While hiking
in the Pilchuck Tree Farm the other day, I came across an odd
little container hanging from a hook on one of the trees near the
trail. Just at that moment, an old-timer hobbled up the trail and
we stopped to chat. Having recently become interested in people who
change their name– or have it changed for them-- it was fascinating
to me when he took the container into his hands, rubbed it gently
and began to relate a story to me.
“The child
was born during the cholera epidemic in 1849. Her Pa had succumbed
before her birth, as had three of her four siblings. Their sod hut,
the only one for miles, was leaking and Ma barely had enough
strength to keep herself and remaining child together, let alone
the babe kicking in her womb. However, as mothers are wont to do,
she was able to put aside her own sickness and deliver herself of a
perfectly healthy girl.
“The baby
was almost a week old when her only sibling died. The mother,
weakened beyond belief, wrapped the baby girl in her warmest red
shawl and cuddled her close into the cradle her husband had made,
then eased herself down on their bed and fell asleep. She didn’t
awaken again.” The man dabbed at his eyes.
“The
prairie had few visitors, but a band of Cheyenne Indians had
stopped at the hut to trade on several occasions, as the family had
always been kind to them and had allowed them to rest and water
their horses there. Amazingly, that day was one such occasion and
upon calling out, the only reply they heard was the baby’s cries.
They went into the hut and saw the dead child and his mother on the
bed. Despite their fear of the disease, they went to the baby,
scooped her up and left the hut.
“They
called her Meoquanee, which means ‘wears red’ and gave her to a
squaw that had recently lost her baby. Meoquanee grew up as a
normal kid in the tribe. While often teased, she was still readily
accepted by the other children in the tribe. When she was quite
young, maybe 10, 12 years old, she was kidnapped by a gang of
whites and taken far away. Although she spoke not a word of
English, the white men started calling her ‘Button’ because they
had declared her as cute as a button.”
The man
took several deep breaths before he continued. I could see the
story was dear to his heart and wondered if his ancestors had
played a part in the story. He continued, “The gang consisted of
both men and women. Not outlaws, exactly, but not one in search of
a home, either. One such woman in the gang had been a schoolteacher
and she took charge of Meoquanee to teach her English. They named
the girl Maeve Button.” He chuckled softly, cleared his throat, and
began tossing the container up in the air and catching it,
repeatedly. The sun glinted off the parts he’d shined up, but what
looked like moss still covered parts of it.
“Long
story short,” he continued as I smiled in disbelief, “Maeve learned
more than English from the schoolteacher. As they’d ride though
towns like Tombstone, Jerome, Fort Belknap, Fort Bridger, and all
points on the Wild West frontier, the charming girl developed
lightening fast reflexes and a penchant for pretty, shiny things.
The gang started hitting the mining towns and Maeve would relieve
the menfolk of their hard earned gold without them even being
aware.
“In 1887,
things changed for Maeve. She’d picked the pockets of young and
old, stolen from the rich and richer and had never gotten caught.
She could have settled and had a comfortable life, and thought she
had when she married a man 27 years her senior, but things quickly
went sour for her, as she soon discovered he was a betting man. By
this time,” the man said, waving his gnarled hand, “Maeve and her
husband had settled in these lands. It was different back then, and
Indians roamed about just as frequently as the wild men and women
of the West. When Maeve got wind of a horse race nearby, she
panicked and hid all her money, drew a map, hid it in this here
little capsule, and ran deep into the woods to hide it up in a
tree. Her husband, angry at not having access to her gold, did a
most devious thing and placed a wager anyway. Maeve didn’t know
what to expect but she dreaded the day of the race.
“The day
of the race, her husband had not been able to get the information
about the hidden money, and insisted she come along to watch. He
cheerfully held her arm in a tight grip and talked exhaustively
about his exotic wager. She didn’t listen. Things were very tense
between them and all she could think of was getting away. Instead,
she tried to match his enthusiasm. At the end of a long day of
festivities and horse racing, Maeve’s husband counted his losses
and slumped on the ground, with Maeve close beside him. Two Indian
men found them and demanded payment, and the man, with deep sorrow,
nodded his head.
“The
Indians grabbed Maeve.” The old man choked out a sob, and carefully
rehung the container in the tree. “He lost her that day in his
arrogance at winning bets. The man searched far and wide for the
money Maeve had hidden so he could buy her back. He found this here
map, but by then, the map had faded and was useless. It was so long
ago, but the pain of it is as fresh as if it happened yesterday. I
never knew what happened to her after I lost her.”
I looked
at the container with renewed interest and when I looked back at
the man, puzzled by his last comment, he, like the map, was fading.
“Wait!” I called.
“I lost
her. I’m sorry. Tell my story, and have people sign the map so
she’s never forgotten.”
I left the
woods with a sense of awe and wonderment. It’s taken a while to get
the story down as I wanted to remember it word for word and not
leave anything out. Now that I have, please, take the time to go
and sign the map, and remember Maeve Button.
Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a
man's character, give him power.
Abraham Lincoln