Page 4 of The Widow and the Wanted

Bobby starts up the jaw harp again—a twanging, buzzing saw of a sound. I close my journal, careful not to smudge the day’s last note.

Where am I to go once this adventure ends? I have considered taking passage on a steamboat and choosing some landing on the Mississippi. Stepping off wherever the gangplank falls. Another part of me considers Mother’s letter, if only for a spell. Whatever I do, I must decide soon.

Chapter 3

Boone

“Boss says no tribal men on company payroll.”

“Let him stand here and tell me that hisself,” I spit, tightening my fists as one of Hollister’s men stares over my shoulder at Okee. Can’t see without eyes in the back of my head, but I’d wager Okee don’t give this bastard the satisfaction of a flinch. Just that cold, unyielding look, hard as stone. Man could win a staring contest with a corpse.

“He’s a veteran,” I say. “Spilled blood for this land.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

We’d made it back west to Fort Gibson where a wagon with “Hollister & Co. Timber” painted on the side sits at the riverbank landing on the Verdigris under a large cottonwood tree. Beside it, a canvas tent with a crude wooden table is crowded with men—thirty or so—with a guard barking names for various jobs.

We’re here for a job they ain’t shouting about.

One whispered under a cryptic name: God’s Land. But the cute name don’t really mean squat. Even if Hollister wants his men to believe it does, there’s nothing holy about it. Spent enough years fighting wars to know high-up men put sweet names to ugly things to make you feel better about doing them.

The white canvas glows with the gold light of dusk. On the ground rests a pile of clean axes and saws. So-called lumber jobs, but ain’t a man here in sight with a tool on him beside a pistol or a blade.

“Let me talk to Hollister, then.”

“Hollister don’t meet with pissants.”

I don’t give a shit if Hollister owns the whole damn camp—that gets the heel of my hand settling on my iron, teeth clenched as the sting crawls up my throat. I know there ain’t a damn thing fair in this world, and I can put up with my share of bullshit, but hell if my blood don’t boil when someone treats Okee like that.

He looks away and waves the next man forward like I ain’t worth the trouble. Last thing I want is to spend February burning fence posts for heat and chewing leather.

The flyer promised cash: half up-front, half after.

I try again. “Come on. General Grant ain’t hauled us through four years of hell so some clerk with a borrowed rifle could tell me who counts as American.”

The guard squints past me at Okee, sizing him up.

“Hell,” he mutters. “Don’t even know if he understands English. Is he stupid or mute?”

Before I can blink, Okee replies, voice flat and half bored.

“I understand fine. English, Creek, a little French besides. Trouble is, you haven’t said anything worth the breath to answer. I’m not in the habit of entertaining fools.”

The man straightens up, a flash of something wild and touched in his eyes. “Say that again, boy?”

Okee don’t flinch. Just says, “Looks like you’re the one with understanding troubles.”

I love seeing Okee bite back, and I can’t stifle my laugh before I add, “Dumb son of a bitch couldn’t pour piss out a boot if the instructions were nailed to the heel,” I say.

That earns a rare grin from Okee—full-teeth, bright as summer sun—and damn if that don’t drag a smile outta me too. Gets Hollister’s own men chuckling. Heads turn down the line.

Then I see the foreman stand.

Shit.

The line parts, men clearing space as he cuts a path straight for us.

“Problem here, boys?” he asks.