Dreams Beneath Your Feet

by Win Blevins

  Marcus Whitman kept to himself and his medical books. Though Hannibal visited him from time to time, for the moment the pleasure was gone from the friendship. Which was too bad, because Hannibal thought Whitman was a good man.

  Sam, Hannibal, and Esperanza worked hard at trading for horses, training them, and teaching both Cayuses and Nez Percés how to train their best mounts to respond to hand signals and voice commands. Flat Dog rode several times over to Fort Walla Walla and helped the saddle maker there, learning all he could. But everyone watched the lower slopes of Mount Hood for the day when the snows would be melted enough and they could get started for the American settlement at Oregon City.

  On a bright spring morning Sam had had enough. Sometimes, he thought, what’s needed is action. “Time’s a-wasting,” he said. “Life is waiting for us in California. We start tomorrow morning.”

  Everyone was relieved.

  That evening Hannibal wrote a letter to his friend.

  Dear Marcus—

  Tomorrow we leave, and I don’t know when I’ll be back to this good place, or when we’ll get to share coffee and conversation again.

  I am leaving with words clanking around in my head unspoken, words I have been too shy to utter to you directly. I mean them as kind, helpful to you. Certainly they are intended in the spirit of friendship, so I give them to you in this letter.

  I believe that the religion of the Cayuses and the Nez Percés is as good for them as yours is for you. In fact, I might say better.

  You worship the Lord of all Creation. They worship creation itself. Your Lord is an angry God, full of demands and threats of retribution if obedience is not forthcoming. Their Mother Earth is the essence of nurturing. She brings forth each spring the bountiful life upon this planet. She provides sunlight and the water that living things need, indeed the very air we breathe. She is truly the most loving of all possible mothers.

  My fear at this moment is that you will think I am saying that your mission is a vain one. Not at all. I believe it to be thoroughly worthy. In my opinion, what you have to give to the Native people is not Jehovah or his divine son. It is the vast knowledge of Western civilization. Medicine, agriculture, science, mechanics—all these and much more you can give them, and they will love you for it. You will be delighted with yourself for your good deeds.

  I do not believe they will love you for your preaching of Jehovah. Indeed, I fear that they may come to hate you for it.

  I write these words hesitantly. Please believe that they bear a message from a true friend.

  Yours truly,

  Hannibal MacKye

  In the morning Hannibal reread his letter and tore it up.

  REMOULET LED SAM, Hannibal, and Flat Dog to a good spot to see The Dalles. They made such a nasty froth and roar that the horses pulled back against the hands that held their reins. The walls of the Columbia River narrowed and plunged over a falls. Beyond the falls the water turned from a current to a torrent. Waves stood taller than a man and curled back upstream, like lascivious tongues. “Man-eaters,” said Flat Dog.

  “No place for the herd,” said Sam.

  “Jay was right,” put in Hannibal.

  “The Company, it take ze men and furs through in those bateaux,” said Remoulet. Sam and Hannibal had hired him to help take the herd around the mountain. “And they have sometimes to portage.”

  “Oh my God!” said Sam.

  What made him cuss right then was a salmon hurtling up the falls right next to them.

  “I bet that fish goes forty or fifty pounds,” said Hannibal. “I’ve seen plenty that do.”

  “Every time it make my bones go willy,” said Remoulet.

  “The Indians like them fine,” said Hannibal.

  The Indian men were fishing on the other side of the river now. They lived on the salmon that came up the Columbia during this spring run. They caught the fish any way they could and dried the meat on racks over a low fire, just as the Indians of the plains dried buffalo meat. Salmon were the buffalo of the Northwest.

  Sam turned backward and looked up at Mount Hood. “One hell of a mountain to go around.” The volcano blotted out the entire southern sky.

  “Bigger zan a thousand grizzly bear,” said Remoulet. “Also, must I say to you, ten times so mean.”

  “A bitch,” said Hannibal.

  “I’ll be . . . ,” said Sam.

  The others saw the same gaped-mouth expression.

  All of them saw another one fling itself straight up the falls.

  “Oh my God!”

  “Save that prayer for Mount Hood,” said Hannibal.

  They took a last look at the Indians dotting the north side of the river. They used nets. They had traps. Where they had built small fences to coop up the fish, they prowled with cocked spears. They showed no interest in the strangers. Their focus was the fish and food enough to last until the next salmon run.

  There were Indians, people said, who would build a raft and float you through the mighty waters. But you could never float a herd of seventy-seven horses through.

  “We’re leaving the river tomorrow morning?” asked Hannibal.

  “Yeah,” said Sam, mesmerized by something in the stream.

  He dived into the torrent and immediately stood halfway up with a mammoth salmon in his arms.

  The huge fish wriggled and flicked Sam away like a fly. He fell backward over a boulder. Then the salmon circled in the pool and made the upward leap.

  Hannibal, Flat Dog, and Remoulet were so astonished by the fish that they lost track of Sam for a moment. His holler caught their attention.

  Sam’s tumble had taken him from the pool into the current. Now he was bouncing downstream like flotsam. They saw him rise up one of the tall waves and get flipped backward. On the second try he swam hard and kicked his way through it. He fended off a boulder with one stiff leg and swept around it. For a moment he was caught in the eddy on the back side, but he got both feet on the rock, gave a mighty shove, and splashed back into the current.

  They were dashing alongside the river now, keeping Sam in sight.

  He washed straight over a big rock headfirst—no, he didn’t wash over, he beached!

  Sam waved his hat at them and dived as far as he could downstream. The rapid turned from a rock garden into big waves alone, waves that lifted Sam like a dinghy of human bark, dropped him into the troughs behind, and flung him into the sky again.

  Hannibal tried to figure out what else he was seeing and realized it was that foolish hat, zigzagging in the air.

  The rapid turned to duck feathers and then pooled out in a big eddy. By the time Hannibal, Flat Dog, and Remoulet arrived, Sam was standing in the shallows.

  “Still got my hat,” he yelled over the roar of the rapids, grinning. He clambered onto the bank.

  “How come you do such a crazy t’ing?” said Remoulet.

  Sam looked at him funny and answered, “To catch the fish!”

  “We Frenchmen of the canoes,” said Remoulet, “we do not swim.” His tone added, “nor want to.”

  “Let’s go see if we’ve still got horses,” said Sam.

  They trotted back upstream. The way was so rough that Hannibal was surprised they’d been able to run it without thought.

  All four mounts stood calmly where they’d left them, no Indian nearby. With Sam’s mare Paladin and Hannibal’s gelding Brownie this was no surprise. That pair was trained to ground tie—you could just drop the reins and the horse would stand still as if it was staked.

  The others apparently liked equine company.

  “We leave the river tomorrow,” repeated Hannibal, “if we’re all still alive.”

  “LET’S EAT THE horseflesh,” said Flat Dog.

  Everybody laughed, and laughter was a good thing, a healing and relief.

  They had labored their way across the southeastern slopes of Mount Hood for several days. The old Indian trail was good for a few hunters or warriors but not for a herd of loose horses,
plus pack animals, two horses dragging travois, and ten riders. It was narrow, steep, and blocked by thick stands of evergreens. In places you had to pick your way through downed timber. All too often the slope angled up forever and a day. The horses kept trying to turn back, and the people felt like doing the same.

  Then they came into a pleasant valley called Tygh where some Chinook Indians lived. They spent two days resting the horses on good grass and doing a little trading.

  After they turned west from the Tygh Valley the southern slopes of Mount Hood got steeper, and they learned to believe what the Chinooks had signed to them—snow ahead.

  The horses sank above their knees. The riders climbed off and led their mounts. The people had to stovepipe it, pick up each leg, one at a time, slide it forward on the snow, and plunk it straight down into the cold, white stuff one meager step ahead. The horses had almost as much trouble. It was slow going, and the steepness made it much worse. The animals were on the edge of turning surly. Some of the human animals were beyond that edge.

  “I was in too much of a rush,” said Sam. “It’s too early in the season.”

  “That’s why we should stop and eat them,” said Flat Dog again.

  “They look tastier with every step,” Remoulet agreed.

  Sam and everyone else had been wrapped inside the same rush. This herd was their stake, their start to a new life. Everybody wanted to get to the American settlements on the Willamette River, sell these horses, and get headed south. Also, the mares would be foaling in another month. Best to travel now and foal on better ground.

  “This is not worth it,” said Julia.

  “The filly’s down again,” Sam told her.

  Julia led her mount twenty yards or so down the slope and helped the year-old filly to her feet. She was undersized and having a hard time in the snow. Julia had appointed herself the filly’s caretaker.

  “Julia’s irritable,” said Sam.

  “Me, too,” said Hannibal.

  “Horses gonna be cranky tonight,” said Sam.

  The men didn’t see any hope of getting beyond these snow-fields today, and the poor animals would have to spend the night in knee-deep snow without anything to eat.

  “We’ve been on the road for ten months,” said Hannibal. He didn’t mention that they had several more months to go. “More than enough to make anyone cranky.”

  THE NEXT DAY they got out of the snow just in time for the herd and all the people to slip and slide down a ridiculously long, steep hill lined with laurels. Beyond the hill, though, they came on good grass.

  “Let’s call a halt for a day,” said Sam.

  People would have cheered, but they were too tired.

  Flat Dog squeezed out, “The horses need the rest.”

  Julia and Jay put up the tipi. “I’ll have a fire and a big, extra-strong pot of coffee in a few minutes,” said Julia.

  “We’d best set a guard,” said Sam.

  “Just one,” put in Hannibal.

  “Ain’t gonna be no Indians fool enough to come up into these snows and glaciers,” said Remoulet.

  “I’ll take watch,” said Flat Dog.

  “I’ll go find us some meat,” said Remoulet.

  In half an hour all but the hunter and the guard were toasty. In two hours they were broiling strips of backstraps on skewers. Julia took coffee and meat to her husband, perched on a boulder above the herd. She sat with him awhile, looking south across vast reaches of evergreen trees and chatting softly. Neither of them had ever seen such timber, big and rolling as the ocean.

  When Julia got back to the tipi, she saw that Sam was dozing behind the fire. She shook him gently. “Almost dark, your watch.”

  Sam sat up alert. “Sure,” he said,

  As he raised the tipi flap, they all heard the gunshots.

  First off Sam ran his eyes to Flat Dog on the boulder. Sam saw a blast of white smoke and heard a boom and knew his friend was alive.

  Four or five thieves drove hard down the far ridge toward the herd, shouting and waving their blankets. From their dress they were half-breeds.

  Sam pulled Paladin’s stake and jumped on her bareback. As he kicked his horse toward the trouble, he heard and felt his friends close behind him. A glance showed Hannibal, Remoulet, Jay, and Azul.

  “Azul,” screamed Julia, “come back here.”

  The youth ignored her.

  The herd was stirring, starting to skitter down the little valley, just as the thieves wanted.

  Shots! Some of the damned horse thieves had reloaded and were making a racket to . . .

  The herd bolted. They charged downhill the way the Columbia River charged through The Dalles.

  Sam spurred Paladin. His mind screamed, THAT . . . IS . . . OUR . . .

  He felt Jay pull alongside on his mare, Kauai. The kid didn’t know how to use his pistol but was willing to fight. Sam let out a war whoop.

  Quickly he saw that running at the herd was only making things worse. His horses just ran off faster.

  Sam looked at Jay and motioned left. When Sam turned his head back, Hannibal had already led Remoulet and Azul off toward the right-hand ridge. They had to get ahead of the horses and turn them. First they probably had to shoot the damned breeds who were driving the horses off.

  Paladin had speed and nimble feet—Jay’s mare struggled to keep up. The ridge timber was thin, and the herd now began to slow the thieves. It was weary beyond weary and did not want to run.

  We have a chance, thought Sam.

  Sam and Jay gained ground. Sam could see the thieves at the back of the herd, parallel to him. He reined Paladin up, jumped off her while she was skidding to a stop, and sprinted up a rocky outcropping to get a clear field of vision. He leveled his rifle, the Celt, and as he began to squeeze the trigger—

  BOOM!

  The shot came from nearby.

  Kauai screamed, reared, and went down.

  Sam could see the white smoke no more than fifty yards ahead, behind some rocks.

  KABOOM!

  “AMBUSH!” he hollered.

  White smoke fizzed into the air on the opposite ridge. Sam saw Azul fly off his mount.

  “AMBUSH!” Sam hollered again. “AMBUSH!”

  He ran behind a big rock, Jay diving in beside him. “Kauai is dead,” said Jay. Sam saw the mare’s head covered with blood.

  Sam held his rifle on the rocks beneath the smoke.

  A barrel slipped upward and came level. A head rose behind it.

  Sam fired.

  The head went down.

  From the way the rifle jumped, Sam thought he’d hit it, not the head.

  He left the Celt, jumped on Paladin, and galloped straight at the rocks, yelling like a madman. To hell with whether he’d hit only the rifle. He rode with his knees and waved his tomahawk in one hand, his pistol in the other.

  A big breed stood up with a pistol gripped.

  Sam fired to make the bastard duck. Then he used a lesson he’d learned long ago. He ran Paladin right over his foe, trampling him.

  Christ! Sam pulled Paladin up and made her rear just before she galloped onto some low outcroppings.

  Sam spun Paladin and reined her down, front hoofs directly on the bushwhacker. Getting the idea, Paladin reared and thumped the bastard again.

  Instantly, Sam saw the fight was over. The man’s head was bloody, and he was unconscious.

  “Tie him!” Sam shouted at Jay, and slapped Paladin’s hindquarters to send her after the herd.

  After a dozen strides he reined up and looked back. Flat Dog was running from his sentry rock across the valley toward the other ridge, toward Azul. They were down to a few minutes of fading light.

  This ambush could be a sign of another one waiting. Sam looked after his fleeing herd. Not much I can do alone in the dark.

  He noticed a last thief running out of the trees on the opposite ridge and chasing the herd. Out of range for a shot, unfortunately. But something niggled at Sam about that horse.
r />   He lifted his field glass and brought horse and rider into twilight focus. He tracked them carefully for several seconds, unable to believe what he saw. He wouldn’t have been able to identify the rider from behind, except that he knew that big black Appaloosa with the snowflake markings. It was the stallion Warrior, ridden by Kanaka Boy.

  Sam rode hard toward the other ridge. He was scared about Azul.

  Thirty-eight

  “I TOLD YOU you weren’t ready yet,” Flat Dog barked at Azul.

  The boy was writhing on the ground, moaning, shot through the calf. Hannibal and Remoulet stood above him, looking helpless.

  “Remoulet,” said Sam, “go to the other ridge and help Jay out. He needs you.”

  The Frenchy mounted and galloped off.

  Flat Dog took the leg in both hands gingerly and tried to move the bone.

  “O-o-o-w!” shouted Azul.

  The bone held.

  Sam felt for the kid. While Rojo was a boy clown at eleven, at fourteen Azul was struggling to play the man.

  “I don’t think it’s broken,” said Flat Dog. “Bone may be nicked.”

  “Let’s get back to the lodge,” said Sam.

  “And off this goddamn mountain,” said Flat Dog.

  The two men lifted Azul onto his saddle belly down. The kid hollered again. Flat Dog lashed the boy on.

  “You should have stayed back,” said Flat Dog. The anguish was gravel in his voice.

  WHILE THE FATHER muttered disapproval, the mother oozed sympathy. Which didn’t change the fact that the job had to be done. Mother and father laid their son on a buffalo robe next to the fire, inspected the wound, and agreed with their eyes.

  Flat Dog still owned the older kind of rifle that used powder in the pan. Now he poured a little onto the wound and dabbed it around. Sam saw the gentleness in the father’s finger and the pain in his face.

  Rojo knelt close and watched, awed.

  Flat Dog lifted an ember with the tip of his knife and slid it onto the powder.

  Flame popped and sizzled.

  Azul screamed. Both parents held him down by his shoulders.