Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (56 page)

 
          
 
Richard scratched his neck and said nothing,
his gut churning.

 
          
 
Travis reached out to Richard's side and tied
the piece of hide to his belt so that the long black hair hung down along his
leg. "Wear that, coon. It'll bring ye luck."

 
          
 
"What is it? What animal did you take it
off of?"

 
          
 
"A kind of skunk that lives out
hyar."

 
          
 
Richard fingered the long hair. "Is it a
fetish?"

 
          
 
"What in hell's a... sure, yep. Reckon
so. That's what she be." Travis had a funny look in his eye. "Wal,
now, Dick, I got me an idea. Seems we got us eleven hosses, twelve if'n ye counts
Willow's. Ain't much above here but trouble. The Omaha country is a couple of
days' journey north, but beyond there, yer not going ter find nobody but Sioux,
Rees, and Cheyenne until we reach the Mandan. Ain't none of 'em but would lift
them hosses plumb quick."

 
          
 
Richard fingered the glossy skunk hair.
"What do we do?"

 
          
 
Travis reached for his possibles and pulled
out his pipe, gesturing with it as he talked, "Wal, the way I'm thinking,
a coon needs to have help a-guarding these hosses. Now, if'n ye'd be of a mind
not to escape, perhaps I could use ye."

 
          
 
"Promise not to escape?" Richard
frowned, then shook his head. "I can't, Travis. What was done to me was
wrong. I have ethical values, and I must stick to them."

 
          
 
Travis pursed his lips, the effect pulling the
scars tight across his ruined face. "Yep. A man's gotta do what he's gotta
do. I keep forgetting that."

 
          
 
"Why do I always get the feeling that
you're mocking me?"

 
          
 
"Mock ye? Wal now, Dick, that's about the
silliest idea I've heard since flying buffler chips. Reckon ye'd never catch me
a-funning ye, not with all them philos'phy ideas in yer head."

 
          
 
A twinkle filled Travis's eye as he turned and
made his way carefully back to the fire.

 
          
 
Richard's horse jerked him away from the
river, but he led the animal to the picket line instead of letting it crop.

 
          
 
After he'd tied the horse, he stopped and
fingered the fetish. He lifted the long hair and sniffed. It didn't smell like
skunk.

 
          
 
He was still studying it when he got to the
fire. "You said this would bring me luck?''

 
          
 
"Yep." Travis seemed suddenly
fascinated by his stained-leather knee. "It's a sign of respect in these
parts, Dick. Reckon ye could say it's a sign of a man, one ter be listened ter,
and looked up ter."

 
          
 
Richard frowned and sat cross-legged in front
of the fire. "Respect? Why? I mean, why me?"

 
          
 
Travis puffed on his pipe and handed it over
to Richard. "Ye done a man's job this hyar trip. Ye saved me ... saved the
whiskey. Saved Willow, fer that matter. Made us rich on hosses—and they'd have
cost a heap of goods about the time we made 'er to the Mandans. Yer a man,
Dick. By all the rules of this country, red and white. That thar, what did ye
call her, fetish? That fetish ain't nothing more than the proof of it."

 
          
 
Richard glanced skeptically at Travis.
"But I'm still a slave?"

 
          
 
"Man's a slave only so long's he allows
himself ter be. Reckon that Packrat, he larned that lesson and did her the hard
way."

 
          
 
"He was going to kill Willow."

 
          
 
"Of course, she'd beat him at his own
game. When a man's got no choice but ter kill his slaves, he's plumb licked. At
least by that particular slave. See whar my stick floats, Dick?"

 
          
 
"Not exactly." Richard puffed on the
pipe. The tobacco was welcome—even if it wasn't up to Bostonian standards.
"What good is freedom if you're dead?"

 
          
 
"Ye ever figger what would happen if all
the slaves in the world said no ter their masters? Reckon they'd be beat the
first day, whipped the second, starved from then on, maybe even all kilt. Wal,
all right, so let's say all the slaves was dead all over the world. Now, do ye
reckon thar'd be any more slaves?"

 
          
 
"Someone will always turn another person
into a slave," Richard objected, pointing with the pipe stem. "Plato
wrote in his—"

 
          
 
"Plato? Another philos'pher in a
room?"

 
          
 
"He was. And my point still stands."

 
          
 
Travis pulled at the fringes on his sleeve.
"I reckon so, but a slave can only stay a slave if n he sets more store on
his life than on his freedom. I got the story outa Willow. That's how she drove
that Packrat coon plumb crazy. Ain't the first time I heard that story. Come
upriver with a man what wouldn't be a slave."

 
          
 
"Life is a pretty powerful argument. . .
especially when it's yours."

 
          
 
"Hand me my pipe back! Ye gonna smoke her
dry?"

 
          
 
"Sorry. I'm sort of used to arguing with
a pipe in my hand, but with much better tobacco."

 
          
 
"Life, ye say," Travis mused, taking
a pull. He studied the tendrils of smoke rising from the stained bowl.
"Ever hear tell of them Spartans? The ones back in Rome what fought off
that Egyptian king and died fer it?"

 
          
 
"That's a Persian king. At Thermopylae,
in Greece. No Romans were involved. What's your point?"

 
          
 
"They died ter save a heap of others,
Dick. Reckon yer no different, not down deep. Reckon if'n it was Katy bar the
door, ye'd be just as quick jumping inta the breach. Figger this"—Travis
waved his pipe in emphasis—"yer house is on fire. Now, yer whole family is
in thar a-screaming, and all ye've got ter do is jump inta the fire, burn yerself,
and hold the door open to let 'em out. Ye'd do her, wouldn't ye?"

 
          
 
"Using my family for an example isn't
very smart, Travis. If it was my father in there, I'd be throwing oil on the
blaze by the bucketful."

 
          
 
Travis raised an eyebrow. "No wonder he
kicked ye outa Boston. But, anyhow, ye get my meaning."

 
          
 
"Yes, yes, the examples are necessary.
Just not sufficient."

 
          
 
"Huh?"

 
          
 
Richard grinned. "Philosophical
standards—but, yes, people do risk their lives, and lose them to save others.
That's not at issue here. Slavery is."

 
          
 
"Reckon so, coon. And my point is that no
slave needs ter be a slave if'n he's willing ter give up his life ter save
himself and all the others. Now, tell me, ain't it damned peculiar—illogical,
in yer words—that all the slaves don't just up and quit? Take their chances
just like folks do all the time to save their friends and kin, hell, even
strangers! No one would have to be a slave again ... ever."

 
          
 
Richard reached for the pipe, puffing as he
frowned. "Mass civil disobedience."

 
          
 
"Yep."

 
          
 
"It would never work. It is the nature of
the slave to value vain hope for the future over almost certain death and
potential greater good."

 
          
 
"Plumb irrational, wouldn't ye say?"

 
          
 
"I see what you're getting at. Sure,
people are irrational all the time. But, don't you see, it's only through
rational action that we can improve our lot."

 
          
 
"Uh-huh. And if'n ye was rational, ye'd
give me yer word that ye'd stick her out to the mouth of the Yellerstone, and
help me with the hosses."

 
          
 
"Why do you care so much?"

 
          
 
Travis stared moodily at the fire. "Just
a cussed streak I got in me. I reckon the bear's outa the cage. Maybe I want
ter see him become a real bear."

 
          
 
Then again, on the other hand, the
unsophisticated mind takes under its guardianship, the good and the noble (that
is, what retains its state of meaning in being objectively stated), and
protects it in the only way possible here—that is to say, the good does not
lose its value because it may be linked with what is bad, or mingled with it,
for to be thus associated with badness is both its condition and necessity, and
the wisdom of nature is found in this fact.

 
          
 
—Georg Friedrkh Wilhelm Hegel,

 
          
 
Phenomenology of Mind

 
          
 
Travis grinned as he watched
Willow
. She stood frozen, stunned as a surprised
deer, mouth ajar, eyes wide with astonishment. Her disbelief tickled him clear
down to his roots. In the end, she could only shake her head and mutter softly.
The Maria was being poled up-river, momentum carrying the boat forward against
the current before the next set of the poles. The keelboat might have been some
giant water insect, propelled by multitudes of legs across the roiling brown
water.

 
          
 
Travis hitched his way down the muddy bank to
stand between Willow and Richard. He raised his rifle, firing a shot into the
air. Willow jumped at the concussion.

 
          
 
"Sorry, gal," Travis mumbled.

 
          
 
"All right," she whispered absently.
Shots answered from the boat, puffs of blue smoke rising over the cargo box. In
incredulous tones she rattled away in her Snake tongue.

 
          
 
Travis pressed a gentle hand to his side.
Still damned tender. "Dick. Like her or not, yer on hoss duty fer a couple
of days."

 
          
 
Richard gave him an uneasy glance. "Why
me?"

 
          
 
Travis chewed at his lip and squinted into the
midday sun. "Wal, reckon it's like this, coon. This hyar beaver's got a
cut in him bigger and uglier than Hob's smile. Reckon I cain't go a-traipsing
after the hosses. I plumb sure ain't gonna turn Trudeau nor any of them other
French lard eaters out to guard 'em. That leaves ye, Mister Hamilton."

 
          
 
"I told you I'd escape."

 
          
 
"Hoss crap! If'n ye'd a wanted ter, ye'd
be gone."

 
          
 
"I told you, it's ethically untenable. I
had a responsibility to ensure that you made it back to the boat That you were
injured was partially my fault. Here's the boat. When they drop the plank, I
will have fulfilled that obligation."

 
          
 
"Nope. Nothing's changed. I ain't up ter
hunting and hoss keeping. Not fer another week at best. Reckon ye can do yer
duty, then escape when I get all healed."

 
          
 
"Travis Hartman," Richard whispered,
"you are a black bastard at heart."

 
          
 
"I reckon so."

 
          
 
Maria turned gracefully, coasting in toward
the bank. Travis had picked this place precisely because the bottom dropped off
and the river didn't carry much current. The perfect spot for onloading the
whiskey.

 
          
 
"How do, coon!" came a familiar cry,
and Travis shaded his eyes to study the brawny black man at the bow. He stood
like a sassy pirate, his dark face shadowed by a large-brimmed felt hat.

 
          
 
"Baptiste? Tarnal Hell! What are ye doing
aboard?"

 
          
 
"Ha! I be yor new partner, coon!"
The ebony face split with a smile. "Life at the fort. . . wal, 'tain't
nothing but poor bull. I reckoned I'd come along and hunt down that Pawnee what
kilt you, but I see yor topknot's still on!"

 
          
 
"Reckon so, but she was Katy bar the
door! Don't ye come a flying off ter give me no bar hug, neither. Ye'11 squeeze
me guts clean out!"

 
          
 
"You hurt?" Green called from the
cargo box as the Maria swung up against the shore. Engages were craning their
necks, eyes wide as they whispered back and forth.

 
          
 
"Sliced nigh in two! But old Dick, hyar,
he done sewed me up."

 
          
 
"Got a squaw, too?" Green studied
Willow with a cocked look. "Hell! That's the Snake woman I saw at Fort
Atkinson. Where's that Pawnee kid she was running with?"

 
          
 
"Dick raised him. Shot him plumb
center."

 
          
 
Green gave Hamilton a sidelong glance.
"Do tell."

 
          
 
The plank came out and Willow backed slowly
away, looking like a rabbit about to break for the tall sage. "Easy,
gal." Travis made the signs. "You are safe. No one will hurt you, I
promise."

 
          
 
She gave him an uncertain look and signed:
"Yellow-haired White man tried to buy me for two guns at fort."

 
          
 
"Why, I'd a fetched five fer ye."
Travis winked to reassure her, then in a loud voice hollered: "Hey, Dave!
This hyar's Heals Like A Willow. I don't want no harm t' come ter her. She's
with me." Travis narrowed an eye to glare wickedly at the engages who
stared down with appraising eyes. "Y'all hear that, coons? If'n she don't
kill yer arse fer trying ter fool with her, I'll do it! Or maybe Dick,
hyar."

 
          
 
Laughter rose at that.

 
          
 
"The woman is to be left alone!"
Green ordered.

 
          
 
Henri was leaning on his steering oar, and
rubbed his blunt jaw as he glanced dubiously back and forth between Willow and
the engages. He finally muttered, "Chercher des ennuis! Beaucoup
troubles.''

 
          
 
Travis patted Willow on the shoulder.
"Ain't nobody gonna bother ye none."

 
          
 
Engages trotted down the plank, headed for the
trees and the tins of whiskey. They leered at Willow with hawkish eyes, and she
glared right back at them; her grip on the war club tightened

 
          
 
Baptiste strode down like a lord, his long
buckskin shirt swaying at mid-thigh. Leggings and high moccasins rustled with
long fringe. A man might have danced on those broad, muscular shoulders. White
teeth flashed in his black face as he looked Travis up and down.

 
          
 
Willow uttered an amazed sound as Baptiste
stopped before them. She made signs, and Baptiste laughed, signing back.
Timidly, Willow reached up to rub at his face, and then his hands.

 
          
 
"What's this?" Richard whispered,
leaning toward Travis.

 
          
 
"Trying to see if the soot will rub
off," Travis told him. "Dick, this hyar black cutthroat is my old
friend, Baptiste. He goes by Baptiste because he's afraid some coon might
recognize his real name."

 
          
 
"I reckon there's a death warrant fo' me
in the United States," Baptiste said easily. He withdrew his hand from
Willow's and offered it to Hamilton. The Yankee swallowed hard, but shook, the
grip strong.

 
          
 
Good work, Dick. That'll set ye right with
Baptiste.

 
          
 
Baptiste turned to Travis. "Yor looking a
mite peaked, coon. I done warned you about that snaky Pawnee."

 
          
 
"Wal, I fetched him in the end."
Travis cocked his head. "But I thought certain ye had more sense than to
sign on ter a crazy venture like this. Ye've always had a fondness fer that
topknot of yern."

 
          
 
Baptiste leaned his head back, the sun's rays
bathing his face. "A man can't live shy all his life, mon ami I smelled a
possibility."

 
          
 
Green came bouncing down the plank issuing
orders to the engages as they filed out of the trees, heavy tins perched on
bent shoulders. He looked at Travis, worry in that bulldog face. "How
badly are you hurt, Travis?"

 
          
 
Travis grinned, and lifted his shirt.

 
          
 
Green let out a low whistle. "How long
ago did this happen?"

 
          
 
"About three days. Dick, hyar, he done a
mite of sewing on this old coon. Reckon I'd let him darn my socks now. He's
plumb practiced."

 
          
 
Green, muttering, gave Richard another
skeptical glance.

 
          
 
Baptiste bent down and scowled at the wound.
"Stay at it, Hartman. Another five or six years on the river and you'll
use up all the hide you got left."

 
          
 
"Huh! Wal, come the day my pizzle gets
sliced up, this child's quitting!"

 
          
 
Baptiste gave Willow an amused inspection,
adding, "Then steer clear of this'un, coon. She's pizen!"

 
          
 
Richard stiffened, but Travis reached back
with a hand to cut him off. "Baptiste, I want ye and Dick hyar ta see ter
the hosses. Reckon I'm gonna take my leisure like a boosh-way, and ride like a
king up on the cargo box."

 
          
 
"Travis!" Richard cried.

 
          
 
Travis ignored him. "Now, Baptiste, Dick
hyar, he's a mite of a greenhorn yet. Reckon I can recall when ye were of a
same mind, all piss and vinegar and damn little sense. Dick's got savvy and
larns right quick, but ye need ter explain things in simple words and with a
lot of detail. Like I say, he's a-larning. That said, I'd take it as a favor
if'n ye didn't cut his throat fer a couple of days, lessen, of course, he
really riles ye."

 
          
 
Baptiste snorted, his dark stare pinning the
sputtering Richard. "I'll see. Come on, pilgrim. Show me what you've
got."

 
          
 
Travis gestured for Richard to follow the
black man toward the picket.
Willow
hesitated, then trotted after them, sticking close to Richard.

 
          
 
Green squinted, then pointed. "Hanging on
his belt. . . that's not what I think it is?"