Midwife of the Blue Ridge by Christine Blevins

alone when the Duffy twins
    and MacGregor, the schoolmaster, sidled next to her.
    “He may not be a savage, but he certainly dresses like one,”
    fastidious MacGregor sniffed.
    Tim Duffy asked, “Ye think mebbe he’s one of those who lives
    among the savages?”
    “Aye, most likely captured as a lad,” Jim agreed. “I heard tell
    of such . . . ‘renegade,’ Ol’ Pete calls ’em.”
    44 Christine
    Blevins
    The hunter’s long shirt of faded blue linsey was cinched at his
    trim waist with a wide leather belt. Among the many oddments
    hanging from his belt and shoulder, Maggie recognized a sheathed
    knife and a powder horn. The horn was a beautiful thing in
    itself—skillfully etched with a scene of mountains and words
    Maggie could not read. She pointed and whispered to MacGregor,
    “What’s that say?”
    “It says ‘Tom Roberts, His Horn, 1755.’”
    “See that there—” Tim pointed to the small axlike weapon
    hanging from the man’s belt. “That’d be his ‘tommy- hawk.’ Aye,
    that’s what he uses when he goes t’ lop off yer scalp.”
    Maggie noticed all of the man’s possessions were decorated in
    some unique fashion. A pattern of leaves curled up the carved
    handles of his tomahawk and knife. His belt and the leather
    sheath protecting his knife were tooled with intricate geometric
    designs. A cluster of brilliant colored feathers dangled from the
    polished dark stock of his gun, which was incised with fancy
    scrollwork and inlaid with a silver heart. Even his dog wore a
    collar woven with a zigzag of bright, tiny beads.
    The hunter and the boatswain must have reached an agree-
    ment, for Pebley opened the strongbox and began counting out a
    stack of notes. “There’s ten . . . twenty . . .”
    “Silver.”
    Harried Mr. Pebley glanced up at the hunter. “What’s that?”
    “Silver.” Tom Roberts pushed the notes aside. “This paper is
    worthless where I’m headin’. Them Spanish dollars you have in
    the box will suit me fi ne.”
    Pebley sighed, returned the notes to the strongbox, and pro-
    ceeded to count out the agreed- upon amount in Spanish pieces of
    eight. The immigrants were agog at the amount the hunter re-
    ceived for his goods. Back home, hunting was a sport reserved for
    the peerage and the notion of hunting for profi t was unheard of.
    “ My Lord! It’s indecent!” James MacGregor whispered. “The
    man’s wearing naught but a breechclout!”
    Midwife of the Blue Ridge 45
    Instead of breeches, the hunter wore a red woolen breechclout.
    Soft leather leggings came up to midthigh, just where the fringed
    hem of his long shirt began. His leggings were secured below the
    knee with red wool garters and tucked into the cuffed tops of
    laced leather slippers.
    “He’s dressed more decent than the soldiers in Glasgow,”
    Maggie countered. “Those lads wear naught beneath their regi-
    mental kilts but what God gave them upon their birth.”
    Tom Roberts leaned over the table to gather the proceeds, allow-
    ing Maggie a better vantage from which to ponder the mechanics of
    the breechclout. He deposited handfuls of coins into a rectangular
    leather pouch, hanging by a beaded strap across his chest. Roberts
    turned and caught Maggie in the act of admiring his muscular up-
    per thighs. He slung his gun over his shoulder and headed straight
    for her, a wry smile peeking through his dark beard.
    “You’re staring, miss. Do we know one another?”
    Tongue-tied, Maggie shook her head no, and without know-
    ing what else to do, she knelt down to stroke his dog.
    “No harm intended, sir.” Mr. MacGregor stepped forward.
    “Excuse the lass . . . she was but curious. We’ve never seen a
    body dressed in such a fashion, ye ken?”
    “You her husband?” Roberts asked.
    The Duffy twins guffawed and MacGregor turned beet red.
    “Husband? Och, no!”
    “We’re newcomers—from Scotland,” Tim offered.
    Jim said, “Maggie fancies yer dog.”
    The hunter laughed loud. “So