Firewater And Love

Firewater and Love, unwilling companions, met at the creek near the last tipi, made of the skins of Campbell River wolves. The chief himself was resting there, with the white squaw, who had, until that early morning raid, been faithful and closely tied to a brave man. They roamed the land, their covered wagon filled with anything an Indian heart would ever need or want. Took furs in payment. Hoss and his wife were frugal, they mostly lived on Pemmican, and bits and bites on offer, when negotiations went well. It was a living, until now. Some warriors had been told about the white man's FIREWATER, and Hoss was quickly surrounded, and many bottles soon changed hands. Then, before retiring they counted all the pelts, the Grizzly claws when, with alarm, strange noises could be heard outside the wagon. It was too late to grab the rifle, which was fully loaded with buckshot, and Hoss was murdered, also scalped. And, to appease, the chief was then presented with a fresh and pleasant-looking squaw. She often thought of Hoss in later years, and long gone words would haunt her: 'Let firewater and love never be seen under the sky of the same moon.'