The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  His blue eyes probed hers. "Travis told me you were a smart squaw, and that I'd best not underestimate you. Well, Willow, I'll tell you the truth as far as I know it, all right?"

  "All right."

  "I don't know if all the things White men make are good for them, or not. I guess it depends on how you use them. A gun kills more efficiently than a bow. A man can defend his home better with a bullet than an arrow."

  "But you must trade for powder and bullets. And if your gun breaks, you must get a White Man to fix it."

  "That's true. But in the meantime, an Indian can make him a new bow and arrows until he runs into a trader with gun parts."

  "A gun is heavy thing to pack around while looking for a trader."

  "Not if you have a post at the Hot Springs. The parts would be there whenever you needed them."

  "And if this trader wants as much for the gun—what did you say? Parts? Those are the pieces?"

  "That's right. A gun is made of parts."

  ''But if one part breaks, the gun is worth as much as the broken part. What then, Green? I heard the story about Blackbird. He let the trader charge what he wanted. And the people had to pay."

  The booshway frowned. "Happens. On my honor, Willow, if I am your trader, I will never charge as much for the part as I would for the whole gun."

  "But you might charge a lot."

  He gestured at the boat and the engages riding along the passe avant. "This costs a great deal, Willow. I had to pay a heap for the boat, and the men don't work for free. You understand about money?"

  "Yes. Trawis explained. Like trading plews. So many for a certain thing."

  "Well, it's a bit more complicated than that, but yes. I still have to make more on trade than I give out. You understand that? I must make enough more so that I can get the things I want for myself."

  She lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. "And what do you want, Green? I think you would be a hard man to satisfy. You remind me of my..." How do I say brother-in-law? What is their word? "Of a man I know. He always wants more, and will risk himself to get it. One day it will kill him. You are such a man, Green. I can see your soul. It will never be full."

  Green stared out at the river, the waves breaking in white-caps. "You can see my soul?"

  "Medicine has given me certain ways of seeing. Your soul is a lot like Ritshard's. He is driven to know. You are driven to have things. Neither one of you will ever have enough of what you want, but Ritshard will try to share what he seeks. Will you try to share your things, Green?"

  He took a deep breath and laughed. "Damn, woman, do you always ask so many questions?"

  "Ever since I was a little girl. It is said that I'm nothing but trouble. Better for you that Ritshard shot Packrat and freed me. Think how you would have felt if you'd traded two rifles for me back at the fort. You'd want your rifles back."

  A twinkle filled Green's eyes. "I doubt it, Willow."

  "We have not solved the problem of your 'goods.' They can be bad, can't they? Like the whiskey you carry. People will want more and more of them."

  "If they didn't, I couldn't trade for very long. Willow, many things the whites have make life easier. A metal pot lasts forever. An iron ax is sharper than one made of stone. It takes less labor to chop down a tree."

  "Gunpowder runs out. Whiskey is all drunk up."

  "Iron needles are better than bone ones. Blankets are lighter than buffalo hides—and just as warm."

  She placed her palms together, rubbing her hands. "The Ku'chendikani believe that horses are good for them, too. Now they move camp all winter long looking for grass for the horses. I think they work harder for the horses than the horses work for the people. Would trade be this way? If all the bands want White things, will they be working all winter to hunt enough beaver to pay for gunpowder, needles, pots, and whiskey? Are these things you bring just something else to take my people away from their old life? From the familiar ways of doing things?"

  Green made a face. "Hell, Willow, I don't... I mean . . . Look, I can't make them trade for things. It's up to them, isn't it? You've got to understand how trade works. I've got to bring things people want. If I haul a boatload of blankets all the way upriver and no one wants a single one, I'm broke. I sure can't make a man trade for a blanket he don't want. Follow my stick?"

  She nodded. "Plumb center, Green. My people wanted horses. They still do. More than anything else in the world. I fear they will want the White man's goods with the same—is the word 'passion'?"

  "It is."

  ''Then your goods may be very bad, Green."

  He fingered his chin. "Blackfeet and Crow will have these things. Guns give warriors a big advantage in a fight."

  "The A'ni and Pakiani seek out the Ku'chendikani just to take their horses. The Dukurika high in the mountains are mostly left alone. The A'ni and Pakiani don't like to ride their horses up the mountains. And the Dukurika have nothing they want to steal."

  "Sheepeater," Green said, understanding in his eyes. "You're not a Snake? Which tribe do you belong to?"

  She shrugged. "We are just the People. Some live far to the west and call themselves the Agaidika, the Fish-eaters. Some are the Po'hoganhite, the Sage-people. It depends on where the People are and what they do."

  Green ran his thick fingers through his hair. "Willow, it's going to happen. If I don't set up a post and trade, someone else will. You and your people have to understand. The white traders will go any place they must to find hides. They'll fight for trade just as hard as the Blackfeet and Crows fight with each other. If the river can be made safe, many traders will race for your country. Take my word, they'll come. Just as winter follows summer."

  Just as winter follows summer? The words settled in her soul. She couldn't help but stiffen at the thought.

  "This place you will make, it will be like Fort Atkinson?"

  "No, not that big. Just a small post. A couple of houses, a storehouse, and the trading house."

  "And what if it isn't good for us, for my people, Green?"

  "You've seen the things we have. Wouldn't life be easier with them? A copper pot doesn't wear out like a buffalo gut. Glass beads are brighter than porcupine quills. A good steel knife works a heap better than a stone one. That can't be bad.''

  Water slapped at the bow, splashing whitely against the brown water. Despite the magic of a huge boat that moved with the wind, she couldn't shake the sense of worry.

  Someday my people will regret the coming of the White men. And she couldn't help but think of Coyote, who promised wonderful things—and brought disaster.

  ''That wasn't fair!" Richard picked himself up off the grass and wiped his bloody nose. Every muscle ached, and his nose stung. The only saving grace was that Willow was on the boat and didn't have to see him look a simple fool.

  They stood out in the open on the bluffs west of the river. The horses watched them with pricked ears, then lowered their heads to crop at the fresh grass and challenge the limits of their ground picket. A brisk south wind tugged at Richard's shirt and ruffled his sweaty hair. Out in the grass a meadowlark trilled the most peaceful of songs. Beyond wave after wave of grassy hills, the horizon lost itself in the distance. Patches of white fluffy cloud contrasted to the crystal blue heavens.

  Travis stood with feet planted, thumbs in his belt. The insolent wind teased the long fringes of his tawny hunting jacket. "Dick, the thing about fighting is that yer supposed to win."

  Baptiste laughed and added, "Boy, you gotta figger that Trudeau ain't a gonna worry about fair, neither. He ain't no gentleman. And, Dick, you gotta savvy this: Out heah, winning means living."

  Richard stared at the bright blood on his fingers. "So what am I doing wrong?"

  "Yer holding back. Now, try her again. Give her all ye've got. Fight with yer heart. C'mon. Try me." Travis gestured him onward.

  Richard tasted blood and spit. ''This is just practice. Do I have to bleed?''

  "Hell, yes! Fighting ain't painless, coon. Tha
t nose ain't shit ter what Trudeau'll do ter ye. Here I come."

  Richard squared his shoulders, knotted his fists, and Travis closed. This time, Richard blocked two of Travis's blows before a third landed in his gut. Richard doubled, thumped into the ground, and wheezed fer breath.

  "C'mon, ye silly girl!" Travis cried, bounding from foot to foot. "Get up, ye stinking Yankee. Yer dog shit, boy! Farting philos'pher! Ye've got the guts of a buzzard!"

  The mocking tone goaded him. The humiliation of that last blow, the indignity of his dripping nose, all broke loose at once, and he threw himself at Travis, a red rage burning free inside.

  Clawing and scratching, Richard kicked and gouged, heedless of the blows that rained down on him. But Travis slipped inside, backheeled him, and dropped him to the ground.

  "That's it!" Travis leapt back, a grin on his ruined face. "Ye turned yerself loose!"

  "You son of a bitch!" Richard staggered to his feet.

  ''Them's fighting words!" Baptiste crowed.

  "Whoa, now!" Travis held his hands wide. 'That's just the first step. When yer a-fighting, rage is half of it. T'other half is in yer head. That's what we gotta work on next."

  Richard glared, fists knotted.

  "All right, coon. Come over hyar. Now, grab a-holt of me. What I just did was wrap my leg around ahind yers and push. Give her a try."

  Richard did, while Baptiste pointed out the proper place to put his feet.

  "Gonna have you all fit to whup Old Ephraim hisself," Baptiste declared. "Ain't nobody on the river knows knuckle and skull like ol' Travis Hartman."

  Richard threw the hunter, surprised at what he'd done.

  "Now, coon," Travis told him from flat on his back. "Jump plumb in the middle of my lights, and I'll show ye how ter gouge a man's eye out. Ain't gonna do her fer real, mind. I got lots ter see afore I goes under."

  ''Gouge a man's—"

  ''When ye fights, coon, ye fights fer yer life."

  ''But, Travis, a man's eyes? My God, that's—"

  Baptiste stepped close, his black face grim. ''Make yor choice now, white boy. Life ain't fair. It ain't just. Fighting ain't nothing more than two animals going at it to see who wins. Ain't no rules out heah. You win, yor alive. You lose ..." Baptiste ran a suggestive finger across Richard's throat.

  Reluctantly, Richard nodded. ''All right, Travis, how do I gouge a man's eye out?"

  Hours later, Richard picked at his blood-crusted nose as they waited by the side of the river for the Maria.

  Travis sat cross-legged, peering intently at the ABCs scratched into the dirt. Baptiste lounged on his side, watching with amused interest. Laboriously Travis scratched out: T-R-A-V-I-S. Then wiped it out and started again.

  ''Gives a coon a curious feeling, a-wiping out his name like that. Injuns, they figger words got power, heap of medicine in 'em. Most like a-stepping on a grave."

  Richard winced as he shifted his abused body. "Well, think of it this way. As long as you can write it again, you're still alive. And unlike the spoken word, the written one can last forever. Like those of Socrates, who spoke two thousand years ago. Were it not for writing, his thoughts would be long gone. All that wisdom, vanished forever."

  "Tee. Are. Ay. Uh—"

  "Vee."

  ''Yep. Vee. Eye. Snake. That's what it is."

  "Ev

  "Wal, she looks like a snake ter me, coon. Them letter sign, wal, it's some harder ter cipher than this poor child ever figgered on."

  Baptiste chimed in. "Where I comes from, it's agin' the law fo' niggers to larn to read."

  "It's an immoral law," Richard replied. "They're afraid of what slaves would learn if they started to read. You might pick up a copy of Rousseau, or Hegel, and get ideas that might cause dissent."

  "What

  ''Unrest. Rebellion. As long as the slaves are ignorant, they can be oppressed. In Boston, there are abolitionist factions who would change that."

  Baptiste gave him a blank look.

  ''Abolitionists," Richard repeated. ''People who want to abolish, do away with, slavery. It's quite fashionable among the intellectuals."

  Baptiste picked a twig from the ground, cocked his jaw, and one by one, began to trace out the letters Richard had drawn. "Reckon I could larn, too. If n it's agin' the law, this coon's fo' it."

  Richard moved his sore arm, watching both men make letters in the sand. Here I am, a prime candidate to die by violence, learning to fight like a ruffian, and teaching an escaped slave to read.

  But the memory of Trudeau, of the triumphant look in his eyes, had burned into Richard's soul. One day, Trudeau, you 're going to regret that punch to the belly. So help me, God.

  The anger of that promise sobered him enough to wonder, What am I becoming?

  Richard climbed slowly to his feet, walking out into the trees. One nostril was still plugged with blood. Had that been him, clawing and kicking in red fury?

  I was a wild man. The antithesis of everything I’ve ever believed. He stopped to watch a squirrel dashing through the cottonwood branches overhead. Beyond the belt of trees lining the river, the plains stretched endlessly toward the western horizon. A man stood alone out there, naked to the eye of God. And from what Travis had told him, the plains stretched on for weeks, months—endless grass, caressed by the sun and wind, home of the buffalo and the Indian.

  "You can't lock Tarn Apo into a lodge, Ritshard. He is everywhere . . . and can only be known here. '' And Willow-had pointed to her heart. For the first time he fully understood the truth she'd taught.

  The Power of raw God overwhelmed him; his sense of smallness crushed him. "How do we know what we know?" Professor Ames had asked as an introduction to the works of David Hume. "How does the mind perceive?"

  In far-off England, safe amid the tame and fertile fields, and the cozy, brick-paved streets, Hume could ponder such weighty questions. Here, in the wilderness, perception was pressed on a man. It wasn't to be examined, but experienced.

  And where was Richard Hamilton to find rationality so close to raw God? He gazed out at the ocean of grass, and remembered waves marching endlessly across Boston Harbor.

  So far away.

  For long moments, he lost himself in the distance, seeking . . . what?

  He walked on, struggling to fit together the changes within himself. In breaks through the trees, he could see the river, brown water chapped by the wind. In defiance of rationality, he'd come to sense the river's soul. Power, Willow would have told him. All things having a soul. An idea discarded millennia ago by Western civilization.

  Or have we just disassociated our self from the natural world?

  That strange awareness of land and water, wind, storm, and sun, had fingered his soul, heedless of his rational mind. Yes, Power, a sort of spiritual essence, uncaring of men or their concerns. A force to be accepted, but never denied. This face of God cared not for the desires, prayers, and wants of men.

  How silly to think God was only an internal experience. No wonder Willow dismissed the idea that God could be encompassed by a cathedral. What a silly thing a man was, how insignificant when abandoned in such a wilderness. Was that the revelation experienced by Moses in the desert? Had such a forge tempered Augustine's soul in the isolated caves of Egypt?

  Richard took a deep breath, trying to sort through his confusion. I am learning to fight, to kill. Where is my purpose in this land of quick death?

  Did God even care?

  Richard stared down at his hands, those hands that had held the fusee that blew Packrat's life out of his body. No divine wrath had descended from the heavens. The Pawnee youth's red blood had drained out of his body, and the birds had continued to sing. Richard Hamilton had continued to breathe, eat, see, and feel. Only the flies had taken note of the fact that a life had been terminated—with little more effort than Travis wiping out his name.

  ''What kind of world is this?" Richard threw his head back, eyes closed, listening to the cottonwood leaves rattling overhead. Th
e air moved against his skin. Nothing changed with death. Life was only meaningful for the living.

  He shook his head, and when he opened his eyes, it took several seconds for the sight to sink in. The men walking slowly toward him carried half-lifted rifles and bows. They wore breechcloths, leather leggings, and feathers stuck into their gleaming black hair. No expression crossed their hard faces. Keen black eyes watched him warily as they spread out to surround him.

  Richard filled his lungs and shouted: ''Travis!''

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  As everything is useful for man, so, too, is man himself useful, and his singular characteristic function consists in making himself a member of the human herd, to be utilized for the common good, and serviceable to all. The f extent to which he looks after his own interests

  O is the measure to which he must also serve the interests of others, and so far as he serves their needs, he is taking care of himself: the one hand washes the other.

  —Georg Friedrich Wilhelm Hegel, Phenomenology of Mind

  Travis dodged from tree to tree, his Hawken in hand. There! He caught sight of movement, signaled Bap-tiste, and ducked low as he scuttled behind one of the thick cotton woods.

  Hamilton stood surrounded by six warriors. They'd cornered the Yankee fair, and the leader was fingering Richard's clothing, paying particular attention to the coup at his belt.

  Travis filled his lungs and bellowed, "Waugh!"

  At the call, the Sioux whirled, weapons ready.

  To the side, Baptiste had wriggled up behind a log, slipping his Hawken over the scaling bark.

  ''Dakota!'' Travis cried, walking out and making the hand sign for good. "Wash-te!"

  Richard threw him a terrified but grateful glance. Travis chuckled, and called out, "Dick, if'n ye gets any more scairt, yer eyes is gonna pop plumb outa yer body and ye'll be blinder than a cussed gopher!"