy, a principal chief of the
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