Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (68 page)

 
          
 
"Why you?"

 
          
 
"Running the men is my job."

 
          
 
"It's me he's after. . . and
Willow."

 
          
 
"Yer not up ter Trudeau. He'll make
wolfmeat outa ye."

 
          
 
"I could learn, couldn't I?"

 
          
 
"Might mean taking a couple of lumps,
Dick."

 
          
 
Richard stared out into the night rain and
swallowed hard as he made his decision. "Trade you."

 
          
 
"How's that."

 
          
 
"You teach me how to whip Trudeau, and
I'll teach you how to read and write."

 
          
 
"I cain't larn that!"

 
          
 
"Painter crap, as you would say. Or. . .
are you afraid of failing?"

 
          
 
Thunder blasted the night.

 
          
 
''I . . . uh . . . Me? Laming ter read?"
Travis snorted in final defeat, then smiled. "Yer a damned Yankee bastard,
Dick.''

 
          
 
Yes, but then, when it comes to being a damn
bastard, I've had good teachers.

 
          
 
The experience was magical. Heals Like A
Willow sat on the front of the cargo box and looked down over the bow of the
boat. In the lee of the storm, the wind blew strongly from the south, and
Maria's bulging sail drove her upriver.

 
          
 
Muddy water sparkled in the sunlight as the
boat raced the waves upriver. The sensation of such movement lifted Willow's
soul as if born on the wings of a mighty eagle. She couldn't see enough of the
bank passing, of the wake left behind, or the current sliding under the pointed
prow— and without muscles to do it! The boat seemed alive, a sentient being
instead of a human creation.

 
          
 
And in that lay another puzzle. Did White men
have the ability to create beings?

 
          
 
High overhead the last of the delicate clouds
raced them northward, contrasting to the deep blue of the rain-fresh sky and
the aching green of the trees and grass. So clean compared to the muddy river
with its flotsam.

 
          
 
Dave Green came to sit beside her, resplendent
in a jade shirt and fawn-colored pants. His blond hair caught glints of golden
sunlight, and his blue eyes sparkled. Eyes she still hadn't grown used to
seeing; they simply shouldn't be that pale and curious-looking.

 
          
 
''A good day," Green told her, clasping
his hands in his lap. "After yesterday, I can use a day like this.
Sailing, by God. What a relief. But help me watch for floating logs. The banks
will be washing out and toppling trees."

 
          
 
"The boat moves," she said.
"Strong medicine."

 
          
 
"You've seen the wind push a leaf across
a pond? Same thing, but bigger. I've come upriver many times, and the wind is
always a chancy thing. I was starting to believe it had deserted us
altogether."

 
          
 
Willow tucked a long strand of black hair
behind her ear. "I never would have figgered such a thing."

 
          
 
Green's expression betrayed his delight with
the day. "If we could have a couple of weeks of this, we could ride up to
the
Yellowstone
in complete comfort.''

 
          
 
She glanced up at the curving sail.
"Canvas," they called it. Such an incredibly strong and light fabric.
Even the finest scraped buffalo hide could not match it for strength.

 
          
 
"You have many marvels, Green. I had
heard the stories told by some of my people. I did not believe them." She
touched the looking glass she wore on a thong around her neck.

 
          
 
"I hope all of your people share your
enthusiasm." Green rubbed his hands together. "I've been thinking,
Willow. This first year we'll set up at the mouth of the Big Horn. Trade with
the Crows. If that goes well, maybe we'll move up the Big Horn, put a post in
Snake country. Maybe around the Hot Spring."

 
          
 
She knew the place of which he spoke:
Pagoshowener, Hot Water Stand. The huge hot springs where the Big River ran
through the canyon in the Owl River Mountains.

 
          
 
"Why would you go there?"

 
          
 
"Your people could come to trade. They
would have their own post, Willow. As it is, the Snakes must travel a great
distance, through many enemies, to trade hides for white goods."

 
          
 
She shook her head slowly. "You call
these things 'goods.' I am not sure they are good. Marvelous, yes. Good? That
is a word I worry about. Ritshard and Trawis have taught me the word
'medicine.' " She made the hand sign for "Power." "Among my
people, medicine can be good or bad. It depends on how people use it. A healer
can use medicine for good. A sorcerer can use it to kill. These things you
Whites would trade, they, too, have medicine. Tell me, Green, are they really
all good?"

 
          
 
His blue eyes probed hers. "Travis told
me you were a smart squaw, and that I'd best not underestimate you. Well, Willow,
I'll tell you the truth as far as I know it, all right?"

 
          
 
"All right."

 
          
 
"I don't know if all the things White men
make are good for them, or not. I guess it depends on how you use them. A gun
kills more efficiently than a bow. A man can defend his home better with a
bullet than an arrow."

 
          
 
"But you must trade for powder and
bullets. And if your gun breaks, you must get a White Man to fix it."

 
          
 
"That's true. But in the meantime, an
Indian can make him a new bow and arrows until he runs into a trader with gun
parts."

 
          
 
"A gun is heavy thing to pack around
while looking for a trader."

 
          
 
"Not if you have a post at the Hot
Springs. The parts would be there whenever you needed them."

 
          
 
"And if this trader wants as much for the
gun—what did you say? Parts? Those are the pieces?"

 
          
 
"That's right. A gun is made of
parts."

 
          
 
''But if one part breaks, the gun is worth as
much as the broken part. What then, Green? I heard the story about Blackbird.
He let the trader charge what he wanted. And the people had to pay."

 
          
 
The booshway frowned. "Happens. On my
honor,
Willow
, if I am your trader, I will never charge
as much for the part as I would for the whole gun."

 
          
 
"But you might charge a lot."

 
          
 
He gestured at the boat and the engages riding
along the passe avant. "This costs a great deal,
Willow
. I had to pay a heap for the boat, and the
men don't work for free. You understand about money?"

 
          
 
"Yes. Trawis explained. Like trading
plews. So many for a certain thing."

 
          
 
"Well, it's a bit more complicated than
that, but yes. I still have to make more on trade than I give out. You
understand that? I must make enough more so that I can get the things I want
for myself."

 
          
 
She lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. "And
what do you want, Green? I think you would be a hard man to satisfy. You remind
me of my..." How do I say brother-in-law? What is their word? "Of a
man I know. He always wants more, and will risk himself to get it. One day it
will kill him. You are such a man, Green. I can see your soul. It will never be
full."

 
          
 
Green stared out at the river, the waves
breaking in white-caps. "You can see my soul?"

 
          
 
"Medicine has given me certain ways of
seeing. Your soul is a lot like Ritshard's. He is driven to know. You are
driven to have things. Neither one of you will ever have enough of what you
want, but Ritshard will try to share what he seeks. Will you try to share your
things, Green?"

 
          
 
He took a deep breath and laughed. "Damn,
woman, do you always ask so many questions?"

 
          
 
"Ever since I was a little girl. It is
said that I'm nothing but trouble. Better for you that Ritshard shot Packrat
and freed me. Think how you would have felt if you'd traded two rifles for me
back at the fort. You'd want your rifles back."

 
          
 
A twinkle filled Green's eyes. "I doubt
it,
Willow
."

 
          
 
"We have not solved the problem of your
'goods.' They can be bad, can't they? Like the whiskey you carry. People will
want more and more of them."

 
          
 
"If they didn't, I couldn't trade for
very long.
Willow
, many things the whites have make life
easier. A metal pot lasts forever. An iron ax is sharper than one made of
stone. It takes less labor to chop down a tree."

 
          
 
"Gunpowder runs out. Whiskey is all drunk
up."

 
          
 
"Iron needles are better than bone ones.
Blankets are lighter than buffalo hides—and just as warm."

 
          
 
She placed her palms together, rubbing her
hands. "The Ku'chendikani believe that horses are good for them, too. Now
they move camp all winter long looking for grass for the horses. I think they
work harder for the horses than the horses work for the people. Would trade be
this way? If all the bands want White things, will they be working all winter
to hunt enough beaver to pay for gunpowder, needles, pots, and whiskey? Are
these things you bring just something else to take my people away from their
old life? From the familiar ways of doing things?"

 
          
 
Green made a face. "Hell,
Willow
, I don't... I mean . . . Look, I can't make
them trade for things. It's up to them, isn't it? You've got to understand how
trade works. I've got to bring things people want. If I haul a boatload of
blankets all the way upriver and no one wants a single one, I'm broke. I sure
can't make a man trade for a blanket he don't want. Follow my stick?"

 
          
 
She nodded. "Plumb center, Green. My
people wanted horses. They still do. More than anything else in the world. I
fear they will want the White man's goods with the same—is the word
'passion'?"

 
          
 
"It is."

 
          
 
''Then your goods may be very bad,
Green."