Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (78 page)

 
          
 
Henri growled under his breath, then sighed.
'This is not good, ma petite femme." He paused, an eyebrow rising.
"
And this happens when the Sioux are near...
and the booshway is gone? I do not like this. Tres mal!"

 
          
 
Willow took a hesitant step, and had to lock
her knee to keep from falling. Henri, breaking from his dark musing, reached
out and offered his arm. The surprising slabs of muscle in the patroon's arm
felt like a thick, gnarled root.

 
          
 
Together they climbed out into the gray of the
false dawn. The engages were swarming around like bees. Normally, they lingered
like lazy dogs over their coffee, waiting until the last moment to take up the
cordelle.

 
          
 
As if he read her thoughts, Henri said, 'The
Sioux have put a fire in their hearts, eh? Today, mon papillon, we will make
many miles, prefer serment."

 
          
 
Having found her legs again, Willow made her
way to the privacy on the other side of the boat to relieve herself. Below her,
the restless waters roiled and stirred as if alive. A thin mist hung over the
surface like a faint silver skein of spiderweb.

 
          
 
You must leave, Willow. Trouble is coming, and
you are bringing it upon yourself. She stood at the sound of feet on the deck.
The engages were filing onto Maria and pulling their poles from the top of the
cargo box. She could hear the cordelle buzzing as it was pulled over the bow to
the cordeliers.

 
          
 
This day, too, she would ride inside the cargo
box lest some Sioux see her. She nodded to Henri, who had taken his place at
the steering oar on the cargo box. Then, reluctantly, she climbed down into the
musty darkness.

 
          
 
Only for today, she insisted. But how many
more hostile tribes lay ahead? Did they expect her, a Dukurika, to ride the
whole way inside this black box like a rabbit in a sack?

 
          
 
She ran her fingers over the line of rifles in
the rack by the door. The wood was so smooth, the iron cool and remote to the
touch. They had a menacing power all their own. Not the warm familiarity of a
bow and good arrows, but a darker presence that might be understood only
through time and familiarity.

 
          
 
There is nothing for me here. She
straightened, the decision made. She would leave, but not in a panic, like
Coyote fulfilling some whim of the moment. No, instead, she would go like Wolf
in his wisdom. From this day onward, she would prepare for the long journey
home.

 
          
 
Henri barked out orders. She settled herself
on the blankets and stretched her back to release the kinks from her cramped sleep.
She would need food, extra moccasins, a good pack, netting, a stout thong for a
snare, new arrows.

 
          
 
As she planned, she couldn't shake the memory
of the shadowy hand reaching out of the darkness for her bedding.

 
          
 
Travis waved a final farewell as Wah-Menitu's
warriors lifted lances and rifles. The Sioux wheeled their mounts with
mechanical precision and raced away across the plains, southward, toward their
village.

 
          
 
Travis ran a hand over his face and groaned
aloud. The bright sunlight and warmth of the day did little to ease the
splitting ache of his whiskey-head. God, he'd drunk half the river that morning
to cure the terrible thirst.

 
          
 
Baptiste and Dick sat their horses, slumped
over like the newly dead. Of the two, Richard certainly looked the worst off.
His face was pasty, his mousy brown hair sticking out at all angles. Grease had
matted his wispy beard on one cheek.

 
          
 
"I swear that coyote piss is running in
my veins," Baptiste muttered, squinting after the disappearing riders.

 
          
 
"
Nice of them boys ter see us this far," Travis mumbled, his gut
trying to heave again. He fought it down.

 
          
 
"Yep," Baptiste agreed. "How in
Tarnal Hell is we gonna mount a guard on these hosses tonight?"

 
          
 
"Just do 'er," Travis grunted.
"Reckon one night of fun ain't gonna kill us ... but I sure feel it might.
How 'bout ye, Dick? Can ye stand guard all night?"

 
          
 
Hamilton, face green, gave him a bleary-eyed
glare.

 
          
 
"C'mon," Travis heeled his horse
around. "Let's make tracks. Them boatman'll probably make fifteen miles
today."

 
          
 
As the horses plodded along,
Hamilton
asked dully,
"
What's a wechashawakan?"

 
          
 
"Ye mean old One-Eye?" Travis asked.
At Richard's slight nod, he added, "Wechashawakan means holy man, a
medicine man. And old One-Eye, he's a heap powerful medicine. The story is that
he can see the future, turn hisself into an owl and fly around—and Sioux ain't
too keen on owls." Travis struggled to keep from belching, fearing what
might come up with it "Why? He talk ter ye last night?"

 
          
 
"Yes." Richard's body swayed like a
grain sack with each step his horse took. "Said I had to choose, that I
was a white cloud dog."

 
          
 
"He didn't up and hex you, now?"
Baptiste gave Richard a sidelong glance. "I ain't ridin' with no hexed
man. No, suh, not this child. Why, hell, you could have lightning and all sorts
of grief called down on you. And, if'n that's the way of things, I ain't gonna
be no part of it."

 
          
 
Richard croaked, "Said I had to choose.
Die like a dog, or turn into a coyote or wolf. Then he almost froze me."

 
          
 
"Huh?" Travis closed his eyes tight
to make the spots go away. "Froze ye? That why ye drunk all that whiskey?
Hell, I figgered ye fer a frog fer a while. Drinking and dancing."

 
          
 
"I was trying to forget," Richard
declared.

 
          
 
"Old One-Eye put the scare into you,
boy?" Baptiste asked.

 
          
 
Richard nodded his head carefully, as if
afraid it might fall off. "Damn right, he did." Then a pause, as if
to change the subject. "I can't believe I drank that much ... and danced
all night. And you, Travis, I can't believe you slipped away with that
squaw."

 
          
 
Travis ran his tongue around his mouth and
grimaced at the taste. The spots had come back. "Worked well for both of
us .. .I think."

 
          
 
"You cain't remember?" Baptiste
chided.

 
          
 
"Wal, of course I remember, ye damned
fool! What in Tarnal Hell do ye think?" Travis lied, forcing his eyes to
search the surroundings with their usual wariness.

 
          
 
"Then ye'll remember how cussed ugly she
was. Older than Abraham's boot. Hell, couldn't ye dicker fer a pretty young
one?"

 
          
 
Travis flipped up the pan on his Hawken,
checking the priming. "Ye know, I could blow ye right off that Pawnee nag
yer riding—'cept the sound of the shot might kill me."

 
          
 
Richard made a strangling sound, cheeks and
eyeballs protruding. Then he belched, and groaned.
"
Thank the dear Lord God, I thought I was
gonna throw up again."

 
          
 
Travis tried to grin, but it hurt too much.
And damn it, his own stomach was none too easy.

 
          
 
They rode for a while longer, angling down
into the bottoms with their lush cottonwoods. An eagle cut lazy circles in the
hot sky, and puffy white clouds scuttled across the northern horizon far beyond
the tree-banded river.

 
          
 
Richard was mumbling under his breath, saying,
"Choose? Choose what? Die like a dog? I heard him . . . talking in my
head. How'd he do that?
"

 
          
 
A fly kept buzzing around Travis's sweaty
face. Oh, to be able to kill the miserable creature. To crush the life right
out of that tiny black buzzing . . .

 
          
 
"Fort Recovery," Baptiste pointed.
"I thought this country looked familiar."

 
          
 
Richard perked up, staring across the meadow
to the abandoned building, little more than ruins. 'That's a fort?"

 
          
 
"Used ter be," Travis said.
"Missouri Fur Company-gave up on her last year. Forts in this country,
they come and go. Reckon that'll change one of these days. Once ye get a real
fort, most everything just up and dies."

 
          
 
Baptiste swatted a deerfly that lit on his
arm, and said, "We're a day shy of Fort Kiowa."

 
          
 
"Another fort?" Richard gestured at
the fallen timbers "Like that one?"

 
          
 
"Yep." Travis rubbed his chin.
"Pratte and Chouteau, that's the French Fur Company. Rivals of Josh
PileherV Let's see, old Joseph Brazeau built it. He's a cuss if ever they was
one."

 
          
 
"Is he a friend of yours?" Richard
asked.

 
          
 
Travis made a face. "Sort of."

 
          
 
"He went under last year," Baptiste
said.

 
          
 
'The hell ye say! He did, huh?"

 
          
 
"Yep. Just up and died." Baptiste
slouched in the saddle.

 
          
 
Travis spat off the side of his horse.
"I’l
l miss that old coon. Just up and died? With
his hair on? Reckon that's a wonder fit fer the second coming."

 
          
 
"Hell of a country," Baptiste said
dryly. "People keep dying everywhere."

 
          
 
"Reckon it's the same all over."
Travis glanced at Richard. "Even Boston. I hear tell folks die there, of
occasion, too."

 
          
 
Richard seemed curiously attentive, a gleam
fighting to establish itself in his glassy eyes.

 
          
 
Travis picked the most likely reason.
"Figgering on slipping away come Fort Kiowa?"

 
          
 
Richard scowled and looked away.

 
          
 
"Maybe we'd best put the Doodle on the
cordelle tomorrow," Baptiste offered.

 
          
 
"How 'bout it, Dick?"

 
          
 
"I ain't going nowhere." He sounded
uncertain.

 
          
 
Travis patted his horse and squinted against
the pain in his head. "Wouldn't do ye no good. The trader at Fort Kiowa
ain't gonna give a care if'n ye's indentured or not."

 
          
 
Richard bit his lip and stared at the
collapsed timbers across the meadow. "If that's the only kind of fort
they've got up here. ..."