Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (28 page)

 
          
 
Green's jaw had set; the pistol was pointed at
Hamilton
's blanching face. "How much we pay for
him? A penny, didn't you say, Travis?"

 
          
 
"Yep."

 
          
 
"Think I ought to just shoot him? Hell,
it don't look like he's going to be worth the bother, not with us being held up
because he can't work."

 
          
 
Richard's eyes widened and he grew oddly still
as he stared into the black muzzle of the pistol.

 
          
 
Travis hawked and spat out beyond the gunwale.
"Wal, Dave, if'n ye shoot him, thar'll be no doubt among the engages that
we mean what we say." And indeed, it might forestall any further trouble
upriver.

 
          
 
Green thumbed back the cock on the pistol, the
click loud in the suddenly quiet air. Boulette and the others backed carefully
away.

 
          
 
"Oh, my God,"
Hamilton
whispered dryly, hands clutching the thick
pole as he rose, the action as slow as the opening of a flower. "Damn you
... damn you!"

 
          
 
In that instant Travis saw something in those
desperate brown eyes. Yes, there it was—angry defiance driven by an animal lust
for survival. He'd seen it before, and it didn't match what he'd expected of
this rabbit of a man.

 
          
 
"Hold on, Dave." Travis dropped to a
knee, meeting Richard's smoldering glare. "Yer life's on the line,
pilgrim. Reckon ye can pole till
midday
? Ye got the sand fer that?"

 
          
 
"I'll pole." Richard's muscles had
begun to tremble again, and this time Travis could see that the tremor came
from fatigue, for the defiance remained in those hard brown eyes.

 
          
 
"Stow yer pole, Dick. Flop down up
forward and catch a rest." Travis turned a hard eye on the rest of the
engages.

 
          
 
"Reckon the rest of ye can cover fer
young Dick hyar. He ain't been on the river afore. I'm giving him five days to
toughen up. After that, he's fair game—if n Dave don't shoot him first."

 
          
 
"How about me?" Trudeau called up
from where he slouched on his pole. "Do I get five days?"

 
          
 
Travis grinned, knowing how it contorted his
scarred face. "Reckon so, if n it suits you, Trudeau. But afore ye do, yer
a gonna do five minutes with me. That's the word, boys. Any of ye want to try
me? See if n yer man enough?"

 
          
 
Heads shook slowly.

 
          
 
"Let's git back to work, lads. We're
making the mouth of the Missouri by nightfall."

 
          
 
At that Travis nodded to Green, who uncocked
his pistol and stuffed it into his belt. They walked slowly back to the mast as
the Maria began moving forward. Surly grumbles passed among the engages.

 
          
 
"You sure I shouldn't have just up and
shot him?" Green asked.

 
          
 
"Hell, I don't know."

 
          
 
"Why did you stop me, then, Travis?"

 
          
 
"Something in his eyes, Dave. Wal, reckon
I give him five days. Maybe I'm a sight tetched for thinking it, but either
he's got grit in him, or he don't. Sometimes a man just needs a chance ter find
out. Reckon little Richard, thar, why, he ain't never had that chance."

 
          
 
"He does now."

 
          
 
"Yep. Five days' worth."

           
 
Richard lay sprawled on the hard oak deck.
Somewhere, during the hellish day's long hours, his brain had simply ceased to
function beyond the routine of the pole and keeping his feet as he staggered
along the passe avant. When his feet became too clumsy, he'd drag his pole from
the water and stumble to one side. He'd even grown oblivious of the boatmen's
contemptuous glares as they passed him.

 
          
 
Inevitably, the image of that black gaping pistol
barrel would grow in the back of his mind, and he'd stare into that dark
eternity until it filled his entire world. Then, Dave Green's implacable stare
burned through the darkness like a death's head. Travis Hartman's twangy voice
would say, "Yer life's on the line, pilgrim. . . Ye got the sand fer
that?" and Richard would force his wobbling legs back to the line. Once
again he would fit the pole to his throbbing shoulder and endure the pain and
the engages' cruel jests.

 
          
 
Just at dusk they'd followed the curve of the
bank into the mouth of the Missouri River, where it vomited mud-choked water,
floating branches, debris, and brown, soapy-looking foam.

 
          
 
His ribs moved on the smooth wood with each
desperate breath. Though the urge to sob tickled within him, exhaustion had
robbed him of the energy even for that relief.

 
          
 
Boston. . . . Oh, to be home again. Images
flickered through his cartwheeling fantasies: narrow streets, North Church,
Faneuil Hall, and the Charles River Bridge spanning the sparkling waters.
Laughter mixed with the lapping waves against the Maria's hull. This world, or
that? Silver clinked against fine china as diners lifted forkfuls of steaming
beef. Men conversed in genteel tones, while women in snowy dresses smiled and
greeted each other. The salty odors of the damp air carried the aroma of baking
bread, spices, and coffee. Faint whiffs of rich tobacco tantalized his
nostrils.

 
          
 
Laura's face hovered before him. She reached
out, her slim white fingers seeking to trace the lines of his face. Her blue
eyes were so serious, as if doubting she'd ever see him again. Then she faded
like mist.

 
          
 
"Laura?" his voice croaked.

 
          
 
Dear God, to be home again. Boston . . .
beautiful Boston, where even the cobblestones gleamed in the spring rains . . .

 
          
 
"Dick?" Hartman's rough voice burst
the image with the surety of a plow mule amid piled glasswares.

 
          
 
"My name is Richard," he insisted
numbly. Hartman was kneeling down next to him. The faint traces of tobacco
strengthened, and now new smells, of roast pork, potatoes, corn, and onions,
made him open his eyes.

 
          
 
"Brung ye vittles, Dick."

 
          
 
"You speak like a heathen."

 
          
 
"Ye got no call ter take that voice with
me, Dick. Reckon ye'd best eat up. Long day starts come sunup."

 
          
 
"Maybe I'll just let Green shoot
me."

 
          
 
Travis seated himself beside Richard, putting
the wooden bowl down before his nose. The tobacco smoke came from Hartman's
pipe.

 
          
 
Richard groaned, every muscle knotted and
painful. He couldn't stifle a gasp as he sat up.

 
          
 
"Reckon yer some sore."

 
          
 
"I feel like I've been pulled through a
keyhole."

 
          
 
"Figgered that. Reckon once ye've eaten I
got a cure for that."

 
          
 
Richard shot him a wary look, the rich smell
of the food triggering an angry growl in his stomach. Richard lifted the spoon
that had been stuck in the stew. The handle was bent, but it served its purpose
as he blew to cool the first mouthful. In another life, he would have scowled
at the bland flavor; in this one, he wolfed the contents of the bowl as if it
were one of Sally's masterpieces.

 
          
 
Hartman watched him with thoughtful eyes, and
Richard surreptitiously studied the ugly scars. Thin strips had been ripped
from Hartman's left ear, across the cheek, the tears thickening until the nose
had been nearly torn away. An ugly patch of wrinkled tissue hinted that much of
the right side of Hartman's face had been shredded. What could ruin a man's
face like that?

 
          
 
When Richard cleaned out the bottom of the
bowl, Hart-man stood and extended a callused hand, saying, "C'mon, coon. I
got an Injun cure fer ye."

 
          
 
Richard gritted his teeth as he was hauled to
his feet. Every joint had gone stiff. "What cure? Beating me with
clubs?"

 
          
 
"Wal, she's some better than that. But
ye'll howl a mite afore the medicine works its way."

 
          
 
Twilight had fallen. The river looked glassy
and silver before giving way to the dark forest on the north bank. Hart-man led
the way onto the plank that crossed to the muddy shore. The camp was set back
from the water in an open field. Several yellow fires flickered, and knots of
men hunched around them, smoking, talking in low voices. Beyond them, the
forest brooded, the treetops etching dark patterns against the still-luminous
sky. The chill was settling, damp, and promising of the cold to come.

 
          
 
Richard stared uneasily at the forest. Why was
it so eerie? Surely hidden menace prowled out there among the shadowed trees.

 
          
 
Hartman reached back, steadying Richard as he
negotiated the bouncing plank. "Yer balance will come, lad. Reckon all
them fancy Boston streets never taught ye no grace."

 
          
 
"Apparently you and I have vastly
different concepts of grace."

 
          
 
At that, Hartman laughed, but they'd stepped
onto the soggy ground. Evidently this camp was used often, for the grasses lay
beaten flat. A wall tent had been pitched, and Green and Henri sat cross-legged
on a blanket before it. The booshway was jabbing at the fire with a long stick
while Henri talked softly, blocky hands fluttering in emphasis.

 
          
 
The engages watched curiously as Richard
passed, some stopping in the act of unrolling blankets. The smell of coffee
carried from steaming pots that hung over the smoky fires.

 
          
 
"They're all wondering about ye, Dick.
Trying to figger if'n ye'll make her or not. Most is laying bets ye won't. Odds
is that Green or me will shoot yer lights out in another four days."