Evan Hunter: The Chisholms: A novel of the journey West

“Let’s get them said then.”

“I said all I got to say. Your sister was killed by an Indian, and you’re livin with a pair of them.”

“One thing’s got nothin to do with the other,” Will said. “My grandpa was killed by an Indian, too. What’s—”

“Yes!”

“What the hell’s one thing—”

“You cuss in this house!”

“ Shit, Ma!”

“Go cuss with your squaws!” Minerva said. “Go cuss with them...” She clamped her mouth shut, folded her arms across her waist, turned her back to him.

Will stood inside the door just a moment longer.

“I miss Annabel as much as you do,” he said. “I loved her, too,” he said, and went out of the house.

She was still standing at the fireplace, her back to the door. Gideon went swiftly to the window. His brother was walking down toward the tents again. His hands were in his pockets. His shoulders were hunched against the wind. Winter was coming.

The first snow fell early in November.

The woods were still and white. Gideon worked in them silently all morning, and by noon had chopped enough wood to last through Christmas anyway. He was bone weary when he finished. Slung his ax over his shoulder, started down through the cleared field toward the cabin. His father was there in the middle of the field, talking to Schwarzenbacher, the snow falling all around them. Schwarzenbacher was swathed in fur from head to toe, a fur hat and a fur coat and fur boots and fur mittens. He looked more like an animal of the forest than the living animals the hides had been taken from. He waved, and Gideon waved back, and walked to where they were standing.

“I brought you some tobacco,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“Thank you,” Gideon said.

Schwarzenbacher took off one of his mittens, began digging into the huge pocket of his coat. Hadley watched impatiently; Gideon figured he’d been in the middle of something. “It’s supposed to be very good,” Schwarzenbacher said, and handed him a folded oilskin. Gideon rested the ax against his leg, unwrapped the oilskin, sniffed the tobacco inside.

“Ahhhh,” he said, and nodded appreciatively.

“Yes?” Schwarzenbacher asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Gideon said. “Thank you very much.” He shivered suddenly. “Sweat’s turnin to chill,” he said. “You’ll have to pardon me.” He nodded to Schwarzenbacher and then to his father, and walked up to the cabin. His mother was at the table, kneading dough.

“You’ll be wantin a hot tub,” she said.

“Aye.”

“I’ve heated water; it’s ready behind the blanket.”

“Thank you,” he said, and went to take off his clothes. Cabin felt toasty warm, firelight flickering from around the edges of the blanket, steam rising from the water in the wooden tub. He climbed in, sloshing half of it all over the floor — nobody ever could get it in their heads just how big he was. Made him feel like a dunce sometimes, being so big. “When you gonna quit growin, Gideon?” Har-har-har, nudge in the ribs. “ Gideon, you’re lookin more like an oak forest every day.” Har-har-har. He hoped the men out west were big, he ever got there. Felt comfortable with big men. Loved to rassle with his brothers. Will especially, even though he was a mite shorter than Bobbo. Knew more tricks, Will did. Grab your head, you’d think you was caught in a bear trap. Wasn’t Will about to go west, though. Wasn’t none of them, you wanted to know. They’d settled in for sure. They’d be here come spring and beyond, and forever. Wasn’t no moving any of them out of here. On the other side of the blanket, Minerva was humming, slapping dough on the tabletop. Gideon sighed, savoring the steam that rose around him. He heard the front door opening, heard Hadley and Schwarzenbacher coming in, stamping snow from their boots.

“Whooooo!” Hadley said.

“Whooo-eeeee!” Schwarzenbacher said.

“What you doin there, Min?” Hadley said. “Fetch us some whiskey.”

“Fetch your own whiskey,” Minerva said.

“You want some whiskey, Schwarzenbacher?”

“Yes, thank you,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“Made it myself. Plan to do the same here, once I get my corn planted and picked.”

Gideon heard the tin cups being set down on the table, heard the cork being pulled from the jug, the whiskey being poured.

“To your health,” Hadley said.

“Your health, sir.”

“Pour some for me, too, Pa,” Gideon called from behind the blanket.

“What’s that, eh? You hear something, Min? Must be a critter in the house.”

Gideon laughed.

“You hear it, Schwarzenbacher?”

“Yes, sir,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“No matter how you chink a place, they get in anyhow,” Hadley said.

“Come on, Pa,” Gideon said, laughing.

“There it is again!” Hadley said. “My, my, my. Schwarzenbacher,” he said, “when I was a lad, the Indians’d steal the corn soon as it was ready to pick. Will they do the same here?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“There’s patterns, don’t you think?”

“Pa?”

“Come get your own damn whiskey, son! What’re you doin behind that blanket anyway?”

“Havin a tub,” Gideon said.

“Well, dry yourself off and come have a drop of whiskey. I find it cold here, Schwarzenbacher. This time of year, it wasn’t so cold back home. Makes me wonder will the plantin season be different? Do you know anything about that?”

“No, sir; I’m sorry.”

“Where are you from anyway?”

“Yonkers, New York.”

“Here you go, you lummox,” Hadley said, and handed a cupful of whiskey around the blanket.

“Ah, thank you, Pa,” Gideon said.

The whiskey was good. It ran fiery hot down his gullet to the pit of his stomach. The steam rose, drifting. Outside the window, the snow was thick enough to churn.

“You’d best go fetch your daughter,” Minerva said.

“Where is she then?”

“To the fort, tryin to trade what you and your sons shot yesterday.”

“I’ll need a sled, this weather.”

“You’ll have to build one then,” Minerva said, and laughed.

“I’ll go with you, sir,” Schwarzenbacher said.

“Stay, finish your whiskey. The chimney’ll be out of his tub soon. Ain’t that right, Chimney?”

Gideon grinned, and sipped at his whiskey. In a moment, he heard the front door opening and closing. A cold wind swept across the cabin floor and into the space behind the blanket. He hunkered down lower into the tub.

“... in Yonkers this time of year,” Schwarzenbacher was saying.

“Yes. Now you’ll just have to get out of my way,” Minerva said, “if I’m to get this bread baked.”

“Sorry, ma’m,” he said. “I was saying how different it is in Yonkers. This time of year.”

“Aye, it is, I’m sure,” Minerva said.

“Not that I miss it,” Schwarzenbacher said. “Do you miss Virginia, ma’m?”

“I miss it still,” she said. “Aye.”

“I was glad to leave Yonkers, in fact,” he said. “I came here to learn a trade, ma’m. There’s a brisk market in furs back east, you know. My father’s a lawyer, he wanted me to study for the bar. I told him I’d prefer going into business. He was very decent about it, contacted a client in Winnipeg...”

Gideon got out of the tub. He felt warm and lazy and mellow and relaxed. He dried himself, and then put on the clean clothes his mother had set out for him. When he came around the blanket, she was carrying her oven to the hearth. The coals she’d raked onto it were glowing red.

“Now just move away from the lire entirely,” she said to Schwarzenbacher. “You, too,” she said to Gideon, though he was nowhere near it.