Chippewas.”
“Aid us.”
Something in the man’s tone caused Elisha to remain silent. Mr. Brush folded the newspaper and reclined in the wing chair.
“Let me educate you about dealing with Natives, young fellow. I ran survey all through the state of Indiana as a younger man. This was 1818—you were not yet even a notion. Indiana is flat terrain, a few rivers and lakes, some forest but no thick swamp—easy work, save for the Miamis. They’d sold their land that summer but word hadn’t quite reached the outer tribes. They were powerful suspicious of white men with chains and telescopes and compasses tramping over their land. They saw all the measuring and calculating as a sort of witchery, you see.
“We had with us a guide named Little Frog. He was no bigger than a turd, cheerful for a savage, with a reputation for hard work. He had claimed to be a half-breed when we hired him. But he’d lied. He was full-blood Potawatomi. Our fifth week out we were running chain along the Kankakee when we saw cookfire smoke that Little Frog figured to be a Miami raiding party. He became as fidgety as a woman, hemming and hawing about turning back. We posted night sentries, part to calm the man’s nerves and part to shoot him if he ran off. The next morning the poor fool could not bear his pack. I thought he might melt from fear. That afternoon we decided to cross the Kankakee, and when we reached the river’s middle ten Miami appeared in dugouts, their faces painted like Satan himself. There were but four of us. They’d have shot us down if we even raised a shout. They dragged Little Frog into one of their canoes, then they disappeared upriver.”
Mr. Brush was quiet for a moment. “We found Little Frog three days later, some six leagues upriver. His stomach was sliced open and he was lashed to a tree with his own innards. His scalp lock was cut away. His face and chest were nigger black, like they’d rubbed him with gunpowder. The crows had plucked out his eyes and the poor fellow’s face was no longer even human, just a mask with holes ripped through it. We buried him there beside the Kankakee.”
Silence lengthened between them; then the businessman entered the parlor, sucking his teeth. He strode to the window and drew a deep, theatrical breath. As if to himself he said, “Copper and gold and iron and silver. Whip me if I’m wrong!”
“Now. About this woman. We will hire her on, on the logic that a half-breed guide is better than none at all.” Mr. Brush stared at the businessman’s back. “And if we delay any longer, the fat chuffs of the world will be out before us.”
“I’ll find her. I’ll have her ready to begin tomorrow morning.”
Elisha rose to depart, and Mr. Brush called after him, “Since how long have you carried that limp?”
The boy froze. “I don’t hardly limp.”
“A crippled assistant, a nancy-boy partner, and a half-savage Catholic woman for a guide.” Brush closed his eyes. “I suppose this is one of His trials.”
“Though not an arduous one.”
The man chuckled wearily. “We shall see.”
Four
The man had fallen asleep before the train departed Albany, and some miles later his head had lolled sideways and come to rest against Reverend Stone’s shoulder. He was foreign-looking, his brow holding traces of German or Dutch, and his suitcoat was mud-spattered but tailored, his shoes cut from thin cordovan leather. An itinerant salesman, ostentatiously displaying his good fortune. Or putting a brave face on failure. The man’s breath smelled strongly of peppermint. Reverend Stone wondered idly what he might be selling.
The train had stopped often between Springfield and Albany, traveling a few slow miles before the steam whistle hooted and the locomotive shrieked to a halt. Then the doors were thrown open, a rush of cool air bathing the car as men departed with haversacks and trunks while other men shouldered aboard. At each stop Reverend Stone placed his valise on his
“Aid us.”
Something in the man’s tone caused Elisha to remain silent. Mr. Brush folded the newspaper and reclined in the wing chair.
“Let me educate you about dealing with Natives, young fellow. I ran survey all through the state of Indiana as a younger man. This was 1818—you were not yet even a notion. Indiana is flat terrain, a few rivers and lakes, some forest but no thick swamp—easy work, save for the Miamis. They’d sold their land that summer but word hadn’t quite reached the outer tribes. They were powerful suspicious of white men with chains and telescopes and compasses tramping over their land. They saw all the measuring and calculating as a sort of witchery, you see.
“We had with us a guide named Little Frog. He was no bigger than a turd, cheerful for a savage, with a reputation for hard work. He had claimed to be a half-breed when we hired him. But he’d lied. He was full-blood Potawatomi. Our fifth week out we were running chain along the Kankakee when we saw cookfire smoke that Little Frog figured to be a Miami raiding party. He became as fidgety as a woman, hemming and hawing about turning back. We posted night sentries, part to calm the man’s nerves and part to shoot him if he ran off. The next morning the poor fool could not bear his pack. I thought he might melt from fear. That afternoon we decided to cross the Kankakee, and when we reached the river’s middle ten Miami appeared in dugouts, their faces painted like Satan himself. There were but four of us. They’d have shot us down if we even raised a shout. They dragged Little Frog into one of their canoes, then they disappeared upriver.”
Mr. Brush was quiet for a moment. “We found Little Frog three days later, some six leagues upriver. His stomach was sliced open and he was lashed to a tree with his own innards. His scalp lock was cut away. His face and chest were nigger black, like they’d rubbed him with gunpowder. The crows had plucked out his eyes and the poor fellow’s face was no longer even human, just a mask with holes ripped through it. We buried him there beside the Kankakee.”
Silence lengthened between them; then the businessman entered the parlor, sucking his teeth. He strode to the window and drew a deep, theatrical breath. As if to himself he said, “Copper and gold and iron and silver. Whip me if I’m wrong!”
“Now. About this woman. We will hire her on, on the logic that a half-breed guide is better than none at all.” Mr. Brush stared at the businessman’s back. “And if we delay any longer, the fat chuffs of the world will be out before us.”
“I’ll find her. I’ll have her ready to begin tomorrow morning.”
Elisha rose to depart, and Mr. Brush called after him, “Since how long have you carried that limp?”
The boy froze. “I don’t hardly limp.”
“A crippled assistant, a nancy-boy partner, and a half-savage Catholic woman for a guide.” Brush closed his eyes. “I suppose this is one of His trials.”
“Though not an arduous one.”
The man chuckled wearily. “We shall see.”
Four
The man had fallen asleep before the train departed Albany, and some miles later his head had lolled sideways and come to rest against Reverend Stone’s shoulder. He was foreign-looking, his brow holding traces of German or Dutch, and his suitcoat was mud-spattered but tailored, his shoes cut from thin cordovan leather. An itinerant salesman, ostentatiously displaying his good fortune. Or putting a brave face on failure. The man’s breath smelled strongly of peppermint. Reverend Stone wondered idly what he might be selling.
The train had stopped often between Springfield and Albany, traveling a few slow miles before the steam whistle hooted and the locomotive shrieked to a halt. Then the doors were thrown open, a rush of cool air bathing the car as men departed with haversacks and trunks while other men shouldered aboard. At each stop Reverend Stone placed his valise on his
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