Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (26 page)

 
          
 
"But I—but you ... you ..."

 
          
 
Green looked up. "Travis! Come
here."

 
          
 
Hartman appeared from behind the cargo box.
Long fringed leathers, grease-stained and shiny, covered his muscular body. He
moved with a powerful grace, padding like a lion on moccasined feet.
Silver-streaked hair streamed down over the beaded shoulders of his buckskin
jacket. Seeing him in daylight, Richard gasped. Something had once tried to rip
Hartman's face from his skull. A mass of scar tissue arced across from his left
cheek, through the mangled nose, then thinned into parallel lines on the right
side that ran back toward his ear. A full beard did little to hide the damage.

 
          
 
Hartman lowered himself to a crouch, thick
thigh muscles giving his squat a springy resilience like that of a hunting
animal poised to leap. Richard looked into blue eyes that froze his soul. Up
close, more scars were visible tracing through Hartman's hair in marbling
patterns.

 
          
 
Green indicated Richard. "If he tries to
jump the boat, Travis, hunt him down and shoot him. I'll have no man breaking
his contract."

 
          
 
Travis narrowed one eye. "He do that an'
he'll be wolf-meat, Davey. Reckon as how I'll do 'er."

 
          
 
"My God, you wouldn't!" Richard
stared from one to the other.

 
          
 
"Ye'd better check yer topknot, Doodle. I
give me word ter old Francois. Reckon ye'11 fill out yer contract."
Hart-man's frigid blue stare froze Richard to his guts.

 
          
 
"Get yourself some breakfast." Green
pointed toward. "Then get to work. We don't get upriver any faster if you
set on your skinny butt, boy."

 
          
 
Then Green stood and clumped his way aft to
shout up at the patroon.

 
          
 
"I reckon ye heard the man," Hartman
said as Richard gaped in disbelief. "Fetch yerself some vittles and pick out
one of them poles stacked on the cargo box. They's some old, but we'll cut new
ones up past the settlements."

 
          
 
Richard backed carefully away from Hartman,
wobbled to his prickly feet, and made his way forward. A pot containing the
remains of diced meat and vegetables—now stone cold—was propped against the
plank wall of the cargo box. Richard's soul crawled at the sight of the
congealed grease in the bottom. In God's name, how long had it been since he'd
eaten? His gnawing stomach overcame squeamishness. With nothing but fingers to
eat with, Richard scooped the last dregs out of the pot and fought down the
desire to vomit.

           
 
Maria coasted gracefully along the shore. The
west bank was high here, gaps in the trees marking occasional fields. The
Mississippi
ran dark and deep, water roiling and choppy
from the south wind. The boatmen were singing yet another of their songs, this
one some nonsense about walking footpaths, being made to laugh, and being
afraid of wolves. They glanced curiously at him, several with the bloodshot
eyes as a result of their revelries the night before.

 
          
 
Richard huddled beside the empty stew pot and
stared dully out over the gunwales at the river and the malignant trees beyond.
Miserable as he was, he could sense that presence, as if the land watched him
from deep within those shadowed ways.

 
          
 
"God, I'm going to die out here. What
kind of a place is this? What kind of men are these? A land of demons ...
peopled by a race of devils."

 
          
 
". . . No arts; no letters; no society;
and which is worst of all y continual fear and danger of violent death; and the
life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short.'' The acid words of
Thomas Hobbes filtered through Richard's brain.

 
          
 
"Wind's dying!" came the cry from
the cargo box. "Break out the poles, boys!"

 
          
 
Richard dropped his head into his hands.
Father, why did you do this to me? This isn't true. It just isn't true!

 
          
 
"Dick?" Hartman's voice intruded.
"Ye'd best be getting yer pole down like I told ye."

 
          
 
Richard glanced up into that cold stare.

           
 
"Best get on, now," Hartman said

 
          
 
Richard rose unsteadily. He'd seen this kind
of activity on the river. A man set the end of his pole in the mud at the bow
of the boat and walked to the rear, pushing off on cleats pegged to the passe
avant, no more than fifteen inches wide. Upon reaching the stern, he pulled the
pole out of the mud and walked back forward while the boat coasted on momentum
before he set and pushed again. The pole had a large knob set in the end to
cushion a man's shoulder.

 
          
 
The engages watched him pull one of the long
poles from the pile. Snickers gave way to guffaws as he grunted, teetering to
balance the weight With all the bravado of a terrified mouse, he picked a place
between two burly engages who stared suspiciously at him.

 
          
 
He handled the pole awkwardly, lowering the
end into the water, hunching over the knob, and pushing as the boat moved
slowly under his feet. At the end, he pulled, twisting to break the mud's hold,
and started back toward the front of the boat.

 
          
 
He made three trips before he began to gasp
for breath.

 
          
 
With passions so tame, and so salutory a curb,
men, instead of being wild and wicked, and no more attentive to ward against
harm than to cause any to other animals, were not exposed to any dangerous
dissentions; as they kept up no manner of intercourse with each other, and
were, of course, strangers to vanity, to respect, to esteem, to contempt; as
they had no notion of w r hat we call yours and mine, nor any true idea of
justice; as they considered any violence they were liable to as an evil that
could be easily corrected, and not as an injury that deserved punishment; and
they never so much as dreamed of revenge. . . .

 
          
 
—Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the
Origin and Foundation of Inequality Among Mankind

 
          
 
The short-coupled, rough-gaited mare that
Willow
clung to cantered relentlessly across the
sage. Whenever the mare slowed, the stubborn young Pawnee warrior who kept his
own mount close behind used a willow crop to quirt the mare's rump. An equally
stubborn
Willow
clung to the horse's mane with cramped
fingers. The Pawnee had tied her feet beneath the mare's belly, and if she lost
her hold and slid around the mare's barrel, she'd be kicked half to death—or,
worse, the animal might fall and crush her into the sagebrush and rocks.

 
          
 
The wiry mare stumbled now, driven to her
limits. With each jerking misstep,
Willow
's heart skipped. For four days, they'd
alternately ridden, walked, and ridden some more, straining the endurance of
the horses and themselves.

 
          
 
Fool
Willow
mentally told the Pawnee, no one even knows
that I’m missing. And worse, if they did, no one would follow.

 
          
 
The mare caught a hoof and lurched forward,
jolting
Willow
's hold. If the mare fell and killed her, at
least the agony of cramped and screaming muscles would be over. The numbness
had started in her thighs. Then a terrible ache had eaten into her knees and
calves. It had spread to her hips, climbed her back and shoulders, and ended in
her pain-knit fingers.

 
          
 
The day had been warm, and the snow had melted
to create a slick, pale gray mud treacherous to anything two-or four-legged.
The Pawnee had chosen to ride up, away from the river, where the uplands
provided better footing for the horses, and better points of vantage for him to
study the backtrail.

 
          
 
Now, as the winter sun dipped behind the
transected plains to the west, the Pawnee slowed the killing pace, once again
glancing back at the purple mountains that rose in points against an orange and
lavender evening sky.

 
          
 
The Pawnee kicked his horse up alongside of
Willow
's. He signed, "We camp," and led
the way down into a drainage.

 
          
 
He had an eye for campsites, picking a
concealed location with a southern exposure. The weathered sandstone would remain
warm through the night, while the hollow protected them from both the west wind
and the seeking eyes of pursuers—of whom there would be none. Juniper and tall
sagebrush filled the hollow, while one lone
Cottonwood
had taken root where the drainage trickled
over the rocks.

 
          
 
The Pawnee slipped over his horse's side,
deftly hobbled
Willow
's pony and his own. Only then did he untie the thongs from around
Willow
's ankles. When she slid down, her rubbery
legs betrayed her. For a long time she lay staring at her hands where they
propped her on the grass.

 
          
 
The Pawnee eyed her warily as he began
twisting sagebrush out of the ground for firewood. She met his stare with one
equally as wary. She knew his name now: Packrat—the knowledge rendered by sign
language. Of the Pawnee people, she knew only a little: that they lived far to
the east; mostly raided to the south; and were very warlike. Among other
things, Pawnee were known to sacrifice young women to Morning Star. The gift of
a woman to repay the female powers who had created the world.

 
          
 
Is that why he wants me? She cudgeled her
memory. The Pawnee captured a young woman, treated her well, and finally took
her out and tied her to a scaffold. Then, precisely at dawn, when the stars
were right, they shot her full of arrows.

 
          
 
Willow calculated the exact spot on his skull
where she'd land a blow the first time she got her hands on anything suitably
lethal.

 
          
 
Packrat used his lips to point the way he
wanted her to go. Willow pushed up, stood carefully, and walked on brittle legs
toward the base of the sandstone outcrop. At his gesture, she settled herself
on the pale sand. Their eyes held for a moment. What was he thinking behind
that serious expression? Curiously, he looked slightly concerned.

 
          
 
"What do you want, boy?" she asked.

 
          
 
He said something in his own tongue.

 
          
 
"Well, don't worry about me. I'm not
going anywhere.

 
          
 
Not tonight. Every bone and joint in my body
aches. Even if I wanted to run away, I just couldn't." Besides, you're
still wary, ready for me to make a break. But down the trail, when you begin to
relax, that will be different.

 
          
 
Packrat muttered something in Pawnee. Then he
bent down, pulled charred tinder from his leather bag, and used a
strike-a-light to start a fire. With care, he nursed his glowing spark to
flame, then added bits of sagebrush twigs until he had a suitable blaze. From
Willow's pack he pulled what was left of her jerked meat, handing a hard piece
to her.

 
          
 
As she chewed, she signed, "What are you
going to do with me?"

 
          
 
"You are a gift," he returned,
watching her.

 
          
 
"To your gods?"

 
          
 
He chuckled at that before signing, "Not
as you think, but I hope Morning Star will be pleased."

 
          
 
From the stories told, captive girls were kept
for almost a year, pampered and jealously guarded before the spring morning
when they were taken out, tortured, and killed. The hunt, capture, and return
of the prisoner were highly ceremonial. Packrat's dress and actions hadn't
reflected anything of the stories Willow had heard.

 
          
 
"A gift for whom?" she signed.

 
          
 
"My father."

 
          
 
"To be a slave to him?"

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
Willow chewed thoughtfully on the tough jerky.
As the night darkened overhead, the temperature dropped. Packrat, she noted,
kept a careful fire, never letting it flame up, making sure it burned at a red
glow, enough for heat and some light but not enough to disclose their position
to watchers.

 
          
 
The horses simply stood where they'd stopped,
heads down, as raggedly weary as she herself was. She forced herself to eat the
last piece of jerky Packrat handed her. Strength was important. One day soon,
she'd need all she could muster.

 
          
 
"You will try to escape," Packrat
signed.

 
          
 
"Not tonight. Too tired."

 
          
 
He considered, chuckled dryly to himself, and
motioned her to roll over.

 
          
 
"Why?" she signed in defiance.

 
          
 
"Tie your hands and feet."

 
          
 
"No. Too tired to escape. I hurt
everywhere."

 
          
 
He cocked his head, a slight smile giving his
handsome face a mischievous look. Dimples formed at the sides of his mouth.
"Better that I tie you. I, too, am tired. Too tired to want to chase you
down or have to defend myself when you sneak over and grab my war club to brain
me."

 
          
 
Was she that obvious?

 
          
 
He was so young. Undoubtedly inexperienced.
And somewhere therein lay her final victory. She signed, "Heals Like A
Willow wouldn't hurt you."

 
          
 
He laughed aloud, exposing straight white
teeth. His flashing hands responded, "You think I'm stupid?"

 
          
 
"Not at all. You caught me, didn't
you?"

 
          
 
"It wasn't very hard. Why were you out
there, all alone like that?"

 
          
 
She considered, weighing her responses. He
expected pursuit, and thus far had dealt with the flight from Ku'chendikani
country like a seasoned warrior. Since he expected pursuit, lull him another
way? "I was going back to my mother and father. My husband and young son
are dead. Nothing remained for me among my married-into people."

 
          
 
He nodded with sudden understanding.
"That is why you had no horse. I have heard how you wild people live. Had
you had the luck to have been born Pawnee, you would still have your house,
horses, fields, and family. A woman owns everything. If a husband dies, she
does not end up poor, like you."

 
          
 
"I am rich enough," Willow insisted
"Not all wealth is in the form of horses or guns."

 
          
 
Packrat leaned back, evidently having
forgotten he was going to tie her. "How rich can a woman be who rides tied
to a Pawnee horse?"

 
          
 
Willow gave him a confident smile. "I am
rich in dreams and visions. Several nights before you captured me, I dreamed of
running as fast as an arrow, right for some trees. Then I tore through the
trees and was flying." Yes, that's right. This might be the way to beat
him. "Power brought you to me. It is all happening the way it is supposed
to."

 
          
 
Packrat reached up to scratch his ear, jumping
as a wolf howled in the gloomy distance.