Chickory was fourteen, three years younger than Randa, but it was the difference between being treated like a man and being treated like a child. Randa, his parents thought of as a grown woman, but him, he might as well have been ten. It upset him no end.
Chickory was trying his best to show how mature he could be. He helped with camp chores. He took a turn standing watch at night. He never complained. But one thing he hadn’t done, and would very much like to do, was to contribute to the supper pot. Nate and Winona shot game all the time. The newcomer, Harrod, had brought down a buck and a grouse in the few days he had been with them. His own pa shot a rabbit once.
So it was that when they had stopped at noon to rest the horses, Chickory went over to where his father was sitting. He was careful to make sure his mother was busy with Winona King before he quietly said, “I have somethin’ to ask you, Pa.”
“Ask away.”
“Do you suppose you could lend me that pistol Mr. King bought for you back in Missouri?”
His father had glanced up. “What on earth do you want that for? And don’t you remember your mother sayin’ you weren’t to touch it no matter what?”
“I remember,” Chickory admitted. “But she doesn’t understand things like you do.”
“False praise is no praise, Son. Suppose you come right out with it and let me be the judge.”
Afraid the answer would be no, Chickory poked at the ground with his toe. “All right. I want to do some huntin’ while everyone is restin’. I won’t be long. I promise.”
“Huntin’?” Samual repeated.
“Yes, sir. For somethin’ to eat. I want to show Mr. King I can do my share.”
“Help with the horses. Tote water. Those sorts of things. Leave the huntin’ for them as is hunters.”
“Please, Pa. I never ask you for much, do I? But I’d sure like the chance. It’d mean a lot to me.”
“You ain’t never fired a gun before but once,” Samuel reminded him.
“But I remember how it’s done.” Chickory had put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Please, Pa.”
“Damnation.” Samuel had looked toward Emala and lowered his voice. “If your ma hears of this, she’ll take the gun from you and use it to club me to death.”
“I won’t say a word. I promise. I’ll sneak off and sneak back and she’ll never know.”
“How are you goin’ to sneak back with a dead animal over your horse?”
“Please.”
Now here Chickory was, riding parallel with the Platte, the heavy flintlock in his hand, his thumb on the hammer. He needed to get close. Pistols didn’t shoot as far as rifles. Even he knew that. “Where did you get to?” he wondered under his breath.
Some sparrows took wing, chirping merrily, and Chickory watched them in amusement. He loved the wild, loved all the creatures, the birds and the butterflies and the many other kinds of animals.
Most of all, Chickory loved being free. He never liked being a slave, never liked it at all. To be owned by someone else, to have to answer to their every whim, to work from dawn till dusk and have nothing to show for it but calluses and scrapes—that wasn’t the life for him. He was all for running when his pa brought it up.
Better to run free than to die as property.
Chickory couldn’t wait to reach the valley the Kings had told them about. They’d have their own cabin. They could hunt and fish and plant crops; Winona said she had seeds they could have. They could do what ever they wanted with no one to tell them different.
That was the glory of being free.
Chickory had long imagined how wonderful it would be. But it was even better. To have the right to decide for himself what he should do with each day, instead of being told what to do. To be his own— what was it his pa called it?—his own lord and master. There was nothing finer.
Suddenly movement under the trees caught Chickory’s eye. The buck had stopped and was staring at him. He raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger but nothing happened; he’d forgotten to pull back the hammer. Quickly, he remedied his mistake, but when he went to take aim, the buck had moved into a stand of cottonwoods, and he didn’t have a clear shot.
Chickory jabbed his heels against his horse. He would give himself five more minutes. If he didn’t shoot the buck by then, he’d turn around and head back. Anxiously, he scanned the cottonwoods. The buck had somehow disappeared.
“Where did you get to, you tricky critter?”
Chickory reined to the right to go around the cottonwoods, thinking he could beat the buck to the other side. Intent on spotting it, he didn’t realize he was no longer alone until someone laughed.
“Blind as a bat, ain’t he?”
Startled, Chickory drew rein. Fear clutched at him as he laid eyes on six riders who had appeared out of nowhere. He recognized one of them—the lean, hawk-faced man in buckskins, holding a Kentucky rifle.
“You!”
“Me,” the man said.
“You’re that slave hunter,” Chickory blurted. “The one they call…”—he strained to remember— “the one they call Wesley.”
“Good memory, darkie.”
“You’re after my family and me.” Chickory went to raise the flintlock but a whole bunch of metallic clicks changed his mind. The other five were pointing rifles at him.
“Don’t try it, boy,” said a short man whose dark eyes glittered with the threat of violence.
Wesley brought his mount up next to Chickory’s and held out his hand. “The pistol.”
Chickory hesitated.
“The pistol, or die.”
Emala wrung her pudgy hands and paced. She gazed anxiously back the way they had come and declared, “You shouldn’t have let him go.”
“He wanted to help out,” Samuel said.
“And you for certain shouldn’t have given him that gun. He’s just a slip of a boy. What on earth were you thinkin’?”
“In case you ain’t noticed, he’s pretty near a man. He has to learn to hunt anyway, and it might as well be now as later.”
“What you know about huntin’ wouldn’t fill a thimble.”
“Careful, woman,” Samuel said. “You’re much too free with insults these days.”
“Can you blame me, with the strain I’ve been under?” Emala felt her eyes moisten. “The trials I’ve endured. The tribulations you’ve brought down on our heads.”
“Me?”
“You’re the one who took it on himself to make runaways of us. You’re the one who hit Master Brent.”
“Would you rather he raped our daughter?”
“Don’t change the subject. We’re talkin’ about you.” Emala gnawed on her lip. “Oh, Lordy. What will we do?”
From behind them came a kindly voice. “Perhaps I can help. What has you so upset?”
“Mrs. King!”
Winona had overheard a few of their remarks and divined from Emala’s expression that something was wrong.
“We’ve imposed on you enough as it is,” Emala said. “Since my Samuel was the one who let him leave, he should be the one who goes after him.”
“Him?” Winona counted heads and horses. “Your son is not back from his ride yet?”
“It wasn’t so much a ride as a hunt,” Samuel said. “I told him we were only stoppin’ for an hour or so, and he promised me he’d be back in plenty of time.”
“Only he’s not here,” Emala said accusingly.
Samuel turned toward the horses. “But you’re right. It’s my doin’. I’ll go after him. If we’re not back before Mr. King returns, go on without us and we’ll catch up.”
Winona walked up to them. “My husband took Mr. Harrod and went to scout ahead. One can never be too careful near Sioux country.”
“Oh, Lordy. What if they got my Chickory?”