Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (47 page)

 
          
 
Richard crawled over to the leather bag where
it lay in the trampled grass. He grabbed it up with shaking hands. "Got
it."

 
          
 
"Come on, then. Let's get her done
quick."

 
          
 
"Travis, I. . . I. . ."

 
          
 
Travis ground his teeth and swallowed hard.
"Wal, now, Dick. If n ye don't, who in hell do ye see around hyar to do
her? The damn hosses?"

 
          
 
Richard closed his eyes, shaking. His soul
went cold. "Can't we go to the fort?"

 
          
 
Travis propped himself on one elbow.
"Dick . . . Richard. Look at me. That's it. Now, yer scairt plumb silly.
But hyar's how it is, son. I got a slice in me side. It ain't a long one, or
else my guts woulda spilled all over the ground whilst I's raising that red
Pawnee son of a bitch. I checked the blood. Thar ain't no gut juice in it, so
he didn't nick me boudins. If n ye can sew me up, I'll be all right. It's on me
right side, Richard. I cain't sew it myself, not without stretching. It's up
ter you. So, fer God's sake, stop shaking like a puppy and dig around in my
possibles. Ye'll find a needle all wrapped up with strong thread. I'll talk ye
through it."

 
          
 
"Travis, I don't—"

 
          
 
"Thar ain't no choice, Richard. It's
gotta be done. If n ye cain't, step over thar, pick up my rifle, and shoot me
through the head. I don't want ter die slow with my guts leaking out. It's up
ter you, now. Yer gonna kill me, one way or the other, if n ye don't dig out
that needle."

 
          
 
Richard opened the bag, finding a bullet mold,
a couple of lead bars, pipe, tobacco, rolls of leather thongs, a pouch full of
small springs and screws, gun flints, several glass bottles with waxed
stoppers—and the needle with its winding of thread.

 
          
 
He looked up, meeting Travis's sober blue
eyes. "Ye can do it, Dick. I got faith in ye."

 
          
 
Richard wanted to throw up, to run screaming
from this horrible place. "My hands are shaking."

 
          
 
"So're mine," Travis said with a
grin. "Wal, coon, we'll be plumb scairt together. Hell of a good scrape,
warn't it? That old Half Man, he's some. Sure foxed me."

 
          
 
"You sound like you admire him."
Richard closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He flexed his muscles, burning
up the energy that pumped through him. Exhaling, he bent down, unwrapping the
thread from the needle.

 
          
 
Travis watched him levelly, taking his measure.
Richard drew strength from that cool look.

 
          
 
"Yep. I figgered he's a gonna raise ye,
Dick. Fs halfway to my feet when he took that swipe at me head. Cunning old
coon. Crafty as a fox. Now, yer a gonna have ter tie a big knot in the end of
that thread. That's it. Now, another. Cain't have that slipping through my
hide."

 
          
 
Richard fumbled the knot, then got it right.
The mending he'd been doing on his clothes might stand him in good stead now.
But mending on a person?

 
          
 
"Now, Fm a gonna lay on my side. Just
like this. Ye got ter take the tip of the needle and run it right through the
skin, not getting so deep as ter take any gut with it. Ye follow?"

 
          
 
"I think so." Richard held his
breath and bent over Travis's bloody side. He lowered the point of the needle.
"God, Fm scared, Travis."

 
          
 
"I reckon ye don't need ter tell me that,
Dick. It ain't fixing ter make a body feel particularly at ease."

 
          
 
The needle dimpled Travis's bloody skin.

 
          
 
The long trail was finally coming to an end.
Packrat nodded with satisfaction as he studied the horse droppings. They were
so close, the manure hadn't even crusted.

 
          
 
He glanced at Heals Like A Willow—saw the
tension in her eyes. You know the end is near, don't you?

 
          
 
He raised his hands to the sun, saying,
"I swear, before the sun sets on this day, I will be rid of this witch
woman! One way ... or another.''

 
          
 
He glanced back to read how his words affected
her. That mask had fallen into place again and she remained aloof, as coldly
beautiful as ever.

 
          
 
Half Man was close. As soon as they found him,
Packrat would be free of her. He could begin the long process of purification.
The air would taste sweeter to his lungs. His muscles would work with greater
energy. He could feel his wounded soul chafing to finally escape the darkness.
He could cure his manhood, for not even in dreams had his penis stiffened since
that horrible day when she'd polluted him.

 
          
 
And how will you ever trust yourself to lie
with another woman? He drove the thought from his mind, looking back at
Willow
to say, "You'd like that, wouldn't
you? To think you could make me afraid forever. Well, you've made a mistake,
Weasel Woman."

 
          
 
She gave him the briefest hint of a smile—and
that maddening, knowing look. The anger rose, barely controlled. She could see
inside his soul, know what he was thinking. By the Morning Star, he had to
finish this now.

 
          
 
He kicked his horse to a trot, dragging her
along behind. He could lie with a woman again, couldn't he? And what if he
tried? What if he had the chance, and his penis remained forever limp?

 
          
 
His skin went hot at the thought Among the
Pawnee there were no secrets. They'd laugh at him behind his back. Some day, a
woman would offer herself.
Ill
say no. Walk away.

 
          
 
And when it came time to marry? How long could
he put it off? His mother would make an alliance. And when he moved into his
wife's house, into her bed, what then?

 
          
 
The hatred festered.

 
          
 
He jerked around and called, "What if I
just kill you?"

 
          
 
"I be with you forever," she told
him with complete sincerity. "Inside your soul. You can only be free when
I am."

 
          
 
He bit his lip, straightened, and longed for
Half Man as he'd never done.

 
          
 
The tracks led down into a tree-filled
drainage lined with brush. As his mount stepped down the trail, he could see
other horses tethered to the trees along what looked like a small stream.

 
          
 
"Half Man! It is Packrat! I come to bring
you a gift." His heart leapt. Here, at last, was freedom from the witch.
He could begin healing now. The other problems could be solved one at a time.

 
          
 
"Half Man?" He cocked his head,
reaching for his bow as a skinny La-chi-kut stepped out from among the trees.
He looked pale, and very scared. He held no weapon.

 
          
 
Packrat glanced around. Several of the horses
belonged to Half Man. Better yet, the tins they carried were whiskey tins.

 
          
 
All the wealth I will ever need to pay for a
cleansing! He slipped his bow from his back, and drew an arrow. Where was Half
Man and the other La-chi-kutl He could sense that something was wrong, felt a
dark intuition that he'd arrived in the nick of time.

 
          
 
The skinny White man was talking in the
gobbling White man tongue. He looked terrified. So, not a warrior? Maybe one of
the men who made black marks on paper?

 
          
 
Packrat cocked his head. "Where is Half
Man? Where is the other La-chi-kut?"

 
          
 
"We here. Hurt," a second voice
called from the brush in badly inflected Pawnee. "Horse kick! Give
help."

 
          
 
Packrat glanced around, looking for any sign
of ambush. The skinny White man swallowed hard. Warily, Packrat kneed his horse
forward, bow ready. He could see the second La-chi-kut now. His shirt was
bloody.

 
          
 
"Half Man?" Packrat asked.

 
          
 
"Gone fort," the wounded man
croaked. "Give help."

 
          
 
Packrat counted the horses. Ten. Then he saw
the bloody spot on the ground, the drag marks where a body had been hastily
pulled into the brush.

 
          
 
Packrat drew his arrow, pointing it at the
wounded La-chi-kut. "I think Half Man is dead."

 
          
 
The wounded man stared at him for a moment,
eyes drained, then slowly nodded his head. That's when Packrat saw the scars.
The sign of the bear. This man had fought the grizzly—and lived.

 
          
 
"Tell me," Packrat rasped, a melting
sensation in his guts.

 
          
 
'Tried to kill us. He wanted whiskey."
The Bear Man made a sign for truth. "I would not let him steal it. If you
know Half Man, tell me if my words are false."

 
          
 
Packrat aimed for the soft spot just under the
White man's ribs. Dead? Half Man dead? This White man will die, and then the
skinny one. After all of Packrat's suffering to . . .

 
          
 
Willow
laughed, her mockery tearing something in
his soul. Gone! Every plan ruined, as ruined as his life would be!

 
          
 
He spun his horse, seeing the victory in her
eyes. No, an arrow would be too good for her. He wanted to beat her, to hear
and feel the impact of his club as he broke her skull. Lowering the bow, he
snatched up his war club. Destroy her. Kill her! Strike her down as she has
stricken you with her witchery.

 
          
 
As from a great distance, he heard himself
shout: "You killed him! You witched him! You did this—you knew!"

 
          
 
In fury, he slashed downward with the war
club, but she dodged enough to take a glancing blow on the back. The club,
deflected, struck her mare on the kidneys. The horse bucked violently, throwing
Heals Like A Willow from its back. She hit hard, bounced on her bottom, and
blinked with dazed eyes.

 
          
 
Packrat leapt from his own shying mount. Kill
her first, then the White men. She seemed stunned, unable to focus. He swung at
her, hissing his rage. She barely managed to duck the blow, scrambling
awkwardly backward across the shade-dappled grass.

 
          
 
He skipped to one side, kicked her brutally in
the ribs, and raised his club high. No escape now,
Willow
. Their eyes locked, and in that instant, he
exulted in her terror. "Now you die, witch!"

 
          
 
He'd just started his club on its downward arc
when the concussion knocked him sideways. He staggered, dazed, the ground
twisting up to hit him. He blinked, thoughts gone muzzy. A ringing sounded in
his ears, and his chest felt odd, sharp with unsensed pain. He coughed, raising
his hand to the wetness at his mouth, surprised by the blood. So much . . .
blood. He blinked again, seeking to drive the grayness from his vision.