“You’re new to our country, Miss Berrybender,” Captain Aitken said. “Our West is not much like your gentle England. If a man’s got killing in him, the West will draw it out.”
“And is Monsieur Pomp Charbonneau an Indian fighter too?” Tasmin repeated.
“Oh, Pomp will kill in battle, if he has to,” the captain said. “So will I—and I have. But most sensible men will walk around an Indian fight, if they can. I will, and Pomp will too.”
“But not Mr. Snow, I take it,” Tasmin said.
“No, not Jimmy,” the captain said. “It’s the Indians who will walk around Jimmy, if he’ll allow it.”
“What happens when he won’t allow it?” Tasmin asked.
The poor man heaved a sigh.
“When he won’t, then there’s likely to be hell to pay,” Captain Aitken said.
11
. . . Cook brought up a squab and a squash . . .
THAT Indians feared Jim Snow, the Sin Killer, did not surprise Tasmin—she had seen the cold fury in his eyes when he turned to face the four painted warriors by the hill of devils. She very much doubted that there were devils about that rocky bluff that could have bested the Sin Killer when it came to dealing out carnage. Perhaps he had only held back that day because he didn’t want her to see him at his killing.
Once she left the bridge Tasmin spent the morning sitting under a little awning outside her bedroom, a victim of very uneven moods. She looked far out onto the plains to the west, the plains that she had trod but for a day. At lunch Cook brought up a squab and a squash, the latter article having been obtained from some mild river Indians a few days earlier. Tasmin ate only a bite or two. The appetite that had led her to rip at a deer’s liver with her teeth had now quite deserted her. In a room nearby Buffum and Bobbety were attempting their Latin, under the droning instruction of Master Jeremy Thaw—she could just make out rhythms that seemed to suggest Horace. From time to time the boat would have to back off a riffle, or else the engagés might need to saw off a snag. Fräulein Pfretzskaner and Master Thaw had their customary spat—the Fräulein wanted him to finish up with Latin so she could begin with their mathematics. At the end of the spat Fräulein burst into tears; salty floods drenched her great bosom, an interruption which gave Buffum and Bobbety time to attempt to make peace with their sister.
“We are so sorry, Tassie, that we interrupted you with your gentleman,” Buffum said. “We will never be so brash again.”
“What will that matter—as you can see, my gentleman is gone,” Tasmin said, in her iciest tones.
“I suppose he meant to carry you away to Samarkand,” Bobbety said, in his most grating voice.
“Samarkand is in Persia, you ignorant nit,” Tasmin told her brother. “The city west of here where I had hoped to be taken is Santa Fe—but now you two have ruined everything.”
“Perhaps Papa would hire you a guide,” Buffum said. “It is said that Monsieur Charbonneau’s son is a fine guide. He was brought up in Germany by a prince, I believe.”
“Yes, the brilliant Pomp,” Tasmin said. How a son of Char-bonneau’s had got to Germany was rather intriguing but it did nothing to mollify her for the loss of Jim Snow. Though her siblings were virtually prostrate with guilt, Tasmin did not immediately unbend—such pious virtues as forgiveness did not appeal to her. Besides, there was the distinct possibility that the Raven Brave was gone for good, driven off by her cursing. He may have felt that such a hell-bound woman deserved no guide.
These unhappy thoughts produced in Tasmin an almost unendurable restlessness. It was a sultry day—after a time she napped, slipping into an impatient, swollen dream. She seemed to hear great wings beating, and then a hand was on her, near the dark entry. She waited, but just then the steamer bumped hard against a riffle and Tasmin woke. Her sister Mary sat by the rail, licking clean the last greasy bones of Tasmin’s squab.
“Who offered you my bird, you greedy wretch?” Tasmin inquired.
“The Hairy Horn says that we shall see a million pigeons this afternoon,” Mary replied—of all the family she took the least notice of Tasmin’s moods. “Old Gorska can easily shoot you some.”
Tasmin, hungry again, made no answer.
“I expect you’ll soon be leaving this old boat, won’t you, Tassie?” Mary asked. She was but a little thing, yet she made up in ferocity what she lacked in size. Bobbety was of the opinion that she might be rabid—but of course, Bobbety’s opinions were rarely accurate.
In this case, Mary was right. Tasmin did mean to leave the boat, which was just a floating Europe. Even the smelly engagés were merely Frenchmen at one remove.
“The chiefs are hoping you will lure the Sin Killer on board,” Mary said. “They hope to fall on him and kill him.”
“Oh tush,” Tasmin said. “The chiefs are old men. I doubt they would be a match for my Raven Brave.”
“It is only the Indians to the north who call him the Raven Brave—Mr. Catlin told me that,” Mary said. “And he told me why.”
“Well, if Mr. Catlin said it, then it must be knowledge beyond challenge,” Tasmin replied. “His learning is quite encyclopedic, in his own view at least.”
“I like Mr. Catlin,” Mary said. “Once we locate some buffalo he means to make me his assistant. We’ll tramp off into the prairie and I’ll carry his paints.”
“If you’re going to wake me up, stick to the point,” Tasmin said. “Why do the Indians of the north call my friend Mr. Snow the Raven Brave?”
“Because there are no vultures in the north,” Mary said, giving the bones of the pigeon one last lick. “In the north the raven is the bird of death.”
“You needn’t sound so melodramatic about it, Mary,” Tasmin said. “Even in England crows are carrion birds. Nor is it a bad thing that Indians fear my friend. I myself would be a captive of the noisy Osage now, had Mr. Snow not saved me.”
“Mr. Catlin says Papa is not to shoot the great swans,” Mary said. “He says the Indians believe that swans are the carriers of souls.”
“Tut, they only want to sell the feathers,” Tasmin said. “Your new friend Mr. Catlin is a fine exaggerator. Take that plate to Cook and ask her to fix me a chop—a large chop.”
“Cook was just thrashing Eliza,” Mary informed her. “Eliza broke two plates this morning. If she is allowed to go on in this way we will soon be without a plate to our name.”
“Trot along and do as you’re told,” Tasmin said, and then at once retracted her command, having just remembered something.
“Mr. Snow claims he saw you talking to a serpent,” she said. “Is that true? Can you communicate with serpents?”
“It was merely a moccasin—I told it to go bite Bobbety, since he assaulted me with a frog,” Mary said. “But the moccasin did nothing to Bobbety, otherwise he’d be dead.”
“Mary, you are a violent brat,” Tasmin said.
12
. . . far to the west, on a low hill, three antelope stood.
LONG before the pigeons came, every member of the hunting party was in a crashing bad temper, none more so than Lord Berrybender, who was not accustomed to tramping around for hours without once firing his gun. He did not, at least, have to carry his gun—Gorska Minor shouldered the two fowling pieces, while Gladwyn took the rifles. Old Gorska had his own weapon, Belgian-made and of the finest workmanship; Mr. Catlin, who merely carried an ordinary musket, had several times complimented Gorska on his excellent Belgian gun. These compliments did not entirely please Lord Berrybender, who did not see why the help should have better equipment than his own, although it was true that the company would soon be dependent on the Polish hunter for meat, and possibly even for defense. Had he been allowed to blast away continually at buffalo and bear, or even antelope and elk, Lord Berry-bender might have been less envious of Gorska’s Belgian gun; but such, emphatically, had not been the case. The prairie grass that from a distance looked so silken was more nearly like a carpet of needles, and nothing appeared to be abroad to be stuck by t
he needles but themselves.
“I say, Gorska, can’t you send that boy off to beat the bushes and scare up a stag or two?” Lord B. inquired impatiently.
“What bushes? No bushes,” Gorska said. He had honed his hunting skills in the employ of a petty prince, ruler of a pocket duchy in the foothills of the Carpathians, in whose heavily forested glades it was easy to surprise the local game: boar, stag, even bear. But how was anyone to surprise game on this treeless prairie, where the wind was always blowing, for hunting purposes, from the wrong direction and where the animals—who, after all, were not blind—could see the hunters coming when they were still far out of range of even the best Belgian rifle?
“Well, if there are no bushes, then it’s somebody’s fault,” Lord B. complained. “Poor planning, I say. Somebody should have come out here and planted a few bushes.”
George Catlin, though he considered Lord Berrybender to be a rude, crusty old fussbudget, also knew that he was reputed to be one of the richest men in England; a hand-to-mouth painter such as himself, often dependent on extremely whimsical patronage, could not afford to be rude to the richest man in England, however great a fool he might be.
“Of course, of course—such an excess of visibility is a great inconvenience,” he said. “It’s a pity Mr. Jefferson was never in the West—I imagine he would have at once foreseen the necessity of bushes.”
Just then Old Gorska held up a hand: far to the west, on a low hill, three antelope stood.
The efficient if moody Gladwyn, who was never more than a step behind Lord Berrybender, immediately held out a rifle.
“Antelope . . . about time they showed up,” Lord Berry-bender said.
“We’re in luck, sir,” George Catlin said. “Saddle of antelope is a most excellent American dish . . . first rate, excellent, tasty.” When nervous, and he was usually nervous, George failed to see that his habit of using three words where one would have done was apt to irritate some people.
“They are a mile away,” Old Gorska pointed out—he saw no hope of a successful approach to the jittery antelope.
“Quite inaccurate, they are but half a mile from us at most,” Gladwyn said. He did not approve of the Pole.
“Mile,” Gorska repeated, though he had no idea how far away the animals were.
The antelope appeared to be watching the English party—to George Catlin’s eye they seemed poised for flight.
“My gun won’t shoot a mile—or half a mile either,” Lord Berrybender said. “The beasts must be brought closer.”
“There’s an old hunter’s dodge that sometimes works with antelope,” George said. “I believe the mountain men use it with frequent success . . . they’re curious, you see, the pronghorns. I will advance a little way toward them and then stop and stand on my head. If I waggle my legs at them they may be disposed to come and investigate. Crouch down and have your guns ready while I make the attempt.”
“All right,” Lord Berrybender said. “Perhaps I’ll just say a prayer or two, while I’m kneeling. I’ve been rather wicked with Venetia lately.”
George Catlin advanced some fifty steps and then, laying aside his floppy hat, quickly stood on his head. The antelope had not moved. Carefully, he began to waggle his legs and was just getting the hang of it when the antelope, unattracted, turned and fled.
Sobered by the suspicion that he had not only lost three antelope but several fat commissions as well, George Catlin brushed the grass off his hat and rejoined the group.
“I fear they winded us,” he said.
“Next time I’ll bring my horse—at least I could chase the brutes,” Lord Berrybender said.
Gorska Minor proceeded to kick up a badger, an aggressive creature who bared its teeth and snarled. While Gorska Minor poked at it with his ramrod the sky darkened; the sounds of millions of beating wings was heard. From the north the pigeons came, in a cloud that blocked the sun and cast a shadow far across the prairie. The hunting party stood and looked—some half an hour passed and still the cooing pigeons came.
“Where are they going, Catlin?” Lord B. inquired.
“Perhaps Indiana—someplace where there’s grain,” George said.
Lord Berrybender took his fowling piece and fired carelessly into the air: twenty-two pigeons rained down. Gorska Minor was forced to scamper, in his efforts to gather them up.
“It won’t do, Gorska—I think I might have hoped for something better than squab,” Lord Berrybender said, turning in disgust toward the river and the boat.
13
. . . news of the Sin Killer’s approach had stirred them up.
THE engagés were bitter because the English lord was so stingy with his grog—the splenetic Mery-Michaud, who had never been closer to France than the Hudson’s Bay Company’s trading post at Three Rivers, had heard of a big revolution and wanted to cut the old lord’s head off. He came to Toussaint Charbonneau ranting about grog and beheadings; it was a message the tired interpreter received more and more wearily, every evening. The chiefs were in a disorderly mood too—news of the Sin Killer’s approach had stirred them up.
It seemed to Charbonneau that he had spent far too much of his life listening to the endless complaints of engagés and Indian chiefs. If it wasn’t grog they lacked, it was women, or money, or vittles.
“Shush that blab, Mery, unless you want a fine flogging,” Charbonneau said. “I ain’t the boss of His Lordship’s liquor—there’s a whole keelboat of it, alongside. Go steal some if you’re that dry.”
Big Charlie Hodges smiled at that suggestion—if Charbonneau had ever been fully sober himself he would have realized that the engagés had been going regularly over the side, to nip bottles of Lord Berrybender’s claret from the keelboat. Charlie Hodges was the only American among the crew—George Aitken had hired him because he needed at least one boatman who spoke English, to give him precise information about the riffles and the snags.
Charlie didn’t care much for the engagés, but he had a certain sympathy for Sharbo, an old, tired man, not unkindly, who had the hard job of managing the three surly chiefs and the English family too.
“That liquor boat is already sitting higher in the water—I’m surprised nobody’s noticed,” Charlie said.
Tim, the stable boy, who looked after Lord Berrybender’s two thoroughbreds and his fine pair of carriage horses, knew that the rascally Frenchmen were stealing the old lord’s liquor, but he hated the old man, who had often cuffed him rudely, and didn’t care.
“How long before it’s all gone, Charlie?” Tim asked.
“A month, maybe,” Charlie said. “I expect most of the engagés will be long gone by then—they’ll want to be trapping up the Red River of the North.”
Though he didn’t say it, Charlie Hodges meant to be long gone by that time too. Tim could stay in his stables and play the beast with two backs with Miss Elizabeth Berrybender all he pleased—Charlie had heard them huffing and grunting several times. Tim, for his part, had been equally discreet when he saw Fräulein Pfretzskaner slipping Charlie Hodges a big sausage or a leg of goose. It was clearly Charlie that the Fräulein favored—he was the only man on board built to her own ample dimensions; the day rarely passed but that she found a way to offer her Charlie some tidbit from His Lordship’s table. Most nights they managed to enjoy at least some fleshly probings in a private corner off the pantry.
Charlie Hodges, though he closely concealed his intentions from everyone, did not intend to remain much longer with the steamer Rocky Mount. Charlie was no river man—he had headed west to farm, having heard that the Ioway soil was rich and fertile. The forests were said to be light, the Indians not too fierce. Though fond of Captain Aitken, Charlie did not feel he could allow such an opportunity to be missed. Somewhere above the mouth of the Platte, a stream they would very soon pass, he meant to leave the boat and tramp off to the east. His hope was to find land close to the Mississippi, which would make for ease of shipping, and as surely as he would need a plow, he
would also need a wife—and he wanted no skinny slip of a girl, either. What he wanted was a fine sturdy woman of height and heft, someone who would bear him six to a dozen children to help him work the land. For such a task the big Fräulein seemed ideal; she hissed like a kettle whenever he touched her, steamed like a stove when they could enjoy a full embrace. For the Berrybenders, her employers, the Fräulein expressed only loathing. She would leave with her Charlie in an instant—if it should be that they must escape with only the clothes on their backs, then the Fräulein was ready. She could cook, she could sew, she could wield an axe; no more lessons with the stupid English children, no more quarrels with the skinny, stuck-up French whore. Charlie’s secret was safe with her—it was her secret too.
Meanwhile Charbonneau, tired and tipsy, was trying to convince the Hairy Horn that the Sin Killer would not attack the boat.
“Jimmy’s got no call to fight us,” he said. “He just found that English girl and brought her back, that’s all.”
“A warrior who has eaten the lightning doesn’t behave like other men,” the Hairy Horn said. He himself had no fear of the Sin Killer. Such a warrior would gain nothing by killing an old man like himself. His interest was mainly in the lightning. Among his own people the belief was that a warrior who had eaten the lightning and survived was impervious to ordinary weapons. In the Hairy Horn’s long lifetime he had known only one other man—a Sioux named Burnt Eagle—who had been struck by lightning and lived to fight again. Burnt Eagle had finally been killed by a white bear, but not before he had stolen many horses and counted plenty of coups.
“Only the white bears can kill a man who has eaten the lightning,” the Hairy Horn remarked, before retiring to his blanket for the night. What he really wanted was for Sharbo to offer him his woman; such a fine plump girl would be good, but Sharbo, though he had lived long among the Mandans, was like other whites in that regard. He did not share his woman, which was a pity. A girl so young and bouncy would be a good thing, for an old man.
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