Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (44 page)

 
          
 
"Morally reprehensible."

 
          
 
"Perhaps, lad. But watch yer tongue.
Specially when we get up among the Crow. They steal anyone they can get their
hands on. Kids especially. They love 'em, and raise 'em up to be good
Crows."

 
          
 
"It doesn't sound like any slavery I've
ever heard of."

 
          
 
"Reckon not, but then, ye ain't seen what
the Osage do to an
Iowa
woman when they capture her, neither."

 
          
 
Richard skipped wide of a patch of prickly
pear hidden down in the tall grass. "Rousseau can't be this wrong. Travis,
we're missing something important. These people, they've been corrupted. That's
got to be the answer. Like Half Man, here. He's been around whites for too
long. Picked up too many of our vices: liquor, slavery, the drive to possess
objects. I need to see someone who hasn't lived around whites, hasn't been
affected by the traders with their guns and whiskey."

 
          
 
Hartman grinned amusedly. "Ye do take
all, Dick. Ain't no such folks. Tarnal Hell, I seen 'em, from yer
Boston
to the Blackfeet. Folks has different
customs, Dick. But they's all the same down deep. Some's good, some's bad,
according to their lights. That's all."

 
          
 
"It's not rational!" Richard threw
up his hands in protest, and to the horse's unease. "Whoa, boy." With
restrained gestures, Richard said, "The closer to a state of nature, the
closer man is to a state of innocence. Neither good nor bad, but like your
Pawnee—"

 
          
 
"They ain't my Pawnee."

 
          
 
"—without binding morals. Morals are the
result of ensuing stages of civilization placing ever more restrictive concepts
of good and evil upon people. These Blackfeet, they don't have any sense of
evil, do they?"

 
          
 
Travis made a sour face. "Yankee, yer
gonna be dead within the month. I can feel it in my bones. Why on God's green
earth did I ever stick my neck out fer an idiot? Listen up, Doodle, the
Blackfoot will kill ye dead just because yer white. We call 'em Bug's Boys.
They use that term in
Boston
?"

 
          
 
"The Devil's boys."

 
          
 
"And rightly .so."

 
          
 
Richard tried to split his concentration
between the argument and the patches of grassy prairie that gave way to groves
of trees. But what was he supposed to see? With grass this tall, if Indians
were crawling up on their bellies, they'd be invisible until the last minute.

 
          
 
Richard gave it up for a lost cause and said,
"Then, well, name another people, even farther away."

 
          
 
"Wal, thar's the Snakes. Generally good
folk, with the exception of old Left Hand, if'n he ain't gone under by
now."

 
          
 
"Are they more innocent?"

 
          
 
"Naw, they damn near wiped out the
Blackfoot a couple of generations back. Did such a damn good job of it, the
Blackfoot ain't fergot. Them two tribes is in a fight ter the death. No
treaties, no mercy. Just a fight till every last one's dead. And ye've got ter
keep an eye on a Snake. He's a right smart trader, right up there with the
Mandan
. The story is that the Snakes used to trade
with the
Mandan
before the Sioux,
Cheyennes
, and Arapaho cut the trade routes."

 
          
 
"Trade? I mean, Rousseau . . . Didn't any
of these people ever just sit under an oak tree? Didn't any of them live off
the bounty of the land? Aren't any of them innocent?"

 
          
 
Travis chuckled. "Yes, wal, as innocent
as any other folks ye can think of. At least as innocent as that Yankee captain
what stole me off on his ship from
Boston
." He looked at Richard. "Which
might be one of the reasons I stuck my neck out fer ye. Hell, if'n I'd a stayed
in the States, I'd been hung or jailed by now."

 
          
 
"You don't seem like a criminal."

 
          
 
"I ain't, not much, if'n ye judges me by
the rules out hyar. Back in that civilization ye harps so on, I'd be a handful.
Reckon I like the rules better hyar."

 
          
 
Richard glanced at the Pawnee. 44 Some rules.
According to you, he'll kill us to possess this whiskey."

 
          
 
"Reckon so."

 
          
 
"It's irrational."

 
          
 
"Tell it to him."

 
          
 
"I intend to."

 
          
 
"Speak Pawnee?" Travis asked,
raising an eyebrow and changing the lines of scars on his face.

 
          
 
"No, I guess not. You'll translate?"

 
          
 
Travis chuckled. "I’d better. Maybe I can
keep ye alive after Half Man decides yer an idiot. I wouldn't try and philos'phy
him. Half Man ain't noted fer his elocution."

 
          
 
"Oh. what's he noted for?"

 
          
 
"Stabbing people in the back."

 
          
 
"Travis?"

 
          
 
Hartman came awake in an instant, hands
tightening on his rifle. "What's up, coon?"

 
          
 
"I can't stay awake any longer."
Hamilton
yawned as he spoke.

 
          
 
"Reckon ye done fine." Travis sat
up, kicked out of his blankets, and studied the dark camp. Half Man lay rolled
in his blanket, no doubt hearing every word. Hell, that Pawnee son of a bitch
might be as good as his word. The dicker had been five gallons of whiskey for
the use of the horses. Five gallons would allow Half Man to trade for a heap of
hides. Maybe the red bastard wouldn't try and raise hair after all.

 
          
 
And all them book ideas the lad's been
spouting have made mush outa my brain, too.

 
          
 
Travis walked out from the smoldering fire,
sniffing the night air, damp and green-smelling after the rains. The land had
needed that. Insect sounds carried to him as he checked the horses on their
pickets.

 
          
 
All quiet.

 
          
 
Travis opened his senses, becoming one with
the night. The sounds, the smells, the feel of the breeze on his skin.
Overhead, stars made patterns against the black patches of clouds. The world
had come alive again.

 
          
 
Travis made his careful way back to the fire,
checking to see that the Pawnee was still in his blanket. The attack would come
without warning. When?

 
          
 
Morning, most likely.

 
          
 
How?

 
          
 
Knife or tomahawk. He'll try and whack me,
silent like. Maybe cut my throat. Then he can deal with Dick any way he sees
fit. The Pawnee would know
Hamilton
for a pilgrim.

 
          
 
So, how do I fox Half Man?

 
          
 
Don't give him a chance.

 
          
 
Travis tugged at his beard, and ran his
fingers over the smooth ridges of scar tissue. That was the other thing about
ever going back to the
United States
. He couldn't stand the way they'd look at
him, like a monster. Out here, among the Indians, they understood what had
happened and honored him for it. In the East, they'd stare, loathing on their
faces, and they'd back away from him in horror.

 
          
 
Reckon I couldn 't take it. Worst of all would
be the women. The look in their eyes, like they done seed a serpent.

 
          
 
Better for him to stay here, where he knew the
rules, was good at them, in fact. Like Baptiste, he could never go back. The
planter had put the scars on Baptiste's back with a whip. The wilderness had
scarred Travis's face, marking him as its own. Each of us branded by his
master.

 
          
 
Travis settled by the low fire, warming his
hands as he watched the darkness. Satisfied, he turned his attention on
Richard.

 
          
 
Am I just stringing him along? Setting him up
for some disaster he ain't prepared for? A wrong word, an insolent act, and
some Sioux, Ree, or Crow would smack the boy's brains out. And why? Just
because he'd read a book written by some damn fool who'd never been shot at—or
seen what a Blackfoot did to a dying man.

 
          
 
Innocent—in this country? Travis shook his
head. Sorry, Dick. Reckon ye be the only innocent out hyar.

 
          
 
He scratched his head. How in Tarnal Hell was
he gonna give
Hamilton
an even break when every deck on earth was stacked against him?

 
          
 
For hours Travis thought on it, and finally
made his decision. Wal, she'd be Katy bar the door, but he'd do 'er. Sunup was
coming. Half Man might be waiting, figuring to make his play just at dawn when
reactions were the slowest.

 
          
 
Still, it never hurt to make the first move in
a cat-and-mouse game.

 
          
 
"Dick? Level Daylight's a-coming. Half
Man, come on, ye Pawnee devil. Let's get a move on."

 
          
 
"In God's name, Travis,"
Hamilton
moaned. "Let me finish the dream.
Pastries, and a fine claret..."

 
          
 
"Sun's nigh to breaking forth, coon.
Let's get on with her. Sooner we reach the river, the sooner we're all on our
way."

 
          
 
Half Man hadn't moved, but Travis could see
the glint of his slitted eyes. We're a pair, you and me.

 
          
 
Richard was up. "Dick, rustle up them
hosses. Let's get our likker tied on."

 
          
 
They ate jerked meat washed down with cold
coffee. By the time the sky had turned pink, Travis had the pack string moving,
never allowing the Pawnee the opportunity to act.

 
          
 
That's it. Keep him off balance. Don't let him
have time to get the drop.

 
          
 
As the sun rose and shot glowing red rays
across the cloud bottoms, Travis moved up beside Richard.

 
          
 
"These prickly pear, come fall they make
a red fruit. A feller can eat 'em. Right sweet they are. The flowers, a feller
can eat them, too. Takes a lot to fill a man's belly, but food's food, and can
make the difference atwixt living and dying."