Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (55 page)

 
          
 
The moment I laughed, I won, Packrat. She
curled her toes in the muddy sand. Her only hope at the moment had been to lose
him the whiskey, to thwart his little victory. But Power worked in mysterious
ways, and Dik had killed Packrat. Why? Because Packrat was beating her. What Indian
man would kill another because he was beating a slave?

 
          
 
Strange beings, these White men. Trawis, she
could understand. He was just a man, possessed of all the normal things a man
was possessed of, and of some things more so. Courage, for one. No one could
doubt his courage, or the strength of his soul. Not only had he insisted on
traveling to the river when he should have stayed flat, but he had insisted on
healing on the way. And he hasn't died.

 
          
 
Dik had played a big part in keeping Bear Man
alive, but Dik didn't seem to realize his Power. Had no one trained him, taught
him to open his soul? What a curious man. He didn't shrink back from a woman
using her medicine skills. Didn't he fear the loss of his manhood? That she
would somehow weaken him?

 
          
 
Behind her, a rifle made a pop-boom as Richard
practiced.

 
          
 
"Keep yer eye open, coon! Ye gotta keep
yer aim after the flash in the pan!"

 
          
 
She cocked her head, trying to follow the
words. "Eye," she knew, and "yer," "ye," and
"keep." Dik had worked with her all evening, until she went to sleep,
her souls spinning with new words.

 
          
 
Today Dik was learning to shoot, a fact
confusing to her, since he'd shot Packrat dead.

 
          
 
She bent down to touch her fingertips to the
water and let the crystalline drops run down her hand. What brought me here, so
far from my people? Where is Power taking me?

 
          
 
A person could ask the questions, and the
answers always came, but only after a long time.

 
          
 
She caught one of the drips of water on the
tip of her tongue. The important thing was to ask the questions. Two Half Moons
might have had a glimmer of that truth when she climbed up under the rim to
save
Willow
from freezing to death.

 
          
 
Perhaps Slim Pole had been part of the
pattern, aware of her shaken belief in her Power, and frightened of the
consequences among his people.

 
          
 
Red Calf knew and rightly feared me. I would
have destroyed her. And to what purpose? Justice? The Pawnee showed a great
deal more sense than the Ku'chendikani when it came to settling disputes.

 
          
 
Pop-boom!

 
          
 
"Reckon that's a mite better, coon! Ye
hit the tree," came Trawis's reedy cry.

 
          
 
"Reckon," that meant to think, but
there were other words for the process. "Tree," she'd learned that
word, too.

 
          
 
So, you will go upriver with them? Why,
Willow? The smart woman you used to be would take a horse and race straight
back to the
Powder River
Mountains
. Her gaze played over the huge river. Like
clouds, the water never made exactly the same pattern twice.

 
          
 
"And how," she asked herself,
"will you act when a White man crawls into your blankets at night? You are
a lone woman traveling with men. Men are no more than they are.

 
          
 
As women are no more than they are. But are we
so different? Yes, we are. A man seeks to plant his seed in as many women as he
can. The more women, the better his chances of making a child. A woman seeks a
man who will keep her secure and help to raise the child. Because of this, we
are always pitted against each other.

 
          
 
"That doesn't answer your question,
Willow
. What will you do when one crawls into your
blankets?" She made a face at the notion of ghost white skin against hers.
It would be the same as coupling with a corpse.

 
          
 
A Dukurika woman knew ways of keeping men off.
Her hand slid down to the smooth handle of the war club she'd tied to the rope
around her waist. With it, Packrat had subdued her. But I will subdue any man
who threatens me. Similarly, she would claim Packrat's bow and arrows. She
hadn't practiced with one since girlhood. Perhaps the time had come to grow
proficient again.

 
          
 
Dik will protect me. The thought surfaced in
her soul.

 
          
 
"And you are a fool, Heals Like A Willow.
Only you can protect yourself. Anything else is a lie."

 
          
 
She entered camp and found the bow and arrows
rolled in Packrat's blankets. Stringing the hardwood bow took all of her
strength. Most of the arrows were headed with soft-iron trade points, the kind
that cut cleanly but bent upon impact with bone. She'd seen the effect they had
on a man. Those she would have to save, but the blunt-headed bird points could
be used for practice.

 
          
 
Pop-boom! At the shot, the horses started,
then relaxed.

 
          
 
She headed toward the shooting, testing the
pull on the bow. "Are you ready, Dik? I am coming to shoot against you.
You with your White man's rifle, and I with my Pawnee bow."

 
          
 
The Indian pony that Richard rode had the
roughest gait he'd ever felt. The little animal hammered each stiff-legged step
down the grassy slope, following the travois tracks. Richard held the reins in
his left hand, the Pawnee trade gun in the right. To his annoyance, he wasn't a
good enough rider to keep from bouncing on the animal's back like a corn kernel
on a tin lid.

 
          
 
The horse snuffled and shook its head.

 
          
 
"Whoa, now. Damn you, keep your head up.
Travis told me about you. If you get your head down, you're going to buck me
right off."

 
          
 
The afternoon sun cast golden light into the
hazel-skirted grove of oak and ash that lined the bluffs descending to the
river; it blazed in the high tops of the cottonwoods on the floodplain. Beyond,
in shadow, the river had a bluish-brown sheen broken by the sinuous lenticular
shapes of sandbars on the far side.

 
          
 
The wiry pony picked his way down a deer
trail, and onto the grass-rich cottonwood bottoms. Richard booted him, and the
little horse pounded his way forward in that bone-jarring trot.

 
          
 
Camp was right where Richard had left it,
spirals of blue smoke rising from behind the circular fortification of whiskey
tins. Their feet had beaten the grass flat, and trails led down to the water's
edge. The other horses whinnied from their pickets.

 
          
 
"Hello, Dick!" Travis called from
where he was propped comfortably on the packs. "See anything?"

 
          
 
Richard reined the pony to a stop and
gratefully slid off the animal. It took a moment for his rubbery legs to hold
him. The muscles quivered like violin strings from gripping the horse's barrel.
"Can't these Indians use stirrups?"

 
          
 
"Reckon not. They figger it's only fer
white men what can't ride."

 
          
 
Richard led the horse down to water, Travis
hobbling along behind. -*I saw the Maria, She's coming, Travis."

 
          
 
The hunter sighed, then grinned. "Been a
sight worried, coon. Hell, now wouldn't it just figger? We make her all the way
around that cussed fort, and they catch Davey with them forged papers and
confiscate the boat?"

 
          
 
"Well, rest assured, she's coming. I'd
say she'll be here by
noon
tomorrow." Richard watched the horse
drink. Each swallow of water could be seen as it traveled up the throat. "
Willow
's still around?"

 
          
 
"She's gone hunting. I reckon she'll be
back." Travis gave him a sideways look. "Yer not sounding
happy."

 
          
 
Richard kicked idly at the sand, then stared
out over the silver sheet of river. "I guess by
noon
tomorrow, I'll be breaking my back on the
cordelle, that or wearing a hole in my shoulder with the pole."

 
          
 
"Reckon so." Travis was silent for a
moment. "Why didn't ye run? Ye could have kept right on going—straight
south into the fort."

 
          
 
"It was tempting. To be honest, I thought
about it. I thought about a lot of things. But I have an obligation, Travis.
You were wounded on my account. I gave the Pawnee the opportunity. If I'd kept
my mouth shut, he'd be alive, you would be healthy, and I wouldn't have killed
a man."

 
          
 
"That bothers ye? That ye sent that
Pawnee under?" Travis lifted a grizzled eyebrow.

 
          
 
"I keep thinking about his body, the way
it bloated. How it was covered with flies. I have nightmares at night, shooting
him over and over. All that blood ... the look in those glassy eyes. ... He was
a young man, Travis. Barely more than a child. I still don't believe I
killed—murdered him like that."

 
          
 
Travis scuffed his moccasined toe in the soft
sand. The horse had raised his head, muzzle dripping, ears pricked, to look out
over the river.

 
          
 
"Thought ye was the one wanted ter be so
damned rational? Wal, if n ye'd not shot him,
Willow
'd be dead. I'd be dead. And, why, Tarnal
Hell! Ye'd be dead, too!"

 
          
 
"It's not a matter of rationality. It's
... it's how I feel Travis."

 
          
 
The hunter said, "Wal, Dick, I ain't got
the words fer it, not to palaver with a philos'pher. Maybe it's God, maybe it's
plumb chance, but there's times when a body's headed fer a mess. Half Man and
me, we both knew that first day on the trail that one of us would kill t'other.
He figgered he'd walk away, I figgered I would. That was the only real
question. What's that word? The one for when something's just bound ter happen?
Ain't no way around it?"

 
          
 
"Inevitable."

 
          
 
"Inevitable. That's it, Dick. What's yer
philos'phers say about that?"

 
          
 
"They say that human behavior can be
changed by reason."

 
          
 
"Wal, maybe so, given enough time, and
given men of like minds, but do ye reckon ye could have reasoned that kid outa
killing Willow? Or Half Man outa not trying me?"

 
          
 
Richard fingered the lead rope. "I don't
know. So many of the answers that were crystal clear are turning fuzzy and
fading now."

 
          
 
"Reckon that happens when a man starts
growing. This child suspects that any fool can write a book when he's sitting
in a room in a city with folks around ter keep his arse safe, a fire in his
stove, and his belly full. A feller can justify anything he wants ... so long
as it's rational, and there ain't no consequences if'n he's wrong. But out
hyar, wal, it plumb ain't real."