Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (42 page)

 
          
 
His once white shirt hung in tatters about his
shoulders. The duck brown pants—the envy of
Boston
gentlemen— were tied on with rope. Gaps
hung in what had been the knees. The heel was missing from his right boot—and
that was the good one. The upper had come loose from the sole of his left; the
nails had rusted out, and the leather was rotten and torn.

 
          
 
He slapped at a mosquito and waded out into
the river, washing the worst of the grime from his face and hands. He was the
last to have a tin of whiskey handed down. He stared at it, fond memories in
his mind of fine brandies, aromatic bourbons, sweet sherries. He could taste
them, smooth, rich, and flavorful on the tongue. But that. .. that was
Boston
.

 
          
 
The clear liquid in the cup revealed sand
floating in the bottom of the tin. A glob of fat, probably from last night's
supper, clung to the rim. Nevertheless, he gulped the grain alcohol straight
down, winced, and tried not to cough. The draught snaked fire all the way to
his gut.

 
          
 
Stooping, he scooped up the muddy riverwater,
and drank down all that his thirsting body could hold. The full flavor of the
river no longer annoyed him; neither did the grit that stuck in his teeth.

 
          
 
"Line out, lads!" Green called.
"We've an hour yet to reach a decent camp, but when we get there, double
rations for all!"

 
          
 
Richard tossed his cup up on deck, combed his
matted hair with his fingers, and waded back onto the beach. The cordelle had
been coiled cunningly so the end could be un-spooled from the inside out.

 
          
 
Richard took his place behind Toussaint, and
shouldered the heavy rope. Across the
Platte
. But
this time, I'm going home. Each step is one closer to freedom.

 
          
 
Without further incident, they brought the
Maria into the camp Green had insisted that they reach. True to his word, the
rations were doubled, and more whiskey was given out.

 
          
 
Richard strung up his shelter the way Travis
had taught him. collapsed inside, and fell asleep to the humming of rood his
blanket-covered e

 
          
 
The dreams were so pristine and clear:
Boston
, gleaming in the morning sun as he and
Laura ate their breakfast before an open window. She was laughing at one ohis
stork-she sipped tea from a delicate china cup.

 
          
 
"Oh, Richard," she said softly, her
other hand reaching for his 'You've made me so happy. . . ."

 
          
 
"Hyar! Dick, c’mon. Git yer kit
together," Travis’s rasping voice intruded Dick, we ain't got all day!"

 
          
 
"Huh?" Richard shifted, pulled his
blanket back, and peered out into pitch blackness. "Laura, I mean . . .
Travis…"

 
          
 
"I ain't no Laura, coon. Best rustle,
now. Got bread cooking. Tend ter yer needs and roll up yer outfit. I'll be over
to the fin

 
          
 
Richard rubbed his head, splinters of the
dream dinging to him. fading . . . fading. . . . Well, so be it. By sunset,
they should be within sight of Fort Atkinson.

 
          
 
He climbed to his feet and fumbled with the
ties. He rolled his blanket carefully and wandered over to the fire. Hartman
squatted over the low coals, his horrible face illuminated by the red glow. The
scars made him look like something straight out of Hell.

 
          
 
"It's the middle of the night,
Travis!"

 
          
 
"Be coming on light soon, Dick. Hyar, I
done boilt up some coffee. Side pork's cooked and pone's crackling in the
grease. Figgered I'd dip into stores fer the occasion. Dig in and eat up."
Travis glanced curiously at Richard. "They didn't shave ye? Didn't pull no
funning on ye?"

 
          
 
"Funning?"

 
          
 
"Pranks. Fer making passage past the
Platte
. Reckon it's like when sailors cross the
equator. Means ye ain't a pilgrim no more."

 
          
 
"I'm not?"

 
          
 
"Hell, no. 'Course, given yer queer ways,
ye'll be damn Yankee Doodle till ye dies. Some things cain't be overcome through
travel, no matter how much a feller could wish."

 
          
 
"I didn't see any pranks, Travis. Unless
you getting me up when I ought to be sleeping is one."

 
          
 
Hartman seemed to be thinking. "I reckon
it's 'cause they's all been upriver. Every last man of 'em. Reckon, too, that
yer not one of 'em. Yer no engage. To their eyes, yer more like a tick. A . . .
what do they call 'em? Partsite?"

 
          
 
"The word is parasite."

 
          
 
"If'n ye says so."

 
          
 
"Listen, Travis, I didn't want to be here
in the first place. If you didn't wake me up as a prank, I'm going to go right
back to sleep. It's a long pull into
Fort
Atkinson
tomorrow."

 
          
 
"Who's Laura?"

 
          
 
"Nobody. Just a dream. That's all."

 
          
 
"Uh-huh. Drink yer coffee, Dick. Then eat
yer fill. Soon's ye finish, I'll be needing ye ter give me a hand with the
whiskey tins."

 
          
 
"Whiskey tins?"

 
          
 
"Wal, coon, it's like this. Cain't take
whiskey upriver. It's agin' the law. 'Course the Injun trade works on whiskey.
No whiskey, no trade. Now, Green don't want no more questions asked than need
be when he reaches the fort. He'll have just enough over the limit on board to
look normal, whilst the two of us packs the whiskey out around the fort."

 
          
 
"That many cases? On our backs?"

 
          
 
Travis looked up with mild irritation.
"Tarnal Hell, Dick. I done fetched hosses, and a sneaking Pawnee ter go
with 'em."

 
          
 
"An Indian?"

 
          
 
Hartman handed him a cup of coffee. "Ye
fixing ter repeat every word I says?"

 
          
 
Richard dropped to his haunches and stared
into the coals. He sipped the hot coffee, and glanced sideways at Hartman. This
wasn't the watery brew the boatmen got on special occasions, but thick and
black. Real coffee.

 
          
 
"Now, pay special attention, hoss,"
Travis said in a low voice. "This Pawnee—Half
Man.
Don't trust him, hear? Don't never turn yer
back on him. Yer a gonna have ter be cat-quick, and watchful as a hawk. If n ye
see him do anything odd, tell me, right fast"

 
          
 
"If you don't trust him, why travel with
him?"

 
          
 
" 'Cause he's got hosses. I need hosses
ter pack the whiskey. Now, I'd rather borrow 'em from Colonel Atkinson, but
he's upriver. Reckon the only other choice is ter take my chances with Half
Man, and hope I can keep the red devil buffler'd Now, cat!"

 
          
 
Richard needed no second invitation, but
stuffed himself with the hot venison and corn meal. These days he shoveled his
meals into his belly, constantly looking for more.

 
          
 
"Yer full.'" Hartman asked, throwing
out the grounds in the bottom of his cup. "Wal, come on Let's unpack them
tins."

 
          
 
Birds were singing by the time they carried
the last of the heavy tins into the dawn-grayed trees beyond the camp. The
musty smell of the river lay heavy on the damp air. Like humped monsters, made
a black silhouette against the glowing eastern horizon. A line of horses—scrubby-looking
ponies for the most part—stood at their picket.

 
          
 
'That's the Pawnee," Travis said,
pointing at a dark form rolled in a blanket. "Reckon the coon's getting
all the sleep he can. All right, Yankee, come watch me. This hyar be how ye
packs a hoss. Ye ever packed at

 
          
 
"No."

 
          
 
"Wal, watch then."

 
          
 
One by one they lashed the heavy tins onto the
horses, and Richard suddenly understood why they were triangular— just right to
be lashed to a horse with a complicated knot Hartman called a diamond hitch.

 
          
 
"And thar she be," Travis concluded
as the last animal was loaded. "Whoa, there, hoss. Easy now. Dick, take up
that slack on the rope. That's it. Now, bend down and look at that lash cinch.
Setting pert, is it?"

 
          
 
"Looks so."

 
          
 
"Wal, then, I reckon I'll go kick that
lazy Pawnee awake." Hartman half turned. "Huh, almost fergot."
He pointed to a roll of tan hide. "Best put them on, Dick, whilst I roust
out this hyar mangy half-breed. We got tracks ter make."

 
          
 
Richard bent over the roll, pulling out a pair
of beautiful white leather moccasins, a heavy cloth shirt, and fringed leather
pants. He cast an uncertain glance at Hartman, who was crouched several feet
away from the Pawnee, talking in a strange tongue and gesturing with his hands.

 
          
 
How did they tan leather to be this soft?
Richard stripped and slid into the pants, then pulled on the moccasins after
stopping to feel the hard, thick soles. The shirt fit loosely, but how
wonderful to wear something that didn't have a hole in it.

 
          
 
Travis walked up, rifle in hand.
"Pawnee's up. Let's get a move on."

 
          
 
"Just a moment. I need to take my old
clothes back to the boat."

 
          
 
"Reckon not. Wrap 'em up and tie 'em with
a thong. A feller can always use rags."

 
          
 
"I. . . I'll pay you back, Travis. For
the clothes, I mean."

 
          
 
"Fergit it, lad. It's on the
jawbone."

 
          
 
"Travis?"

 
          
 
"What now?"

 
          
 
"You and I, we won't be going by the
fort, will we?"

 
          
 
Travis stared around, as if to see if he'd
forgotten anything. "Reckon not."

 
          
 
The deep sinking sensation hollowed Richard's
gut. "Damn you. Damn you all."

 
          
 
Hartman's gaze went winter-hard. "Pay
attention ter the Pawnee, Dick."