JOE was satisfied with his work. On the sunlit day that it was done, a swim was in order. He shed his clothing at the new wigwam's entrance and walked the short distance to his lagoon. As he approached the tall reeds, he heard splashing. Joe thought it might be a large fish or ducks, and he continued quietly so he wouldn't frighten off whatever had entered the protected spot. Slowly, he approached the edge and parted the growth enough to peek through unseen. The source of the splashing was readily apparent. At the middle of the lagoon, with brilliant red hair fanned out around her head, floated a woman. As he watched, she dove under the surface and disappeared. Joe had just begun to feel concern when she suddenly popped up again in the shallow water. Two Trees felt some embarrassment and thought that he should probably leave, but something deep inside kept him where he was. He had never really known a woman except his mother, and now he was watching one at her bath. He had listened at the mine, to the men. They had often talked about women and the things men and women could do together. Joe had learned that the body of a woman could bring great pleasure to a man. He stayed in his concealment and watched her splash around in the clear shallows. Once, she turned directly toward him and stood up. He was frightened that she might have seen him, but she gave no sign, so he sat still and continued to watch. The water was clear and only up to her milk-white thighs. The Indian was surprised to see that she was truly a woman of reddish hair. It was the color of the sundown sky that heralds a fair day to come. It was the color of maple leaves and Virginia creeper when frost first touches them.
The woman finished her swim and walked out onto the sandy beach. There she climbed up on the flat rock Joe had used and lay down, folding her arms under her face. The rear view impressed Joe as much as the front had. There is no question that this was an erotic experience for Joe. He had never had a woman, but the condition of his body at that moment told him that he would, given a chance, easily figure out how it was done.
She rose, walked to a pile of clothes, and dressed. As she did, Joe thought he noticed her glance quickly at his hidden location, but he couldn't be sure. She went off through the fruit tree wood and was soon out of sight.
The Indian stayed where he had been hidden and waited. When he was sure she was gone, he stood up and hurried back to his camp. There he dressed quickly and trotted off toward the trees to pick up her trail. He found it easily and followed it. As he went along, he wondered what he would do if he came face to face with her. The great sexual excitement running through his blood was urging him on; but to what? Joe knew he could easily overpower the young woman, but he knew that was a bad thing. If he found her, he wouldn't know what words to say to endear himself. Would he find her as exciting wearing clothing as he had when she was naked? All these conflicting thoughts conspired together to bring him back to a more normal condition. Slowly, his burning excitement softened to become a dull yearning.
Two Trees walked on, following the trail. Where the trees ended, he stood in their shadows and looked across a short expanse of clear ground. There stood a small log farmhouse. Joe was surprised that he hadn't learned it was here until now. He hadn't expected any farms to be this far from a town, so he hadn't really looked, and most of his hunting had been upriver. He studied the farm. It was small and had a seedy look of disuse. The house needed repairs, and the fields were untended. Only a small patch had been plowed and planted. Although now turned over to grass, the overgrown furrows indicated they had once been meant for food crops. A few chickens wandered around, pecking up any food they happened across. Several pigs wallowed in a rickety pen. From the look of the rails, Joe was sure they probably entered and left at will. He imagined that they must forage in the nearby woods for food.
As he was completing his visual survey a sound caught his attention. The door hinge creaked dryly and a red-haired woman came out to the porch. From his distance, Joe couldn't see her features, but her proportions told him she was the woman from the water—he had already had ample opportunity to memorize these. She looked first one way, then the other, as if she expected someone. Then she turned and reentered the cabin. It was late in the day, and Joe started back to his shelter. Now that he knew where she lived, he would go home and consider this strange, new situation. His great prowess, killing a bear, surviving against often tremendous odds, none of these had prepared him to deal with a woman.
That night, confusion kept sleep away from the sheltered wigwam for many hours. Exciting, conflicting thoughts kept the Indian awake. The bearskin, which had always been sufficient in the past, now seemed to lack a certain warmth. Once, he had almost decided to get up and walk to the small farm. But, he thought, he might be shot for a wild animal raiding the livestock. Anyway, he had no idea of what he would do when he reached the farm. He stayed at his camp. The sleep that finally overcame Joe Two Trees was a troubled one. Confused it found him, and confused he still was, when it left.
In the morning Joe stayed late near his wigwam. He made breakfast and sat near the hut doing nothing. This was unusual for
the man. He was a person of activity. During all the hours of light, he did, even if nothing needed doing. In his philosophy
waste was evil. Even the waste of the light, given by his Maker, was not allowed. This day, Joe did not do, he sat. He was
waiting. I doubt that he realized it but he was waiting for the sound of splashing.
While the old man told me this part of his story, there were frequent pauses. Some of these were due to his growing weakness, but others, I can now tell in retrospect, were due to his choosing the right words to explain these things to an eleven-year-old boy. During the telling of what was a powerful emotional experience in his life, he never used a word that we would call "dirty." All of his descriptions were couched in terms of natural beauty, which would approach being poetry if I could remember exactly how he phrased them. He was telling me of growing first love.
Toward the middle of the afternoon, the splashing finally came. Joe walked toward the screening growth of bulrushes and cattails. He hoped that he would not find ducks or fish. If there had been ducks, they were gone when Joe cautiously parted the stalks. The only life in the lagoon was a red-haired nymph. To Joe, she was quite enough. Joe watched as she swam and washed. He was fascinated, not only by her nudity, but by her beauty. From the description he gave me, she must have been a very lovely woman indeed, or at least he saw her as such.
Joe continued to watch from his spot, and she seemed almost to be offering herself. The frequent turns toward his hiding place, the way she held her full breasts up with her hands, seemed to say that she knew he was there. Yet, she made no overt sign. Joe didn't know if he had been discovered but felt that since she made no objection he might as well stay. The swim lasted longer today. She seemed to be dragging out each movement, making it more tantalizing than it was yesterday. Could it possibly be that she was not doing all this on purpose?
She left the water. Again she sunned on the convenient rock. This time though, she didn't lie still as on the previous day. She rolled and turned almost continually, as if anxious to expose her every part to sun; or could it have been to view? None of this of course was lost on Joe. The unfamiliar feelings were back in force. He was tempted, several times, to walk into the clearing and make his presence known. He didn't do it, fearing she might scream or run away.
Again, as she had a day earlier, the woman dressed herself. But she did it slowly, methodically. Somehow, the most intimate parts of her body always seemed to face toward the hidden Indian. When she was finished, she walked slowly back through the trees. Joe followed again, but stopped in the shajibws once more. He watched the cabin for a time and finally the door opened. Instead of the woman a dog sauntered onto the porch and lay down in a patch of late afternoon sunlight. The dog was lean and gray. Its gaunt shoulders and hips spoke of poor feedings, but its lowslung belly told of more mouths coming soon to be fed. Joe watched a while longer, until he saw the long shadows creeping across the field. By then he was sure that the object of his adoration would be seen no more that day. He walked back to the wigwam near the protecting cliff face.
That night, it was not only the bearskin that lacked warmth. The whole hut seemed an empty place. It was once more the loneliness of the time when his parents had died. Only now there was nothing vague in the deep yearning for company. Joe knew exactly whose company he desired. The Indian spent another night with little prospect of sleep's comfort. Before dawn, while it was still quite dark, he dressed and climbed the high bluff behind his camp. When he had gained the top, he rested his back against a convenient tree and watched the moonlit river slide silently along below. Joe watched the harvest moon set. As it neared the tree-lined horizon, it grew in size and beauty. The bright white of its light was suffused by a golden cast that faded into red. Just before the moon sank into the far-off trees, its color was that of the woman's hair.
Sometime near dawn Joe must have dozed off. He woke with a start, to the realization that it was already midmorning. Two Trees ran to the edge and looked down into the lagoon. No one was there. Had he overslept and missed her? Joe scrambled down the steep rocks to his hut. He ran to the beach. An absence of wet footprints reassured him. Returning to the camp, he sat to wait for the sound of splashing. He sat, waiting and feeling very foolish. Something kept him there though, and foolish or not, he kept on waiting.
As the hours passed, he thought she wouldn't come. Today, she must be doing other things. Perhaps she would not swim any more now that the weather was growing cooler. A hundred possible reasons presented themselves to Joe's mind. Then he heard a splash and his spirits soared. He trotted to the brushy spot and went silently to its edge. She was there, and as usual, her lush body had its instantaneous effect on Joe. He settled down into the deep grass, and prepared to follow her every movement with his eyes. He had been there only for a short time when an odd thing happened. She swam directly toward his hidden spot. Joe was surprised, but stayed where he was. Soon she was floating directly in front of him. She calmly looked at the bushes which hid him and asked if he wouldn't rather come out and join her for a swim. Then she headed back toward the center of the enclosed pool.
Having been discovered, Joe stood up and stripped. After all, one does not go swimming with his clothes on. He dove in and swam tentatively toward the naked girl. Although the clear water made it impossible for her to overlook his excitement, she chose to ignore it. They talked of minor things, the weather, the water. After some time she said she had to leave and suggested that Joe come to visit her sometime, saying something about being bored and lonely. As the red-haired beauty left the water and walked up the beach, she made no effort to cover or hide herself from Joe's eyes. The man realized that he hadn't asked her name. By that time she was dressing and he hesitated. She finished and walked off in the direction of the weedy farm. Joe stood, still waist deep in the water, and watched her disappear. He was quite undecided about what he should do next.
He turned, gathered the clothing that had been dropped on the reedy bank, and returned to his shelter. Once there, he started a small fire and prepared food for himself. These things were all accomplished in mechanical, detached fashion. Joe's conscious thoughts were occupied with different matters.
He had little experience with women, and in matters of intimacy, none whatsoever. The woman's young body and the few words that passed between them had plucked a string buried somewhere in his depths. In some hidden corner of his being, some place that he hadn't ever known existed, an unlearned knowledge was announcing itself. In all his young years, Joe had so far been too occupied with survival to give thought to reproduction. Then, a chance encounter in the woods had changed that in a matter of days. Hormones that had, till then, combined with the adrenalin of "fight or flight" to strengthen his muscles for life or death encounters now flowed wildly to other body parts. Those parts were receptive. As in all mammals, Joe's warm blood carried certain instincts that, taught or not, would eventually make their way through the body into the brain. Joe thought then of sexual pleasures and delights. He knew little of them except from the miner's talk, but he wanted to find out.
This, however, was only a veneer, covering his true need. Joe was experiencing the human desire to re-create himself, to procreate, to continue his kind. The Indian wanted a child, perhaps a son. A small boy who could learn the things Joe had to teach would be an infinitely desirable product of an equally desirable coupling. The boy could learn all the natural lore from Two Trees, and the white man's ways from the red-headed woman, mother. Joe's thought progression had already reached a point where he believed that all this was certain to occur. Now, only the details of wooing the mother-to-be remained. After all, thought the Indian, he had already met her and she had not run off or rejected him in any other way. She had even said he could come to see her. Surely, these were all signs that she felt as he did. Then too, there was something he had missed since the death of his mother. It was the warmth of a female's ways. Joe had often noticed how his mother had done special things, small things, for Eagle Feather, to make him happy. Until he died, she had tried to please him in all ways. The concept of wife-mother was tied up in Joe's mind along with remembered smells of cooking food and the feel of gentle caresses. Yes, his life force was saying, as it was for your father, so should it be for you. Unfortunately, none of these lofty thoughts led Joe to question the obvious contradiction. Why was a beautiful, white girl living alone in a desolate woods in the first place?
Joe finished the food and dressed. He looked around for something to bring as gift, and chose pieces of his dried deer meat. He set off for the house past the fruit trees. This time, he only hesitated briefly at the edge of the tree line, then continued into the open field. As he neared the rough cottage, the dog barked at him several times. At this he stopped to be sure it would not rush down from the porch and attack. Joe decided that the dog was so heavy with the new life of puppies that she would not do much rushing, so he walked on. Then the door opened, and the woman came out. The dog's warning sounds must have called her away from cooking, because she carried a ladle with her. Joe stopped again, unsure of himself. But she smiled, so he held out the meat and said he had brought it for her. He could tell that she was quite pleased. She said she would add his meat to the stew she was just then cooking, and he was welcome to join her for supper. Joe readily accepted.
There was a small matter though; she pointed to an axe and asked if he would cut more wood for the fire. Joe started immediately. He was glad of an excuse to stay near the woman and still not have to think about things to say. Soon, he had chopped enough wood to last her for several days. When she heard that he had stopped chopping, she came out again. The amount of wood apparently pleased her. She waved for him to come in and stayed in the doorway as he did. This afforded Joe the pleasant sensation of brushing against her body as he passed. Then she gently squeezed his arm, as if saying that she hadn't been offended by it.
The smell of cooking food was a welcome one. Even though he had recently eaten, it was only little and roughly prepared. The kitchen smells of real pot-and-pan cooking, combined with the warmth of a log cabin, reassured Two Trees about the ideas of wife and mother. She hurried about, doing one thing and then another, so conversation was still not required. Joe appreciated this and the opportunity it gave to examine the interior.
The house had only one large room. On one wall was a fireplace with a large kettle suspended within. Other pots and utensils hung along that wall. The opposite end of the room was partially screened off by several blankets hanging from a rope that stretched from the front wall to the back. Behind the blankets was a large, quilt-covered bed. The foot end of the bed extended past the blanket screen. The floor at the bottom of the bed was carpeted with, of all things, a bearskin. He looked again. He couldn't be mistaken, even in the poor light. It was a bearskin. He looked at other aspects of the room. Over the door was a rack that held two guns. One was a shotgun, the other a rifle. There was a third space on the gun rack, but it was empty, almost as if someone had picked out one weapon and gone hunting. The bearskin, the guns, these were all man things. As Joe looked further, he noticed other signs that a man either lived here or had only recently. He said nothing, hoping the mystery would untangle itself as time went by.
The girl announced that she was ready, and smiling, led Joe to the table by his hand. They sat and Joe saw the meat he had brought. Although it was actually the center of the meal, she had done things with vegetables and bread to make the whole appear a sumptuous feast. Joe tasted and was pleasantly surprised. He hadn't eaten cooking like this since his farm days on Staten Island, and that was some years ago. Since then, there had been the bleak mine mess hall, or his own sparse forest rations. Both would keep a body alive, but only that. The woman-cooked meal was a wondrous thing to Joe Two Trees, man of the wilderness trails.
The woman had been bantering for some time with words of little importance. These required a smile or a short word in answer, and this suited Joe. He was still finding his tongue. The ideas of being invited in, eating supper, and sitting this close to the woman were all exciting, but also a bit frightening. It had come about so fast. This was not like fighting a man or a bear. Joe would feel little fright under those conditions of encounter. But the small beauty across from him was a quarry with which he had no experience. Then she said her name, Sheila, and asked his. Joe looked at her eyes. They were as blue as any sky he had ever seen. This surprised him, and for a moment he forgot that she had spoken. He was so intent on looking into her blue eyes that he forgot everything. She brought him back by joking that everyone else she had ever met had a name. He blurted out that he was called Joe. This seemed to be enough; she asked for no other name, and he gave none. Something had happened, though, in saying the name. Joe had overcome his discomfort and thereafter, talk became easier between them.
Soon, Joe was talking to her as he had talked to no one else before. He told her of his travels, his mining years, and many of his adventures. She seemed to be genuinely interested, so he went on. His origins and the killing in New York were things he kept to himself. She hadn't asked what he was, so she either didn't know, or knew and didn't care. He realized that his Indian heritage was often distasteful to whites, so he didn't volunteer that information. He also knew that mention of the killing, unintended though it had been, might frighten her off. When he felt that she was enjoying his talk, he probably started to boast a bit. It was his prowess as a hunter that the girl seized upon. She directed his talk to that and seemed impressed. A shortage of fresh meat was one of her major problems. If Joe saw fit to help her with that, she could be very appreciative. As she said this, the arch of her eyebrows and tone of her voice made him want to race out and hunt red meat. He knew he would soon do just that.
The time had passed quickly, and too soon Joe realized that it was late. He didn't know how to bring the subject from conversational matters to other things, and she had not done so for him. He had recognized a certain overtone to her looks and talk several times that seemed to suggest more than they had arrived at, but he had not known how to capitalize on it. He thanked her for the meal and prepared to leave. This matter would require thought at the wigwam. She asked Joe not to forget her if he happened to go hunting. He quickly promised he would not. Again she stood in the doorway and made him squeeze his body past hers. The glow caused by that contact lasted along the path, back to his shelter.
Lying in the shelter, he thought back over the whole event. He considered various things to say when they met again. All in all, he felt quite good about the meeting. He would hunt and bring her game. She was sure to see his ardor. Suddenly the other thought came back to Joe. There had been man-things in her house. Whose? He hadn't asked and she hadn't said anything about another man. This was a matter that required further investigation. He didn't want to ask her, but his curiosity was so great that he knew he must. If she didn't clarify this, he would. He thought about the hunting for awhile, and just as sleep overtook him, Joe had a dream composed of the two thoughts. He was hunting for meat in the dream, but as he followed the trail to his quarry, he found not deer but a man. The man had taken his beautiful Sheila, and he kept fleeing with her, always out of Joe's reach. The dream became more confused as it went on, until dawn came and relieved him of it.
Joe rose early and went up river to check his snares and build new ones. He had set enough to guarantee food for himself, but now he was hunting for two. He cleaned the rabbits that were already caught, and walked farther into the marshes up ahead. He was looking for deer signs. Rabbits were good to eat, but venison would make a more impressive gift. After searching for a while, he came across the tracks of a large deer. Joe followed these down toward the river. The muddy ground showed many tracks, all made by the same animal. This was the watering spot of a big buck deer. Joe recognized the pattern of footprints. This animal came here daily, probably at dusk, and drank. It was the reliability of such an animal, to form a pattern and live by it, that made him easy prey. In the woods the deer's keen senses would alert him to any move made by a man. In the open the deer could easily outdistance even the fastest human runner. But here, a prisoner of his pattern, the deer would eventually come to drink. This was when Joe would have the advantage.
He disturbed the deer's spot not at all and walked a good distance away. He searched until he found a young hickory sapling.
Joe cut it and, as he had with the spear for his bear, sharpened the end into a long point. He built a small fire and hardened
the wood in its flames. Then he walked back, keeping on the lookout for his deer. Joe didn't want it to see him yet. If the
plan worked, he would be the last thing the deer ever saw, but that would be later. When he reached the drinking place, Joe
noted the wind. It came from the north. He hid himself behind a low bush just south of the deer's pathway. Here, spear in
hand, Joe hid and waited.
I had seen him do that trick at Hunter Island, and so, as he spoke of it, I could visualize the scene. Joe must have crouched and sat back on his legs. He would have been invisible as he stayed perfectly motionless, a part of the bush. He had arrived many hours too early, but that was for a reason. The passing time allowed Joe's scent to dissipate from the area, and blow away on the wind. I doubt that any white hunter could sit motionless for so long. To Joe it was natural.
So he crouched and waited, outwardly dead, unmoving, but with his mind racing. Thoughts of the deer gave over, when he knew he was all ready for it, to thoughts of Sheila. It was her bath time. The height and angle of the sun told Joe that several miles downriver, ripples and splashing now broke the smooth surface of a hidden lagoon. He was glad that the deer had given him an excuse to be here instead. Joe knew he could no longer hide in the bushes to watch the woman bathe. He was unsure of what her reaction would be if he brazenly showed up to swim. After all, he could no longer hide behind the pretext, however thin, of an accidental arrival. He knew, and she now knew he was aware of the fact that she would be naked. If he arrived at the lagoon dressed, she might think he was uninterested or silly. If he arrived nude, she might take it as an insult or a vulgar suggestion. It was better to be here, waiting for the deer to come. The other thing would solve itself in time. If that time produced a deer for Joe to carry to her, the solution might be a very favorable one for him.
As the shadows began to lengthen, Joe's ears strained to listen for any indication of the deer. Now and then a bird or small animal made tiny noises, but Joe's ear easily identified these and shut them out. It was nearly dark now, and the deer had not yet arrived. Perhaps it had found a better place or scented Joe's presence. It could have been ambushed by a hunter even quieter than the Indian. The spring of a silent mountain lion had ended the lives of many a deer. But Joe continued to wait, and he was finally rewarded. A movement in the bushes and the raucous screams of a bluejay told the Indian what he wanted to know. The long vigil hadn't been wasted.
The deer stopped out of Two Trees's thrusting range. The big animal hadn't survived the perils of its environment long enough to grow as large as it had by being careless. He sniffed and looked around. It was as if it suspected something.
Joe started to worry. Had he left some visual or scent sign of his presence? Would the powerful legs spring, carrying the deer off and away? The buck stood motionless for a long time, but in the end it decided to continue toward the river. Joe was relieved, but no motion gave a hint of it. Not the smallest breath or wink of eye revealed his presence. The animal browsed slowly along its usual path until it came parallel with the hidden Indian. When the distance was perfect, Joe's legs exploded like steel springs, sending him through the curtain of bush. His spear entered the buck's side, slid between its ribs, and went deep into the chest cavity. The startled creature, unexpectedly hurt, jumped high into the air. When it fell, it stumbled, momentarily losing footing. It quickly rose though, and dashed off leaving a wide trail of bright red blood. Joe's spear had not entered the heart as he had expected. The deer was badly hurt, but it would not soon fall dead.
The hunter was faced with a serious problem. If the deer wasn't mortally wounded, it might wander a long distance before it found a place to lie down. If he let this happen, a wildcat or even dogs might deprive him of his kill. Tracking the animal in darkness would be a difficult business, even dangerous. If he came upon the buck suddenly in the dark, it might use those sharp antlers as a last defense. But if he did not follow, chances were he'd lose the deer. Joe decided quickly. The danger and discomfort of night tracking after a wounded animal were small when compared to the prospect of having no gift of venison for Sheila.
Two Trees set out by the light of a rising half-moon. Often, he was required to crawl from one blood patch to the next in order to maintain his trail. After he had followed for a long time, Joe came upon the deer. It had lain down to rest and snorted loudly as he approached. It rose stiffly to its feet and stood facing Joe. He reached for his knife, thinking the wounded beast planned to make a stand. Instead, it whirled and dashed away. Joe only saw the white, flaglike tail bob up and down as the buck was lost to sight.
When the deer turned to escape, the spear which still hung from his side had caught on a branch and been yanked loose. Now the blood came much faster than it had. The trail led Joe several miles farther north. Soon, the moon set behind western trees, but the dull glow of predawn was starting to show in the east. With the light, Joe saw the quantity of blood that marked the buck's trail. He would soon be too weak to go on. The Indian slowed his pursuit to give the blood loss time to do its work. The strategy was sound, and a few hundred yards farther the deer lay unable to go on. Joe approached carefully, but the animal was far too weak to fight by then. The Indian finished it quickly with his knife.
A warm, autumn sun had risen above the thick trees by then, and Joe looked around. The trail he followed the night before had been a winding, roundabout one. He decided to climb a nearby hill and see if he could find a better way to return. It was tough climbing as he scaled the first half of the steep, wooded rise, but then the ground cleared and his trip to the top went quickly. He looked down into a deep valley on the other side and was surprised to see a small village. In the opposite direction he saw the sparkle of sun shining on water. It was the river. Mentally plotting his course, he returned to the deer and dressed it out. Joe skinned the animal and wrapped as much meat as he could carry inside the skin. He made a tow harness with two thin saplings and started back, skidding the burden behind him.
The tiny village, really no more than a collection of eight or ten log houses, interested Two Trees. He added it to his mental image of the area that surrounded his chosen winter quarters. When he arrived here from the west, Joe had seen no sign of human habitation. Then he had found Sheila's farm. Now this village. The area wasn't quite as deserted as it had seemed at first. These facts didn't worry the Indian, but they did put him on his guard. The village meant men, surely hunters. That was probably why the buck had been so cautious yesterday. These hunters would have guns. Joe decided it would be a good idea to hunt downriver in the future. There was another reason, too. The Indian had no desire to meet these whites. They were all unpredictable at best. He would not hunt where they did and hoped they would stay to the north. He fervently wanted the men from the village to keep their distance from his wigwam, his lagoon—and his Sheila. The last popped into his mind quite unexpectedly. Then he considered the possibility that the man-things in Sheila's home might belong to one from the village. Suddenly he hated the entire town, just on the off chance that his suspicion might be true. Joe Two Trees was, for the first time, jealous. He picked up his pace. He had been away for almost two days. It was too long.
Joe reached the river and turned downstream. It was easy travel there. The trees were thinner, and there were animal trails through the undergrowth. He reached the lagoon shortly. He didn't bother to stop at his wigwam, but proceeded through the trees and toward the farm. Again, the dog barked as he left the tree line. Her emaciated body was in such contrast to her enormous belly that he marveled at the fact that her pups had not yet been born. Her bark brought Sheila to the porch. Joe felt a warm spark blaze up within his chest. As he approached she asked why he had not met her for a swim the previous day. Joe was very happy at this. The problem of whether he was welcome at the lagoon had just solved itself, as he had hoped it would while he waited for the buck. He walked toward her with his heavy gift.
In answer to her question, Joe pointed to the blood-soaked bundle tied between the sapling runners and told her he had gone hunting for meat. She came down and lifted a flap away. All the meat inside was dressed and well cut into choice portions. Sheila smiled broadly and asked if it was for her. Joe said it was, but that he hoped to be asked to share it. She looked at him and said he surely would be asked. She noticed the caked blood on Joe's hands and arms, mixed with dust and grime from the long walk. Sheila suggested that he go to the river and wash while she prepared the meat for drying. Just then the dog came down, sniffed at the bundled meat, and looked up longingly at the man. The look of hunger in her eyes moved Joe to take his flint knife and cut a large piece. He held it out and the dog eyed the red offering, but would not take it. Then Joe squatted down to the dog's level, and she carefully took it from his hand. Before she walked off to eat the meal, the skinny animal looked long and curiously at him. Joe wondered why the dog seemed afraid of him. He had never hurt her. Had some other man?
Joe looked at himself and silently agreed that a good washing should definitely be his next activity; and the sooner the better. The hungry flies of fall were making him uncomfortable. He turned and set out briskly for the clean water. When he got to the sandy beach, he stripped off his blood-spattered clothing and soaked them in water. Then he pounded the jacket and trousers on a rock until the water that he wrung out of them was clean. The cloth clothes were quite threadbare, and he mentally noted that he had better start on buckskin replacements. He now had two good hides. After he cleaned the new skin, thought Joe, he would make the winter clothes. He stretched his laundry over some low bushes to dry and walked into the water to complete his bath.
The man rubbed clean sand over his entire body and chilly water washed off the dirt that had covered his skin. He soon tingled all over from the abrasive grit and cool water. Feeling fresh and invigorated, he stroked to the center of the pool and floated there, enjoying the gentle tug of current against his body. In the protected backwater, only small fingers of tide could enter. While the powerful river drove past just a few feet away, the lagoon experienced only a gentle, circular flow. It was peaceful and lulling. Joe relaxed, nearly sleeping, in the shallow water. His mood was suddenly broken by a disturbance. He looked and was pleased to see the red hair of Sheila as she swam out to him.
Sheila stopped near the man and asked if he would like her to help him wash. Joe responded that he was already washed. The woman seemed insulted, and Joe didn't understand what he had done to cause this reaction. She asked if he didn't find her attractive. He hastened to assure her that he did. Nude as she was, he found her not only attractive, but irresistible. She wanted to know why, if he found her attractive, he did not want her to wash him. Naively, Joe hadn't seen the obvious connection yet. Seeing, though, that it seemed important to Sheila, he said he would be pleased to be washed by her. Joe let his feet sink to the bottom and the two stood facing each other, separated by only the water. Sheila reached down and gently began to wash him. He discovered immediately that he had misunderstood her intentions until that moment. The washing had been very much connected with the question of her attractiveness. Feeling Joe's excitement, she asked if he wouldn't like to wash her in return. Soon the two were exploring each other completely and thoroughly. Joe wanted more, and he made his needs known to her. By then, she wanted the same thing. They left the water and gathered their clothing. Not bothering to put it on, they ran toward the cottage together.
She drew him to the blanket-screened bed, and he felt the warmth increase as their two bodies blended into one. Joe noticed with a small part of his mind that he seemed to know exactly what to do. Where he was doubtful, her hands urgently directed him. After what could have been either minutes or hours, they lay side by side enveloped in a rosy afterglow. Joe's new-found knowledge showed him the miners had not exaggerated these pleasures at all. Sheila reclined quietly, a small smile on her face. Joe watched the rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts. He could tell that she was pleased, relaxed, and this added to his own pleasure.
Joe wanted to talk but he waited, not wishing to disturb the woman. She stirred and rolled to face him. Sheila told him she was glad he had come. She had been very lonely living by herself here. Since she brought the subject up, Joe decided to pursue it. He asked about the evident man who had lived here. She readily admitted that he was her husband. Then she said simply that he was gone now. This seemed all she wanted to say on the matter, so Joe respected her silence and asked no further. The revelation that the man was gone was quite sufficient for him anyway. He dismissed his lingering doubts and they spoke of other things. The subject of the fresh venison came up, and Sheila reminded him that she had promised to be appreciative. The remark disturbed him momentarily. It was almost as if she were implying that her charms had been a form of payment. He instantly regretted having thought it and forced the idea out of his mind. But still, some remnant remained to annoy him.
When they got up, Sheila indicated that she would cook meat that night. She told him that hunters needed to eat well to keep up their strength. Then she jokingly added that lovers had the same requirements. Joe said he would come back later to join her.
When he left the house, Joe looked for his deerskin. It was time to clean and cure it and it was not where he had left it. Fall would not last much longer, and when the first cold blasts heralded winter's approach, he wanted to meet them in buckskin. Alongside a small tool shed, he located the bloody skin and the skinny dog. Wolflike, the undernourished creature had chewed the pelt from end to end. It was now ripped in shreds and quite unusable for the making of clothing.
The bitch saw the man approach and recognized him as the one who had given her a meal; but she was taking no chances. The hand that gave food could as easily take it away. She crouched low over the skin, and growled deep in her throat. She seemed less to be warning Joe off than pleading with him to make fighting unnecessary. This was the food that could fatten her body, and through it, give strength to the little lives within her. She wanted no fight, but for the sake of her babies she would surely defend the food. Joe looked and understood her. She would keep the meal. He thought he would feel the same way if he had children to protect. Joe, thereafter, made a point of bringing the dog some food each time he visited his Sheila.
As he walked toward his shelter, Joe thought about the dog. It seemed a very intelligent creature, but there was about it a certain savage quality that interested him. It had a wildness in its eyes and a way of making its back hairs stand on end that sent a chill through him. If ever there was a thing that had a color that defied description, the dog was it. She was a uniform shade of some blend containing black, gray, brown, and something else. As nearly as he could call it, she was the color of coal mine mud. Her eyes were different, though. There, anything described as common would be totally untrue. The eyes were a brilliant, almost glowing, shade of yellow. Each pupil was a point of jet black. He could tell that the dog had not been treated well. It limped on one hind leg, and the injury appeared to be an old one. She had several scars on her head and body that showed even through the thick coat that was growing in for winter. The dog gave the appearance of being totally beaten. Her carriage and actions spoke of fear, but when her eyes caught the light, they gleamed with a ferocious character. Joe decided that whoever had conquered the dog's body had never managed to subdue her spirit. From those eyes, a fierce freedom still glared. The man wondered idly if the poor old dog might be part wolf.
Joe arrived at his hut and made a few motions toward cleaning things up. During the last few days he had paid little attention to the details of caring for his own wintering spot. He gathered firewood and placed it conveniently near the entrance. When he came back later tonight, thought Joe, at least the campfire could be quickly made. He spread out the bearskin and made his bed ready. Then he checked the one deerskin that he still had. It was in good condition. He would have trousers at least, if not a new jacket. Joe smiled at the memory of the dog crouching to protect the meat-covered skin. The cloth coat from his mining years would have to serve for another season, unless he could find a third deer downriver in the near future.
A hunger was starting to make him think about the cabin. Soon, the prospect of a meal and closeness to the woman pushed Joe off toward the path between the fruit trees. When he left, he carried a long, narrow strip of dried deer meat from his earlier kill. Something about the dog's eyes had made him remember to bring it for her. As he walked, Joe took notice of the subtle changes in the trees. Where only days earlier, green had cloaked them, now they had taken on a blend of red and yellow. The summer was ended. Soon, he knew, he would wake one morning and find the first thin rind of ice on the lagoon. It would be gone by the time the morning sun rose to warm it, but then one day it would stay. It would thicken day by day and all creatures would feel the icy breath of Ya-O-Gah, the north wind. But not yet, thought the Indian, there is still time to gather nuts and other supplies. There is still time to swim and wash. At this thought, he smiled to himself.
He passed through trees and into the cleared, former farm land. He expected to hear the dog bark and listened for it. There was no bark. He looked toward the dog's usual spots, but each was empty. Still holding the meat, he proceeded to the tool shed. One door was off its rusted hinge, and through the space where it leaned crookedly, Joe saw a paw protruding. When she heard him approach, the female pulled in her exposed foot and snarled out. The sound no longer held any pleading note; it was all warning now. Joe slowly extended the meat, but she still growled menacingly. He tried to push it through to her, but she took this as an aggressive movement. Joe dropped the meat and pulled his hand back in just the nick of time. Her rather impressive teeth came together where his fingers had been a split second earlier. It happened so fast that Joe wasn't sure she had missed. But then she caught the food scent and pulled his offering inside the shed.
While her mouth was occupied with the deer meat, the growling stopped and Joe heard a strange new noise behind the door. It was a wet, mewing so faint that he wasn't sure he heard it. The plaintive little notes kept on though, and soon Joe understood. The puppies had come at last! The Indian felt a powerful urge to see and touch the tiny new lives. But the mother wouldn't allow him any closer than the opening to her lair. She knew and was thankful that he had brought meat for her young, but to allow him near the puppies would violate some instinct stronger than that. Even if she wanted to let him come in, something from her heritage would not have let her do so. If he attempted to enter, she would do her best to kill him. The primal part of Joe knew all this without his even realizing, and he kept his distance. She relented to a small degree and finally let him look in through the opening. The low growl and gleaming yellow eyes put strict limits on his closeness. Joe leaned only as far as the female permitted and saw the tiny pups against her body. They were pink and blind and they pushed weakly at each other for a favorable position against the mother's belly. There were five. She seemed to relax as Joe pulled back, and when he walked away, the yellow eyes took on an almost friendly look and followed him until he was out of sight.
Joe mounted the few steps and crossed to the door, but as he reached to knock, the girl opened it. She had seen him from the single window. Sheila greeted him with a warm smile, but no further acknowledgment of the afternoon's passion. A pleasant smell of cooking venison pushed past her, and Joe was hungry. He wanted to go in, but she stopped him. Water from the well was needed and then would he mind picking some of the corn that stood ripe in her garden patch? She said that even though there wasn't enough daylight left, he could finish picking it the next day. Joe felt some sense of rebuff. He had thought the meeting would somehow be different. Wonderful things had passed between them only hours earlier. Had she forgotten? No, that wasn't even possible. He acceded as gracefully as he could, and set about the farm tasks.
First, Joe drew and carried several buckets of well water. He poured these into pots and filled the kitchen sink with the rest. Then he started removing corn from tall stalks and placing it in wicker bushels. The work was not unpleasant. He was reminded of jobs he had done on many other farms in return for meals. Joe picked his way back across the autumns of many years. The golden ears felt familiar to his hands. He could almost see a small Indian boy doing similar work in the long ago, flanked by a father and mother. Quite without warning, he was suddenly thinking of the mud-colored dog. He experienced a rush of emotional hope for her and her babies. The sentimental thoughts embarrassed him, and he worked harder to block them out. Before the creeping shadows gave up to the dark of early evening, Joe had picked many baskets of corn. He himself was surprised when he looked at the results of his work. It was small wonder that Sheila expressed her pleasure when she came out to get him.
Sheila held Joe warmly and appreciatively as they walked into the house. The work had been worth the time. Her table was a wonderful sight for hungry eyes to feast upon. The two ate heartily of the venison and various side dishes. Later, with full stomachs, the pair sat and talked. Now and again Joe would stop and look into her eyes. She found it flattering and said nothing to discourage his obvious adoration. The conversation stayed light; she kept it so. But she somehow managed to remind him about the rest of the corn; and again there hovered the suggestion of her appreciation. Joe knew he would pick more the next day. Looking into the blue eyes made the idea not at all distasteful.
Joe mentioned the dog and its new puppies. Sheila smiled. The Indian asked her about the wounds he had seen on the animal. She said that the dog had come one winter and simply refused to leave. It had slept on the porch and foraged its own food. Her husband had taken an instant dislike to the animal and treated it very badly. He frequently hit or kicked it, but still the dog stayed on. Sheila admitted that she had sneaked food to the poor creature on more than one occasion. A day came when her husband kicked the dog and it didn't retreat from him. Two fingers were badly torn on his left hand. After that he had taken an axe and hit the animal. The wound eventually healed, but the limp Joe had seen was permanent. Sheila had no idea about the sire of its pups. Meat had always been a problem here, so she had not been able to feed the animal well. The dog wandered free much of the time hunting for itself. The bitch had never been given a name. Whenever Sheila called it or spoke to it, she addressed it simply as "dog." This told Joe little about the mud-colored animal who suckled her pups in the tool shed, but Sheila knew nothing else. The subject died out and the talk went to other matters. They spoke about swimming, hunting, and the needs of Sheila's farm. The minutes passed into hours, and those fled into the past. Joe saw that Sheila was subtly indicating the evening's end. He had hoped she might ask him to stay, but apparently that was not going to happen. She was warmth and smiles as Joe left. She hoped he would finish with the corn early, said Sheila, so they would have plenty of time tomorrow for other things.
Joe left the house with mixed feelings. He had hoped the evening would prove mor? exciting. He wondered whether he might have said or done something wrong. Those thoughts evaporated as he neared the tool shed. The chilly light of a fall moon stabbed obliquely through the space where the door hung askew. Through the space shone twin pools of reflected brilliance. The mother dog was watching him. Two Trees stopped to look at the glowing eyes and veered toward them. She didn't growl as he came nearer. The eyes followed his progress until he stood before her. Encouraged, he reached forward. The snarl came, and its message was unmistakable. It said, "I recognize you as the giver of food, but do not threaten my young. That, I cannot allow." Joe drew back. He listened to the mewings from inside. They seemed stronger, more individual now. He smiled.
The autumn days led into Indian summer. One day Joe would find his heart's desires answered; the next they would go unfulfilled. He learned to do Sheila's bidding. The rewards were sometimes worth the work. Somehow though, the intimacy of her bed never seemed to bring them together in more than a bodily manner. It bothered Joe, but he told himself that more would come. He knew the time would arrive when Sheila would give herself in other than physical ways.
During those days an odd thing happened. Each time he went to the farm, Joe brought some meat for the yellow-eyed dog. Once it would be deer meat. Another, time it was rabbit. He even brought her smoked fish on occasion, but only when the hunting had been poor. The dog accepted each gift as enthusiastically as the others. Sie seemed indifferent to the kind of food. She had four pups to feed. One had died soon after birth. The four survivors were hard to satisfy, and she looked forward to Joe's daily visit. There was no growl, no snarl. Now she only placed her body in his way whenever Joe reached to pet her small brood. At last, the day came when she permitted him to touch the furry pups. Only that, though, at first. Gradually she allowed more familiarity, and when they were a few weeks old, Joe was permitted to pick them up. That day he held each for a moment, and in turn, stroked its smooth fur. The female stood at his elbow and gave warning sounds, but she suffered the man, against her instincts, to handle her babies. They were weak and clumsy, small and happy. Each squirmed in the palm of his hand as if demanding he scratch its belly. Joe obliged the little dogs daily. Soon the female took her tiny tribe out of the shed for short stays. First she shooed them into the old lair whenever the Indian approached, but she would remain and meet him. The female developed the habit of licking his hand in thanks for the regular gifts. Eventually she looked forward to his coming, not for the food, but for something else. Gift or no, she now ran to him and licked his hand. The man was kind, gentle. He brought her no pain and her young no danger.
One day, one of the pups ran with the mother to meet Joe. It was a woolly, jet black animal with only one marking. From the base of its nose to the back of its head ran a blaze of white fur. It was a tiny female. Although her coat and color were inherited from some distant ancestor or missing father, heredity had given her the piercing, yellow eyes of the mother.
The frosts of early winter found the dogs learning to forage for themselves. Joe still brought gifts, but it was not easy for him. He set more rabbit snares than the land could really be expected to fill. The little pup with yellow eyes had taken to following Joe wherever he went. Her mother, though, seemed ill. She seldom left the cottage porch anymore. A time came when Joe was unable to fill the meat needs of Sheila, the mother dog, and her pups, not to mention himself. The pups, all but one, left. They struck out on their own to become wild, wolf dogs, or perhaps find a farm where they would be fed and kept. The mother became weaker, day by day, until finally she didn't wake up from one of her ever longer naps. Only the black pup with her yellow eyes stayed on. She stayed by Joe's side, day and night. The growing animal hunted with him, slept with him, and guarded any door that might be closed to shut her off from him.
The red-haired woman presented other problems to Joe. The time of swimming had passed with the cold winds and flying snow. Now he longed to see her naked body, but the opportunities came less often. During the cold time, he came daily from his own place to do various jobs for her, and sometimes he was rewarded. It was not as it had been though. Once she walked to the town past the northern hills and returned late at night with a letter. Joe saw her look at the talking words and smile. She refused, though, to tell him their message. As was normal with a farm, little work remained to be done during this season. He did his best to make himself valuable to her, but it was difficult. He began to understand that her interest in him was proportional to her need for his services. To offset the lack of farm work, Joe spent more time hunting. Often he would be gone for days. The dog was always with him. She shared in his kills, and she proved to be a strong and able hunter..Sometimes, she would come to Joe with a rabbit, and then the man would share the dog's kill.
It was often during those nights on the trail that the young dog would spontaneously come to his side, look up and lick his hand. When she did, he would see the glowing eyes and marvel at the similarity to those of her dead mother. When he made an improvised camp and stopped to sleep, the dog's warmth was dependable and welcome. Joe never mistreated the animal, and even when the hunting brought them no meat, she seemed satisfied to nourish herself on his kindness.
The dog ate well and thrived. She grew, before spring, into a formidable beast. Sometimes Joe would stop what he was doing just to look at her. It amazed him. The dog hadn't completed one full season of life yet, but her size was already astounding. At some dim point in the animal's evolution, traits of a large bone structure and leonine head had been genetically planted. When she put her forepaws on his shoulders in affectionate play, the Indian was very glad that she only wanted to lick his face.
As she developed, the dog began to show other singular traits. Joe was hers, and she watched over him jealously. If any animal, domestic or wild, squirrel or bear, presented itself, she assumed that it threatened her master. No creature was allowed to approach him. This proved to be an inconvenience at times, even a downright danger. The dog could easily attack and kill a creature the size of a pig. Since Joe worked with Sheila's few farm animals, he taught the dog that they must be left alone. She learned quickly and understood the lesson, but whenever he walked among those animals, she crouched nearby, growling her warning to them. Joe would pat her and say reassuring words, but her vigilance remained constant.
As much as the dog was growing to love Two Trees, she came to dislike Sheila. The emnity sometimes seemed to border on open hatred. Nothing that Joe could do or say seemed to alleviate the situation. Where the dog had aloofly permitted Sheila to pet her as puppy, now she forbade it. The eyes and the rumbling growl told Sheila to keep her distance. Was it simple jealousy or some mystic sense dogs are sometimes said to possess? They say it is good judgment to beware of the person disliked by a dog.
The winter passed slowly. Joe hunted and filled in time by doing repairs and chores at the farm. He provided meat and worked at his hunting with a passion. He imagined that the flesh he brought might revive Sheila's old appreciation, but the more he did, the less she seemed to notice. With her stomach kept full and sufficient meat stored away, she grew indifferent to his kills.
Then the easing weather told Joe that planting time was approaching, and he asked Sheila if she had seed for the fields. There was some, but not enough. That night in his wigwam, Joe searched through his pouch. There were still several silver dollars he had managed to retrieve from the snow that winter long ago. These had rested, unneeded and unused, for all the time since. As Joe looked at the money in the wavering firelight, he smiled and thought back across the intervening years. There had been Tony, the homeless rabbit, the great bear. Then Cass had crossed the path of his life. After Cass there had come Sheila and now the powerful dog, so much a part of Joe's existence. As he thought this, the Indian wondered why he had unconsciously grouped the red-haired woman with the others that were now a part of his past. Why had his mind relegated all those to the time that had been, while keeping only the dog in the present, and time yet to come? But then he discarded the thought and thanked his Great Spirit for all of them. Each in his or her own way had made his life better, his trail easier. The Great Spirit, thought Joe, must surely still love Two Trees to have given him all these.
Early in the morning, the Indian brought the few dollars to Sheila. He told her to go to the village and buy seed. While she was gone, he would clean the rusted plow and pull it through the hardened furrows, preparing the ground. She agreed readily, and soon was gone.
Joe worked at the weedy soil, using his back to replace the horse or mule lacking on this farm. The work was hard, but Joe didn't mind it. This was good work, tied to soil and growing things. It was a far cry from the labor of mining that had hardened his muscles, but left his soul unfulfilled. As he went, the dog was ever at his side. Her job was a self-appointed one; to guard him. This she did, up one plowed row and down the next, all through the day. Sometimes, Joe would stop to rest and pet the dog. When he did, her wagging tail showed that the wait had been a worthwhile one for her.
When the darkness began to fall, Joe stopped plowing. Sheila hadn't returned yet. He sat on the steps, watching for her in the direction she had gone. When it was too dark to continue the vigil, Joe began to worry. He walked to the wigwam and brought his bearskin back to Sheila's porch. There, with his dog, Joe spent the night, waiting. It was damp and cold, but he never thought to go inside. That might make him miss some sound or sign of her approach. The night was long, and she did not appear. At first light he could take no more of the inactivity. Two Trees set out to follow her trail toward the settlement.
The tracking was easy for the Indian, even though Sheila's trail was now a day old. It required concentration though, since she could have taken any number of routes. A footprint in soft ground, a bent twig, or a thread trapped by some wayside thorn bush all pointed him in the right direction. But these detections slowed him down, and it was already late afternoon when he stood looking down at the cluster of houses. He circled in an arc, to intercept any trail she might have made by leaving by a different route, but there was none. Sheila was still in town. The dog at his side began to snarl at the nearness of the houses, and Joe had to hush her. He settled into the brush to watch the houses for some sign of the woman. The dog stretched out by his side to wait with him.
There she was. Joe caught sight of her unmistakable hair as she came out the door of one of the houses. A man followed close behind and put one arm around her waist. As Joe watched, they exchanged a few words. When she turned to leave, he patted her quite intimately on her rounded behind. Hot anger rose in the Indian, and sensing it, his dog bristled darkly. But the woman made no objection. She turned and smiled at the man instead. Joe held the dog, who had also seen Sheila and now snarled in her direction fiercely. Joe watched as the woman entered the woods to his left. She carried a rolled paper and two packages. He hid for a few moments, not wanting her to know he had followed. When she was out of sight, he started at a trot along a different path back to the farm. He wanted to be there, plowing, when she returned, and he was.
When Sheila arrived, he made no mention of her overnight absence, and she remained just as silent about it. Joe noticed that the rolled paper was a newspaper. He knew of those as talking-word carriers of things that had happened in other, sometimes distant, places. It did not impress him any more that the whites could hear talk from words on paper. He just accepted it as a fact that would always be beyond him.
One of Sheila's packages contained seeds, but he could see at a glance they were not sufficient to plant even the portion of land he already had prepared, so he stopped work. The other package held an amber bottle. Two Trees knew that it was whiskey. He knew of its dubious powers, even though he had never tasted it.