Tom. He’d hoped the Shawnee would be sympathetic to the no-
tion of a dream quest. Considered to be messages from the Great
Spirit, dreams were never taken lightly among the Ojibwe, and
extraordinary efforts were regularly expended to make sense of
one’s dream visions.
“In the awake world,” Tom began, his eyes locked with Mag-
gie’s, “I knew a woman. She was a very good woman, but I
treated her badly.” And though he knew she could not fathom a
word he said, Maggie seemed to understand nonetheless. She
drew a shuddered breath and her bottom lip caught on her teeth.
“The hunt called to me, and I left this good woman behind with
angry words.”
“The hunt . . .” Men nodded in understanding. “Left her
behind . . .” Women shook their heads in disgust.
Skootekitehi shot a glance over his shoulder at the old woman
who had taken the tobacco and suggested, “Life with a woman
can be trying.”
“Yes, Grandfather, but equally, life without a woman can be
more so. The woman I ill-used now haunts my dreams. Plagued
374 Christine
Blevins
by these visions, I find no rest. I have no appetite for good meat
and sugar. No desire for the hunt . . .”
“Coo-wigh!”
A sharp scream interrupted Tom’s speech.
Grunted complaints resounded through the crowd as Simon
muscled his way to the front lines, pushing and shoving to take a
stance at Maggie’s side. Tom duly noted the war club gripped in
Simon’s ready fi st.
“Coo-wigh-wigh-wigh!”
Simon screamed again, his sinister
face painted red across the eyes like the mask on a raccoon. Mag-
gie drew her blanket tight, shuffled sideways, and linked arms
with the medicine woman holding the fawn on its lead.
Clearly annoyed by Simon’s rude interruption, Skootekitehi
flicked his fingers. “Go on, Ghizhibatoo . . .”
Tom continued: “I woke with the moon high in the sky and
spied the white fawn shining beneath a laurel tree. I rubbed my
eyes, thinking myself still in the dreamworld. But I was awake,
and when the white fawn ran away, I was compelled to follow its
tracks.”
A murmur of agreement whiffl ed around the clearing.
“Of course.”
“Anyone would do the same.”
“Grandfathers and grandmothers! Brothers and sisters!” Tom
threw out his arms. “The white fawn led me here—to your vil-
lage.”
“O-ho!”
“The Long Knife lies!” Simon stepped forward, brandishing his
club. “His white-man tongue spreads lies like wind spreads fi re.”
Tom did not waver. He stood his ground and held his hands
out, palms up. “You can see I have come in peace, brother, un-
armed—”
“Brother!
Pah!
” Simon spat into the dirt.
“Control yourself, Penagashea,” Skootekitehi warned. “Ghi-
zhibatoo has the protection of the elders, and we would hear him
speak . . .”
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
375
Simon sputtered, “But he lies, Grandfather . . .”
The medicine woman grasped Simon by the arm, scolding,
“Show respect, little brother.”
“Leave me be, Noolektokie.” Simon shrugged free of her grip.
“I say he lies!”
Tom played to the audience, his arms outstretched. “The white
fawn did not lie to me, for I see my dream-vision woman stand-
ing among the Shawano—there!” He pointed to Maggie, whose
eyes grew wide in their dark circles.
“No!” Simon snarled. “Ghizhibatoo lies!”
“The white fawn does not lie,” someone shouted from the
crowd.
Simon protested. “No! Mag-kie is my woman. I saved her!”
“Penagashea
.
.
.” Noolektokie tried to reason with her
brother. “The white fawn showed him the way . . .”
“Listen to what the fawn tells us!” a woman called out.
“Wise ones!” Tom shouted above the uproar. “Let me have my
dream-vision woman!”
“
No!
Mag-kie belongs to
me
!” Simon grabbed Maggie by the
arm.
Maggie jerked away, stumbling backward.
With one hand, Noolektokie hung tight to the skittish fawn’s
lead; she laid the other on Simon’s shoulder. “Little brother, Ghi-
zhibatoo was brought here by the white fawn.”
With a growl, Simon tossed his war club away and shoved his
sister aside. Maggie moved back, pressing into the burgeoning
crowd. Tom rushed forward.
Catching the sun for an instant, bright steel fl ashed from Si-
mon’s sheath—and in the same instant, Simon drew his sharp
blade across the fawn’s white, white throat.
In the silence of stunned dismay, Tom grappled with Simon,
wrested the knife from his fist, and fl ung it aside. Others stepped
up to separate the pair. Struggling, Simon was restrained in a
grip between two big warriors.
376 Christine
Blevins
The fawn staggered a few steps, then collapsed into a broken
pile. Noolektokie dropped to her knees beside it, tears streaming
down her face as she stroked the baby’s brow. Blood pulsed from
the gaping wound, pooling into a scarlet mirror around its head.
Pink eyes fl uttered to close.
Many amid the uneasy crowd clutched amulets for protection
against the bad medicine of seeing such a thing. The elders gath-
ered to stand over the dead fawn. Skootekitehi shook his head.
He turned his back on Simon and faced Tom.
“Ghizhibatoo of the Anishnaabe—you have honored us and
behaved as a true human being. Take your dream-woman, and
may the Great Spirit direct your way.”
Simon heaved himself forward like a spitting snake. His guards
held firm. He calmed, and a malevolent smile crossed his face. In
English he shouted, “The day will come soon when I fi nd you in
my sights, Tom Roberts!”
Tom turned and, in English, calmly replied, “And I’ll be wait-
ing for you. Grease it, paint it—no matter—that white skin of
yours makes a good mark to shoot at.”
“Let’s go”—Maggie’s fingers wrapped his wrist—“afore the
heathens change their minds.”
Tom caught Skootekitehi’s eye and called out, “Thank you,
Grandfather!”
The old chief drew himself tall and swept one arm up to the
sky, shooing them on their way. The crowd parted like prairie
grass in a high wind. Tom clasped Maggie’s hand in his, and to-
gether, they ran for the woods.
25
The Warrior’s Path
Tom held tight to Maggie’s hand as they ran into the forest. They
fl ew past the pawpaw trees, past the stand of black cohosh fl ow-
ers, darting between elm, oak, and maple, running deep into the
dense woods until even the faint deer track they followed disap-
peared. And just when Maggie’s legs began to falter and she
thought her burning lungs would burst, Tom careened to a halt
at the base of a huge, ancient chestnut.
Panting, he fell to his knees at the north side of a tree so large
it would take four men with arms outstretched to circle its girth.
He pawed through the pile of chestnut leaves and revealed a
makeshift stone wall blocking the vertical hollow formed where
a thick root curved up to meet the trunk. Tom tossed the rocks
aside, reached inside, and pulled out his cached gear—a worn
pair of moccasins, a bundle of clothes, rifle, knife, tomahawk,
and a rectangular rawhide parfl eche.
Maggie leaned forward, gulping air, her hands on her knees,
black braids swinging like twin pendulums. “Och, Tommy . . .”
she gasped, “but aren’t ye a sight for sore eyes!” She laughed in
relief. “A madman ye are—steppin’ willing into that nest o’
vipers—a madman!”
378 Christine
Blevins
“I do have a knowance of Indian ways.” Tom chuckled; hop-
ping on one foot, then the other, he tugged on his doeskin leg-
gings. “Worded in the proper fashion, accompanied by the proper
gifts . . . ’twere no great peril.” He led the legging strings along
his hip and tied them to the belt of his breechclout.
“No, Tom. There
is
peril in that village,” Maggie insisted, her
voice suddenly tense, her shoulders stiff. “They killed a man last
night. Tortured him.” She sank back to lean against the tree with
her hands to her ears. “And then, when I saw ye standin’ there
beside his scorched bones . . .” She shuddered. “I’ve no th’ words
to thank ye for comin’ for me.”
Tom rolled onto his seat and tugged on his moccasins. Spring-
ing up, he unfurled his faded blue hunting shirt with a snap,
pushed his arms into the sleeves. He checked the back trail over
his shoulder. “It doesn’t seem like anyone’s after us, but we ought
to get a move on nonetheless.”
Maggie nodded, sponging sweat from her face with the hem of
her loose calico blouse. “Keep movin’, aye—that Simon—he’ll be
after us for certain, na?”
“I looked the man square in the eye, Maggie, and there’s
somethin’ dead up that stream.” Tom dove inside his shirt and
popped his head through the neck hole. “I plan to lay many a
mile betwixt him and us . . .” He buckled a wide leather belt over
his shirt and shoved the handle of his tomahawk into it, seating
it firm. “I’m tellin’ true when I say I don’t intend to lose you
again.”
“Lose me!” Maggie drew a stuttered breath, pressed back
against the chestnut, bitter wariness furrowing her brow. “I was
never lost to you, Tom.”
Tom abruptly ceased his practical scrambling and pure re-
morse fi lled his blue eyes. “I was a fool to have left you behind.”
He stepped forward and took Maggie by the hand. “Believe me,
I’ve been plain
miserable—wanderin’ lost since the day we
parted.” He pulled her close and buried his face in the slope
Midwife of the Blue Ridge
379
where her shoulder met her neck, whispering rough into her ear,
“But now, Maggie—now with thee in my arms—I am found.”
Maggie twined her arms tight about his waist and breathed
deep. The smell of him—a fusion of sweat, gunpowder, leather,
and crushed leaves—soothed the raw patches scraped onto her
soul. She pressed palms to Tom’s broad shoulders, calmed by the
subtle motion of muscles moving over his bones. “Aye . . . so
we’re both found.”
In an awkward, halting movement, they met in a soft kiss.
Maggie dipped her head, placed an ear to his chest, and smiled at
the sound of his heart thrum-thrumming in unison with her own.
The treetops churned on a breeze and a scatter of yellow leaves
trickled down around them. Ripe chestnut burs loosened and
bounced rattling through the branches, thudding into the soft
forest fl oor. One thunked off the top of Tom’s head.
“Ouch!” Tom pulled away, rubbing his noggin. He picked up
the bristly bur and laughed. “I guess Grandfather Chestnut’s urgin’
us t’ get a move on.” Tom scrambled to shoulder his shot pouch
and powder horn. He pulled the plug on his horn to check the con-
dition of his powder. “Ah-yep, as dry as a nun’s—” Tom caught
Maggie’s eye and grinned without finishing the sentiment. “C’mon,
then . . . you carry this.” He handed the parfleche to Maggie.
She flipped open the flap on the stiff leather case. About two
dozen strips of venison jerky kept company with a handful of
dried apple slices and a small sack of parched corn. Maggie
slipped the braided jute strap over her head to lie diagonal across
her chest, positioning the parfleche to rest on her hip. “So
where’re we headin’?”
“I’ve a raft in the weeds a few miles downriver. We’ll pole
down the Scioto and cross the Ohio.
We’re afoot from then
on—following the Warrior’s Path to the Gap.” Tom dug through
his pouch and found his red garters. “I’m not goin’ t’ scrub
around it, Maggie. I am no faint heart, but I do not relish travel-
in’ with my back to Peavey’s rifle. So it’s goin’ to be a hard go
380 Christine
Blevins
from before daybreak to past nightfall.” Tom pointed to her feet.
“Best tighten the wangs on your footwear.”
Maggie nodded and dropped down to secure the laces of her
moccasins with a double knot. Tom knelt on one knee beside her,
tying fi nger-woven garters below each of his knees. He stood and
slipped the blade end of his hunting knife into the garter on his
right leg.
“If we’re clever and careful, Simon won’t be able to fi nd us.
Once we cross the mountains, he won’t know where t’ fi nd us.”
Tom took up his rifle. He flipped open the frizzen and blew the
prime from the pan. “We’ll be cold-campin’—no fire, no hunt-
ing.” He tapped fresh black powder granules into the pan, fl ipped
it shut, and nodded to the parfleche she carried. “What you carry
there and what we can forage along the way is all the provision
we have.” He slipped the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and
set his wide- brimmed hat on his head.
“I’ll take a few o’ these chestnuts.” Maggie gathered up the
half-dozen burs lying in the leaves around her, stuffing them into
her pockets. “They’re best roasted, but not so bad raw. Pawpaws
are ripe as well. We’ll do all right.”