FLAT NOSE EMORY YARNS A YARN
Chapter 2
The young woman began to stir, calling for her father. "I’m afraid your father is not here. You are safe. No one will harm you," he told her. His back was to her as he prepared their evening meal, stirring the stew in a black cast-iron Dutch oven sitting in the coals of the fire pit.
"Where am I?" she asked as she gingerly sat up, pulling the buffalo robe around her to cover her partial nudity. Suddenly embarrassed, she pulled it tighter as she thought of the strange man seeing her state of disrepair. She had no way of knowing that the man by the fire had resolutely ignored the bare portions of her anatomy and had covered her immediately.
"In my camp," he answered. Picking up the coffee pot, he sat it on two stones over the edge of the campfire.
"Fancy! Where’s Fancy? He can’t find me, can he?" Wildly scanning the area, her eyes returned to the huge form crouched over the fire. When he raised his eyes to hers, she saw the apparition that had frightened her. "You!" she yelped. Scrambling backwards, off the pallet, she backed into the tree behind the lean-to. "Oh no," she wailed, "Don’t hurt me." Wearily, Vincent shook his head. Why did people automatically think he would harm them? "What are you going to do with me?" Her frightened eyes attempted to pin him in place.
"Why . . . eat you, of course," he replied sarcastically. "That’s what I do with all tender, young maidens that I save from a fate worse than death. You are tender, aren’t you?"
She sputtered to a stop and gaped at the top of his head as he had lowered it to hide the grin of amusement that crossed his face at her thunderstruck expression. Slowly, she stated, disbelief written all over her face, "You don’t really do that."
"That’s what you think, isn’t it?" he growled, feeling the pain her words caused to the depths of his soul. "You have a lot to learn about gratitude." He lifted his head. "You might as well get used to the sight of me; you’re going to see a lot of me."
"What do you mean?" Now that she had a good look at him, he wasn’t all that scary, and she noticed that he had the most beautiful sky blue eyes. Some of her fear slipped away.
"I mean that it will be next spring before I can take you home."
Suddenly she remembered the tales her father had told her. "I know you," she cried. "You’re the lionman. Um . . ." She searched her mind for his name. Smiling with satisfaction, she said, "Vincent?"
"Yes, and you’re Chandler’s daughter from New York: Catherine." She nodded. "Don’t worry. I won’t bother you. I have never taken a woman that didn’t want to be taken, and I’m not about to start with you." She wondered at the bitterness in his voice. He continued, "All I ask is that you help me finish my cabin and to set enough food aside to last us through the winter. I’ll see to it that you are safe and well fed, then I’ll take you home when the snows melt. You have nothing to fear from me; I’m not Fancy Bouchard."
The wash of relief that flowed through her allayed her tension. Edging back to sit on the pallet, she felt confident enough to ask, "Why can’t you take me home now?"
"I have to finish the cabin, and it’s going to be a close call as it is. The first snows are not far off. My trapline must be run daily. After all, it is my livelihood. And I could very well be trapped on the trail back to my cabin by the first snow if I take you home now."
"Oh." Silently, she mulled over his words. For some reason she believed him. She was safe here; he would never harm her.
Vincent turned back to stir the pot. "The stew is almost ready. Are you hungry?" He was desperately trying to make small talk to ease her mind. "You need to keep up your strength."
Smiling at his broad back, she appreciated his attempt to allay her distress. "Now that you mention it, I’m starved. Fancy wasn’t much on food. He was more interested in other things," she said darkly.
"I know," Vincent growled. Red-faced, he turned his head and stared into the fire as he asked, "He didn’t . . . ah . . . You know."
"No," she said forcefully, "I escaped and then you scared him away. I must thank you for your timely intervention. I shudder to think what would have happened if you hadn’t been there."
He glanced at her with such a look of gratitude that she almost stopped breathing. She had the feeling that he had seldom been thanked for his efforts on the behalf of others who had also been in difficult situations. His answering smile barely raised the corners of his strange mouth. "Will you eat, now?" he formally requested.
Rising to her feet, she tentatively approached the fire. Gingerly she sat on a log near the fire and took a good look at the man on the other side of the fire. Since coming to the mountains, she had learned something about the clothing worn by the mountaineers. She could see that he wore a shirt of the best cured buckskin, tanned, no doubt, by the Blackfeet. It was beaded and fringed with Crow finery and was cinched at the waist with a bullhide belt that had a fourteen-inch Bowie knife stuck in it. A powder horn made from a buffalo horn hung from the belt, and he was armed with a Colt Walker revolver and a Hawken 50 rifle. His leggings matched his shirt, and he was shod in Cheyenne made moccasins. All in all, his clothing suited him to perfection and declared him to be a very successful trapper. Unlike most of the mountaineers, his clothing was unstained by grease or blood. Cleanliness must be important to him, she thought. Studying the man closely, she found to her amazement that he wasn’t as fearsome as she had first thought. His features were strangely beautiful, but she gasped with awe and no little fright when she saw how dexterous and strong his hands were even though the fingers were tipped with lethal looking claws.
He glanced up at her and acknowledged her wonder then ladled out two bowls of stew. One he handed to her, and with the other, he moved to sit on the ground on the other side of the fire, leaning back against a tree stump.
Watching him closely, ready to flee at the slightest false move on his part as she still wasn’t quite sure of his motives, she took a spoonful of the hot stew. It was very good.
He settled himself and began spooning the stew into his mouth. He was on his second bowl while she was only half finished with hers. "It’s very good," she commented.
"Thank you," he said, surprisingly pleased at her compliment. Setting his empty bowl on the ground, he took a clay pipe with a long curved stem out of his possibles bag, filled the bowl with kinnikinnick(native tobacco), and once again leaning back against the stump, puffed away at the one bowl he allowed himself each day.
Catherine wrinkled her nose at the foul-smelling smoke wafting her way. "Do you have to do that?" she asked, waving her hand in front of her face.
Mildly, Vincent looked at her. "I don’t drink, gamble, or swear; I work hard. This is my one vice and a mild one at that."
"Well, it smells terrible," she huffed.
"Then move away," he said, with a small shrug of his shoulders.
"Oh!" Catherine gasped, vexed at what she thought was his boorish attitude. The nerve of the man. She flounced from the safety of the campfire but came flying back when she heard the cough of a passing cougar.
"Don’t roam too far from the fire at night; it’s not safe," he commented smugly.
Settling down beside the glowing fire, she glared at him. It dawned on her that this was not going to be easy. She would have to toughen up and learn all she could from him if she was to survive this winter in the mountains.
Knocking the ashes out of his pipe, he replaced it in his possibles bag. Rising, he pointed to the pallet in the lean-to. "You will sleep there," he ordered.
"Where will you sleep?" Surely, he didn’t expect her to sleep there with him. If he did, he had another think coming. She’d sit up all night by the fire if she had to.
Seeing her unease, he smiled widely at her discomfort, exposing an imposing set of gleaming, white canine teeth that glittered in the firelight. She had much to learn about him.
My god, she thought, those teeth! What a mystery he was. Obviously, a man with two legs and arms, built like a man, but his face and hands were a strange combination of man and lion. Now that she’d had a good look at him, the combination was oddly pleasing, and she knew several girls back east who would kill for hair like his. But her experience with Fancy had made her leery of any man, let alone, one like Vincent. Still, worn out from her nerve-wracking day, she fell asleep almost immediately.
Vincent, on the other hand, rolled up in his buffalo robe and stared at the fire, wondering what he had gotten himself into. It was hard enough taking care of yourself in the mountains, but to be saddled with the care of a woman who was ignorant of the ways of the wild was a fearsome burden. He would do his best by her and see that she got safely home to her father in the spring, but a lot of it would depend on her toughness and courage and her ability to learn.
Awakening the next morning, she laid in bed listening to the sounds of the so-called silent forest. After arriving at her father’s trading post, she had learned that the forest was never quiet unless danger was present, and even then you could hear the wind soughing through the branches of the trees. Waking in her bed at the post, she loved to lie quietly for a few minutes listening to the sounds of the woods outside her window. Now, she heard the sound of someone moving about in the clearing and yesterday rushed back with a vengeance. Instinctively, she pulled the buffalo robe up under her chin, then she smelled the coffee boiling, and if she listened closely, she could hear it bubbling. Suddenly her empty stomach brought her out of the warm, snug pallet. Shivering in the cool morning air, she hurried to the fire pit, adding more wood until she had a rousing fire going. Turning from side to side, she warmed both front and back. She wished she had the buffalo robe blanket and, scurrying back to the lean-to, she grabbed it and returned to the fire. Vincent was off in the underbrush somewhere doing heaven knows what, but shortly he strode into the clearing, pulling more firewood behind him. He dropped it beside the fire and turned to Catherine, "Good morning. I trust you slept well?"
"Yes, thank you. Is it safe to go into the forest for . . .?" She stumbled to a halt, her turn to be embarrassed.
Not wanting to add to her discomfort, he assured her that it was quite safe for now but to hurry. With gentlemanly courtesy, he turned his back even though he would be able to see nothing.
When she hurried back, she was having difficulty pulling the robe up around her shoulders. Trying to cover the awkwardness of the situation, she said gamely, "If you’ll show me where the vittles are, I’ll fix breakfast. I’m starved."
Going to a nearby tree, Vincent untied the rope that was looped around its trunk and lowered a haunch of venison. "I killed this buck yesterday so it’s still good." He whacked off a chunk and handed it to her. Then going to his pack, he rummaged through it until he pulled out a plain buckskin shirt. "Here," he handed it to her. "Put this on. You can’t move very well clutching a buffalo robe around you." He turned his back while she speedily donned the shirt.
"You can turn around now," she said, impressed with his courtly manners. The shirt was much too large for her and fell below her knees. She took the rope he gave her and tied it around her waist. "Thank you," she said simply. He nodded. In a short time, she had biscuits baking, the leftover stew from the night before warming, and venison steak frying.
He silently appraised her. She adapted speedily it seemed. He hoped she wasn’t putting on an act because he didn’t have the time to keep her corralled or to run after her. If she was foolish enough to leave, she would have to fend for herself.
Noticing his pensive look, she correctly deduced what he was thinking. "I’m not going to run off; I’m not that foolish," she told him, stirring the stew. He nodded curtly then went to water the horses.
"Breakfast is ready," she called and handed him a full tin plate on his return. He fell to with gusto.
"You’re a good cook, Catherine," he complimented her, taking a sip of coffee. He had always thought that he made the best coffee in the mountains but hers was better by far.
"Maybe I can find some berries or some dandelion greens, lamb shanks." Giving him a mischievous look, she said, "And see if I can make as good a stew as you." She giggled at his obvious embarrassment.
"Sounds good," he agreed, setting his plate and cup by the fire to cover his confusion at her sudden playful manner. He had little experience with women other than those who frequented the rendezvous, usually the Indian wives of the trappers, and the occasional woman he met at the trading posts, so he had no way of knowing that this was her way of getting through what was to her a difficult situation.
"Well, we need to be on our way as soon as possible," he said to her after she returned from cleaning their eating utensils in a nearby creek. She nodded reluctantly. In short order he had everything packed and ready, with more hindrance than help from her. He arranged his gear between the two horses he had, and she was able to ride on the pack horse between the two panniers. They were two weeks out of Chandler’s trading post, and it was another two weeks, at least, to Vincent’s half-finished cabin.