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“Why would you do that? Don’t you want to be married? Even the Creek women look at you with suspicion—and you’re part Creek.”
“They look at me? I haven’t noticed. From what I’ve seen, they’re avoiding me.”
“You aren’t one of us. Not yet. Give them time. A wife will help, even if she is white.”
Josiah gave his friend a doubtful glance. “You believe this?”
“No. I was trying to make you feel better. Did it work?”
Josiah groaned. “Just for that, you’re going to give me two of your fish…after you’ve cooked them. I can’t believe I call you my friend.”
Harjo smiled. “You call me friend because I’m the only one who talks to you.”
Josiah leaned his head against the tree and relaxed, one side of his mouth rising in an answering grin. In truth, he was happy. He had to believe things would work out. Whether or not it was as he wanted was another thing altogether.
Chapter 2
Using the crook of his elbow, Josiah wiped the sweat from his forehead and squinted up at the blistering sun as he took a much-needed rest from the backbreaking work of tilling the dust bowl that was supposed to be his small garden.
He hadn’t been in Eufaula long and had only just received his great-aunt’s acceptance into the clan when she died, leaving him the family homestead and this small plat of barren ground. Amid very loud grumbles from the other local families, he gave up the central garden plot shared with the entire clan, but he hadn’t been concerned then. He was a mite more worried now. The longer the weeks passed without rain, the less chance he had of canning freshly grown vegetables to make it through the winter. He didn’t need that much food with it being just himself. He could make do with the meat he hunted and cured as well as any fish he caught from the river, but it would be nice to have canned food to go with it.
He slapped at a mosquito on his arm then waved away a couple of annoying gnats flying in front of his face, wishing for, at least, a small breeze. The air was stagnant and heavy, which didn’t bode well with the heat. Striking at the furrow with his hoe, a cloud of dust rose as he inched his way along, finally reaching the end. Turning, he made his way back again, row after row, readying the ground for the seeds his great-aunt had given him. He didn’t relish the back-breaking work it would take hauling buckets of water from the river each day so the plants would grow, especially if the rain never appeared.
“You know, the townspeople make fun of you for doing woman’s work. You need a wife.”
Harjo’s gravelly voice startled him, and before he realized it, his hand dropped to the gun hanging low on his hip. He let the air hiss through his clenched teeth as he met his friend’s wary gaze. “Just because I’m a preacher doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use a gun, Harjo. Nor does it mean I’m a slow draw. I know how to handle myself. Sneaking up on a man isn’t a smart thing to do.”
Harjo’s eyes narrowed. He continued to stare thoughtfully at Josiah, who fidgeted as the silence grew. “I stopped by to ask if you have seen two white men and one black man travel through here in the last day or so. They may have had a boy with them, around fourteen years or so.”
Josiah thought a moment and stared into the trees, surprised when the face of a young girl stared back. From what he could tell she looked to be about nine or ten, and seemed to be pretty, at least from what he could see of her face that wasn’t layered in dirt.
He tilted his head, glanced up at Harjo. “Can’t say that I have. I’ve worked mornings back here in the garden then met you at the river in the afternoons, so I wouldn’t have seen them.” Josiah leaned against his hoe, resting his forearm on top of the wooden handle. “What did they do?”
Harjo, like him, leaned forward in the saddle and rested his forearm on the horn of his saddle. “The two white men robbed the general store in Muskogee and shot the clerk. The clerk recognized the leader as Dan Redmon—known as Big Red because of his wild red hair. Had a black man with them by the name of Samuel. Could be he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And the boy?”
“The boy’s no good.”
Josiah’s mouth dropped. “What did you just say?”
Harjo shook his head. “I know what you are thinking, my friend, and you are wrong. Some people, even the young, are born wrong. This boy is one of those. Johnny tormented his mother and grandmother until his father ran him off. He was only eight years old at the time and had taken an axe after his grandfather. Thankfully, his father returned home from the hunt in time to pull him off. If he hadn’t, the old man would have lost his arm. The boy is not right in his head, Josiah. He does evil things and has evil thoughts.”
“But he is only a child. Impressionable. Even a child can be taught right from wrong.”
Harjo straightened in the saddle. “Not everyone, my friend. Not everyone.” He reached inside his vest and pulled out what looked like a folded piece of paper. He held it out to Josiah. “Olly over at the post office asked me to deliver this to you. Said it came in on yesterday’s train.”
Josiah took the envelope and noticed the neat script of a woman’s handwriting across the top, each letter perfectly spaced and even. He paused, worried. What kind of woman wrote with such controlled precision? Was this his future bride? The image of a severe-looking woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, no smile, and dressed all in black filled his mind. Despite the heat of the day, he shivered. Maybe sending off for a mail-order bride had been a bad idea…
With a slight flick of the reins, Harjo’s paint stepped sideways then moved toward the road where the other lighthorsemen waited. “You would be wise to keep your distance from the men if you see them, Josiah, and the boy, too. You cannot save everyone,” his friend said over his shoulder.
Josiah watched the group of men ride away, the dust cloud billowing up into the air then floating over the trees across the road as the breeze carried it away. Thinking a child of only fourteen years was evil went against everything he’d been taught as a preacher, but he was also Indian and had seen many things in his short life that white society would never understand.
He swatted at an annoying fly buzzing around his head and moved to the front porch. He sat on the dusty boards, ignoring their loud creaks and squeaks from missing nails and the warped planks. Reaching down, he pulled out his grandfather’s old knife from the special pocket he’d sewn into the inside of his boot. He picked up the thick, tuberous root he’d found earlier that morning and made the first slice with the sharpened blade. He focused on one side of the root, scooping out a section then notching another.
As he shaped the wood, he listened. He caught the girl’s movement as she changed positions, the slight shaking of the leaves on a branch or her heel as she crawled under a bush. At times, from different direction, he felt as if someone else watched him, so maybe there were more children in the woods, than just the girl. He continued to shave the outer layer, etching and digging away certain areas until he was satisfied with the way it looked.
“You can come out now,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The men are long gone, and it’s only me here.” Several minutes passed then he heard a rustling of leaves and a sharp command hissed in Creek. Another minute went by before two children stepped from the tree line. It was the girl from before and a younger boy. They were both filthy and bone-thin, as if they had missed a lot of meals. Where had they come from and, more importantly, why were they there?
