CHAPTER SEVEN
The Half-Breed

After the attack by the outlaws, Hannah and Zeb forded the wide but shallow Buffalo River without any difficulty. Three days later they got to the Tennessee River, and there they had no choice. The river was too wide and too deep, and the current was too strong. The only way across was the Colbert Ferry at fifty cents each and fifty cents for the horse. The ferryman wanted to charge them even more for “such a big horse.” Zeb was down to twelve dollars.

To make matters worse, a violent thunderstorm forced them to stay that night at the Buzzard’s Roost, five miles south of the ferry. The owner said that the inn wouldn’t be open for travelers until spring, but they could sleep in the barn with Christmas. In the morning he charged them more than double the usual fare.

As Hannah swung up to sit behind Zeb, he growled, “Let’s get out of here.”

“What’s the matter? Why are you so angry?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you,” he said, trying to relax in the saddle. “Its the Colbert brothers. George Colbert has the only way to get across the Tennessee River. He has a fancy inn at high prices right there at the ferry. Levy Colbert is building the Buzzard’s Roost, the only other place to stay for miles. Grampa says the two brothers are always taking advantage of the poor travelers. They may be important chiefs in the Chickasaw nation, but they’re typical half-breeds.”

Hannah stiffened and pulled her arm back from around his waist. She held onto the saddle behind her instead. They rode silently for a while. Finally Hannah spoke up, “Zeb, if white men had been running that ferry and those inns, what would you have called them, ‘good businessmen’?”

Zeb felt his face turning hot. He hadn’t thought of her as a half-breed, but that’s what she was. The trouble was, to Zeb and everyone he knew, half-breed didn’t just mean someone who was half Indian and half white. A half-breed, they thought, was someone who was untrustworthy, cowardly, greedy, and sneaky. The feeling was that neither the whites nor the Indians could trust them. Hannah didn’t fit that image at all.

Zeb sighed. “I’m sorry, Hannah,” he said. “That word just slipped out.”

Hannah didn’t respond.

They rode in silence for the rest of the day. It made the ride seem much longer than usual. That night, while camping next to a stream, Zeb started several times to say something to Hannah, but she just turned away and busied herself.

They sat quietly and ate the last of their provisions. Hannah picked up the pot and the two tin plates, squatting down by the stream to wash them. They usually did that chore together. Zeb knelt next to her and picked up one of the plates, but she snatched it out of his hand and then turned her back on him.

Zeb moved over to the canvas. He felt he had to do something to break the silence. “I bought some dry gunpowder at the Colbert Ferry,” he said as if there were no tension between them. “I’ll reload the rifle and then I’m going to try to load these pistols. I’ve never done that before. Don’t know how much powder to use.”

Hannah kept her back to him.

Zeb finished loading the rifle. When he tried to load one of the pistols, he discovered he had no patch. He wondered if he needed a patch with the pistol. He cut a small square from his shirttail with his knife. Then he poured the powder into the pistol, placed the patch on top of the muzzle, and pushed the ball against the powder with the ram.

Hannah had turned and was watching him.

“Listen, Hannah,” he said in a low voice.

She looked away.

Hannah had little reason to trust anyone, but Zeb knew that she had trusted him. He ached, thinking of the pain she must have felt when he made that stupid remark about half-breeds.

He moved quietly to where Hannah was washing the pots. Her body was rigid, waiting. He squatted next to her, letting the water run through his fingers.

“Look, Hannah,” he said. “You’re right to be angry. I’m sorry I used that word. I don’t think any less of you because you’re part white and part Choctaw. I’d be happy to have you as my little sister. That’s the way I’ve kinda thought of us as we’ve traveled together.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I’d be proud to be a Choctaw. Grampa has more respect for the Choctaw as horsemen and as men of their word than he does for most of the whites we have to deal with.”

Hannah looked up at him. “Did you ever call anyone else a half-breed?” she asked in a sad voice.

Zeb hung his head. “No, I never did. It’s just the way people talk.”

She looked away. “I thought you were different,” she whispered.