The dodger was delicious. Winona had learned to make them just for him, and she added honey to the cornmeal. No sooner did he think of her than the bedroom door opened and out she came tying the purple robe he had bought for her.
“Tsaangu beaichehku.”
It was Shoshone for “good morning.” “Tsaangu beaichehku,” Nate replied, drinking in her beauty. He never tired of looking at her, of being with her. That she cared for him as deeply as he cared for her was a gift beyond measure. “Sleep well?”
“Haa.”
Shoshone for “yes.” “We are speaking your tongue today, I take it?” Nate said.
Winona smiled and ran a hand through her hair. She padded in her bare feet over to the rocker and bent and kissed him lightly on the lips. “We can speak whichever tongue you want, husband.”
“We’ll speak yours, then. It embarrasses me that you speak mine better than me.”
Winona rubbed her fingers over his beard. She loved to do that. As she loved to feel his muscles and to listen to him breathe in the quiet of the night. “I will fix breakfast.” She moved to the counter. “How soon do you go off to chop more trees?”
“I’m supposed to meet Shakespeare about an hour after sunup. Should give me enough time.”
“For what?”
Nate told her about the rattlesnake.
In the act of smearing grease in a pan, Winona looked up. “Why not let it be?”
“Can’t.”
“I have never known you to make such a fuss over snakes. It reminds me of Lame Bear.”
“Isn’t he that old man who can hardly walk? Kin of yours on your mother’s side?”
“He is the one, yes. With him it is flies. He goes around the village killing all the flies he can.”
“Are you saying I’m feebleminded?”
Winona smiled sweetly. “Not yet. But you are working on it.”
Chapter Nine
Nate didn’t find the snake. He poked among the rocks and turned over some of the larger ones, but it was gone. In annoyance he kicked the ground and then headed for the cabin site.
Shakespeare and Zach were already there and Shakespeare was regaling the Worths with a tale of his early years. McNair winked and grinned at Nate and went on with his story.
“So there I was, all alone in Blackfoot country in the cold of winter with the snow so deep only a few treetops showed and—”
“Wait a minute,” Randa said. “Are you tryin’ to tell us the snow was so deep it buried the trees?”
“Oh, come now, Mr. McNair,” Emala said.
Samuel and Chickory both grinned.
“Believe it or not, ladies,” Shakespeare responded. “I’ll have you know that I am a veritable fount of veracity.”
“A what?” Randa asked.
“It means he always tells the truth,” Nate explained, “except when he opens his mouth.”
The Worths all laughed.
Shakespeare feigned indignation. “Your fine wit, Horatio, is something stale and hoar ere it be spent.”
“Was that that dead guy you always talk like?” Chickory asked. “It sounded peculiar like this talk does.”
Nate smothered a laugh of his own.
“Yes, that was William S.,” Shakespeare answered. “The finest scribe who ever drew breath.”
Emala said, “Go on with your story. That other fella I can’t hardly ever understand.”
McNair cleared his throat. “Very well. So there I was, alone in Blackfoot country, with snow and ice everywhere. The Blackfeet had taken my horse and my pack animal and I was stranded afoot. I had to walk out. I’d gone about ten miles in the fifty-below weather when—”
“Wait a minute,” Randa interrupted again. “Did you say fifty below?”
“Why, Mr. McNair, nothin’ is ever that cold,” Emala said.
“I will have you know, madam, that in some parts of the north country it does, indeed, get that cold, and colder. With the wind blowing it can easily reach seventy-five below.”
“Land sakes. The tales you tell,” Emala said.
“Go on,” Samuel urged.
McNair cleared his throat again. “So anyway, I came to a river that was frozen over and—”
“Which river?” Chickory asked.
“What?”
“Which river was it?”
“I don’t know as it even had a name. A lot of rivers back then didn’t and many still don’t. But if it’s a name you need, some of the Indians called it the Sweet Grass River.”
“Why did they call it that?” Randa asked.
“Because it cut through the prairie, I believe,” Shakespeare said with a trace of exasperation. “The name isn’t important. The important thing is what happened when I tried to cross it. You see, it had frozen over, but when I was about halfway across the ice crackled and started to break just like—”
Emala held up a hand. “Hold on. You told us it was fifty below. Why, mercy me, that ice had to be five feet thick. How could it crack?”
“It just did.”
“But you don’t weigh all that much and back then you were likely skinnier. Am I right?”
“Yes, you are, but you see—”
Emala shook her head. “No. It don’t hardly seem possible. But go on with your story if you want.”
“Thank you.” Shakespeare sighed. “I was in the middle of the river and the ice started to crack. I tried to run, but the ice was too slippery and I kept falling. Just when I thought I might make it, down I went. I managed to catch hold of the edge of the ice with my arms but I lost my rifle and it sank out of sight and—”
“You must have been powerful cold,” Randa said.
“It’s a miracle you didn’t freeze solid,” Emala mentioned.
“I might have,” Shakespeare acknowledged. “But just then a grizzly happened by and spotted me dangling there. I was scared to death, as you can imagine. I was even more scared when he came over and sniffed me and—”
“Wait a minute,” Randa said. “The ice was thick enough to hold one of those giant bears, but it wouldn’t hold you?”
“It came from the shore side where the ice was thicker,” Shakespeare said. “I was out in the middle. Anyway, it sniffed me a few times and then opened its mouth and I figured I was a goner. I expected it to chomp on my head and that would be the end of me. But—”
“What was its breath like?” Chickory asked.
“What?”
“Its breath. Dog breath always stinks. I bet bear breath stinks even worse. Did it make you gag?”
Shakespeare looked at Nate and Nate pretended to be interested in some clouds.
“I was too scared to pay much attention. All I remember is its teeth and how I thought I was doomed, when lo and behold, that griz went and bit down on the back of my shirt and lifted me right out of the water and dragged me in to shore.”
“Let me guess the end of your story,” Samuel said. “It dragged you to shore and ate you.”
Emala and the children tittered and cackled.
“I am done,” Shakespeare declared.
“No. Please,” Emala said. “We want to hear the rest. What happened next? How did you get away?”
“I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots,” Shakespeare quoted.
“I don’t know what any of that meant,” Emala said.
“Maybe I’ll finish my tale later. We have a lot of work to do.”