Authors: Guy Vanderhaeghe
Our cold supper eaten, we silently crawl into our tent, wrap ourselves in our blankets. Straw has cunningly positioned the fire before a large boulder so as to reflect heat and light into our shelter. The pine boughs cut to make our beds fill the interior with a clean, sharp, spicy scent. Through the opening I watch fat flakes of snow wafting down, bouncing in the updraft of the fire until they dissolve in its heat and disappear. My feelings towards Straw soften. I would like to be able to express my genuine thanks to him, but each attempt I have made before has been dismissed with a shrug, as if he believes that to accept my gratitude would lessen himself in his own eyes. What surely lies behind this, and between us, is Lucy.
I’m not proud to think that when she insisted on paying a visit to Straw’s sickroom I felt the smallest nudge of jealousy, remembering how she had once hinted to me that Straw was enamoured of her. At the same time I recalled how, after his beating at the hands of Addington, Straw had questioned me with undisguised hostility about Lucy’s and my relationship. Following so hard upon the first sharp words I had ever thrown at her, the thought of Lucy taking herself off to him did not sit easily with me.
The unworthiness of this response and the kindness of this man lying with blankets clutched tightly under his chin like a little boy shame me. The firelight flickers on his eyes, vitrified by thought.
I say, “Mr. Straw, you are very quiet tonight. Does something trouble you?”
“Just thinking.”
“I see.”
Meditatively, he lifts a flask of whisky from under his bed coverings, uncorks it, props himself on an elbow to pass it over. I take a mouthful and hand it back. Straw says, “I’ve been considering Moses. Not Jerry Potts, mind, but the grand original, the one and only Bible Moses.”
How very peculiar, how very like Straw. But at least we are speaking, at least we are being companionable. Straw ponders a moment. “Think of all that old Moses did for God, of how good a servant he was. Why, Moses freed God’s people, he passed on Jehovah’s messages like a damn telegram boy, he trooped those Hebrews over deserts,
put up with their grumbling and grousing, their endless moaning and pissing. He did his very best to act about as well as a man can behave and yet he never got his just recompense.” Straw pauses. “Doesn’t that seem a hard, unfair reward for a faithful servant?”
Baffled as I am, the only polite response is to plead ignorance. “I have no opinion, Mr. Straw. Bible scholarship is my brother Simon’s department.”
“It’s a puzzler,” says Straw. “Moses transported all those Jews to the doorstep of the Promised Land and no sooner did he deliver them to the threshold than God says to Moses, ‘Tough titty, but you aren’t going to cross over the River Jordan. You’re going to die right here, a few steps short of the Promised Land, all of it in plain view.’
“And that throws me. The Bible says Moses did something against God. For the life of me I can’t detect what it was. Jehovah says Moses didn’t believe in Him, but if Moses wasn’t faithful, then who ever could be? Where exactly did old Moses go wrong?”
Warily, I agree. “Indeed.”
“So Jehovah lets Moses go up to Pisgah and see across the river to the land he’s been hankering for all those long years, lets him look at it, but he doesn’t let him cross Jordan. And old Moses dies there without a murmur of complaint; the Hebrews plant him on the wrong side of the river, and everybody goes on about his business in the land of milk and honey.”
He falls silent. In the mournful quiet, my sympathy rises for this very odd individual.
“What can it mean – show a man the Promised Land, then don’t let him set foot in it?”
“I have no idea. But why do you dwell on this, Mr. Straw?”
“It’s an itchy spot in my brain. One thing I’ll say is this. If ever I caught sight of the Promised Land, I’d make my way over to it, or die trying. I wouldn’t accept it like Moses, go down without a fight.” He pauses. “Only I’m never going to see the Promised Land, Gaunt. It’s not for me to look on. But it’s in your view right now. So don’t hesitate, don’t make Moses’ mistake. Don’t listen to any voice but your own sweet wishing. If you want Lucy Stoveall, cross over. Don’t keep
her waiting on the other side of the bank.” That said, he rolls over on his side, turns his face to the wall of the tent.
I am rendered speechless with astonishment. Surely, he will not leave it at that. But almost instantly, the sound of even, calm breathing fills our tent. Having lifted that weight from his shoulders, Straw is deeply, soundly asleep. In the quiet, I feel his dark burden shift, settle on me, souring my anticipation of tomorrow with a restive foreboding.
All night the wet snow falls, sticks to the tent; the canvas roof sags above me.
CUSTIS
Until an hour ago I was doubtful I could deliver on my promise to Gaunt we would find the Crow today. Then, late in the afternoon, we spotted a flat down by the edge of the Bighorn River, snow trampled and splashed with horse piss, piles of dung everywhere, sure evidence of a big herd. We pushed on hard, trusty old Dan scarcely keeping up with Gaunt’s horse as he urged him on through the grey light. Now it’s before us, a large Crow village, the flames of campfires bouncing amid the pine thickets, the yap of dogs, the happy voices of children at play in the last hour of light. About three hundred yards off, teepees, women stooped over cooking pots, Crow warriors strolling about draped in their blankets and buffalo robes. A boy posted as sentry on the outskirts of the village blows a bone whistle, shouts a warning. I check Gaunt’s eagerness, tell him to ease in on the encampment slow and steady, keep his horse to a walk so they don’t take us for a threat. A dozen warriors come out to meet us, carbines cradled in their arms, heads swinging from side to side, alert for treachery, on the lookout for raiders concealed in the trees.
I halt, call out my name and my business in pidgin Crow. A familiar voice answers. No mistaking the harsh croak of Pretty Flag, whose throat was stabbed in a fight with the Sioux twenty years ago. Once Pretty Flag gives the all clear, a crowd drifts out from the camp to survey us, among them old friends from my horse-trading days with the Crow, Rotten Tail, Young Badger, Hard Shield, who all press
round to reach up and shake my hand. Rotten Tail wants me to come and talk old times with him, Young Badger tempts me with a feast of marrow bones, Hard Shield offers a bed in his lodge.
The Englishman has collected himself a horde of wide-eyed women and children. One little tyke, hardly taller than Gaunt’s stirrups, is so taken with his high-topped, shiny boots he strokes them as he would a dog. Another boy stares up at him and shouts questions in Crow. A woman pats his fat horse, murmuring her admiration, only adding to Gaunt’s bewilderment.
“Custis, where is Potts?” he calls to me. “Who can we ask about Simon?” His voice is eager, but his eyes are scared. I reckon he’s put himself in his brother’s shoes, is imagining him lost and marooned in all this strangeness.
I can’t answer precisely to Potts’s whereabouts, but I do know who to ask about the white man. It’s bad form to cut short Indian courtesies, but Gaunt is strung so tight that I turn to Pretty Flag, state the reason for our visit in English because he speaks it better than I talk Crow. “Old friend, excuse my hurry, but we have ridden hard down from Many Houses on the Missouri. We have come because word reached us that a white man is living among the Crow.” I gesture to Gaunt. “This man thinks he may be his brother. Is there such a man in the lodges of the Crow? A man called Gaunt?”
In the dimming light I see Pretty Flag’s face harden. Even Gaunt can’t have missed the sudden change. I throw a glance at the others who understand a little English – Young Badger, Hard Shield, Rotten Tail. Some of their friendliness has blown away, a chill has crept into them at mention of the white man. “There is a Hairy Face here,” Pretty Flag answers with grave deliberation. “I do not know what the white men call him. The
bote
has named him Born of a Horse.”
I can’t read for certain what’s going on, but whoever he is, the white man hasn’t any friends here. “This man with me is very worried. He will not rest until he knows if this Born of a Horse is his brother. Can you take us to him?”
Pretty Flag shifts his moccasins in the snow, rasps out a question. “Has he come to take his brother away?”
Gaunt bursts out, “Yes, yes! I have brought money! I will pay you anything if you release him!”
“Hold your tongue,” I snap.
But Pretty Flag hasn’t taken offence. “I am glad you have come. The
bote
makes too much of this Born of a Horse. It is not good that she keeps him in her lodge. We will take you to him, take you to the Lodge of the Sun.” With that, the old man turns to his people, shouts to them to lead us to the lodge of the
bote
.
Gaunt can’t stop champing at the bit. “Do you think they will surrender him? Do you think my brother has been harmed?”
“Oh, they’ll surrender him all right. It appears they don’t want any part of him. Something to do with the
bote
, the Holy Being.”
“Holy Being? What do you mean?”
I have no explanation, at least not one I’m ready to give him at present. It wouldn’t be wise to tell him that if the white man is living with a
bote
, who are great healers, that could mean he’s sick or injured. Gaunt is already wan with concern. So all I say is, “Just rest easy for the time being. Take it as it comes.”
To my surprise, Gaunt heeds my advice. Simply sits on his horse, chewing his lips, watching as, one by one, the Crow light torches. In the last few minutes, the sun has dipped below the horizon. The pop of pine resin catching fire unsettles the night, flame blows about in the wind, whipping the blackness as thirty or forty warriors mount their ponies.
The Indians lead us off through the snowy pines, Gaunt and I in the rear, side by side, the torches streaming sparks and smoke as we file by Crow lodges. Whole households come out to take a gander. They remain stock-still, watch us in heavy silence, the women wrapped in blankets, heads hooded, black eyes gleaming. Then one young brave slips forward, puts his hands to his hips, pouts and leers at Gaunt like a streetwalker, wriggles lasciviously.
“My God!” exclaims Gaunt. “What is that?”
The young man trots alongside Gaunt’s horse. There’s no time to explain he was mimicking the
bote
or to explain why. “Don’t look at him,” I order Gaunt. “Don’t give him a thought.”
But he’s not easy for Gaunt to ignore, so close by his stirrup leather. The young man starts to shout angrily, something about giving back the
bote
to his people. My Crow isn’t good enough to make it all out. The Indian grabs a handful of snow, flings it at Gaunt, showers him in white, makes him flinch like he was hit by a stone.
“Easy, easy,” I mutter to him under my breath.
Suddenly, Pretty Flag barks words that stop Gaunt’s molester dead in his tracks. Pretty Flag urges the Crow into a lope, to put distance between us and the nuisance. With a shaky hand, Gaunt wipes wet snow from his face and heels his horse after the cavalcade. I stop to see if the saucy young buck is still following. He isn’t, but he’s drilling Gaunt’s back with a menacing stare.
As I turn Dan to catch the procession, I see Gaunt twenty yards ahead, chasing the torches. Without a sound, a rider slides his pony out of the trees; sitting silent as a spook he blocks my path. My mouth goes parched, a shiver crawls down my spine.
I call out in Crow, “What do you want?”
The answer comes in English, in a voice I recognize.
“Goddamn it, Potts, you gave me a start.” I push my horse up beside him. Potts swings his pony’s head and we set off after Gaunt and the torches running like a ribbon of fire through the woods. Pretty Flag has eased the pace now the young Crow has been left behind.
“How come we didn’t see you at the village?” I ask Potts.
He stabs a thumb northward. “I’m holed up a couple of miles outside the Crow camp. On a rise. I saw all the lights from there. Came down to see what was going on. Then I spotted you.”
“I don’t like the feel of this. The Crow aren’t happy about the white man.”
“Mary’s father says they fear he is stealing the
bote’s
power. He says some are afraid there will be no Holy Being to cut the sacred pole for the Sun Dance this summer. No one to say, ‘May all our enemies fall like him,’ when the tree comes down.”
“You’ve seen the white man?”
“No, he keeps to the lodge of the
bote
. My father-in-law tells me a jealous warrior hit the white man because the
bote
will not lie with any
of the warriors since he came. This made the
bote
very angry and she beat the jealous man with a stick so hard that his own wife could not recognize him. I have seen the
bote
. She is large and very strong.” He ponders a moment. “My father-in-law believes the white man has made her Christian, taught her it is a sin to lie with many men.” Potts smiles.
We are gaining on Gaunt. I call out to him. He reins in his horse, twists round in the saddle. Recognizing Potts, he rushes questions at him in one quaky breath. “Is it my brother? Is the white man Simon?”