Cheyenne Winter (38 page)

Her father stiffened, and gazed sadly at her. “I have no name for you,” he said. “The spirits do not speak to me. I see only the sky with nothing in it and the earth with nothing on it. I have listened and waited. Perhaps some day your medicine spirit will come upon you. You must fast and seek the vision. If you should live among the southern People, one of them might guide you. But I have nothing to give you now.”

A great sadness fell upon them both.

“I may never see my father or my mother, or my brothers and sisters, or the grandfathers and grandmothers again,” she said, fear clutching her.

He nodded. “It is like death. Having no name is like death, too.”

It terrified her, having no name. “I will keep my old one,” she replied with an edge to her voice. When she left this lodge no one of her family would speak her name, and she would be like the dead to them unless the spirits gave her a new name.

She didn’t thank him. She’d grown numb in the cold lodge, and stood.

“It is time,” he said, rising slowly. He found a blanket and steered her out into glaring sunlight. They waked quietly toward Raffin’s lodge and she was grateful that village gossip had not yet caught up with her. She stared at her village, her people, the familiar lodges whose inhabitants she knew so well, and her heart ached. But her heart had ached when Fitzhugh had taken her away. This was nothing new. And surely Raffin was a great man among the whites, and had no limp either.

They found laden horses tied before Raffin’s lodge, including one with a high-backed woman’s saddle on it. She and her father reached the lodge door and he scratched at it softly. She peered around, hoping no one was in sight. No one was. Her mother and sisters were visiting somewhere. The door flap slid aside and Raffin beckoned them in. She found a warm lodge with nothing in it — except Brokenleg, who stood solemnly, looking truculent and uncomfortable. Their gazes dodged each other.

“Ah, Little Whirlwind, you have come. Welcome to my lodge. And you as well, One Leg Eagle. I am honored,” said Raul Raffin gracefully. She looked him over with dread.

“Ever since I saw you, when you were a maiden, I loved you and wanted you,” said Raffin in good Cheyenne. “My heart died when I lost you. You know little of me but I know everything about you, for never a day has passed that I didn’t think of you or ask about you. No woman of the Tsistsistas is more beautiful.”

He smiled, a curious joy in his pain-laden eyes. His great beard fascinated her. It was made of black wires.

“I have a bride-gift for you,” he said. He reached into his capote and withdrew a long soft-tanned leather pouch and handed it to her. It felt velvety in her hands. She undid the soft thong and withdrew a medicine pipe that seemed to glow in her fingers. Its bowl had been carved from the red pipestone that came from the quarry far to the east, and its long hardwood shaft had been smoothed and rubbed until it shone. No amulets or feathers adorned it. She felt afraid to hold it because its pipe-spirits spoke to her.

“It’s a Cree pipe I traded for once. Its owner, a headman of the Crees called Walks on Water, says it is a great medicine pipe.”

“This is for me?”

“You’ll keep the pipe. I don’t know why, but I thought this is the very thing for you.”

“But a woman — ”

“I see a medicine woman of the Tsistsistas before me.”

“I have no medicine.” She turned to her father, a question in her eyes.

He nodded.

“I am the pipe-keeping woman then,” she said. The pipe leapt in her fingers, and felt silky in her hand. This was confusing and she didn’t know what to say. “I have nothing for you,” she said.

“You are everything I want.”

“I will keep the sacred pipe,” she said, sliding it back into the velvety pouch.

Fitzhugh glared, but she didn’t mind. What a morning was this!

“All right, Raffin,” he muttered. “I done my part of it.”

Raffin laughed softly. “Now we kill each other, eh?”

That frightened her, but both white men laughed. How could they laugh and talk of killing? Still, Brokenleg looked like he was about ready to do it. He’d become a familiar stranger there, someone who’d vanish from her thoughts soon. Had she ever made love with that man? She’d never have to go to St. Louis again! Never have to ride the fireboats again!

“Ah! Maybe Raffin should kill you!” she cried.

But Raffin was digging into his blue capote, and this time he withdrew a flat packet wrapped in yellow oilcloth and handed it to Fitzhugh. She yearned to know its contents. Was this her bride-price? She hoped she was worth a lot. Any Tsistsista woman as pretty as she should be worth a lot.

He carefully unwrapped the folded oilcloth until he bared several sheets of paper with the white men’s talking signs on them. He studied each one, squinting furiously at them, as if the talking signs baffled him.

“Damned French,” he muttered. “If this hyar’s a joke, Raffin — ”

Raffin shrugged. “I think you make your part, and I make my part of the bargain,
oui?
Dey are the papers. Dere’s my name,
oui?
And I write in Enklish.”

“If this hyar’s a joke, watch your back trail because I’m a-comin’.”

Brokenleg folded the oilcloth over the papers again and tucked the bundle into his coat. Little Whirlwind itched to know what these papers were, and tonight she would ask Raffin. She had a good idea, though. These talking papers would save the company. She was worth the price of the company!

She turned to her father. “I am worth a lot.”

He nodded, not really understanding.

Brokenleg growled something and limped out. The parting of the door flap shot dazzling light into the little lodge. His red hair flamed in the sun as if he was on fire. The flap fell back, leaving her in shadow. Utterly against her will, she sobbed once. And then choked down the shards of her soul.

Raffin turned to her. “We have a long way to go, Little Whirlwind. But soon we will be far to the south. Are you ready?”

The moment had come. She hugged her father and was glad her sisters and brothers and mother were not there because she couldn’t bear it.

“I am your daughter,” she whispered.

“You are my daughter, Keeper of the Pipe.”

Raffin helped her into the saddle, which felt icy under her full skirts. He clambered into his own saddle, holding the picket line. He addressed One Leg Eagle. “I will be good to her,” he said.

Her father stood as silent as rock, weeping.

She wiped away tears as Raffin led her up the Powder River, and her village slid behind naked cottonwoods and vanished behind her, like a dream upon awakening.

The day after the great party Fitzhugh’s Post did the biggest robe business in its brief history. Cheerful Crows, remembering a legendary bacchanal, piled fine buffalo robes into the trading window and walked away with mountains of goods, all of them traded at normal prices. Wizened women, young men, even children, waited patiently for their chance to trade a robe or a pelt for some foofaraw. Some of them traded the robes off their backs, the very robes that had warmed them as they waited. Samson Trudeau examined the robes and pelts and kept two clerks hopping among the shelves and two more engages hauling the harvest into the warehouse. The post acquired a sizeable collection of elk hides, wolf pelts, otter and mink, which all found ready markets back in the States.

But Maxim watched it all darkly. Was this how the world worked? Debauch the Indians with illegal spirits and reap the harvest? He alone was responsible. Did good come from evil? These questions rattled through his mind, swaying him one way and another. One moment he truculently justified his conduct; the next he sagged into despair. He knew, vaguely, that this was a rite of passage; that he was leaving behind him the ideals and dreams of youth and innocence, and plunging into the harsh realities of adult life. And he mourned his lost innocence. But his very eyes told him that before the sun set there would be five or six hundred new robes in the warehouse, and countless other furs that would buoy his family’s venture and even turn a profit.

But he couldn’t reconcile it, and his anguish put him in a bad temper. He’d neglected everything until Samson Trudeau gently took command and set his remaining engages to work, some cutting firewood along the river, while others tackled the half-dug well with renewed vigor. The memory of thirst, cold, and starvation goaded them all into furious labor. They all vowed never to be trapped again. By midafternoon the well-diggers had struck moist clay, and the woodcutters had dragged a dozen cords of long limbs out of the timber and into the yard. By late afternoon the well-diggers were bucketing water out of the new well and lining it with the cobbles they’d pried from the earth. They laughed while they worked, sang bawdy French ditties, and devoured meat — while Maxim scowled and wrestled with his conscience.

The post imprisoned him. For days it had been his jail and fortress. Now, suddenly, he needed to flee it. He wandered out upon the flat, meandered through Big Robber’s village, where women toiled around outdoor fires and men gossiped and gambled on the stick game, and hefted the new rifles they’d just acquired. They grinned at him as he passed but said nothing because he could not talk their tongue. Sixty gallons of raw spirits had turned these people into friends. A debauch had wrested them from the American Fur Company and Fort Cass.

Life had become a mystery to him. He ached to find something to hang on to, to justify all this before the dwindling sun of this day vanished. He wanted answers before winter night came, and found none. He reached the river and stared into it. Ice stretched out from the banks, but open water rippled in the lavender twilight where the main channel ran. This very water would eventually flow past St. Louis, far away. St. Louis, where his family lived. This very water. It was as if his deeds would be carried on the breast of the rivers, the Bighorn, the Yellowstone, the Missouri, the Mississippi, into the ears of law-givers and judges and juries.

In the end, theology rescued him. A mortal, dealing with the realities of the world, could hardly get through life without sinning, he thought, the inkling of his salvation coming to him in the dusk. All mortals were sinners. None was perfect, or ever could be. But there was Yahweh, God, loving mankind and wanting the love of mankind, ever forgiving transgression of the law, ever loving mortals like himself who’d trimmed and compromised — and failed the ultimate tests.

“Ah, it’s you, little Straus. I’ve been looking.”

Maxim whirled, finding Julius Hervey on horseback and closing. Julius Hervey, trotting relentlessly toward him, the dusk not hiding the wild fires in his eyes, or the mesmerizing evil of the man.

Theology vanished before the terror of that man. Maxim peered wildly about looking for succor. The post lay an infinity away. Not even any Crows wandered near. He was alone — alone with a madman who would kill him. Bitterly he recollected shooting Hervey’s horse from the safety of the post, and Hervey’s mocking threats.

“Why, little Straus. You’ve stolen my Crows.”

Maxim couldn’t speak. Terror welled up in him. He backed away, edging toward the ice even as Julius Hervey edged his horse closer and closer, strange fires flaring in him.

“How delightful to find you alone. Are you a man, little Straus?”

“What — what do you want?”

Hervey laughed, a maniacal howl on the icy night wind. “I want my Crows. I want you.”

Maxim’s limbs wouldn’t work. He wanted to find a stick, a rock, anything. A sling and a pebble against Goliath. But nothing lay at hand, just grass leading into river brush and beyond that, black ice. His pulse began to lift, and his body convulsed. He’d have to run, run for his life, run a half a mile, run faster than a galloping horse.

Words came. “I’ve done nothing you wouldn’t do.”

Hervey laughed. “Where is St. Louis?” he asked, mysteriously. “Where is St. Louis?”

“Take your Crows. We have a Cheyenne trade.”

“No, you don’t. We’ve made sure you don’t. Where’s old Stiffleg, eh? He gonna come rescue little Straus?” He chuckled easily.

“I’ll fight my own fights,” Maxim said, feeling his body tense. Hervey kept edging the dark horse closer, crowding Maxim, forcing him back. A sheathed knife hung from his belt. His own voice mocked him. Julius Hervey outweighed him by fifty pounds, and his strength had always been a legend of the north.

“How does it feel, little Straus? You ready for this?”

Maxim backed into the brush and stumbled. Easily, Hervey slid off the horse. Maxim saw his chance and ran, dodging the horse just as Hervey landed on his feet. Maxim felt icy air burn his throat and scorch his lungs, felt his legs pound the frozen earth. And felt a giant force claw him to a stop and whirl him around.

Julius Hervey wasn’t even breathing hard. “Where you going, little Straus?”

“St. Louis!” he cried.

Hervey’s gloved hand gripped the wool of Maxim’s mackinaw coat, imprisoning him. “I’m St. Louis,” he said. “I’m Washington City. I’m God.”

Maxim punched. He smacked his fist into Hervey’s face, some frantic animal instinct driving it. He felt it connect and rock the man. Hervey quaked and his laughter slid into a snarl. He shoved, and Maxim found himself careening backward, stumbling, toppling to the cast-iron earth.

Hervey’s boot smacked his ribs. Maxim felt arrows of fire pierce his body. The boot hit again and pain geysered through his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He writhed sideways just as Hervey’s boot caught him again, this time into his hip, numbing his side.

Maxim gasped and rolled but Hervey landed on him like a cat, straddling him, gloved fists, hard as anvils, cracking his nose and jaw, boxing his ears. White fire laced through Maxim, shrieking pain he’d never known or imagined. Blood welled from his nose and gums. Teeth rattled in their sockets. Sledgehammers slammed down, one after another, never ceasing no matter how Maxim twisted and dodged and writhed and shrieked.

And all the while, Hervey laughed and taunted and joked. “How’s that, little Straus? Had enough? Not enough yet — you’re still bawling! How about an arm? Let’s bust an arm!”