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Chapter 1
No soul can ever clearly see
Another’s highest, noblest part,
Save through the sweet philosophy,
And loving wisdom of the heart.
—PHOEBE CARY
The Pacific Northwest
September, 1875
A fireplace dug out in the middle of the planked floor of the longhouse reflected the wavering light of its fire onto cedar walls hung with mats and various cooking and hunting paraphernalia, and onto sleeping platforms spread with several layers of bark, and soft, furry pelts. Overhead, berries and fish hung to dry from the crossbeams under the rafters. The smoke from the lodge fire was spiraling slowly toward the open cedar boards overhead, its gray wisps escaping upward, into the morning sky.
Chief Moon Elk rearranged his robe of black sea otter fur more comfortably around his lean shoulders, and pulled up his legs and squatted close to the fire. His steel-gray eyes were not large, but were bright and steady in their gaze, the skin of his copper face was fine in texture, although age and weather had wrinkled it.
“Remember always to walk softly, my son,” Chief Moon Elk said as he peered at Strong Heart, who sat beside him feasting on a bowl of soup made from clams and wild vegetables. “While you are helping Four Winds escape from the white man’s prison in Seattle, you must not shed blood. No good ever comes of killing whites. Our Suquamish people always suffer in the end.”
Strong Heart paused momentarily from eating. “This I know,” he said, nodding his head with grave dignity. “And no blood will be shed. I would do nothing to lead trouble to our village. By choice, our clan of Suquamish have kept ourselves from those who were tricked by the white man’s treaties and promises. Because of this, ours has been a peaceful existence. So shall it continue to be, Father.”
Chief Moon Elk’s gaze moved slowly over Strong Heart, admiring his muscular son attired in fringed buckskin. “Your plan is to dress as a white man during the escape, and you will ride your horse instead of traveling by canoe to Seattle?” he asked, wiping his mouth with a cedar-bark napkin, his own stomach warmed comfortably with soup.
“Ah-hah, yes, that is my plan,” Strong Heart said, leaning closer to the fire to ladle more clam soup into his elaborately carved wooden bowl. The ladle was decorated with the crest of his family: the red-tailed hawk.
Strong Heart began eating the soup again, needing his fill now, for he was not planning to stop for anything until he reached the outskirts of Seattle. His plans for Four Winds were several sunrises away. He had other chores to do before freeing his friend from the cruel clutches of the law.
Moon Elk studied his son for a moment without offering a response to what Strong Heart had said. It was like seeing himself in the mirror of the clear rivers and streams those many years ago when he could boast of being his son’s age of twenty-nine winters. Moon Elk had begun to shrink with age, so he was no longer as tall as his son. Strong Heart was more than six feet in height, a giant among his Suquamish people, and most whites.
And not only was his son tall, he was powerfully built, broad shouldered, thin flanked, and lithe. His light copper-colored skin was smooth, with muscles that rippled beneath the flesh. He wore his dark brown hair long and loose, past his shoulders, and his gray eyes held strength and intelligence in their depths.
Ah-hah, Moon Elk thought proudly, there was a steel-like quality about his son.
His son was a man of daring and courage.
“My son, not only will the color of your skin give away your true identity, but also your dignified gracefulness. You are a noble man who towers over the white man,” Moon Elk said. “This can perhaps betray your plans, my son. No white man walks with the dignity of my son, nor carries within their hearts such compassion.”
Moon Elk leaned closer to Strong Heart and peered into his eyes. “My son, is Four Winds worth risking your life for? The world would be void of a much greater man should you die.”
Strong Heart was unmoved by his father’s steady stare, or his words. “Even now I am sure the white people are building a hanging platform for my friend, Four Winds,” he said flatly. “My friend will not die with a noose around his neck. Do you not recall his dignity, Father? Being caged and awaiting his death, his dignity has been taken from him. And I see his life as no less valuable than mine. I will set him free, Father. And do not fear for my safety. I have faced worse odds in my lifetime than a cultus, worthless sheriff, who is blinded by the power he feels by caging men the same as some might cage a bird for entertainment’s sake. It is he who should be caged, and put on display in a white man’s circus!”
“Such a bitterness I hear in your voice,” Moon Elk said, shaking his head sadly. “Now, when the autumn salmon harvest is near, and when your heart should be happy and your very soul should be filled with song, you are filled with bitterness over another man’s misfortunes. That is me-sah-chie, bad, my son! Me-sah-chie! ”
“Ah-hah, it is regrettable, yet is it not as regrettable that Four Winds was arrested unjustly?” Strong Heart said, setting his empty bowl aside. “You, as well as I, know his innocence. Although we have lost touch these past moons after his Suquamish clan moved north to Canada’s shores, I know that his heart remains the same toward life. He could never ride with outlaws, killing and stealing! Never!”
“Who can say what drives a man, even to insanity?” Moon Elk rumbled. “The same could apply to a man who takes up the ways of a criminal. Is it not the same? Men are driven by many things to become who they are. As I recall him, Four Winds seemed a driven young man. You did not also see this, my son?”
Strong Heart arched an eyebrow and fell deep into thought as he peered into the flames of the fire. He was remembering many things about his friend Four Winds from when they were youths together. Some good. Some me-sah-chie, bad.
Strong Heart had overlooked the bad, for Four Winds’s goodness had always outweighed his shortcomings.
