Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Effie’s boots sounded like a staccato over the sidewalk’s puncheon logs. Things weighed heavily on her mind. Even the events of the previous evening—frightening though they might have been—were fading in significance against this newest problem: Where was she going to find a guide?
She supposed the first thing to do was to find the rest of her crew.
Lesley and her husband, Henry, had left on errands with the student and his wife, Carl and Madeline Bell.
The reasoning, which had been sound at the time, was that they could all accomplish more if they each one worked at different tasks.
That was before Effie had talked with the sheriff.
Now, her viewpoint had changed, and she realized they needed to band together to resolve this problem.
Of course, their finances would be stretched because they wouldn’t complete as many tasks if they were all concentrating on only one assignment.
However, there was nothing for it, since there would be little point in any expedition at all were there no guide.
She had sent Henry and Lesley to the hardware store to purchase the shovels, axes and trowels required for the dig. Madeline and Carl had gone off to the livery, to buy or hire the wagons needed for the journey.
She would try the livery stable first, and since the hardware store was in the same direction, perhaps she could accomplish two things at once. Changing direction, she set off at a steady pace.
Involuntarily, a thought came to mind. Jinxed.
Drat! Who had started the rumor? And how did she go about changing it?
It simply wasn’t true—why, she and her students had hardly begun this expedition. How could it be jinxed so soon? Outside of this problem of finding a guide and the robbery attempt the night before, there had been no trouble, no bad luck. Nothing.
She climbed down a set of four steps in preparation to cross an alley between buildings.
That was when she saw him.
Standing across the main thoroughfare, he stood watching her.
He was wrapped in a blanket, making it difficult for Effie to discern much about him, except that he was, indeed, American Indian.
The blanket he wore was a colorful one. Made in geometric hues of reds and oranges, browns and pinks, it covered him completely, except for his moccasins and the bottom of his leggings.
His hair was parted down the middle and held at each side of his face with braids.
Two eagle feathers, which must have been affixed at the back of his head, had been pushed forward and were twirling in the wind.
However, the style of his hair was different than what she would have expected.
Instead of his mane being simply parted in the middle in front, as she had always supposed was the more common Plains Indian fashion, a forelock of his hair had been brushed up high over the forehead, pompadour style.
Also, she could discern a white, looping necklace, which fell down over his chest. Or at least she thought it did. His blanket hid the bottom half of the jewelry.
Around his neck was a white and blue choker, and hanging from his ears were white shells on a string. They were similar to the ones suspended from a gold chain around her neck.
The man wore no war paint that she could discern. And he stared at her. Indeed, he seemed to frown at her.
She caught her breath. Unquestionably, he was magnificent.
She should glance away. But she didn’t.
In truth, she couldn’t quite explain what drew her toward the man, or the fact that she discovered she was crossing the road without having willed herself to do so. It was as though her feet knew the way toward him, and she was simply traveling along for the ride.
As she drew level with him, she smiled. After all, it seemed the polite thing to do.
He did not return the gesture. Instead his eyes flashed at her dangerously.
She ignored his look, and, coming to stand in front of him, she was not hesitant to speak to him, saying, “I am seeking a guide to take me into the Gates of the Rocky Mountains country,” before she could stop herself. Perhaps that was what had drawn her to him. Need.
He didn’t answer, and she fretted. Had she forgotten her manners? Or maybe he didn’t speak her language. She bit down on her tongue, then began again, “I’m sorry, sir, but do you speak English?”
He didn’t say a word, though he did narrow his eyes at her.
Perhaps his silence should have made her uncomfortable, but it didn’t.
Curiously, she discovered she was at ease with him, and she continued to speak to him.
“Excuse me, let me begin at the beginning. I don’t mean to accost you like this, but I am desperate to find a guide for my archaeological expedition. ”
She shot a smile at him again, but he might as well have been a boulder for all the good it did her. “Let me introduce myself,” she said. “My name is Effie Wendelyn Rutledge, and I…”
Something in the man’s demeanor changed. It wasn’t so much a look as an impression that some emotion within him shifted. For an instant, he appeared unsteady on his feet before he uttered, “Ehh-fee?”
“Yes,” she confirmed, with a slight bob of her head. “That is what people call me. You speak English, then?”
He nodded and drew his arms out of the blanket, as though he needed his hands to speak the words.
He stepped forward, but something went wrong with the simple movement.
One moment he was on his feet, as solid as a stone, the next he was falling backward, although he salvaged the move and caught himself before he crumpled completely. However, his pipe fell to the ground.
She glanced at him strangely. Had he tripped over his own blanket?
“Why don’t we take our conversation to the sidewalk in front of that store.
” She pointed toward the establishment. “We will be out of the way of the wagons and buggies there.” She graced him with what she hoped was a cheery grin.
“If you would be so kind, I would like to speak to you, that is, if you have the time.”
Again, he nodded, started to move his hands with the sign gestures that Indians frequently used, changed his mind and instead, he stooped to pick up his pipe.
But he must have been thrown off balance, for once again something happened, and instead of grasping hold of the pipe, he lunged for it, missed it and plummeted forward.
Effie stared at him, aghast. Weren’t Indians noted for their unwavering composure?
Deciding to overlook the entire incident, she turned her back on him and walked to the sidewalk made of puncheon logs.
Two steps led up to the walkway, and on them were baskets with flowers set in them.
Meant as decoration, they looked pretty, but completely out of place in this rough frontier town.
Nevertheless, Effie admired them as she climbed the steps. Turning back to the man, she gestured toward an empty space beside her. “Won’t you join me?”
With the pipe held firmly in hand, the man paced toward the stairs and stepped one foot up, but the end of his pipe hit the hitching post. It caught on something, a nail perhaps.
He tried to extract it from the wood. He pulled on it, but it held fast, and instead of it coming away from the post, the force of his exertion caused him to fall forward against the steps, knocking the baskets off.
He tried to right the baskets, but each time he attempted it, he must not have been looking very clearly at what he was doing, for he set the baskets half on, half off the steps. They, too, fell.
He tried again, replacing the baskets. Same results.
Sheepishly, he gazed up at her. He grimaced and tried to set the flower baskets back into place once more. But it was useless, and when they fell over again, he ignored them, as though he had accomplished the feat perfectly.
He came to stand beside her.
Effie chose not to comment on his clumsiness.
“You say you understand English? How?”
Pretending that nothing had happened, he said, “I scouted for a black robe who was traveling through this country in his search for the Flathead tribe. It was through him that I learned the language.”
“I see. No wonder your pronunciation of the language is excellent. You were taught by a monk.”
He treated her to a rakish grin, and for a moment Effie forgot to breathe.
Collecting herself, she continued, “Do you know the way to the Gates of the Rocky Mountains?”
“Aa,” he said, as he stood over her, yet next to her. “I do. I am from that country.”
“Are you? What tribe are you?”
“I am from the Southern Pikunis,” he replied proudly.
“Oh. I was hoping you might be from the Blackfeet tribe, since the Gates of the Mountains are in their territory.”
“Southern Pikunis are part of the Blackfoot Confederation.” He stood stiffly, as though afraid to make a move, any move, lest something else tumble down around him.
“There are three tribes that make up the Blackfoot Confederation, and they are the Blackfoot, the Bloods and the Northern and Southern Piegan or what we refer to as the Pikunis.”
“Oh, this is good. If I were to hire you for a job, would you be able to start in a few days?”
“Aa,” he said, and again he nodded.
“Aa? Does that mean yes?”
“Aa.”
She frowned. “Hmmm. I suppose that it does.”
He didn’t answer, merely continued to stand rigidly, uncomfortably.
“I would like to meet with you tomorrow. Where would be a convenient place and time for us to talk? If I am to hire you, I would need to tell you the reason I am here, the project that needs doing and the journey ahead.”
He nodded. “You come here to town, I will find you.”
“No matter where I am?”
“I will find you.”
She grinned at him. “Thank you, Mister…ah…Mister…”
After a time, he said, as though educating her, “An Indian never speaks his own name unless he has to. It is impolite to do so.”
“Oh.”
“But you could call me Red Hawk.”
“Ah, thank you, Mr. Hawk. Well, that explains a thing or two.” She didn’t elaborate as to what that thing or two was. “Till tomorrow then.”