Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (31 page)

 
          
 
The vision drifted away. Then, out of the
warped silver waves, his father's cynical scowl formed. "I had not
intended to raise a weakling, Richard. No wonder Laura married Thomas
Hanson."

 
          
 
"I am no weakling!" Richard cried at
the apparition. "I am superior! I have truth! The real is the rational!
Damn you, Father, don't you understand?" Hot rage boiled. "You are
evil, Father!"

 
          
 
"Of course, you would think that"
Phillip told him.

 
          
 
A terrible rage burned in Richard's breast. He
gathered himself to strike—only to recoil as Francois leered back at him
through icy blue eyes. "What is rational, eh? I will give you truth. Truth
is life, weakling. Life is suffering in the wind and the sun. Life is the river
and the land. Take your life and think of the truth I have given you, rich
man!"

 
          
 
Richard cringed.

 
          
 
"Weil, Richard?" Professor Ames
asked from a great distance. "All that you claim to believe is challenged.
To prove yourself, you must survive. Can you?"

 
          
 
"I... don't know. I just don't..."

 
          
 
"Fool!" The words echoed from the
darkness of Green's pistol barrel. An image formed in that crucible of death: himself,
smartly dressed and arrogant.

 
          
 
"Stop it! Damn you! Stop it!"
Richard screamed. "There is rationality in the world. I have not yet
failed. I will be stronger. Damn you both! You watch me! I am an animal now,
but I will win. I will escape and return to
Boston
. You'll see! You and your kind. You'll...
see..."

 
          
 
He frowned uneasily. His tormentors had
vanished into the bleary light. Dear Lord God . . . thirsty ... so very, very
thirsty. Richard gasped, blinking into the night.

 
          
 
Darkness, stars, water lapping against the
keelboat's hull. The plaintive hoot of an owl carried from the trees.

 
          
 
"
Boston
," he whispered hoarsely into the
night. "I won't die. God be my witness. I'll live. Prove them wrong."

 
          
 
"How are ye, pilgrim?" a gentle
voice asked. Phantom, or real?

 
          
 
"Travis?"

 
          
 
"Reckon they's some devils ye been
a-wrassling with."

 
          
 
"Water? Please?"

 
          
 
A tin cup was placed against Richard's lips,
the rim cool. He drank greedily.

 
          
 
"Heard ye had a case of the collywobbles.
Figgered ye'd be needin' a mite of curing, coon. I fetched medicine fer ye.
Snuck up and kilt a farmer's cow, but I got what ye needs. T'aint buffler, but
it'll do."

 
          
 
"What?" Richard leaned back against
the plank walls of the cargo box. The night sounds of the forest carried to his
ears.

 
          
 
"Hyar, lad"

 
          
 
Richard squinted in the darkness as Hartman
held out a teardrop-shaped bag no bigger than a green walnut.

 
          
 
"Gallbladder, coon. Best cure they be fer
collywobbles. Reckon ye'd best eat it. Like I said, cut her right out'a the
cow. Fresh as could be. Though, I reckon that farmer's a gonna be peeved come
sunup."

 
          
 
"No, I—"

 
          
 
"Eat'er, lad. That, or I'll sit on ye,
clamp yer nose off, and douse ye good when yer breath runs out."

 
          
 
Richard took the little sack with trembling fingers,
glanced at Hartman to see that he really meant it, and plopped the resilient
gallbladder into his mouth. He started upright as the vile liquid filled his
mouth.

 
          
 
Hartman anticipated his reaction, clamped an
iron hand over his mouth, and pinned Richard to the deck.

 
          
 
"Swaller it, Dick! It ain't a gonna kill
ye. Reckon the better the medicine, the worst the taste. I done cured meself a
time or two with gall."

 
          
 
Richard wriggled under the iron grip and
gulped the wretched stuff down. Nothing on earth could taste that bad.

 
          
 
Hartman nodded to himself and released his
hold, handing Richard another tin of water. "Wash her down, coon. I'm
thinking ye'll be a-healing, now."

 
          
 
"Lord God, that was horrible,"
Richard gasped, the taste still violating his mouth.

 
          
 
"Strong stuff. Cure ye, or kill ye."

 
          
 
Richard slumped limply onto the deck.
"Let me die."

 
          
 
"An' lose me bet? I got ten plews bet
again ol' Henri that ye'd live."

 
          
 
"Plews?"

 
          
 
"Beaver skins. Yer ignerant, Dick. Even
fer a Doodle."

 
          
 
"My name is Richard."

 
          
 
"Uh-huh."

 
          
 
They sat in silence, Richard watching the
stars.

 
          
 
"Fever's gonna break." Hartman said
after a while. "I seen it afore. Must have been some visions ye was
having. Raging and muttering. I reckon I figgered out who yer father was, but
who's
Ames
?"

 
          
 
"My professor. At the university."

 
          
 
"Philos'phy?"

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
"Injuns, they put a heap of store by
dreams, visions, and such. Heard you say ter stop it. That ye was an animal.
Ain't that what we got ye in all this mess?"

 
          
 
Richard grimaced at the lingering taste of
gall. "I saw myself in the dream. Arguing with
Ames
. They thought I was beaten. I'll get away,
Travis. Go back to
Boston
. I swear it."

 
          
 
Hartman bowed his head for a moment. In the
darkness, Richard couldn't see his face. "Don't try it, Dick. See her
through. Then ye can go back."

 
          
 
"You'd still kill me?"

 
          
 
"I figgered we'd been across that trail
already, Dick. Like I said, yer ignerant. Upriver, Dave's word has got to be
like God's. I been in outfits that fell apart. Men work together, or people
die. A booshway's gotta make decisions, and have 'em stick. I don't know how
ye'd philos'phy it, but killing you now might save my life, and Henri's, and
Davey Green's a couple of months from now when the Rees get a fight on. Or when
the boat's in danger in the rapids. Folks got ter depend on each other. Follow
whar my stick floats?"

 
          
 
"As in an army?"

 
          
 
"Reckon yer on the scent now,
pilgrim."

 
          
 
"So you give up freedom in exchange for a
chance at survival."

 
          
 
"To yer way of thinking, maybe."
Hartman turned his head to gaze upriver, his voice softening. "Freedom's
up yonder, boy. Freedom like ye've never knowed. Reckon I cain't tell ye, not
in words. But, Dick, if'n ye reaches down inside yourself, pulls up them guts
ye've never used, and buckle down, ye'll have a chance to see. I reckon once
ye've seen sunrise on the
Shining
Mountains
, outskunked the wily Crows, eat hump steak
off'n a fat buffler cow, and foxed the Blackfoots, ye'll know what few other
men ever will. Not in yer noodle, lad, but in yer guts. In yer soul."
Would the vile taste of gall ever leave his tongue? Vision was going shimmery
again. "You sound like a poet, Travis."

 
          
 
"Waugh! That's some, it is. Me, a
poet?"

 
          
 
Sleep had begun to drift into Richard's thoughts.
"Indeed. A poet"— who's as ready to butcher me as that poor cow he
killed. "Tyranny comes in many forms, Travis."

 
          
 
Something was forming in Richard's soul, but
he lost the answer as he fell into restless dreams of Laura and Thomas, walking
hand in hand, laughing.

 
          
 
Willow lay limply as Packrat stiffened and
moaned for the second time that morning. She watched his face, his eyes clamped
shut, jaw muscles tensed. Then he slumped, dead weight pressing her down. Would
he withdraw now, or lie on her again until his manhood recovered?

 
          
 
Packrat took a deep breath and opened his
eyes, running his fingers along the sides of her head. She took the opportunity
to stare into his eyes, spearing his soul with her hatred/

 
          
 
Today, Pawnee filth, I have given you more
than just pleasure. Get up. Look at yourself. See what Heals Like a Willow has
done to you.

 
          
 
He grunted, pushed himself off of her, and
looked down. She chuckled dryly, enjoying the consternation on his face.

 
          
 
Three days had passed while they camped in the
cotton-wood bottoms. Packrat had used the time to allow the horses to recover
their strength while he sated himself inside her. On the first day, Packrat had
tied
Willow
tighter than a load of firewood, and led
his horse out to hunt. Hours later he'd returned with choice cuts of buffalo
wrapped in a quarter hide. That night, she'd gorged herself, rebuilding her own
strength for the moment Packrat's guard slipped.

 
          
 
Each time he had climbed onto her, parted her
legs, and pumped himself empty, her menstruation had been that much closer.
Now, as he stared wide-eyed at his bloody penis, her satisfaction grew. Pawnee
males feared the monthly cycle as much as Dukurika, or any other men she'd
heard of.

 
          
 
Horror filled Packrat's face. He shivered, then
grabbed up his clothes and broke into a panicked run for the river.

 
          
 
Willow
sat up and laughed until her sides shook.
Now, if only he hadn't trussed her up like a grass doll. Her hands were secured
behind her, with a thong running from wrists to bound ankles. She wriggled
around, searching for something to cut herself loose. He'd taken his knife and
quiver along with his clothing. Previously, she'd searched in vain for anything
sharp and found nothing but grass, twigs, and soft dirt.

 
          
 
She scowled, muttering, "Tarn Apo, this
would have made a very good place for a flint outcrop." The only stones
were crumbly sandstone cobbles that Packrat had placed in the firepit.