Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (46 page)

 
          
 
"Maybe."

 
          
 
"Wal, Immel and Jones, they met up with
one band of Blackfoot, and sure enough, had 'em a peace talk. It was later that
them Blackfoot all got together with the others and decided to wipe out the
whites. And they done her."

 
          
 
An eerie feeling of danger had drifted over
Richard like a miasma. He gave the Pawnee's back an unsure look. Was he like
the Blackfeet? "But why? Travis, I'm looking for the reason. War is not
the natural human state. I can't believe that. They must have had a
reason."

 
          
 
"Who knows? They's just devils. Maybe
their spirits told 'em to. Maybe it's because we're friendly with the Snakes,
and Blackfoot hate Snakes as much as they hate anybody. Dick, listen close now.
Out hyar, a feller don't need a reason. These Injuns don't think the same as
ye. Larn their rules, or they'll kill ye. Get that philos'phy mush outa yer
head."

 
          
 
"It just doesn't make sense. Man is
rational. Man must be rational. Otherwise, what's the difference between us and
the animals?"

 
          
 
Travis scratched at the sweat running down his
cheeks and into his beard. "Wal, now. That's the first smart question
ye've asked all day. So far as old Travis Hartman's concerned, thar ain't a
whole lot."

 
          
 
If nothing else could be said for him, Richard
Hamilton had a quick and agile mind. "Coneflower," he said, pointing.

 
          
 
"Good. Yer a-larning."

 
          
 
White fluffy clouds drifted across the endless
blue vault of sky. Richard had never seen such blue. The warm breeze skipped
across the grass, moving it like waves on
Boston
Harbor
. Butterflies flitted past in dots of
spectacular color. Insects were chirring in the grass.

 
          
 
"Seems like the whole land is
alive." He wiped his sweaty face. "But I'd sure like a drink."

 
          
 
"Spring up ahead." Travis said.
"Pawnee's been making ferit."

 
          
 
"You know this country pretty well."

 
          
 
"Reckon so. Worked out of the
Council Bluffs
fer Lisa, then fer the Company."

 
          
 
The Pawnee started down into a
brush-and-oak-filled draw where water had cut through the caprock. Deer trails
led through the trees to a little brook.

 
          
 
"Water them hosses downstream, Dick.
Reckon we'll let them drink, then us."

 
          
 
When the horses had watered and began grazing
along the trickle of creek, Richard dropped to his knees to drink his fill of
cool water. Oak boughs dappled the ground with shade, relief from the heat of
the day.

 
          
 
Half Man sat a short distance away, crouched
on his haunches, rifle across his lap. He watched Richard with expressionless
black eyes.

 
          
 
Richard asked, "Do you speak any
English?"

 
          
 
Half Man continued to stare at him for a
moment, then spoke, the language incomprehensible. At the same time, those
brown hands formed different patterns.

 
          
 
"He says he wants to trade." Travis
tied his lead horse to a tree, and walked over to squat several paces from Half
Man.

 
          
 
Richard shook his head. "I don't have
anything to trade. I just want to ask questions."

 
          
 
Travis spoke slowly, haltingly, his hands
tracing patterns in the air. When Half Man answered, Travis looked up and said,
"He says he ain't got no reason to waste his time if n ye ain't gonna
trade. Says he's got better things to do with his day than jabber with a La-chi-kut"

 
          
 
Richard chewed at his lip for a moment, then
slapped at a mosquito. "Tell him I'll trade ideas."

 
          
 
"Ideas? Hell." But Travis spoke,
gesturing with his hands the whole time.

 
          
 
Half Man narrowed his eyes as he looked at
Richard. When he spoke, the tone ridiculed. Travis translated: ' 'Words are
empty air. I want whiskey, tobacco, gunpowder, mirrors. You are poor, you are
nothing."

 
          
 
"I'm not nothing," Richard said.
"I'm a student of philosophy, of ideas. The things you speak of are
meaningless. Truth, the nature of God, the way in which you perceive the world,
those things are all that mean anything."

 
          
 
Travis glanced warily at Richard, then made
the signs, adding the Pawnee words he knew.

 
          
 
The Pawnee spoke in mocking tones. Travis
translated: "He wants to know if ye'll trade them fine moccasins. He says
if ye gives him yer moccasins, he'll find a reason ter be bothered by yer
questions. And, which God are ye interested in? Evening Star or Wakonda? First
is Pawnee, second's
Omaha
."

 
          
 
"My moccasins?" Richard cried.
"They're the only shoes I've got!"

 
          
 
Half Man made a hissing sound, barked a couple
of words, and spit in emphasis.

 
          
 
"He says yer a fool, Dick. And I reckon
we'd better call her quits, afore he gets riled."

 
          
 
"A fool? I've at least the decency to
have an interest in his beliefs! What does he think? That men have only
things—tobacco, whiskey—to tie them together? Damn him, he . . ."

 
          
 
Richard started as the Pawnee rose, expression
turning to snarl. With the quickness of a striking cat, the Pawnee feinted at
Richard, pivoted on his foot, and swung the butt of his rifle at Travis's head.

 
          
 
Travis ducked the whistling rifle, lost his
balance, and fell against the Pawnee's knees. In that instant, Half Man dropped
his rifle, whipped out his knife, and leapt on Travis, who blocked the slashing
blade, growling like a wild animal. Half Man screamed like a panther.

 
          
 
Heart pounding, Richard backed away. The
sudden fury of the attack stunned him. Terrified, his hands clutched
spasmodically at nothingness.

 
          
 
On the leaf-matted ground, Travis and Half Man
kicked and bit and gouged. Grunting now, straining against each other, their
faces contorted. Travis got a knee into Half Man's belly and levered the Indian
off.

 
          
 
Half Man landed on his side, but struck out
with his blade. Travis rolled away, rising. Half Man knocked Travis off his
feet. Before the hunter could recover, Half Man leapt. Travis shot his elbow
forward, partially deflecting the vicious blade that sliced at his side. At the
same time, he jabbed his other hand into Half Man's face, the fingers clawing
the Indian's eyes.

 
          
 
Richard gasped for breath, slowly shaking his
head. Travis howled with an unearthly fury that drowned Half Man's screams. The
Pawnee jerked frantically at the hand clamped to his face, Travis's fingers
digging ever deeper into his eyes.

 
          
 
At the same time, Travis jacked his knee into
the Pawnee's crotch, again and again and again. Half Man's body jerked from the
impact. In desperation, Half Man broke the hunter's grip, flinging himself
backward. Cat-quick, Travis was on him, an insane moan breaking his scarred
lips, gray-white hair flying. Travis tightened his hold on the knife hand,
while his other caught the Pawnee's throat; they were face-to-face, panting,
spitting in effort. Travis's strength slowly bent the knife arm until the blade
hovered over Half Man. The Pawnee gave a last heave, letting the knife slip out
of his fingers. At that moment, Travis butted the Pawnee with his head,
battering the Indian's already bloody face.

 
          
 
Richard staggered forward as Travis grabbed a
rock and hammered the Indian's head. The rock made a hollow thump like a stick
on a melon.

 
          
 
"Travis, no! He's beaten!" Richard
cried as he rushed forward. But again and again Travis slammed the rock home,
using two hands.

 
          
 
When it was over, Travis rolled off the limp
body and flopped on his back. He coughed, blinked at the sky, and closed his
eyes.

 
          
 
Richard stood, numb. Blood welled in the
ragged red holes where the Indian's eyes had been. The skull had been pounded
to pulp from which streams of red leaked. What had been a man was now nothing
more than meat. A big black fly landed on the dead man's ruined face.

 
          
 
"Travis?" Richard whispered.

 
          
 
"Dick? Come hyar. I reckon ye'd better
take a look." Travis pulled up his shirt, the slice in the crimson-stained
leather clearly visible. Blood ran in a bright red sheet from the cut in
Travis's side.

 
          
 
"Come on, coon," Travis called.
"Ye gots ter look at it. Tell me how bad. Stings like unholy Hell."

 
          
 
Richard stumbled forward, dropping to his
knees. So much blood! He'd never seen anything like it before. "It's ...
Oh, my God, Travis!"

 
          
 
"Is there—is there guts hanging out,
boy?"

 
          
 
"N ... No. I... I don't.. . well, see
any."

 
          
 
Travis gasped, lying back. With shaking
fingers, he prodded at the long wound.

 
          
 
Richard watched those fingers as they worked
carefully through the blood.

 
          
 
"Shit!" Travis growled. "Might
not be guts out, Dick, but she's sliced clean through the side." He
swallowed hard. "All right, coon. Ye gots ter sew her up. Savvy? If'n ye
don't, old Travis is gone under."

 
          
 
"Sew?" Richard mewed. This wasn't
happening! "God, Travis ... I cantV

 
          
 
"Reckon so, coon. Needle and thread's in
my possibles." Travis felt around. "Must a busted the strap. Find
'em, Dick."