The Fraidy Cat: A Story for Children

by Rich Ritter

My name is Tina, and I want to tell you a story about my cat, Smokey. Sadly, I’m a grownup now, and we buried Smokey beneath the boughs of a giant spruce tree by the beach a long time ago. But when I was seven-years-old and could still talk to the animals who lived near my house, they told me this story. When I think of the story now, it seems too fantastical to believe. But I know in my heart that the story is true because the ravens told me it really happened. As did the squirrel. And the pudgy little mouse who lived in the woodpile. I’ve never shared the story with anyone. You will be the first. I really hope you like the story, but more importantly, I hope you believe it as much as I do, because the animals told me it was true.

♦    ♦    ♦

Smokey was a fraidy cat. He was afraid of the vacuum cleaner. He was afraid of the water sound in the shower. He was afraid of the barking dogs that lived in the house tucked into the hillside across the road. He was afraid of the screeching eagles who used razor-sharp talons to snag salmon in the channel. He was afraid of snow when it fell off the roof and thumped on the ground below. But mostly, he was afraid to go into the dark forest that surrounded the house. He tried it once, a few years ago, but that was the last time.

But, surprisingly, Smokey was not without friends. Sometimes, when the sun shined, which was not often, he found the courage to venture onto the deck that overlooked the beach below. His best friend, Squeaky Squirrel, often visited him when he did this, and usually brought his best spruce cone to share, even though Smokey only pretended to eat it. Two glossy black ravens, named Big Raven and Smaller Raven, often glimpsed the activity on the deck and swooped down to join the fun. And a pudgy little mouse, whose name was Pudgy Little Mouse, upon hearing the flapping wings of the ravens and the chattering of the squirrel, usually scurried up from her nest in the wood pile on the beach to hear the gossip of the day. If the meeting took place during the summer, a pair of Rufous Hummingbirds, who preferred to be called Mr. and Mrs. Hummer (rather than Mr. and Mrs. Rufous), often hovered over the activity on the deck as long as they could before darting off to find a nice flower with lots of nectar or, better yet, a sparkling hummingbird feeder with fresh sugar water.

One Friday afternoon, during a period of overcast skies and light rain, Squeaky chirped to the ravens in his squeaky little voice, “It is a shame that Smokey is such a fraidy cat and will never join us in for a walk in the forest or a picnic on the beach. It is truly a shame. I wish we could do something about it.”

Big Raven said, “I agree. We should help Smokey to not be a fraidy cat.”

Smaller Raven said, “A walk in the forest does not interest me, but I do love a picnic on the beach, especially on a nice day.” She tilted her head. “As far as I can tell, Smokey has been a fraidy cat forever. What could we possibly do to help him?”

Squeaky’s bushy tail vibrated a few dozen times and he chirped, “I would also like to invite Smokey to my nest so that I can show him where I live and give him more spruce cones to eat, but he is such a fraidy cat I don’t see how we could ever help him to not be a fraidy cat.”

The three were pondering and discussing how to help Smokey, when Pudgy Little Mouse arrived. She listened for a while, then suggested, “What if we asked Smokey to go down to the beach to do something very important, something that only he could do? Something that would prove to him and everyone else that he is not a fraidy cat?”

No one had really noticed, but Mrs. Hummer had arrived and was hovering above the meeting and only buzzing a little when she moved about. She chose to listen instead of saying anything because hovering took a lot of energy all by itself.

Squeaky, intrigued but not convinced, asked, “Like what? Smokey would never go down to the beach because he’s terrified of the eagles. Whenever we’re visiting on the deck and an eagle screeches nearby, he disappears into the house in the blink of an eye, which is a very short time for a squirrel.”

Big Raven, who was known for his cleverness, felt a clever idea pop inside his small but impressive brain. “I think you’ve given me a clever idea, if I don’t mind saying so myself. He’s afraid of eagles, so let’s work with that idea. Did you know I can mimic an eagle’s screech? Even the eagles think I’m an eagle when I do it. Would you like to hear it?”

Squeaky, who was not terribly fond of eagles himself, shuddered at the thought. “No thanks for me. I’ll take your word for it. What is your clever idea, and why do I care if you can shriek like an eagle?”

Big Raven cocked his head in a raven sort of way and smiled, although it’s hard to imagine how a beak can smile. “What do you think of this? Let’s tell Smokey that Pudgy Little Mouse must travel a great distance along the beach to visit her sick mother. Let’s tell him that he’s the only one who can take Pudgy, and that he has to do it right away because Pudgy’s mother is very sick indeed.”

Smaller Raven frowned, although it is also hard to imagine how a beak can frown. “Smokey would never go down to the beach. He’s a fraidy cat, and he’s afraid of eagles. Remember? And what exactly is it that Pudgy Little Mouse’s mother is sick of?”

Pudgy Little Mouse squeaked, “But my mother’s not sick.”

Big Raven said, “That’s not the point.”

Squeaky asked, “Then what is the point?”

Mrs. Hummer finally spoke. “I agree with Squeaky. What is the point?”

Big Raven reminded everyone, “The point is I can make a sound like an eagle. Are you sure you don’t want to hear it? It’s really scary. Even the eagles—”

Squeaky interrupted, “No thanks. I already told you I would pass.”

Smaller Raven said, “I’ve heard it, and it is very realistic.”

The discussion raged on for nearly an hour—in squirrel time that is—until the friends finally hammered out a plan. Although everyone agreed that the plan was not perfect, they also agreed that it was better to execute a pretty good plan sooner rather than a really perfect plan later. The plan would require the following steps:

Tell Smokey that Pudgy Little Mouse’s mother is very sick, and might die of whatever it is she is sick of any time now.

Tell Smokey that Pudgy Little Mouse would like to visit her mother as soon as possible, just in case she dies of whatever it is she is sick of.

Convince Smokey that he is the only one with enough speed and agility to safely deliver Pudgy Little Mouse to the home of her sick mother, who lives in a hollow log quite far down the beach.

Explain to Smokey that it should be a perfectly safe trip because the eagles have likely flown north to look for salmon by the river. No one really knew if this was true or not, but it was an important part of the plan to convince Smokey to make the trip.

When Smokey carries Pudgy Little Mouse on his back to see her sick mother, Big Raven will fly out of the forest and swoop down on Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse and make his eagle screeching sound—which he has promised is quite amazing and even the eagles think he’s an eagle when he does it—to make Smokey think he is in real danger when actually he is not.

After Smokey completes this incredible journey with Pudgy Little Mouse, everyone will tell him how brave he is and he will finally realize that he is not a fraidy cat after all. Then everyone can celebrate with a picnic on the beach, because Smaller Raven is not interested in a walk in the forest.

There you have it. Not a perfect plan, but likely good enough.

A few days later, when Smokey had dared to venture onto the deck to find a nice sun spot next to one of the white plastic chairs spaced around the white plastic table, Squeaky jumped from a nearby tree branch to the top of the railing right above Smokey.

Squeaky said, “Good morning Smokey. Nice day to lounge on the deck. Not too hot, and a little breeze to rustle the trees. And I see that you’ve found a nice sun spot!”

Initially startled, Smokey said, “Yes, it is. And I have found a nice sun spot. But for some reason that I do not understand, these sun spots never stay in the same spot for long. I may have to move to a different sun spot in a while. One can never predict what will happen.”

Squeaky waited a few seconds before speaking again. “I heard that Pudgy Little Mouse’s mother is very sick.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Actually, I heard that she’s so sick that she could die any time. I also heard that Pudgy Little Mouse would like to visit her, before her mother might die from whatever it is she is sick of, but Pudgy is very sad because she has no way to get there.”

Smokey licked his paw and used it to clean his face (although one could argue that he was merely coating his face with cat spit). “Why doesn’t she have any way to get there? Can’t she just walk along the beach like everyone else?” Smokey was not really sure how everyone else walked along the beach, but he thought it was a good suggestion.

Squeaky said, “Because she lives a long way from here in a hollow log on the beach, and it is too far for Pudgy Little Mouse to walk because she is…that is to say…she is…sort of…well, pudgy. I suppose Pudgy could try to lose some weight to make the trip possible, but who knows how long that would take. And then what would we call her? Little Mouse just doesn’t have the same ring to it, if you ask my opinion.”

Smokey stretched in the nice sun spot and then rolled slightly to track the movement of the sun (although he had not yet figured out why the sun moved). “Why don’t you ask Big Raven to fly her there? I’ve seen Big Raven carry a bag of French fries all the way to his nest without dropping a single fry. And I’m pretty sure Pudgy Little Mouse does not weigh more than a bag of fries, even if she is sort of pudgy.”

Squeaky flicked his tail. “I thought of that myself (although he really hadn’t and had to think fast). But what if Big Raven accidentally dropped Pudgy Little Mouse and she landed nose-first on a sharp rock? You claim he’s never dropped a single fry, but what if he has and you just weren’t around to see it? After all, you don’t get out all that often.”

Smokey said. “If Pudgy landed on her bottom in a skunk cabbage she would probably survive. But I see your point about a sharp rock, especially if she landed nose-first.”

Squeaky rubbed his chin. “What if you took Pudgy Little Mouse to visit her sick mother before she dies of whatever it is she is sick of?”

Smokey twitched. “Me? You’re asking me to take Pudgy Little Mouse to see her mother?”

“Yes, I’m asking you.”

“Are you sure her mother is really sick?”

“Yes, she is very sick, and as I have explained to you, she might die very soon of whatever it is she is sick of.”

“But that would mean walking through the dark forest to the beach and traveling out in the open a long way from the safety of my home where the eagles fly down and snatch fish from the water with their sharp talons. Have you ever seen the eagles snatch fish with their sharp talons? It is a horrific sight to be sure. There is no way I can do it. It already gives me the shivers to even think about it.”

Squeaky ignored the part about the horrific sight of sharp talons. “But if you don’t take Pudgy Little Mouse to visit her sick mother, then how is she going to get there? And if Pudgy’s mother dies while she is trying to lose weight, then what?

Smokey gulped hard. “But the eagles…and the sharp talons…and…and…”

Squeaky grinned a sly little squirrel grin, but it was hard to see because it only lasted the blink of a squirrel eye, which is even shorter than the blink of a cat eye, which is even shorter than the blink of a— “I think they’ve all flown north to look for salmon by the river. I’m nearly sure of it. I even asked the ravens about this and they are pretty sure of it too, because they keep track of these kinds of things. The eagles shouldn’t be any problem at all.”

“What if they come back?”

“They won’t come back.”

“What about bears?”

Squeaky said, “Bears? What kind of bears? I thought you were only terrified of eagles. I didn’t know you were afraid of bears too.”

“What about the dogs? I can hear them barking across the road. What if they run across the road and go down to the beach right when I’m taking Pudgy Little Mouse to see her sick mother?”

Squirrel sighed. “Oh, for goodness sakes. Are you going to help Pudgy Little Mouse visit her sick mother before she dies or not? You have to decide.”

“Can I just pretend we never talked?”

Squeaky patted his hind foot on the railing a few dozen times. “No, you cannot. Will you help Pudgy Little Mouse or not?”

Faced with this choice, Smokey felt he had no choice, which was not really true, because one always has a choice. To avoid any danger, all he had to do was to decide to do nothing, which was in fact one of the possible choices. But doing nothing created other problems. For example, doing nothing might be seen by his other friends as cowardice, or worse, apathy. “Can I think about it for a few weeks?”

Squeaky crossed his arms and frowned. “No. You can think about it for about 10 seconds, because if you think any longer you might hurt yourself.”

Smokey decided to go with his cat gut, which had served him quite well in the past. “Alright. I’ll do it. But I’m already thinking about the eagles. And the dogs too. Oh, and don’t forget the bears.”

Squeaky clapped his tiny paws. “Fantastic. I knew you’d come through! Pudgy Little Mouse will be so happy.”

Immediately regretting his decision, Smokey sighed. “Now that I’ve made this stupid decision, what’s next?”

“Meet us on the beach, tomorrow morning after dawn, down by the tree where the dog’s ashes are buried, by the little stone shaped like a heart. You can’t miss it.”

Startled by the thought of going down to the beach in broad daylight, Smokey coughed up a hair ball. Still searching for an excuse to avoid the task, he asked, “What if the butler or the maid are not awake to open the door?” This was not really a good excuse because Smokey had never asked either one of them to open the door in the past, although he had thought about it a few times just to test their loyalty.

Squeaky winked. “That’s easy. Use the cat door, the one you’ve only used once, or maybe twice. I can show you where it is if you don’t remember. I’m pretty sure the ravens can show you where it is too.”

Smokey plopped down on his white paws. “I guess I’ll see everyone down on the beach tomorrow morning.” A blurry image of sharp, snatching talons immediately flashed across his vision, followed by two dogs and a bear.

Squeaky chirped, “Pudgy Little Mouse will be so happy! Don’t be late.”

♦    ♦    ♦

The next morning broke cool and sunny. It took Smokey a few minutes to find the courage to force himself through the cat door (which was a bit tight because he had gained a little weight since the last time he’d used it), then a few minutes more to overcome his fear and walk to the edge of the dark forest, then even a few more minutes to ignore the little voice screaming in his cat brain to turn back or die, then one minute more to trot down the trail to the beach. When he finally arrived, everyone was waiting for him—except Big Raven, which seemed odd.

Smokey tried his best to speak without showing any fear. “Where’s Big Raven? I thought everyone was going to meet me here?”

Smaller Raven offered a near-truthful explanation, which she figured was not wrong given the plan everyone had agreed to. “He had a little errand to run, or should I say fly, and couldn’t join us this morning. He sends his regrets.”

Squeaky quickly changed the subject. “Ready to take Pudgy Little Mouse to see her mother? I know she’s eager to get started.”

Pudgy Little Mouse flicked her long mouse tail. “I can hardly wait. I’m ready to go.” Then she added, a bit too dramatically, “…to see my very sick mother before she might die of whatever it is she is sick of very soon.”

Smokey attempted one last excuse to avoid the trip. “How am I supposed to carry Pudgy Little Mouse to see her mother? I have no way to hold her and run at the same time.” Feeling a shiver crawl up his back when he thought of the eagles, he added, “Maybe we should rethink this whole idea before someone gets hurt, or worse.”

Pudgy Little Mouse scurried onto Smokey’s back and grabbed the fur behind his ears with both little paws. “No worries. I’ll hang on tight. You’ll see.”

Smokey sighed because he had run out of excuses. Crestfallen, he said, “Then I guess there’s nothing stopping us now,” and he finished the rest of the sentence in his cat brain so that no one could hear: from running down the beach in broad daylight where an eagle will snatch the both of us with sharp talons and tear us to shreds with its sharp beak before feeding us to an eaglet, or maybe two eaglets.

Squeaky jumped and waved. “Time to go! Have a safe trip!”

Mr. and Mrs. Hummer buzzed their excitement.

Smaller Raven squawked, “Yes, time to go! We’ll be waiting for you when you return!”

With all of his friends now waving goodbye, and a cloud of gloom settling just above his ears (although only Smokey could see it), he took a deep breath and started off. At first, with the sun warming his whiskers and the fresh sea smells tickling his nose, he began to think this wasn’t all that bad. He heard the sounds of seagulls in the distance, which at first alarmed him, but then he decided that he liked the sounds of seagulls. Something rustled in the trees to the left, but it turned out to be a small porcupine climbing up a tree. The waves surged gently to the right, which was also a soothing sound that helped Smokey relax a little. The sun shimmered pleasantly off the wet rocks at the water’s edge.

Pudgy Little Mouse announced, on cue, because she knew Big Raven was about to make his grand entrance, “Hey, this isn’t so bad after all. All that worry about eagles and there’s not one to be found anywhere. We should make this trip to see my mother again sometime.”

At that moment, when Pudgy had finished her announcement, an ominous shadow crossed Smokey’s path. Then, to his complete horror, an eagle screeched directly above.

Pudgy Little Mouse exclaimed, also on cue, “Oh, my goodness. It’s an eagle! Run Smokey, run!” But at the time, Pudgy Little Mouse thought to herself: Wow, Big Raven really can screech like an Eagle. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that was a real—

Smokey did not look up because he was too afraid to look up. The piercing sound of the eagle was enough to nearly double his heart rate, which was already pretty high, and he instantly began running as fast as he could. The ominous shadow followed Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse and began growing larger. The eagle screeched a second time and the sound was closer than before.

Pudgy Little Mouse rolled onto her back and looked up. She thought to herself: I must say that I’m impressed. Not only does Big Raven sound like an eagle, he also looks like one. Then her heart rate nearly doubled. She reached back and began steering Smokey by pulling the fur behind Smokey’s ears left and right. She screamed, “Smokey, run faster and turn when I pull on your fur!” She pulled and Smokey zigged right. He pulled again and Smokey zagged left. The eagle swooped down and barely missed snatching Pudgy Little Mouse right off Smokey’s back. The eagle circled around and began a second run. The eagle screeched again and dived at Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse. Pudgy yanked the fur behind both ears and Smokey immediately stopped in a shower of black sand, causing the eagle to miss by a cat whisker. Pudgy pushed Smokey’s ears forward and he raced ahead again.

The screeching eagle attempted to snatch Pudgy Little Mouse and Smokey three more times, but each time Pudgy managed to steer Smokey away from danger, especially since Smokey was now running and darting as fast as a cheetah. After using a lot of energy without catching anything to eat, the eagle gave up and flew away. Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse arrived safely at her mother’s home in the hollow log, and she served them tea in tiny little cups and tiny little crumpets with marmalade while they rested from the ordeal of the screeching eagle with the sharp talons. Although exhausted from the ordeal, Smokey was pleased to find that Pudgy’s mother had apparently recovered from her sickness and was doing quite well.

♦    ♦    ♦

About twenty minutes had passed since Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse had departed to see her mother, who was very sick and might die very soon of whatever she was sick of. Smaller Raven, Squeaky Squirrel, and Mr. and Mrs. Hummer were discussing the importance of keeping their clever plan a secret because if Smokey ever found out about the plan he would probably still think of himself as a fraidy cat for the rest of his nine lives.

Squeaky said, “Yes, I agree completely, because if Smokey ever finds out—”

Smaller Raven finished Squeaky’s sentence, “…about the plan, then all of this work will have been for nothing.”

Mr. and Mrs. Hummer buzzed their agreement enthusiastically.

Squirrel opened his mouth to say something very important, but then did not say anything. Instead, his mouth opened even wider and stayed open because Big Raven swooped down and landed in the middle of the discussion.

Big Raven stretched his wings and settled into a majestic pose. “Sorry I’m late, but on my way here I happened upon a bag of French fries sitting on a picnic table next to a burger and milkshake and got distracted. Although I tried, I could not help myself. Did Smokey and Pudgy Little Mouse already leave?”

♦    ♦    ♦

Because of his friends’ clever plan, which everyone admitted turned out a little differently than anticipated, no one ever again thought of Smokey as a fraidy cat. From that day forward, he was known by all the forest animals, including the dogs who lived across the road, as Smokey the Lionhearted. And Smokey learned an important lesson too. He learned that courage is not the absence of fear; it is instead taking action is spite of fear. Smokey never forgot this lesson, even though he did still hide behind the curtains when the butler started up the vacuum cleaner.

THE END

Rich Ritter at Amazon

Rich Ritter at Author Masterminds

For my readers in Russia

The fifth chapter of The Perilous Journey Begins, the first book of Nor Things to Come: A Trilogy of the American West.

Chapter Five

Sitka, Alaska

October 18, 1867

Roshan Kuznetsov, stinking of skinned sea otter and three months of unwashed tromping through the rainforests and waterways of Baranov Island, loitered unreasonably close to the polished double-B-flat tuba. The distorted reflection of his bearded, unwashed face just beneath the flared bell of the tuba amused him, and reminded him that he had once again returned safely from the wilderness of bear and spruce to the booming metropolis of New Archangel. When he tired of playing with his reflection, he switched his attention to the man holding the heavy instrument. He found the dark blue uniform, the odd hat with no flaps for the ears, the golden-fringed epaulets, and polished knee-high black boots quite amusing. Roshan swung behind the man to investigate the neatly-trimmed back of his head, and then continued around to his other side where another man stood at attention brandishing a shiny trombone.

After obeying the earlier command to stand at attention, the tubaist could no longer remain still or silent. He broke ranks to confront Roshan. “Do you mind stepping away, sir? I have to play in a few minutes, and I need the time to catch my breath.”

This surprised Roshan. “I speak of sometime English. Do you speak the Russian?”

This exasperated the tubaist. “I certainly do not. Now please step away.”

Roshan persisted because he had not yet completed his inspection. “You must sorry me, but I still have much to find of your tuba. I must share with you I want to play the tuba when boy, but my parents did have not the wealth to afford of a large thing. There is also problem of finding a tuba for to buy, but is not of the story.”

“Very sad, and I’m very sorry your parents could not afford a tuba, but could you please just move away? Your stench is truly suffocating. I fear I won’t be able to breathe when we begin playing.”

“My stench? What is stench? This is new word I have not to hear.”

The trombonist broke ranks as well, and held his nose while addressing Roshan. “It means you stink. And frankly, my friend, I’ve never smelled such a stink, not even on the farm back in Missouri.”

Roshan grinned. “Yes, I know what is stink. You cannot take the breathing because stink is too good for you. But I do not know the stink—I mean ‘stench’ because I should practice the new English word you have told of me—because I do not smell it any more after many months in the forest looking for the otter pelts.”

The tubaist attempted to regain the conversation. “Yes, I think we have all agreed you stink, so please move away as quickly as possible. I’m beginning to feel light headed for lack of fresh air.”

Roshan nodded agreeably. “Yes, I would please to move, but first you must answer a question of confusion to me.”

The trombonist held his entire hand over his nose. “Yes, yes, but please ask your question quickly. I do not think I will last much longer.”

“Good. Then the question I ask,” Roshan paused to gesture expansively with his arm, “is what is it doing this day in New Archangel, and why do a tuba and a trombone in blue pants and many other instruments I do not understand the names stand in front of the Baranov Castle three months before now stand on this place I am now from the trees?”

The tubaist had hoped for an easy question, but it took him several seconds to sort out the jumble of words. “You haven’t heard? How is this possible?”

Roshan dropped his arm and frowned. “There is something to hear of the possible?”

The trombonist answered on behalf of the tubaist. “This town and all of Alaska belong to the United States of America now. The Russians sold the territory last April, and today is the day we take down the Russian flag and raise the stars and stripes.”

Roshan sputtered, “The stripes of stars?”

The tubaist corrected, “The stars and stripes. The American flag!”

Roshan took off his ushanka and kneaded the soft otter fur between his fingers. “How possible is this? What of my trade of the otter furs if the American stripes are in the air because the Russian flag is not?”

The trombonist began gasping for fresh air. “Listen here. We answered your question, now you’re supposed to step away. That was the deal.”

Roshan took a step back, but the stink persisted. “That is a deal? But I do not this belief it is true. How can Russia sell the all of Alaska? It is too much to understand in a short day.”

The tubaist continued, “Your confusion is not our problem my stinky fellow, now move away like you promised.”

Roshan dropped his chin and walked away, but not because the tubaist and trombonist had told him to. He walked away in disbelief because Russia had sold Alaska. He muttered in Russian, “This is not possible. How could this be? Trapping sea otter has been my life for more than 20 years. What will I do when the Americans are in charge? Will they allow me to continue my work? Will they allow me to stay in New Archangel at all? What if they ask me to leave? What then? What will I do? What will I do?”

Roshan ambled sadly away from Castle Hill, mumbling incessantly of his loss. The sounds of the U.S. Army band playing the Star Spangled Banner echoed off the wood buildings to either side. He glanced back, and the stars and stripes of the American flag fluttered into his view above Baranov’s Castle.  Roshan watched briefly before resuming his mumbling walk.

♦    ♦    ♦

Roshan Kuznetsov, still stinking of skinned sea otter and three months of unwashed tromping through the rainforests and waterways of Baranov Island, marched angrily up the weathered wood steps and across the weathered wood porch into the gable-roofed-wood-sided headquarters of the Russian-American Company to demand answers of Prince Dmitri Petrovich Maksutov, the current and—if the accusations of the tubaist and trombonist were true—last chief manager of the company and last governor of Alaska. A rear admiral in the Russian Imperial Navy, and a hero of the Battle of Sinope in the Crimean War, Prince Maksutov had proved reasonable in past encounters. Roshan prayed that the regrettable events of the last few months had not made him less affable as he passed by the ornate desk with the Prince’s flamboyantly-attired assistant sitting in an equally-flamboyant cushioned chair just behind. The assistant stood immediately and chased Roshan into Maksutov’s office, but failed to stop the determined trapper of otter.

The assistant spoke from behind Roshan. “My deepest apologies sir, but I could not stop this smelly man from entering your office unannounced. He has no appointment.”

Maksutov, balding with luxurious moustache and sideburns framing a naked chin, looked up from a box partially packed with books and papers. “Let Roshan Kuznetsov in. He never has an appointment when he comes here.”

Roshan snatched his ushanka and swept it away in a wide arc as he bowed at the waist; a puff of stench wafted across the Prince’s desk. “Thank you my grace. It is always a pleasure to meet you in your luxurious office.”

Maksutov pressed his hands down on the cluttered desk separating him from Roshan. “Roshan, stop. We both know you want something and take no pleasure in coming here. And, as usual, you smell of dead otter and other smells I can only guess at. Please come to the point before I am suffocated by your presence.”

Roshan restored the stinky ushanka to his unwashed head. “Then I shall move directly to my complaint. I was just told by two very reliable individuals that Russia has sold all of Alaska to the Americans. At first I thought this impossible. Who would be so foolish as to commit an act of such unthinkable stupidity? But then I realized both individuals who stood in front of me were in fact Americans, and what they were telling me could be true. I then said to myself, there is only one way to find out what is the truth: to speak directly to Prince Dmitri Petrovich Maksutov, chief manager of the Russian-American Company and Governor of Alaska. There you have it. This is a summary of my complaint.”

Maksutov gestured toward a large samovar, well maintained but surprisingly unadorned (considering the lofty credentials of its owner), on a table near a tall double-hung window. “Although I hate to suggest a reason for you to reside in my office longer than necessary, would you care for some tea?”

Roshan glanced around until he found a large baroque chair painted in gold. He dragged the chair into position in front of Maksutov’s desk and plopped into the crimson-red cushions. “Yes, I will drink tea while I listen to your answer.”

Maksutov positioned a cup beneath the samovar’s polished spout and opened the valve to pour some hot tea. “Sugar?”

Roshan scooted forward. “You have sugar? I have not tasted sugar for two months. Yes, I will have two spoonfuls of sugar.”

Maksutov balanced the cup on a dainty saucer, handed the tea to Roshan, and sat behind the desk. He picked up some papers then set them down again before speaking. “As I think you know, Roshan, the fur trade is not as good as it used to be. It is costing Mother Russia far more than it is worth to maintain Sitka. It has simply become a very expensive proposition, one which we can no longer afford.”

Roshan gulped some of the overly-sweet tea. “Yes, the otters are not as numerous as they once were, but they will return again soon. I am sure of it.”

“The otters are no longer numerous because of men like you, Roshan.”

“It is my passion to trap the otters. I cannot help it if I am good at it.”

Maksutov leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. “Wishful thinking my friend, but there is another problem you should consider.”

Roshan slurped the last of the tea and set the saucer and cup on top of a pile of documents at the front of Maksutov’s desk. “Are there not problems enough already?”

“The Tsar has larger concerns than either one of us can truly understand or appreciate.”

“Tsar Alexander has concerns of Alaska?”

“Yes. He worries the British may simply take Alaska from Russia without any compensation whatsoever. At least the Americans are willing to pay a lot of money for the privilege to own it. Then they can suffer the cost of maintaining it.”

Roshan slumped in the chair and then sprung to a rigid sitting position. “But if the Americans own Alaska, what of the fur trade?”

Maksutov sighed. “I do not think the Americans have as much interest in otter pelts as we Russians do. But I have heard they are quite interested in gold. Maybe you should consider a change of profession.”

“A change of profession?”

“Yes, it is a thought. I heard there is gold in California. Or you could return to Russia and continue doing whatever it was you were doing before you left.”

Roshan’s arms fell to the sides of the chair. “I was not doing anything before I left Russia because there was nothing for me to do. I could not even find a tuba to play. This is why I travelled to Alaska in the first place.”

“You came to Alaska because you could not play the tuba?”

“No, I came to Alaska because I could not find anything to do in Russia. I just mention the problem with the tuba as one example of the many reasons I left Russia.”

Maksutov pressed his fingers together. “There is an American naval ship sailing for San Francisco early in the morning. I believe it is called the USS Ossipee. If you wish, I could arrange passage for you. Captain Emmons is a personal friend of mine. I will compensate you this afternoon for the pelts you have delivered. This should provide you with more than enough money to begin a new life in California.”

“But where is this California?”

“It is to the south, my friend. And it is very large, possibly larger than Alaska. I doubt you will have any trouble finding it.”

Roshan stood and bowed. “Thank you Prince Dmitri Petrovich Maksutov. I appreciate the advice. But I must take some time to think on it. Such a momentous decision cannot be made in the blink of an eye.”

Maksutov stood as well. “Do not think on it too much, or you will miss the ship and your one chance for easy transport to California. You must let me know of your plans within the hour to allow sufficient time to make proper arrangements with the captain.”

Roshan bowed his head and reached across the desk and shook the hand of the last Governor of Alaska, then abruptly stomped out of the office. When Roshan had exited the building, the flamboyant assistant entered the office and immediately held his nose. He spoke to Maksutov between gasping breaths. “Would you like me to open a window?”

“No, do not open a window. Open them all. And when you have finished, take this chair outside and burn it. I don’t think even the Americans will want it in its current condition.”

The flamboyant assistant cringed. “Do you expect me to touch it?”

Maksutov gazed through the window. “Yes, I expect you to touch it. Now get to work. We still have much packing to finish before we forever leave this unforgiving land.”

♦    ♦    ♦

Roshan Kuznetsov, his back hunched over from the carefully-selected accouterments of his profession he thought might prove useful in the goldfields of California—or which he could not bring himself to part with because of an overwhelming sense of nostalgia—blundered through the muddy, narrow, meandering, log-and-timber-building-rimmed streets of Sitka at 5:27 in the morning on October 19th in the year 1867, a persistent southeasterly blowing dreary mist into his already saturated beard. He paused at an intersection of muddy streets to enjoy one last view of the Russian Orthodox Cathedral of Saint Michael the Archangel, rising magnificently from the mud in horizontal-wood-siding splendor at the end of the lane. He considered the idea of walking into the cathedral to pray for a safe and prosperous trip, but feared the priest might discover him and force him to attend confession. After deciding God did not require an extravagant building with a metal-clad dome and spire to justify a simple prayer, he crossed himself and prayed where he stood:

 “My dearest Lord…especially in difficult times, of which we both agree there have been a few…you know I have sinned…yes, many times…alright, many, many times—more than I can possibly recount from memory standing in the rain and wind at this moment. But even so, I also know you are a forgiving Lord, and that it would please you if I were to experience a safe trip to California—a place I’m sure you know where it is even if I have not heard of it—and then to find only a little wealth after I get there so you would not have to spend as much of your precious time worrying about me.” Roshan adjusted the heavy load weighing down his shoulders before continuing. “And another thing Lord, something I have never shared with you, or anyone else, until this very moment when I am about to depart on a ship to only you know where, but I truly beg your forgiveness for killing so many—”

“So many what?”

Roshan turned and the swerving load of accouterments nearly knocked into the man standing behind him. “Father Dmitri. I did not know you stood right behind me or I would have taken more care when I turned around.”

“Do not worry about it Roshan. So many what?”

“So many what? Oh, yes. So many what, you ask? Why, I was merely talking to myself about something which matters very little now because there are many reasons to not worry about thinking of it ever again.”

“I see. It sounded like you were praying. Maybe we should walk over to the cathedral and I can hear your confession.”

“I would like nothing better than to confess my sins to you this very morning, Father, but unfortunately I am late for the ship that will take me to California, so I must beg your forgiveness and hurry on my way.”

“I see. Then I will pray for a safe trip.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“But as to the wealth, we must both leave it in God’s hands.”

Roshan jumped to raise the load higher on his shoulders. “Why, thank you Father. I did not know you stood next to me for so long.”

“I heard your entire prayer. And Roshan…”

“Yes, Father Dmitri.”

“True wealth is not always what you think.”

“Yes, Father Dmitri.”

“Now on your way, or you will miss the ship and your new adventure in California. And one last thing Roshan.”

“Yes, Father?”

“Take a bath when you find the time. You smell like a rotting beaver.”

“Yes, Father Dmitri. I will.”

After shaking hands with Father Dmitri, Roshan continued his march to the boat yards where he hoped to find the ship named…the ship named…named…well…he could not remember the name of the ship. But, he reasoned as he tromped along, how hard could it be to find a large American ship? When he arrived at the end of a wharf jutting favorably above the incoming tide, he discovered three large ships anchored in the bay. He could not even guess which one had the name he could not remember. Then he realized an important detail: even if he had remembered the name of the ship, he had no way to get out to it anyway. He dumped the load from his back into three separate piles, one for each ship, sat on the largest, and waited. He did not wait long. At precisely 6:00 am, a small boat with seven sailors in blue uniforms and peculiar hats—six oarsmen and one boatswain with an elegantly manicured moustache standing near the bow—arrived below the wharf. Roshan stood, stretched his back, sauntered to the edge of the dock, and peered down on the man with the moustache. The man peered up at Roshan and curved his hands around the moustache to form a small megaphone and yelled:

“Are you Rushing Koozesstough?”

 “No, I am Roshan Kuznetsov. I belief you have heard for the wrong man who is not standing in the here.”

The boatswain removed a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and yelled, “Are you Roshing Kooznetasoov?”

“No, you are still speaking of a person I have no idea.”

The boatswain produced a pair of reading glasses, shoved them on his nose, and read the words on the piece of paper again. “Are your Rooshan Kooznetsove?”

This articulation of Roshan’s name proved close enough. “Yes, I am Roshan Kuznetsov. Why do you ask?”

The boatswain folded the paper and stuffed it into the same pocket. “I have orders to lighter you to the USS Ossipee.”

This delighted Roshan. “You know which ship is the one you just said the name of which I cannot remember?”

“What did you say?”

“You know of the ship?”

The boatswain pointed at a sleek, wood-hulled, three-masted, steam-powered, sloop of war floating serenely in the deeper waters of the bay. “The USS Ossipee is the one in the middle.”

Roshan decided further conversation was not necessary. “Do not worry of more answer than you have said. I bring my things down to beach and we can move in small ship to the one with the name I cannot remember even when Prince Dmitri Petrovich Maksutov told me of it in his office just before today and you told me of it again in the morning.”

The boatswain sent two men to help Roshan transfer his gear into the boat. To everyone’s surprise, they loaded the gear with extraordinary haste. When Roshan had settled into the boat, stinking even more of skinned sea otter and three months of unwashed tromping through the rainforests and waterways of Baranov Island than he had in Maksutov’s office because another full day had passed, the boatswain (a seasoned man of great experience) sucked in an enormous breath of Roshan’s stink and nearly gagged his breakfast over the gunwale. He ordered the six sailors under his command to shove off immediately and then to row as if their lives depended on it. This created a strong breeze which provided temporary relief. After the boat moored alongside the USS Ossipee, the boatswain and the six sailors escorted Roshan and his gear up the narrow ships ladder with astonishing efficiency.

The boatswain quickly issued an order to two of the oarsmen. “Please escort Mr. Rooshin Koosetoss and his gear below decks and find him quarters with the U.S. Army Band.”

When Roshan and his gear and the two oarsmen arrived below decks, the tubaist and the trombonist were playing cards and drinking coffee. The tubaist stiffened and sniffed the air. “Three please. Do you smell something? It smells like the same stink we smelled at the flag ceremony. How is it possible?”

The trombonist dealt three cards from the deck. “Good Lord! It is the same stink. I’ll never forget that smell as long as I live.”

Roshan rushed to the sides of the tubaist and trombonist and slapped his arms around their shoulders, sending a shower of playing cards into the air and spilling cups of coffee across the table. “It is my new friends of America! We see ourselves once again, and I must speak to you I have not forgotten the new English word you told of me at the changing flags to America. The word you are wishing to tell is ‘stench.’ I have stench you do not forget because you live as long as you forget. But I see better news for you than the stink of my stench. Today, I travel with you on the big ship all the way to California, even when I do not know where California have been and I cannot remember the name of ship. We have much time to find many new English words to speak with when my English is the best you can believe.”

The trombonist held his nose, then exclaimed to the tubaist, “Oh lucky day.”

For my Native American friends

The fourth chapter of The Perilous Journey Begins, the first book of Nor Things to Come: A Trilogy of the American West.

Chapter Four

Fort Sedgwick, Colorado Territory

June 1867

Joshua Hotah patted the neck of his faithful appaloosa, then scratched the strong-willed animal along the base of her coarse mane. The horse tried to step away, but he pulled firmly on the leather reins and coaxed the animal back. The horse pondered Joshua’s youthful face. He stroked the animal’s white-and-brown-spotted nose with a delicate motion. The appaloosa exhaled a defiant snort, but she did not step away this time.

“I know you want to leave this place and ride across the open grass, but we must wait outside until the new captain finishes his long conversation with the war general.” The appaloosa appeared to understand Joshua’s soothing words, but shook her head in mock frustration anyway. Joshua stroked the nose more vigorously. “I know. I know. But you must learn patience in your new life. You cannot always ride when you want to and where you want to. Sometimes you must wait a long time inside the sharpened tree walls of the fort until the white man is done with whatever he is doing. The same is true for me.”

Joshua Hotah had acquired the appaloosa from an aging Nez Perce warrior during the waning days of last autumn. At the time, Joshua had need of a new horse and the Nez Perce had need of a new rifle. Joshua traded a Sharps military carbine— converted to use the new .50-70 Government metallic cartridge—and thirty-seven rounds of ammunition for the spirited animal. Before the negotiations began, he concealed his Henry repeating rifle some distance away beneath a prickly yellowing bush to avoid any distractions. He preferred the range and accuracy of his Sharps, but had decided a repeater might provide more utility in his current occupation. The Nez Perce tried to barter the saddle and beaded bridle for more ammunition, but Joshua finally convinced him that he had given every last cartridge and might have to ride many days to find more. The Nez Perce chuckled at the conclusion of the transaction. Before pulling his horse around to gallop away, he declared: “I hope you are a very good rider, Joshua Hotah.” Joshua answered back: “Do not worry about me old man,” before he confidently mounted his new horse. The feisty appaloosa waited until Joshua relaxed, then instantly spun around and bucked him to the ground. Astonishingly, the animal did not run away, but instead contemplated his new “master” with a bemused look. Joshua brushed himself off and limped back to the defiant animal. His remarkable friendship with the appaloosa began at this moment.

Excerpt from A Glorious History of the American West

by Muireall Anne Ravenscroft

The Horse and the Indian: A New Way of Life

Although there is significant evidence that the ancestors of the modern horse thrived in both North and South America during prehistoric times, and that at some point these resilient animals migrated from North America to the eastern regions of Asia across an Arctic land bridge, horses nonetheless vanished inexplicably from the New World around 8,000 B.C. When the Spanish Conquistador Hernan Cortez first set foot on the Yucatan Peninsula in 1519, the horse was effectively reintroduced to the continent. The Mayans who inhabited the lands of the peninsula had never seen these magnificent animals before and, understandably, initially perceived the combination of horse and Spanish rider as a strange new entity beast. The Mayans, and later the Aztecs and Incas, learned to fear the mounted soldier during the bloody conquest of the peninsula, Mexico, and Central America.

King Charles V established the first Viceroyalty of New Spain in 1535 (a few years after the conquest of the Incas in 1532) to govern the new colonial territories in North and Central America. By the time Spanish rule of New Spain ended in 1821 this vast colonial empire extended south to Guatemala and north into the southwestern United States including the modern-day states of California, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. The capital of New Spain was located in Mexico City. The second Viceroyalty of Peru was established in 1542 and originally controlled most of South America from its capital city of Lima. The third Viceroyalty of New Granada was established in 1717 and primarily governed areas now encompassing Panama, Columbia, Ecuador, and Venezuela. The fourth and final Viceroyalty of the Rio De La Plata was formed in 1776, the same year as American Independence, and roughly bounded the countries of Argentina, Bolivia, Paraguay, and Uruguay, with Buenos Aires as the capital.

After initial explorations north of Mexico by the Franciscan monk Marco Di Niza suggested the possibility of great riches, the Spanish Conquistador Francisco Vasquez de Coronado led a major expedition into what is now western New Mexico. His advance guard reached (and then captured by storm) the primary Zuni city (called a pueblo by the Spanish) in northwest New Mexico in July of 1540. Coronado sent exploration parties in every direction and discovered a rich and populous region with twelve pueblos and around 8,000 inhabitants. After a brief period of peace and cooperation, the Pueblo Indians reacted with hostility and resistance to the capricious behavior of the Spanish. This in turn led to horrific reprisals including the burning of 100 Indians at the stake and the slaughter of hundreds more. The subsequent years brought more expeditions, continued hostilities, the construction of numerous Catholic churches, and the baptizing of thousands of Pueblo Indians. By 1630 approximately 50 friars provided religious services to 60,000 Indians in over 90 pueblos, including a small but wild Apache contingent in the eastern plains.

The year 1680 marked a calamitous turning point for both the Spanish and Pueblo Indians. Inspired by the leadership of Pope, a chief from the pueblo of San Juan in northern New Mexico, the Pueblo Indians mounted a widespread and coordinated uprising and in the process killed over 400 Spaniards, including 21 missionaries, and temporarily drove the Spanish from their lands. The Pueblos also destroyed every mission including all records and furnishings. As the uprising raged on and the Spanish retreated in chaos, thousands of Spanish horses were released into the wild and migrated north. Because of their farming culture, the Pueblos had more interest in sheep than horses and did not act quickly enough to capture them in significant numbers, but the Comanche Indians to the east and the Utes to the north embraced the new animal. The Spanish horses continued to move north on both sides of the continental divide during the following decades and found the Shoshone by 1700, the Pawnee by 1720, the Nez Perce by 1730, the Crow and Blackfeet by 1740, the Cheyenne and Sioux by 1770, and had even travelled into northern California by 1775. Although the arrival of horses did not fundamentally change the hunter-gatherer lifestyle of the Indians, they did provide new and unimagined freedom over the vast distances of the west, thereby allowing the practice of a truly effective nomadic culture for the first time. And not only did the Indians conquer distance and time with the assistance of the magnificent horse, they also transformed themselves into superb riders and hunters of the great buffalo herds and legendary warriors, all within a handful of generations.

The appaloosa, a spotted horse possibly derived from the Spanish Andalusian breed, deserves special mention. The Nez Perce Indians of Washington, Oregon, and Idaho was possibly the only tribe to consciously and selectively breed horses for strength, speed, courage, intelligence, and the quality of the spotted markings. As such, the appaloosa was highly regarded and sought after by other tribes of the plains. These capable and strong-willed animals served the Nez Perce well until the very end when in 1877, under the leadership of Chief Joseph, the last free Nez Perce surrendered to the U.S. Cavalry after an implausible 1,400 mile fighting retreat through what many thought was impassable terrain. The appaloosa horses were taken from the proud Nez Perce and distributed amongst white settlers, and the purity of the breed was forever diminished.

John Ravenscroft slurped tomato soup from an oversized spoon as he read to the end of the paragraph about Chief Joseph and the appaloosa horses and the U.S. Cavalry. He licked the spoon clean and nestled it to the side of the saucer below the curved porcelain bowl then set the page down next to his wine glass. When he raised his eyes from the manuscript they instantly found Muireall’s. “Not bad. Not bad at all. As a matter of fact, pretty interesting.”

Muireall slurped a spoonful of tomato soup. “Thank you.”

“Where’d you find this stuff? I’ve never heard about any of it.”

“In magazines. In books I purchased at that cute little bookstore in San Francisco last year. In the California Polytechnic School library. At the San Luis Obispo Carnegie Library. Other sources I can’t remember without checking the bibliography.”

“Impressive. And if I understand this section correctly, the horse began in North America, crossed over some sort of land bridge into Asia before disappearing from the American continent for reasons we don’t know, migrated west to Spain, boarded a ship with Cortez, crossed the Atlantic Ocean to the Yucatan Peninsula, travelled to Mexico with the Conquistadors, then journeyed back to North America with Coronado after an absence of around 9,000 years when a Pueblo Indian named Pope sent the Spanish packing.”

Muireall sighed. “Sounds about right, although you have condensed four pages and two days of hard work into an extemporaneous outburst of less than 100 words. I’m the one who should be impressed—with your gift of brevity.”

♦    ♦    ♦

Captain Ethan Plantagenet of the U.S. 2nd Cavalry stared blankly across the polished oak table, the only furniture in the room not covered with a thin film of dust, into the stoic face of General William Tecumseh Sherman. He generally found Sherman an honorable man, but occasionally struggled with the infamous “March to the Sea” of 1864. But then he reminded himself of his promise to set aside all such concerns in support of his rejuvenated career in the army, the only occupation that had ever provided him with true passion and commitment. He had tried shop keeping following the war, but after a drunken night of intense self-pity and a failed suicide he had sought out the military again the next morning. Distracted by these thoughts, and unsettled by the memory of the nearly-successful suicide, he did not choose his next words with care. “General…I think it ill advised to assign a Sioux half-breed to my company for what should be a straightforward mission. Frankly sir, I have not found any reason to trust them.”

General Sherman maintained the clarity of his calmly indifferent expression. “You mean to say…you are not willing to trust them.” Sherman lighted a cigar—recently imported from Saint Louis—and puffed a compact haze of smoke above the table. “Joshua Hotah is a superb Indian scout. His horsemanship is unsurpassed. He reads the trail with great skill. He is a better rifle marksman than any of the ragtag immigrants in your unit. He speaks both English and Sioux fluently, and a little Cheyenne and Nez Perce as well. He may speak other Indian dialects I am not aware of. I would not hesitate to trust him with my life in this savage wilderness.”

Ethan shifted his weight and squeezed a pair of white cavalry gloves behind his back. “And which half do you suggest I trust, sir—the white or the red?”

Sherman released his stoic countenance with a brief smile. “I see your problem.” He paused again to enjoy a long draw from the cigar. “An excellent cigar. Would you like one before you leave?”

Ethan shifted his weight again. “No sir. I don’t smoke.”

“A habit you should consider taking up. Nothing like a good cigar to break the tension of the moment.” Sherman lowered the cigar to admire it. “And which half do you suggest I trust, Captain Plantagenet—the gray or the blue?”

Ethan felt the sting of this question. “I assure you sir, that you have my full and uncompromising loyalty. The war is over for me.”

Sherman chewed on the cigar. “I know I do son, and I honestly have no doubt of it. But I assure you as well that you can trust Joshua Hotah with your life. Do we have an understanding?”

Ethan considered his next words more discreetly. He thought of pushing the argument a bit more, but then reconsidered. “Yes sir, we do.”

“Good. Then listen carefully. Lieutenant Colonel Custer and over one-thousand men of the Seventh Cavalry departed Fort Hays nearly a month ago to quell some Indian uprisings near the Platte River. According to information I have just received, the regiment is encamped at the forks of the Republican River, about 90 miles southeast from here. I have a critical communiqué that must be delivered to Custer as soon as possible. I have placed the message in this envelope.” Sherman slid the envelope, secured with his personal wax seal, across the polished table. “You alone are to carry the message. You alone are to personally deliver the envelope directly to Custer. Do not allow anyone to take the envelope from you and do not ask anyone to deliver the message on your behalf. Are these instructions clear?”

Ethan wrested the envelope from beneath Sherman’s tobacco-stained fingers and then deposited it into a black leather pouch slung at his side. “Yes sir, your instructions are quite clear.”

Sherman flicked a large cylinder of grayed ash from the end of the cigar. Ethan watched the ash float down and puff off the edge of the formerly pristine table. “Then you are to leave immediately. Take as many men from your company as you see fit, but I want you to leave the fort within two hours. Any questions?”

“No sir, none.”

“Then on your way. And take a cigar with you.” Sherman opened a leather box and presented it to Ethan. “You might change your mind.”

Without a hint of indecision, Ethan selected one of the cigars. “Thank you, sir.”

“And Captain…”

“Yes sir?”

“Don’t forget to take Joshua Hotah with you.”

“No sir.” Ethan shoved the cigar into the pouch next to the letter, saluted smartly, pivoted cleanly, and strode briskly from the office. When he had passed though the heavy wood door and crossed the covered porch at the front of the building, he found Joshua Hotah standing beyond the margin of the roof’s shadow and stroking an unusual spotted horse. He addressed him directly. “Are you the half-breed they call Joshua Hotah?”

Joshua looked up from his appaloosa, the oddly-feathered brim of his old army hat shading his face from the morning sun. “My name is Joshua Hotah.”

Ethan clopped indifferently down the two porch steps and approached Joshua at a leisurely pace until he stood less than an arm’s length away. Joshua’s dark-blue regulation army jacket, wide-brimmed-black-felt Indian scout hat with golden crossed-arrows insignia and red and white acorn-tipped braid, and light-blue pants with a blue stripe down each side were in order, but the multi-colored-bead-adorned leather moccasins represented a notable lapse of military decorum. “General Sherman has assigned you to my company for a patrol to the forks of the Republican River.” Ethan thought of the moccasins again. “I objected vigorously because I do not trust you or any other Indian scout. However, I have no choice but to bring you along because of the general’s insistence. General Sherman informs me that you speak fluent English. Is this true?”

Joshua grinned. “Yes, I speak English. My father was a buffalo hunter who came from England in a ship.”

Ethan noted the annoying hint of a British accent. “Then not only are you a half-breed, but neither half is American. Truly enlightening.”

“My mother was Sioux.”

“So I heard. As I said—”

The appaloosa shook its head violently and nearly yanked the leather reins from Joshua’s hand. Joshua pulled the animal close and spoke soothingly in Nez Perce until the appaloosa had calmed. “I do not think my horse likes you much.”

Ethan stepped back to avoid the skittish animal. “Then I believe, Joshua Hotah, that we have an understanding.”

Joshua grinned a second time. “Yes, I believe we do…” and then the grin widened, “…old chap.”

Ethan did not find this British vernacular amusing. He slapped his thigh with the white cavalry gloves. “Then we leave within two hour hours. Do not be late. I do not intend to begin the patrol by disobeying a direct order from General William Tecumseh Sherman, but if you do not arrive on time, I will leave without you.”

♦    ♦    ♦

Two days after departing Fort Sedgwick with 20 men and a half-breed Sioux scout, Captain Ethan Plantagenet pushed himself up on the stirrups of his cavalry saddle and scanned along the north and south forks of the meandering Republican River for evidence of Custer’s Seventh Cavalry. As his vision swept across the horizon, his eyes paused at the strange image of Joshua Hotah—about 50 yards distant—on his hands and knees with his face pressed close to the ground only inches away from the spotted nose of the appaloosa. Although implausible, both man and horse appeared to find the same thing. When he squinted and refocused, it also appeared to Ethan that Joshua Hotah was conducting a discussion with the animal, and that the horse responded to each comment by moving its head. This observation did not improve Ethan’s original impression of the scout. He spoke to his sergeant, an immigrant from Ireland and a veteran of the final year of the Civil War. “Wait here with the men while I have a little talk with our scout.”

The sergeant spit. “Yes sir. A fine idea.”

Joshua Hotah poked a stick into the remains of the abandoned campfire and stirred. A jet of sooty dust puffed up against the appaloosa’s nose; the spotted horse shook her head and snorted. “You should not be so curious. Your only reward is a nose full of ash.” Still on his knees, Joshua explored the ground for artifacts. He noticed a discarded tin can. He crawled over to the can and sniffed it. The appaloosa sniffed the can too. “Custer left this campsite a few days ago, probably more than a few days. And they did not clean up before they left. Maybe they have many soldiers and do not worry about leaving a trail behind.” The appaloosa nudged Joshua’s shoulder in apparent agreement. Joshua stood and walked southwest, without holding the reins of his horse. The appaloosa followed. He kneeled to the ground by a set of wagon wheel tracks running north and south. Before he had finished inspecting the tracks, Captain Ethan Plantagenet rode up and stopped in front of him, a few yards away. When Joshua raised his gaze from the wagon tracks to Ethan’s face, he noticed the evening moon rising just above the peak of the captain’s hat.

After waiting patiently for a report, Ethan leaned forward against the saddle horn. “What have you and your horse found? Anything worth noting?” Ethan observed the wagon wheel tracks in the fading daylight. He followed the tracks to the north, where they likely began, and then back to the south. “Looks like wagon tracks heading south. I assume Custer has gone in that direction.”

Part of this observation impressed Joshua. “Yes, wagon wheels heading south. But I believe Custer has not gone with the wagon tracks. The path of the wagons does not have enough horse hooves. I believe Custer and the Seventh Cavalry must have followed a different path, possibly west.”

Ethan glanced down at the tracks again, the moonlight now providing more illumination than the fading glow of the western skies. “Nonsense. I don’t see how you can come to such a conclusion from the evidence right in front of us. I see wagon tracks and I see horse tracks, both heading south. I see absolutely nothing to suggest Custer and his main force went in a different direction. We camp for the night and follow the wagon tracks south at daybreak.”

Joshua offered the possibility that Ethan had more correctly read the ground. “I am not certain what I say is true. I can agree with you on this. But we should scout a wider area to find Custer’s path. If we follow these wagon tracks, we may not find him at all.”

Ethan pressed his hand against the leather pouch containing the message from General Sherman (and the cigar). “We’ve had a hard two-day ride and the men are tired. I’m not going to waste more time scouting this endless country when the evidence of Custer’s direction of travel is right in front of us. Tomorrow we follow these wagon tracks south. I am confident we will locate Custer before the end of the day.”

Joshua thought about telling Ethan about the campfire, but decided against prolonging the argument. He would wait for an opportunity tomorrow to prove the wagon tracks did not follow Custer and the Seventh Cavalry. Maybe then he could talk Captain Plantagenet into a different path.

♦    ♦    ♦

As the sun neared its zenith and the day continued to warm, Ethan halted the patrol. He rubbed the back of his neck, adding more sweat to a leather glove already soaked with sweat. He spoke to Joshua Hotah, now riding by his side. “Have you seen any evidence that Custer turned off this wagon trail? I certainly have not.”

“I have not. But we have ridden so fast and stopped so little, it is hard to tell what I have seen and have not seen.”

This obvious excuse did not convince Ethan. “Or maybe you are not as good a scout as General Sherman imagines.”

Joshua did not take offense. “Maybe not, if this is what you wish to believe. But it is difficult to read the trail when we are riding very fast above it.”

“It is really not necessary for you to read the trail at this point. These wagon tracks point to Custer, and we will follow them to the end.”

The Irish Sergeant jabbed Ethan on the arm. “Sir, we’ve got company, and I don’t think it’s the Seventh Cavalry.” The sergeant pointed.

Ethan followed the end of the sergeant’s finger to a long column of riders stretched along the top of a low ridge running southwesterly to his right, about 300 yards away. Ethan began counting them, but stopped when he reached a hundred. He pulled a small telescope from a saddle pouch, extended the tubes, and squinted at the riders. He lowered the telescope and declared, “Indians.” He handed the telescope to Joshua. “Ever use one of these before?”

Joshua did not answer the question. He took the telescope and held it up to his left eye. “Lakota…and Cheyenne. They have been following us.”

Ethan shifted in his saddle. He had bravely faced Union infantry, cavalry, and artillery in the war, but the sight of Indians on the plains of northwest Kansas frightened him in a way he did not think possible. “How many? What are their intentions?”

Joshua collapsed the telescoped and pressed it into Ethan’s hand. “Over one-hundred, with maybe more behind the ridge. I do not know what they intend.”

Ethan privately prayed that General Sherman knew more about Indian scouts than he did. “What do you suggest we do?”

Joshua answered, “I think we should ride east to Beaver Creek and look for cover. And we should not ride slowly.”

Ethan did not argue. He gave the order to the Irish sergeant. “Sergeant, you heard our scout. We are heading east to Beaver Creek, and we are not riding slowly.”

The sergeant answered stoically, “Yes sir. Sounds like a good plan to me.”

The patrol veered off the wagon trail to the east, and at the command of the sergeant broke into a trot. Some of the men could not keep their eyes forward, and regularly checked the Lakota and Cheyenne riders behind them. Captain Ethan Plantagenet did not look. After fifteen minutes of silence had passed, he renewed his conversation with Joshua Hotah. “What are they doing now?”

Joshua twisted just enough to see the Indians at the rim of his vision. “They are still following us. They are getting closer. They are riding faster than we are.”

Ethan looked back for the first time since the patrol had abandoned the wagon trail. “I see what you mean. What now?”

 “I think it is time to run.”

“Do you think we can outrun them?”

“No, we cannot outrun them. We should ride to someplace where we can defend ourselves. This is our only chance.”

This answer alarmed Ethan. “I see.” He turned to the sergeant. “Sergeant, it’s time to make a run for it and to find a defensive position. But don’t blow the damn bugle.” He turned back to Joshua Hotah. “Joshua, you take the lead. We will follow you.”

This time the sergeant smiled uneasily. “Yes sir.” He gave the troopers the order to gallop and the patrol rushed forward with Joshua Hotah and the appaloosa in front. This maneuver ignited an instant response from the Lakota and Cheyenne riders, and for the first time the troopers could hear the exuberant cries of the nearest warriors.

Joshua led the patrol easterly, the churning legs of the galloping horses—sweat-lathered and weight-burdened with cavalrymen and leather and wood and iron—smashing violently through the flowing grasses and scattered wildflowers of the prairie. The rugged ground began a gentle rise toward an undulating ridge running northeast to southwest. Beyond the ridge, in a shallow valley, Beaver Creek and Sappa Creek and Prairie Dog Creek flowed southwesterly and offered the possibility of a defensive position. Ethan strained to see clearly through stinging splashes of sweat and cutting slaps of wind as he watched the nimble appaloosa and Joshua Hotah bound over the ridge. When he had reached the ridge himself, he swung his exhausted mount around to confirm the proximity of the Lakota and Cheyenne. To his eternal horror, he beheld the closest warriors overtake two troopers at the rear of his patrol and beat them to the ground with stone clubs. One of the fallen soldiers, a recent immigrant from Germany and only one month in the saddle, stood and began staggering in small looping circles. The man struggled to remove his pistol, but a Cheyenne spear pierced him cleanly through the breast and drove him down again. Ethan spun his panting horse around and commenced a ragged gallop down into the valley.  Moments later he spotted Joshua and the appaloosa gesturing at him to follow them toward the swirling waters of Beaver Creek, now visible and seemingly within reach. When Ethan arrived at Joshua’s side, they renewed the desperate run to Beaver Creek together.  Nearby, another trooper—a young man from Massachusetts with two Lakota arrows plunged deeply into his back—finally released his flagging grip on the saddle horn and tumbled clumsily off his mount into yellow waves of prairie grass where the merciful ground instantly shattered two vertebrae at the base of his skull.

When Joshua and Ethan arrived at Beaver Creek, with the sergeant and 16 remaining troopers trailing in disarray, they pivoted abruptly and raced along the stream, splashing in marshy pools swollen beyond the meandering shore. Joshua suddenly pulled up next to Ethan and reached across the narrow space separating them and tugged at the blue wool of his arm. Ethan glanced over to Joshua, who pointed behind them before slanting away from the creek and slowing to a walk. Ethan and the remaining troopers did the same.

Ethan, his horse shivering with exhaustion, spoke to Joshua without moving closer. “Where did they go? They were right behind us.”

Joshua scrutinized the ridge to the left, now some distance from Beaver Creek, and then scanned along the creek to the northeast. “I believe they are walking the same path we do, but on the other side of the hill.”

 “Why are they doing this? They could have easily killed all of us.”

“They are taunting us. We should find protection quickly, because they will soon attack again. Some of the warriors may be moving in front of us now. We should cross Beaver Creek and move away from the hill.”

Joshua and the appaloosa trotted across the creek. Ethan and the sergeant followed without offering any commands, and the ragged line of troopers followed without speaking. Joshua turned at a gully littered with boulders and flanked with thorny bushes. Ethan and the sergeant pulled up next to him.

Joshua dismounted, removed his feathered cavalry hat, and coaxed his long black hair back over his shoulders. He swung around in a complete circle and studied the terrain, then appraised the position of the sun before walking to Ethan’s side. “It is not the best place, but the day will end soon and we do not have time to look for another. You are the soldier. Do you like this place?”

The leather of Ethan’s saddle chirped when he twisted back and forth to review the defensive possibilities of the rocky gully. “I agree it is not the best. I would prefer the high ground, but this is less exposed. I think we should make our stand here. Sergeant Doyle, do you have anything to add?”

The sergeant stiffened. “Yes, sir. Can you find another 50 troopers before dark? It would be a service, sir.”

Captain Ethan Plantagenet dismounted. “Sergeant, tie the horses up near those large boulders and spread the men out along both sides of the gully. Mr. Joshua Hotah, I want you at my side tonight. Right or wrong, we make our stand here. And may God help us.”

♦    ♦    ♦

The gloomy face of a new moon and the deafening howl of prairie wind offered little hope to the 19 men spread thinly along the jagged sides of the shallow gully. The sun plunged below the western horizon and bluish skies faded to murky blue then to inky blue then to terrifying blackness. During this darkest of nights, Lakota and Cheyenne warriors drew lots and then one-by-one waded noiselessly across Beaver Creek and crept silently over the grassy soil to the far ends of the gully where individual soldiers lay blind in the shadows of darkest midnight and deaf in the swirling rush of wind. And then one-by-one, the soldiers perished when a stony club crushed a man’s head or a sharpened blade slashed across his throat or a length of leather cut off the air from his gasping lungs. The silent killing proceeded down the lines of men throughout the dreadful night, and by dawn, when the rising sun finally dissolved the hideous shadows of night and the cool freshness of the morning diminished the relentless wind to a tender breeze, only Captain Ethan Plantagenet of the U.S. 2nd Cavalry and the half-breed named Joshua Hotah remained alive.

♦    ♦    ♦

Joshua slithered back to Ethan’s side and rolled over to his back. He raised his shoulder off a sharp rock and reported in a low voice, “It is as we feared. Everyone is dead. Only the two of us have survived this long night.”

Exhausted by lack of sleep but forced awake by apprehension, Ethan asked weakly, “The sergeant is dead too?”

“Yes. But I think he may have fought a little, because his throat is not slit and there is much blood on the ground. He may have stabbed his attacker before he died.” Then Joshua added, “Five of the soldiers are missing their balls.”

“The Indians took their ammunition?”

“Yes, they took their guns and ammunition too.”

Ethan pulled his Colt 1860 Army cap-and-ball revolver from its black-leather holster and rested it across his stomach. He had used the pistol throughout the Civil War, and found the familiarity of the polished steel barrel and hand-smoothed wood grips oddly comforting. “Not a pretty thought. Maybe we should try to make a run for it. We still have the horses. We could take two and scatter the rest to divert the Indians.”

Joshua considered this idea briefly. “A possibility, but I do not think our chances are good. We are probably surrounded and would have to ride through the Lakota and Cheyenne. The appaloosa might make it, but your horse probably would not.”

Ethan smiled darkly. “Any chance they will just let us go?”

“I would call it wishful thinking. But if we did run for it, maybe they would kill us in the saddle. Then we would not be captured and tortured to death. Maybe the men who died quickly during the night are the lucky ones today.”

Two gaunt ravens fluttered overhead and landed raucously in a scrawny cottonwood about thirty feet away. The ravens leered down at Ethan and Joshua, twisting their glossy heads right and left to improve the view. The raven to the left, the larger of the two, began issuing a strange chortling sound reminiscent of a contented cat while the other continued his thoughtful examination of the narrow ravine and the two men stretched out on the ground below.

Ethan removed his cavalry hat and pretended to adjust the sweat-soaked-dust-caked brim while watching the two ravens and listening to the odd sound. “Ravens have arrived to witness our demise. Do you think they know something we don’t?”

Joshua chuckled. “Ravens always know something we don’t. It is a bad sign. I have not had good luck with ravens around.”

Ethan carefully positioned the crumpled hat on his head. “I know what you mean. I felt pretty good about our situation myself until those two birds arrived. Now I’m really—” The raven to the right, the smaller of the two, exploded in a wing-flapping-squawking show of alarm. The other raven quickly joined in the display.

Joshua peeked above the rocks. A lone Sioux rider approached, a lance in one hand and a rifle in the other. The rider stopped about 30 strides from the shallow ravine and waited.

Ethan rolled and cocked the hammer of his Colt in the same smooth motion and prepared to take a shot. “I think I can hit him. I killed men at Shiloh from a greater distance while riding a horse. I ought to be able to shoot an Indian sitting still.”

Joshua reached over and pressed Ethan’s arm down. “Do not shoot.”

“Why? We might as well take a few of them with us.”

“He is my half-brother. I believe he has come to talk to us. Do not shoot.”

“Your half-brother?”

“Yes, our mother is the same.”

Ethan lowered the revolver until the barrel rested on a tuft of buffalo grass. “Astonishing. What’s his name? What do you think he wants?”

“Running Bear, and I think we should find out. Do not bring any guns.”

This alarmed Ethan. “I do not think it wise to walk out in the open without our weapons.”

“If you bring a gun, you will die. Our only chance is to walk out with empty hands. Put down your revolver and stand up.”

Ethan waited until his hand had flinched a few times, then sucked in a deep breath and exhaled and set the Colt gently on the ground and stood. Joshua stood in unison then rested his Henry repeating rifle against a rock with a melodramatic flourish. They advanced side-by-side to talk to Running Bear. When they had reached a small mound covered with wildflowers about two strides in front of the horse, they stopped. Joshua waited for his half-brother to begin the conversation.

After an unpleasant delay, Running Bear frowned and said, “Txay huh wan chee youn kay shnee.” (I did not see you for a long time)

Joshua raised his chin to see his half-brother’s face better. “Cante waste nape ciyuzapo.” (I greet you from my heart)

Running Bear waited again. “You would have died last night if I had not convinced the others to spare your life.”

“I thank you for sparing our lives, my brother, but what have you to tell us now?”

“Because we share the same mother, you may leave, but the soldier must stay.”

“The soldier is my friend. I will not leave him here so you can cut off his balls like you did to the others. You must let both of us leave, or kill us both together.”

This surprised Running Bear. He drove the lance into the ground in anger. Ethan touched Joshua’s arm. “What did you just say to him?”

Joshua snarled at Ethan without taking his eyes off his half-brother. “It is none of your business what I say or do not say to my brother.”

Running Bear chuckled. “Your friend is very stupid. Does he know what danger he is in?”

Joshua smirked, “Yes, the white man is stupid in many ways, but very clever in other ways you do not appreciate. You would do well not to underestimate him.”

Running Bear nodded slightly. “I do not have the heart to kill you today, even if you deserve it for helping the soldiers invade our lands and kill our buffalo.”

“Then you must let us both go. I will not leave without my friend.”

Running Bear glanced back at the Lakota and Cheyenne warriors waiting hidden behind the crest of the hill. “You are very presumptuous, but I must honor our mother. You may go with your friend, but the horses must stay.”

“It is a long walk. You should allow us to take one horse.”

“The horses are the price you must pay to live. Now leave before it is too late.”

“Thank you my brother. Until we meet again.”

Running Bear’s countenance dimmed. “I must tell you, child of my mother, the next time we meet I will kill you. You are given only this one chance.”

Joshua Hotah nodded. “I understand. Then I shall pray we do not meet again.” He pulled Ethan’s arm. “Start walking away from here. Do not look back. Do not say a word. Walk quickly, but not too fast.”

“I need to fetch my Colt.”

“No, you must leave everything here. We cannot take the chance.”

“No horses?”

“This is the agreement, but I think we will see the appaloosa again—after she throws her new rider to the ground and follows after us.”

Joshua Hotah and Captain Ethan Plantagenet hiked south until they reached Sappa Creek then southwesterly. The appaloosa joined them, as Joshua had predicted, about two miles before they rediscovered the wagon wheel tracks that had originally led them to disaster. They took turns riding the horse. They talked about many things. They smoked General Sherman’s cigar. And eventually the wheel tracks led them to Fort Wallace, about 40 miles from the massacre in the gully. They arrived at the fort hungry and dehydrated, but alive. Joshua waited outside an impressive stone building while Ethan gave an abbreviated report to the fort commander. They ate and drank separately, and then each slept for nearly two days—again separately.

Ethan discovered Joshua early in the morning a day later, preparing to leave with the appaloosa. He greeted him with renewed vigor. “Good morning Joshua. Where are you going?”

Joshua slipped a new Henry repeating rifle, donated by a sergeant at the fort armory, into a leather saddle sheath. He answered without turning his head. “Your sergeant has replaced my lost rifle, and for this I am grateful.” Then he turned. “I am no longer a scout. Today I head west, then maybe north.”

Ethan felt a tinge of melancholy. “What will you do? You’re a damn good scout, if anyone would care to listen to you. You should reconsider.”

“Thank you for saying it, but I have decided to look for my father and mother. I lost them some years ago, and it is time to find them again.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No. This is something only I can do, but thank you.”

Ethan held out his hand. “Then goodbye, my friend.”

Joshua grasped Ethan’s hand and they squeezed without shaking. “Yes, goodbye my friend.”

Joshua Hotah mounted the appaloosa, kicked the feisty animal in the loins, and trotted through the open gate. He rode about a mile before circling west. With the sun warming his back and cumulus clouds rising in the distance, he began the search for his parents.