Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (63 page)

 
          
 
"Ain't nobody dead yet. Nobody drowned.
No holes in the boat. Nobody arrested at
Fort
Atkinson
. We're plumb chipper."

 
          
 
"We're just reaching the frontier,
Travis." Green blew out his candle, and Travis rose and climbed out onto
the deck.

 
          
 
"You find anything?" Henri asked as
he stepped around the passe avant.

 
          
 
"She's dry." Green thrust thumbs
into his belt, staring out at the river. For a time the three of them stood
there, watching the gathering darkness over the water.

 
          
 
The evening was cool, the air still, and the
river had taken on a silvered sheen in the sky's fading glow. As the current
tugged at it, the long steering oar canted to the starboard. Travis slapped a
mosquito that had been humming around his left ear. Swallows swooped low over
the water to skim a drink.

 
          
 
"Think we'll make it?" Green asked
as he watched the dark river swirl below them.

 
          
 
Travis shrugged. "Sioux country is up
ahead. Never can tell about Sioux. Since
Leavenworth
made such a fool outa himself, it's hard
ter say how they'll react. Then we got the Rees up near the
Mandans
now. Probably still madder than hell.
Tarnation, Dave, we're on the upper river now. Who knows? The game changes past
Blackbird's grave and the

 
          
 
Mahas. Downriver, yer more likely to drown.
Upriver, yer more likely to get shot, scalped, starved, or froze. If n 'tain't
water, it's fire."

 
          
 
"I take water every time," Henri
said as he flexed his powerful hands. "If there is one law on the river,
it is that God lets no man die old, non?"

 
          
 
Green nodded thoughtfully. "Makes you
wonder what sort of tools we are. doesn't it? So many things could go wrong. A
sawyer could rip the bottom out of the Maria. We could run into a band of Sioux
with the prod on. The Rees could figure us for a lone boat and ambush us."

 
          
 
"And I might get ate by a bear. Reckon
there ain't no gain if n a body don't take no risk. What the hell, Henri is
right. This coon's done figgered he'll lose his hair afore he dies of old age.
Life's fer living, Dave. It's fer taking a gamble and seeing where yer stick
floats. Hell, yer not figgering on dying in a bed in Saint Loowee, are ye?"

 
          
 
"No, I suppose not."

 
          
 
"Then stop yer cussed worrying. Each day
takes care of itself."

 
          
 
They could hear the engages singing softly as
their supper Ked on the bank. Travis batted futilely at a swarm of mosquitoes
humming above him in a wavering column.

 
          
 
"These mosquitoes," Henri growled.
"Like the plague, they come to a man most just when he wants to rest.
Nusibles! Ah, well. I got to check the painter before I see you at ze tent,
bourgeois." The patroon slapped at the humming air and disappeared around
the corner of the cargo box

 
          
 
"He’s a good man. Green noted. "I
got lucky."

 
          
 
"'Yep. And we'd best hope that luck
holds, coon."

 
          
 
"I hope all night and most of the day.
Come on, I'm half starved." Green started for the passe avant
"Baptiste cut any buffalo sign today?"

 
          
 
"Yep. Old. but still sign." Travis
followed Green down the bouncing plank.

 
          
 
"River’s up." Green pointed to where
the water had risen. "Must be a flood somewhere upriver." He
hesitated. "Travis?"

 
          
 
"Huh?"

 
          
 
'"Thanks."

 
          
 
"Whatfer?"

 
          
 
"For being here."

 
          
 
Travis patted Green on the back. "C'mon.
Let's fill our bellies and get shy of these skeeters afore they suck a man
dry."

 
          
 
Heals Like A Willow sat at the fire, a blanket
over her head as protection from the mosquitoes. This night, camp had been
pitched on a high bank, the keelboat tied off to gnarled old cottonwoods. She'd
placed their fire off to one side, away from the other engages. These White men
ate and camped in little groups called "messes." She shared hers with
Trawis, Dik, and Baptiste. Dave Green and Henri camped right in the center of
the messes, the two of them generally eating alone before the square-walled
tent.

 
          
 
The flames danced happily around the wood.
Unlike the White men who chopped logs in two with their axes, she'd used the
tried-and-true Indian method of breaking them into lengths, often wedging them
between two tree trunks to get the leverage. She didn't need as much fire as
the Whites who built bonfires and sat back away from them. Her people built small
fires and sat right on top of them.

 
          
 
Baptiste lounged on the flattened grass, idly
slapping at mosquitoes and scratching itches. In her country, she would have
used a mixture of larkspur and fir sap to keep the bugs off. Here, among these
strange plants, she didn't know what to use except smoke and the blanket.

 
          
 
From the protection of her blanket, she watched
Ritshard—seeing past his blank face to the unease he tried to hide within. From
across the camp, she could sense Tru-deau's hungry interest.

 
          
 
And when the two finally faced off over her?
It didn't take much imagination to visualize Trudeau beating Ritshard into
unconsciousness.

 
          
 
And when he does, I'll split the Frenchman's
skull with my war club. The deadly maternal urge to protect rose within her
until her eyes slitted, and she briefly considered rising, stalking across the
camp, and killing Trudeau before he had the chance to cause real trouble.

 
          
 
No. Doing so would shame Ritshard. And from
that, he might never recover. But why did she even care? A smart woman would
let them sort it out between themselves.

 
          
 
Why Ritshard? She ground her teeth, knowing
full well what attracted her. Power hovered around his soul like mist around a
warm pond, and it drew her relentlessly toward him.

 
          
 
And do you really think he could follow in the
place of your husband? He doesn’t know the simplest of things. Do you think
he's a warrior? He nearly threw up after facing Trudeau!

 
          
 
No, it would be impossible. He couldn't speak
a word of the People's tongue. The Dukurika would eventually laugh him out of
camp. And worst of all, what would her father say? It had been bad enough when
she married a Ku'chendikani.

 
          
 
The gentle strains of a song rose on the night
air as the men finished their suppers and lit pipes full of fragrant tobacco.
So peaceful now, but Trudeau would be trouble—as inevitable as winter on the
heels of a late fall wind. Up to now, she'd been able to avoid him, using her
skills to slip away when he prowled after her.

 
          
 
From the corner of her eye, she watched
Ritshard. I should leave. Take the trouble away before I get him killed

 
          
 
But she stayed, watching, seeking to find that
link of understanding within herself. Who were these ghost-skinned men from so
far away? Their talk of giant villages, of boats larger than Maria that crossed
oceans, the fascinating things they manufactured from metal, wood, and cloth,
all drew her to know more.

 
          
 
And to think I ridiculed White Hail for
wanting White man's things.

 
          
 
The Whites took wealth so casually. The day
before, Trawis had given her a looking glass, one that portrayed her with such
clarity that she might have been seeing another world rather than a reflection
of this one. Among the Dukurika the looking glass would have been a source of
awe for the entire band, passed from hand to hand with cries of amazement.
Trawis had handed the magical glass to her with no more ceremony than he might
have used to give her a rabbit-bone bead.

 
          
 
The fire popped, and sparks twined into the
night sky. In the trees, an owl hooted, the mournful note interwoven with the
voices of coyotes out in the bluffs.

 
          
 
Rich in things, yes. That was the White man's
way. But of their souls she could detect little if anything. Some of the
engages knelt in the morning, mumbling to themselves, eyes closed, and finished
with a motion of the hand, touching forehead, stomach, and each breast.
Praying, Ritshard had said. Sending a message to God, as they called Tarn Apo.

 
          
 
But on their knees like children? And with
their eyes closed? How could a man find God with his eyes closed? And if he
mumbled, how could God hear? Among her people, praying was done standing or
dancing, arms upraised, eyes open to allow the soul to embrace Creation. When
calling out to God, one sang, rejoicing and raising one's voice so that Tarn
Apo or the spirit helpers could hear clearly.

 
          
 
And perhaps that is the key. The White men
keep Tarn Apo locked up like a little thing inside them. If so, how did God
feel, to be treated thus?

 
          
 
When she questioned Ritshard about it, he used
words far beyond her. Trawis would make signs, but they, too, ran out of
meaning. Talking in signs was for trade and the interactions of peoples having
different languages, not for such things as the nature of God.

 
          
 
Ritshard had told her that Whites kept a
special ''lodge" for God. A place called "church." Was it the
nature of Whites to enclose things? That they did so with their women was
understandable if one thought of a woman like a good horse—but the idea that
anyone would try such a thing with God confounded her.

 
          
 
Trawis stepped out of Green's tent. His pipe
was in hand, and he puffed at it as he walked over to the fire and settled
himself cross-legged beside Ritshard.

 
          
 
''How do, coon?"

 
          
 
''I’m fine," Ritshard responded.