Gedi Puniku- Cat Eyes Page 3

  Then I started trying to envision what my older brother must look like? Did he favor my papa or my mama, I wondered? Maybe he was like me and didn’t look like either of them. Was he still alive, and if so, where did he live and how could I ever find him? Why did he leave and why hadn’t my parents ever mentioned him? Maybe they left him, the same way Papa had left mama and me. Maybe they didn’t like him for some reason, or he did something to make them angry and they chased him off. Or maybe he got angry at them for some reason and left, but he would have had to leave when he was pretty young since I didn’t even remember him. I didn’t even know how much older than me he was. All sorts of stories kept swirling around in my head since there was nothing else to think about as Fire Cracker plodded along beside the river.

  In the evening, I would find a place to camp. If I didn’t need to cook, I wouldn’t start a fire because I was afraid it would draw attention to me, like before. If I did need to cook, I would only leave the fire going for as long as I needed it and then put it out. The nights were warm, so I didn’t need the fire to stay warm, and since I was close to a well-traveled river, I didn’t figure any wild animals would be coming around bothering me. Besides, I had Bandit to warn me if any came near. Fire Cracker and Bandit would probably chase them off if any did come around, I figured.

  Sometimes, in the evening, I would find a secluded place along the bank and take a bath. I would lay my head back in the water and wish my hair would spread out all around me, the way it used to do. It used to come down way past my waist and was my best feature. I often looked at the braid in my pocket and wondered why I even kept it? I would never be that young girl again, going along with my parents, not having any plans for the future except to follow along. Now I was going my own way. I was being my own person, but I still had no plans for my future except to find my papa, and ask him about the brother Mama mentioned, and ask him why he never sent any money to support Mama and me? I wondered if he ever thought about us or worried about us? I wondered if he would even be happy if I found him? What if he didn’t want anything to do with me? I had a lot of things to wonder about that I wouldn’t know the answers to until the time came. I wondered if the time ever would come when I could get my questions answered? Just one more thing to wonder about, I laughed to myself.

  The river cooled me off, only there were so many mosquitoes I never stayed very long in the water. I had to stay under the water, just to keep them off of me, and splash water on my face when they started buzzing around my head. When I got out, I would have to put my hat on and make sure my arms were covered, and then get a good distance away from the water, before they left me alone.

  The air was muggy along the river. Hell, it was muggy this time of year all over Missouri, regardless of where you lived and I supposed Kansas was no different. I hated the muggy weather. It made everything feel hotter than it really was. My short hair got all sweaty really fast and dripped down the side of my face. Fire Cracker was all sweaty too, which meant my overalls were always wet and dirty, where I clung to Fire Cracker’s back. However, I loved the smell of Fire Cracker. It was a comforting smell. Probably the only comfort I was feeling as I traveled.

  Sometimes I would bathe in the river with my overalls on, just to wash the horse sweat off of them. I did that in the morning, though, so while I traveled, the wet overalls would keep me cool and keep Fire Cracker cool too. By evening they would be all dry so they didn’t chill me while I slept.

  There was plenty of greenery along the river, and grass for Fire Cracker to eat. So far, I hadn’t tried to shoot anything with my gun. Bandit ate eggs and crackers, just like me, and beans when I fixed them. I had a small piece of salted side pork, mostly fat, that I used to flavor the beans with.

  I rode along the river for several days or more. I started losing track of time so I wasn’t really sure when I finally hit upon the Platte River, but there it was, flowing into the Missouri River. I could have cut across the open country at the ferry crossing, up through Kansas and then toward the Oregon trail, like the ferryboat owner described, before I even got to where the Platte met the Missouri. That trail would end up meeting the Platte River at some point. Only according to the Oregon trail guide books I had heard about, there was only one road sign pointing to the Oregon trail somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I was afraid I would get lost if I left the banks of the Missouri, and that ferry-man had talked about Indians still roaming the plains, so even though it was out of my way to travel along the Missouri River to get to the Platte River, I decided it was the best course to take. The Platte River came into the Missouri at a small town they named Plattsmouth, for obvious reasons. It was a major ferry crossing along with being a steamboat and stagecoach stop. It was also a shipping point for lumber, grain, and livestock. There wasn’t any reason for me to stop there, though. Farther up the Missouri was Omaha, where many wagon train companies, including the Mormons, had started their trek overland. At Plattsmouth, the river wound up north and then came back down again, according to the map. I would have to follow it all that way north and back down in a southerly direction before it led west to Wyoming. Nonetheless, I decided I would keep to the river where I knew I had water and wouldn’t lose my bearings. I also figured if there were Indians out in that area, being in the shelter of trees along the bank and less noticeable, I would have a better chance keeping out of the way of traveling bands of Indians, if that was the case.

  According to the map, that river flowed for over 300 miles through the middle of Nebraska as I followed it on to Wyoming. What difference did it make if it took me longer, I asked myself? As long as I got there at some point, I would be happy. I just hoped I got there all in one piece.

  The Platte River wasn’t anything like the Missouri. In the beginning, it had some depth, but as I continued along the bank, it spread out wide and shallow. In fact, I remember my mother, when teaching me geography, mentioning that the name of Nebraska came from an Indian word which meant ‘Flat Water’. I hadn’t thought about it at the time, but since the Platte River runs all the way through Nebraska and is wide and flat, it made sense to me now.

  There were trees along the outer edges, but sometimes the river spanned a half a mile or more across and in places was only a few inches deep. The bottom was sometimes quicksand, and the only place I felt was safe to enter the river was where it was a little deeper near the woods where the roots of the trees held the sand together. There were sandbars sometimes for miles in the center, separating the water flow in two. I heard the only thing that could navigate that river was a flat hoop boat the Indians made, and sometimes the trappers used to transport their hides in, which was made of a hide stretched across a round hoop. Even then, in shallow places, the flatboat had to be drug along by its owners until it hit deeper water again. I didn’t expect too much traffic on that river, which suited me just fine.

  As long as I didn’t see any signs of anyone else, either Indian or white, I traveled along the outer edge of the trees to make better time. Grass and low bushes spread out away from the river into flatland graduating into rolling hills in the distance. Cottonwood trees shed their fluff that floated on the air and landed on anything that got near. Sometimes I was just covered with cottonwood fluff. There were also red cedar and Russian olive trees that grew among the cottonwoods. All the grass around the river was lush and long. During the spring when there was more water in the river, I heard it never actually rose deeper. Instead, it just spread out like a seeping blanket of water, feeding the grassland and giving a place for migrating waterfowl and shorebirds to use. I saw Meadowlark and redwing blackbirds, swallows and other birds along the shore, perched on cattail stalks or tree branches.

  Dragonflies hovered around. I had never seen so many Dragonflies in one place before. Then there were the strange looking tiger beetles that liked the sandy shore of the river. They had large bulging eyes, long, slender legs and long rusty-colored bodies with black spots on their backs. I could see them running along the s
and, almost making it look alive as they chased their prey with amazing speed. They mostly ate small insects that hovered near the water. I hoped they ate mosquitoes too, but I didn’t know if they liked them.

  Beautiful, exotic butterflies hovered above the grasses visiting thistle blooms, goldenrod, and other varieties of wildflowers that grew among the meadow grass. Cattail stocks grew in long walls along the edge of the river in places and spread out over the soggier part of the grassland.

  There were some places along the river where no trees grew, and the grassland just stretched out on either side for as far as the eye could see. While it didn’t give shelter or a place to hide, it allowed me to see anyone coming from a very far distance away, only everything was unpopulated, as far as I could tell. If there were any buildings or farms they must have been too far from the river for me to see.

  As far as I knew, Nebraska was considered Indian territory and settlers were not allowed to stay, even though they were permitted to cross over the land. I knew the people going to Oregon, Utah, California and beyond followed the Platte River Valley. Sometimes they had to be protected by the army when Indians threatened them. I heard Nebraska had been turning into a battleground for Indians and US soldiers ever since the beginning of the 60s because the Indians were angry that more and more white people were crossing over their territory letting their stock eat the grass that used to attract the buffalo there. Besides that, train tracks were being laid across the plains along parts of the old Oregon trail.

  It had just become a state the year before, and I was thinking that since it was a state now, it couldn’t stay Indian territory for very much longer.

  I was riding along, not paying very close attention, thinking I should start looking for something to shoot since my supply of food was getting low, when all of a sudden I heard that familiar noise of a rattlesnake shaking its tail. Bandit started barking and I pulled Fire Cracker to a stop. It was then I could see the snake right in front of us, coiled up in defense mode and Fire Cracker started backing up.

  Instead of just going around the stupid snake, I drew my gun and took a shot at it. I had heard that rattlesnake meat was good to eat so maybe I would kill two birds with one stone, I was thinking. I was a lousy shot and missed my target. However, I guess Fire Cracker was not used to hearing a gun go off so close to his ear, or maybe he was just rearing up to stomp on the snake, but whatever the reason, he did rear up, and I wasn’t ready for it. Since one hand was holding my gun and the other grasping the reins, I didn’t have time to grab onto Fire Cracker’s mane, and I felt myself sliding from his back, right along with my gunny sacks full of supplies. I hit the ground with a thud, and then my head fell back and there was a sharp pain in the back of my head. It was the last thing I remembered.

  I don’t know how long I had been lying there, but when I opened my eyes, I had a hard time focusing them. For some reason, I kept thinking there was someone hovering over me. I knew I was out in the middle of nowhere with no person for hundreds of miles round, or so I thought, so who was there? It must be because I had hit my head that I thought someone was there. Then I had the thought that I had died and it must be an angel come to get me. After that thought passed, I started to wonder if maybe I was so lonely and felt so helpless that I wanted someone to be there. I blinked my eyes and looked again.

  As soon as the blur left my sight, I took in a shocked breath. I would have screamed, but I noticed that Bandit was not growling. He was just sitting there, watching on. Fire Cracker was nonchalantly grazing nearby. If this person hovering over me was a danger to me, Bandit would have been snarling and Fire Cracker would be chasing them off or, at least, trying to.

  It wasn’t just a person hovering over me, but a wild-looking Indian staring at me with a cross of curiosity and concern in his eyes. For a moment, we just stared at each other.

  He was clad in fringed buckskin, a typical Indian costume from what pictures I had seen of them. His hair was long and flowing, falling down over his shoulders, almost touching my face as he bent over me. I thought of my own long hair and if I had been an Indian I wouldn’t have had to cut it to look like a boy. His eyes were dark and penetrating. His brow high and smooth. His nose was curved at the bridge and flared above his full lips, which neither smiled or frowned at me. I noted the high cheekbones and copper colored skin. He wore no paint, so I knew he was not a member of a raiding party, but jewelry dangled from his ears and strings of beads hung from his neck. Feathers attached to his hair, twisted in the breeze.

  He wore a red scarf around his neck, fastened with a large, round silver clasp with a stone in the center. I found myself admiring the beadwork on the yoke of his shirt, and thought about my mother, and how she sewed clothes for people, but nothing as fancy as this uniform the Indian wore.

  I couldn’t find my voice. I didn’t know whether to be frightened or not since Bandit seemed to like him and that was very unusual for Bandit to act around any stranger. Especially a stranger who was about to touch me.

  “You hurt,” he stated before I could say anything.

  I realized he was holding a cloth at the back of my head, and he brought it out to show me the blood on it. Then he replaced it again, as he seemed to be putting pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. I could start to feel the pain where he pressed, which I hadn’t noticed when I first opened my eyes.

  “Lay still,” he ordered when I tried to sit up.

  At least he spoke English, I was thinking, so he couldn’t be that wild.

  I looked past him and saw an Indian pony clad with an Indian saddle. It too was grazing, but not near where Fire Cracker was. There were pouches slung over the front of the saddle where there wasn’t really a horn, but two wooden crossbars, I suppose made for the purpose to hang things on. Along with the pouches, there was a bow and a quiver of arrows. The saddle was covered with several blankets so I couldn’t see what it was made out of. Later, I discovered it was just a wood frame to secure all the blankets on that served as padding and sleeping gear when camping.

  The Indian looked at me seriously.

  “Why you be here?” he asked. “Where your family?”

  “I have no family,” I told him, testing my voice for the first time. “I am on my way to Wyoming to find my papa.”

  “Wyoming far place from here,” he told me what I already knew. “Travel alone not safe!”

  “You are alone,” I stated.

  That was when he first smiled. He merely nodded.

  “I too go to Wyoming,” he informed me. “My people live there in Wind Ridge Valley. I Shoshoni. We friends of white man. We protect white travelers from other dangerous tribes. Our Chief, Washakie, friends with your white leaders. We are forbidden to harm the white man. You come travel with Wawee’ne to keep you safe.”

  “Is that your name? Wawee’ne?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “It means To Stand up to Others. I brave warrior and protector.”

  “What did you do with my gun?” I asked suddenly, realizing it was not in my holster.

  “Gun make big noise. That how I find you. I hear big noise, know white man is near.”

  He glanced over to where my gun lay in the grass where I must have dropped it.

  “I come to make sure no enemy tribe attacks white man.”

  “I was shooting at a rattlesnake,” I told him.

  “Snake dead. Horse kill it. You have good friends with you, even if you have no family,” he smiled. “You scrawny boy. Like runt of litter,” he told me. “Deihkwapi. It means the runt.”

  “You think I am a runt?” I asked, feeling insulted, but then realized he was right.

  I was skinny and small, and he thought I was a boy, which I decided was a good thing. As long as he thought I was a boy, I felt safer. I had heard many stories about what Indians did with white women.

  “I look at wound now,” he said, ignoring me.

  He lifted me up into a sitting position and proceeded to examine the back
of my head. He poured out water from a pouch slung over his shoulder, onto the cloth, and began cleaning my wound. Then he took something from a pouch on his belt, put it against the wound, and wrapped the cloth, that must have been some sort of sash, around my head to hold the poultice in place, then pushed me back down again. He removed my empty gun belt and put it in one of my gunny sacks, and picked up my gun to put with it.

  “You rest. I cook snake,” he said.

  I watched him with wide eyes as he stood up, and it was then I realized how tall he was. His shoulders were broad, and his thighs were muscular looking as they pressed against the leather of his leggings. He didn’t wear trousers. He wore a breach cloth with leggings pulled over his legs, which were fastened somehow at the waist. His feet were clad in moccasins, and I noticed they were covered in fancy beading too.

  He removed his leggings, I suppose to get more comfortable, and hung them on his saddle. I understood leggings were used to protect the legs from getting scratched when riding through tall, barbed grass, or sagebrush. Since he was no longer riding, I suppose they were not necessary to wear. Then he removed his fringed shirt, hanging it along with the leggings. I stared at him, wondering if he would disrobe completely? The beads around his neck were in white contrast to his dark-colored, muscular chest. I tried to keep my eyes riveted on the bright red scarf, but was failing miserably, as my eyes lowered to admire his well-shaped body.

  He seemed to enjoy the freedom of movement it gave him when he was not hampered by so much clothing. His hair flowed gracefully against his bare shoulders. Now I could see the muscles in his strong legs flexing as he knelt to skin the snake, he laid on a flat rock. The muscles in his arms rippled as he worked the skin off the snake, using his knife to help cut it free, as he peeled it back from the snake’s body. He cut the rattle off and stuck it, along with the snake skin, in another pouch he had tied to the waist of his breach cloth.