"Don't pay any attention, Peg," Wat said. "He's just yarnin'."

Ridge glared. "Yarnin', is it? You just wait. One o' these days, I'll take you a-huntin' with me, an' you can pinch 'em for fat your own self! You'll see what I mean."

He rested his hands on his knees, staring at them. "Ever eat beaver tail? Now that's mighty fine eatin'! Next to cougar, there's nothin' like beaver tail or buffler tongue. Finest meat anywhere!"

Ridge Fenton had been gone for more than an hour when the Indians came. She caught a movement from the corner of her eye and went to the window. There could have been no less than thirty of them, possibly more. At least eight men, ten or twelve women, and some children. They were mounted and pulling travoises piled with their tepees and goods.

Matty was appalled. Since coming to Cherokee, she had heard a dozen stories of how Indians could eat. Three of them had been known to eat a buffalo at a sitting, and those Indians out there-why there'd be nothing left for the stage! What to do?

They had stopped out by the corral now, and two of them were approaching the station. Matty took up the shotgun and put it beside the door.

"They respect courage," somebody had said, "and not much else." Well, maybe. Matty did not know; all she had was courage. Suddenly, before they reached the step, she jerked open the door.

The action was so sudden the Indians stopped, startled. "What do you want?" she demanded. She had the shotgun by the door but a broom in her hands.

"Eat," one of the Indians said. He was a broad, strong-looking man with his hair in two braids. "We hungry."

"Go hunt, then," Matty said. "Go find a fat grizzly. Feel of his ribs to see if he's fat enough first."

They stared at her. Straight-faced, hiding the fact that she was frightened, she remembered what Ridge Fenton had been telling the children. "If he's not fat enough, let him go."

One of the Indians scowled and muttered something to the other, who began to explain. They both turned to look at Matty, who looked right back at them.

"We hungry," an Indian repeated.

"Find a fat bear or a buffalo." She looked beyond the men at the Indian children. Their eyes were wide and dark, their faces round and serious.

"I won't feed you," she said, "but I'll feed the little ones. The papooses," she said, remembering the word from Ridge Fenton and hoping it was the right one. "Not you or you," she pointed at them. "You can hunt for meat. Send me the little ones, the papooses."

The two Indians returned to the cavalcade and there was much talk, and then slowly the children began getting down from the horses and hesitantly approached.

There were nine of them. One larger boy, evidently already a man in his own mind, would not come but stood back, disdainfully proud.

Seating them at an outside table, she filled a bowl of stew for each of them. She would have to cook again, but no matter.

She stood over them while they ate, slowly, solemnly, often looking up at her. The men stayed by their horses, watching. Finally, when they were eating the last of their stew, she told them to wait. Going inside, she covered a tray with cookies and took them outside.

The children stared at her, then at the cookies. She held up one finger, looking very stern. "One!" she said. "No more!"

Then she pa.s.sed the cookies. Solemnly, still without smiling, each one took a cookie, looking up at her to be sure they were doing the right thing but looking hungrily at the rest of the cookies on the tray.

Suddenly, Matty turned and walked out to the waiting Indians and pa.s.sed the cookies to the men and then the women. Very carefully, each Indian took just one. When the tray was empty but for one cookie, she looked at it, then at them. Then she took up the last cookie and ate it herself. One of the Indians started to chuckle and muttered something to the others, and they all laughed.

The young ones scrambled back on their ponies or the travoies, and slowly the little cavalcade moved away. As they moved off, she lifted a hand and waved. After a moment, one of the children waved back.

Matty went inside and closed the door. Suddenly, she dropped to a bench, heaving a great sigh. She'd been scared, and she was still scared.

After a moment, she got up. "An' just for that," she said aloud, "I'll spend me mornin' cookin'!"

Hours later, Ridge Fenton came down the road, and when he saw the tracks, he stopped, stared at them, then broke into a run. When he was almost at the station, Matty stepped out, hands on her hips.

"What is the matter, then? Is it frightened you are? Come in, then, an' be safe."

"What happened?" Ridge demanded. "Woman, what happened?"

"Nothing, nothing at all! Some Indians came by, we talked, and they went on."

He stared at her. "What happened? Don't tell me you got by without feedin' that lot?"

"They all were very nice," she said, "and they had better manners than some others I know." She paused. "I just told them when I wanted fat meat, I pinched grizzlies until I found one fat enough."

"You're funnin' me." He stared at her. "Now see here, woman, I-!"

"Go do your ch.o.r.es," she said. "You're late."

Four days later, Mary Breydon was sweeping the doorstep when she saw two Indians riding up. One of them had what was obviously a haunch of fresh venison tied up in the deer's hide.

They reined up at the door. "Where is Woman-Who-Pinches-Bears?" one Indian demanded.

Hearing them, Matty came to the door.

"Where papooses?" one Indian asked solemnly.

Matty turned. "Peg? Wat?"

When they came to the door, the Indian very solemnly handed the fresh meat to Wat. Then he glared at Matty. "No for you! Papooses!"

Then they rode away, but as they reached the place where the road turned, they looked back. Matty waved, and they waved in return.

Chapter 19.

THERE WERE NO days without work, but now the work had fallen into patterns, and each knew what must be done.

"That Wat," Ridge Fenton said one morning, "if he keeps on the way he's goin', he'll work me out of a job!"

"The lad's no blacksmith," Matty said, "although he's good with horses."

"No blacksmith, is it? He watches me all the time, helps when he can. That boy's learnin' too durned fast!"

Later, Matty asked Wat, "Is it a smith you're goin' to be? Mr. Fenton says you are pickin' it up an' rarely fast."

"No, ma'am. I don't figure to be no blacksmith, but every man should have him a trade, something to fall back on in time of need."

"What do you really want to be?" Mary asked.

Wat flushed and looked down at his plate. "I'd like to write stories like that Sir Walter Scott you read from."

"It's hard work, Wat, and very few writers make a good living."

"That Sir Walter Scott did. Temple Boone said he did mighty well."

"Temple Boone told you that?" She was surprised.

"It's true, ain't it?"

"Yes, it is. He was a very popular writer. So were Charles d.i.c.kens and William Shakespeare. They all did very well."

She paused. "How did Mr. Boone happen to tell you that?"

"He was readin' him. He was reading a book by Sir Walter Scott. He was slow at it, he said, but he was going to get better and read faster. He said a man could be anything he wants to be if he'll just try hard enough."

"And what does Mr. Boone want to be?"

Wat looked at her slyly. "He'll most likely tell you hisself when he gets around to it."

She exchanged a look with Matty. "We can all improve ourselves, Wat. In these days, with books so easily had, there's no reason for anyone not to have an education. And if you want to be a writer, you should be reading a lot and not just the sort of thing you wish to write but other things as well."

After Wat had returned to the stable, Matty said, "He's a fine upstanding man, mum. Mr. Boone is a man any girl might set her cap for."

"It is too soon for me to think of that, Matty. I was very much in love with Marshall, and he's never far from my thoughts. Anyway, I must go back to Virginia when the war is over. After all, my home is there, and Peg's future."

"I've been wonderin' about that, mum. You gettin' more western all the time. You've changed, mum, whether you recognize it or not."

"Maybe."

"And there's that nice Mr. Stacy. He's a good man, too, with a good job, and he's one who will do well. Folks talk of buildin' a railroad west after the war, and they say he's mixed up with it somehow."

She straightened up from the washboard where she had been washing clothes. "What I like about this country is that n.o.body thinks anything is too big or too hard. If they want to do something, they just take it for granted they can do it, and then they just naturally go ahead."

She scrubbed for a few minutes and then said, "Although Mr. Boone says, and I think he's right, that the railroads will change the country for the worse. They'll make it richer, but the people will be different.

"Now it takes them a while to get here, and they hear a lot of talk and pick up a certain way of thinking. Western folks have standards. They have a certain way of behaving toward women and toward each other, and when they make a deal, their word is enough.

"When the railroads get in, Mr. Boone thinks that will change. A lot of people will be coming West with different ways and ideas. He may be right. I met some people back East I wouldn't want to see out here."

"But all of us came from back East!"

"Yes, mum, we did, but the West has a way of weeding out the bad ones, or they don't last. There's a few, like Scant Luther, but mighty few.

"That outlaw Johnny Havalik, the one who gave his boots to Wat, they say he'd never rob a woman. He'd stop a stage and take the money from everybody else but never from a woman."

When she had finished ironing and folding the clothes, Mary Breydon walked outside. There was a feeling of change in the air, the first touch of spring, probably, although it was a bit early for that.

She stood looking down the valley. How quickly one forgot! She could hardly believe there was a war on and that people whom she knew were fighting and dying. It all seemed so far from here, as though it were another world, yet there was a difference, and it was not only in the air.

Everybody who came West was coming to build, some to build in the West, some merely to get rich and get out, but all were intending to do great things, to grow, to achieve. She heard the talk of the stage pa.s.sengers while they were eating. None of them seemed to have any doubts; none of them seemed worried by Indians, by deserts, mountains, or the wilderness.

This was their land of Canaan, the land where dreams came true, but here there was a difference, for each one of them seemed sure that he had to make the dreams come true, that it would be the result of something he did.

Peg came out and stood beside her. "It's nice, isn't it, mama?"

"Yes, it is, Peg."

How long before the war was over? How long before they could think of returning? And what about Peg? Her memories would be of Cherokee Station, and when she looked back, it would be at these quiet hills, at these weather-worn buildings, at memories of Matty, Wat, and Mr. Boone.

Peg had been too young. She could scarcely be expected to remember the parties, the b.a.l.l.s, the beautifully dressed people, the music and the house with its white columns and its vine-covered walls. She would have no memories of the smartly trotting horses bringing the black, varnished carriages to their door and the people getting down from them and her father welcoming them at the door.

All in the past, and they were her memories, not Peg's.

"Matty?" The Irish girl had come to the door to throw out some water. "We must find that land, file claims for ourselves. When the war is over, there will be thousands of people coming West, all wanting land."

"Yes, mum, I'd like a bit of land, a place with trees and a stream."

"Maybe we should look further west? In the mountains?"

"It's like the rest of them, mum. No matter where you are, there is always something else that might be better, just a little further west."

"It was true, of course. Wandering got into the blood, and there were always those greener pastures that lay over the fence or over the next range of mountains.

Here all was strange and new yet somehow familiar. Western men and women had little time for contemplation, although Temple Boone said he did most of his thinking alongside a campfire or when riding. Western men were thinking of how things could be done; they were used to making do. Since coming to Cherokee, she had heard several stories of men alone who had set their own broken bones, amputated limbs, doing what could be done to survive. Only a few miles away, two sisters had built their own log cabin.

Yet she was hungry for news from home. There were few letters, but newspapers were occasionally left at the station, and a couple of men had left books. She listened hungrily to the talk among the pa.s.sengers. So much was happening in the world, and she heard so little of it.

Back home, there would be talk, much of it idle chatter, of course, but there would be talk of government and policy, of art, music, and books, of what was happening in Europe and occasionally even in Asia or Africa.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow had just published Tales of a Wayside Inn, Jules Verne had written Five Weeks in a Balloon, and George Eliot had published Romola. In Paris, Bizet had a new opera, Les Pecheurs, and people back East and even out here were singing "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" and "Clementine." A man in New York had invented something they called roller skates that had little rubber wheels instead of blades. A French firm had begun selling Perrier water bottled at a spring near Nimes.

An American writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne, had died, and so had the French artist Delacroix. U.S. Grant had been made commander in chief of the Union armies. Mary had never heard of him until some victories were won in the West. He had never been considered among the great generals, like Meade or McClellan. Someone on one of the stages had said that he and Lee had served together in the war with Mexico.

"We're so far from everything!" she spoke suddenly, impatiently. "We're missing so much, Matty!"

"Yes, mum, but look about you. We are where so much is happening and where so much is about to happen. I think we are fortunate, mum, because we are among the first. If we look about us, I think we can both become rich women, and I do not mean by simply marrying some man who has it."

She gestured westward. "They are finding gold and silver in the mountains, mum. There was a man stopped by the other mornin', a man with a horse and two donkeys, and he was headed west, worried about food supplies and blastin' powder, mum."

She twisted the water from a towel. "I grubstaked him, mum."

"You did what?"