Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (51 page)

 
          
 
Trawis grunted and hissed as she worked.
Mostly he kept his eyes closed, pale features even whiter, if that were
possible.

 
          
 
"You'd think I was working on a
ghost," she muttered to herself. Then looked up to meet Dik's eyes. She
handed him the cup and pointed at the whiskey again.

 
          
 
He nodded hesitantly and left.

 
          
 
Willow
lanced the last of the pockets, very gently
squeezing the wound. To her satisfaction, the pus mostly ran clear. She
dribbled whiskey on the oozing sections, and bent down to squint at the flesh
while Trawis made suffering sounds. To her disappointment, nothing like bloody
feathers or bear claws popped out.

 
          
 
She sighed and sat back, thankful that the
willow-bark extract had killed most of her headache. To the uncomprehending
Dik, she said, "I can do no more for now. Let him rest. In the meantime, I
will boil the goosefoot and mint for something to eat."

 
          
 
Dik smiled at her then, soft lights in his
brown eyes touching her soul. He took her hand, raised it, and pressed his lips
to the skin on the back. In clear tones he said, "Thank you."

 
          
 
In return, she lifted his hand, brushing her
lips on the back of the pale skin. "Thank you." Some curious custom
of the Whites?

 
          
 
He laughed, shaking his head and jabbering
away in White talk.

 
          
 
"Excuse me," she said. "If we
are to eat, I had better do something about it From the looks of things, you
Whites would starve to death." As she bent to the task of boiling the
goosefoot and mint, the thought crossed her soul: If the Whites are so helpless^
why haven't they starved to death before this?

 
          
 
Travis hissed, teeth clenched, as Richard
poured whiskey on the stitches in his side. It took several seconds for the
sting to drain away and the world to come back into focus.

 
          
 
"Waugh! That's some, it is. Damn, I'd
like ter give ye a dose of that!"

 
          
 
"You did," Richard said, bending
over him. "Back on the boat, remember? When I had the scours? You were the
one made me eat that gall. I think it was you who said that the worse the
taste, the better the cure."

 
          
 
"Wal, ye better go easy on that whiskey.
Tarnal Hell, whiskey's supposed ter go in a feller, not on him."

 
          
 
Richard shrugged. "Perhaps. The pus isn't
as bad today. Fever's broken, too. I think
Willow
was right about pouring it on you."

 
          
 
Travis bit his lip as the inflamed skin on his
side cooled in the air. "Spirit water," she'd signed, making a motion
for Richard to pour it on the suppurative wound. And damned if it didn't seem
to help. The scab was tight and dry on his side, whereas pus had leaked out of
his bear cuts for weeks.

 
          
 
Travis looked down at the curving scar. Half
Man had come damned close to killing him.

 
          
 
Green would be at the rendezvous today, or
tomorrow at the latest. Tarnal damnation, they were a hard day's walk from the
river. Time was running out.

 
          
 
"I been laying hyar two days now."
Travis made his decision. "Real slow, Dick. Take my hand. Help me
up."

 
          
 
"You can't get up! You'll kill
yourself!"

 
          
 
"Dave's gonna be waiting. Worrying
himself sick." Travis reached out. "Come on! Hell, child, I'm
half-healed already. This hyar's a scratch."

 
          
 
Heals Like A Willow came up behind Richard. In
her sibilant speech, she said something that Travis could tell was unkind.
Richard reluctantly held out his hand and helped pull Travis upright. His
weight tugged at the stitches. "Damn!" Cold sweat popped out, the
pain building.

 
          
 
"Whew! Hang onto my hand, Dick. Reckon
I'm just a hair stiffened up. Need ter move a little, warm my joints."

 
          
 
"Crazy damn bastard!" Richard
scowled his disapproval.

 
          
 
"What? Ye laming ter talk like an
American?" Travis blinked as he looked around the shaded bottoms. Over
there, where Richard had dragged them, lay the Pawnee corpses. They'd be
stinking something fierce real soon.

 
          
 
Willow, still muttering to herself, took
Travis's other arm. He set his jaw, and took a step, hating the premonition
that his guts were about to spill out on the ground.

 
          
 
"I'm just going to walk a little. Nothing
tricky like." And by Hob, don’t let me fall down and bust open like a
rotten melon.

 
          
 
For several minutes, he hobbled around, and
sure enough, his side seemed to soften. He dared not turn, reach, or bend, but
he could walk.

 
          
 
"Now, Dick, I reckon ye might pack them
hosses fer me."

 
          
 
"You can't travel!"

 
          
 
Travis looked at
Willow
, his hands making signs. "You would
help me get to the river? Help with the horses?"

 
          
 
A curious respect grew in her eyes, then she
nodded slowly, almost grudgingly.

 
          
 
"Why did you stay?" Travis asked.

 
          
 
She smiled crookedly while her graceful hands
told him, "I did not feel good, either. Head hurt until this morning. I
also said I would help Young Warrior."

 
          
 
"You are a good and brave woman."

 
          
 
She laughed cynically at that.

 
          
 
Travis indicated Richard, and asked,
"Will you help him with the whiskey?"

 
          
 
After a thoughtful glance, she walked off to
bring in the horses. Travis hobbled over to the two dead Pawnee. Glancing back,
he saw that Hamilton and the squaw were out of sight. Gingerly, he bent his
knees, easing down. The bloated corpses reeked of death. Flies had blown the
wounds, and the little maggots were wiggling and feasting under the caked
blood. Funny how maggots made rot smell worse.

 
          
 
Travis took his knife from his belt, and did
what he needed to. Placing his prizes in his possibles, he straightened, ever
careful of the stitches in his side.

 
          
 
One slow step at a time, he walked back to the
horses. Richard had learned the basics of packing, and was doing tolerable well
at hoisting the tins, tying the knots, and checking the balance.

 
          
 
"Watch that lash cinch," Travis
warned. "Yer a bit far back 'round the belly. If'n that nag were ter throw
a fit, ye'd have a hellacious wreck—whiskey all over Tarnation."

 
          
 
When the last of the horses was packed, Travis
gritted his teeth and hobbled up the winding deer trail, moving as carefully as
possible. How far to the river? Six, seven miles?

 
          
 
And I’m racing along at maybe a mile an hour.

 
          
 
"Travis?" Richard asked, head down.

 
          
 
"Huh?"

 
          
 
"Those men ... the Pawnee . . . well. .
."

 
          
 
"Well, what, fer God's sake?"

 
          
 
"We ought to give them a decent burial,
don't you think?" Richard scuffed his toe on the grass.

 
          
 
"Tarnation! What's a coyote ever done ter
ye? Anything?"

 
          
 
"Why, er, no. Nothing."

 
          
 
"Then let 'em eat, Doodle. Coyotes,
wolves, buzzards, worms, hell, they all got ter make do out hyar, too, don't
they?"

 
          
 
Richard's mouth had dropped open.

 
          
 
"I ain't saying no more about it."
And God alone knew, he'd better save his breath for the climb out of this
little valley. Those gentle slopes now looked for all the world like the
highest of the
Shining
Mountains
.

 
          
 
He was panting when he made it to the caprock,
eased over the lip, and looked onto the flats. A sea of grass led eastward to
the bluffs above the river. He stepped aside as Dick led the horses past.

 
          
 
"You're a fool, don't you know?"
Richard called. "You'll be dead before nightfall!"

 
          
 
Travis squinted up at the sky. "Too much
buffler meat in my blood, coon. I'll swear ye this! If'n I up and decides ter
die, today, I'll do'er at the river. Hyar's fer the mountains, Dick. This
child'll race ye ter the water!"

 
          
 
Heals Like A Willow was saying something in
her tongue. Telling him how stupid he was, no doubt. "Wal, hell/' he said,
whether they heard or not, "Hugh Glass crawlt this country after Old
Ephraim tore him up. Afore that, old John Colter outrun the Blackfoots plumb
naked. He crossed half the Plains without a stitch on his hide. Me, I got, oh,
maybe a hunnert or so. I reckon I'm way ahead o' Colter. And I done been
bear-chewed long back. If n that didn't kill me, well, by God, I'll make
her."

 
          
 
An hour later, he was wondering if maybe he
shouldn't have had his lips sewed shut along with his side.

 
          
 
Anything ter keep ye from a-spouting off like
a jackass! A terrible weariness had settled on him, making each step an agony.
Had he ever been this tired?

 
          
 
Yep. And in a hell of a fix worse 'n the one
I'm in now.

 
          
 
"Travis?" Richard asked, pacing
alongside, lead rope in hand.

 
          
 
"Yep."

 
          
 
"Are you all right?"

 
          
 
"Hell, no! As smart as yer always
claiming ter be, I'd reckon ye'd be right mindful of what old Half Man done ter
this beaver with that knife of his."

 
          
 
"We could rest."

 
          
 
Travis slowed to a stop, staring around at the
waving bluestem and the puffy clouds that had built to the west. How far had
they gone? Maybe a mile.

 
          
 
Feels like I’ve crossed half the world.
"All right, Dick. Ease me down. Reckon I could rest a bit, get my puff
back."