He nodded and set the Bible on his desk. Her eye was drawn to his Indian pipe, the beaded pouch of tobacco beside it. How she craved to know its story.
“Your brothers plan to leave out in the morning, but Cyrus is in no condition to move. Are you willing to stay on and tend him till he’s on his feet?”
“Gladly.” She nearly smiled. Maddie’s doing? “But there’s always Hester, remember.”
“You’re better medicine.” He winked at her, his slow smile making her wish she could sit her woozy self down.
Wanting to prolong his company, she pointed to the map on his desk, laid open from corner to corner, the ends anchored by sadirons. The black markings denoting mountain ranges and rivers, the finely wrought script and compass points, drew her. The map was their world in miniature, the Ohio country plainly laid out beyond a long stretch of rivers that seemed to have no end.
Coming to stand beside her, he moved his pipe and tobacco pouch out of the way. “We’re here. This small scrolling line is the Buckhannon. Your homeplace is marked by an X.”
She leaned nearer, following his pointed finger. “And this path lined in red?”
“That’s the main Indian trail, the Warrior’s Path, connecting north and south and cutting through the hardest terrain east to west—the endless mountains, to borrow an Indian phrase. Passage is easiest in the valley here.”
“And the Tuscarawas River?”
“Marked in blue. Keturah and the Moravians are near the forks, establishing their mission.”
She dared a more personal question. “Where did you camp with the Lenape?”
“Along the Cuyahoga here, near the falls.” His finger moved northwest. “We made other camps in different seasons but always returned there.”
She couldn’t imagine it, having been born and raised on the Buckhannon and nowhere else. Indians were rovers, yet how could they be otherwise, forever pushed west, as Keturah said? She’d spoken of terrible cold, near starvation, though there were times of plenty too. Surely the Moravians would keep her friend warm and well fed.
“When the smallpox struck, I was one of the few who survived. Our band was reduced by half. Not long after, a treaty was made and I returned to my Quaker kin. I might have starved otherwise.”
Her eyes roamed the map west to east. The distance from the Ohio country to Philadelphia seemed impossibly vast. “So far you must have traveled.”
“Hundreds of miles, aye.”
“I’ve always been taught to fear Indians, but in truth I know little about them. Mostly hearsay.”
“Mayhap one day I’ll tell you more.”
She pointed to the painted bark near a pegged buffalo skin. “For now, you can help me understand this.”
“You don’t miss much.” His expression held respect—and something else that looked like reluctance. “Wikhegan.”
“Indian picture writing?” She looked away. “Whatever ’tis called it gives me chills.”
“Supposed to. ’Tis a warning.”
He said no more. Well and good, then, as she’d lost the heart to hear it.
She stepped back from the map with a bittersweet smile. “Care for some of Hester’s flip?”
“Gladly.” He put a hand on her elbow and they went outside, where everyone had gathered to celebrate the nuptials. ’Twas an odd celebration, muted by their watchful circumstances. Men looked down at them from the rifle platform with cheerless faces, the rising moon reflecting off myriad gun barrels.
Clay soon drained his cup and asked for seconds, leaving the throng to disappear inside Hester’s cabin. Tessa followed, heartened by the sight of him bearing two drinks and handing Cyrus some flip of his own.
“Mighty kind, Colonel.” Cyrus raised up with a wince, his back against the log wall. His color was a shade better, but still Tessa fretted. “Suppose I’ll tarry here a while longer, aye?”
“Would be wise. Sometimes we even have a physic pass through. But between your great-aunt and your sister and Maddie, you should recover in time.”
“Still can’t stand without getting woozy-headed.”
“You lost a great deal of blood.” Clay took a drink of his own flip as laughter erupted outside. “Keep to bed for the time being.”
