Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (59 page)

 
          
 
"And what is their place?"

 
          
 
Trawis glanced uneasily at Dik and the two of
them muttered back and forth.
Willow
caught the word "lady" several times and asked, "What is
iady'?"

 
          
 
"A woman. No, I mean, well, special
woman."

 
          
 
"And what is her place?"

 
          
 
"Uh ... in a house."

 
          
 
"What is house?"

 
          
 
"Wal... like a lodge."

 
          
 
"Ah!"
Willow
nodded. "Lady's place is in
lodge." But that didn't make any sense, either. By words and signs, she
noted the tent. "This is lodge. Very fine lodge. Warm, dry, easy to move.
Why is this not lady place?"

 
          
 
"Aw, hell!" Trawis threw his hands
up.

 
          
 
Dik said, "Lady is gentle. To be ... to
be prized. Very special. Do you understand?"

 
          
 
"Who works?"
Willow
wondered. "Men?"

 
          
 
"Yes, men." Dik nodded happily.

 
          
 
"White women keep the lodge," Trawis
signed. "Take care of children for men. Cook, clean, make clothing."

 
          
 
"But not travel,"
Willow
mused. "Why?"

 
          
 
"Too dangerous," Trawis asserted.
"Woman might get killed."

 
          
 
Willow
snorted irritation, fingers flying. "Indian
women get killed all the time. That is part of life. Part of war, of bad luck—lightning,
snow, starvation. Anything can kill. Why are White women not to be
killed?"

 
          
 
Trawis signed, "White men do not think
white women should be killed by these things. White women are too precious.' '

 
          
 
"A man protects a lady," Dik said
solemnly. "Very precious. A lady is delicate. Understand? Like a flower,
to be cherished."

 
          
 
Willow
's
eyes narrowed. "You mean weak?"

 
          
 
Trawis shot a wary glance at Dik, but signed,
"It's not the same."

 
          
 
Willow
's
lips twitched. "Is that why you come here? You seek strong women? Like
horse breeders, you wish to strengthen your blood?"

 
          
 
Trawis made a face, lowering his voice as he
talked to Dik. Dik's expression betrayed mystification.

 
          
 
"No," Trawis muttered. "I
know." His hands made the signs, 44 White women are prized. Very
special."

 
          
 
Willow
considered. Both men had begun to fidget. She asked: "Lady does what man
tells, yes?"

 
          
 
"Yes."

 
          
 
She didn't have all the words, so she signed,
"White woman is very special to White man. She is to be taken, then kept
safe in the lodge to have children. Man works to take food to her, because man
works and White woman doesn't. She is a prize, not to be risked. I understand
this."

 
          
 
Trawis translated, and Dik grinned.

 
          
 
Willow
continued. "I understand this because Ku-chendikani do the same. They
treat special buffalo horses this way. They take food to them in the winter and
always guard them. So, White men treat women like horses."

 
          
 
Trawis's face fell

 
          
 
Willow
puzzled on the idea. What kind of woman would a White woman be? Like some
helpless child? Who'd want a woman like that? Worse, what would it be like to
be a woman like that? Locked in a lodge, fed by someone else, and doing nothing
but bearing children?

 
          
 
"No, no," Trawis was muttering.
"White women are..."

 
          
 
"Weak,"
Willow
muttered.

 
          
 
"No."

 
          
 
"Like coup? Won from other men?"

 
          
 
"Yes!" Dik cried.

 
          
 
"Shut up, coon," Trawis muttered.
"It ain't the same. Courting ain't winning."

 
          
 
"Courting?"
Willow
asked.

 
          
 
Trawis made the sign, and added, "We
don't fight over our... Hell, that's a tarnal lie!"

 
          
 
"Prize,"
Willow
supplied. What was that other word?
"Trophy?"

 
          
 
Trawis stared at Dik. Neither looked happy.

 
          
 
Willow
clapped her hands. "You come here, find Indian women. Not prize. What is
the word? 'Partner'?" She lifted an eyebrow.

 
          
 
Trawis finally shrugged and grinned.
"Reckon so."

 
          
 
Willow
gave
them a sly smile and signed, "But where are you going to find an Indian
woman who would want to lie with a man with such white skin? She'd shiver so
hard at the idea of that ghost skin against hers that she'd clamp too tight to
enter. And if she did, when she looked up at you—saw all that hair on your
face, she'd think she was coupling with her dog!" And at that, she
squealed with laughter.

 
          
 
After Trawis translated, Dik's face turned a
violent red and he slipped silently out into the night.

 
          
 
Willow
gazed
thoughtfully at the swaying tent flap, then asked, "Dik have woman?"

 
          
 
"Nope." Travis raised an eyebrow.
"Ye interested?"

            
"No," she said much too
quickly. Travis nodded solicitously, but she could see the twinkle in his eye.

 
          
 
Savant man and civilized man differ so greatly
in the depths of their hearts and in their inclinations, that what constitutes
the supreme happiness of the one would reduce the other to despair. The first
longs for nothing more than repose and liberty; he desires only to live, and to
he immune from labor; nay, the ataraxy of the most confirmed Stoic hills short
of his deep indifference to even other object. Civilized man, on the other
hand, is always in action, perpetually sweating and toiling, and racking his
brains to discover occupations still more laborious: he continues a drudge to
the last minute; nay, he courts death in order to live, or renounces life to obtain
immortality

 
          
 
—Jean Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on the
Origin and Foundation of Inequality Among Mankind

 
          
 
Richard, Baptiste, and
Willow
were driving the horses along the west
bank. They followed dim trails through groves of ash, elm, and oak that gave
way to grassy meadows. A hot wind blew from the prairie to the west and added
to the bright sun's heat.

 
          
 
Richard tried to concentrate on Laura, but he
couldn't stop glancing at
Willow
,
catching that speculative look in her brown eyes. In the sunlight her copper
skin seemed to glow with a new radiance. In spite of himself, he kept smiling
at her, almost wishing that Baptiste were somewhere else. But what would he say
to her?

 
          
 
She's a savage, Richard. Not your kind of
woman. If
 
you must think of a woman,
think of Laura. He concentrated on Laura's blue eyes, her golden hair, and
charming smile. Yes, that was it. Think about her thin waist, and the way her
skirts rustled when ...

 
          
 
"That tall bluff," Baptiste's voice
intruded, "yonder, with the mound of dirt. That's the Blackbird's
grave." Bap-tiste pointed, the long fringes hanging down from his arm.

 
          
 
"The Blackbird?" Richard studied the
high point Laura Templeton had vanished into nothingness.

 
          
 
"Heap big Omaha chief. Some years back
the Mahas controlled the river. And Blackbird controlled the Mahas. Nothing
passed this part of the river 'thout old Blackbird's approval."

 
          
 
The wind switched to gust down from the north,
thrashing tree branches and bending grass in rippling waves.
Willow
tucked her hair back where the wind had
pulled long strands loose. She gave Richard a shy smile, attentive to
Baptiste's words and the hand signs he used as he spoke.

 
          
 
The high bluff to the north dominated the
skyline, piercing the tree-crowned heights. Beyond, the clouds raced southward
in puffy mounds of white.

 
          
 
Richard peered at Baptiste. "Tell me
about this Blackbird." Anything to take his mind off
Willow
.

 
          
 
"Traders give him arsenic, hoss. He was a
canny one, old Blackbird was. Anybody challenged his power, sho' 'nuff, he'd
slip poison into their food, then foretell their deaths. Got so that nobody
among the Mahas would cross him. Smallpox finally kilt him. His last wish was
to be buried up on that hill, a-sitting on his warhorse. The old coon said he
wanted to be up thar high so he could see the white traders coming up the
river."

 
          
 
As he spoke, Baptiste's dark hands made signs
for
Willow
. She stared up at the knob. "I heard
of him," she said. "Strong chief."

 
          
 
Richard ground his teeth, forcing his gaze away.
The wind had pressed her dress against her like a second skin, outlining her
perfect breasts and thin waist. Damn it, he was a gentleman, and a gentleman
didn't look at a woman that way.

 
          
 
"Reckon," Baptiste agreed.
"Story is that once he had a trader brought up to the main village. Had
all the trader's plunder—all his goods—brought in. Old Blackbird, he took half,
called it a gift. Now, that trader figgered he was just about to go bust, when
Blackbird up and says, ‘My friend, you may trade the rest to my people . . .
fo' whatever price you wants.' That coon made his fortune, 'cause t'warnt a one
of Blackbird's people would say no to the trader."

 
          
 
"That's piracy!" Richard manfully
fastened his gaze on the
high point
. "Blackbird. Now, there's a man my father would really like."

 
          
 
Baptiste gave Richard a thoughtful inspection
as the horses wound through the trees. "Travis done told this child a mite
of that story. Yer pap, now, he done sent you out heah?"

 
          
 
"Yes, he did. But for him I'd still be
studying philosophy in
Boston
." Richard ducked a low branch.
"He cut me off. From my studies, that is. I was supposed to deliver money
to a booshway, to outfit a
Santa Fe
expedition. So, what happens? Francois steals the money. That French
brigand is headed back to civilization to live rich all the rest of his life,
and I'm on a fur expedition. What kind of justice is that?"

 
          
 
"Beats being dead, Dick."

 
          
 
"My name is Richard."

 
          
 
"Rhitshard,"
Willow
said softly, her soft brown eyes meeting
his for one glorious moment.

 
          
 
"Richard."

 
          
 
"Ritshard."

 
          
 
"Wilier, yor a quick one." Baptiste
made a smacking sound with his lips. "Never knew an Injun to pick up talk
as fast as she's a-doing." Baptiste gave the country another of his
careful scrutinies. "Wal, Dick, I reckon yor pap figgered to make a man of
you."

 
          
 
"Maybe. Looks like he made me a slave,
instead."

 
          
 
"Boy." Baptiste's voice hardened.
"You don't know shit. Yor no more than a damned planters boy. They's times
you makes me want to puke with yor whining. A slave? Shit! You don' know the
fust thing 'bout it."

 
          
 
Richard returned hot glare for glare.

 
          
 
Baptiste lifted a lip in disgust. "Do
tell, what's this? You reckon you can kill me with a mean look like that? Care
to back her up, coon? Want to try and whip it outa this sassy nigger?"

 
          
 
For a second Richard held that gaze; then cold
shivers wound through his guts. He dropped his eyes and reddened in
humiliation. The worst was, he couldn't hold his own in
Willow
's presence.

 
          
 
"Good. Last man what tried to whip me's
a-laying dead in the grave."

 
          
 
"Perhaps slavery was a bad analogy."

 
          
 
"Reckon so, coon." Baptiste turned
his gaze ahead. "If n yer keen to larn, I'll be happy to show you what a
slave's life is all about."

 
          
 
"I can guess."

 
          
 
Baptiste's expression sharpened. "Do
tell?"

 
          
 
"Maybe I can't. Oh, I don't know. I don't
seem to know much of anything anymore."

 
          
 
For the first time that day, Baptiste smiled.
"Wal, coon, I reckon that's when yor ready to larn. Cain't larn a damn
thing when you knows all the answers already."

 
          
 
"You sound like Travis now."

 
          
 
"Yep." Baptiste resettled his rifle.
"I come outa
Louisiana
ready to whip old Hob hisself. Fs mad, boy.
Plumb clean killer mad. They done took my pap and sold him off ter Tennessee.
Had me a woman. They wanted a strong buck like me to make young 'uns. So I had
me a woman. Sold her off to
Cuba
after I
run the fust time."

 
          
 
Baptiste spit off the side of his horse.
"Shit. Lost everything I had. Old friends wouldn't even talk to me. 'Fraid
they'd be beat, too. So I's mad." He grinned. "Hell, even tried to
slice up old Travis just afo' we made
Memphis
.
That coon, he's some, he is. Took my knife away and boxed my ears till I
couldn't stand up fo' the ringing. And, hell, I ftggered I knowed how to fight
right fierce."

 
          
 
"You tried to knife Travis?"

 
          
 
"I done told you, Doodle. I's a rough
nigger in them days. Had the fight on. Wal, old Travis he done taken it right
outa me. That's when he set me down, all bunged up and bleeding, and we had us
a parley. That coon talked sense inta me. Understand? He told me just what Ts
doing, and why, and asked this child when I's gonna straighten out, 'cause he
wasn't about to waste his time on no nigger bound ta get hisself hung fo' being
a stupid ass!"

 
          
 
Baptiste slapped his leg. "Hell, Dick. I
didn't know shit neither."

 
          
 
"What if they'd caught you?"

 
          
 
"A murdering slave? And a runaway to
boot?" Baptiste lifted an eyebrow. 'They'd a kilt me. Reckon Travis, too.
It don't do fo' no white man to go ferrying 'scaped niggers north."

 
          
 
"Why do you think he did it?"

 
          
 
"No telling. Not with Travis Hartman.
Says he saw something in my eyes that day I run inta his camp. Hell, he mighta
done her fo' the hell of it. Why, catch that coon in the right mood, he'd spit
in old Hob's right eye."

 
          
 
"You like him, don't you?"

 
          
 
"Reckon so. Now, he asked me ta larn you,
so scrape the wax outa yor ears, Dick, 'cause old Baptiste's a gonna do just
that." He held up a black finger. "Don't never go agin' yer pap.
Don't matter what's ahind you, I reckon it can be patched. If'n not, I reckon
I'll trade you, 'cause you got a pap and I don't."

 
          
 
At Baptiste's cutthroat glare, Richard kept
his peace.
Willow
was listening intently, struggling for the
words.