Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (70 page)

 
          
 
The Power of raw God overwhelmed him; his
sense of smallness crushed him. "How do we know what we know?"
Professor Ames had asked as an introduction to the works of David Hume.
"How does the mind perceive?"

 
          
 
In far-off
England
, safe amid the tame and fertile fields, and
the cozy, brick-paved streets, Hume could ponder such weighty questions. Here,
in the wilderness, perception was pressed on a man. It wasn't to be examined,
but experienced.

 
          
 
And where was Richard Hamilton to find
rationality so close to raw God? He gazed out at the ocean of grass, and
remembered waves marching endlessly across
Boston
Harbor
.

 
          
 
So far away.

 
          
 
For long moments, he lost himself in the distance,
seeking . . . what?

 
          
 
He walked on, struggling to fit together the
changes within himself. In breaks through the trees, he could see the river,
brown water chapped by the wind. In defiance of rationality, he'd come to sense
the river's soul. Power,
Willow
would have told him. All things having a soul. An idea discarded
millennia ago by Western civilization.

 
          
 
Or have we just disassociated our self from
the natural world?

 
          
 
That strange awareness of land and water,
wind, storm, and sun, had fingered his soul, heedless of his rational mind.
Yes, Power, a sort of spiritual essence, uncaring of men or their concerns. A
force to be accepted, but never denied. This face of God cared not for the
desires, prayers, and wants of men.

 
          
 
How silly to think God was only an internal
experience. No wonder
Willow
dismissed the idea that God could be encompassed by a cathedral. What a
silly thing a man was, how insignificant when abandoned in such a wilderness.
Was that the revelation experienced by Moses in the desert? Had such a forge
tempered Augustine's soul in the isolated caves of
Egypt
?

 
          
 
Richard took a deep breath, trying to sort
through his confusion. I am learning to fight, to kill. Where is my purpose in
this land of quick death?

 
          
 
Did God even care?

 
          
 
Richard stared down at his hands, those hands
that had held the fusee that blew Packrat's life out of his body. No divine
wrath had descended from the heavens. The Pawnee youth's red blood had drained
out of his body, and the birds had continued to sing. Richard Hamilton had
continued to breathe, eat, see, and feel. Only the flies had taken note of the
fact that a life had been terminated—with little more effort than Travis wiping
out his name.

 
          
 
''What kind of world is this?" Richard
threw his head back, eyes closed, listening to the cottonwood leaves rattling
overhead. The air moved against his skin. Nothing changed with death. Life was
only meaningful for the living.

 
          
 
He shook his head, and when he opened his
eyes, it took several seconds for the sight to sink in. The men walking slowly
toward him carried half-lifted rifles and bows. They wore breechcloths, leather
leggings, and feathers stuck into their gleaming black hair. No expression
crossed their hard faces. Keen black eyes watched him warily as they spread out
to surround him.

 
          
 
Richard filled his lungs and shouted: ''Travis!''

 
          
 
As everything is useful for man, so, too, is
man himself useful, and his singular characteristic function consists in making
himself a member of the human herd, to be utilized for the common good, and
serviceable to all. The f extent to which he looks after his own interests

 
          
 
O is the measure to which he must also serve
the interests of others, and so far as he serves their needs, he is taking care
of himself: the one hand washes the other.

 
          
 
—Georg Friedrich Wilhelm Hegel, Phenomenology
of Mind

 
          
 
Travis dodged from tree to tree, his Hawken in
hand. There! He caught sight of movement, signaled Bap-tiste, and ducked low as
he scuttled behind one of the thick cotton woods.

 
          
 
Hamilton
stood surrounded by six warriors. They'd
cornered the Yankee fair, and the leader was fingering Richard's clothing,
paying particular attention to the coup at his belt.

 
          
 
Travis filled his lungs and bellowed,
"Waugh!"

 
          
 
At the call, the Sioux whirled, weapons ready.

 
          
 
To the side, Baptiste had wriggled up behind a
log, slipping his Hawken over the scaling bark.

 
          
 
''Dakota!'' Travis cried, walking out and
making the hand sign for good. "Wash-te!"

 
          
 
Richard threw him a terrified but grateful
glance. Travis chuckled, and called out, "Dick, if'n ye gets any more
scairt, yer eyes is gonna pop plumb outa yer body and ye'll be blinder than a
cussed gopher!"

 
          
 
The Sioux shuffled uncertainly, staring about,
worried that there might be more Whites.

 
          
 
''Stand up, Baptiste," Travis called.
"Let 'em know they got a shooter on them."

 
          
 
Baptiste raised himself to a sitting position,
his Hawken braced for a shot.

 
          
 
In signs, Travis gestured, ''We are friends.
Traders. A boat is just downriver with many men. You have something to
trade?"

 
          
 
This was the part that puckered a man's
string. The Sioux glanced back and forth, evaluating their chances. Travis held
his breath; then the leader smiled, signing, ''It is good to see our White brothers.
Traders are always welcome among the Water Spirit's people."

 
          
 
Water Spirit, Wah-Menitu; so that's who the
tall coon was. A Teton Sioux chief, Water Spirit could go either way depending
on how his medicine played out. Maybe he'd lift hair, or maybe he'd be a man's
best friend.

 
          
 
"Wah-Menitu," Travis called out
loud. "Wash-te! It is good."

 
          
 
At a command from Wah-Menitu, the other Sioux
lowered their weapons.

 
          
 
''C'mon out, Baptiste, but keep yer iron
ready."

 
          
 
"Got that right," Baptiste agreed,
rising slowly.

 
          
 
Wah-Menitu made the sign for "It is
good.'' He was a lodgepole of a man, thin of frame and tall. Scars puckered the
skin on his breasts. When he smiled, his projecting upper lip exposed worn
yellow teeth. The aquiline nose hooked like a bird of prey's. Copper bracelets,
tarnished as dark as the flesh beneath, decorated his sinewy arms. Tin cones
held the horsehair tassels on his moccasins.

 
          
 
He pointed to the coup on Richard's belt.
"Whose?" he signed.

 
          
 
"Pawnee," Travis signed back. "A
warrior named Pack-rat."

 
          
 
At that, the Sioux yipped and began to leap
about in enthusiastic joy. Richard had begun to sweat, his balled fists pressed
desperately to his side. If he stood any stiffer, his joints were going to snap
like dry sassafras sticks.

 
          
 
"Easy, Dick. Ye ain't dead yet. Stay
calm, coon. They's just glad ter see ye."

 
          
 
Wah-Menitu touched the scalp reverently, then
threw his arms around Richard in a bear hug that nigh to squeezed the grease
out of the Yankee. The rest of the Sioux continued to leap and yip their shrill
calls.

 
          
 
"What. . . what's happening?"
Richard gasped.

 
          
 
"Made friends, coon." Travis laughed
in spite of himself. And if'n old Dick ever figgers out what that ''fetish''
is, he's gonna come plumb unstuck. "Now, Dick. Whoop and holler a little
yerself. C'mon, coon. Dance and shout! Join 'em. Or, yer wolfmeat!"

 
          
 
His back rigid as a keel, Richard jerked into
step. Had his voice not been cracking, the whoops would have sounded a little
more enthusiastic. The way Richard pirouetted reminded Travis of a stick figure
on a string. The Sioux didn't seem to mind. They leapt and shrieked, nimble as
hunting cats.

 
          
 
"What am I doing, Travis?" Richard
shot him a frightened glance.

 
          
 
"Why, making friends, Dick."

 
          
 
"Am I gonna die?"

 
          
 
"Reckon. But if'n ye'll dance a little
harder, it won't be hyar and now."

 
          
 
Richard jumped and bucked like a spring foal.

 
          
 
Baptiste sidled up to Travis, whispering,
"Now, don't that beat all?"

 
          
 
"Reckon so. If'n his perfessers could
just see him."

 
          
 
Travis stepped forward, grinning, and as the
dance wore down, offered his hand around, smiling and shaking. Baptiste did the
same, one hand still gripping his rifle.

 
          
 
"Smoke," Wah-Menitu said in English.

 
          
 
"Waugh!" Travis made a gesture and
seated himself, digging his pipe and fixings out of his possibles. With flint
and steel, one of the young warriors conjured a fire, and Travis used a twig to
light his pipe.

 
          
 
Travis glanced up at the nervous
Hamilton
. "Sit down, Dick. Right hyar next ter
me. That's right. We's gonna have us a palaver." Travis puffed his pipe to
seat the fire, offered it to the four directions, and handed it to Wah-Menitu.
The Sioux made his offering to the four sacred ways, to sky and earth, then
puffed before handing the pipe to the next man. In silence, it made the rounds
to Dick.

 
          
 
"Do like they done," Travis coached.
"Follow the directions sunwise, then up and down. In the beginning, White
Buffalo Cow Woman taught the Sioux how to use the pipe. Tobacco's sacred. Takes
prayers to Wakantanka, to God. All words spoken here will be spoken
truthfully."

 
          
 
Richard did as he was told, but his fingers
shook as he offered the pipe and took a puff.

 
          
 
In signs, Travis said, "You gave my young
friend a start. He thought you might have been Pawnee."

 
          
 
The Sioux laughed uproariously.

 
          
 
"You have boat?" Wah-Menitu asked.

 
          
 
"Downriver a mite. Be hyar soon."

 
          
 
''Our village is one day's travel
upriver."

 
          
 
"He talks,'' Richard whispered in
surprise.

 
          
 
"Hell, he got a tongue and talker like
everybody else," Travis chided. To Wah-Menitu, Travis said and signed,
"I am Travis Hartman, this is Dick Hamilton, and hyar's Baptiste. We will
come to your village." He lifted his foot to show the hole in his
moccasin. "Reckon I'm right keen ter trade, hoss."

 
          
 
The Sioux laughed again.

 
          
 
Wah-Menitu was studying Travis with hard black
eyes. He said, "I know of you, Trawis Hartman. It is said yer a great
warrior and a man of yer word. You have wintered with the Dakota before. Helped
with the hunt. Shared our lodges and fires."

 
          
 
"Time or two, I reckon."

 
          
 
Wah-Menitu gestured to indicate the scars on
Travis's face. "The bear left his sign. Only a strong man would keep his
hair . . . and the bear lifted some of yers."

 
          
 
"Yep, wal, I reckon I got a sight more of
his than he got of mine."

 
          
 
Wah-Menitu smiled. "It will be good to
have you. Shining times for you, booshway. Beaucoup vittles." Wah-Menitu
reached over to touch the coup on
Hamilton
's belt. "The Teton Dakota always have
a welcome for warriors. We will dance . . . honor Dick for his courage and
victory. Not all White coons are strong and brave."

 
          
 
"Damn that cussed
Leavenworth
anyway. Ye fought the Ree two years
back?"

 
          
 
"Yer Leavenworth, and his soldiers, have
water for blood."