Markwildyr.com,Post #252

 

Image Courtesyof Craiyon:

 

Well, the tale of Shamus LazrusShuttleford is behind us now. Hope you enjoyed it… and it kicked off somememories of days gone by.

Today, we start the story of twoyoung me, one in an environment totally foreign to him. I’ve elected to call itRed and White. Here goes.

 

* * * *

REDAND WHITE

Pa shaded his eyes as he watched horses approaching acrossthe meadow that ran down to the creek.

“Red Injuns,” he said.

His words sent Ma into a panic, Sissy running for her momma’sskirts, and a bolt of something right through me. Fear, probably.

“No call to worry,” my father added. “Looks like WalkingDog’s bringing his brood to say howdy.”

Walking Dog, I knew from Pa’s telling, was a Sioux Pa’d metwhen he first came to the Dakota Territory to set up our new homestead nearly atwelve-month ago. Ma, my sister, and I’d only arrived a few weeks back. Aboutthe last words anybody said to us before we left St. Louis was to “watch outfor Red Indians.”

I wasn’t clear on how they’d met, but apparently theIndian had been a big help to Pa in getting acclimated to the area. If Iunderstood it right, Walking Dog’s wife had made the buckskin window coveringsfor the house.

“What do I do?” Ma asked, her hands fiddling with herapron like she did when she was nervous.

“What you always do when company comes calling. Coffee hot?”

“Fresh brewed. But what do I say to them?”

“Not much. Walking Dog speaks a little American, but don’tknow about the rest of them.”

We watched silently as the four horses drew near. WalkingDog—leastways, I figured it was the warrior—was a swamping man. Big. Big in theshoulders and chest, but lean elsewhere. Dunno where the idea came from, but “wouldn’twanna get in a mix-up with him,” was what raced through my head. What held thetwo eagle feathers in place at the back of his head without a headband, was mysecond. He lifted his right arm and held it aloft, palm to us.

“Showing us he’s got no weapon in his hand. Their way ofa friendly howdy,” Pa said before lifting his own hand. Of course, his Henryrifle leaned against the cabin wall right behind him in case of need. On theother hand, Walking Dog’s bow and quiver of arrows was at hand, as well.

A woman, a youth, and a girl drew up in front of theporch with him. Seemed like our families were a match. I noticed Ma’s eyes onthe other woman and Sissy’s on the girl, before I regarded the youth Iconsidered a mite older’n my age—probably nineteen or so—and saw lots of his pain him. What amazed me was how handsome he was. Never given it an ounce ofthought, but I didn’t equate Red Indians being either handsome or ugly. Theyjust were.

But this whole family made an attractive bunch. Didn’tsee coarseness or savagery in a single one. Course, don’t exactly know whatsavagery looks like. Oh yeah, like Leroy Pearton, the kid that used to bully mewhen I was going to school. He definitely looked savage.

“Howdy, John Clanston,” Walking Dog said in a voice thatseemed to come deep down from inside him. Basso, my ma’d called that voice whenwe went to a Christmas sing-along one year and heard this famous opera singercaroling.

“Howdy, Walking Dog. Set yourself down and come up on theporch for a visit.”

The adults talked among themselves as our guestsdismounted and stepped to the porch. Unlike a lot of the cabins you saw outhere in the wilderness, Pa’d insisted on a proper porch. While others steppedout into the dirt, we exited onto wooden boards with a protective overhang.

Our two families spent a quarter of an hour getting introduced.The adults settled into the homemade chairs we dragged out onto the porch whilewe kids settled on the stoop, silent as stones as we listened to our eldersmake halted conversation. Walking Dog introduced his wife Willow, My daddutifully identified my mom as Jenny Clanston. It was quickly apparent WalkingDog had a better command of our language than his wife, but Ma, who’d been aschoolteacher until we came to the Dakota Territory was good at nonverbalcommunication and soon had something going.

When Walking Dog indicated his son was Red Leg and hisdaughter, Little Fawn, Pa reciprocated with Charley and Sissy. That freed us tohave a go at it with our peers.

“Red Leg?” I asked, indicating his right leg which wasdyed red from hip to where it disappeared into his moccasin. At least, Iassumed it was dyed because the other one was bronze like his bare chest. He worea a loose, black shirt without sleeves or collar, but vestments were otherwise confined to aleather apron some called a breechclout and ankle-high moccasins.  His visiting duds, I surmised, makingme wonder about that red leg. Was the dye permanent or just applied when hewent visiting?

He nodded and spoke in a voice that almost matched hissire’s, “Just so. Red Leg. Charlie?”

“It’s really Charles, but everyone calls me Charlie.”

Up close, he was, indeed, strikingly handsome. I’d neverseen eyes quite that shade of brown on a man—well, youth—before. While Istudied him frankly, he never quite looked right at me. That’s not exactly whatI meant. He looked at me okay, but at my left ear or the right. At my chin orforehead. Never in the eyes. But Pa’d warned us that wasn’t shiftiness. They consideredmeeting a man’s eyes as a challenge or something. That made me wonder if I’dalready challenged Red Leg to a fight or something.

I sure hoped not. His shoulders were way broader thanmine, and his arms had muscles mine only pined for. We talked back and forth,doing a lot of arm waving and pointing, but he had enough English for us to getby. Of course, I had no Sioux… or Lakota, as I came to understand it, at all.

Then, as I stared at him while he watched our sistersstruggle to converse, a strange thought popped into my head.

How would girls back home react to my impressive newfriend? And the answer came back: they’d eat him up.

I sat stunned as some sort of emotion wracked me. Whatwas that all about?

 

*.*.*.*.

New situationsare stressful enough, but total new environments are even more difficult. What’sgoing on in young Charlie’s mind? We’ll find out next time.

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it! (Don Travis keeps reminding me I stole it from him, but he didn’t copyrightit. His bad.)

 

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

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