"You paid way too much for it," Caitlyn teased, running her fingers across the beaded bodice of the deerskin dress and kicking her legs out slightly to make the fringe dance. "It sure is purty, tho', and reckon Silas'll be glad to get his britches back."
"Pretty, not purty. We got the moccasins, too," Jon reminded her, "even if you won't wear them. And all I gave her was my old possibles bag and my knife and sheath. I've still got the knife I won from Tall Man."
"Pretty," Caitlyn repeated agreeably. "Oh, I'm so full. I couldn't eat another bite. We keep eatin'...eating like this, you'll be right about me needing a bigger belt. That there roasted corn sure was good, though. And fresh buffalo steak. First I've had this summer. You and Silas figure on going on a buffalo hunt before we head back up into the mountains?"
"What would we do with all the meat? Among the three of us, we probably couldn't eat more than one haunch before it spoiled."
"Why, dry it and pickle it. Salt it down," Caitlyn said in astonishment. "Lot's you can do with it, leastways I can. Wouldn't 'spect you and Silas to do that part. You just got to bring it to me. You ever had jellied buffalo tongue?"
"Can't say as I have," Jon said with a grimace.
"You simmer the tongue in a pot with some wild onions, mint and a little coltsfoot salt and Indian vinegar. After it cools and the sauce jellies, you slice it up and there's not a better tasting dish on earth. Ummmm."
She ran her tongue around her lips and Jon watched the movement, fascinated by the two different shades of pink.
"How...what's the difference between regular vinegar and Indian vinegar?" he asked.
"Indian vinegar's made out of sap from the birch tree," Caitlyn explained. "Or maple, if you can find it. Maple's scarce out here, though, and most of the time people use its sap for syrup or candy, they do run across a tree. Look, Jon. She's makin' Wagmiza Wasna over there!"
"What in the world's that?" he asked as he obeyed the tug on his arm and followed Caitlyn to a wigwam he recognized as Sioux. He should recognize it. Caitlyn had explained the different signs painted on the buffalo-skin structures over and over to him all morning.
"Pemmican!"
"Pemmican? We've got pemmican back at camp. And you just said you were so full you couldn't eat another bite."
"Not like this pemmican. Just wait. Here. Hold this stuff."
Caitlyn piled Jon's arms full of the treasures she had gathered over the morning, keeping only the basket to take with her to the wigwam.
"Took the ol' woman shoppin' this mornin', huh?"
Jon swiveled around to meet a pair of laughing eyes in the bearded face of a grizzled old trapper. He felt his face flush hotly as the picture he must make, standing there with Caitlyn's purchases dangling from his arms, flashed through his mind.
"Here, Jon." Caitlyn stopped beside him and held out a deerskin pouch.
"Hell," Jon heard the trapper mutter. "Find me one like that there 'un, guess I'd buy out the whole dern rendezvous for her myself."
Jon's face darkened and the look he gave the trapper told the old man exactly who would be doing any buying for Caitlyn, but the old man just touched his forehead in greeting and ambled away.
"Is he someone you know, Jon?" Caitlyn asked.
"No. He was just admiring you...our purchases."
"Don't you want to try the pemmican? It's good for dessert. Oh. Your hands are full. Here."
Jon stood helplessly as Caitlyn reached into the pouch and pulled her fingers out, filled with lumps of the mixture inside. She raised her arm and he opened his mouth so she could push the pemmican inside, her finger touching his tongue when she wiped off a lump trying to cling to the end of one.
"Good, isn't it?" she demanded when he slowly began chewing.
Jon nodded his head in surprise. It wasn't the flat tasting permmican he was used to. His teeth clamped down on something, and sweetness filled his mouth.
"It's made from cornmeal and dried currants and sugar," Caitlyn said. "'Course, this is maple sugar. I'll have to remind Silas we'll need to trade for our sugar. Only time you get maple sap is in the spring, but reckon Silas knows that."
A high yelp split the air and Caitlyn swung around. Before Jon could unload his arms and grab her, she let out a scream of dismay and ran toward the next wigwam.
"You quit that!" Caitlyn flew into the Indian man and pounded on his back just as the man swung his leg back again, his kick aimed at the half-grown dog cringing at his feet. The shock of Caitlyn's weight against his back sent the Indian man sprawling in the dirt, and the dog crawled a few feet away on its belly, whimpering in fear but eyeing the scraps of bone the Indian man had dropped.
Jon grabbed Caitlyn before she could launch herself at the Indian man again and captured her wildly swinging fists in his hands.
"Caitlyn. Stop it!"
"Let go of me, dash nab it! He don't feed his animal, he ain't got no right to mistreat it when it's only trying clean up what he don't want himself! Let the hell go of me!"
Jon wrapped his arms around Caitlyn and held her tightly against his chest. He looked down at the Indian man still sprawled on the ground.
"She's been under a strain," he said in an apologetic voice. "Too much shopping."
Caitlyn let out a giggle and collapsed in Jon's arms. Her giggles quickly escalated into laughter, and then full-fledged guffaws. She braced her legs under her and tried to stand, but her knees gave way and she had to depend on the support of Jon's arms to keep from falling beside the Indian man in the dirt.
"Caitlyn, hush," Jon said around his own laughter. "He'll think we're crazy."
"I'm sorry," Caitlyn gasped. "But you sounded just like we'd been prancing up and down one of them streets back where you come from, 'stead of wanderin' 'mongst almost every kind of Indian a person could name!"
Caitlyn finally managed to control her legs and stood, flashing Jon a look from eyes brimming with merriment and tears of laughter. "You did, you know." She lifted a hand and cocked her little finger. "Maybe I ought to've drunk my coffee like this at dinner. Paw told me once that's how the eastern women drink their tea."
Jon's smile split his face and he threw back his head as the laughter roared from between his even, white teeth. His arms tightened around Caitlyn and she laid her forehead on his chest, giggling merrily and clenching one small fist among the fringe on his shirt.
The Indian man stared at them for a long moment. Then his own face creased in understanding, and he rose to his feet. He grabbed a piece of rope from beside the wigwam and held his hand out to the dog. It whimpered and crawled forward, and the man looped the rope around its neck.
The Sioux waited until the laughter subsided, then approached Jon and Caitlyn. Pushing the rope into Caitlyn's hand, he spoke a few words.
"Oh!" Caitlyn gasped. "No." She dropped her head to hide her flushed cheeks, but held onto the rope.
"What did he say?" Jon asked.
Caitlyn shook her head, a wisp of hair loosened from her braid falling across her face.
"Caitlyn." Jon tipped her face up and studied the bright flush on her cheeks. "What did he say? Why's he giving you the dog?"
"He...." Caitlyn took a deep breath. "He says it's for our wedding present. He...he thinks we've just got married and he...wants...us...to...have...."
Caitlyn gave a hopeless shrug and eyed Jon warily. "We...we can't give it back."
"Ask him why he thinks we're married," Jon demanded.
"Jon, no...."
"Ask him, Caitlyn, or I'll give the dog back, no matter what the consequences."
"You wouldn't, would you?" she pleaded.
"No," Jon said with a sigh. She was getting to know him too well and it hadn't even been a full day yet. "But I want to know why he thought what he did. Please ask him, Caitlyn."
The please did it. She couldn't deny him when he asked so sweetly. Caitlyn turned to the Indian man and spoke a few words, the blush heightening on her face when he replied.
"Caitlyn," Jon prodded after the Indian man fell silent.
"He...he said only the young and in...in...well, there isn't a word for it in Sioux, but he means in love. He said only those in love enjoy feelings like we share."
"Did you tell him we weren't married?"
"No."
"Tell him."
Caitlyn spoke again and the man replied with a smile on his face, speaking far more words than he had in his previous comments.
Caitlyn knew it wouldn't be any use to try to avoid telling Jon what the Sioux had said, so she took a deep breath.
"He says if we aren't married now, we soon should be," she translated, the thought of lying to Jon never once crossing her mind. "He said we shouldn't ignore what we got — that it's rare to find it and he's only had it once, with his first wife. She died two years ago, and all he's got left now's his twelve-year-old daughter from her. He was remembering his wife when the dog tried to grab the scraps, and he kicked it without thinking. He's sorry now that he did it, and he wants me to have the dog to remind me that lo...love has...has many faces."
"Wonder what he means by that?"
"Jon, boyo! I been lookin' all over rendezvous for you and Cat! What you doin' standin' there talkin' to Reach for the Moon? And look what I found over there. Someone dropped a whole pile of stuff."
Jon groaned and turned toward Silas, disappointed somewhat at the interruption. He heard Caitlyn give a relieved sigh beside him and knew her own feelings were just the opposite.
"That's mine and Caitlyn's stuff," Jon told Silas. "I laid it down while we came over here to get this dog."
"Dog, huh?" Silas mused. "Good idear, Jon, my boyo. We can build a sled an' the dog can help us haul in the furs this winter when the snow's too deep for our horses. Soon's that there dog grows a bit, that is."
Silas knelt and reached out a hand to the dog, but it curled itself against Caitlyn's leg and drew back its lips. When Jon dropped down and held his hand out, the dog actually snapped at it.
"Now, look here, damn it...!"
"Leave him alone, Jon," Caitlyn said as she joined them on the ground and wrapped her arms around the dog. It stuck out its tongue and gave her a slurpy lick on the face.
"You be careful of that animal, Caitlyn," Jon growled. "Maybe we should give it back."
"You already promised you wouldn't, Jon," Caitlyn said as she rose to her feet and took a firm grip on the rope.
The dog cast a worshipful glance at her and lifted a paw. As Caitlyn gripped the dog's paw, then patted it on the head, Silas walked over and clapped Reach for the Moon on the back.
"What you been up to, you old varmit?" he asked in English.
"Same as always," the Sioux replied quietly in the same language, his voice pitched too low to reach Caitlyn and Jon. "You know, fussing and fighting with my daughter. Searching for another woman just maybe half as good as Spring Breeze. Thought I might have found one for a second." He cast a sly glance at Caitlyn. "Just like always, though, the one's worth anything are already taken."
"'Pears that way, don't it?" Silas agreed.
"We need to talk, Swift Feet," Reach for the Moon said even more softly. "Come. We will smoke in my wigwam."
They both glanced over to see Caitlyn and Jon wandering away, the dog happily trotting at Caitlyn's side and Jon's arms again filled.
"Reckon we might's well," Silas said with a snicker. "Those two don't look like they'd 'preciate any company right now." Silas stepped aside and allowed Reach for the Moon to enter the wigwam first, since it was the Indian man's house, ducking to follow him inside.
They settled on each side of the smoldering fire and Reach for the Moon lit an long-stemmed pipe with an ember from the fire. He puffed until the makings in the pipe glowed, then blew smoke in each of the four directions before handing the pipe to Silas.
Silas's eyes narrowed as he realized the Indian man had gone through the more formal ceremony of appeasing the spirits, rather than just the normal lighting of the pipe and smoking between old friends. Blowing the smoke to the four winds meant Reach for the Moon had something mighty important to discuss, but Silas held his tongue while he took his own puff from the pipe, politely waiting until the Sioux opened the conversation.
They passed the pipe back and forth two more times before Reach for the Moon spoke.
"There is one here who seeks someone else, a woman he is searching for. It is not our way, or the way of the white mountain men, to seek information on another's past. This man acts like his questions have no reason, yet different ears think this is not so."
"What sort of feller is this man?" Silas asked.
"He is one who speaks from two sides of his mouth. He wears clothes like yours, chews and spits his tobacco instead of smoking it. He drinks the whiskey, but pays for it in coin, not furs. He eats what we do, but uses not his knife and fingers. He has a strange thing with prongs that he carries his food to his mouth with after he cuts it."
"Sounds like some sort of fancy pants easterner."
"He speaks that different way sometimes. But other times, when he drinks, he sounds like the one the grizzly bear killed in the last season of the shining leaves — Mad Mick."
"Irish, huh? Ol' Mick was Irish. Well, there's a couple Irish clerks with the British companies at rendezvous. Couldn't really stop the British comin' down from Canada when they found out what ol' Ashley had it in his mind to do, and helps keep the prices down a little bit, them competin' with the Americans. Ol' Mick wasn't the only Irish mountain man out here, neither. But why's it matter to this other feller whether people thinks he's Irish or American?"
"It should not," Reach for the Moon agreed. "Unless his reason for being among us is to do with where he comes from. If he thinks to seem American, not Irish, places more secret about him. But even the white mountain men know our ways — that it is not done — to ask what a man has been before. Or a woman."
"What's his name? And has anyone figured out who the woman he's lookin' for is?"
"He answers to William Hogan, not Bill, as a mountain man would call himself. He likes to talk of the Blackfeet and how fierce they are — how they are a tribe that will never lay down their weapons for even long enough to trade with the whites a month in the summer. Many times he repeats a story to different people of an attack the Blackfeet made on a post far north of here — how the people were tortured to death. And that he has heard there was a small child there, whose body was never found."
"Cat," Silas said angrily. "He's lookin' for Cat. What the hell's he want with her?"
"A man such as this Hogan could not have something honorable in mind," Reach for the Moon said. "Or he would be truthful about his reasons for seeking her."
The Sioux knocked the pipe against a stone ringing the fire, dislodging the tobacco ashes. "The one called Mad Mick saved my daughter's life many summers ago," he said. "She wandered from the wigwam and found a puma's den. The young ones were to her playthings, but the mother returned. The shot Mick made across the valley did not seem thinkable, yet it killed the puma. I would protect the daughter Mick loved, as he did mine."
Silas nodded his head and stood. "I understand. And Ol' Mick was a good pard to me, too. I spent a few Christmases with them, when Cat was younger."
"You should not seek this man out here, Swift Feet. If he does not find Mick's daughter, perhaps he will leave."
"Yeah, no sense causin' a ruckus at rendezvous. Somebody's liable to get hurt. I think we better get our tradin' done and head on back into the mountains before this here rendezvous's over. We can get an early start on scoutin' out where we want our lines to run. Seems a shame to miss all the fun, but there'll be another rendezvous next year."
"You take her with you, then?"
"Yep. Maybe we'll head up to Mick's old cabin. Since he didn't trap there last year, should be good pickin's. And Cat said somethin' herself 'bout wishin' she could go back there."
Silas paused at the flap in the wigwam. "Thanks, Reach for the Moon. I wish you favorable winds for huntin' and warm moccasins in the winter."
"You are welcome to share my cooking pot when you like, Swift Feet. That is," he added with a laugh, "if you are not afraid my daughter's food will sit hard on your stomach. She is not the cook her mother was."
"You'll find someone to replace Spring Breeze some day, ol' pard. Well, maybe not replace her, but you're too good a man for these women to let run loose for long. Bet you're beatin' them off with a stick at times."
"It is my daughter who carries the stick," Reach for the Moon said, a wry twist to his mouth. "She does not feel the coldness of the blankets at night yet."
"'Round twelve, ain't she, if I 'member right. She looks anythin' like her ma, you're gonna need more than your own stick soon. Probably a club, or more likely that there buff'ler gun you skinned me out of a while back."
Reach for the Moon threw back his head and laughed. "You should not try to show how you earned your name with a belly full of whiskey, Swift Feet. Or perhaps it takes a pack of howling Blackfeet at your heels to make your feet fly."
Silas scratched his beard and chuckled. "Don't reckon I wanna find out which one it is," he admitted. "You take care of yourself 'til we run across one another again."
"And you, my friend."
****