“They left the guts, that’s unusual,” Charbonneau observed.
“Why, I don’t see that it’s odd,” Lord B. said. “I always leave the guts myself, when I kill a stag. Rather foul on the whole. Not much Cook could do with a great pile of guts.”
“Indian children slice them in sections and eat them quick as candy,” Charbonneau told him. “My boy, Pomp, was always mighty fond of gut. Captain Clark always saved a good section of gut, when he killed something, just for Pomp.”
“What do you say to this, Gorska?” Lord B. said, pointing at the carcass. “I’ve been telling you all along there were buffalo here, and this proves it—only this one’s already dead. I’d like you to scamper off now and find me a live one to shoot.”
Old Gorska looked around at the prairies, endless and empty, and felt his heart sink. Scamper off? Scamper off where? No buffalo were in sight. Nonetheless, there was little he could do but obey. He shouldered his fine Belgian gun and was about to tramp away when Charbonneau stopped him.
“Might be best to wait, Your Lordship,” Charbonneau said.
“Wait? I’ll be damned if I’ll wait!” Lord Berrybender said. “I’ve traveled from England to kill buffalo and by God I want to kill some. Finding them’s Gorska’s job—why shouldn’t he do it?”
Charbonneau had never ranked himself high as a tracker, but with the prairies muddy from the recent rain, it would have taken a blind man to miss the horse tracks around the carcass. Several Indians had run the cow down and killed her, leaving only the guts. They might have run the cow several miles before making the kill. Undoubtedly the hunters had a camp—it might be a mile distant, or it might be forty. No doubt the hunters were aware of the steamer, which had been belching black smoke all afternoon. Once the boat left, the Indians might come back for the tasty innards, not to mention the useful sinews and such. What was left of the buffalo cow might not interest a white man, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t interest an Indian.
“From the look of the tracks six or seven hunters made this kill,” Charbonneau said. “They haven’t been gone long. If Gorska was to go rattling off now he might be in for a scrap.”
“What of it? The man has a weapon!” Lord Berrybender said, his fury rising. “I suppose my expensive hunter’s capable of beating off a few savages—if not, then I’ve wasted money bringing him all the way from Poland.”
“I will go!” Gorska said, fed up with the insolent old brute.
“It is my fate,” he added somberly, once again shouldering his gun.
Once Gorska left it occurred to Lord Berrybender that Charbonneau might be right—it would be a nuisance to lose his hunter to some wandering band of savages.
“Gorska Minor, step lively . . . go with your father,” he said. “Gladwyn, give the boy a fowling piece—I’m in no mood to shoot birds.”
Gladwyn at once handed the shotgun to Gorska Minor, who looked surprised.
“Go, boy . . . find me some buffalo and do try to guide them back this way,” Lord Berrybender said. “I won’t be satisfied until I’ve brought one of the shaggy brutes down.”
Gorska Minor was startled by his new assignment. Every few days he was required to clean all His Lordship’s weapons, but he had never even been allowed to fire a pistol. The sight of the great dead beast with a huge pile of guts beside it had very nearly undone him. The thought that it was now his duty to tramp across the empty prairies, locate such a beast, and somehow urge it back within range of Lord Berrybender’s gun was terrifying—but his father was moving at a steady pace across the grasslands and he had no choice but to follow.
The Poles had scarcely left when Charbonneau’s eye fell on a piece of white cloth, stuck on a bramble not far from where the buffalo lay. It was only a scrap, but it reminded Charbonneau that Lady Tasmin and her party were somewhere onshore. The possibility of kidnap did not at first occur to him—plenty of Indians had cloth of one kind or another, from the traders, and in any case, it seemed unlikely that the girls from the boat would have advanced that far into the prairies. The scrap of cloth was no more than a reminder that the young ladies had to be safely rounded up when the hunt was over.
“I believe Lady Tasmin and some of her sisters and that jumpy Frenchwoman are around here somewhere,” he remarked.
“Looking for that damn parrot, I suppose,” Lord B. said, gesturing for Gladwyn to set up his hunting seat, a small leather folding seat with a sharp point that could be thrust into the ground; the nobility customarily used such seats at horse races but Lord B. found them perfectly suited to hunting, as well. When Gladwyn had the seat ready, Lord B. was more than glad to sit down—there had been that trouble with the fornication, requiring rather prolonged exertion. Having his nice sturdy seat was a handy thing. He felt, all in all, rather tired—from now on, with the hunting prospects improving, he meant to hunt first and fornicate later. A solid hunting seat, when a man was tired, was a mighty welcome thing. Lord B. sank onto his gratefully; a bit of rest wouldn’t hurt.
“Gun, Gladwyn . . . gun!” he said. “I want to be ready if a great shaggy herd comes loping by.” Gladwyn provided a gun; Lord B. yawned and took it. Even keeping his eyes open was proving rather difficult.
Charbonneau took his knife and went over to the buffalo and cut off a few sections of gut. As a part-time cook for the famous Lewis and Clark expedition he had once been rather famous for his boudin blanc, which needed fresh buffalo gut to be done properly.
While he was slicing, Charbonneau heard an unusual sound—a snore. Lord Berrybender, his head tilted back, his mouth wide open, was fast asleep and snoring loudly.
“I guess a nap won’t hurt him,” Charbonneau remarked.
“Possibly not, sir,” Gladwyn said, in a chilly tone. As His Lordship’s man he felt it best to stand aloof from the help—particularly the American help.
“A nap never hurt anyone,” Charbonneau said, turning his attention to the gut pile.
A moment later he was proven wrong. Lord Berrybender, dreaming of buffalo, allowed his rifle to droop. While he dreamed, a horsefly settled on his hand. Lord Berrybender twitched, the fly rose, Lord B. twitched again, and the gun discharged. Lord B. fell off his seat and writhed on the ground—he had discharged the heavy ball directly into his right foot.
“I guess naps ain’t as safe as all that,” Charbonneau amended.
“Clearly not,” Gladwyn said.
Charbonneau had scarcely had time to run to His Lordship and assess the damage—three toes, at least, seemed to be missing—when they heard the sound of running feet.
“It’s Gorska, he’s carrying something,” Gladwyn said, in a weak voice. The sight of His Lordship’s noble blood—at the moment gushing out of the wounded foot—caused him to feel rather faint.
“Must have kilt an antelope, or maybe a doe,” Charbonneau said. He was in the process of making a tourniquet, using his own belt.
“Or even a buffalo calf,” he added—Gorska had something across his shoulders, but Charbonneau, busy with his tourniquet, could not tell what.
A moment later Gladwyn fainted dead away.
Old Gorska, drenched with sweat, very red in the face, stumbled through the high grass and dropped his burden, which proved to be his son, Gorska Minor, a short, bloody arrow through his throat. Charbonneau saw at once that the boy was dead.
“Well, now that’s a great pity, Gorska,” he said, carefully twisting the tourniquet. Lord Berrybender had lost most of a foot—it wouldn’t do to misapply the tourniquet and have him lose a leg. Charbonneau considered himself a fair doctor, having been trained by the great Captain Lewis himself.
“And now His Lordship’s shot off his foot, too,” Charbonneau said. “I guess we’re having us a day.”
24
Tintamarre barked from a distance; Bobbety occasionally uttered a Greek name.
TASMIN’S escape succeeded, with only the mildest effort. Buffum and Mademoiselle were gone in one direction, Mary and Piet in another. Tintama
rre barked from a distance; Bobbety occasionally uttered a Greek name. The lump on his forehead was of a size to be of interest to science, Tasmin felt sure, but no scientist was there to appreciate it. She waded out to the pirogue, shoved it into the stream, and was soon drifting pleasantly away, a circumstance which brought her deep relief. Above her, swans were calling, and geese as well. A great yellow fish, of ugly demeanor, surfaced briefly beside her boat—a harmless big fish with whiskers. With the sky bright above her and the air balmy, Tasmin felt that few things could be better than floating in a boat. The beauty of the day was extraordinary. She wondered how far New Orleans was—there were said to be some very distinguished Creoles in New Orleans.
It was a little gusty. The pirogue rocked this way and that; occasionally a small wave splashed her, but Tasmin didn’t care. She thought of taking a swim, but felt too lazy. Being away from her family, with their interminable screechings and whinings, was rather sedative. The warmth of the sun and the gentle rocking of the pirogue lulled her into what seemed the briefest of naps. For a few moments at most she closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the miracle she had dreamt of happened. Jim Snow, in water to his waist, had hold of her boat and was pulling it to shore.
“Why, hello!” Tasmin said. “My chevalier has come to save me, just as I had hoped.”
Jim Snow was not amused. His look was iron. Tasmin was at once reminded that he was not an easy man.
“You need to stop this wandering off, you little fool!” he said.
The cutting way he said it caused Tasmin’s temper to flare.
“Don’t speak to me that way, Mr. Snow,” she said. “I’m a free woman and I’ll go where I please. Why are you taking me ashore—I was ashore.”
Jim Snow flashed her a look, but was too intent on the business at hand to respond.
“Get out of the boat and don’t be talking,” he whispered. “You’ve got one of them carrying voices.”
Tasmin, still rather miffed, grudgingly stepped out of the pirogue. To her astonishment Jim Snow at once hacked a sizable hole in it and sent it spinning back out into the current, where it slowly sank.
She was about to protest this ruthless scuttling of her vessel, but for once held her tongue. Jim Snow seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and he was in a hurry to do it too. The decisiveness of his actions convinced her it was no time to bicker. Instead of pulling her ashore he hurried her, still in the shallows, upriver for a hundred yards or more, where the bleached trunk of a tree was lodged against a muddy point. His rifle, pouch, and bow and arrows were there, nicely concealed. He listened for a moment, put his finger to his lips, and then, bending low, led Tasmin across the prairie, pausing when a clump of weeds offered a little cover, to listen and look.
From upriver Tasmin noted some stir about the steamboat, which was still stuck. Various canoes, keelboats, pirogues clustered around the main vessel, but Tasmin could gain no conception of what was wrong. Though the country still seemed empty and peaceful, both the Raven Brave and the people on the boat seemed to be acting in response to unseen threats.
Their silent but purposeful travel continued for another half hour. Though somewhat exasperated, Tasmin kept quiet. They had drawn almost level with the steamboat when Tasmin saw an unexpected flash of green amid the gray prairies—it was Prince Talleyrand, sitting on a rock. The old bird seemed to be waiting for them. Before Tasmin could comment Jim Snow pushed her into a kind of hole, under the little ridge of rock where the parrot sat.
“But I don’t want to go into a hole,” Tasmin protested. “I’ve always been singularly afraid of holes.”
“It’s all right, Tassie . . . it’s quite roomy once you’ve squeezed in,” said her sister Mary, from somewhere in the bowels of the earth.
“Get in—they’re close now,” Jim whispered.
“Well, I do hate holes,” Tasmin repeated, wondering who it could be that Jim referred to. The Raven Brave observed no niceties. Once Tasmin dropped to her knees he put his hands on her rump and shoved her into a dimly lit chamber, he himself crowding close behind—Prince Talleyrand soon waddled in too, avoiding Mary, who sat with a number of smelly wild onions in her lap.
“Where’s Dan?” Jim Snow asked Mary. “And where’s the little fat man?”
“Mr. Drew was of the opinion that he ought to have a look around,” Mary said. “Piet suffers violently from claustrophobia, so he went too, though I don’t think Mr. Drew much wanted him.”
“All this I find quite puzzling,” Tasmin said. “I was enjoying a peaceful boat ride and now I’m in a hole in the ground with my wicked sister. What’s it all about?”
“You are so impatient, Tassie,” Mary said. “It’s the reason you are rarely well informed. Buffum and Mademoiselle have been kidnapped by the red savages, Gorska Minor has been killed quite dead, and Papa has shot most of his right foot off—all this while you were boating.”
Tasmin’s inclination was to disbelieve every word the little wretch said—Mary had long been noted for the extravagance of her reports. But then there was Jim Snow, who offered no contradiction, and who had exercised unusual caution in pulling her off the river and rushing her into this hole.
“The Pawnees and the Osage are at war,” Jim said quietly, as if discussing a change in the weather. “Them and some Kickapoos. The Bad Eye has stirred them up.”
“Who is the Bad Eye, may I ask?”
“An old prophet—he’s made a war prophecy,” Jim said.
Tasmin felt that somehow events which belonged only in the fantastical fictions of Mr. Cooper or Mr. Irving had somehow surged into her well-ordered English life. Instead of rejecting suitors in Berkeley Square or Northamptonshire, she sat in a hole in the dirt, somewhere in America, being asked to believe things which hardly seemed credible. Her sister and the femme de chambre, last seen chasing a bird, had somehow been kidnapped? A harmless Polish boy killed? Her own father abruptly and inexplicably minus a foot? And all this had happened in the brief, happy hour she had spent drifting in her boat on the brown muddy river?
“May I remind you that this is the child you claim talks to serpents,” she said to Jim Snow. “I wouldn’t believe a word she says.”
“Oh hush, Tassie—I scarcely said two words to that snake,” Mary protested.
Jim Snow’s thoughts, as usual, were severely practical.
“That fat fellow should have stayed here,” he said. “There are Indians on the prowl all along the river—that’s why I sank your boat. If they’d seen it they’d be trying to hunt you down.”
“If they find me I’d rather like to run,” Tasmin said. “I can’t run far in this hole.”
“No, Tassie . . . we are in sanctuary,” Mary said. “Mr. Drew says no savages will bother us here.”
“Be that as it may, I still don’t like holes,” Tasmin repeated.
All the same, she was pleased that the Raven Brave had taken it on himself to rescue her. She had convinced herself that he was hundreds of miles away and indifferent to her fate—but it wasn’t so. She felt a sudden urge to comb his long, tangled hair, though she knew that it was a license unlikely to be permitted.
Prince Talleyrand suddenly fluttered out of the cave.
“Be quiet,” Jim Snow whispered. He was listening hard, a wariness in his look. Tasmin found him intensely appealing.
“Jimmy, you there?” a voice asked.
“We’re here—is it safe to come out?”
“It’s safe, the Pawnees have gone north,” Dan Drew said. “We best be getting these young ladies back to their boat.”
The prairie sun, once Tasmin squeezed out, was so intense after the dimness that for a few moments she had to shield her eyes with her hand. Only slowly did her focus accept the strong light. Jim Snow seemed to have forgotten her. He stood some distance away, talking to a tall, kindly-looking old man with gray hair down to his nape, whose buckskins were very well kept, in contrast to Jim’s.
“That is Mr. Drew,” Mary said. “
He is extremely knowledgeable—he has already taught me how to whistle prairie dogs out of their holes.”
“Very useful, I’m sure,” Tasmin said. “I hope he won’t mind escorting you back to the boat so that you will be out of harm’s way.”
“Where will you be, Tassie?” Mary asked.
“Oh, hereabouts, I suppose . . . I do hope for a moment or two with Mr. Snow,” Tasmin said. “We have our trip to Santa Fe to plan, you know?”
“He seems a rather stern gentleman,” Mary said. “Probably he’ll get round to giving you another good shaking, very soon.”
“Get back on that boat, you impertinent brat,” Tasmin said.
“You don’t seem very concerned about Buffum and Mademoiselle,” Mary said. “Very likely they are enduring cruel ravishments, even now.”
“It’s only your opinion that they were taken, and your opinions are rarely reliable,” Tasmin said. “If they are taken I will immediately ask Mr. Snow or Mr. Drew to arrange their release.”
“I must get Piet—he was intending to hide in a plum thicket,” Mary said. “It would be most vexing to lose our botanist at this early stage of the trip.”
The old hunter, Dan Drew, in conversation with Jim, stopped and made Tasmin a very decent bow when she approached. For a man who lived in dangerous country, he seemed mild—lazy, even.
“How do, miss?” he said. “The little one and I will just go locate that Dutchman and then I’ll get them back on board—I guess Jimmy will look after you, in the meantime.”
“I hope he won’t mind,” Tasmin said. “I know that I’m rather a lot of trouble.”
Jim Snow ignored her remark. He seemed rather embarrassed about something—Tasmin couldn’t guess what, though in fact she felt rather embarrassed herself, a condition she rarely experienced. Usually she preferred to brazen her way through dubious situations, and yet now she felt constrained and rather uncertain. What would happen? It had been an afternoon of kidnap, injury, and violent death. All logic suggested that she ought to hurry back to the safety of the steamer Rocky Mount as rapidly as possible; and yet, if there was one thing she did know, it was that she didn’t want to hurry back to the boat just yet. Though hardly tranquil in spirit, she felt she was exactly where she wanted to be: on a small ridge above the Missouri River, in a country filled with warring savages, and in the company of her unusual gentleman, Mr. Jim Snow.
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