Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (49 page)

 
          
 
She cocked her head. A trap hid in this. But
where? Why would the White man at the fort offer two guns for her, when these
White men would turn her loose?

 
          
 
The man's hands continued, "The young
warrior killed the Pawnee who kept you. The young warrior says you are
free."

 
          
 
She glanced at the third set of blankets. The
young White man was rolled up like a papoose. He hadn't seemed much of a
warrior. She remembered the soft look in his eyes as he'd reached out to her.
Then he'd been betrayed by the shakes. What had she seen in those brown eyes?
Confusion, relief, excitement, all mixed together?

 
          
 
She gazed down at her hands. She'd seen that
look before—in the eyes of her husband. Was that why I took the White man's
hand? Or was it the fall that addled me?

 
          
 
Willow
rubbed her flushed face, recalling the way
she'd gone dizzy and fallen into the White man's arms.

 
          
 
How long ago? What did they do when I was
senseless? What men did with any woman, no doubt. She reached down under her
skirt, but found no indication that a man had taken her. Maybe White men
didn't—but, no, that wasn't what the Ku'chendikani claimed. According to the
people who knew Whites, they were as bad as, if not worse than, anyone when it
came to coupling.

 
          
 
She flushed at the old White man's knowing
eyes as she pulled her hands into view. "Free?"

 
          
 
He nodded, signing, "Free. But I would
ask the Snake woman to stay for several days. I will be very sick. Fevered. The
young warrior knows nothing of wounds, or fever. If you help him to help me, we
will give you horses. We will take you to your people."

 
          
 
Take her to her people? Was this where the
trap. . . ? She stifled a cry as she shifted and white-hot pain lanced through
her. Tarn Apo help me, my back isn't broken, is it? Drawing deep breaths
helped, and she shifted to a different position that eased her back.

 
          
 
At that moment the fire flared; she got a good
look at the White man's face. She'd seen scars like that before. He'd fought
the white bear—and survived. A powerful warrior, White man though he might be.
But why free her? Brave or not, it didn't make sense to turn a good captive
loose.

 
          
 
She signed, "My people live many moons to
the west."

 
          
 
"In the
Shining
Mountains
," he returned. "I know where the
Snake live. I have seen their land. We are headed close to there. We will take
you home. I speak straight."

 
          
 
"Why?"

 
          
 
"Maybe trade with your people."

 
          
 
Ah! Now I begin to understand. "What
makes you think we want trade?"

 
          
 
"Everyone wants trade."

 
          
 
Her fingers flashed angrily. "Trade not
good. Trade for rifle, must trade for powder, trade for bullet. This is
good?"

 
          
 
He watched her with thoughtful eyes.
"Trade makes people wealthy and strong. Snakes need guns to fight the
Black-foot. Blackfoot enemy to Whites as well as Snake people."

 
          
 
"Is it not better that Whites kill
Blackfeet?" She glanced at the metal tins. "Is it not better that you
trade medicine water to Blackfeet? Make them crazy and weak? Then you can kill
them."

 
          
 
He smiled at her, and signed: "You are
too much like Young Warrior. Many questions. Answer one question and he asks
two more."

 
          
 
She started to stand, got dizzy, and sank
back.

 
          
 
"Hurt?" he signed.

 
          
 
She ignored him, heart racing, senses going
blurry.

 
          
 
"Bad fall," he signed, then pointed
to his side and added, "Bad cut. Young Warrior sew."

 
          
 
She made the signs: "Half Man cut
you?"

 
          
 
He nodded. "Tried to steal whiskey."

 
          
 
"I heard," she grunted in Pawnee.

 
          
 
How free am I? She nerved herself, rising
slowly to her feet. Squinting against the horrible headache, she made her way,
step by step, into the brush. Holding onto a tree, she relieved herself, half
expecting a cry of pursuit. When none came, she stepped carefully to the creek
and scooped up water. She relished the water's cool touch on her hot skin. She
drank all she could hold.

 
          
 
Go, now. Escape! She glanced out into the
darkness, wincing at her pain and blurring vision. How far could she make it
before she collapsed? Her stomach tickled "with the urge to vomit. Like it
or not, she needed rest.

 
          
 
But she would do one thing before hobbling
back to her blankets. She picked her way to where Packrat lay, almost falling
over him in the darkness. With questing fingers she found his war club and
picked it up.

 
          
 
She gasped as she stood again, vision
swimming. Her skull must be cracked to ache this badly. She waited out the
nausea, and carefully picked her way back to the White man's camp.

 
          
 
The Bear Man sat as she'd left him.

 
          
 
"Where are you from?" she signed.

 
          
 
"All over."

 
          
 
"And Young Warrior?"

 
          
 
Bear Man said the word aloud: "
Boston
." In signs he added, "Young
Warrior will tell you about
Boston
until you are sick of hearing it."

 
          
 
She grunted noncommittally. Her vision was
spinning— the headache shredded her thoughts. Rest a while. Then, after a
couple of hours' sleep, she'd slip away, find her mare, and be on her way
before sunup.

 
          
 
"Name?" Bear Man asked.

 
          
 
In Dukurika she said, "Heals Like A
Willow." Then made the signs for it.

 
          
 
"Travis," he said, then pointed at
the Young Warrior all wrapped up in his blankets. "Dick."

 
          
 
She grimaced against the headache.
"Trawis. Dik."

 
          
 
"Please," he signed. "Help the
Young Warrior."

 
          
 
She closed her eyes, sinking back. Not even
bearing her son had been this painful.

 
          
 
The soft light of morning bathed the land when
Richard folded back his blanket. In the half-light the brush had taken on a
grayish tint, the dark trees like mysterious spirits suddenly frozen while
waving armlike branches.

 
          
 
Richard yawned, reassured by the lilting trill
of the meadowlarks and the long call of the robins. Then he remembered the
previous day and sat up. Travis Hartman hadn't moved a hair. Blessed God, he
hadn't died in the night, had he?

 
          
 
Had yesterday really happened? Or was it all a
dream? Across the stream, the Pawnee youth still sprawled, the blood turned
black. Damnation, it wasn't a dream. / killed him. And what does that make me?

 
          
 
Richard stood, rubbed his eyes with a knuckle,
and walked down to wash his face in the clear water. His reflection—little more
than a dark silhouette against the morning sky—stared back at him. What have I
become?

 
          
 
The dark shadow on the water returned no
answers.

 
          
 
The fire had burned down to white ash. Richard
stirred it and added the last of the branches he'd collected. Bending down, he
blew the embers to life. He sat, stomach growling, staring at the flames
through vacant eyes while the previous day replayed over and over again.

 
          
 
"Yer up?" Travis asked hoarsely.

 
          
 
"Yes." Was life like firelight? An
instant of wavering brilliance, snuffed so quickly?

 
          
 
"Reckon I could use a drink, Dick."

 
          
 
Richard fetched Travis's tin cup and filled it
at the spring before crouching at Travis's side.

 
          
 
"Travis, what happened yesterday? None of
it makes sense. Half Man going berserk, trying to kill you because I asked
questions. The two of you fought like animals. What you did to him . . .
ripping his eyes out. . . beating him to death. ..."

 
          
 
Travis looked ashen, eyes sunken in a drawn
face. "A feller's gotta fight like a banshee out hyar. Ain't no way around
it. Now, don't go a-blaming yerself for Half Man making his play. He was
a-looking fer an excuse. Thought he had me off balance, and took his chance.
Come right close ter working, too, Dick. Now, afore ye gets all carried away
with yer philos'phy, think hard on this: Reckon he's a-laying out there, all
stiff and gone under. If'n I hadn't a kilt him, we'd both be laying hyar dead.
Green's whiskey'd be plumb gone, and that Pawnee coon would be one rich red son
of a bitch."

 
          
 
"And the young man? I don't understand
that. Where did he come from? What did he want?"

 
          
 
"I ain't figgered that meself."
Travis resettled himself, wincing as he eased his side. "But, coon, no
matter what, we was dead men again. The only thing what saved us was Heals Like
A Willow, the Snake woman. I was looking inta that Pawnee kid's eyes. He was
gonna kill us dead with that bow, and take the whiskey. That light was
a-burning in his eyes as he looked at the tins. And right then,
Willow
up and laughed. Saw the expression in his
face, didn't ye?"

 
          
 
"Yes. His face screwed up like something
wild. It scared me, Travis, I saw she was tied. I just couldn't watch him kill
her like that."