Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (30 page)

 
          
 
He could hear Hartman scratching his scalp
before he answered. "Yep, I reckon so. Frangois'll be looking fer ye, fer
one. Fer two, the rest of the engages might get the cute idea that they could
skip out same's you. Fer three, I'd never figger out if'n I's right or wrong
about ye, Dick. Yer stuck with us, lad."

 
          
 
"And if I get the chance, run off?"

 
          
 
"I’ll hunt ye down. I can track painter
cats across slick-rock, so I don't suppose no pilgrim Yankee kid from Boston's
a gonna hide his sign from Travis Hartman."

 
          
 
"What's a painter cat?"

 
          
 
"Lion, coon. Cougar, puma, whatever ye
wants ter call 'em. Kilt a mite or two of 'em, I have. Plumb shot their lights
out."

 
          
 
"And you'd shoot me? Just like that? Just
as Green would have today?" Richard wiped the sweat from his face. Damp
strands of hair lay plastered to his scalp.

 
          
 
Hartman's voice turned low and serious.
"Dick, they's times a feller's just got ter do what he's got ter do.
Listen close, boy, hyar's facts. I can't let you get crosswise atwixt me and
the crew. Ye got that? Whar we're headed, there ain't none of them ethics yer
so full of. Dave's word has got ter be law. If it ain't, the whole party can be
wiped out. The whole shitaree. Ye savvying that?"

 
          
 
"You're telling me it's life or
death?"

 
          
 
"It ain't Boston out hyar, Dick. Them's
the only two rules that count. So, yep. To keep discipline, I'll shoot ye dead
if I have ter. I might sit around of a night afterwards and feel a mite blue,
but that passes through a man's soul same as green corn through a fella's
belly."

 
          
 
"I guess I've never quite thought of life
like that."

 
          
 
Beyond the hazel, over by the river, the
engages were singing a nonsense song about woodpeckers.

 
          
 
"Best start, coon."

 
          
 
Thus it is that every man has an empirical
character of his arbitrary will, which is nothing more than a certain causality
of his reason. It demonstrates in its actions and effects in appearance, a rule
according to which one may infer the motives of reason and its actions, both in
degree and kind, and therefore judge of the subjective principles of his will.
Since that empirical character itself must be inferred from appearance as an
effect^ and from their rule which is supplied by experience, all the acts of a
man in the appearance are determined from his empirical character and from the
other concomitant causes according to the order of nature, and if we could
investigate all the manifestations of his will to the very bottom, there would
be not a single human action which we could not predict with certainty. . . .

 
          
 
—Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason

 
          
 
Her people were known for their endurance, and
Heals Like A Willow had worked hard all of her life, hauling wood and water,
scraping hides, digging roots, and carrying packs. The relentless flight
eastward, however, was taking its toll. Her legs ached from clamping onto the
horse. Stitches of pain prickled in her shoulders and back. The only
justice—such as it might be— was that Packrat looked just as haggard.

 
          
 
They had passed the last of the rugged
sandstone bluffs that rose, pale yellow, south of the river. Now they rode
across endless gentle uplands, the country grassy and open, flatter than
anything Willow had ever seen. Here, however, the spring grasses were greening.
Buffalo
stood out like black dots on the horizon,
their worn trails winding down from the ridges to the river and its life-giving
water.

 
          
 
Their only companion had been the wind. At
night, just after dark, it would let up, until by dawn the air was still and a
person could hear birdsong across the miles. Then, as the sun rose higher into
the crystalline sky, the breeze would pick up in the west, increasing in
strength as it gusted through the afternoon.

 
          
 
It still blew as Packrat led the way down into
a cotton-wood-filled hollow along a brush-choked creek. Twilight darkened the east.
Willow
swiped at long black strands of hair that
had escaped the severe braid she'd adopted to keep it from turning into a snarl
worse than a horse's tail in fall.

 
          
 
Packrat hobbled the horses and collected
fallen cotton-wood branches for fuel. He built a fire from his strike-alight,
and leaned back on his blanket. In silence, they ate the last of the jerked
meat from her pack.

 
          
 
Packrat signed: "Five days and we will
reach my people."

 
          
 
Willow
shot a glance at the weary horses. Their
heads were hanging and she could see their ribs through their patchy hair.
Within her, a faint hope stirred.

 
          
 
Despite bound hands, she signed: "Travel
faster. Arrive in four days."

 
          
 
He pursed his lips, curious. "Why? You
should want to go slow. You'd have a better chance of rescue."

 
          
 
"I'm tired. Let's get this
finished."

 
          
 
He dropped another branch on the small fire,
thought for a bit, then signed: "You make no sense. A buffalo doesn't walk
willingly to the hunter."

 
          
 
"It does if the Power is right."

 
          
 
He cocked his head, noticing her quick glance
at the horses. A slow smile spread across his face. "You are crafty, like
a coyote. The horses are worn out. One might falter, go lame. Then we would be
forced to go much slower."

 
          
 
Her sudden hope flickered out.

 
          
 
Packrat chuckled to himself. His fingers said,
"You are a worthy catch. My father will reap his reward. I could not have
done better if I had given him a panther to warm his bed."

 
          
 
"You hate your father that much?"

 
          
 
A glint sharpened in Packrat's eyes. "More
than you could know. He dishonored my mother."

 
          
 
"Why not kill him?"

 
          
 
"It is better this way." Packrat
picked up his war club, stood, and walked over to her. "Roll onto your
stomach. I'm going to scout. If your feet are bound, and your hands are tied
behind your back, you will not be able to run."

 
          
 
She glanced at the club, sighed, and then
rolled over, allowing him to truss her ankles with a long thong. Perhaps while
he was gone ...

 
          
 
But he didn't leave. Instead, he tied yet
another thong snugly around her neck. He signed: "I am going to lie with
you now. If you fight me, I can twist the thong around your neck with one hand.
A woman with no air cannot fight."

 
          
 
Willow
licked her suddenly dry lips.

 
          
 
Packrat loosened his fringed pants and stepped
out of them. He signed: "My father dishonored my mother. Lay with her
without permission. I will lie with you before I give you to him. My triumph
will be that much greater."

 
          
 
Willow
nodded wearily. Taking a deep breath, she
lay back and locked her gaze with his as he tugged her dress up past her hips.
The evening breeze cooled her thighs and belly as his hands slid over her skin,
under her dress, and cupped her breasts.

 
          
 
His incomprehensible words were spoken gently,
as if calming a horse.

 
          
 
I could make it difficult. The thought ran
around her head. With her ankles bound, she could stiffen her legs, resist
until he got a hand around the thong and choked her into submission.

 
          
 
And to what purpose? He'd been wary this time.
But the next time? Or the next?

 
          
 
She slid her ankles up and spread her knees as
he moved to cover her. She was dry, his entry difficult but not painful.
Staring into his eyes, so close to hers, she thought, My time will come. No one
is forever vigilant. If I get the chance, I will cut that penis from your body.

 
          
 
He'd barely started to move before he gasped
and stiffened. She felt the warm fluid release within her. I'll take this
little victory from you. I don't know how, but I will.

 
          
 
The knob of the pole was eating a hole in Richard's
bruised shoulder when his stomach cramped. Thinking it was just another
strained muscle, he kept pushing. Then his gut cramped again, and his bowels
demanded relief.

 
          
 
He called to Trudeau behind him and indicated
his need for relief. Walking to the offside, he squatted out over the gunwale
of the boat and voided.

 
          
 
The ever watchful Green approached and cocked
an eye. Almost solicitously, he put a hand on Richard's head. "Got the
scours. Take it easy,
Hamilton
. Work too hard like this and it'll kill a man."

 
          
 
Richard nodded weakly and voided again. His
stomach knotted and his bowels wrenched. For long moments he held the position,
legs trembling. Unable to straighten up, he waddled over and sat in the shade,
shaking and sweating. He could hear the booshway's voice telling the other men.
Jeers and laughter erupted.

 
          
 
Then the sweats and chills began. The deck he
lay on grew hazy, then shimmery. Time lagged. He slept and drank and ate and
slept again while strange dreams played through his mind. Occasionally Dave
Green would bend over him and place his cool hand on Richard's burning head.
Once, when that happened, he blinked and looked up—but into Phillip Hamilton's
piercing eyes.

 
          
 
"Satisfied, Father?" he croaked.
"This what you wanted me to see? Reality? This isn't reality ... it's
Hell."

 
          
 
Phillip laughed harshly and Richard cowered
from those mocking gray eyes. The face shimmered and lost focus.

 
          
 
The deck, yes, the deck lay below him, wet
with his own sweat. Maria, the river. A different Hell.

 
          
 
The silvered visions wavered. Once he walked
through
Boston
's narrow curving streets, past coopers,
blacksmiths, silversmiths, ceramic shops, bootmakers, bookshops, printers,
tailors. As he continued, he nodded and exchanged greetings with warm, friendly
people.

 
          
 
Then he rounded a corner, and to his horror,
Thomas Hanson stood there. Laura was enfolded in his arms as she kissed him
passionately. She melted against him, sighing as she pulled his head down and
pressed her lips against his.

 
          
 
"No!" Richard screamed, his heart
breaking. They turned then, and Laura's eyes flashed, mocking him for a fool.
Hanson lifted a cool eyebrow, then laughed as he slipped an arm around her slim
waist. They turned and walked away while Richard stood rooted to the spot. Her
hips were swaying in time to Hanson's steps.

 
          
 
A sweltering gray haze surrounded him, and
somewhere water dripped on dirty stones.

 
          
 
Suddenly old Professor Ames took his hand,
pulling him away. Together they strolled through
Market Square
toward Merchant's Row.

 
          
 
"You didn't really think she'd be yours,
did you, Richard? Nothing is permanent—-least of all the loyalty of a woman.
She's better off with Thomas,"
Ames
told him with an engaging smile and
twinkling eyes. "But, tell me, how was your trip? What observations did
you make? Is a rational mind enough to overcome social contract?"

 
          
 
Richard struggled to think. Laura and Tom? No,
he couldn't accept that. Wrong, somehow. Not real. But when had Professor Ames
ever lied to him? "No, Professor."

 
          
 
"Then you have not tried hard enough,
Richard," Ames told him. "You have given up without attempting to
elevate yourself above the baser desires."