Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (20 page)

 
          
 
"Not many old men are fools, girl. And
the stories of the Bald One teach good lessons."

 
          
 
"Yes, they do. Red Calf should take heed.
One of the lessons the Bald One teaches is that greed leads to disaster."

 
          
 
"So does ignoring the advice of your
elders. Look at you! Wandering out there to be eaten by the rock ogres! You
shouldn't be traveling alone."

 
          
 
"I'll be fine. It's still too early for
trouble. War parties aren't out at this time of year. Our enemies are in camp,
snug by warm fires, waiting out the weather and winter grass. By the time the
Pa'kiani come south, I'll be safe in the mountains with my people."

 
          
 
"I will pray to Tarn Apo that you make it
safely." The old woman leaned forward, touching her cheek to
Willow
's.

 
          
 
Without another word,
Willow
took a deep breath and started eastward,
feet crunching on the crusted snow as she passed the line of trees and started
up the bluffs. Climbing the last terrace, she could see the distant
Powder River
Mountains
rising like mounded buffalo backs against
the morning sky.

 
          
 
Taking a final look back across the frosty
bottoms, she saw the horse herd clustered just south of the village, animals
pawing at the snow. The camp lay under a blue haze of woodsmoke. The warm brown
tones of the lodges contrasted with the tawny grass, the grizzled trees, and
snow patches.

 
          
 
Farewell, Ku'chendikani. Good-bye, my husband
and son.

 
          
 
And with that,
Willow
turned her back on a vanished life.

 
          
 
Travis scraped his moccasins free of
manure-filled mud on the sides of the tavern doorframe. The sign hanging over
the door would have been worthless to Travis but for the faded, if rather
optimistic, rendition of a fully leafed tree.

 
          
 
Travis was no stranger to the Green Tree
Tavern. Old John Simonds, the proprietor, gave him a nervous squint when he
walked past the scarred oaken door, remembering, no doubt, the night a somewhat
younger Travis Hartman had gouged the eye out of a squealing and thrashing
boatman.

 
          
 
And I’d a done a heap more, too, ifn Davey
Green hadn't a-busted a cider keg over my noggin.

 
          
 
No two tables were the same, since they'd been
scrounged throughout the city, and had proved rugged enough to resist pounding,
hammering, dancing boatmen, and occasional flying bodies. Long ago, Simonds had
turned from chairs to benches, the latter being heavier and less likely to be
thrown.

 
          
 
The walls were blackened from years of candle
soot and tobacco smoke. Across the room, a young man in a smudged white shirt
polished tin cups with a rag. He started at the sight of Travis's mauled face,
and hastily looked away.

 
          
 
Walking to the plank counter, Travis nodded to
the young man behind the bar. "Ale, lad."

 
          
 
Four men, three already deep in their cups,
sat on one of the benches. Even from the back, Travis recognized Francois.

 
          
 
Ale in hand, Travis dropped a coin on the
scarred wood before sauntering over to Francois's table and seating himself.
His arrival brought an instant quiet—and the sense that he'd walked into
something at just the wrong time. One by one, Travis nodded at each of them,
taking the measure of their suspicious eyes.

 
          
 
"Sorry to interrupt, lads. Come ter talk
bizness. Nothing more."

 
          
 
"Travis Hartman," Francois said
softly, a faint smile on his thin lips. "What's this? No Ree has lifted
your louse-infested scalp?"

 
          
 
"Yourn neither, it appears." Travis
lifted his mug and drank, white foam sticking to his mustache. He wiped it off
with a sleeve. "How ye been, Francois? Long time since I seen yer carcass.
Three ... four years?"

 
          
 
"Four at least, Hartman. You 'ave not
grown any prettier since the last time. The scabs, they were just falling off
as I remember. Now, even the red ees gone. You look like ... yes, a man who has
let chickens walk across his face."

 
          
 
Hartman ignored the snickers from the other
men. One, a big fellow with black hair and a bristly beard, had been around.
Travis knew him by sight. The other two were strangers, but from their sashes,
boatman's caps, and baggy white shirts, Hartman might just as well have known
them. He'd traveled with enough engages over the years.

 
          
 
The engages, mostly French, were the hired
boatmen who worked for a regular wage. Each signed a contract to fulfill
certain obligations to a bourgeois, or "booshway," as the Americans
called the expedition's leader. The contract might be to reach a certain
destination, to complete a journey, or for a period of time.

 
          
 
"I'm looking for men." Hartman
sucked at his ale. "Pay's good and fair. Two-year contract. Hauling a boat
upriver."

 
          
 
"Two years?" The black-haired man
watched Hartman through flat eyes. "A long contract, oui! It makes me
wonder, why have I not heard of this? No one has been talking. I ask myself,
where would this boat go for two years? It could not be the upper
Missouri
, for I would have heard that."

 
          
 
Hartman watched him through narrowed eyes.
"Boats go a lot of places, coon. Maybe we just want your skinny arse for two
seasons instead of one. Think of it like this: Long-term pay, eh?"

 
          
 
Francois chuckled, glancing at the
black-haired man. "Relax, August. What interest is it of yours? You no
longer work for Bourgeois Chouteau."

 
          
 
Travis gave August an even harder look. If
word leaked to Chouteau, it would blow the whole thing higher than a spark in a
powder keg.

 
          
 
"I need men," Travis said softly.
"No questions asked. And jist from the looks of it, yer not the kind
interested in questions. That, or I'm a pilgrim when it comes ter reading sign
on men's souls."

 
          
 
August tensed, fists clenching. Francis
reached out to restrain him, saying, "You want no part of Hartman, mon
ami. "' Francois chuckled then, fingering his bearded chin as August
relaxed. "I think, Travis Hartman, that we all have our secrets.
Fortunately, we know more of yours than you know of ours, eh?"

 
          
 
"Reckon so. Now, if'n ye'd have an
interest in the river—"

 
          
 
"Non! Pardon. S'il vous plais."
August had nevertheless reached down to the handle of his belt knife.
"Now, if you will kindly take your—"

 
          
 
"Un moment," Francois said
thoughtfully. In French he added, "Perhaps this can work to solve our
little problem." In English he said to Travis. "Two years? Upriver?
No questions asked?"

 
          
 
"Yep. Hard work up, and lard eating for
the winter. I'll not lie to ye. Thar'll be a sight of danger. Cowards need not
apply. But, boys, I give ye my word, stick her out, and ye'll come back rich
men. Reckon thar'll be a share of the profits divvied out to the hands."

 
          
 
"O, mon Dieu! Madness,'' August hissed,
hand still on his knife. "I am not stupid! This thing you plan, the upper
Missouri
! Pied Noir, Blackfeet! That is who you seek.
Or perhaps the Crows, hein! You think you can trade with them? Non, impossible.
They kill you in trois mois. Four at most. It is suicide!"

 
          
 
Francois smiled. "Two years? No questions
asked? How desperate are you, Hartman?"

 
          
 
"We leave day after t'morrer,
short-handed or no."

 
          
 
"Sacre infant du grace! You 'ave gone
crazy?" August stared incredulously at Francis. "To go upriver, now?
Why? You 'ave everything!"

 
          
 
Francis gestured for silence. To Travis he
said, "What if I told you that I have a man for you? He's not much of a
boatman, understand? I would not sell you false goods, Hartman. He's skinny,
weak, and worthless. A liar of the worst kind, he will tell you the most
fanciful of tales. Of being robbed. Of being a bourgeois gentleman. You must
watch him every moment, for he will try to escape from your boat. Are you that
desperate, eh? Do you want to buy his contract?"

 
          
 
Travis rocked his mug thoughtfully. "If'n
I'm desperate enough ter think of hiring the likes of you, I'm desperate, all
right."

 
          
 
August had begun to grin, shooting a crafty
look at Francois, and then Hartman.

 
          
 
Travis sipped his ale, trying to fathom the
trap.

 
          
 
"You need men to cordelle and pole the
boat, non?" August shrugged, expression blank. "He's a man. And . . .
who knows? If he does not do the work, you must have to shoot him, non?"

 
          
 
Francois shook greasy black hair off his
shoulders. "I own his contract, Hartman. How you say, an indenture?"

 
          
 
Travis cocked an eyebrow as he stared into his
ale. "I ain't enough of a pilgrim ter pay money fer no shirker.

 
          
 
"Sorry, boys. I need men, strong, hale,
an' hearty."

 
          
 
"You 'ave not asked how much."
Francois slapped the table, clearly enjoying himself.

 
          
 
"Ter buy a man's indenture? How long's he
got on his contract?"

 
          
 
"How long you want?"

 
          
 
"Two years."

 
          
 
"Tres bien, I sell you this man for two
years. Take him up to the Pied Noir. Make him haul your boat. I will take
leisure in my great house in
New Orleans
, or perhaps
Paris
. I will caress my Lizette, and I will think
of my indentured servant, hauling the boat upriver." Francis laughed
happily and the others now joined in.

 
          
 
Hartman pulled at his chin hairs. "Yer a
damned devil Francis. Reckon ye've always been, too. Ye've nothing but trouble
in that damn black heart of yern. Still, even a pig falls into a sweet spring
of an occasion. 'Cept in yer case, if n yer flush, it's through murder or
robbery."

 
          
 
Francois's gaze hardened. "No questions
asked. You are interested, or no?"

 
          
 
"How much fer this pilgrim you
took?"

 
          
 
"One sow."