Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (58 page)

 
          
 
"Why did you kill your master?"

 
          
 
"Man can beat another man," Baptiste
said simply. "Reckon that ain't so much. Reckon it was justice, Dick. That
planter, he's just plumb cruel. Now, I run, and I got beat fo' it. Fair's fair.
But he beat hosses, and wimmen, and every slave he had, good, bad, or innocent.
I's running again. I knew he knew it. He's waiting, see? Gonna beat me to death
in front of my woman and childrens. Make me an example. Shouldn't otta drive a
man to desperation. I's desperate, and one day he turned his back when he
shouldn't."

 
          
 
"Is cruelty worth a man's life?"

 
          
 
"Ask yerself, Dick. Way I hear it, you
done kilt that Pawnee what was beating Willow."

 
          
 
Richard exhaled slowly. How do I judge him
when I’m no better?

 
          
 
"Then I suppose you understand better
than anyone why I have to get away."

 
          
 
Baptiste's hard brown eyes displayed no
emotion. "Travis beating on you? Green?"

 
          
 
"No. But they took advantage of me. I was
robbed—tied up! They made me sign that contract. Held a knife to my
throat!"

 
          
 
"Who did?"

 
          
 
"Francois and August."

 
          
 
Baptiste betrayed the first surprise Richard
had seen. "And yor still alive?"

 
          
 
"If that's what you call this."

 
          
 
Baptiste shook his head. "Waugh! That's
some, it is. That Francois, he's as mean a snake as you'll find. Pilgrim, yor
just plumb lucky. Be right happy to see each sunrise. Francis don't let many of
his victims live."

 
          
 
"But they've turned me into a slave
here!"

 
          
 
Baptiste turned his head long enough to give
Richard a narrow-eyed stare. "Reckon I'm scouting ahead, boy."

 
          
 
Richard licked his lips as Baptiste trotted
his horse ahead, the long fringes waving with each step the animal made.

 
          
 
"What that?"
Willow
asked, breaking her silence and gesturing
at Baptiste.

 
          
 
Richard rubbed the back of his neck. "I
guess I just made a fool of myself."

 
          
 
"Guess'? Fool'? Dik?" Her eyes
probed his, questioning. Dear Lord God, how did a woman get to be so beautiful?

 
          
 
"Yes, you could say that. Dik a
fool."

 
          
 
What kind of people are these? The question
hung in
Willow
's souls like thin blue smoke on a cold day.
She walked through the evening encampment, winding between the fires. Men
sprawled about the crackling blazes, staying close to sparks and heat in an
effort to avoid the humming columns of mosquitoes.

 
          
 
As she passed, the engages looked up at her
with lust gleaming in their eyes—just like yellow-eyed bobcats when they
inspected a covey of sage grouse. / am not prey for the likes of you, she
mocked from within. Not unless you want your head split.

 
          
 
She'd heard White men called 44
dog-faces," and how true it was. They all had hair growing out of their
faces. At first, she'd been startled. Men shouldn't grow hair on their faces.
It made them look peculiar. But then, the Pawnee, Oto, and
Omaha
shaved their heads, and that looked just as
peculiar to her as hair on the face.

 
          
 
Wolf-men. Even to the light-colored eyes.
Wolf-men who traveled on a floating lodge bigger than any council lodge she'd
ever seen. Their spirit water had healed the wound in Trawis's side. She'd seen
her reflection, so clear, in one of their mirrors. Their metal pots could be
dropped without shattering the way ceramic ones did. Their heavy rifles killed
the small whitetail deer at distances that defied a bow.

 
          
 
Perhaps, like Wolf, they really were powerful.

 
          
 
But what do I think of them? That question
lurked in her thoughts and dreams. She'd searched for evil, and found none. Nor
had she found anything other than the ways of men. Laughter, lust, hunger,
kindness, and cruelty.

 
          
 
When they watched her, it was as men watch a
woman; not with suspicion like Dukurika would watch a Crow woman, even if she
came among them as a friend and not a captive.

 
          
 
Baptiste had become oddly protective when he
learned that she'd been a captive. His skin was not painted, but naturally
black. He'd patiently allowed her to feel his soft kinky hair so like a buffalo's.

 
          
 
The White men ranked themselves in an
interesting way. The booshway was chief. Trawis and Baptiste were like war
leaders, and the patroon was in charge of the boat. Finally came the engages,
French, a different tribe of White men who spoke a separate language. She still
hadn't placed Dik in the system of rank. He seemed high, yet low. He could
speak to Trawis or Green at any time. The engages, however, despised him.

 
          
 
Did no one understand his Power? Didn't they
see that he was a seeker of visions?

 
          
 
"
Willow
!"
Trawis called from Green's curious cloth lodge. "Reckon we could use
ye."

 
          
 
She'd picked up most of the easy phrases. Now
she crossed to Green's lodge. She stepped through the flap to see Trawis being
settled on a blanket. Two small fires wavered on the wax sticks they called
candles. Dik was shifting nervously while Green saw to Trawis's comfort.

 
          
 
"What happens?'' Willow asked.

 
          
 
"Stitches have to come out," Dik
told her. He looked nervous, licking his lips, and paler than usual.

 
          
 
"Wal, come on, coon," Trawis
muttered.

 
          
 
"Travis, don't you think someone with a
little more—"

 
          
 
"Hell, ye sewed 'em in, ye can yank 'em
out!"

 
          
 
Dik made a face, then leaned down. Green was
saying something
Willow
couldn't understand. Dik lifted a small metal
tool from a wooden box. She watched with interest as he inserted his fingers in
the little loops opposite the points.

 
          
 
"What?" she asked, pointing.

 
          
 
"Scissors," Dik muttered. Then he
grunted uneasily and dropped to his knees.

 
          
 
"Easy, hoss," Trawis said.
"Snip, and then ye gots ter jerk." '

 
          
 
Willow
craned her neck to watch. Dik slipped the sharp tip under a puckered thread and
the scissors clicked and cut it as cleanly as an obsidian flake.

 
          
 
"Losing yer nerve?" Trawis asked.

 
          
 
"Be quiet," Dik growled back. He
said some other things
Willow
couldn't understand.

 
          
 
When Dik finally finished, Trawis was blotting
at little beads of blood where Dik had pulled the threads out. Dik wiped sweat
from his forehead and took a deep breath. What a curious man, so fragile, but
at the same time so incredibly strong. Of all the men she'd ever known, only
her husband had ever engaged so much of her souls.

 
          
 
Willow
signed to Trawis. "Why is Dik so worried?"

 
          
 
"He's never pulled strings out
before." Then Trawis barked a laugh. Green slapped Trawis on the shoulder
and ducked outside.

 
          
 
Willow
seated herself and inspected Trawis's scar before signing, "It will heal
fine."

 
          
 
Dik slumped, head down, hands on his knees.
Willow
took that opportunity to examine the scissors.

 
          
 
"Careful," Trawis signed.
"Sharp. Don't cut yourself."

 
          
 
She plucked up one of the bloody stitches from
the floor and experimentally snipped it in two. What a marvelous thing this
was.

 
          
 
She signed, "White men are very clever
with things."

 
          
 
"Clever any way you look at us,"
Trawis responded, talking in time to his signs.

 
          
 
"People can be clever with things, but
not with God or spirits." She snapped the scissors open and shut.

 
          
 
"How so?" Dik asked after Trawis
translated.

 
          
 
"When do you talk to spirits? When do you
take Tarn Apo into your heart?"

 
          
 
"God must be examined by the mind, by
thought." A strange gleam had come to Dik's eyes. "How do Shoshoni
think of God?"

 
          
 
She shook her head, signing and filling in the
White words she knew. "This is too hard for us now. I must learn more talk
to discuss this."

 
          
 
What an odd idea, that Tarn Apo could be known
by thoughts. Didn't these White men understand that Our Father could only be
felt in the soul? Later. You must learn their tongue; then you will understand.

 
          
 
She settled herself and studied Dik from the
corner of her eye. Did he have a woman waiting for him? And if so, what was she
like? To Trawis, she signed: "Where are the White women? Or are there only
men?"

 
          
 
Trawis chuckled. "White women are all
back East. They do not come here."

 
          
 
"Why don't they come?"

 
          
 
Trawis pulled at his beard. "It wouldn't
be right. Not out hyar. This country is too hard on them. Too dangerous. They
couldn't stand the hardships."

 
          
 
Willow
glanced around at the snug tent—warm, light, and waterproof. Then she thought
about the huge boat with all of its space and goods. Too hard on their women?
These men traveled in unheard-of luxury! No packs to carry. No lodges to pack
on a travois and then unpack. What sort of women were these?

 
          
 
She said, "I do not understand."

 
          
 
Trawis and Dik talked for a moment, then
Trawis replied, "It would not be proper to have white women here. It ain't
their place."