Crooked River Read Online Free PDF

Indians use them for?” I asked Laura.
    My sister leaned closer. “Weaving, maybe?”
    “Ain't porcupine quills round?” I rubbed the quill between my fingers. “All of these are flat.”
    Laura shrugged. “Perhaps the Indians make them that way.”
    “Or,” I said, dangling the quill in front of Mercy's sour face, “maybe this here quill came from a flat red porcupine. You ever seen one of those in the woods before, Mercy, huh? Walking around like this on his flat red feet.” I pretended to stomp across the floor while Mercy giggled and laughed.
    And right at that moment—as I was stomping across the floor and we had beads and trinkets scattered all over our bedclothes—someone halloed outside our cabin door.
    “Git the door, Reb,” Laura hissed, scooping the beads and quills into her hands. “Quick, while I put these away.”
    I cast my eyes around the room to see what else was out of place. The table was a mess of bowls anddishes. The slop jar still sat by the door, waiting to be emptied. Where to set it? The only place I could see fit to hide it was in the corner next to our food cupboard. I tore off my apron and threw it over the jar for good measure.
    Then I made a dash for the door before the visitor decided to set foot inside.
    “Yes sir, begging your pardon,” I said, opening the door halfway.
    Outside stood a fellow who had all the appearances of a trapper. Unshaven face that hadn't seen a washbasin in weeks. Clothes that were nothing but shreds and patches. A sour smell coming off of him like clabbered milk. The fellow grinned at me and I saw that four of his teeth were missing in the front, as if he had lost them in an ear of corn.
    “A sixpence to see the savage you got,” he said, and held up a worn, old coin.
    “What?” came flying out of my mouth before I could stop it.
    “I says, miss,” the fellow repeated slowly, “a sixpence for showing me the savage you got inside yer house.” He waggled the coin in front of my eyes and grinned without his teeth. “Indian John.”
    A peculiar feeling came over me. I don't know why, but the sight of that trapper standing there with a sixpence sent a streak of anger right through me. I didn't want to let some ugly old trapper in our house so he could make a gazingstock out of Indian John. Wouldn't want people paying to stare at me—that's what I thought.
    “No, matter of fact, you can't see the Indian, sir,” Isaid, trying to keep my voice polite and proper. “He ain't taking visitors today.”
    “What?”
    Now it was the trapper's turn to look surprised. He narrowed his eyes and took a step closer to me, as if I was nothing but a little mosquito he was planning to swat out of the way. “Ain't Major Carver yer Pa?” he said sharply.
    I nodded.
    “Then you run and git him, girl. Stop vexing me—”
    But at that moment, Laura appeared behind me. “Our Pa and the boys ain't here,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height. Even the trapper seemed startled, looking her up and down again.
    “Perhaps, if you don't mind, you could come back later.” Laura wiped her hands on her apron, as if he had caught us in the middle of baking or cleaning.
    “You Miz Carver, his wife?” the trapper said, turning his head to the side and spitting a stream of brown tobacco, half of which dribbled down his chin. He didn't seem in any real hurry to leave.
    “Daughter,” Laura answered. “I'm the oldest Carver daughter. Our Ma's dead. May her soul rest in peace.” I knew that by saying this to the trapper, Laura meant to give him the idea that in the absence of Ma, she was the one taking charge.
    “I ain't here to cause you two gals no trouble,” the trapper said, making his voice sweet as tree sap. “Just want to get a glimpse at that captive Indian.”
    “We're in the middle of our baking,” Laura said.
    “Ain't gonna stay for more than one half minute.”
    Me and Laura didn't have any choice, seemedlike, but to let him in. We couldn't