The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  "Now, Dick, I'm splashing a bit of water. Yer not used to such doings, I'm thinking. Breathe deep, lad. Let the heat soak into yer hide. They's medicine in it. Yer muscles will loosen like old wangs in a rain."

  "What's a wang?"

  "Leather strap—usually. Don't they larn ye nothing back East no more?"

  The instant the water hit the hot rocks, it popped and crackled into steam. At the same time, Hartman began chanting in a strange language.

  Easy, Richard. It's just some silly superstition. Some barbaric custom this berserk Mongol has concocted.

  Warm steam curled around him, thickening, moistening his nostrils. Water trickled and more steam swirled in the darkness.

  Richard nerved himself. "Where did you learn this?"

  "Injuns. Most of the tribes I've had truck with sweat. Makes the body pure. Reckon I believes it. Most figger they don't get clean lessen they sweat Funny thing, ye lives around Injuns, an' sure's snow in the winter, ye starts ter suck up their way of thinking. Reckon that otta do ye fer now."

  Perspiration had begun to bead on Richard's face. He gasped for breath. Heat was biting into his flesh, and the muscles were loosening. About that, at least, Hartman had been correct.

  "Feel better?" Hartman asked.

  "I think so." Talk. Do anything but concentrate on the stifling heat. His hair was dripping. "I still can't believe this is happening to me. Today, Green was really ready to kill me, wasn't he?"

  "Yep."

  "Why? It's irrational! Nothing makes sense! How can a man's life be worth so little?"

  "Reckon ye've got her backwards, Dick. Best ask yerself, what makes yer life worth so much? Folks never turn questions inside out. Can't larn a damn thing till ye turns life inside out, like pulling a hide off a beaver."

  "So, why did you stop him? Why are you doing this for me? I don't understand."

  Hartman grunted. "I get notional sometimes. Reckon I got a dose of curiosity is all. Turning things inside out again, wondering what's really in ye, lad. Wondering if'n ye've any idea yerself."

  "I know what's inside of me." And I sure don't want to be here.

  "Huh! That's so, is it? Look old Ephraim in the eye, lad. Where ye been? Boston? All yer Yankee life?"

  "That's right."

  "Shit."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Jist what I said. Shit. Lad, ye jist don't know shit. Not about the world, and not about yerself. Folks in cities, they get these ideas they know all about living, and right and wrong."

  "If it's a discussion of ethics that you're looking for, you've come to the right place. The philosophical basis for—"

  "What was that ye said? Ethics? What's that?"

  "The rules of civilized conduct. Right and wrong, Mr. Hartman. And, I might add, you're in the latter category. You are an accomplice to robbery and abduction. Just as guilty as Francis and August. Your actions are in violation of every tenet of ethical behavior."

  "Better that I'd jist let Francis slit yer gullet open and dump ye in the river?"

  "Absolutely not. Better that you had gone with me to the authorities in order that Francis's unethical and immoral behavior be brought to an end, and justice served."

  "Yer some, Dick. Still looking at the outside of the beaver and thinking ye knows the whole critter. How much did old Francois skin ye fer?"

  Richard's skin felt as if it were peeling away. He kept sinking lower and lower, seeking cooler air. He hesitated, then said, "Thirty thousand dollars in banknotes."

  "Tarnal Hell! How'n Hob's name did a sprout yer age get so rich?"

  "It was my father's money. Money to invest in the Santa Fe trade. I was just supposed to deliver it."

  "And yer father give it ter ye? A wet-eared boy?"

  "I'm no boy!"

  "Wal, I reckon that's ter be seen. And I'll wager ye come off all high, mighty, and rich, and that's what set Francis off. That French varmint can smell money a day's ride away. Ye done something ter him, didn't ye?"

  "I did nothing to him."

  "Painter crap, lad. If'n Francis was jist a gonna rob ye, he'd a slit yer throat and dumped ye. I couldn't figger why he was so set on sending ye upriver like a lard eater, and now I got ter know. What was it ye did?" Hartman dribbled more water on the rocks.

  "We had words."

  "And ye called him something?"

  "I stated the obvious."

  "Uh-huh."

  "I told him he was an animal."

  Hartman sat silently.

  "You should have seen him. Bragging about killing an Indian. The hogs were worrying the poor man's head like ... some obscene melon."

  "Reckon yer father don't know shit neither, sending ye out alone into country like this. Proves my point about city folks back East. 'Specially Yankees."

  The heat had melted Richard's natural caution. "He thought it would be good for me. He wanted to teach me responsibility. As if Aristotle, Rousseau, and Locke hadn't."

  "And where did them fellers work? Fer yer father?"

  Richard rolled his eyes, feeling ill in the stifling darkness. "No, no. They're philosophers. Teachers who wrote books. I was studying them. I want to be a professor of philosophy. My father and I had a disagreement about that. That's why I'm here. He sent me on this trip to learn something about the world."

  Travis scratched his ear. "Reckon ye did that, all right."

  "Travis, I've got to get out. I'm going to be sick." The heat made him sway.

  "Lift the bottom of the blanket there."

  Richard reached out with an arm that worked like soggy flour. Air rushed in along his boiling skin and he sucked cool relief into his lungs, drafting it inside like a bellows. For long moments he lay limply on the grass.

  "How's yer hurts?" Travis asked.

  "I don't know. I'm not sure I can feel anything anymore."

  "Reckon ye'll be feeling plenty tomorrow, coon. When ye picks up that pole, think back on how bad it would a been without the medicine lodge hyar."

  From under the edge of the blanket Richard watched the stars twinkling over the inky treetops. Was that way east? Were they twinkling like that over Boston? "I want to go home, Travis. Can't you and Green just let me go? Would my skinny little butt, as you put it, really make that much difference to you?"

  He could hear Hartman scratching his scalp before he answered. "Yep, I reckon so. Frangois'll be looking fer ye, fer one. Fer two, the rest of the engages might get the cute idea that they could skip out same's you. Fer three, I'd never figger out if'n I's right or wrong about ye, Dick. Yer stuck with us, lad."

  "And if I get the chance, run off?"

  "I’ll hunt ye down. I can track painter cats across slick-rock, so I don't suppose no pilgrim Yankee kid from Boston's a gonna hide his sign from Travis Hartman."

  "What's a painter cat?"

  "Lion, coon. Cougar, puma, whatever ye wants ter call 'em. Kilt a mite or two of 'em, I have. Plumb shot their lights out."

  "And you'd shoot me? Just like that? Just as Green would have today?" Richard wiped the sweat from his face. Damp strands of hair lay plastered to his scalp.

  Hartman's voice turned low and serious. "Dick, they's times a feller's just got ter do what he's got ter do. Listen close, boy, hyar's facts. I can't let you get crosswise atwixt me and the crew. Ye got that? Whar we're headed, there ain't none of them ethics yer so full of. Dave's word has got ter be law. If it ain't, the whole party can be wiped out. The whole shitaree. Ye savvying that?"

  "You're telling me it's life or death?"

  "It ain't Boston out hyar, Dick. Them's the only two rules that count. So, yep. To keep discipline, I'll shoot ye dead if I have ter. I might sit around of a night afterwards and feel a mite blue, but that passes through a man's soul same as green corn through a fella's belly."

  "I guess I've never quite thought of life like that."

  Beyond the hazel, over by the river, the engages were singing a nonsense song about woodpeckers.

  "Best start, coon
."

  ELEVEN

  Thus it is that every man has an empirical character of his arbitrary will, which is nothing more than a certain causality of his reason. It demonstrates in its actions and effects in appearance, a rule according to which one may infer the motives of reason and its actions, both in degree and kind, and therefore judge of the subjective principles of his will. Since that empirical character itself must be inferred from appearance as an effect^ and from their rule which is supplied by experience, all the acts of a man in the appearance are determined from his empirical character and from the other concomitant causes according to the order of nature, and if we could investigate all the manifestations of his will to the very bottom, there would be not a single human action which we could not predict with certainty. . . .

  —Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason

  Her people were known for their endurance, and Heals Like A Willow had worked hard all of her life, hauling wood and water, scraping hides, digging roots, and carrying packs. The relentless flight eastward, however, was taking its toll. Her legs ached from clamping onto the horse. Stitches of pain prickled in her shoulders and back. The only justice—such as it might be— was that Packrat looked just as haggard.

  They had passed the last of the rugged sandstone bluffs that rose, pale yellow, south of the river. Now they rode across endless gentle uplands, the country grassy and open, flatter than anything Willow had ever seen. Here, however, the spring grasses were greening. Buffalo stood out like black dots on the horizon, their worn trails winding down from the ridges to the river and its life-giving water.

  Their only companion had been the wind. At night, just after dark, it would let up, until by dawn the air was still and a person could hear birdsong across the miles. Then, as the sun rose higher into the crystalline sky, the breeze would pick up in the west, increasing in strength as it gusted through the afternoon.

  It still blew as Packrat led the way down into a cotton-wood-filled hollow along a brush-choked creek. Twilight darkened the east. Willow swiped at long black strands of hair that had escaped the severe braid she'd adopted to keep it from turning into a snarl worse than a horse's tail in fall.

  Packrat hobbled the horses and collected fallen cotton-wood branches for fuel. He built a fire from his strike-alight, and leaned back on his blanket. In silence, they ate the last of the jerked meat from her pack.

  Packrat signed: "Five days and we will reach my people."

  Willow shot a glance at the weary horses. Their heads were hanging and she could see their ribs through their patchy hair. Within her, a faint hope stirred.

  Despite bound hands, she signed: "Travel faster. Arrive in four days."

  He pursed his lips, curious. "Why? You should want to go slow. You'd have a better chance of rescue."

  "I'm tired. Let's get this finished."

  He dropped another branch on the small fire, thought for a bit, then signed: "You make no sense. A buffalo doesn't walk willingly to the hunter."

  "It does if the Power is right."

  He cocked his head, noticing her quick glance at the horses. A slow smile spread across his face. "You are crafty, like a coyote. The horses are worn out. One might falter, go lame. Then we would be forced to go much slower."

  Her sudden hope flickered out.

  Packrat chuckled to himself. His fingers said, "You are a worthy catch. My father will reap his reward. I could not have done better if I had given him a panther to warm his bed."

  "You hate your father that much?"

  A glint sharpened in Packrat's eyes. "More than you could know. He dishonored my mother."

  "Why not kill him?"

  "It is better this way." Packrat picked up his war club, stood, and walked over to her. "Roll onto your stomach. I'm going to scout. If your feet are bound, and your hands are tied behind your back, you will not be able to run."

  She glanced at the club, sighed, and then rolled over, allowing him to truss her ankles with a long thong. Perhaps while he was gone ...

  But he didn't leave. Instead, he tied yet another thong snugly around her neck. He signed: "I am going to lie with you now. If you fight me, I can twist the thong around your neck with one hand. A woman with no air cannot fight."

  Willow licked her suddenly dry lips.

  Packrat loosened his fringed pants and stepped out of them. He signed: "My father dishonored my mother. Lay with her without permission. I will lie with you before I give you to him. My triumph will be that much greater."

  Willow nodded wearily. Taking a deep breath, she lay back and locked her gaze with his as he tugged her dress up past her hips. The evening breeze cooled her thighs and belly as his hands slid over her skin, under her dress, and cupped her breasts.

  His incomprehensible words were spoken gently, as if calming a horse.

  I could make it difficult. The thought ran around her head. With her ankles bound, she could stiffen her legs, resist until he got a hand around the thong and choked her into submission.

  And to what purpose? He'd been wary this time. But the next time? Or the next?

  She slid her ankles up and spread her knees as he moved to cover her. She was dry, his entry difficult but not painful. Staring into his eyes, so close to hers, she thought, My time will come. No one is forever vigilant. If I get the chance, I will cut that penis from your body.

  He'd barely started to move before he gasped and stiffened. She felt the warm fluid release within her. I'll take this little victory from you. I don't know how, but I will.

  The knob of the pole was eating a hole in Richard's bruised shoulder when his stomach cramped. Thinking it was just another strained muscle, he kept pushing. Then his gut cramped again, and his bowels demanded relief.

  He called to Trudeau behind him and indicated his need for relief. Walking to the offside, he squatted out over the gunwale of the boat and voided.

  The ever watchful Green approached and cocked an eye. Almost solicitously, he put a hand on Richard's head. "Got the scours. Take it easy, Hamilton. Work too hard like this and it'll kill a man."

  Richard nodded weakly and voided again. His stomach knotted and his bowels wrenched. For long moments he held the position, legs trembling. Unable to straighten up, he waddled over and sat in the shade, shaking and sweating. He could hear the booshway's voice telling the other men. Jeers and laughter erupted.

  Then the sweats and chills began. The deck he lay on grew hazy, then shimmery. Time lagged. He slept and drank and ate and slept again while strange dreams played through his mind. Occasionally Dave Green would bend over him and place his cool hand on Richard's burning head. Once, when that happened, he blinked and looked up—but into Phillip Hamilton's piercing eyes.

  "Satisfied, Father?" he croaked. "This what you wanted me to see? Reality? This isn't reality ... it's Hell."

  Phillip laughed harshly and Richard cowered from those mocking gray eyes. The face shimmered and lost focus.

  The deck, yes, the deck lay below him, wet with his own sweat. Maria, the river. A different Hell.

  The silvered visions wavered. Once he walked through Boston's narrow curving streets, past coopers, blacksmiths, silversmiths, ceramic shops, bootmakers, bookshops, printers, tailors. As he continued, he nodded and exchanged greetings with warm, friendly people.

  Then he rounded a corner, and to his horror, Thomas Hanson stood there. Laura was enfolded in his arms as she kissed him passionately. She melted against him, sighing as she pulled his head down and pressed her lips against his.

  "No!" Richard screamed, his heart breaking. They turned then, and Laura's eyes flashed, mocking him for a fool. Hanson lifted a cool eyebrow, then laughed as he slipped an arm around her slim waist. They turned and walked away while Richard stood rooted to the spot. Her hips were swaying in time to Hanson's steps.

  A sweltering gray haze surrounded him, and somewhere water dripped on dirty stones.

  Suddenly old Professor Ames took his hand, pulling him away. Together they stro
lled through Market Square toward Merchant's Row.

  "You didn't really think she'd be yours, did you, Richard? Nothing is permanent—-least of all the loyalty of a woman. She's better off with Thomas," Ames told him with an engaging smile and twinkling eyes. "But, tell me, how was your trip? What observations did you make? Is a rational mind enough to overcome social contract?"

  Richard struggled to think. Laura and Tom? No, he couldn't accept that. Wrong, somehow. Not real. But when had Professor Ames ever lied to him? "No, Professor."

  "Then you have not tried hard enough, Richard," Ames told him. "You have given up without attempting to elevate yourself above the baser desires."

  The vision drifted away. Then, out of the warped silver waves, his father's cynical scowl formed. "I had not intended to raise a weakling, Richard. No wonder Laura married Thomas Hanson."

  "I am no weakling!" Richard cried at the apparition. "I am superior! I have truth! The real is the rational! Damn you, Father, don't you understand?" Hot rage boiled. "You are evil, Father!"

  "Of course, you would think that" Phillip told him.

  A terrible rage burned in Richard's breast. He gathered himself to strike—only to recoil as Francois leered back at him through icy blue eyes. "What is rational, eh? I will give you truth. Truth is life, weakling. Life is suffering in the wind and the sun. Life is the river and the land. Take your life and think of the truth I have given you, rich man!"

  Richard cringed.

  "Weil, Richard?" Professor Ames asked from a great distance. "All that you claim to believe is challenged. To prove yourself, you must survive. Can you?"

  "I... don't know. I just don't..."

  "Fool!" The words echoed from the darkness of Green's pistol barrel. An image formed in that crucible of death: himself, smartly dressed and arrogant.

  "Stop it! Damn you! Stop it!" Richard screamed. "There is rationality in the world. I have not yet failed. I will be stronger. Damn you both! You watch me! I am an animal now, but I will win. I will escape and return to Boston. You'll see! You and your kind. You'll... see..."