The Canyon of Bones

by Richard S. Wheeler

  He sat quietly, working the wet charge loose, and finally succeeded. Then he ran a patch down the barrel to wipe it clean, poured powder, which had stayed dry in the horn, patched a ball, and drove it home. The fulminate cap was still good, so he let it stay on the nipple. He was armed, but there were no animals to shoot and no defenses needed. Skye had no intention of shooting the deer that had shared the pool with them. The deer had survived; let it live.

  Off to the north the wall of smoke continued to roll away, burning everything before it. They could no longer follow the river. There was not a blade of grass for the horses, not a deer or antelope or buffalo to eat. Nothing for man or beast. Blackness ahead, blackness behind. They would need to cut sideways, either east or west, and Skye already knew the answer. They would head west where the mountains still were dark green, unburnt. There, life could continue if they could find a way to start over.

  Mercer broke the silence. “We don’t have a thing. Everything in the wagon’s gone. The blankets, stores, my journals, some tools. The rifles are twisted and worthless. We have only the clothing on our backs and some horses we can’t use or ride. We’re going to be hungry and haven’t even a pound of flour. It seems to me we survived that fire, only to perish in a few days from every imaginable want.”

  Skye lifted his soggy top hat. “It’s bad,” he said.

  “Worse than bad. We have nothing. How will we live? You don’t have anything either.”

  “We might not live,” Skye said. “Then again, we might.”

  Mercer stared, annoyed, at such enigmatic conversation, and wheeled away.

  Skye didn’t feel like talking. He studied the mountains lying to the west perhaps thirty miles, a hard day’s walk in the best of conditions, but two or three days in the shape they were in. Two or three days without food or water or grass for the animals, under a brutal sun.

  twenty-two

  A sorrier collection of people and animals Skye had never seen. The backs of the horses were peppered with blisters. Both of the teamsters had lost most of the hair on their heads. Skye had lost much of his. Victoria had lost most of hers. Somehow most of Mary’s hair had survived. Corporal had a blistered neck and hands. Mercer himself had blisters across his neck. Their lungs hurt. They wanted nothing more than to curl up in shade and rest.

  Mercer, hollow-eyed, patrolled the banks, looking for anything that wasn’t ruined. Victoria worked back along the bank to the place where the travois had fallen apart and discovered an axe head minus its burnt handle, and a hatchet with a half-burned handle. Actually, they were treasures. But the lodge was a smoking ruin, the lodgepoles gone, the parfleches of clothing and food lost.

  She returned, showed the metal to Skye, who took note of it. Those two items could save their lives.

  They were all caked with soot, their clothing a black ruin, their moccasins soggy. The waters of the Musselshell were undrinkable and filled with floating corpses.

  Mercer, his face haggard, approached Skye. “We’re dead men. That’s plain. Dead men.”

  “How so?”

  “Nothing but charred ground. Horses can’t be ridden, blistered backs. No feed for them. Smoke’s ruined our lungs. I can’t walk a hundred yards. Same for my men. Not a thing left of our wagon. Even the iron wheels are twisted. No food. No drinkable water. Clothing falling off. The blisters will mortify. Nights are cold now. We’ve not a blanket among us. It’s all plain enough.”

  It did look that way, and Skye knew that there was little he could say to hearten the explorer. “We’ll try for grass. It’s a hard day’s walk. Day and a night, maybe.”

  Mercer stared at Skye as if Skye were daft.

  “I’m taking my women and horses to grass. You want to come along?”

  “I’d like to stay here. At least there’s water.”

  “There’ll be water where I’m going. Place I once trapped long ago, called Flatwillow Creek.”

  “It’ll be burnt.”

  Skye pointed. “Those are the Little Snowies. Big Snowies beyond that. They didn’t burn.”

  Mercer squinted. “How can you tell?”

  “Are they smoking? Forest fires burn for hours, days, weeks.”

  Mercer whirled away and settled beside the river. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m staying.”

  “You’re quitting.”

  Mercer turned his back on Skye.

  Skye and his women collected what little they had, herded the horses into a group, and started west, cutting across scorched earth that was sometimes hot under their moccasins. He didn’t know whether they would make it. He knew it was the only choice. The brutal sun swiftly pummeled the wet out of their clothing, and then it really got hot.

  He heard a shout and discovered Mercer and his teamsters a hundred yards back. He let them catch up. They had collected their few things and were pushing the horses ahead of them. The draft horses, in particular, were badly blistered; their backs were the highest out of the water. Not a horse in the whole party could be ridden.

  Skye nodded. For some reason he liked Mercer though he often wondered why.

  They hiked west through a dehydrating south wind, pausing every little while to breathe. Not a blade of grass nurtured the horses. Not a chokecherry bush, not a willow thicket. The fire had scraped the earth naked, and there was only yellow clay and ash and a brassy sky.

  For a long while they struggled west, even as the sun marched west, as if to impede them. Skye rested frequently. His feet were bloody. Corporal had stepped into the remains of some prickly pear and was nursing a painful left foot But no one complained, least of all Mercer, who had that British grit to him.

  Then, as the sun began to slide, they struck a broad coulee issuing out of the mountains, and suddenly there was grass on its south slope, while the north slope was charred. The wind-driven flames had leaped over half the coulee.

  They paused in grass. It seemed a miracle, tawny brown grass as high as their calves, something at last that wasn’t ash. The horses spread out and devoured it. But soon it was time to push on. Skye led them straight up the coulee, which was going where he wanted to go more or less, and the horses nipped grass along the way. At one point they scattered a herd of antelope that had found refuge in the unburnt strip of land.

  “I say, Mister Skye, it’s a rule of exploring to find a trustworthy guide and follow his counsel,” Mercer said.

  Suddenly there was Mercer’s mile-wide grin.

  Skye nodded, smiled, and something was healed.

  But now thirst loomed. He felt parched. He saw Victoria slip a pebble into her mouth and suck on it to activate the saliva. The murderous sun could kill them if nothing else did. And Corporal was slowing down, not able to keep up.

  Skye found a shaded place and halted them. “We’ll wait for twilight,” he said. “Water ahead five miles; creek I know of.”

  Five miles seemed a continent away but that was the only choice they had. Corporal pulled off his boot, wrapped his injured foot in some shirttail, and tugged the boot on again.

  “All right, we’re going to cut northwest over burnt land again,” Skye said. “I think we’ll strike a creek in about two hours.”

  “Are you sure, are you absolutely sure?” Mercer asked.

  “No, sir. I’m never sure. A man roams this land and makes a map in his head. In the beaver days we came through here a few times. But maps fade, and so does our memory. No, I am not at all sure.”

  Mercer’s two teamsters stared, waiting for a decision from their boss. But then he nodded.

  “We’ll have a time of it pulling these horses off the grass,” Skye said.

  They did have a time of it. Two of Skye’s ponies curled around to the grass; both of Mercer’s draft horses refused to budge.

  But then Jawbone set to work, snapping and snarling and sinking teeth into blistered butts, while Skye marveled. There were times when he swore Jawbone knew his mind. They set off at a good clip, covering three miles in an hour, always over burnt land a
s desolate as the Sahara. But a half hour later Jawbone, and then the ponies, and lastly Mercer’s horses, began trotting, and then loping, and finally the whole lot of them raced ahead, down a grade, into a burnt-out valley where leafless trees stood in wintry death, and poked their heads into a clean, swift creek.

  Skye and his hobbling bunch found the horses sated and comfortable, standing beside the creek in the twilight The men drank. Skye’s women retreated around a bend and washed themselves. In purple twilight they all started up the creek, plodding toward the looming mountains, and then suddenly they hit grass. It was if a knife had severed the land; burnt black to east, placid golden grasslands with thickets of cottonwoods dotting the creek bottoms to the west.

  Mercer stood at the knife edge of the fire and marveled. “Mister Skye,” he said, “we’re not out of it, but you brought us here.”

  Indeed, before them was succor and water, deadwood for a fire to drive the frost away at night and cook meat. The horses tore into the long grasses, eating as they all ambled westward into the twilight.

  Skye was thinking about food. So were they all. He checked his Hawken. He had a fresh charge in the barrel and a patched ball pressed hard against the load.

  “I’ll go ahead, mates,” he said. “Stay back.”

  They saw he was ready to hunt, and knew as well as Skye did that this grass-lined creek would be a haven and refuge for plenty of animals driven there by the fire.

  But it was growing dark. Skye could only hope that if he found game it would be at once, and not when he couldn’t see to shoot. He walked only a few minutes when he made out great dark beasts ahead, so many that it startled him. His heart lifted. He was downwind and had a good chance. Up there were meat and robes, tools and clothing, moccasins and steaks.

  He drifted close, knowing the shaggies did not have good hearing and only mediocre sight, but did have a keen sense of smell; that one whiff of him would send them running. But he had hunted them many times before, and slipped his way toward the shifting herd, maybe twenty or thirty; plenty of meat, plenty of everything they might need. He slipped toward the creek and settled behind a downed cottonwood, using the log for a bench rest. There were three cows he wanted, each grazing quietly. He set his horn beside him, uncapped it, readied some patches and balls, pulled out his ramrod, and then leveled his rifle, sighted on the heart-lung spot of one farther back.

  The first shot dropped the cow in her tracks. She caved slowly while he dumped powder down the barrel, rammed a patched ball home, slid a cap over the nipple, and aimed at the next cow. The herd had shifted restlessly but had not run. The cow turned toward him, ruining his aim. He lined up a shot at a young bull, and squeezed. Again the boom shattered the peace. The bull trotted a few dozen steps and collapsed. Skye swiftly reloaded, and dropped a second cow, just as the herd decided, in some collective and mysterious judgment, it was time to run. The big animals raced upslope, out of the intimate Flatwillow Valley, and vanished into the night. One of the cows was thrashing on the ground, and then he saw Victoria cut its throat. That was a dangerous thing to do, but she did it.

  By the time the others arrived, all three buffalo lay dead.

  “Three, Mister Skye? Why so much waste?”

  Skye reloaded, pondering an answer. “No waste at all, sir. There are six robes, two to a hide, to keep us warm. Meat for a few days. Tools to make from bone. Moccasins for your feet, a shirt or vest for your body, a hat to keep the summer sun from blistering your head, saddles and girth straps to replace the horse tack and harness you lost, and if you want to make a pillow out of the beard of the bull, it’s there too.”

  “I’ll settle for some hump meat,” said Winding. “I’ll eat one shaggy and you can share the rest.”

  twenty-three

  People seemed to know what to do without being asked. All set to work except Floyd Corporal, who was too sick to do anything at all. Winding looked to the horses. Mercer gathered deadwood from the patches of cottonwoods and pine near the creek. The women began sawing out the buffalo tongues, the easiest meat to get at fast, and one of the most delicious parts.

  Skye studied this haven, bathed in lavender twilight, and decided to have one last look. Too many trappers he knew had come to a bad end by unwittingly camping close to trouble. He clasped his Hawken, slowly and painfully climbed the north slope of the Flatwillow Creek valley until he reached a ridge above it where he could see the bright blue sky in the west where the sun had vanished. To the east, the burnt-over land spread blackly to the horizon. A sharp line separated the burned from the lush valley grasses they had made their haven this night. He studied the lonesome land, so big and empty it sometimes made his heart ache. He saw no trouble. No smoke from other camps. No new flame on the horizon. No burning mountain. No storm clouds. Just a vast, quiet, and achingly sweet land that flooded him with gratitude.

  Below, a bright fire flared. The women had collected tinder from beneath rotted cottonwood bark and had ignited the wood that Mercer had collected. They were jabbing green willow wands through two buffalo tongues to suspend them at the fire, and in a while everyone in this ragged band would be fed.

  Skye was reluctant to come down from the ridge. As cruel as this land could be, it was his own land, now bathed in soft and gentle light that made the whole world serene and quiet. But there was much to be done. He tore himself away from the views that entranced him, made his way down to the camp, and found the tongues sizzling beside a lively fire. The horses grazed peacefully on good grass. Their backs were a mass of suppurating blisters, and some might never be good saddlers again. But they could pull travois.

  Even as the fire licked the tongues, the women had tackled the first cow with their skinning knives. Pulling a hide free was hard, messy labor. But ere long they had cut the belly, spilled entrails, set aside the intestines that would make a great feast, severed the head, cut the legs loose, and had started the tugging and cutting that would gradually pull the vermin-infested hide free of the great bulk of the cow. Three hides. Six robes, and plenty of hide left over for moccasins, which would be the most urgent of their needs. It would be a long time before anyone rode those horses.

  The tongues sizzled; Mary occasionally rose to turn the meat, or see to it that the tongues didn’t burn. Mercer and Winding stared hungrily. They all had food on their mind. Skye thought to go after a liver, always a choice piece eaten raw by Indians and mountain men. Indeed, Corporal had revived enough so that he began poking into the stomach cavity of the eviscerated cow, and did finally produce the purplish slab of meat. But instead of eating it raw, he skewered it and began to cook it alongside of the two tongues.

  That suited Skye. Buffalo liver was legendary for its powers of rejuvenation. Let Floyd Corporal devour the whole of it. The man wheezed and coughed, and Skye wondered if the teamster would make it.

  Oddly, no one spoke. And yet there was a silent language that flowed between them all. An occasional smile. A bright nod toward the cooking meat. A sigh as they glanced at this demi-paradise, the quiet groves of trees, jack pine, lodgepoles, willows, chokecherry, rushes, and a narrow creek of dean, cold water rippling boldly through the narrow valley. Only a mile or so away was a far grimmer world.

  When the tongues were more or less cooked, Victoria pulled one from the fierce fire and carried it with her skinning knife to a slab of rock, and there she began sawing, one juicy slice after another, hot, steaming meat that fell to the rock.

  Winding came first, but she shooed him away.

  “Burn your fingers,” she said.

  He grinned, pulled out his Barlow knife, and stabbed a fat slice. He began whirling it around and around, letting the air cool the tongue, and finally sank his incisors into it, making obscene noises as he chewed.

  That was the start. They all stabbed their pieces of meat, cooled them, and began gnawing. They ate both tongues, and Corporal ate the liver too, sharing small pieces with Winding, their fingers dripping.

  “A respite, anyway,�
�� Mercer said, licking his fingers. “What’s the old saying? Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.”

  Skye finished his tongue and wiped his hands on the tan grass. He felt so weary he could barely stay awake.

  “Tomorrow the hard work starts,” he said. “If we all work hard, we’ll pull through.”

  Mercer smiled, but there was something fatalistic in the smile, as if he believed that Skye was simply trying to boost their spirits. Mercer was about to get a lesson in living Indian style.

  “These downed buffalo will draw predators,” Skye said. “I want each of you to collect a pile of rocks, something to throw at the varmints. Coyotes are no problem. Wolves could be. A catamount might be trouble. But I’m worried about bears. We haven’t the means to hoist any of the meat into a tree; there’s not a rope among us. The one other prospect is to bury each of the carcasses under pine limbs. Do you want to do it?”

  “I don’t have the strength left,” Mercer said.

  Skye didn’t think he did, either. “All right, it’s rocks, then.” He turned to Floyd Corporal. “Tomorrow, I would like you to whittle a new haft for the axe head we salvaged. Not from pine. Try willow or aspen. That’s mostly quiet work, something you can do while your lungs heal.”

  “It’ll be done,” Corporal said, and then coughed violently.

  “Good. Tomorrow we’ll pull hides, start fleshing them with the hatchet blade, braid some rawhide rope, try to raise some meat up high to keep it safe, start making some rawhide harness and packsaddles, and a few other things I have in mind.”

  Mercer laughed. “Factory workers.”

  Skye decided not to let it pass. “That’s what tribes do, Mister Mercer. They are factory workers, turning what they hunt and gather into everything they need.”