Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (50 page)

 
          
 
Travis chuckled—and winced. He lifted a hand
to his side. "Reckon I didn't bet wrong on ye, Dick. I saw it in yer eyes
on the river that day."

 
          
 
"Travis, please. I'm not the kind of man
you think I am. I could never be. My roots are different from yours, not of
this wilderness. My only wish is to go home and take up my life again."

 
          
 
"With this Laura? Want ter tell me about
her?"

 
          
 
"No."

 
          
 
"Wal, then, best check yer stitching,
coon."

 
          
 
Richard lifted Travis's shirt. The sliced
leather was blood-crusted now. "I've got to get this off you, wash it.
Then I'll stitch it back up again."

 
          
 
"I'd be obliged."

 
          
 
Richard squinted uneasily at the curving wound
in the hunter's side. It looked terrible. The skin was puckered and red;
blackened blood had soaked into the thread and dried. Here and there, where the
sewing was uneven, meat could be seen, and yellow crusts of pus had risen.

 
          
 
How on earth did I ever do this? Even now
Richard felt faint.

 
          
 
"Is the stitches pulling?" Travis
asked, looking down. "Nope? Well, that's some, it is. If'n she don't tear,
I reckon I'll heal up pert."

 
          
 
"How do you feel?"

 
          
 
"How do I feel? What sort of idiot Doodle
question is that? I feel like if I laugh or sneeze, my guts is gonna fall out
on the ground."

 
          
 
"I mean, besides that."

 
          
 
"Hot. A little giddy and girlish. Sort of
floaty. Reckon the fever's a gonna start."

 
          
 
"I’ll get you more water."

 
          
 
"I'd take that right kindly." Travis
closed his eyes. "Hyar's things ye need ter do. Go strip them Pawnee
corpses. Half Man had powder, bullets, and makings in his possibles. Reckon
we'll take that kid's bow and arrers, and any outfit he's got. Pull them
moccasins, and wrap the whole keeboodle in their blankets. Ye savvy this,
Dick?"

 
          
 
Loot the dead? Richard's stomach turned
"Yes. I'll do it, Travis."

 
          
 
"Roll up all the plunder—inter a pack,
understand?"

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
"Keep watch, Dick. Check the priming in
my rifle. If n ye needs ter shoot, pull the cock back, pull the back trigger
first, then the front one. She won't shoot like that Injun trade gun did. This
one's a Hawken. Back trigger first."

 
          
 
"You think there will be more
trouble?"

 
          
 
"Hell, I never counted on that second
Pawnee yesterday. He caught us nigh dead to rights. Be careful, Dick. Oh, and
one other thing. I asked
Willow
ter stay and help ye. Maybe she will, maybe she won't. Keep in mind,
boy. She's Injun. Aboot as trustworthy as a buzzworm."

 
          
 
"She's a woman, for God's sake!"

 
          
 
"She ain't no white woman, Dick. She's
Snake . . . and she picked up that Pawnee kid's war club and went ter sleep
with it last night. Don't turn yer back on her."

 
          
 
But she was so pretty! Richard glanced over
his shoulder. She lay under the blanket he'd draped over her last night. When
he looked her way he could see her eyes glint, narrowed slits, watching his
every move.

 
          
 
Even the wary vigilance of a wounded and
hunted animal finally ebbs. Heals Like A Willow lay under her blanket, hurt and
exhausted. The fear of the White men, despite their assurances, goaded her to
watchfulness—as if she could defend herself, groggy and swimming as her senses
were. Her punished flesh, however, demanded respite, no matter what the
consequences.

 
          
 
Willow
never realized when she crossed the divide
from consciousness to sleep. ...

 
          
 
I remain hidden beneath my blanket the way a
grouse tucks herself under a log when coyote is hunting the black timber. The
scent of danger lingers on the wind, something acrid, like the stench of rot
mixed with smoke.

 
          
 
I hear a stick crack in the trees behind me. A
foot crackles dry needles as weight shifts in the darkness.

 
          
 
Who? I peer out at the shadowed forest with
new alarm, but see nothing in the dark shadows.

 
          
 
When I look back at the White man's camp, a
giant bear now sleeps where the wounded White man was. The fierce head rests on
large paws, the claws gleaming in the fragile moonlight that penetrates the
dense canopy of the trees. He is an old animal, his silver-tipped hair giving
him a frosted look.

 
          
 
Buckskin rasps against bark in the forest as
the enemy creeps closer. The sound is loud enough, close enough, to stop my
heart-but the giant bear doesn't hear. He sleeps on, and only now do I notice
the beast's breathing is labored and weak.

 
          
 
He's dying. The voice repeats over and over
within me. The bear couldn't protect me if he wanted to.

 
          
 
I tense under my blanket as stealthy feet come
closer, ever closer.

 
          
 
Run! I throw off my blanket and dash for the
timber like a frightened rabbit. I know I am hurt but fear gives my legs new
power. So long as I don't think, don't accept my weakness, I can run forever.

 
          
 
I duck between the trees and into the dark
protection of the forest. I know this place, understand how the elk trails
run—well defined as they leave the clearing, but fading into nothing back in
the black timber. I duck shadowy branches, leap deadfall in my desperate haste.

 
          
 
He is still chasing me, crashing through the
forest, his steps pounding the ground, shaking the very earth. I charge ahead,
heart hammering, arms pumping, full-tilt through the jumble of interlacing
branches, deadfall, and duff.

 
          
 
Sticks snag my dress, and I have to bat
branches aside as the forest closes in. Where a huge tree has fallen across the
trail, I drop to my belly and squirm under, only to plunge ahead into a virtual
net of splintered dead wood.

 
          
 
In the end I have to wiggle through the
deadfall like a bull snake through a serviceberry thicket.

 
          
 
Upon reaching the other side and regaining my
feet, I stagger into a grassy, moonlit clearing. From the trees, an owl hoots,
and coyotes yip and wail in the distance. I circle, panting for breath, while
my body shakes with fatigue. No matter where I turn, an impenetrable mass of
forest blocks any escape.

 
          
 
The owl hoots again, and the coyotes sound
like they are laughing.

 
          
 
He's coming, dry wood cracking as he pushes
through the deadfall.

 
          
 
The moonlight shines eerily in Packrat's crazy
eyes. He smiles at me, and throws his head back to scream his triumph at the
stars. As the ululation echoes, the forest turns silent.

 
          
 
Packrat grins, moonlight sparkling on his
teeth, and speaks to me from the Land of the Dead: "Your souls, Willow.
This time, I want your souls.. . forever...."

 
          
 
He opens his arms and steps forward, his
moccasins sinking into the brittle grass.

 
          
 
How do I defeat the dead? I back away, the
chill certainty of defeat shivering through my exhausted body.

 
          
 
So much pain, so much hurt, is it worth it?
Why continue-to fight when the only result is more suffering?

 
          
 
A voice inside me says, Give up,
Willow
. The world belongs to Coyote, full of
tricks and pain. Drop to your knees. Let Packrat take your souls. Accept it
Misery is inevitable.

 
          
 
Packrat cocks his head in anticipation, his
shadowed eyes like black pits in his smooth face.

 
          
 
At that moment, the mist white dog dances into
the clearing, twisting and leaping. He cavorts like milkweed down on the wind,
flitting this way and that, twirling and rising, then rushing down to skim the
surface of the grass.

 
          
 
Packrat's expression strains with shock and
disbelief. The mist white dog dances past him and blood begins to drain from
Packrat's mouth. He falls, sprawling in the grass. His mouth opens and closes,
making bubbles of frothy black blood.

 
          
 
Panic drives me thrashing through the forest.
I must find a way out.

           
 
The pale mist dog dances before me, teasing,
then leaps, curls in the air, and beckons. Fear burns bright within me, but i
follow the spirit dog. The way leads down a winding maze of trails that
crisscross through the dark forest.

 
          
 
At the foot of a mountain, the way turns steep
and rocky. I climb with the mist dog cavorting above me like a spark from a
fire. From rock to rock, grasping for purchase with fingers and toes, I lever
myself up the mountain. Finally, I pull myself onto a high pinnacle.

 
          
 
There the mist white dog sits, his tail
wagging. As if irritated, he barks. When I do nothing, he whines insistently.

 
          
 
"What are you?" I ask, reaching out
to pet the animal.

 
          
 
I barely touch him when, in a flash, he
strikes savagely, sinking teeth into my hand.

 
          
 
I cry out, tear my hand away, and stagger
back. The mist dog shoots up, spinning in the air. This time, instead of
barking, he howls with Coyote's keen voice. The misty hair hardens, and the
pale color darkens. I cannot mistake that pointed muzzle, or the pricked
triangular ears.

 
          
 
For one eternal instant, I stare into Coyote's
blazing yellow eyes. Then, in a snap of the fingers, he turns and races off,
his bushy tail bobbing behind him as he skips across the landscape.

 
          
 
I grind my teeth against the pain. Settling
onto the rock, I tuck my bitten hand in my lap. I fight the desire to weep.

 
          
 
The passions that incline men to peace, are
fear of death; desire of such things as are necessary to commodious living; and
a hope by their industry to obtain them. And reason suggesteth convenient
articles of peace, upon which men may be drawn to agreement. These articles,
are they, which otherwise are called the Laws of Nature: whereof I speak. . . .

 
          
 
—Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan

 
          
 
The morning grew hot. Slanting yellow rays of
sunlight penetrated the new leaves, fresh burst from the bud, to dapple the
ground with shadows. Flies buzzed in a wavering column over the two dead
Pawnee. Birdsong, light and melodic, mingled with the tinkle of spring water.

 
          
 
Willow
lay still, recruiting her strength as the
Young Warrior, the one called Dik, cared for the Bear Man. He kept glancing
shyly in her direction, unsure of her.

 
          
 
The feeling is shared, White man.

 
          
 
That wretched headache had dissipated to a
dull throb that only bothered her when she moved too quickly. She stretched,
feeling each muscle and its attendant aches. Better. But how far could she push
herself? Had she healed sufficiently? Or, if something went amiss, would she
leap to her feet only to topple into a pile again?

 
          
 
The Bear Man moaned.
Willow
watched Dik lay a hand on his forehead. He
mumbled nervously in White tongue, and shook his head.

 
          
 
Willow
sat up noiselessly. So far, so good. The
headache still throbbed, but her senses weren't swimming. Her bones ached, but
she gambled that that would go away with movement. She clutched her war club
and stood, waiting for the dizziness. When it didn't come, she took a careful
step. Then, to her relief, another.

 
          
 
Dik never heard her, but jumped aside with surprise
when she crouched beside him.

 
          
 
She met his startled eyes and smiled innocently,
saying in Shoshoni, "If I'd wanted to kill you, Dik, you'd have never
known until the instant I broke your skull."

 
          
 
He bobbed a happy nod and smiled his
reassurance, then turned thoughtful brown eyes on Trawis.

 
          
 
Willow
placed a hand to Trawis's cheek. "Hot.
Fever."

 
          
 
She took a deep breath. Her fingers had looked
just like that as they lay against her husband's cheek. Then, too, she'd felt
the heat that had burned him to death from the inside out. I couldn't save him.
I failed.

 
          
 
And this hair-faced White man?

 
          
 
She studied him in the daylight—especially
those scars.

 
          
 
The bear had torn off half his face. From the
scars' look, he must have been pus-fevered then, too. "Are you strong
enough, Trawis? Can you beat the fever again?"

 
          
 
Dik was talking, the words as meaningless as
wind over the rocks.

 
          
 
With her hands, she asked: "What
medicines do you have?"

 
          
 
Vacant eyes watched her signs, then he slowly
shook his head. In reply he spoke White babble.

 
          
 
She leaned back, elbows on knees, and
inspected him. "So, you can't even make signs. Are all Whites ignorant of
the most basic of things?"

 
          
 
Maybe he didn't know anything about medicine,
either. But, do I? Or am I only fooling myself? A familiar desperation, one she
hadn't felt since Packrat captured her, slipped around her guts. What if I
fail? What if my Power to heal is truly broken?

 
          
 
Dik rose and walked to a bundle of cloth by
his blanket. He ripped off a piece, stepped to the creek, and dipped it in
water. When he returned, he used the cloth to wipe Trawis's sweaty head.

 
          
 
Willow
lifted the leather hunting shirt to study
the wound. Pus had begun to leak from some of the stitches, but other parts had
scabbed over nicely. The stitching itself was rough, inexpertly done, but
effective.

 
          
 
Dik was babbling again, and
Willow
ignored it. She looked around, recognizing
few of the plants she needed. In her country, she could have found phlox, the
first shoots of gumweed, and. . . Well, here, at least, was willow. That would
help with Trawis's fever and her own headache. She pulled Trawis's steel knife
from his belt

 
          
 
Dik went silent, unease in his wide brown
eyes.

 
          
 
"You think I'd take his knife to kill
you? When I have the war club in my other hand?" She snorted derisively,
before winding her way down to the patch of willows beyond the spring.

 
          
 
When she had her cuttings, she located a small
metal pot in the packs, scoured it with sand, filled it with water, and put it
on to boil. With the war club and a flat slab of limestone, she pounded the
willow to loosen the bark. Her deft fingers stripped off the bruised bark and
placed it in the water to boil.

 
          
 
As she worked, her stiffness eased. From the
tenderness, a horrible bruise must have marked her where the war club had
glanced off her back—and the rest of her trouble came from the fall from the
mare. Thank Tarn Apo, no bones had broken.

 
          
 
Where the earth had slumped at the edge of the
caprock, she located green shoots of goosefoot. The other flowers defied her.
This country produced no shooting star, no biscuit root or desert parsley. No
balsam root sent up shoots to mark its location. In the soggy ground below the
willows, she found mint and added that to her collection.

 
          
 
"Who'd live here?" she wondered. But
certainly most of the plants she saw must be edible or medicinal.

 
          
 
By the time she returned to the camp, the
willow bark had boiled down to a murky paste. With sticks
Willow
plucked the pot from the fire and cooled it
in the spring. When she could hold the pot, she tasted the bitter contents.
Some she drank for her own aches, and then walked up to where Trawis lay.

 
          
 
He was awake, watching her through glittering
eyes. Sweat continued to bead on his forehead before slipping down his scarred
face in rivulets that disappeared into his beard. She made the sign:
''Drink."

 
          
 
Trawis choked down the bitter brew without
complaint and gasped.

 
          
 
Dik came to kneel beside her as she lifted the
shirt again. Pus not only leaked from the stitches but had begun to swell the
flesh. "If only I knew the plants, knew what spirits live in this
land."

 
          
 
She glanced sideways at the big triangular
tins. "Spirit water? Medicine water? They call it many names." But
would it work? What had White Hail said, that he'd seen visions?

 
          
 
Willow
tapped Dik on the shoulder and pointed at
the tins.

 
          
 
"Whiskey," he said.

 
          
 
"Whiskey," she replied. Then she
reached for the tin cup

 
          
 
Dik used to get water for Trawis. "Whiskey,"
she said, pointing inside the cup.

 
          
 
Dik frowned, then nodded hesitantly before
taking the cup. She watched, seeing how he untwisted the lid and poured the
clear liquid. No doubt about it, these White men were very clever. Among her
people, the best container was still a gut bag. The pottery they made was
brittle, primarily for the storage of winter foodstuffs.

 
          
 
When Dik brought her the spirit water, she did
not take it at once. She leaned forward, smelling its tang, and cautiously
looked into the liquid. She didn't quite know what to expect, maybe some
amorphous form swirling like fog, faces, or tiny shapes. But only clear fluid
lay between the surface and the bottom of the cup.

 
          
 
She had been around Spirit Bundles, fetishes,
and medicine before. Most could be felt—a sense of Power in the air. Now, she
felt nothing, no sense of threat. Nerving herself, she took the cup and studied
the wound.

 
          
 
"White man's spirit water," she
mused. "White man's wound." Her mind made up, she poured the spirit
water along the puckered cut.

 
          
 
Trawis grunted, eyes popping open as he tried
to sit up.

 
          
 
"Shssh!" she told him, placing her
fingers to his lips and easing him back. "Do not fight."

 
          
 
Dik was speaking in low tones, talking to
Trawis. She caught the word "whiskey" a time or two.

 
          
 
Trawis blinked, then stared into
Willow
's eyes. He signed: "That will cure or
kill me."

 
          
 
She nodded, then scrutinized the wound to see
if anything happened. Would it smoke? Perhaps little demons would come
wriggling out like worms. She'd seen some of the Tukudeka puhagans suck bloody
feathers, bear claws, and other objects from the sick. Would such things pop
out of Trawis?

 
          
 
The pus pockets would be a problem. She'd seen
Dik digging in the leather bag that lay beside Trawis. She pulled it over,
found an awl made of metal, and raised the sharp point to the light.

 
          
 
"What you do?" Trawis signed. Dik
was looking nervous again. Did neither of them have a brain in their heads?

 
          
 
"Your wound must be drained." She
made the signs, then bent over his stitched side. Unlike plants in strange
country, when it came to draining wounds, she had plenty of practice. The metal
awl worked much better than the sharpened rabbit bones she was used to. She
lanced the puffy flesh, twirling the awl at the same time.