Native Wolf
Native Wolf
by
NATIVE WOLF by Glynnis Campbell
Copyright © Glynnis Campbell 2015
Glynnis Campbell
P.O. Box 341144
Arleta, CA 91331
ISBN-10: 1-938114-12-0
ISBN-13: 978-1-938114-12-0
Cover by Tanya Straley and Richard Campbell
Book Design by
Typesetter For Mac
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations for articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Learn more about Glynnis Campbell and her writing at
www.glynnis.net
In homage to the real Yoema*—
the last surviving member of her family
after California’s Trail of Tears—
with honor and respect
And for those who remember
and seek to mend the broken past
*This story is purely a work of fiction and not based in any way upon Yoema’s life. For a real account of her life, read “Yohema (Little Flower),” written by her great granddaughter, Rose Waugh.
- Title Page
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Epilogue
- Thank You
PARADISE, CALIFORNIA, 1875
Claire crammed her collection of dime novels into the carpetbag, on top of her spare set of clothes. But her most beloved book—a dog-eared copy of
THE TRAIL HUNTERS OR MONOWANO THE SHAWNEE SPY
—she tucked inside the top of her cotton camisole.
Then she caught her lip under her teeth. Was she doing the right thing—running away? She gazed out her second-story window at the midnight sky above the Parker Ranch, the only home she'd ever known. Her eyes moistened, and the stars blurred.
But it was too late for regrets. There was just one more thing to do before she finished dressing and headed out into the night, toward an uncertain future.
She glanced at the letter on the bed. It was brief. But there was really nothing more to say.
Dear Father,
By the time you read this, I will be gone. I am sorry to have been such a disappointment to you. I hope my leaving will not bring undue shame to the Parker name. Please give my apologies to Frank. I am certain he will find a more suitable bride. I have had to take the dappled mare, but will send compensation for her when I find employment.
Kindest regards,
Claire
Beside the letter were the things she planned to wear on the journey—her plain brown dress and matching bonnet, calfskin gloves, wool stockings, and sturdy low-heeled boots. Next to them was a pair of scissors. These she picked up, stroking the cold blades with trembling fingers.
Her father might disapprove of her tears over the death of Yoema, the native woman who’d raised her, but he couldn’t stop Claire from showing her grief in the way of Yoema’s people.
Claire held her breath as the scissors sliced through the first lock of her waist-length hair with surprising ease. She let the pale tress fall from her fingers onto the bed, where it glistened in the candlelight. Then, with tears filling her eyes, she cut another...and another. The scissors snicked with cruel efficiency in the silent night as strand after strand slid down over her camisole and dropped onto the quilt, severed from her as quickly and irreversibly as Yoema had been.
She’d lost
two
mothers now.
Her real mother she only vaguely remembered. Claire had been a little girl when she died.
It was Yoema who'd brought her up. Though Claire’s father had refused to let Claire address the native woman as Mother, Yoema had been the one who bathed and dressed her, told her stories, sang her songs, and comforted her when she was hurt. Yoema even sneaked copies of Claire's cherished dime novels to her, though the woman clearly disapproved of them. Yoema had given Claire the affection that her father was incapable of expressing, affection that had died years before, along with Claire’s real mother.
Even at the tender age of six, Claire had tried to fill her mother's shoes and become the woman of the house. But her father had made it clear in his tight-lipped grief that nobody would ever be as pretty, as talented, or as good as his dearly departed wife.
It wasn’t her father's fault. Claire was old enough to know that now. He’d simply adored his wife. No one could live up to her memory...not even his own daughter.
A tear escaped down Claire's cheek. Out of habit, she brusquely wiped it away. She’d learned very young that weeping was something her father couldn’t abide.
Fortunately, Yoema had always given her a shoulder to cry on.
But now, Claire had no one.
A fresh surge of tears threatened to spill over. She squeezed her eyes shut against it, continuing to snip blindly at her hair, leaving it in jagged jaw-length spikes.
When the last lock fell, she opened her eyes, dropped the scissors, and gazed at the remnants of hair strewn across the bed. They were a painful reminder of the finality of death. But they also symbolized acceptance. Now there could be no wishing for Yoema’s return, any more than she could reattach the hair to her head. What was done was done.
Akina,
as Yoema said. That was all.
Chase Wolf slugged back the shot of whiskey. He grimaced as the rotgut burned the back of his throat. It was potent, but not strong enough to ease the guilt gnawing at his insides. He slammed the glass down on the low table in front of him, startling the woman who was pouring drinks.
“Easy, Chase.” His brother Drew laid a hand on his arm.
Chase shook off Drew’s hand. He was in no mood to take it easy. But he supposed they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves either. That was why they’d come to the Parlor, a discreet bordello, rather than one of the regular saloons.
Drew looked right at home in the overstuffed red velvet chair, but Chase felt as out of place as a trout in a tree. More velvet draped the walls, vases of fresh flowers decorated the room, and a chandelier dripped crystals from the middle of the ceiling. A balcony opened onto the sitting room where Chase imagined scantily-clad ladies paraded at a safe distance before prospective clients.
Fortunately, at this late hour, there were only the two of them and the madam, who had probably seen everything under the sun. So when a pair of half-breed twins strolled into her establishment after midnight, she didn’t even bat an eye.
Sitting beside Drew in another plush chair, Chase glanced at their reflection in the enormous mahogany-framed mirror filling one wall. He supposed they looked even more similar now, since he’d chopped off his long hair in mourning and put on a shirt.
He raked his hand through the short black waves and scowled. His ebony eyes narrowed back at him. He didn’t see the resemblance. To his way of thinking, he looked nothing like his twin.
His brother Drew Hawk took after Trickster Coyote. No matter how much trouble the rascal stirred up, Drew managed to steal away with a grin, unscathed. He was a quick draw and lucky at cards, what the whites called a man’s man. But he could charm the ladies with words that would put a blush on a peach. Already Drew had the madam pouring him drinks from her dusty-shouldered reserve bottle stashed in the back.
Drew loved the limelight.
Chase preferred the shadows.
Drew embraced the white world of their mother, Mattie.
But Chase clung to the old ways, the native ways of Sakote, their Konkow father, and the Hupa village where they’d been raised, ways threatened more each day with the intrusion of the whites.
His brother followed the whim of the wind, but Chase walked the path of the Great Spirit. That path had brought him two hundred miles from the reservation to this parlor house in Paradise, California—once the land of his ancestors, the Konkow people.