Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (53 page)

           
 
We must not confuse selfishness with
self-love; they are two very discrete passions both in their nature and in
their effects. Self-love is a natural sentiment, which inclines every animal to
look to his own preservation, and which, directed in man by reason, and
tempered by pity, is productive of virtue and humanity. Selfishness is nothing more
than a relative and factitious sentiment, engendered in society, which disposes
every individual to set a greater value upon himself than upon any other
person, which inspires men to all the mischief they commit upon each other, and
is the true source of what we call honor.

           
 
—Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the
Origin and Foundation of Inequality Among Mankind

 
          
 
High clouds burned with a salmon pink radiance
in the peaceful dusk. Richard made a final inspection of the night's camp.
Through gaps in the trees, he could see the evening-silvered waters of the
Missouri
flow past. The surface looked so smooth,
polished pewter marred only by the shimmering columns of insects that hummed
over the water.

 
          
 
He checked—then double-checked—the picket line
that held the horses. The knots were tight on the rope that stretched between
two cottonwoods.
Willow
had helped him with the work, surprising him with her strength as she
carried the heavy tins of whiskey to the pile. She'd watched him warily as they
watered the horses, and studied him with those large dark eyes when they tied
the lead ropes to the picket line.

 
          
 
What was it about her? Why did he keep
sneaking glances at her? He shook his head, irritated with himself, with the
attraction he felt, and concentrated on his duties.

 
          
 
Everything looked sound. Even the fire that
he'd made— luck riding his shoulders with this, his second-ever fire from a
strike-a-light. His first smoldering spark had caught in the char-cloth and
blown to flame in the dry grass he'd used for a starter.

 
          
 
Travis lay on his blankets beside the firepit.
His eyes had cleared and his color was better. Tongue stuck out the side of his
mouth, he worked on a small patch of hide with his little patch knife. Long
black hair streamed from the pale leather. Horse mane? No, the hair looked
finer than that.

 
          
 
Richard dropped to a squat. "You feeling
all right?"

 
          
 
"Heap better, coon." Travis looked
up, mild curiosity in his eyes. "Reckon I caught a tetch of fever
today."

 
          
 
"Shouldn't have tried to leave before you
were healed."

 
          
 
Travis waved his piece of hide toward the
river. "We beat Green hyar, didn't we?"

 
          
 
"They might have poled past here—or been
on the far bank."

 
          
 
"Yep, or even sailed if they got wind.
But they didn't."

 
          
 
Richard followed Travis's gaze.
Willow
sat on a downed cottonwood at the water's
edge. Since they'd finished chores, she'd stared in silence at the river. At
this point it had to be over two hundred yards across. What thoughts were in
her head?

 
          
 
Richard said, "I never thought she'd be
back. She saved us."

 
          
 
"Yep. I reckon she did." Travis
smoothed the glistening black hair with his callused fingers. "Hunt around
in my possibles. Build us a smoke, coon."

 
          
 
Richard did so, lighting a twig to start the
bowl. He puffed and passed the pipe to Travis.

 
          
 
The hunter pulled and exhaled the blue smoke
through his nostrils. "I reckon tomorrow morning ye might want ter take
that gnarly-looking brown gelding. I'd backtrack, oh. maybe a mile or two, then
cut straight south. Follow along the flats where the bluffs break down toward
the river. Yer two days' hard ride from
Fort
Atkinson
/'

 
          
 
"What are you talking about? You mean to
go get help?
Willow
says you're going to be all right."

 
          
 
Travis fixed those hard blue eyes on him.
"If'n yer not dumber than a
Kentucky
fence post, I don't know what is. The
fort's two days south. Reckon I'd take that Injun trade gun. Being smooth bore,
she ain't fer long shots, but she'll raise anything up close . . . even
Pawnee."

 
          
 
Richard took the pipe, staring. "You
mean, you want me to ride off?"

 
          
 
"Wal. yer game, Dick. Reckon Til just up
and tell Dave ye got the slip on me. and I kilt ye when I finally run ye down.
Reckon that'll give them engages something ter think about. Davey, wal. I
reckon he'll weasel it outa me by the time we make the
Mandan
villages."

 
          
 
Richard drew on the pipe, staring down at the
crackling fire. Free? Just like that?

 
          
 
He glanced at the brown gelding standing head
down, eyes half closed on the picket line. The evening deepened, faint rays of
light spreading amber across the sky while shadows grew among the trees. On the
eastern bluffs, several miles away, the hilltops looked golden.

 
          
 
A mourning dove cooed out in the trees.

 
          
 
"What about you? What if Green's really upriver?
Do you think
Willow
is going to stay? She could leave, too."

 
          
 
"Reckon I'm about healed, Dick."
Travis lifted his shirt, staring down at the ugly wound. "Ye done right
fine. Hell, ye otta seen the job they did on old Louis de Grotte. Looked like chickens
danced on his gut."

 
          
 
"I was scared to death."

 
          
 
"I know. So's I. Don't know which of us
was shaking worst."

 
          
 
"I was," Richard said softly and
vividly recalled his tacky red fingers, the needle dimpling the blood-slick
skin, and the sodden pull of Travis's flesh on the thread.

 
          
 
How did I ever do that? He looked down at his
hands. The sun had burned them dark brown, the skin rough and callused; dirt
made dark arcs under his nails. They looked like a man's hands. That thought
startled him. Are they really mine?

 
          
 
Heals Like A Willow rose and walked slowly
toward them, head bowed, her long glossy black hair slipping around her
shoulders. Her leather dress was worn, but it clung to her in a way that
accented her broad shoulders, full breasts, narrow waist, and the provocative
curve of her hips. The tattered hem ended just below her knees. Richard had
never seen a woman's legs before; unabashed, he kept staring. Her skin seemed
so smooth and silky. The way the soft leather outlined her thighs and flat
abdomen brought thoughts to Richard's mind that he'd never encountered before.

 
          
 
"Reckon ye'd best close yer mouth,"
Travis observed. "Yer like to start drooling."

 
          
 
Richard threw his tormentor an irritated
glance, but by then
Willow
had arrived. She shook out her blanket, gave Travis a solicitous
inspection, then settled herself. Expressionless, she stared into the fire.

 
          
 
"
Willow
, why do you look so sad?" Richard
asked.

 
          
 
She cocked her head, listening intently to his
words as she studied him. Were her lustrous eyes larger than a white woman's?
Was that why they seemed to engulf him? Could they swallow a man's soul?

 
          
 
She made signs to Travis and he made signs
back.

 
          
 
"She says she's sad because her husband
and son are dead. They died of a fever this last winter. She was supposed to
save them. She's a healer—uh, medicine woman. They died anyway. They were
Meat-Eater Snakes, Ku-chendikanu She's with the high mountain Snakes, the
Du-kurika, Sheepeaters. She was on her way home when Pack-rat—that Pawnee kid
ye sent under—captured her."

 
          
 
"How'd she get here?"

 
          
 
Travis made more signs, and
Willow
's hands traced out the shapes of a
response. "She says Packrat was Half Man's son. Packrat was bringing her
to Half Man as a sort of Pawnee insult—a way to shame his father for having
shamed his mother. Packrat hoped to gain power and prestige among his people/'

 
          
 
Richard scratched at his bristly chin.
"Let me get this straight. Packrat was going to give her to his father,
and by doing so, shame him?"

 
          
 
Travis puffed on the pipe. "Wal, the
Pawnee, they got their own ways of doing things. Like clever jokes. For
instance, let's say a warrior says another Pawnee is a miser, selfish when
other people are in need. Such a thing can destroy a man's reputation among the
Pawnee. To stop any such nonsense, the feller accused of hoarding, he up and
gives everything he's got to the feller that shot off his mouth. Ye can damn
well bet it would put the gabber in his place fer good."

 
          
 
"I see. Aesop would have liked a story
like that."

 
          
 
"He one of yer perfessors?"

 
          
 
"No. He was a Greek. Wrote fables. Like
the dog in the manger? Ever heard of that?"

 
          
 
"I reckon."

 
          
 
"Stories with a moral message . . . and
the Pawnee put the stories into practice?"

 
          
 
"Reckon they do. And, when ye think about
it, it makes a sight more sense than throwing a coon inta jail."

 
          
 
Willow
's slender fingers danced.

 
          
 
"What did she say?" Richard longed
to reach out and touch her long hair where the firelight played in it.