Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (66 page)

 
          
 
''No ... I mean, this is the first time."

 
          
 
"Why?"

 
          
 
"Why not? I like to help you." He
fidgeted, oddly uneasy. "You prayed for the animals. Sang to their
souls."

 
          
 
The wind teased her long black hair.
"White men do not?"

 
          
 
"Most don't. But, well—I did."

 
          
 
She paused, the bloody knife hanging. "I
do not understand. White men do not thank the animals who die to give them
life? Ritshard, are White men without respect? Do they not understand that
everything is related?" She shook her head. "I think your people are
rich in many things . . . like knives and guns and pots. But in your souls, I
think you are all empty."

 
          
 
He took a deep breath, meeting her dark eyes
and the certainty expressed there. The memory of the woman on the steamboat
surfaced, her voice shrill as she smacked her child. "Many are, I guess.
But not all. Some men spend their entire lives seeking to understand the
soul."

 
          
 
"Some men?"

 
          
 
"Anselm. Augustine. Meister Eckhardt. We
have many men in our history who have sought God and the soul. It's an old
quest in our society."

 
          
 
"What is quest?''

 
          
 
"The search.''

 
          
 
"Men again. Women do not seek?''

 
          
 
"Not very many. Some do. It has been
suggested that women do not have the same capacity for understanding the
infinite that men do."

 
          
 
She lifted an eyebrow, then bent to her work.
"In some ways, White men and Snake people may not be so different."

 
          
 
''For every Heloise there are twenty Abelards."

 
          
 
"I don't understand."

 
          
 
"No, you wouldn't But it's—"

 
          
 
"I quest." she told him as she
sliced another thick slab of muscle from the buffalo. "Does that bother
you?''

 
          
 
He reached down, pulling on a rubbery muscle
as she severed it from the bone. "What do you hope to find?"

 
          
 
She glanced up at him. "In your
words—understanding. Of everything. You did not answer. Does that bother you?"

 
          
 
Richard glanced up at the sky, aware of the
spiraling wings of a hawk far overhead. "No. I mean, after all, that’s
what I've spent my life studying.''

 
          
 
"Studying?"

 
          
 
"Uh... larning."

 
          
 
She nodded, that secret smile on her lips.
"Isn't that all anyone can do? Try to larm?"

 
          
 
He looked into her gorgeous eyes and his soul
floated. Her lips parted, and he reached for her, barely conscious of taking
her hand. At the sound of approaching hooves she lowered her eyes, the
connection severed.

 
          
 
Richard turned away, self-conscious, as Travis
rode up out of the drainage, sitting his horse like a lord. On a lead rope, the
tail-hitched cavvy followed with heads up and manes flying. At the smell of blood,
the horses snorted, backing and pawing. Travis handled his animal with a firm
hand until the mare settled down. He landed lightly on his feet, soothing the
horses.

 
          
 
The hunter dragged the mare forward, tying her
off on the last of the man-sized cedars at the edge of the gully. He pulled a
hatchet from his possibles and stalked across the grass. Richard pushed to his
feet, ears burning redly, but Travis seemed oblivious.

 
          
 
"Now, what's left?" Travis asked
absently before using the hatchet to separate the ribs from the gut cavity.
Richard dodged flying chips of bone and stared at the organs as Travis and
Willow
cut the last of the muscles loose and
lifted the ribs off.

 
          
 
Travis chortled as he reached into the wet
mass to tug out the heavy liver. From this he sliced long strips and handed
them around.
Willow
immediately sank white teeth into the
bloody stuff. Richard stared as Travis asked, "Ye gonna eat? First meat,
coon."

 
          
 
"It's not cooked."

 
          
 
"Yer a Yankee Doodle if'n I ever saw one.
Eat'er, child, or I'll whack ye one."

 
          
 
A quest? A search for understanding? Richard
made a face and bit into the rich, hot liver. He tried to ignore die hot blood
dripping down his chin.

 
          
 
Travis hunched over his horse's neck as the
toiling line of men leaned into the cordelle. Like some curious caterpillar,
they splashed through the rippling shallows in the river below him.
Willow
sat placidly on her horse, fingers tracing
the handle of the Pawnee war club. The horses stamped at the few flies brave
enough to dare the weather.

 
          
 
Gray clouds had settled in; drizzle fell in
fits and spits, coupled with gusts of cold wind. Thunder growled out of a mass
of black clouds rolling in from the western plains.

 
          
 
The river had a sullen look, as if resentful
of the progress the line of men made as they pulled the Maria into the
strengthening current. Travis picked out Richard Hamilton as he struggled
along, sloshing and wet, the heavy cordelle over his shoulder. Farther up the
line, Baptiste bent his powerful body to the thick rope, his black skin
contrasting with that of the white engages.

 
          
 
This particular passage was deadly, the worst
they'd encountered yet. Richard hadn't wanted to go back to the cordelle, but
here they needed every hand to pull the boat through the fast water.

 
          
 
"So much work,"
Willow
said. "In all the world, only White
men and ants work like that."

 
          
 
"Reckon so," Travis agreed.
"It's a bad spot,
Willow
." He pointed to the embarras of twisted logs and splintered
branches that had dammed half the river. Water spilled around the end of the
obstacle, but against that rush Maria was hauled inexorably forward, Whitewater
foaming at her bow, the cordelle pulled tight enough to bead droplets. Under
that weight, the mast bowed perilously. On the cargo box, Green raced back and
forth like a desperate mouse, shouting orders, watching fearfully as disaster
loomed. Face twisted, Henri braced his feet and leaned against the protesting
steering oar to keep Maria out of the tangled wood.

 
          
 
"If anything goes wrong, there'll be hell
ter pay," Travis said softly. "Painter crap, I otta be down there
with 'em."

 
          
 
Maria gained a few feet against the rush of
the water, each inch made at the expense of tearing muscles and straining
joints.

 
          
 
"Ritshard did not want to pull the
boat."

 
          
 
Travis grinned. "Reckon he still figgers
he's a gentleman."

 
          
 
"Jentl. ..What is that?"

 
          
 
"Gentleman, uh, like a sort of chief. Not
like a worker. Whites have these differences among them."

 
          
 
"So do Pawnee." A frown marred her
brow. "Ritshard is a chief?"

 
          
 
Travis reached into his possibles and found
what remained of his tobacco twist. He cut a length and chewed it until it
juiced. After spitting a brown streak, he said, "Not a chief, exactly, but
I'd guess you'd say a respected man. One looked up to by most people."

 
          
 
"But not the engages?''

 
          
 
"Now,
Willow
, ye got ter understand, Dick's got ter earn
his way." He waved his hand. "This hyar ain't
Boston
. It's the river, and rules is different
wharever ye goes. Dick ain't larned that yet."

 
          
 
"Tell me of this
Boston
."

 
          
 
"It's a city. Cold in winter. Good
taverns . . . but a mite hard on coons deep in their cups. Not the kind of
place a feller wants ter go a-sleeping in the street, that's plumb
certain."

 
          
 
"Ritshard wishes for a place like this?"

 
          
 
"Wal, ye see, he figgers it a bit
different than this child. 'Course, every feller's got the right ter his own
brand of hydrophobia."

 
          
 
"Hydro...?"

 
          
 
"Foaming mouth—like the critters get.
White bubbly spit leaking from the mouth? Won't get near water. Crazy
mean—bites everything in sight. You know the sickness I mean?"

 
          
 
"I know it. You think Ritshard wanting
Boston
is a sickness? Crazy?"

 
          
 
"Yep."

 
          
 
"Why do you not let him go, Trawis?"

 
          
 
He reached up and scratched his ear. "In
the beginning we needed men,
Willow
. Just
like ye see down there, each one pulling as hard as he can. Times is, just one
body can make the difference atwixt living and dying."

 
          
 
"Green took on men at
Fort
Atkinson
."

 
          
 
''Yep."

 
          
 
At that moment, Richard stumbled on the cordelle,
dragging two more men down after him. Another fell, and then another. Shouts
carried up to them as the men floundered, battling the rippling brown current
and the weight of the cordelle. The river's grip pulled Maria back, and the
scrambling men with her. Some were dragged through the water, floundering as
they sought their feet.

 
          
 
"Come on. Come on" Travis knotted
his fists, moved his quid from cheek to cheek, and prayed fervently.

 
          
 
Baptiste let out a bellow, bracing himself and
gripping the cordelle. Trudeau cursed and shouted, plunging along the thick
rope. The men who'd fallen had scrambled for a hold, slowing the retreat,
stopping it just as the Maria swung like a pendulum toward the end of the
embarras with its foaming Whitewater and pointed logs.

 
          
 
"Pull!" Green's scream carried from
the river. "One more slip and we're dead!"