by Gary Paulsen
“NO-AH, MR. TUCKET, that isn't quite the way it's done.”
It was the first time Mr. Grimes used the long, drawn-out negative answer to something Francis had messed up. But it wasn't to be the last. In fact, he would use that long no, as Francis thought of it, about ten times to every short nod, which was the way the mountain man approved of anything.
It was the afternoon of the day Francis and Mr. Grimes had met at the stream. Francis had just loaded and fired his gun as instructed by Mr. Grimes. He felt that he'd done all right. A piece of wood more than thirty yards distant had turned to splinters with his shot. And it had been the piece of wood he was shooting at.
“What did I do wrong?” he asked. “I hit the piece of wood, didn't I?” There was just a thin bit of annoyance in his voice.
Mr. Grimes smiled and hooked his right hand in back of his neck, stretching. “Well, now, that's just about what everybody says—when they don't know about rifles.” He mimicked Francis, ” ‘I hit the piece of wood, didn't I?’ And yes, you did, Mr. Tucket. You hit the piece of wood. But how many times more can you hit it? Go ahead, load up and have at it. Pick another piece of wood out there and hit it for me, will you?”
Francis loaded, aimed, and fired at a buffalo chip about forty yards away. He missed. He tried twice more and missed both times.
Mr. Grimes nodded. “It's this way. You're holding that thing like it was an old rag. Your arms are loose, you're slopping your cheek against the stock, you're grabbing with your hands—and that's all wrong. You'll hit once or twice that way, if you're lucky. But the real trick of shooting a decent gun is to be able to put about four out of five balls in the same place, or nearly so. Now, Mr. Tucket, we'll see if we can't do a little reshaping of that crippled body of yours …”
He wasn't fooling. In the next five minutes Francis felt as though both his arms had been broken. Mr. Grimes pulled Francis's right elbow up so high the shoulder popped, and he jerked the left elbow down, directly beneath the barrel of the rifle.
“And don't grab with that left hand on the stock. Just make a baby cradle with your fingers and let the rifle sleep in it.”
Francis nodded. It hurt, standing that way, but he could see how it made for more consistent shooting.
“All right, Mr. Tucket, load up and fire again.”
Francis didn't start hitting right away, but at least his shots were failing in the same general area. Fie turned after four shots. “How's that?”
Mr. Grimes nodded. “All right, but you're taking too long to reload.”
“What do you mean, too long? It was just a couple of seconds between shots.” Actually it was more like a minute. But that wasn't what Mr. Grimes meant.
“It's this way, Mr. Tucket. What would you do if Braid came riding up the creek right now?”
“Why, I'd …” Francis blushed. He was standing with an empty rifle. If Braid, or any other threat, for that matter, came riding up the creek, Francis knew it would take him at least thirty seconds to load.
“That's right, Mr. Tucket. You'd be tied like a cow before you got powder down the bore. Every time you shoot, no matter whether you're shooting at buffalo chips or buffalo, you load as soon as the ball leaves the barrel. Carrying an empty rifle is about like carrying an empty water skin. When you get really thirsty, Mr. Tucket, you can't drink air.”
Francis smiled sheepishly. “I guess I've got a lot to learn, haven't I?”
“Ayup, Mr. Tucket, you have a lot to learn, but you're coming along. Now let's clean that little shooter of yours and try some rapid firing. That's what really separates the men, or boys, for that matter, from their scalps in this country—not being able to shoot fast.”
Cleaning the rifle was easy. Francis just cupped creek water in his hand and poured it down the barrel, swabbed it with a piece of patch on the end of his ramrod, then greased the bore.
“Now this is how we'll do it,” Mr. Grimes told him, fetching his own rifle from his saddle. “We'll have a sort of contest. We'll start at the same time, and the one who gets the most shots off while I count to ten will get out of working tonight—getting wood and cooking some of the jerky. Does that suit you, Mr. Tucket?”
Francis nodded. He didn't see how he could lose, shooting against a one-armed man.
“All right, Mr. Tucket. Go!”
“But you don't even have your rifle out of its case, Mr. Grimes,” Francis said. “You aren't even ready.”
“Just giving you the benefit of a little head start, Mr. Tucket. Ready? Go!”
They both fired at the same instant. Mr. Grimes had just flipped his rifle and fired, one-armed, before its buckskin case hit the ground.
“One,” he said, starting the coimt.
Francis worked frantically. From his flask he poured powder into his cupped palm, then he emptied the roughly measured powder down the bore.
“Two.”
As Francis was placing the patch across the mouth of the bore, he heard the roar of Mr. Grimes's Hawkens. He couldn't believe it. He put the ball on the patch, and drew the ramrod from its cradle beneath the barrel. He started the ball down with his thumb …
“Three.”
… and put The ramrod on top of it. As he slammed the ball home he heard the mighty Hawkens roar again. Mr. Grimes had fired three to his one. Francis capped the nipple, raised the rifle …
“Four.”
… and fired. As his second shot tore a buffalo chip to pieces, the Hawkens belched fire a fourth time. It was too much for Francis. He lowered his rifle and watched Mr. Grimes.
“Five.”
Mr. Grimes raised his Hawkens and fired. Number five. Five shots in the time it had taken Francis to make two. Clearly, Francis had missed something.
“Six.”
Mr. Grimes lowered the Hawkens and held it between his knees. In one fluid motion he poured powder from the flask at his side down the barrel directly—without measuring—and brought the muzzle of the rifle up to his mouth. From his lips he spit a ball into the muzzle. Without a patch, it slid freely down, needing no ramrod. He slammed the butt of the rifle on the ground, to seat the ball, and from the space between his fingers pulled a percussion cap. It fitted quickly on the nipple, the Hawkens came up, and …
“Seven.”
… smoke again poured out over the grass. Mr. Grimes lowered his rifle and grinned. “I don't guess I have to go all the way to ten after all.”
“But that wasn't fair,” Francis said. “You didn't patch your balls, or measure your powder—”
“Now, now, Mr. Tucket. The word ‘fair’ is pretty loose. What's not fair in St. Louis at a turkey shoot might be fair when you're up against five or six Comanch.” He cut the word “Comanche” off. “Out here people sort of think of ‘fair’ meaning the same as ‘alive.’ Savvy?”
Francis smiled. “Savvy. ‘Fair’ means that I'm going to gather wood and cook jerky.”
“You are coming along, Mr. Tucket,” the mountain man said, grinning again. “Ten, fifteen years, if you're still alive, you'll be the best wood gatherer in the Black Hills …”
THEY LEFT EARLY the next morning. Francis would have liked to stay on for a few more days, but Mr. Grimes saddled his big sorrel gelding just after coffee with the air of a man who has somewhere to go, and Francis, stiff or not, knew better than to make any other suggestions.
“Come on up, Mr. Tucket. Let's see how old Footloose carries double.”
As it turned out, old Footloose carried double almost as well as he carried single. Francis was given the job of holding the rope that led back to the pack mules. They followed nicely—showing none of the stubbornness Francis thought mules were supposed to show—and under a lightly clouded sky they made their way at a slow walk toward the southwest.
If Francis had expected a lot of conversation as they rode, he would have been sadly disappointed. Mr. Grimes was of the thinking that when he had something to say, he said it—usually with a bit of pepper thrown in. But when there wasn't anythin
g to talk about, two or tree hours might pass without a word coming from his bearded face.
Francis had close to a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but he didn't say anything for nearly two hours. In that time they had passed out of the main part of the pine forests and were winding down a dry-bottom canyon. It was an extremely pleasant place, even without water. Both sides of The canyon were of gray rock, and were high enough to keep the mid-morning sun from reaching Francis's back. Occasionally he could hear magpies chattering, and twice he heard the drumming of grouse, beating their wings on rotten logs. Even the sound of the sorrel's shod hooves, ringing off the rock walls, seemed natural and nice.
There was something bothering Francis, however, that kept him from enjoying these things the way he might have. Part of it was Rebecca—and not knowing about her. But it was Mr. Grimes that upset him more, and finally, as the sorrel brought them out of the canyon and back into the sun, Francis spoke up.
“Mr. Grimes, how is it that you're so friendly with the Pawnees—I mean, with Braid having caused you to lose your arm and all? I would think you'd be downright mad, or at least not friendly enough to bring them powder and lead.”
Mr. Grimes snorted, and Francis could see the mountain man's back jerk as he began to laugh. “Honestly, Mr. Tucket, you do ask the mulish questions, don't you? I'll bet you spend the rest of your days looking gift horses in their mouths.”
“What do you mean?”
“You want me to answer that? Or would you rather figure it out for yourself?” the mountain man said. “It seems simple to me. If I hadn't been ‘friendly with the Pawnees’ as you put it, you'd be back there with a rope around your neck, getting whipped.”
“I'm sorry,” Francis murmured. “It was a dumb thing to ask—”
“But since you asked,” Mr. Grimes cut in, “I think maybe I ought to answer it. You think I ought to be mad at Braid on account of my arm. Well, Braid can't help the way he was made, no more than you or me. The Pawnees call themselves ‘The People.’ They live with the land. If you put it in our talk, that means they live by nature—the same nature that makes a she-bear gut you if you mess with her cubs. Braid costing me my arm is about the same as if a she-bear took it. I couldn't get mad at a bear and I couldn't get mad at Braid, and I couldn't hate the whole Pawnee tribe because of a mistake.”
“You call losing an arm a mistake}” Francis asked.
“Yes, sir. I should have got Braid before he got my arm—not doing it was a mistake.”
“How can you talk about killing Braid when you don't hate him, aren't even mad at him?”
“Now be careful, Mr. Tucket. Asking a question is one thing—even when it's a dumb question. But now you're picking, and picking is what St. Louis city folk do …”
“No—I mean it. In the wagon train and at Braid's village, I fought a lot. But I couldn't really fight unless I got good and mad. Now you make it all sound so cool and calm—I just don't understand, that's all.”
Mr. Grimes laughed. “Let me put it another way. I live by trapping, mostly beaver. Sometimes I trap on Pawnee land, sometimes not. When I do trap on Pawnee land, it figures that I'd want to do it without getting my hair lifted, so I bring them something they need—powder and lead—and I don't get mad. I get something—beaver pelts—and the Pawnees get something. We all stay happy. Well, maybe not happy—but alive.”
Francis couldn't help himself. “Why do you have to bring them powder and lead? They turn right around and use it on white people—like my folks. That doesn't seem right to me …”
Francis felt the trapper stiffen in the saddle. He bit his tongue, and thought that he fully deserved getting knocked on the ground and left for the Indians.
Gradually the stiffness went away. Without turning, and in a dead-even voice, Mr. Grimes said, “I guess we'd better ride quiet for a while.”
For nearly an hour there was only the sound of the sorrel's hooves and bird calls and their own breathing. Francis called himself many kinds of a fool in that time.
When the silence was at last broken, it was Mr. Grimes who spoke.
“You've been through a lot in the past month or so, and I guess maybe I ought to take that into consideration a mite—”
“No,” Francis interrupted, glad of the chance to speak. “I was dumb. I'm sorry—I shouldn't have talked that way.”
“Well, I'm going to say something to you that I shouldn't have to say. I'm not a war maker. I don't want to kill Pawnees, and I don't want to kill whites. If they want to kill each other, that's something else again. I ride right down the middle. And if my powder and lead is used to kill whites, I'm sorry. But it's not my fault. That same powder and lead would kill a lot of buffalo and antelope—and that's how most of it is used. Some mountain men and traders bring the Indians whiskey—if you want to pick yourself a real fight, go after those men.”
“But I didn't mean—”
“And don't come clawing at me. I've killed a few Indians in my time, and I'll probably kill a few more. I may even put Braid under, someday, or he may kill me. But you can make money on this: If I do kill Braid, it won't be because he has something I want, like land. I'll leave that to the farmers—your people. And that's the last I want to hear about it.”
He quit talking as suddenly as he'd begun. Again the silence was thick and painful. There was nothing Francis could say, and he knew it, and the knowledge made him even sadder.
“Mr. Grimes,” he asked, “where are we going?”
“You mean today, or next month?”
“Well, today, I guess. I thought if we happened to be going near a settlement of some kind in the next few days, you could drop me off.”
The mountain man nodded. “If that's what you want. We'll be getting to a settlement tonight—or at least the only kind of settlement they have out here. You can drop off there if you want to. I think Standing Bear would be right proud to have you stay awhile—”
“Standing Bear?” Francis cut in. “Who's he?”
“He's the head of the settlement. I was thinking earlier of swinging by there and picking up a horse for you. Of course now that you want to stop, we'll just drop in and forget about the horse …”
“What kind of a settlement is it?”
“Well, it's not really a settlement. More like what you'd call a camp. Out here we call it something else.”
“What do you call it?”
“A village,” the mountain man answered, chuckling. “Out here we call it a Sioux village. You sure do pick the funniest places to want to stay, Mr. Tucket.”
FRANCIS TRIED not to be afraid when the Sioux village came into view. He had seen only one type of Indian so far, the mean type. And he knew that the Pawnee tribe was the not-too-distant cousin of the Sioux. Thoughts of recapture took the place of his faith in Mr. Grimes's judgment, and Francis went cold all over.
“Easy, Mr. Tucket,” the mountain man said without turning. “This is like a show. You saw me come into the Pawnee village—we do the same thing here. Act easy.”
Francis took his cue from Mr. Grimes. He stiffened his back and tried to remember something not related to where he was now. His mind settled on the birthday cake his mother had made, and looking straight ahead—neither down nor left nor right—he pictured it in exact detail.
The clamor in the village was deafening. Chief Standing Bear's group had an even noisier bunch of dogs than the Pawnees, and the children's howling was carshattering. Francis marveled at the sorrel and the mules. They paid no more attention to the screaming than did their master except that once a mule took aim and nearly drove a dog's head through his rear end with a rear hoof.
Finally, when they had woven their way to about the center of the village, Mr. Grimes pulled lightly on the reins and stopped.
“Standing Bear,” the mountain man called.
Francis watched as a small channel opened in the crowd to the right and an Indian, who limped, came through. He was short, bowlegged, and stocky, but he moved with
a smoothness that made Francis think immediately of a cat. It must be Standing Bear, Francis thought, and he was not smiling. When he was five feet from the sorrel, his right hand came up slowly, and with as much grace as he used walking.
Mr. Grimes shrugged, said something in Sioux to the chief, received an answer, and laughed.
“I thought it was a mite tight,” he said to Francis. “Braid sent word ahead and asked Standing Bear to hold you if the Sioux found you. That's interesting since the Pawnee and Sioux are usually enemies—I guess he made a small peace with this village because catching you is so important. It would seem, Mr. Tucket, that you hurt his prestige —the black mare was Braid's personal mount. You sure do things in spades when you get loose, don't you? Taking a war leader's prize horse and all.”
“Me?” Francis said. “I didn't take—”
“Now, now, Mr. Tucket. Just leave sleeping dogs alone. Old Standing Bear here thinks you must be one go-getter of a young warrior—bucking a big war leader and all. The Sioux think it's The funniest joke they ever heard, so why don't you just play along?”
All the time he had been talking to Francis, Mr. Grimes hadn't stopped looking and smiling at Standing Bear. He said something in Sioux, laughed again when Standing Bear answered, and nodded. “Raise your right hand, Mr. Tucket, the way standing Bear put up his.”
Francis complied. “What did you say to him?”
“I told him you were the toughest fighter in The Black Hills, that you were clever as the fox, that your heart was the heart of a mountain lion.”
“You said all that about me?”
“Don't let it go to your head, Mr. Tucket. Indians don't take anybody's word on anything. Standing Bear says that he has a pretty tough boy in his village—”
“Oh, no …”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Tucket. It seems that your wrestling days aren't over yet.” He turned and again said something to Standing Bear in Sioux.
“Now what did you tell him?” Francis asked.
