Crow Mountain (18 page)

I looked more carefully at the dead bodies. ‘But . . . I . . . they've skinned them. That's it?'

‘That's it.' Your voice was bitter.

‘There's so many.' My voice was leaden and stupid. Mama and Papa would have disapproved of it.

‘Looks like at least a hundred head to me. Lotta calves too.'

A sudden voice startled me and I spun. There, in front of me, was an enormous Indian. His chest was bare apart from a rifle strap, the barrel sticking up over his shoulder. He wore only white leggings with beads in a stripe on the outside, a deerskin loincloth and long, soft boots. On either side of his face was a red streak and through his eyebrows and over his hooded eyelids was smeared a canary yellow paste. His nose was high and fine and his forehead broad. His hair, which was as black as mine and almost as long, was braided into two pigtails.

I moved to stand behind you.

‘What did he say?' I whispered. For surely, in my ignorance, all Indian languages were the same.

‘He said, all white men are bastards.'

I stood back, eyes wide, as the two of you embraced, laughing. You held each other's arms and looked each other up and down. You were taller but you lacked the Indian's muscular bulk. The two of you spoke in a language I could not comprehend even the sound of, it was so alien: like dice being rattled in a shaker and the sanding of wood at the same time. Stepping back, you took my hand and stooped to my ear, whispering.

‘After he speaks to you, just say
ka-hay
. Nothing else.'

You spoke to the Indian again. He looked at me with interest for so long it would have been considered beyond rude and into insolent in any polite drawing room. From my dirty bare feet to the top of my unruly head.

He nodded, and spoke.

‘
Ka-hay
,' I replied.

His eyes flicked to you. You shrugged and spoke, putting your hand on my shoulder. I recognized only one word:
English
.

The Indian tried it out. ‘English.'

You pulled me into your side. ‘Em. This is my brother, Little Elk. Momma always spoke to me in our own language, and I was just learning to talk when he was born, so I always called him Lucky.'

I looked up at him. ‘Your brother?'

‘Momma and Red Feather's son.'

The Indian, Lucky, was still regarding me with interest. I realized I too was staring.

You spoke again, gesturing out to the plains. ‘Lucky only got here this morning. Looks as though this was done yesterday. Maybe the day before. Big operation too. Many hands. The corpses, they're fresh. Only a couple of days old at most. And they're not that spread out. That means surprise. Lot of repeating rifles, and a lot of knives to get the hides off quick smart. See the wagon trails? This many white men way up here, that's new. Gonna cause all kinds of ructions.'

The anger in the Indian's controlled, measured voice was clear, although I did not know what he was saying.

‘Rose?' you said suddenly.

Lucky nodded, once.

‘Rose?' I asked.

‘My sister. Half-sister. I haven't seen her in almost a year.' Your face was animated. I looked up at you as you spoke to
your brother. I could see no resemblance between the two of you. I wondered what your sister would look like.

I did not have to wait long to find out. Lucky spotted her first, a figure on a grey horse, trotting through the buffalo massacre. We climbed down from the crag. He and I exchanged a glance when you landed awkwardly on a ledge and had to recover yourself as your knee gave way, before turning to help me down. The Indian's face was expressionless, but we had communicated all the same. By the time we reached the bottom of the crag and collected Tara where she waited with Lucky's horse, the rider was only a minute away.

If I had an idea of an Indian woman before Rose, it was of the squaws coming and going from Fort Shaw on their ponies, sometimes with a baby in a cradleboard. Rose was not that woman. She sat on her horse with the same ease you did, long legs dangling free from the stirrups, which were crossed over the pommel. She had a high, fine nose and forehead. Her hair was collar-length, worn loose with a centre parting, exaggerating her cheekbones and strong jaw. Like you, she had a wide, expressive mouth. She was dressed in deerskin leggings and a tunic decorated with beads. Over her shoulder was a rifle. She looked me up and down before dismounting. She was shorter than her brothers, but not by much. I have read since that the people of your tribe are all tall, and most of the men over six feet.

You embraced and she grinned, the same wolfish, joyous grin as you. The same white teeth. I realized she wasn't so very much older than me, but she was strong and robust-looking,
with corded red-brown forearms. You tousled her hair, the tone of your voice teasing, and she punched you smartly in the chest. You told me later that hair is sacred to the people of your tribe and that touching the hair of another was intimate.

We went through the same process of introduction. She was as reserved as her brother, but not unfriendly, though she questioned you extensively, looking at me as she did so. She even walked right around me, looking me up and down. Though you had laughed every now and again, you didn't tell me what her questions were. Finally the three of you discussed the buffalo for a long time, your gestures becoming ever more exaggerated. Lucky didn't raise his voice – he never did – but you and Rose were almost shouting at each other at one point. Rose kept holding up the index finger on one hand, then on the other. I stood with Tara, stroking her nose and feeling superfluous.

The shouting died down. Rose fiddled with the strap on her rifle and looked annoyed. The tone of the conversation changed. Suddenly I was aware you were all talking about me. I put my head down. With a final comment flung over your shoulder, you walked over and took my hand, pulling me towards the saddle. A second later, you were mounted. You spun me, catching me beneath the arms from behind and lifting me right up. I am not, quite, that gossamer, but you were right about your toughness and I had become accustomed to you hauling me on and off Tara. I drew my leg over the horn and dropped down into the saddle with a jolt. You
gathered the reins and looked at the others, waiting. They mounted up.

We headed west, trotting towards the lowering sun.

‘What's happening, please?'

‘They're coming with us. We can get the scout done in a third of the time.'

‘Where are we going now?'

‘Their camp.'

‘Oh.' A thousand questions burnt on the tip of my tongue.

‘What is it?' You sounded amused.

‘What was Rose saying?'

You were suddenly serious. ‘One for one. The death of one buffalo, like that, all that waste, will cost the life of one Indian, come winter.'

‘Is that true?'

‘Maybe. It's worked for the government against the Navajo for the last few years. And that was only sheep.'

I plucked up some courage. ‘But what was she saying about me?'

‘Wanted to know how much you'd cost me.'

Turning to see your face, I frowned at the smile in your voice. ‘I hope you told her the truth.'

‘'Course. Told her you ain't cost me a penny, only my peace of mind, and my own bed.'

I huffed and settled back against you, sitting into Tara's easy gait and playing with the strap of the rein dangling from your hand where it rested on the saddlehorn.

‘How old is she?' I asked, risking a shy glance across at her.

‘Couldn't say. But she's youngest of us still living. Momma doted on her, but Red Feather wasn't much interested in girl-children. Hence her being called Rose by Momma. Said she always wanted a little girl called Rose.'

At that moment Tara, usually so sure-footed, tripped, and pecked the ground with her nose. You hauled on the reins and held on to me as she skittered to the side to regain her feet, almost colliding with the glistening, fly-blown carcass of a buffalo, raising a buzzing cloud. We flinched in unison and you steered Tara away quickly. I tugged the shirt cuff over my hand and held it over my nose and mouth until we were clear of the swarm.

Waiting until we were closer to the others, I dropped my hand. ‘There are more?'

The angry tension had returned to your body. ‘One. He Who Walks. He was the cripple of the family, before me. Younger than Rose. Twisted pelvis so could never sit a horse. He died soon after I went East. Some problem in his guts.'

‘I'm sorry. Did you miss them, when you left?' I looked over my shoulder at you, seeing you bite the inside of your cheek.

‘Always.'

‘Then why enlist? Why not just come back?'

‘I truly do not know the answer to that. Felt like maybe I didn't fit here either, being as how they'd let me go for a few horses. Thought maybe I should try to make a life with my own people. But turns out I ain't a great fan of most of them.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said again.

You roped my hair around my neck like a collar and nudged my head with your chin. ‘Some of you ain't so bad.'

I pushed your hand away, full of bees in my middle. We were still skirting the edge of the massacre. Thankfully we were upwind, but I still kept my face turned away from the horror of the huge bodies sprawled on the grassy plain. We were close enough to see the flies buzzing and the smell of the flesh beginning to spoil gusted towards us as we reached the other side.

I swallowed, revolted. ‘This is all such a horrible waste.'

You made a sound of disgust. ‘Welcome to the white man. And the railroad is only making it worse. Divides the herds, stops them moving across the plains. The more railroads, the more divided, the more people and the more hunters. Those trains will end their way of life. Probably even wipe them out. And the Plains Indian along with them.'

‘So why are you helping them? The railroad people.'

‘I'm not helping. I'm telling them, honestly, where they can't hope to build. I may be poor but I ain't a liar.'

‘But you're taking their money. Isn't that hypocritical?'

‘Em, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm a cripple. The life I got now is pretty much the only one I'm fit for out here. I could trap for fur, but I ain't a fan of killing anything I ain't gonna eat. I can break one, maybe two horses at a time. And I'm picky about it. The horses and the buyers. It ain't a gold claim.' Your voice was patient and laced with your pioneer practicality. ‘And there's you to think about.'

‘Me?' I looked up over my shoulder at you.

‘You need things. Clothes. Shoes. Pretty hair soap. More stuff than you got now, anyways. And taking money from Railroad to buy it for you seems fair enough.'

Anthony Howard Stanton had become so distant to me that your connection to him, even through such sketchy employment, seemed more real than mine had only a short time ago. The marriage was now utterly doomed, of course, but strangely it did not tear my heart. The thought of Mama and Papa being displeased with me made me unhappy, but here on the plain, even that seemed very far away.

Ahead of us, out of the haze, appeared what looked like a camp. There were three more horses and, on the ground, a pile of packs and blankets. A woman sporting the same long braids as Lucky, but in a white deerskin dress over her leggings, was tending a fire, cooking bread on flat stones surrounding it.

‘Who's that?'

‘That's Lucky's new wife . . . Clear Water.'

‘You sound surprised.'

You laughed. ‘I am. He did nothing but tease her when we were kids.'

I glanced across at the forbidding brave, his painted face unreadable. ‘Teasing? He doesn't seem the sort.'

‘Ah, that's 'cause he's fixing to be a chief one day. He's a real joker when you get to know him.'

I said nothing.

You leant to the side to see my face. ‘You don't believe me?'

‘Yes, of course. If you say so. It's just that he doesn't . . . look very humorous.'

‘Nor do you.'

I twisted, indignant. You were laughing and pulling Tara to a halt, getting down and bringing me to stand next to you. Clear Water came up and smiled, happy to see you. She was tall and handsome but seemed shy – far less assertive than Rose – as you spoke. Her eyes were wide as she looked at me. You didn't touch her, and after a brief greeting and introduction to me, you went to look at Lucky's horses with Rose, running your hands over their legs, looking in their mouths. You were particularly interested in a leggy red horse with a fine face and nervy movements, and seemed to have forgotten I was even there.

I waited awkwardly. Clear Water hadn't gone back to her fire but was watching me, seeming equally ill at ease. After a minute, she beckoned and went to the fire, where she crouched, flipping the hot bread with deft hands. I knelt next to her and watched, nodding in what I thought was the right place.

You came over. ‘We'll spend the night here and break camp in the morning. You and I'll head into Flathead territory, Lucky and Rose can cover the Kootenais. They speak the language a little.'

‘You don't?'

‘Kootenai? Not at all. It's not like ours. Not like any other Indian language.'

The only shelter provided near the camp was a stand of
rocks, climbing to a small butte. That evening, we all sat around the fire. Me and you, Lucky and Clear Water and then Rose, a small distance apart. Rose liked to sit alone. You all talked. From the tone, I could tell you were sharing news, telling stories. At that moment you were one of them, and the Nate I had come to know on the mountain was a stranger, his face shadowed by the firelight and alien words on his lips. It unsettled me; a moment later, mid-story and without looking at me, you reached over and smoothed a lock of hair behind my ear.

After sharing our tin plate of nondescript brown gravy with some corn in it, and the delicious baked bread, we repaired to bed. Returning from the stream, our bedroll suddenly seemed a sanctuary and I nestled down like an animal inside a den, in the waxed cotton smock of yours I wore on cool evenings. A few minutes later, you appeared out of the dark, unfastening your gun belt and putting it on the ground near our blanket pillow. Under the blankets, you slung an arm around me.