Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (87 page)

 
          
 
Travis plucked absently at the fringe hanging
from his sleeve. "He ain't figgered out that his soul's been changed. It'll
happen, but he's a bullheaded son of a bitch. Might take a spell yet. . . and
maybe a good whack on the side of the head, but he'll see. He's a right savvy
Doodle."

 
          
 
She stilled the whirlwind that churned inside.
What a fool I have been, "I cannot wait that long, Trawis. I have
decisions of my own that must be made. His heart cannot rest until he has gone
back to his Boston." And he can have his White lady, in her house, with
her children, "Mine cannot find peace unless I can smell the trees, hear
the birds, and enjoy a warm fire on a cold night."

 
          
 
"Ye sure?"

 
          
 
"Could you live in his Boston?"

 
          
 
"Nope."

 
          
 
She returned her attention to the Ree village,
fists clenched at her side. "I think of good things, and they are all in
my land. I want to see my father again, laugh with my mother. I want to hunt
the mountain sheep again. We trap them in pens on the side of the mountain. My
best memories are of cold mornings after a good kill. When you cut the animal
open, the bodies smoke in the cold."

 
          
 
"Steam. That's the word, gal."

 
          
 
"Yes, steam. You know the smell, don't
you? Of blood, and the insides of the animal. Sweet—and all the while, your
soul knows that meat will be roasting, and your belly will be full. People will
laugh and tell stories around the fires that night. They do not do these things
in Boston?"

 
          
 
"Nope. Folks buy meat all cut up."

 
          
 
"That sweet smell, Trawis, that is the
smell of life, of the animal's soul that will join with yours. At that moment,
I know I'm part of Tarn Apo's world. I think these people in Boston do not know
these things."

 
          
 
Travis exhaled wearily.

 
          
 
"What will happen when the White men come
to my country? Will they take that sharing of life away?"

 
          
 
"I don't know."

 
          
 
"I think they will. They put their women
in houses. They put their God in a house. I have heard Green tell me that other
Injuns, Shawnee, Cherokee, Iroquois, have all been put in places. Is that what
White men do? Will they try to put the Dukurika in a place, like flour in a
barrel?"

 
          
 
"Yer Snakes are a long way away from
whites."

 
          
 
After an uncomfortable pause, she asked,
"What about you, Trawis? Why don't you go back? You are a great warrior, a
hunter, a powerful man. The Whites should make you a gentleman."

 
          
 
He laughed at that, but she could hear the
bitterness.

 
          
 
Again the silence stretched.

 
          
 
Finally he said, "Willow, I ain't sure
the whites are gonna go clear ter the Snake lands. Traders, sure. But not the
farmers. It'd take some doing ter make a living in the mountains. Hell, there
ain't nothing there. I seen the Snake country. It's too damn dry fer growing
corn. Only thing a body can do is hunt. And I ain't seen a damn thing can be
done with sagebrush but burn it in a fire—and hardwood's the beat of sagebrush
any old day."

 
          
 
"I think they will come, Trawis."
She rubbed her legs harder, as if to scrub the thought away. "I think the
White man wants everything he can get—even if it is only sagebrush to burn in
the fires."

 
          
 
"Ye make it sound like poor bull,
gal."

 
          
 
She pointed at the village. "Is that fat
cow?"

 
          
 
Travis pulled at his beard. 'The Rees went to
war with the whites. That's what comes of killing white men." He paused.
"There's other ways, gal. Snakes could join the whites, help fight the
Blackfeet. It wouldn't have ter be grief. Yer warriors know the country. And
ain't the Black-feet more trouble fer ye than the whites would be?"

 
          
 
"My people would kill a man like Trudeau.
This would not make other White men mad?"

 
          
 
"Hell, I'd like ter kill him, too."
But again she heard hesitation in his voice.

 
          
 
"You have answered my question, Trawis.
Now do you see why Ritshard and I must go our different ways?"

 
          
 
And I must go mine, at the first chance. If
she didn't, the sadness within would slowly consume her soul. Laura? What kind
of a name was that?

 
          
 
Beside her, Travis stared glumly into the
night.

 
          
 
But the most frequent reasons why men desire
to hurt each other ariseth hence, that many men at the same time have an
appetite to the same thing; which yet often they can neither enjoy in common,
nor yet divide it; whence it follows that the strongest must have it, and who
is strongest must be desided by the sword.

 
          
 
—Thomas Hoboes, Leviathan

 
          
 
The four days they'd spent alternately towing
and poling the Maria away from the Ree village had drained everyone's gumption.
Green had finally called a halt, here, on a grassy bluff that looked out over
an oxbow of the sun-silvered river.

 
          
 
Richard lay propped on his elbows, chewing the
sweet stalk of a bluestem. The western breeze had carried the earliest of
mosquitoes away. Every muscle ached from the time he'd spent on the cordelle,
adding his strength to the work.

 
          
 
A wasp landed on his thigh. With a thumb and
forefinger, he flicked the beast away and squinted up at the triangular
cottonwood leaves. His soul squirmed between his growing desire for Willow and
his commitment to Laura.

 
          
 
Across from him, Baptiste skinned a monstrous
rattlesnake, peeling the scaly green hide from pink meat.

 
          
 
Travis lay flat on his back in the shade, his
worn felt hat pulled low to shield his eyes. The hunter had fallen into a deep
sleep, chest rising and falling slowly. The up-tipped face visible beneath the
sagging hat brim exposed the crisscross tracery of white scars and bush of
beard.

 
          
 
For the moment, Richard envied Travis his lack
of responsibility. How pleasant it would be to flit about, never making a
commitment to any woman. But how hollow would he feel in the end, when he
finally realized that he'd never fully shared his life with a woman?

 
          
 
I hereby resolve I will not make that mistake,
Richard decided.

 
          
 
Green and Henri, as usual, sat before the
booshway's tent, their talk perpetually on the river and whether the water was
rising or falling.

 
          
 
The other engages lay like logs, with only the
unlucky mess captains seeing to fires and cookpots. Grasshoppers chirred in the
lazy air, while magpies and robins flitted through the bur oak ringing the
meadow.

 
          
 
Richard stretched and winced at his cramped
limbs. He turned his head, wondering what had happened to Willow— and from the
corner of his eye, caught sight of Trudeau.

 
          
 
Something about the man focused Richard's
attention.

 
          
 
Usually, the boatman swaggered, but now he
walked furtively, a slight crouch suggested by his steps as he eased into the
fringe of bur oaks.

 
          
 
I'm too damned tired to worry about him.
Richard took a deep breath and lay back on his saddle, happy to let the
afternoon sun warm his face. The world was filled with too many troubles as it
was. Laura, Willow, his father; he'd begun to fret about all of them.

 
          
 
Furtive? . . . Trudeau?

 
          
 
He sat up with a grunt, and threw the grass
stem away. Trudeau had vanished into the trees.

 
          
 
Richard growled at himself and stood. He
massaged the stiffness in his legs with equally stiff hands, and picked up his
rifle. He turned his steps in the direction Trudeau had taken, unconsciously
adopting the wary hunter's stalk that had become so familiar.

 
          
 
The most likely path was a deer trail that
wound westward, away from the river and toward the bluffs. Several of the pale
leaves on a buffaloberry had been bruised where Trudeau had passed.

 
          
 
On moccasined feet, Richard followed silently,
employing all the skills Travis and Baptiste had tried so hard to beat into
him.

 
          
 
The trail wound uphill into the bluffs, past
chokecherry and wild grape. It opened into a grassy cove lined with brush.
Richard slowed as he spotted his prey. Trudeau crouched several steps ahead,
screened from the clearing by a mass of oblate chokecherry leaves.

 
          
 
On the far side of the clearing. Willow
plucked the first ripened chokecherries off their stems. She dropped them one
by one into a leather sack. Each night, she'd been collecting such foodstuffs,
carefully drying them, and refusing to allow anyone to partake of her growing
cache.

 
          
 
Travel food for her journey home. Richard's
heart ached all the harder. The thought of her leaving drove him half mad, but
what other alternative was there'.'

 
          
 
Travis had watched her with a curious frown,
but she'd only smiled and artfully deflected his attempts to persuade her to
stay.

 
          
 
And now, here was Trudeau, sneaking after her.
Richard swallowed hard as he studied the boatman's thick shoulders, the muscles
bunched under a sun-bleached and frayed shirt Black hair, like matted wire,
covered the engage's powerful forearms. Trudeau moved with a cat's quick
agility, and, like the cat, had little mercy in his callous soul for victims.

 
          
 
What do I do? Run back for Travis? At that
moment, Trudeau edged forward, crossing the clearing in carefully placed steps.

 
          
 
Willow remained oblivious, back turned to the
engage.

 
          
 
Richard straightened, heart pounding as he
gripped his Hawken. "Trudeau!" He stepped out into the clearing,
scared half to death, and part of him suddenly sick from the realization that
he'd just committed himself to a beating.

 
          
 
The engage stopped as Willow turned like a
startled fawn, chokecherries falling from her container.

 
          
 
"Who?" Trudeau's eyes slitted,
shoulders bunched. "It is you, Yankee. Go away. Now! Or I will hit you
hard in the stomach again, eh?"

 
          
 
"Leave her alone." Richard pointed
at Willow, hoping his arm didn't tremble.

 
          
 
"Willow and I, we have a talk, eh? It is
not for you, weak little American. Leave now, and Trudeau will say
nothing."

 
          
 
Willow had plucked the war club from her belt,
dark eyes narrowing as she gripped it for a blow.

 
          
 
"She'll break your head," Richard
warned.

 
          
 
"She will?" Trudeau threw his head
back and laughed. "Why do you worry? This woman, she is squaw, non?"

 
          
 
"She's a guest. Travis told you. And
Green, too."

 
          
 
"Bah! She's running away. What do you
think, eh? She makes dried food for the journey. Very well, but before she go,
Trudeau will say good-bye! And so will you, Yankee."

 
          
 
"I'll tell Travis."

 
          
 
Trudeau started toward him, hands
outstretched. "You'll tell no one anything, Yankee. I think you will not
leave here, eh?"

 
          
 
Richard looked past him, shouting, "Run,
Willow!" and lifted the Hawken. The cock clicked loudly as Richard thumbed
it back. "Not another step."

 
          
 
Trudeau's dark eyes smoldered. "You do
not have the courage to shoot me ... no matter what hangs from your belt,
crasseux chien."

 
          
 
The set trigger clicked under Richard's
finger. "Believe what you want."

 
          
 
Willow
had cut around to one side, her war club
ready. Trudeau sneaked a glance at her, aware of the dark glint in her eyes.

 
          
 
"Lachement, batard!" Trudeau raised
his hands, backing slowly away. "Perhaps you should shoot now, oui! If you
do not, Trudeau will make you pay."

 
          
 
"You talk a lot."

 
          
 
"You will not always have the
rifle!" Trudeau pointed an angry finger. And with that, he spun on his
heel and crashed off into the chokecherries.

 
          
 
Richard took a deep breath and lowered the
hammer to half-cock. A fine film of sweat had dampened his face and neck; now
the cooling breeze wicked it away.

 
          
 
Willow
lowered her Pawnee war club and chuckled, a
twinkle in her eyes.

 
          
 
How can she do that? I'm almost trembling! He
hung his head for a moment, and looked up from lowered eyes.

 
          
 
"Thank you, Ritshard." She stepped
close and laid a hand on his shoulder.

 
          
 
"I thought I was going to have to shoot
him."

 
          
 
She shrugged. "Sometimes a man does not
know when to quit. Tarn Apo has little patience for fools."

 
          
 
"He doesn't?"

 
          
 
"How many old fools do you know?"

 
          
 
"Quite a few—but they're all back in the
United States
." He studied her thoughtfully.
"You're leaving very soon, aren't you?"

 
          
 
She kicked at the grass with a dainty foot.
"My people are far to the west. I must go." Her dark brown eyes bored
into his. "My husband and child are dead. I want to mourn them. You have
made a place in my heart, but 1 cannot have you. You will go back to
Boston
. . . and Laura."

 
          
 
"
Willow
, I—"

 
          
 
"And there is more. I have listened to
Green and Trawis talk about the Whites, and what will come. I need to think
about this. Until I do, my soul will be like a twig on the river, bobbing,
spinning, and never resting, never knowing where it is headed Do you
understand?"