Rendezvous (25 page)

An odd purplish light tinted the land with the coming of dawn. Skye had no idea how far he had come. As the daylight intensified, rosing distant ridges and then painting them gold, he found himself in unfamiliar country. The Seedskedee meandered ever upward into bold mountains, golden in the low dawn sun. But he was lost. He studied the ground, looking for sign of his own passage. At some point yesterday he had descended a drainage, a lively creek, down to the Seedskedee, but he had crossed dozens of those and may have gone past his turnoff that would take him over the pass and down the Hoback to the Snake.

He studied the riverside trail carefully, finding no mark of passage, but he continued to ascend the river. The wilderness played tricks, making short distances seem endless. But now a deepening dread filled him. He did not know this country. The mountaineers understood it, but he had never set foot in it and didn't know the way out. He hiked up the river until he judged the sun was at its apex. He found some cattails, pulled them up, washed the starchy roots, mashed them with a rock, and gnawed on the tan pulp.

But he was lost. Everything seemed alike: pine forests, swamps, the burbling river, bogs, aspen groves, the scent of sagebrush in the air mixed sometimes with the heady scent of pines. Sudden drafts of cold air eddied past him, and occasionally he stepped into warm pockets, where he lingered to let his cold limbs warm, and his wet leathers dry.

But the stark truth was, he didn't know where he was, or where he was going, or what he should do. He was lost in all the ways a mortal can be lost.

Chapter 32

Skye knew he had come to one of those momentous crises that shape a mortal life. This journey had been filled with portentous events, things that would mould him for the rest of his days on earth. He was lost, tired, hungry, lonely, and without counsel. He had been robbed of sleep and his body felt leaden, dragging his spirits downward.

Despair was the enemy. Discouragement, defeat, surrender haunted him. He sensed he would never escape. He would die a terrible death here in a cruel wilderness. It had all come down to this, he thought bitterly. Was there no justice in the universe? Would those wigged and powdered lord admirals whose press-gangs had stolen life and liberty from him enjoy long and pampered lives while his bones moldered in a wild place?

He found a boulder heated by the early sun and sat against it, letting the wan warmth comfort his body. He closed his eyes, trying to summon courage. He had never felt so alone. And yet, as he sat there, he knew he was neither helpless nor alone. In all the years of his captivity he had never let his faith die: he had believed the God of Creation watched over him and would free him from his sea jail in His own good time. Now Skye was free—but where was God now?

He focused on that. He talked to God, told Him about the miracle of the grizzly that let him pass by, of food and succor that appeared when he needed it, of gratitude for being freed and alive and the master of his destiny. He didn't know if his babbling was prayer, exactly—certainly not the sort that was recited in the Anglican masses he had attended—but it was a conversation with his Lord, and he felt peace steal through him.

When he opened his eyes he beheld the wilderness, golden in the early sun, not enemy but friend. Some crows cawed mightily. He watched iridescent black and white magpies terrorize lesser birds. He remembered that Victoria had called the magpie her medicine-helper. He felt the first zephyrs of the morning eddy past him, redolent of sage and pine and the mysteries beyond the next ridge. The bright sun pummeled his leather shirt, warming it and him. Its rays caught his thick beard, fondling his face, and his hurts ebbed.

This was Creation, undisturbed by man, and the sight of it moved him. He hadn't expected that. This was not a dark and hostile Creation, but one that might serve him, nurture him, empower him, even as it empowered the many tribes who lived comfortably in the midst of it. Long before white traders showed up here, these tribes had drawn everything they needed, food and shelter, clothing, tools, meat, medicines, vegetables, seasonings, dyes, weapons, and more from this wilderness. The wilderness was his friend, his nourishment, his spiritual succor, his delight, his shelter, his fortress.

The day vibrated. Nothing felt quite as glorious as a late summer day in the high country. The heavens ached with joy. Skye stood, stretched, letting his new courage permeate his entire body. He knew he had come up the Seedskedee much too far and now he would retreat until he found the way to the Snake River. He sliced the last of his horse meat and chewed on it, finding the raw flesh foul. He spit it out. It had sustained him for a while but now he would need other foods.

He hiked downriver much of that morning and then found the turnoff. It showed signs of passage he had missed in the moonlight: his mare's hoofprints. He climbed the trail all that day, past grassy parks dancing in sunlight, past burbling rills and creeks, past aspen glades where every leaf quaked. He passed beaver dams and ponds, thickets of chokecherry laden with ripe berries. These he plucked and gnawed, sustaining himself even though the well-named fruit had a vicious taste that puckered his mouth.

He topped the divide and knew he was once again in the drainage of the Snake. As he traveled he came across campsites, and he paused to examine each one for discards, lost tools, anything helpful. And they did yield a small harvest. At one he found a bone awl. At another a pair of worn-out moccasins, too small for his feet but with some usable leather. At another place he found what he supposed was a flint hide flesher. He plucked it up. Flint was precious. A piece of steel might give him fire, cooked food, warmth. He thought of trying the back of his knife on the flint, but hesitated. If he broke his knife, he'd be in even worse trouble.

His left moccasin wore through and he cobbled a patch on it, knowing it wouldn't last long. And yet he kept on, sleeping under rock overhangs, dodging mountain rains, acquiring some cunning about wind and rain and cold. He survived on what he could harvest, which was little even in the season of fruits. But on the Snake River drainage he found camas again and kept himself alive by pulverizing its starchy bulbs. The camas were so abundant that his desperate hunger eased and life brightened.

A few days later he found himself back at the confluence of Henry's Fork and the Snake. He arrived there on a hot August afternoon and searched the river bank, seeking signs of passage. But rain had obscured any sign. Now he faced decisions again. He could chase after Sublette's brigade, plunging into new country, and quite possibly never contacting the elusive trappers. Or he could retreat to the Shoshone or Nez Perce settlements, places he knew and could reach. He headed north to join the brigade and win an outfit. Henry's Fork took him across a vast tree-dotted plain with the three arrogant spikes of the Tetons looming far to the east.

His trousers had worn to rags so he employed his bone awl upon the rotting fabric, piecing them together. His moccasins were failing, too, and even his leather shirt had been pulling apart at the seams. The wilderness might be his friend but it wasn't keeping him provisioned, and he worried about the future in his mind, desperate for alternatives. He had grown weary and listless, too, and ascribed the weakness to a lack of meat.

One early morning he spotted a group of riders so he hid in a thicket of red willows. Some southbound warriors passed him by. Or maybe they were hunters. He didn't know. They weren't painted. They had two horses apiece, and from the little Skye knew about such things, he supposed they were buffalo hunters, saving their fresh horses for the chase. They didn't see him or suspect his presence, and soon they were gone. The sun had been up only a short time; maybe he could find their camp.

He followed the fresh trail northward for an hour or so, and discovered the camping place beside the river. Smoke coiled from a dying fire. A gutted yearling elk hung from a heavy limb. They had eaten what they could and abandoned the rest. Joyously, Skye added twigs to the embers, blew gently, mumbled magic, and evoked a fire. Then he scrounged for deadwood, having to search wide and far because he lacked the means to hack it from the surrounding cottonwoods, alders, and willows. He butchered great, dripping slabs of red meat from a haunch and skewered them with a green twig, his stomach rumbling with anticipation.

While the meat roasted, he cut more elk meat into thin strips he intended to smoke into some sort of jerky, no matter that he might spend two or three days at it. He had not eaten like this for weeks and he intended to make the most of his bonanza. Thus did he spend that sunny day—eating, gathering firewood, cutting haunch and neck and rib, smoking, and drying meat. He peeled the hide farther and farther back as he worked, and finally he spent an hour at twilight cutting most of the hide free of the hanging carcass. He found his fleshing tool and began to scrape the inside of the hide, doing it awkwardly until he staked the hide to the ground so he could get some purchase. It was slow, hard, unpleasant work, interrupted by trips to feed the precious fire. By the time that darkness engulfed him, he had cleaned much of the hide.

He foraged for firewood again, afraid that he would lose the fire in the night, and eventually rounded up enough to keep it going. He would sleep warm that night for a change. He pushed ash over some live coals, built up the fire, and settled down, feeling content at last. One war party had taken everything away from him, another had left him these gifts. Even here in these wilds, his fate had been decided more by other mortals than by nature. It was something to think about.

That night he slept on his new elkhide, welcoming whatever small relief it offered from the hard earth. He smoked meat all that night, rising instinctively when the fire needed tending. In the morning he roasted camas bulbs, pushing them as close to the flame as possible while he continued to smoke meat. He ate ravenously, his appetite whetted by the previous feast. Then he devoted the entire day to his tasks—preserving every scrap of meat that he could, scraping and softening the elk hide, collecting firewood, roasting camas bulbs until he had a formidable larder. He spent a second night at that fire, reluctant to surrender it but knowing he had to push ahead. Somewhere in this vast wilderness was a brigade of trappers who would welcome him into their ranks. And somewhere—he was hazy about the place—a slim girl living among the Kicked-in-the-Bellies of the Absaroka people would welcome him to her lodge, and perhaps to her arms.

He left at dawn, saddened to abandon the fire. His horsehair net was burdened now with smoked and dried elk meat, roasted camas bulbs, the discarded moccasins, the scraping tool, his belaying pin, and the stiff, rolled-up elkhide. The weight of all this was surprising, but it gladdened him: now he was a man of substance.

The overcast sky that morning reminded him that soon the season would change. Even now, in this high plateau, he felt the sharp night chill, which would soon deepen and last longer and longer as the sun fled south. He hurried north, sometimes intersecting tracks he thought might be Sublette's, but he didn't really know. Most of the trappers' horses were unshod, and most of the men wore moccasins, which made their passage little different from the passage of the tribes.

His Creole moccasins finally gave out, and he painfully fashioned new soles out of his elkskin, and anchored them to the worn soles with his bone awl and some thong. It took half a day, but he was not barefoot, and that was a miracle.

He ascended Henry's Fork, passing through a gorge into alpine parks laced with lodgepole, swamps, and broad grassy vistas. He saw abundant game but he had no means to shoot any, and was constantly reminded of how helpless he really was. He spotted buffalos one afternoon, a small group that included a bull and several calves, and he marveled at them. The monsters got wind of him and raced away at surprising speed. Skye knew he would not be feasting on humpmeat soon, not unless another miracle happened.

At the northern end of this plain he encountered austere pine-clad mountains, and after crossing a low divide he found himself staring at a gloomy lake. It took the better part of the afternoon to walk around to its outlet, and there he found the water flowing north. This water wasn't flowing toward the Snake; it probably was draining toward the mighty Missouri and Mississippi if he understood the geography. If he had passed into the Missouri drainage, then he had put the Snake country behind him, and he had entered the hunting lands of the Blackfeet Indians with only a belaying pin to defend himself.

Chapter 33

Hidden in a dense thicket of juniper well up a slope, Skye watched the Indian village parade by a half mile below. He had no notion what tribe this was—how could a British seaman know?—but he knew he was safest well hidden and far from the river.

For once he was grateful he didn't have a horse. The vedettes flanking the great migration would have spotted him instantly, or followed his fresh hoofprints. He supposed he was safe enough, although the sight of several hundred Indians, countless dogs, and endless numbers of horses, some dragging travois, shot fear through him.

By all accounts, these were not the same sort of Indian as those who inhabited the fishing villages along the Columbia, and even the friendlier tribes in this area—his mountaineer friends had listed the Crow, Flathead, Shoshone, and Sioux in that category, along with the Bannacks if their mood was right—could pose trouble for a lone traveler.

This village was migrating up the Madison River, away from the Three Forks country where Skye hoped to find the Sublette brigade. The last of the day's sun caught the clouds of dust raised by the passage of so many horses, and painted the very air gold as the village slowly wound past. But then the column slowly came to a halt at a riverside flat below Skye.

Swiftly, the herders moved the horses onto grass away from the glinting river, while nimble squaws unhooked travois and unloaded packhorses. The village would stay there for the night. Skye sucked air into his lungs and exhaled slowly. He was trapped, at least until dark, and maybe after that if there were sentries patrolling the herd, as surely there would be. Between the sentries and the dogs he would have a devilish time sneaking away. Suddenly the half mile between him and this crowd seemed like no distance at all. He studied the legs and feet of those antlike mortals so far away, hoping to discern whether these Indians wore the dark moccasins of the Blackfeet, but he could not say. Much too much space, and failing light, kept him from ascertaining that crucial fact.