Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (61 page)

 
          
 
"I learn,"
Willow
told him, and gave Travis a challenging
glance.

 
          
 
"Good!" Richard cried. "We'll
begin at once."

 
          
 
"Reckon not, coon," Travis
interrupted. "Daylight's a-wasting. Fetch up the hosses, Dick. I'm a-riding
today. Old Baptiste, he done snuck off with his rifle a couple of hours afore
daylight. Now that we're past the
Omahas
, we otta cut buffler sign."

 
          
 
Richard looked the hunter up and down.
"Do you really think you're fit?"

 
          
 
"Hell! I been a-loafing on that damn
boat." He pulled up his shirt to expose the wound. Scabs had fallen off to
leave shiny red scars on Travis's white hide. "If'n that ain't healed, I'm
a sorry pilgrim."

 
          
 
Willow
glanced at the wound, nodded, and rose to
her feet. She walked off toward the river, long hair swaying. As she passed
through the camp, the engages went silent. Heads turned; gleaming eyes followed
her.

 
          
 
Richard stiffened unaccountably.

 
          
 
"Finally started ter notice, have
ye?"

 
          
 
"Notice what?"

 
          
 
Travis lowered his voice. "Ye seen
Trudeau?"

 
          
 
Richard glanced around. "No. But then, I
haven't been looking for him."

 
          
 
"Uh-huh. Wal, I run up on his sorry
carcass last night. Caught him slipping through the brush ahind
Willow
," Travis paused. "Thought fer a
second that French varmint was a gonna try me."

 
          
 
"Following
Willow
? Try you? I don't understand."

 
          
 
Travis gave him a disgusted look. "Dick,
why's a man foller a woman inta the brush? What's he after? Now, ye don't see a
whole lot of wimmen fer these coons ter go a-bedding, do ye? Trudeau's gonna be
a mite of trouble fer
Willow
. He's pulled his horns in fer now, but ye mind that coon close, hear?''

 
          
 
Richard's gut tickled. "Is that why
they've started looking at her that way?"

 
          
 
"Reckon so, coon. Man gets ter missing
woman flesh against his own. She's a heap of woman. Reckon they'll be trouble
over her."

 
          
 
"Trudeau?"

 
          
 
"He's the ringleader. And he's got the
glint in his eye. Heard tell he signed on because a feller from Kaskaskia was
a-looking fer him. Something about a daughter. Trudeau's supposed ter have
lifted her skirts against her will."

 
          
 
"You mean rape?"

 
          
 
"I warn't thar, coon. Reckon in this
country, a feller don't just up and point a finger. Ain't got no proof, Dick.
'Sides, we got a boat ter get upriver."

 
          
 
"That justifies anything, doesn't
it?" Richard threw out the last of his coffee, picked up his bedroll, and
tramped to the boat. He tossed his gear onto the deck and headed through the
tall grass for the horses.

 
          
 
Lugging the Maria northward outweighed any
morality these human beasts had. The time has come. I've got to run, escape.
Find a way back to
Saint Louis
. . . and then to
Boston
. At least there he could find a decent cup of coffee. And conversation
worthy of a man of letters. In
Boston
, Laura's mere presence would drive away
plaguing thoughts about
Willow
.

 
          
 
Travis slumped in the saddle as he rode into
the clearing. Not much had changed since the last time he'd camped here. How
many years ago had that been? Nigh to five, now. Old Manuel Lisa was still head
of the Fur Company. That was back when ...

 
          
 
He pulled his horse up and tightened his grip
on his rifle. That little tickle of wrongness was playing with his guts. The
wily Pawnee gelding he rode pricked its ears, attentive on a thicket of hazel
across the clearing. Overhead, the
Cottonwood
and ash leaves rustled with the breeze.

 
          
 
"What is it?" Richard asked from
behind.

 
          
 
"Hush!" Travis kneed his horse
forward, half-raising his rifle. Nervous as a cat on a floating log, he eared
the hammer on the Hawken back, the click loud in the still clearing. There,
behind that thicket. "Come on out!"

 
          
 
"I don't. . . who's there?" Richard
asked from behind. The horses snorted and stamped, aware of the sudden tension.

 
          
 
Travis raised his rifle, sighting toward the
hazel, ready for a snap shot.

 
          
 
Willow
had ridden her horse off to one side,
hurriedly stringing her bow and nocking an arrow.

 
          
 
The evening sun slanted through the leaves to
dapple the clearing. Off to the right, fifty yards away, high grass screened
the
Missouri
's muddy bank.

 
          
 
A man stood up behind the brush—a whip-thin
Indian. His hair was worn loose except for a long braided scalp lock rising
from the center of his head. Two wary black eyes stared out from a flat face
with a straight nose. Despite the heat, he was dressed in tight skins that
covered most of his body. Behind him, a woman half-crouched in the brush with a
little boy at her side.

 
          
 
"
Omaha
," Travis muttered to himself. Then, in
a louder voice, he added, ''Banished, by God."

 
          
 
"Banished?" Richard asked.

 
          
 
"Yep. That's the only reason an
Omaha
buck would wear a full set of skins in this
weather. And he's
Omaha
, all right. It's in the cut of his clothes and that scalp lock. Where
his hair is parted, it's painted red. A mite faded, but red it is."

 
          
 
The
Omaha
stepped out of the hazel and spread his
hands wide. He walked forward, smiled, and waited nervously.

 
          
 
Travis signed: "What do you want?"

 
          
 
In return the
Omaha
signed: "We friends. Hungry. Make
trade."

 
          
 
"Trade for what?" Travis asked in
signs.

 
          
 
"Whiskey."

 
          
 
"What's he saying?" Richard asked.

 
          
 
"Wants ter trade." Travis squinted.
"Keep yer eyes peeled, coon. He might be banished, but there could be
oth-ers.

 
          
 
In signs, Travis asked, "What would a
banished man have to trade with?"

 
          
 
The
Omaha
turned and called out. The woman walked
forward, leaving the child partially hidden. No expression betrayed itself on
her round face. A dirty stroud dress hung on her like an old tent. She'd parted
her hair in the middle, two braids falling down her back.

 
          
 
The
Omaha
glanced uneasily at
Willow
, and then asked in signs, "You have
woman?"

 
          
 
Travis nodded. "We have woman."

 
          
 
The
Omaha
sagged, then signed. "I can only trade
woman. I am poor. White men are powerful and rich. They will take pity on
me."

 
          
 
Willow
exhaled her disgust. The faint calls of the
engages could be heard as they pulled for the meadow and the night's camp.

 
          
 
"Boat come?" the
Omaha
signed.

 
          
 
"Yep. Boat come."

 
          
 
"Have whiskey?" The
Omaha
's eyes lit with a crazy anticipation.

 
          
 
"What's he want?" Richard asked
again.

 
          
 
"Wants to use his woman for trade."

 
          
 
"He . . . what?" Richard sounded
genuinely puzzled.

 
          
 
"Wal, coon, yer about ter come face to
face with that philos'phy of yern." Travis cut off any further questions
with a slashing of his hand. Eyeing the
Omaha
, he signed: "You are banished for
murder. Tell me the story."

 
          
 
The
Omaha
's eyes dulled and reluctantly he began to
make signs.

 
          
 
Travis could barely make out Richard's shadow.
The lad had done exactly as Travis had instructed: He hunkered in the darker
shadows of the cottonwood trunks, a thick tree to his back so that no one could
sneak up on him from behind.

 
          
 
Travis cocked his head to listen: distant
coyotes, leaves whispering with the breeze; crickets and night insects.

 
          
 
"Dick? It's me, Travis." He started
forward. "Seen anything?"

 
          
 
Richard straightened, the Pawnee trade gun in
his hand. ''Nothing here, Travis. Just horses farting and chomping grass.

 
          
 
Travis checked the picket line, found it
tight, and leaned against one of the cottonwoods. His eyes and ears probed the
night. "Seems quiet."

            
"Yes."

 
          
 
"Yer sounding a tad sour, Dick."

 
          
 
"You should have chased him away."

 
          
 
"Uh-huh, and he'd be out in the dark
somewhars with all kind of idears about our hosses. As it is, he's nigh ter
stumbling drunk and fit ter fall flat on his face and snore the rest of the
night away."