Joko (38 page)

One was wearing a knitted cap and the other sported a shock of wool-like hair. This one, the shorter of the two, carried a substantial stack of furs. He stumbled under their weight as he walked.

Swan recognized the short one instantly. He whispered to Johnny that the man was Earl Bolk, son of Ansel Bolk and brother to the ‘infamous Pugil Bolk’. He advised Johnny to stay away from the Bolks, explaining that most folks regarded the Bolk family locally as
The Scourge of Port Townsend
.

Swan said they were known simply as
The Bolks
and mused that it was a strange compliment to have an adjective named for oneself. He had heard people describe a crude activity as a ‘Bolk thing to do.’ He’d heard children calling another’s mud-covered pet as a ‘Bolk Dog’.

Swan kept his eyes on the men in leathers who were bartering with the natives. He told Johnny the Bolk reputation had been earned principally by the one they called Pugil. He had been named, it was said, when he gave his mother a bloody nose on the second day of his life while nursing at her breast. Neighbors said Erthabelle Bolk just smiled and wiped the blood from her nose, saying: “Pugil bloodied me nose an’ never missed a stroke at me teat. A Bolk to be sure.”

“Mind you, I’ve never met the Bolk boys. And around here reputations are quickly spread. Suffice to say, however, I shouldn’t think it a good idea to provoke the fuzzy-headed one.” The canoe was nearing shore so Swan finished his warning in a whisper. He fell silent as he guided the canoe to a place where several canoes were already beached and tied.

It was midday when they stepped from the dugout. The two men who were trading with the Nootkah stood mutely watching them dock the canoe. Earl Bolk put down the stack of furs and they began strolling toward Swan and the boys.

Swan took his pack and rifle from the canoe.

“Gentlemen!” Swan stood and faced the men.

Johnny watched the men as he and Jack unpacked the canoe. Certainly Swan’s admonitions had made him unsure of what the strangers would do.

The trapper with Earl Bolk spoke with a smile. His face seemed as weathered as the old leathers he wore. “Packing light for a trader, friend. Would you be traveling through?”

The man seemed friendly enough to Johnny, but he noticed Swan didn’t walk right over to shake hands. He stood casually, looking at the strangers, but held his rifle at the ready.

“Wouldn’t have any coffee, would you?” asked Swan looking both men in the eye. He dropped his pack at his feet.

“James Gilchrist Swan,” he added with a smile and an outstretched hand. Swan gestured at Johnny and Jack. “Me and the boys are returning to Townsend.”

The man peered at the boys as they finished unloading the last of the bags from dugout. When Johnny looked up, the man acknowledged him with a nod. He paid little attention to Jack. His eyes returned immediately to Swan.

The man with Earl said he was David T. Tanner, trading in knives and cutlery. “Call me Tanner. Trader in blades,” he said. “Sharpen ’em, sell ’em. Use ’em. I’m a skinner, too, if it needs the doin’. Right, Earl?” He gave Earl’s shoulder a hard shove, but like a stump the rounded frame of Earl didn’t give an inch. Earl looked at him blankly and showed a broad smile revealing several missing teeth.

“Swan, you carryin’ hides?” asked Tanner, punctuating the sentence by spitting a copious gob of tobacco juice into the sand.

Johnny noticed the men complemented each other almost comically. He stifled an impulse to laugh. Swan didn’t seem amused at all, but when Swan turned to look at Johnny the boy saw a smirk on the man’s face. It amused him but scared him. Had the two men noticed? Another glance at the two told him that Tanner was simply eyeing their packs, and Earl Bolk was watching the Nootkah women with a wistful expression.

Earl’s nose appeared to have been broken at least twice, and there were numerous scars on every visible part of his body. His neck, face, and hands told a tale of a rugged if not violent life. This close to Earl, Johnny could see the stories Swan told were probably true.

Tanner eyed Swan’s packs. “No skinnin’, eh?” he asked again.

“I’m a scholar, teacher, and writer for the Smithsonian Institution. That’s in the nation’s capital,” said Swan, hoping to impress the man and divert his attention from his packs.

The grizzled trapper spat again. “Writer?” His eyes surveyed Swan carefully from hat to boots.

At that moment Earl’s attention turned from the women to Swan, then he looked at Johnny, and finally his eyes came to rest on Jack, squatting between the packs and the canoe.

When Earl turned his head Johnny saw he had only one ear. The stump where part of it remained looked pink and recently healed. A chill went through Johnny as Earl’s eyes slowly and coldly assessed him, but after a few moments Earl’s attention was drawn back to the squaws. Johnny didn’t like the way the Earl looked at the women. It looked as if he was appraising livestock. Earl’s shirt and trousers had long ago lost their color to wear and nature’s stains. Over that was a layering of various vests, plaid shirts and a top coat that looked older than Earl. As to how old Earl might be, Johnny couldn’t tell. He had seen many young people whose youthful skin had been aged and hardened by living with the elements. Earl was no exception. His deep-set eyes were protected by a broad black eyebrow, his nose looked broken, and scars ran across his face, making gaps in his stubby beard. Johnny couldn’t remember seeing a more dangerous looking thug. He wondered: if Earl was the lesser of the Bolk brothers, what must Pugil look like?

For the moment, though, Earl seemed harmless enough.

He stood unmoving and continued to stare at the women while his elder companion grappled with Swan’s wit.

Tanner shuffled his feet nervously, looking at Swan’s rifle.

“I can read … some,” he said, almost defensively. “What’d you write?” He spat again.

“I’m studying the natives of the area, the Indians, documenting their culture,” said Swan. “Just finished several papers during the winter. Met up with Johnny and Jack, here, traveling back to Port Townsend. Consequently I am seeking to trade this canoe to someone for no more than a mule to carry the packs the rest of the way.”

“Why walk when ya can paddle?” Tanner spat again, this time narrowly missing Swan’s boots.

Swan ignored the man’s rude gesture and pointed his rifle at the canoe. “I guess we could have. But Jack gets seasick.

We’ve been seeing rough water so far. I guess that’s why he jumped ship.”

Tanner’s eyes narrowed as he took interest in Jack.

“Jumped ship?”

While the trapper looked Jack over, Swan was studying the man. Johnny guessed that Swan knew what he was doing.

“Where’s his neck?” blurted the trapper.

“Holding his head up, I would suppose,” said Swan, with a laugh. “What do you mean?”

“Where’s he from?” asked Tanner.

Swan looked at Jack, who didn’t seem to realize that he was the subject of scrutiny. He was watching the activity in the Indian village. A party of braves had entered the village, their horses hauling skids bearing a huge load of firewood.

“We call him Jack,” said Swan with a pleasant smile. “I don’t think I can pronounce his
real
name. Johnny, here, says Jack is from Sumatra. Jumped ship. He’s a strange one. I say he’s a sasquatch! What do you think?”

Tanner looked at Swan with a puzzled scowl.

“Sasquatch?”

“Or,” Swan raised a finger, “is he from Sumatra, as he claims? What do you think, Mister Tanner?” Swan grinned broadly, indicating he was joking.

Johnny smiled. He saw Tanner catch his eye. “Sumatra,”

Johnny offered with a pleasant nod. “Sumatra,” he repeated.

Johnny was certain he’d played along perfectly with the game Swan was playing. “I think Mr Swan is … well, it’s one of his jokes.”

Jack was too absorbed in his surroundings to notice that the men’s attention had turned to him. This was the second human settlement he had visited. The first had been in ruins.

The details around him, things he’d glimpsed only occasionally in the past, were now there, intact, and inviting his scrutiny. The construction of the dwellings made of wood fascinated him, as did the apparent order of the village; all built near the water. He could smell the fish that the Indian women were placing on racks to dry, and he could hear the far away voices of Indian braves arguing. Jack was engrossed in comparing his impressions of the earthquake-ruined Indian village with this one. Now he could see for himself how families interacted, how they worked and played.

In the distance a group of children played an earnest game with corn husk dolls, while nearby a number of older women had gathered in the sun to share stories and weave blankets.

Jack heard the word sasquatch.

Tanner burst into laughter. The trapper’s face distorted as he laughed, but his eyes retained a coldness that Johnny couldn’t ignore.

“Sasquatch?” said Tanner. “You hear that, Earl? That boy’s a sasquatch! Haw haw haw!”

Earl didn’t even blink or take his eyes off the women.

“Ain’t no setch thing,” he said in a low voice. It was the first words Earl had said. It sounded to Johnny like the growl of a dog. “We gotta get them furs up river,” Earl muttered, jabbing Tanner with a finger then pointing to their furs . Then he squinted ruefully at Jack and at Swan. His eyes seemed to ignore Johnny entirely. “Thes’uns gimme the damned jeebers.”

The trapper nodded but otherwise took no notice of Earl’s comment.

The group of Indians who’d brought the wood to camp was now walking toward them; a half dozen braves of various ages. None were carrying weapons. Tanner noticed them and waved. He told Swan the Indians had mules in a pasture behind the camp. “They trade dugouts all the time.” He looked again at Jack and laughed. “Sasquatch! That’s a good one.

You write that in yer books?”

Swan nodded with a big grin. “Probably not. See you back in Port Townsend.”

Swan shifted his attention to the approaching Indians.

They seemed more curious than friendly. Their demeanor suggested that if dealing was to be done with the village, these were the people to talk to. Swan waved, displaying a broad grin. A young brave, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, extended his hand to Swan.

“Teacher Swan from Neah Bay,” the boy said in English.

“Teacher Swan from Port Townsend, of late,” said Swan.

“Do I know you? You look familiar, I dare say.”

“Johnny Kitt Elswa,” said the boy.

Swan squinted at the boy. “From my classes?”

“You were at Neah Bay with the Makah. Write in books.

Teach the words of the Bostons,” said the boy with a broad smile.

“Swan Cha-tic,” said a man, wrapped in a blue blanket, standing behind the boy.

The other Indians nodded and smiled. They pointed to a lodge that lay partially hidden among some trees at the edge of the village, and directed Swan to it.

Swan pointed to the canoe, and told them that he wished to trade it for a mule and added, with considerable emphasis, that he and ‘the boys’ were eager to return to Port Townsend.

Again, the Indians smiled and nodded. They picked up the packs Johnny and Jack had unloaded and ushered them all toward the lodge. Johnny surreptitiously touched Jack’s hand and told him they were going to follow the Indians, but Jack already seemed to understand.

Swan looked around as he picked up his pack. Tanner and Earl had already launched their canoe and were about to depart. “Thanking ya … chief!” Tanner squawked. He waved a small leather bag. “Thanks indeed. See ya in old Port Townsend, Swan!”

Swan and the Indians waved without a word. Swan later inquired about the men, but the natives seemed more interested in Swan. “Tanner and his friend are trappers,” was the natives’ only comment, given by Johnny Kitt Elswa as he urged Swan toward the lodge. The chief added something in

‘Jargon.’ Johnny thought they were discussing the men, but he heard one of them say, ‘Sawalish,’ and decided they were discussing the flood-ravaged village.

Swan told Johnny he knew the chief from the last time he had passed through the village. He was called Cha-ta-quay and, like Swan, was said to have a
skookum tum-tum
. Johnny was relieved to find Swan was well liked by the natives and their chief. It made his outlook all the brighter. He quickened his step a bit. Little attention was being paid to either himself or Jack, since the Indians wanted only news of the destroyed village.

For Cha-ta-quay’s sake Swan did his best to be an accurate witness to the tragedy. They grew very quiet again when the chief inquired about the dead and injured they had seen in the village.

Swan shook his head. “Many were missing. They didn’t know how many when we left. I hope you had no family there,” he said, removing his hat.

“A cousin, Kni-to-nay, White Bear. Did you see him?” asked Cha-ta-quay.

Swan said he could not remember anyone called that. He asked if he was the first to bring news from the village. The chief said their canoe was the second to come from the south. He added that the family in the first canoe didn’t stop.

The chief said he remembered Swan through their mutual friendship with Swell, and through Charles and Peter, the murdered chief’s two younger brothers.

“It’s a small world,” said Johnny offhandedly as they approached the large meetinghouse.

The chief turned to Johnny and nodded. “It’s a big world, friend of Swan,” he said. “We live in a small part of it.”

“To be sure!” said Johnny respectfully, tipping his head to the chief.

The elder looked at Johnny for a long moment. Then his gaze shifted to Jack. Time froze for Johnny and Swan. They both knew that the old Indian would
know
, if any human would, Jack’s peculiarities. Jack looked around, oblivious to the conversation.

“The world is not small to this one, I think,” said the chief.

“He has traveled far, like Swan.”

While Cha-ta-quay listened stone-faced, Swan told the chief how Jack had helped save lives in the ruined village.

When Swan finished his story Cha-ta-quay nodded to Jack.