Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (43 page)

 
          
 
"Why? Maybe I'll help him steal your
whiskey. That's what you're afraid of, isn't it?"

 
          
 
"Yep. 'Course, ye need ter be mindful,
Dick. Ter lift our whiskey, he's gotta kill me first. Then, after he lifts my
hair, he'll be fixing to lift yers, too."

 
          
 
"Kill us?"

 
          
 
"Reckon so. Keep your eyes open."

 
          
 
Heals Like A Willow sat stiffly on her horse,
her blanket over her head for protection. A low bank of gray clouds sprinkled
her and Packrat with a gentle spring rain. They trotted down a trail, winding
through a copse of trees.

 
          
 
After two months of hard riding, she'd grown
somewhat fond of the mare. After all, it wasn't the animal's fault that she'd
been captured. The stolid pony had carried her resolutely across desert, plain,
and prairie.

 
          
 
Willow
winced and tried to shift her position. If
only her hands weren't always tied; but then, after two moons of practice,
she'd learned to do a great many things despite bound wrists.

 
          
 
Riding through the rain, they crossed hilly
country covered with tall grasses and interminable patches of brush. The trees
were of a kind
Willow
had never seen before, black-barked, with twisting branches. The wood
was heavy, and burned into better coals than even sagebrush produced. And how
hard it was! A digging stick made of such would last a woman all of her life.

 
          
 
"Here!" Packrat told her. "We
are close now."

 
          
 
As they broke through the spring green trees.
Willow
gasped. There, before them, lay the
La-chi-kuts' fort. She'd never seen the like of it. The White men had built
their soldier village in a square—and such lodges, like giant baskets made of
logs. And slanting roofs! A strong man couldn't shoot an arrow across the place
in three shots!

 
          
 
She rode in silence, trying to comprehend what
her eyes saw, remembering White Hail's claim that the White men were magical.
Perhaps they were.

 
          
 
As they rode up to a big lodge, she saw her
first White men. She could only stare as Packrat jumped off his horse. He bent
down to hobble her animal, ordering, "Stay where you are. Do not leave
your horse, or the La-chi-kut will catch you. They do terrible things to
women."

 
          
 
She waited until Packrat had stepped inside
the log lodge, swallowed hard to nerve herself, and carefully slipped off her
horse. The White men were watching, their weird pale eyes gleaming, but no one
shouted a warning, or even took a step in her direction. She hadn't made three
steps when Packrat emerged from the black doorway and came flying after her.

 
          
 
He bellowed in rage, leaping to tackle her and
slam her into the ground. "I told you!"

 
          
 
"What do you expect?" she hissed
back.

 
          
 
"Get up! Get up, or I will beat
you."

 
          
 
Laughter made her look up. More White men had
gathered at the door of the log lodge. Packrat noticed, and colored. He cuffed
her hard on the side of the head, to regain some of his shattered honor.

 
          
 
Willow
stood with reluctance, and allowed Packrat
to lead her back to her horse.

 
          
 
"Where is Half Man?" she asked.

 
          
 
"Not here," Packrat growled angrily.
"Gone. Working for a La-chi-kut. Now we have to find him."

 
          
 
Willow
leapt, caught the mane of her horse, and
kicked onto its back. She stared down into Packrat's burning eyes. Hatred
sparkled there, fueled by frustration. He blamed his bad luck on her, on her
polluting woman's blood.

 
          
 
"Whoa!" came a cry.

 
          
 
Willow
turned her head to see a La-chi-kut step
out of the opening of the log lodge. Her breath caught. He had hair the color
of the sun on winter grass. And such eyes! Blue, like a clear sky. By Wolf, the
stories were true! His skin was as pale as hide bleached with white clay. And,
yes, hair grew on his face! A dog face, like the stories said.

 
          
 
Packrat turned, watching the La-chi-kut warily.

 
          
 
"Your woman?" the La-chi-kut asked
in crude Pawnee.

 
          
 
"My captive," Packrat replied
cautiously.

 
          
 
The La-chi-kut studied
Willow
with calculating eyes. "Snake?'' He
repeated the word, "Snake?" Then he pointed at
Willow
, eyes inquiring. With his hands he made the
sign of her people.

 
          
 
Willow
jerked a curt nod. Her heart had begun to
pound. A La-chi-kutNo telling what he might do to her. Even slavery among the
Pawnee would be better.

 
          
 
"Make trade?" the La-chi-kut asked
Packrat.

 
          
 
Packrat bit his lip, glanced nervously at
Willow
, and shook his head.

 
          
 
"A rifle," the La-chi-kut said.

 
          
 
Packrat shook his head.

 
          
 
"Two rifle."

 
          
 
Packrat’s face betrayed a man in pain. In
desperation, he signed, "The woman is not for trade. It is finished.''
Resolutely, he stalked to his horse and vaulted nimbly onto the animal's back.
He reined the horse around, and gathered up the lead rope for
Willow
's beast

 
          
 
Laughter broke out again as
Willow
's horse hopped, the hobbles forgotten in
Packrafs hurry.

 
          
 
She'd never seen him so, the facial veins
standing out as he slid down, soothed her mare, and worked the hobbles

 
          
 
The boots and jeers might have been cactus
thorns the way they stung him.

 
          
 
This time, they left at a run,
Willow
clinging to her mount, wind whipping at
her, tearing her blanket from her shoulders. So desperate was the pace that she
couldn't reach back for it, but had to let it vanish in the grass behind them.

 
          
 
They bolted across the flats, and up through
the trees, before Packrat slowed, shoulders slumped, head drooping. From the
heights.
Willow
could see the mighty
Missouri River
loop around to the south to meet the line
of trees marking the confluence of the
Flat
River
, and the route that would take her back
west to her people. To the north, the big
Missouri
wound its way into the distance, water like
silver thread in the green land.

 
          
 
"Where is Half Man?" she asked,
aware that any words might incite Packrat to violence.

 
          
 
"Somewhere. He said he would be back in
four days, with whiskey to trade for guns, powder, and shot. He told them that
then he would go back to the Pawnee. A rich man."

 
          
 
"I am sorry I ran. The La-chi-kuts
frightened me."

 
          
 
Packrat glanced up, eyes smoldering. He
sidestepped his horse close. Gripping the head of his war club, he cracked her
on the side of the head with the handle.

 
          
 
She cried out in pain. Her mare shied at the
sound and
Willow
's flinch.

 
          
 
"Next time, I use the head of the club,
Weasel Woman. I won't kill you, but I will hurt you so badly that you will
never be right again. Do you understand? I am tired of you! You are evil"
Tears glistened in his eyes. "You have ruined me!"

 
          
 
You have ruined yourself, fool! But she only
bowed her head, squinting at the sting of his blow. No, you only started it. I
have driven you to this. Goaded you, driven poison barbs into your soul.
Whatever kind of man you might have been, I have broken your Power, Packrat.
You will never be able to trust yourself again. In the words of the Pawnee, you
will always be pira-paru.

 
          
 
"This way. They said he had horses,
probably to carry something for the La-chi-kut. We will cut for sign. Do not
blind me with your magic. If you do, I will take you back. Give you to the
La-chi-kut, and be happy to be rid of you."

 
          
 
Behind his tormented eyes she could see crazy
violence brewing. She swallowed hard, aware that the time for threats was over.
Like a man climbing rimrock, he hung by his fingers. Were she to make his grip
the least bit slippery, he'd fall into the darkness that had grown in his soul,
and she would suffer for it.

 
          
 
Late that afternoon, Packrat cried out in
anticipation, "It is here! I know his sign. Look! Half Man walked here.
And here you see where one La-chi-kut walked. And here, another, wearing new
moccasins!"

 
          
 
She glanced at the tracks, interspersed with
those of heavily loaded horses.

 
          
 
"Come!" Packrat cried. "I will
succeed after all! And, who knows, perhaps I can take this whiskey. Wealth
enough to pay for a complete cleansing by the Doctors!"

 
          
 
She fingered the bruise on the side of her
head, and remained passive. If an opportunity was to present itself, it had
better be quick. If Half Man surmised just what his son was doing to him, he
might well kill her outright.

 
          
 
She cocked her head. What has changed? Two
moons ago, 1 would just as soon have died. Deep within her soul, the will to
live had been rekindled—or, perhaps, it had been smoldering all along.

 
          
 
"I strip this human being, thus
constituted, of all the supernatural gifts which he may have received, and of
all the artificial faculties, which he could not have acquired but by slew deli
I consider him, in a word, rich. He must have originated from the hands of
nature; A man not so strong and less agile than others, but, upon the whole,
the most advantageously organized of any: I see him sating his hunger under an
oak tree, and his thirst at the first brook. I see him laying himself down to
sleep at the foot of the same tree that afforded him his meal; and to all his
wants, completely provided.

 
          
 
—Jean Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the Origin
and

 
          
 
Foundation of humanity Among Mankind

 
          
 
Richard studied the Pawnee. He didn't look
like much. Skinny, dark-skinned, with a protruding belly, he wore greasy black
skins, a filthy blanket, and shabby moccasins with little metal bells on the
tops. The Pawnee's face might have been cast of weathered bronze, and looked
just as unforgiving as the metal. Those eyes were black, and hard as river
pebbles, the nose hooked over thin lips. Half Man looked at Richard and Travis
with a natural arrogance, as if he deigned to glance upon inferiors. But when
they paused for a rest, Richard caught the crafty look as he appraised the
whiskey.

 
          
 
Now they walked, single-file, each leading a
string of horses, the animals tail-hitched. The Pawnee went first, then
Richard, and finally Travis bringing up the rear. Richard had noticed that
neither Travis nor the Pawnee went anywhere without his rifle in hand. Each
might have been hunting a tiger, so alert were they to each other's movements.

 
          
 
They had passed beyond the trees and now
crossed lush meadows of bluestem and wildflowers of every color. In the
drainages, stands of mixed oak and ash were leafed out in a brilliant green
that contrasted to the plum, hazel, and raspberry bushes.

 
          
 
A free wind tugged at the fringes on Richard's
pants, playing with the wispy beard on his cheeks. After months of not shaving,
he had come to resemble all the others. It wasn't a beard like the older
engages', but it was good enough for the river.

 
          
 
Patchy white clouds scuttled across the sky,
promising more showers. But how blue the sky was beyond them, how vast the
distances. Down in the river bottom, a man didn't have this sense of eternity.
Something deep inside him shivered at that. How easy it would be to get lost
out there, naked to the eye of God.

 
          
 
"Ouch!" Richard hopped sideways,
causing the horse he was leading to throw its head.

 
          
 
"Prickly pear," Travis noted from
behind. "Told ye, Dick. Watch whar ye puts yer feet. Don't stop now. Walk on
it fer a while. It'll sure larn ye where ter put yer feet."

 
          
 
Richard whirled around, glaring. "Damn
you, Travis. You knew I'd be free by now. You and Green. You plotted this! Took
away my chance! I ought to . . . to . . ."

 
          
 
The hunter stepped up to him, a hardening
glint in his eyes. "Easy, hoss. Yer not up ter taking this coon. Not by a
damn sight. Now, settle down—less'n I fetch ye up good."

 
          
 
Sudden fear, like a cool wind, blew through
Richard's hot guts. He swallowed to still the runny feeling down inside.

 
          
 
"Glad ter see ye got sense, Dick."
Travis nodded his head toward the Pawnee. "Reckon he'd be plumb happy ter
see us take a go at each other. After I kilt ye, he'd only have me to worry
about."

 
          
 
"Killed me?" Richard glanced
uneasily at the Pawnee.

 
          
 
"Oh, reckon not. Yer not that dangerous.
I'd just have to slap ye around a bit. A feller's good sense creeps right back
inta his head when he's getting whacked around and the lights start a-popping
behind his eyes."

 
          
 
Richard rubbed the back of his neck, turned,
and started off again. The Pawnee was watching him. The Indian resumed his
pace, rifle in his right hand, the lead rope for the horse in his left. Along
with the rifle, the Pawnee carried a tomahawk and a knife.

 
          
 
"What about him?" Richard asked.
"Why would he just kill us? I mean, he doesn't know us."

 
          
 
"What's to know? We got whiskey—he wants
it."

 
          
 
"It's not rational, Travis. Look at him.
A man raised in nature. How does he get tainted by the corruption of
civilization? He's free! A free man doesn't kill others. It defies any
philosophical dictum I've ever read."

 
          
 
"Philos'phy!" Travis snorted.
"Ye thinks a man needs ter be civilized ter kill? Rot and hogwash!"

 
          
 
'That's not what Rousseau says. And I dare
say. Travis, he's a great deal more thoroughly read than you are on the
subject. In his Discourse on the Origin of Inequality he makes a point that
primitive man—and I assume our Pawnee is exactly that—keeps his dissensions to
a minimum. Without the chains of property, or belongings, to bind him, he needs
not resort to violence. What need does he have to strike another, when he can
avoid the first blow? An insult can be easily repaired in a primitive society.
A man need not seek revenge."

 
          
 
Travis stopped, his head cocked, mouth open.
"Of all the foolish . . . Tarnal Hell! These Injuns war with each other
just ter keep in practice! Don't ye know how they counts coup? By striking an
enemy. The more the better! If n ye wants ter start a war. just walk up and
strike an Injun warrior. Afore ye can take yer next breath, he's a gonna lift
yer hair, slit yer throat, and open yer belly so yer guts fall out fer the dogs
to eat!"

 
          
 
"But that doesn't make sense.
Rousseau—"

 
          
 
"Hang Roosoo with a rawhide rope!"
Travis gestured his frustration by shaking his rifle. Then he glared—all the
more terrible for the hideous scars. "Dick . . . Dick, listen. Please,
now. I'm a-begging ye. That Pawnee up thar, he's a warrior, half-breed or no.
They's proud people. Honor and coup mean everything to 'em. Now, ye can't go
around judging them by the likes of yer Mister Roosoo, or by the Bible, or
nothing else. Understand? If'n ye do, I reckon you'll be dead right
quick."

 
          
 
Richard studied the Pawnee, trying to read the
mind behind those obsidian eyes. 'That isn't rational!"

 
          
 
"Hell! 'Course it's rational, so long's
ye looks at it through their eyes! Strength, pride, honor. Hyar's how ye deals
with Injuns, Dick. Foller these rules, and God willing, ye might see next fall
roll around with yer topknot on yer head. Show 'em respect. Respect is just
that. Don't never be weak. Not when they can see. They value strength and
bravery. Last, keep yer word, coon. Injuns is getting used to whites breaking
their word, but if'n ye keeps yers, they won't fergit. Now, that means yer not
ter be making promises ye cain't keep. Think on that. Right now the Sioux'll
spit on a white as soon as look at him, after what
Leavenworth
did up ter the Ree villages. Reckon ye
don't promise nothing lessen ye can back her to the hilt."

 
          
 
"But how is that rational?"

 
          
 
"Wal, how's it rational that a man can
shoot another man fer fooling with his wife? That's ter say he didn't force
her. Reckon if'n she says yes, and her lover says yes, they both want to be
with each other. What right's the husband got to shoot 'em? Ain't no court'll
convict a husband that shoots his wife, or her lover. Is that rational?"

 
          
 
"That fact is, it is indeed rational. The
tranquillity of the hearth—"

 
          
 
"Horse crap! Rees, Kansa, Pawnee, lots of
people let their wives sleep with lovers. So long as she's willing, and he's
willing, thar ain't no upscuttle. They got rules, Dick. Just like we do. By
their rules, if n ye acts with honor, shows respect, and ain't weak, yer a
gonna do all right. But ye've got ter use yer noodle." Travis hawked and
spit. "Hell, I git along a heap better with Injuns than I ever did with
white men. And Injuns comes in all kinds."

 
          
 
"So, Rousseau is right? The savages are
carefree in love, unlike civilized man, whose passions lead him to entanglements.
Savages make love, then part. Satisfied to allow anyone to mate with whomever
they choose?"

 
          
 
Travis screwed his ruined face into a
disgusted look. "Wal, among the Rees, maybe. But I'll tell ye, child.
Don't ye never go fooling around with a
Cheyenne
woman, lessen ye wants ter marry her!
They's worse than white men. Drive yer pizzle inta one of their young women,
and her folks is gonna kill ye dead. But most peoples out hyar, they figger a
man laying with a woman is plumb natural."

 
          
 
A huge rabbit, bigger than any Richard had
ever seen, broke cover and went bounding and sailing over the grass.
"What's that?"

 
          
 
"Jackrabbit," Travis said.

 
          
 
"How come they don't get cactus thorns in
their feet?" The burning spine still made Richard hobble, but after the
altercation with Travis, he'd be damned if he'd stop to dig it out.

 
          
 
"They ain't got feet, exactly. Just gobs
of hair between their toes. Turns the cactus, I guess."

 
          
 
"So these women lie with anyone they and
their husbands agree on. What about the bastard children?"

 
          
 
"Bastards? Hell, that's another way I
don't cotton ter white ways. A child's a child. Given the number that dies
young, who's to say? Injuns generally welcome a kid— lessen it comes from
another tribe. Take that Pawnee, yonder—Half Man. Half Pawnee, half
Omaha
. He slips back and forth atwixt and atween.
Home in both places—trusted by none. Talk among the Pawnee is that his mother'd
have been better off to leave him out in the winter, let him die since he was
planted by an
Omaha
when Half Man's mother was a slave."

 
          
 
"Slave?"

 
          
 
Travis squinted at Half Man walking several
paces ahead of them. The Pawnee seemed oblivious to them, as if he were just
out for a morning walk. "Reckon so. Most tribes out hyar, they takes
slaves right regular. Used to be the Comanche stole Pawnee to sell to the
Spaniards down south. Then the Comanche'd steal Lipan and Jicarilla kids and
women, and sell 'em to the Pawnee."