It made me uneasy. I have no desire to bring Sophie into such low talk. How could I tell of her intelligence, her humor, her gentleness, to a man like this? She is too good for his ears.
I said nothing more on the subject but instead asked Pruitt if he has a sweetheart. The lieutenant shook his head without looking up from his diary.
Sophie is right that Pruitt is different than I remember him. When we went up against Apache in the desert, even after long days of riding, he was rarely silent. —?Did you know, Colonel?.?.?.?he would always begin, then rattle off one interesting fact or another. A species of plant with gastric juices & a giant flower for eating insects. A cave in North Carolina that breathes like an animal, blowing out air in the summer, sucking in air in the winter. Lantern-like creatures in the depths of the ocean; the speed of a comet through the heavens. Other times he would recite bits of poetry that to this day stay with me: ‘Soldier rest! Thy warfare o’er, sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; dream of battled fields no more.’
We fought Indians in savage country. He proved himself to be both tough & astute, as young as he was. I was certain those traits could serve us well on this journey. Now I find him quiet, somber, on edge. He is prone to sitting alone, sketching in his notebook. Does my memory fail me, or have these short years changed him?
April 5
Some good to report?—?the trapper Samuelson will continue with us, although not of his choice. He expected by now to have word from his business partner, who in the autumn traveled up the Wolverine River to scout trapping & mining prospects. Samuelson heard rumors from Indians earlier in the winter that Boyd had built a cabin some 40 miles from here. Since then there has been no sign of him.
?—?I’d like to find him whole & alive, Samuelson said. —?We had plans.
?—?Not an overly sentimental fellow, Tillman said in aside to me. I admit it caused me a chuckle.
Sentimental or no, the trapper is great help. Steadfast. Capable. I did not look forward to being without his expertise. I suspect he knows far more than he lets on, not that he is secretive, but instead simply a man of few words.
At mid-day we rested on a cottonwood log to eat cold biscuits. I asked Samuelson about the old Eyak we had left behind. He remains something of an irritation to me. Would he go back to Perkins Island?
?—?Eyak? Samuelson said. —?He’s no Eyak.
I asked who the old fellow’s people are then.
Samuelson said no one claims him. —?He’s just always about, sometimes wanted, sometimes not.
?—?What language does he speak?
?—?He likes to toy with me, he does. He’ll start out in Eyak, then as soon as I catch my rhythm, he’ll go to Midnoosky, then he’ll change again. All along, he knows our English well enough, I reckon.
It seems that each in their own tongue, the natives call him the Man Who Flies on Black Wings.
?—?He is something of an odd bird, isn’t he? I said with amusement.
?—?Not just an odd bird.
Samuelson says the natives believe the Old Man can change the weather, make people sick or cure them, as suits his mood. Years ago, they say, he stole an Eyak’s wife & the husband shot him. The Old Man just coughed up the bullet, spat it on the ground, & went on unharmed.
Most of all, he says, the Old Man is unpredictable. Today he’ll rob you blind, but tomorrow he might give you a warm blanket when you need it most.
?—?He’s a devil & angel in one, he said. —?Nothing to depend on, except that he’s always looking for something to eat, & he’s always looking for mischief.
It seems impossible that the Indians should truly believe he can fly or spit out bullets that have struck him. I asked the trapper what he made of such nonsense. All humor left him.
?—?Doesn’t matter a God d?——?d what I think. Or you for that matter. Have no doubt, Colonel, we are traveling through their world, not our own. Whatever the Russians & politicians say.
I asked no more. The trapper may be right on one count. Despite government treatise, this frozen Wolverine River Valley yet belongs to the Indians, as they are the only ones who claim it. That will change if white men find use for it.
As for the Old Man, I give no credence to the idea he is anything but a thieving rascal with tricks up his sleeve. I will admit this, though?—?the memory of him crouched in the top of that tree in the black of night stays with me.
April 6