Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (29 page)

 
          
 
Richard darted nervous glances at the
sober-eyed men as he made his way through the camp. A sheep would feel this
unsettling shiver as he walked through a pack of wolves.

 
          
 
"Bets?"

 
          
 
"Got to do something on the river,
lad."

 
          
 
"Betting on whether a man gets
shot?"

 
          
 
"Wal, they'll fall ter monte, euchre, and
stud afore long."

 
          
 
"I see."

 
          
 
They'd passed the fires and followed a faint
track past a brushy stand of hazel that, from the odor, served as the latrine.
Richard's muscles had warmed, and some of the stiffness had left his legs.

 
          
 
"Hyar we be."

 
          
 
Richard squinted in the gloom, seeing a
firepit of red coals dotted with rocks. A low dome covered with blankets stood
behind the fire; a triangular opening gaped blackly where one of the blankets
was folded back.

 
          
 
"Shuck out of yer clothes, Dick."

 
          
 
"But I—"

 
          
 
"Tarnal Hell, child, jist do 'er."
Travis was peeling out of his hunting shirt and then started to unlace his
greasy pants.

 
          
 
Richard's heart began to pound. "You're
not... I mean ..."

 
          
 
"Yer not a woman under them britches, is
ye? Wal, if not, I ain't interested. Now, take what's left of them fancies off
and skedaddle inside."

 
          
 
"What is this?"

 
          
 
"Injun cure. Sweat lodge, coon. Now skin
that shirt and britches, or I'll whittle 'em off."

 
          
 
Richard's fingers shook as he fumbled the
buttons and undressed. The night blew cool on his skin as he dropped and
scuttled into the black interior of the low tent. Sore muscles protested.
Inside, he huddled against the far wall, scratchy blankets against his back.

 
          
 
I'm going to be tortured, maybe raped. The
man's an animal Animal? Wasn't it the use of that word that had brought him to
this horror?

 
          
 
Hartman's bulk filled the doorway, a
silhouette of muscle and long grizzled hair. The hunter carried a hot rock
pinched by two smoking sticks. It glowed an evil red as it was laid in the
center of the floor. Hartman scuttled back out, then returned with another, and
yet another.

 
          
 
An Injun cure? The glowing stones seemed to
stare at Richard with demonic eyes. Hartman returned yet again, and the flap
settled in place to leave them in complete darkness.

 
          
 
"Now, Dick, I'm splashing a bit of water.
Yer not used to such doings, I'm thinking. Breathe deep, lad. Let the heat soak
into yer hide. They's medicine in it. Yer muscles will loosen like old wangs in
a rain."

 
          
 
"What's a wang?"

 
          
 
"Leather strap—usually. Don't they larn
ye nothing back East no more?"

 
          
 
The instant the water hit the hot rocks, it
popped and crackled into steam. At the same time, Hartman began chanting in a
strange language.

 
          
 
Easy, Richard. It's just some silly
superstition. Some barbaric custom this berserk Mongol has concocted.

 
          
 
Warm steam curled around him, thickening,
moistening his nostrils. Water trickled and more steam swirled in the darkness.

 
          
 
Richard nerved himself. "Where did you
learn this?"

 
          
 
"Injuns. Most of the tribes I've had
truck with sweat. Makes the body pure. Reckon I believes it. Most figger they
don't get clean lessen they sweat Funny thing, ye lives around Injuns, an'
sure's snow in the winter, ye starts ter suck up their way of thinking. Reckon
that otta do ye fer now."

 
          
 
Perspiration had begun to bead on Richard's
face. He gasped for breath. Heat was biting into his flesh, and the muscles
were loosening. About that, at least, Hartman had been correct.

 
          
 
"Feel better?" Hartman asked.

 
          
 
"I think so." Talk. Do anything but
concentrate on the stifling heat. His hair was dripping. "I still can't
believe this is happening to me. Today, Green was really ready to kill me,
wasn't he?"

 
          
 
"Yep."

 
          
 
"Why? It's irrational! Nothing makes
sense! How can a man's life be worth so little?"

 
          
 
"Reckon ye've got her backwards, Dick.
Best ask yerself, what makes yer life worth so much? Folks never turn questions
inside out. Can't larn a damn thing till ye turns life inside out, like pulling
a hide off a beaver."

 
          
 
"So, why did you stop him? Why are you
doing this for me? I don't understand."

 
          
 
Hartman grunted. "I get notional sometimes.
Reckon I got a dose of curiosity is all. Turning things inside out again,
wondering what's really in ye, lad. Wondering if'n ye've any idea
yerself."

 
          
 
"I know what's inside of me." And I
sure don't want to be here.

 
          
 
"Huh! That's so, is it? Look old Ephraim
in the eye, lad. Where ye been? Boston? All yer Yankee life?"

 
          
 
"That's right."

 
          
 
"Shit."

 
          
 
"What do you mean?"

 
          
 
"Jist what I said. Shit. Lad, ye jist
don't know shit. Not about the world, and not about yerself. Folks in cities,
they get these ideas they know all about living, and right and wrong."

 
          
 
"If it's a discussion of ethics that
you're looking for, you've come to the right place. The philosophical basis
for—"

 
          
 
"What was that ye said? Ethics? What's
that?"

 
          
 
"The rules of civilized conduct. Right
and wrong, Mr. Hartman. And, I might add, you're in the latter category. You
are an accomplice to robbery and abduction. Just as guilty as Francis and
August. Your actions are in violation of every tenet of ethical behavior."

 
          
 
"Better that I'd jist let Francis slit
yer gullet open and dump ye in the river?"

 
          
 
"Absolutely not. Better that you had gone
with me to the authorities in order that Francis's unethical and immoral
behavior be brought to an end, and justice served."

 
          
 
"Yer some, Dick. Still looking at the
outside of the beaver and thinking ye knows the whole critter. How much did old
Francois skin ye fer?"

 
          
 
Richard's skin felt as if it were peeling
away. He kept sinking lower and lower, seeking cooler air. He hesitated, then
said, "Thirty thousand dollars in banknotes."

 
          
 
"Tarnal Hell! How'n Hob's name did a
sprout yer age get so rich?"

 
          
 
"It was my father's money. Money to
invest in the Santa Fe trade. I was just supposed to deliver it."

 
          
 
"And yer father give it ter ye? A
wet-eared boy?"

 
          
 
"I'm no boy!"

 
          
 
"Wal, I reckon that's ter be seen. And
I'll wager ye come off all high, mighty, and rich, and that's what set Francis
off. That French varmint can smell money a day's ride away. Ye done something
ter him, didn't ye?"

 
          
 
"I did nothing to him."

 
          
 
"Painter crap, lad. If'n Francis was jist
a gonna rob ye, he'd a slit yer throat and dumped ye. I couldn't figger why he
was so set on sending ye upriver like a lard eater, and now I got ter know.
What was it ye did?" Hartman dribbled more water on the rocks.

 
          
 
"We had words."

 
          
 
"And ye called him something?"

 
          
 
"I stated the obvious."

 
          
 
"Uh-huh."

 
          
 
"I told him he was an animal."

 
          
 
Hartman sat silently.

 
          
 
"You should have seen him. Bragging about
killing an Indian. The hogs were worrying the poor man's head like ... some
obscene melon."

 
          
 
"Reckon yer father don't know shit
neither, sending ye out alone into country like this. Proves my point about
city folks back East. 'Specially Yankees."

 
          
 
The heat had melted Richard's natural caution.
"He thought it would be good for me. He wanted to teach me responsibility.
As if Aristotle, Rousseau, and Locke hadn't."

 
          
 
"And where did them fellers work? Fer yer
father?"

 
          
 
Richard rolled his eyes, feeling ill in the
stifling darkness. "No, no. They're philosophers. Teachers who wrote
books. I was studying them. I want to be a professor of philosophy. My father
and I had a disagreement about that. That's why I'm here. He sent me on this
trip to learn something about the world."

 
          
 
Travis scratched his ear. "Reckon ye did
that, all right."

 
          
 
"Travis, I've got to get out. I'm going
to be sick." The heat made him sway.

 
          
 
"Lift the bottom of the blanket
there."

 
          
 
Richard reached out with an arm that worked
like soggy flour. Air rushed in along his boiling skin and he sucked cool
relief into his lungs, drafting it inside like a bellows. For long moments he
lay limply on the grass.

 
          
 
"How's yer hurts?" Travis asked.

 
          
 
"I don't know. I'm not sure I can feel
anything anymore."

 
          
 
"Reckon ye'll be feeling plenty tomorrow,
coon. When ye picks up that pole, think back on how bad it would a been without
the medicine lodge hyar."

 
          
 
From under the edge of the blanket Richard
watched the stars twinkling over the inky treetops. Was that way east? Were
they twinkling like that over Boston? "I want to go home, Travis. Can't
you and Green just let me go? Would my skinny little butt, as you put it,
really make that much difference to you?"