Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (12 page)

 
          
 
Deckhands threw lines out to the waiting men
on the bank and dropped the plank. Dugout canoes, a couple of pirogues, and a
canted keelboat had been pulled up on the mud.

 
          
 
Richard tapped his hat securely onto his head,
picked up his grip, and descended the stairs to the deck before following the
excited swarm of people ashore. Everyone was talking at once, calling for the
news, asking about conditions upriver.

 
          
 
Richard found the inhabitants as distasteful
as their pitiful trading post. The only women were Indians, their round, brown
faces expressionless as they watched from the rear. The most common sort of men
were bearded American hunters, each dressed in fringed buckskins glazed in dirt
and grease that made the leather shine blackly. French boatmen composed the
second common group. These wore equally dirty cloth garments that bagged about
the limbs, colorful sashes, and flopping wool hats—generally red in color. The
third, smallest, contingent consisted of the type of ruffian Richard took to be
half-breeds.

 
          
 
The sticky mud had been churned with God alone
knew what sort of filth. He winced as the goo oozed around his polished black
boots, but trudged up the landing. He glanced uneasily at the forest. Did it
lie in wait for him? Was that where the sense of menace came from?

 
          
 
Men were packing wood from a rickety stack
down to the boat, fuel for the ravenous boilers. Someone cursed, yelling that
the wood was still too green to burn well.

 
          
 
"Take it or leave it!" came the
rejoinder.

 
          
 
Stumps stuck out of the ground throughout the
so-called settlement, as if
Fort
Massac
had been built straight out of the
wilderness. The air smelled of hickory smoke, decay, urine, and the mixed pungency
of manure. Bits of broken crockery, shards of glass, excrement, and splintered
bone littered the charcoal-blackened earth.

 
          
 
The low-roofed log huts, rough-notched, had
been chinked with mud and roofed over with earth. The insides were dark as
caves behind green-hide doors that hung on leather hinges.

 
          
 
"Dirt into dirt," Richard whispered.
A filthy little girl of about five ran past—an image of sooty smudges, tangled
dark brown hair, and a snot-wet nose.

 
          
 
Dogs were fighting somewhere, accompanied by
loud whoops of encouragement. Richard pinched his nose as he looked out back of
one of the rude cabins. Animal hides had been pegged to the wall and added
their stink to the piles of human excrement. Two pigs were rooting through the
mess, snorting and squealing at each other as they nipped and butted a ball of
some sort before them. Brown, muddy, and tattered, the thing rolled awkwardly
as first one pig, then the other, savaged it with its tusks, occasionally
ripping a strip of pulp from the . . . Richard started, his hand tightening on
the grip. Dear God, it's a human head!

 
          
 
"I would not worry, m'sieur. It is only
an Indian, a
Shawnee
who was caught stealing, I think. The grave, you see, she was very, how
you say . . . shallow." The words, spoken with an atrocious French accent,
brought Richard around with a start.

 
          
 
A swarthy boatman leaned against the log wall,
feet braced, head cocked. The man might have been a caricature. No human should
have had shoulders that broad. The V of his chest tapered to an insanely thin
waist. The wide black belt held a pistol, knife, bullet pouch, and hide sack.
Corded muscle packed the man's arms until they matched the thickness of his
bandy legs. Moccasins clad his feet and splotched leggings rose to his thighs.
A heavy wool shirt, grimy gray, barely concealed a chest fit for a Greek god.
His face was long, the nose thin and hooked. A light brown beard hung well past
his chin, and greasy black hair fell over his filthy collar.

 
          
 
But the eyes—a predatory blue—had an icy quality
that pierced Richard like frozen needles. Richard backed away as if stung. He'd
reacted this way only once in his life, when he'd opened a box given to him as
a practical joke—and discovered a serpent within.

 
          
 
Yes, a serpent. Cold . . . deadly.

 
          
 
The boatman casually returned his gaze to the
pigs' prize.

 
          
 
"How a man is buried says a great deal
about him, no? In his case, she could be said zat Indians who drink too much of
another man's whiskey and are slow to draw zee knife get buried shallow, eh,
mon ami!"

 
          
 
Words cramped in Richard's throat. Those
blood-chilling eyes had fixed on the grip, seeming to stare through the heavy
cloth to the banknotes within. Richard tucked the grip protectively to his
breast. His knees had begun to wobble as he backed away.

 
          
 
"Ah, maybe you do not like Indians?"
The man shrugged. "Very well. This Virgil, she is a good boat? Fast?"

 
          
 
Richard jerked a nod.

 
          
 
The boatman chuckled at Richard's unease.
"I am called Frangois, m'sieur. A ... I suppose you would say native of
these parts, eh?"

 
          
 
"B— Bonjour" Richard spun on his
heel, fighting the urge to run full-tilt back to the boat.

 
          
 
"Un moment!"

 
          
 
"Quest que c'est?"

 
          
 
"You go to
Saint Louis
, amiT' Frangois was striding beside him, a
faint smile on those deadly thin lips.

 
          
 
"Yes! Yes! Now, excuse me, please. I must
go!"

 
          
 
A hand clapped on his shoulder, the grip
tightening like a vise. Richard shivered in spite of himself. He shot a
frightened glance into those frozen blue eyes.

 
          
 
"You travel well on this boat? She is
good, oui?"

 
          
 
"I suppose . . . yes. I... er, it hasn't
sunk yet." Richard tried to smile. His guts had gone runny. "If
you'll excuse me."

 
          
 
He wanted to gasp with relief when the
callused hand withdrew. By dint of will he kept his legs from quaking, but
hurried for the plank and the safety of the Virgil

 
          
 
When he'd climbed from the lower deck to the
gallery, he glanced back. The boatman had followed to stop at the end of the
plank. Frangois's eyes narrowed as if in thought.

 
          
 
What was it? Richard ran a cool hand over his
hot face. Why did he make me afraid? It's irrational The swine-gnawed head,
that was it. It would have unsettled Achilles.

 
          
 
Richard paused at the railing, the grip
clutched to his chest. Sanity began to replace his blind panic, his heart
slowing, breathing returning to normal. The trickly feeling in his guts began
to recede.

 
          
 
"Eh! Mon ami!''' Francis called up from
the landing. "I think we will become good friends, non!"

 
          
 
Shamed by his irrational fear, buoyed by the
high safety of the gallery, protected now by the sanctuary of the cabin deck
with its whitewashed wood, windows, and its stewards, Richard called down:
"I think not, monsieur. I prefer the company of gentlemen to that of
animals. Perhaps you had better go back and root with your hogs!"

 
          
 
Francis stiffened, eyes narrowing to slits.
"Francis will not forget your words, rich man. Life, she is full of little
surprises, non?"

 
          
 
With a deep breath, Richard pivoted on his
heel and entered the main cabin. He returned to his reading chair beside the
stove and settled himself. His heart was racing again, nerves tingling. Despite
the cool air, he felt overheated. His hands shook.

 
          
 
What did you just do? Take hold of yourself,
Richard.

 
          
 
Picking up Kant, he listened to the hissing
sounds of the boilers, the banging and knocking as cargo was moved.

 
          
 
The man was so . . . bestial.

 
          
 
Dismiss it.

 
          
 
But the way those eyes had pinned his soul. .
. .

 
          
 
Richard stood, easing up to the window
overlooking the landing. Packs of furs were being loaded; the captain, standing
by the plank, was making notations in a ledger book. Francois had vanished from
the crowd milling on the shore.

 
          
 
You’re being silly, Richard. He willed himself
to return to his chair. On impulse, he picked up the grip and unfastened the
clasps. Inside, the crisp banknotes remained perfectly packed. Nothing more
than paper. Nevertheless, they seemed to have taken on a terrible weight.

 
          
 
Errors do not occur just because we do not
know some certain things, but because we undertake to judge even though we do
not know everything requisite. A large number of falsehoods—indeed almost all
of them—owe their origin to such impetuosity. Do you know some predicates of a
thing with certainty? Very well then, make these things the basis of your
inferences, and you will not err. But suppose you wish to make a definition
with them, although you are not certain that you know everything requisite for
such a definition? If, in spite of this, you risk a definition, you will fall
into error. It is possible therefore to avoid errors if we seek certain and
distinct cognitions without presuming so readily to give definitions.

 
          
 
—Immanuel Kant, An Enquiry into the
Distinctness of the Fundamental Principles of Natural Theology and Morals

 
          
 
Coals burned bright in the firepit at the
center of the lodge. The hearthstones—rounded river cobbles thrown into the fire—glowed
eerily. Fire has a puha all its own. Heals Like A Willow twisted a strand of
her black hair around and around her finger. How did it happen that heating in
fire would make dark, impenetrable stone glow reddish-white? She gave up
twisting her hair and held her hands out to the radiant warmth.

 
          
 
"Better than freezing on the cliff, don't
you think?" Two Half Moons asked. Somewhere in the darkness beyond the
lodge, a horse snorted and stomped at the frozen snow.

 
          
 
The warm lodge, with its cheery fire, mocked
the terrible cold just beyond the finely tanned buffalo-hide walls. The
polished lodgepoles gleamed redly and reminded
Willow
of bone freshly stripped of meat and still
slightly bloody.

 
          
 
Square parfleches, humped mounds of robes,
backrests crafted from willow stems, and a stack of firewood furnished Two Half
Moons' lodge.

 
          
 
"What will you do now?" the old
woman asked.

 
          
 
"Wait out the weather,"
Willow
replied. "Go back to my people."

 
          
 
Two Half Moons rubbed her leathery old face as
she peered into the fire. The crimson light accented the tones of the old
woman's weathered face. Age hadn't treated her nose kindly; it had a shape that
reminded people of a mushroom. Her undershot, toothless jaw snugged up to make
a flat line of the wrinkled mouth. Spirit still burned in those obsidian eyes,
despite the silver-streaked braids that hung to either side of her round head
with its broad cheekbones.

 
          
 
"You are young, girl. I know that your
husband's brother will speak to you soon."

 
          
 
"White Hail is just a boy."

 
          
 
"He's a man now. Killed his first enemy.
Sought out his vision. Married. And I know he's always admired you. Wanted his
wife to be like you."

 
          
 
"Didn't succeed, did he?"
Willow
reached for the stack of sagebrush and
dropped another gnarly branch on the fire. Flames leapt from the leaves and
twigs in a bright display of white light, only to subside into coals as the
layers of wood charred and peeled back from the stem.

 
          
 
Willow
raised her hands in defeat. "Yes, yes,
I know he's a man now. I just can't help but think of him as the daring boy
with a joke on his lips, and the gleam of fun in his eyes. Remember all the
pranks he played?"

 
          
 
"Time has a habit of scuffing such
memories away. Live with him for a while and you'll think of him as a husband—
no matter that he's younger than you are."

 
          
 
Willow
shook her head. "I like White Hail.
You know that. But I can't marry him."

 
          
 
"Don't want to be a second wife?"
Two Half Moons stabbed at the fire with a cotton wood stick. "Is that it?
Afraid he'd make you do all the work? Think Red Calf would make you
miserable?"

 
          
 
"She's always looked at me with
suspicion."

 
          
 
"Don't be too proud to be a second wife,
Willow
."

 
          
 
"It's not that. It's that. . ." I
loved my husband. Without him, I don't want to stay here. Memories of High
Wolf, her father, filled her. He'd look at her with that glint in his eyes, and
tell her stories of the great puhagans again.

 
          
 
"Yes?"

 
          
 
"When the weather clears, napia, I'm
going back to my people."

 
          
 
Two Half Moons sighed. "It's the middle
of winter. Oh, sure, this cold will break. Probably be followed by a warm
spell, but you know that spring storms will roll down out of the north before
you can get home. Stick your hand out there in the snow and see just how cold
cold can be."

 
          
 
"I know how to survive in snow. Besides,
I'll be climbing. A person can always find shelter in the mountains, make it
from brush, logs, and snow, if nothing else."

 
          
 
"You'll be wading in snow up to your
breasts."

 
          
 
"Unlike the Ku'chendikani, I remember how
to make snowshoes."

 
          
 
"How will you find your Dukurikal They
could be anywhere up there in the
Powder River
Mountains
."

 
          
 
"They'll be in the southern foothills.
Probably camped in the south-facing rock shelters where the sun warms them
during the day. They'll be hunting the slopes where the snow blows off, then
melts. The deer winter there. That's also the first place the shooting star and
biscuit root grow in spring."

 
          
 
Two Half Moons snorted in irritation.
"You know everything, don't you?"

 
          
 
Willow
gave her a humorless smile. "What can
I say? I'm Dukurikal

 
          
 
"It doesn't have to be White Hail. Fast
Black Horse would be proud to make you his wife."

 
          
 
"Then I'd be a third wife."

 
          
 
"That's a third of the work you'd have to
do if you were the only wife."

 
          
 
"Fast Black Horse has the largest horse
herd in the band. He kills more buffalo than anyone else. That's why he needs
wives. The more he has, the more hides he can process for trade with the
Mandan
and the Whites."

 
          
 
"And the more fine things you can adorn
your clothes with.

 
          
 
You'd be looked up to, admired by everyone in
the—"

 
          
 
Willow
reached out and placed a hand on the old
woman's arm. "I love you, Aunt. But I don't want those things. I don't
want the things Kuchendikani want." Silence stretched until
Willow
began to worry that she might have offended
the old woman. She added, "And besides, Slim Pole and Iron Wrist will be
happy to be rid of me."

 
          
 
Two Half Moons waved it away. "Perhaps,
just a little bit. They're not used to a woman like you, asking questions,
prodding and prying at what people believe. They don't trust a woman who uses
puha. It smacks of something omaihen, forbidden. But despite their growling, I
think they respect you, girl. Those dreams of yours leave them a little
nervous. A woman shouldn't be having visions, shouldn't be fooling around
healing people."

 
          
 
Willow
shied from thoughts of her husband and son,
and said, "Why not? Puha is puha. It comes and goes where it will."

 
          
 
"A woman can heal . . . but not until her
bearing years pass."

 
          
 
Willow
threw her hands up. "Monthly bleeding
has nothing to do with visions, puha, or healing. Precautions have to be taken,
that's all. I wouldn't try to heal someone while I was bleeding." She
ground her teeth, staring down into the blinking red eyes of the embers. But
that's when the dreams seize me with the greatest power. That's when the visions
are the clearest.

 
          
 
"You do strange enough things when you're
bleeding. Wandering off like that. Makes people suspicious that you'd leave the
menstrual lodge and go up in the hills to do Tarn Apo knows what. Some think
you're flirting with rock ogres."

 
          
 
"Pandzoavits wouldn't want me. I just get
bored sitting in the menstrual lodge. What is there to do? Lie around and
gossip, make moccasins, do beadwork? Napia, let's be honest. I couldn't care
less who is sneaking off into the bushes with whom. Most women want to talk
about other women. I'd rather talk about why Tarn Apo made the world the way He
did."

 
          
 
Two Half Moons sucked her lips past her gums
and nodded.

 
          
 
"I know. That's why I always appreciated
you. I think that's why my nephew loved you so much. You were different.
Beautiful, exotic, and worthy of his status and souls."

 
          
 
"And that's why I can't take another man
here, Aunt. Who could follow in his place?"

 
          
 
Two Half Moons rubbed her face with a bony
hand. ' 'No matter what you might think now, with your husband freshly dead,
someone always comes along. And you'd better prepare yourself. You'll have a
handful of suitors seeking to claim you."

 
          
 
"I can understand White Hail, and maybe
Fast Black Horse, but why would the rest want me? Most of them think I'm
nothing but trouble, and I'd be the last woman most of their wives would want
to see brought into the lodge to share their fire."

 
          
 
The old woman shrugged, extending her hands to
the fire. "Some want you because you are young and beautiful. Some want
you because by claiming you, they gain some of your husband's status. And then,
there are those who see you as a challenge. Like a prize buffalo horse, you
have spirit and strength. They are the ones who want to tame you to the halter,
make you docile, and control your strange ways."

 
          
 
"They might as well try to trap the
lightning."

 
          
 
"Men and women go together. Tarn Apo made
the world that way. I think, deep down in your souls, you know that, don't
you?"

 
          
 
Willow
bowed her head. "The world might be
made that way, but I don't have to like it, do I?"