Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (40 page)

 
          
 
"Reckon FH fetch him a pair of moccasins
at
Fort
Atkinson
. Won't hurt him to get used ter good
footwear. 'Sides, an engage's like a hoss. Can't pull fer shit when they's
lame."

 
          
 
"You're too kind to that skinny kid. You
just wait, Travis, he'll pay you back with an empty bedroll some morning."

 
          
 
Travis nodded, dropped his pipe in his possibles,
and stepped out into the rain. He squished through the wet grass to the plank
and stepped aboard the Maria. Overhead, thunder rolled across the prairie.

 
          
 
The cargo box was darker than Satan's pit, but
feeling around, Travis found the coat where Green had said it would be. He
stepped out into the night and trotted down the plank in search of the Doodle.
Hamilton
huddled under the shelter of a sagging
blanket that he'd rigged between two cotton-wood saplings.

 
          
 
"Hyar, pilgrim! What in Hob's name have ye
got this done up like a sunshade fer?"

 
          
 
'Travis?" Richard blinked awake,
shivering. Water had collected in the sagging blanket to drip with a maddening
plop, plop on his back.

 
          
 
"Yankees don't know shit. I ever tell ye
that? Who'n Hob's name ever told ye ter build a shelter like this?"

 
          
 
"Why . . . er. no one."

 
          
 
"Tis a wonder yer not dead of the
consumption. Hyar, now. Put this on."

 
          
 
Richard took the coat, running cold ringers
over the leather. "For me

 
          
 
"No, fer yer brother Jack. Reckon yer not
worth spit to us dead, boy. Now, put that coat on, and run out an' fetch a
stick. Aboot as tall as yer leg. Then I'll show ye how ter tie up a shelter
so's the water slicks off n the back. By then, them lard eaters otta have that
buck cut up."

 
          
 
Richard shrugged into the coat, gave Travis a
rabbity look, and scrambled for the trees.

 
          
 
Travis crawled into the shelter, lifting the
blanket to hear the water gushing down the backside. What drained off ran right
into the hollow where
Hamilton
had laid his bedding.

 
          
 
Travis stared at the water-soaked blankets.
"Ah, hell. I'd rather try teaching a preacher ter sin."

 
          
 
The fire didn't burn well. Most of its heat
went into drying the wood before it had a chance to cook the skewered
jackrabbit. The meat would be smoked rather than roasted.

           
 
Heals Like A Willow poked at the rabbit, then
looked over at Packrat, huddled in his blanket. Rain leaked down through the
limbs they'd laid tipi-fashion against the trunk of the big cottonwood tree
that bore the storm's brunt.

 
          
 
She'd tied a blanket as a skirt around the
leaning branches and it provided some protection from the rain, as well as
helped to hold what heat there was. Water traced patterns on the gray-white
bark that still clung to the wood. Drips fell on them, but not nearly so many
as would have done without the primitive shelter. Some protection was better
than none at all.

 
          
 
She picked up another wet stick, broke it, and
pulled the fibrous bark away before setting it on the struggling flames.

 
          
 
"Tell me." She looked at Packrat,
using signs to fill the gaps in her Pawnee words. "Giving me to this
father you dislike. How does it help you?"

 
          
 
He watched her for a moment, eyes dark and
resentful. Finally he told her: "Half Man shamed my mother. Got her drunk
on the La-chi-kufs whiskey. He coupled with her without her permission, or the
permission of her husband. Then, when she was with child, he would not claim
me. I would be justified to kill him. No one would say that it was wrong, but
no one would say it was right, either. Such a murder would bring suspicion and
people would look at me, and wonder."

 
          
 
Packrat reached out, tested the rabbit, and
sighed before leaning back. "There was a better way, a way to shame Half
Man in a clever manner. A way with honor for myself in the eyes of the Pawnee.
I would capture a woman, and give her to Half Man. A woman given for a woman
taken. Then I would renounce him in council. To the people, such an action
would show that I am a great man, worthy of respect. Not just a killer."

 
          
 
"But your father would get me. A
slave."

 
          
 
"He is not my father. He is only the man
who sired me. But that is the point. Such an action would shame Half Man. To
repay perfidy with a gift is a greater insult than murder. When Half Man showed
up, people would laugh at him, mock him. No one would invite Half Man to share
his fire. He would be unwelcome."

 
          
 
He leaned forward, gesturing. "Pawnee are
not like other people. We don't like trouble among us. People look up to a man
who can solve his problems without creating trouble. A wrong must be righted,
but in a way that brings honor and respect, not suspicion. Suspicion breeds
trouble. No one would say, 'Packrat killed the man who made him/ "

 
          
 
Packrat leaned back. "I would gain a
great deal of respect. A man who repays injustice in such a clever way would be
listened to in councils. My mother's disgrace would be wiped out. All the shame
she has borne would be heaped upon Half Man."

 
          
 
Willow
crossed her arms, staring at the smoldering
coals. "So you will give away my life for yours?''

 
          
 
"You are not a real person. Just some
Snake woman from beyond the mountains."

 
          
 
"I see myself as a very real person. So
did my—"

 
          
 
"What you see doesn't matter. You are not
Pawnee. I am going to find Half Man, give you to him, and ride off. You've
caused me more than enough trouble as it is. What should have been talked about
for generations will only be mentioned in passing."

 
          
 
She arched an eyebrow. "From what you
tell me, I have repaid you in a very Pawnee way."

 
          
 
"Tell me," he hissed, "do you
lie with Snake men when you are bleeding? Is that why your people are so weak?
Do you pollute your own men with woman's blood?"

 
          
 
Memories of the menstrual lodge in her head,
she said, "Of course not."

 
          
 
"Just me, is that it?" He reached to
his side, running his fingers over the handle of his war club.

 
          
 
"Do you take just any woman without her
permission? Or, are you your father's son?"

 
          
 
He stiffened, face going hot. "You are
not Pawnee! You are a slave! A slave is nothing more than a dog!"

 
          
 
Easy! The wrong word would incite him enough
to kill her. "If a dog bit you, you'd kill it, wouldn't you?"

 
          
 
"Yes!"

 
          
 
"Then kill me now. That's what I'm trying
to get you to do."

 
          
 
"And leave me polluted, without the means
to repay Half Man for what he did?" Packrat sank back, fingers still on
the war club. "You are indeed crafty, woman. You think you can goad me,
make me do what I don't want to. No, the best way to settle this thing between
us is for me to give you to Half Man. I will have to steal some horses, steal
some things from the Osage, or the Kansa, to pay for a cleansing. For the rest
of my life, however, I shall dream of you . . . and him, together, under the
robes. And when I do, when I think of your cries, I shall smile. You can't work
more of your weasel ways on me."

 
          
 
"So, we go to the La-chi-kut fort on the
river. And then what?"

 
          
 
"I will give you to Half Man. That is
all. Then I shall ride away and hope I can do what I must, despite having the
Spirit World turn away from me."

 
          
 
She smiled inside. Yes, brood on the loss of
your spirit helpers. The more dejected you become, the weaker you will be when
my time comes.

 
          
 
Willow
plucked the rabbit from the fire and
twisted off a back leg. The stringy meat steamed in the damp air and filled her
nostrils with its aroma. Packrat seemed oblivious, drowning in his bad luck.

 
          
 
She finished the back leg, and used a thumb to
peel the heavy back muscles from the spine. She chewed thoughtfully, then
asked, "How many days to the La-chi-kut fort?"

 
          
 
"Four, maybe five," he told her
sullenly, then realized that she was eating. He leaned across the fire, ripped
the rabbit out of her hand, and attacked the carcass like a starved dog.

 
          
 
Four days, maybe five. And in that time, I
must find a way to escape. She placed another smoldering stick on the fire.
Until the right moment came, she would continue to slowly grind away his
self-confidence. You are not as smart as you think you are, Packrat.

 
          
 
A drop of water splattered into the hot coals
with a hiss.

 
          
 
The military post now called Fort Atkinson had
had plenty of names, and been located in two places. Travis had seen both. The
first name had been
Camp
Missouri
, located about a mile north of the present
location on the
Council Bluffs
. The army changed the name to Cantonment
Missouri
and expanded the post, then, with their
usual wilderness prescience, had watched their fledgling fort wash away in the
spring flood. After the engineers had relocated to the top of the bluff, the
place was known as Cantonment Council

 
          
 
Bluffs, and then, finally, Fort Atkinson,
named after the commanding officer who was even now upriver pacifying the
tribes for Dave Green's benefit.

 
          
 
Or so Travis sincerely hoped.
Fort
Atkinson
, perched on its bluff, was little more than
could be expected for the American military's most distant outpost beyond the
frontier. The fort had been laid out in a square, the buildings constructed of
log, rock, and clay plaster. From its location more than one hundred and fifty
feet above the river, it dominated the
Missouri
, and theoretically could sink anything that
tried to sneak contraband upstream without the proper licenses.

 
          
 
The latter theory had always remained a point
of curious conversation at the trading posts and among the fur parties. No one
had ever been shot at, least of all fur hunters paddling downriver in bateaux
loaded with pelts. In fact, Travis had once watched the artillerymen shoot at
the river, practicing with their sights, levels, and trajectory tables. Several
seconds after the squat howitzer belched gray smoke and rolled back on its
carriage, a satisfying white plume spouted in the river. How close it would
have been to an offending boat had, of course, remained academic. No one gave
the artillery much thought, or respect, particularly after their less than
sterling performance shooting up the Ree village for
Leavenworth
. All the shot had been too high—and the
Ari-kara had escaped.