The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  His ebullience ebbed, leaving him nervous as he hurried down a muddy street, confused by the darkness. All he need do was find the hotel, contact Blackman, and be on his way back East.

  I’m here, Father. Saint Louis! And I am as resolute about my future as ever. But which way was the hotel? Surely, he'd missed a turn.

  "Pardon, monsieur!" a voice called. "A moment, if you please. Could you help me?"

  Richard could see a man in the shadowed darkness between two buildings. Something about that crouched figure .. .

  Richard backed warily away. A rasping laugh came from the shadowed man, who started forward, calling, "Eh? Monsieur? You 'ave time for talk, oui?"

  "I don't know you," Richard cried, and started to retreat the way he'd come. Two men cut him off. Richard dodged to the side; a cry strangled in his throat. He fled down a narrow passage, making better speed as he ran downhill toward the river.

  "Run, bourgeois," a hauntingly familiar voice cried. "We are coming for you, mon ami."

  Richard ran for all he was worth, footsteps of pursuit thudding in the twilight. He darted down toward the river, aware that only open fields lay between him and the water.

  "Leave me alone! Go away!" Richard stepped in a hole, wrenching his leg as he half-fell. Dear Lord God! "Help me! Someone . . . help!" He ran on.

  "No help, Yankee! We catch you!" The pursuer was barely straining to keep up.

  A quick glance over Richard's shoulder sent a horrible start through him: He looked into Francois's leering face.

  "Mon ami, we will party and sing songs," Francois crooned, and a muscular arm snagged Richard from behind, cutting off his wind. "Repayment for a gift, no?"

  Richard clawed at the choking arm. His scream became a gurgling sound. Another dark figure wrenched the grip from his arms as if plucking a petal from a flower. Richard flopped and twisted, powered by panic. The chokehold only tightened.

  "We 'ave him, Francois!"

  His vision had gone gray . . . floating. A roaring filled Richard's ears, growing ever more faint. Even the pain at his throat was fading . . . fading. . . .

  SEVEN

  What seems at this point to be the individual's power and force, bringing the substance beneath it, and thereby doing away with that substance is the same thing as the actualization of the substance. For the power of the individual exists in conforming itself to that substance, that is, in emptying itself of its unique self, and thus objectively establishing itself as the existing substance. Its culture and its own reality are, therefore, the continual process of making the substance itself actual and concrete.

  —Georg Friedrich Wilhelm Hegel, Phenomenology of Mind

  Through groggy dreams, Richard shied from the pain. Lurking shapes huddled in the darkness. Voices, echoing hollowly like ghosts, mocked him with indistinct words. Spectral creatures reached out from the depths with tendril fingers to ensnare him. . . .

  In a blind panic, Richard ran down dark cobblestone streets. Like a coiled serpent, the pain hissed and slithered as it waited for consciousness. Richard whimpered and ran on, his breath tearing at his windpipe. He'd do anything to escape, to drift smokelike and unseen through the streets of Boston.

  Professor Ames's soft voice filled the empty lecture hall. Laughter rang out in Fenno's Tavern on the Charles River. Gleaming spars on the ships in the harbor were webbed with black rope. Boston. Peace. . ..

  But the precious images faded away into soggy obscurity.

  Spears of white agony replaced them, and slowly dragged Richard to consciousness with each beat of his heart.

  My skull is cracked and broken. The jagged pieces are grinding against each other. He tried to bring his wounded mind into focus. The wretched stabbing in his head failed to mask the smaller pains at his wrists and ankles.

  Oh, God, where am I? What's happened?

  No whiskey-head had ever tortured him thus. His numb flesh bordered on shivers. Cold—everything cold. He lay on his side, cheek pressed against something gritty. Dirt, from the smell of it. He tried to bring his hands forward, met resistance, and gave up.

  What's happened to me? A wadded rag filled his mouth and tasted foul. Swallowing hurt. His throat felt as if a splintered broomhandle had been pushed down it. For a horrible instant he wanted to throw up. No! Gagged like this, you will strangle in your own vomit. His eyes ached as though sand-filled, and rheum stuck the lashes together. He blinked to clear them.

  In the faint light he could see the dim outline of a rude table—little more than rough-cut boards—a rickety chair, and mud-chinked log walls.

  As he flopped on the dirt floor something scurried along the wall. To Richard's horror, a rat ducked through a gap where timbers rested on the rock foundation.

  Again, he tried to bring his hands around, then realized they were tightly bound. When he sought to straighten his legs, a cord behind his back pulled down on his wrists. He could only flop like a fish on a dock.

  Memory returned: the ambush on Olive Street. The chase and capture. Francis. Robbed! His father's money. Thirty thousand dollars. Gone. . . .

  He slumped back on the floor.

  Time passed. Something rustled in the darkness.

  God help me. Now that they have the money, why don't they just let me go? Questions led to answers he didn't care to embrace. Shivers started as the cold deepened and his full bladder demanded relief.

  How long do I have to lie here? He chewed on the rag in his mouth. It had gone soggy, and grit rasped against his teeth. Damn it all, someone had to come or his bladder would burst!

  In the end, he lost that fight The several drops that leaked out onto his legs became a warm rush. Shamed, he lay there while urine cooled and filled his nose with its tangy odor.

  This isn't happening. I'm a rational human being. They have the money; now, why can't they just let me go?

  Tears leaked from his eyes, while fear charged his imagination with images of torture and death. He couldn't shake the memory of a hog chewing at a human head as it rolled in the mud.

  Stop it! Think back . . . remember . . . Yes, the last night on the way to Will Templeton's. That's right. Boston. Two days before you left. The night you fell in love with Laura. Think about it. Bring it all back. Walking the snowy streets . . . remember. . . Remember the lights? The passing people? Pastries in windows . . . Boston, my Boston . . . The shops, the books, musicians, enlightened conversation, and prosperity. Ships from the ends of the earth brought cargoes, ideas, and learned men to Boston's safe harbor. Within the walls of her colleges, the intellectual torch of the Americas burned with resplendent brilliance. There, Richard Hamilton had enfolded himself within the womb of philosophy and had drawn its nurturing protection around him. How could his father dare send him away from this, the only life he'd ever known, or ever wanted?

  Laura? Please, God, let me see her again.

  Had it been real, that night of revelry? Or simply illusion? Prone in the darkness, still and numb on the shack's dirt floor, Richard could no longer be sure. He started, gurgling against the gag as something scampered behind him. Rat. . . yes, it had to be. They ate people, didn't they? Bit them until the blood ran?

  He thrashed until he could hear the foul rodent scamper away, and, exhausted, closed his eyes in the cold darkness.

  How had he managed to get from Laura's parlor, so warm and happy, to this place?

  Laura, I'm going to die here. I'll never hold you in my arms. Never share your love. Tears trickled down his face.

  The pack weighed more than she had expected. Heals Like A Willow took a firm grip on the leather straps and grunted as she swung it onto her shoulders with the easy grace of one long accustomed to heavy loads.

  "That sits just about right." Two Half Moons ran her pink tongue over her thin brown lips as she shoved the pack up on Willow's back to check the straps. "If you start getting a headache, tighten the shoulder straps and pull this higher over your hips."

  "You shouldn't have given me so much to
carry." Willow stared out over the village, newly settled among the winter-gray trees. As always, the Ku'chendikani placed their winter camps in the cottonwood flats beside the river. Only in such places did enough grass grow for the large horse herds, and on those occasions when terrible winters snowed the people in, they could augment the grass by stripping cottonwood bark for the horses. To Willow's eyes, the disadvantage was the cold that lay in the bottoms with its fog and bone-numbing chill.

  Now the tawny lodges with their soot-darkened tops sent streamers of thin blue smoke into the clear morning sky. The happy sounds of children squealing at play carried over the muted voices of adults talking. Somewhere behind the willows, a man whooped as he broke through the ice for his morning bath.

  "You just be careful." Two Half Moons squinted toward the west and the snow-crowned peaks, pink now in the morning light. "If the weather warms, you keep an eye out. You know how this country is at this time of year. A real nice day, and you better get ready to hole up like a beaver in a bank, because you know it's gonna turn real cold and snow hip-deep to a tall horse."

  "Yes, Napia, I know."

  The old woman waved it off. "I'm not your aunt anymore. Your husband and child are dead. That bond is broken."

  Willow hunched her shoulders to reposition her pack. "To me, you'll always be my napia, relative or not."

  "Ah, girl. I'll miss you."

  "The Dukurika keep track. Some fall, when you're wintering close by my mountains, I'll come visit."

  Two Half Moons sighed, turning her squint to Willow. "Are you sure you don't want a horse?"

  "You only have two, Aunt. And you'll need both of them to move your lodge." Willow smiled wryly. "Besides, you Ku'chendikani only have one form of wealth, your horses. I couldn't impoverish you."

  "That nephew of mine, White Hail, he thinks he's going to be a big man. He'll steal me another horse. You wait and see. He's so busy stealing horses, the A'ni and Pa'kiani won't have any left."

  Willow turned, heading toward the edge of the trees. "Red Calf doesn't know what she has. She'll waste him, Aunt. She has no sense, and he doesn't know when to say enough. She'll want more and more, beyond what is good for her and her family. What good is wealth if you're a widow?" Like me.

  "A young man must try. That is the nature of young men. Sometimes they grow wiser as a result."

  "Lessons from the winter stories, Aunt? Like the ones told about the Bald One, Pachee Goyol Is that what you mean? Just because the Bald One grew wise through his adventures doesn't mean White Hail will."

  "Not many old men are fools, girl. And the stories of the Bald One teach good lessons."

  "Yes, they do. Red Calf should take heed. One of the lessons the Bald One teaches is that greed leads to disaster."

  "So does ignoring the advice of your elders. Look at you! Wandering out there to be eaten by the rock ogres! You shouldn't be traveling alone."

  "I'll be fine. It's still too early for trouble. War parties aren't out at this time of year. Our enemies are in camp, snug by warm fires, waiting out the weather and winter grass. By the time the Pa'kiani come south, I'll be safe in the mountains with my people."

  "I will pray to Tarn Apo that you make it safely." The old woman leaned forward, touching her cheek to Willow's.

  Without another word, Willow took a deep breath and started eastward, feet crunching on the crusted snow as she passed the line of trees and started up the bluffs. Climbing the last terrace, she could see the distant Powder River Mountains rising like mounded buffalo backs against the morning sky.

  Taking a final look back across the frosty bottoms, she saw the horse herd clustered just south of the village, animals pawing at the snow. The camp lay under a blue haze of woodsmoke. The warm brown tones of the lodges contrasted with the tawny grass, the grizzled trees, and snow patches.

  Farewell, Ku'chendikani. Good-bye, my husband and son.

  And with that, Willow turned her back on a vanished life.

  Travis scraped his moccasins free of manure-filled mud on the sides of the tavern doorframe. The sign hanging over the door would have been worthless to Travis but for the faded, if rather optimistic, rendition of a fully leafed tree.

  Travis was no stranger to the Green Tree Tavern. Old John Simonds, the proprietor, gave him a nervous squint when he walked past the scarred oaken door, remembering, no doubt, the night a somewhat younger Travis Hartman had gouged the eye out of a squealing and thrashing boatman.

  And I’d a done a heap more, too, ifn Davey Green hadn't a-busted a cider keg over my noggin.

  No two tables were the same, since they'd been scrounged throughout the city, and had proved rugged enough to resist pounding, hammering, dancing boatmen, and occasional flying bodies. Long ago, Simonds had turned from chairs to benches, the latter being heavier and less likely to be thrown.

  The walls were blackened from years of candle soot and tobacco smoke. Across the room, a young man in a smudged white shirt polished tin cups with a rag. He started at the sight of Travis's mauled face, and hastily looked away.

  Walking to the plank counter, Travis nodded to the young man behind the bar. "Ale, lad."

  Four men, three already deep in their cups, sat on one of the benches. Even from the back, Travis recognized Francois.

  Ale in hand, Travis dropped a coin on the scarred wood before sauntering over to Francois's table and seating himself. His arrival brought an instant quiet—and the sense that he'd walked into something at just the wrong time. One by one, Travis nodded at each of them, taking the measure of their suspicious eyes.

  "Sorry to interrupt, lads. Come ter talk bizness. Nothing more."

  "Travis Hartman," Francois said softly, a faint smile on his thin lips. "What's this? No Ree has lifted your louse-infested scalp?"

  "Yourn neither, it appears." Travis lifted his mug and drank, white foam sticking to his mustache. He wiped it off with a sleeve. "How ye been, Francois? Long time since I seen yer carcass. Three ... four years?"

  "Four at least, Hartman. You 'ave not grown any prettier since the last time. The scabs, they were just falling off as I remember. Now, even the red ees gone. You look like ... yes, a man who has let chickens walk across his face."

  Hartman ignored the snickers from the other men. One, a big fellow with black hair and a bristly beard, had been around. Travis knew him by sight. The other two were strangers, but from their sashes, boatman's caps, and baggy white shirts, Hartman might just as well have known them. He'd traveled with enough engages over the years.

  The engages, mostly French, were the hired boatmen who worked for a regular wage. Each signed a contract to fulfill certain obligations to a bourgeois, or "booshway," as the Americans called the expedition's leader. The contract might be to reach a certain destination, to complete a journey, or for a period of time.

  "I'm looking for men." Hartman sucked at his ale. "Pay's good and fair. Two-year contract. Hauling a boat upriver."

  "Two years?" The black-haired man watched Hartman through flat eyes. "A long contract, oui! It makes me wonder, why have I not heard of this? No one has been talking. I ask myself, where would this boat go for two years? It could not be the upper Missouri, for I would have heard that."

  Hartman watched him through narrowed eyes. "Boats go a lot of places, coon. Maybe we just want your skinny arse for two seasons instead of one. Think of it like this: Long-term pay, eh?"

  Francois chuckled, glancing at the black-haired man. "Relax, August. What interest is it of yours? You no longer work for Bourgeois Chouteau."

  Travis gave August an even harder look. If word leaked to Chouteau, it would blow the whole thing higher than a spark in a powder keg.

  "I need men," Travis said softly. "No questions asked. And jist from the looks of it, yer not the kind interested in questions. That, or I'm a pilgrim when it comes ter reading sign on men's souls."

  August tensed, fists clenching. Francis reached out to restrain him, saying, "You want no part of Hartman, mon ami.
"' Francois chuckled then, fingering his bearded chin as August relaxed. "I think, Travis Hartman, that we all have our secrets. Fortunately, we know more of yours than you know of ours, eh?"

  "Reckon so. Now, if'n ye'd have an interest in the river—"

  "Non! Pardon. S'il vous plais." August had nevertheless reached down to the handle of his belt knife. "Now, if you will kindly take your—"

  "Un moment," Francois said thoughtfully. In French he added, "Perhaps this can work to solve our little problem." In English he said to Travis. "Two years? Upriver? No questions asked?"

  "Yep. Hard work up, and lard eating for the winter. I'll not lie to ye. Thar'll be a sight of danger. Cowards need not apply. But, boys, I give ye my word, stick her out, and ye'll come back rich men. Reckon thar'll be a share of the profits divvied out to the hands."

  "O, mon Dieu! Madness,'' August hissed, hand still on his knife. "I am not stupid! This thing you plan, the upper Missouri! Pied Noir, Blackfeet! That is who you seek. Or perhaps the Crows, hein! You think you can trade with them? Non, impossible. They kill you in trois mois. Four at most. It is suicide!"

  Francois smiled. "Two years? No questions asked? How desperate are you, Hartman?"

  "We leave day after t'morrer, short-handed or no."

  "Sacre infant du grace! You 'ave gone crazy?" August stared incredulously at Francis. "To go upriver, now? Why? You 'ave everything!"

  Francis gestured for silence. To Travis he said, "What if I told you that I have a man for you? He's not much of a boatman, understand? I would not sell you false goods, Hartman. He's skinny, weak, and worthless. A liar of the worst kind, he will tell you the most fanciful of tales. Of being robbed. Of being a bourgeois gentleman. You must watch him every moment, for he will try to escape from your boat. Are you that desperate, eh? Do you want to buy his contract?"