The Canyon of Bones

by Richard S. Wheeler

Skye cut the buffalo horns free, hollowed them out for ladles and spoons, while Winding swiftly learned to weave the shaggy hair of the bull into braids that would end up as halters for his horses. The women carefully freed the sinew from the backbones of the great beasts. The sinew would have various uses as a form of thread, and could be turned into bowstrings.

  But at last the day came to move along. The carcasses were reeking. The surrounding meadows had been grazed down to bare earth, and the horses were wandering farther afield to feed themselves. One of the draft horses seemed well healed, and the simple belly-band harness for a travois would do the beast no harm. Skye and the women had fashioned a long travois, poles and crossbars, and now hooked it to the draft horse. They piled the new robes and the parfleche and tools onto the crossbars, and carefully anchored everything down. During the fire everything had been lost; now the robes and tools and emergency foods needed to survive rested on those poles.

  Mercer had slipped into a respectful silence. From the aftermath of the fire unto this day, his perception of events had changed. He thought himself doomed after the fire, when every one of his European tools, save for a belt knife, had been consumed. But now much had been restored. To be sure, an axe head and hatchet had contributed. And Skye’s salvaged rifle and powder had helped. Robes and clothing and tools and food had been extracted from nature. The lesson of living Indian style had sunk deep into Mercer’s mind.

  They looked at one another, and at the brook and meadow that had nurtured them.

  “Fort Benton?” Mercer asked.

  “Why there? I thought you came here for stories.”

  “My notes are ash. I haven’t a scrap of paper.”

  “Then record your stories Indian style. On the back of your robe.”

  Mercer thought about it. “I’ve seen these,” he said. “Pictographs, each evoking an episode. Each triggering a communal memory.” He walked to the creek and stared into the babbling water. And then returned. “Would your ladies teach me?”

  Mary nodded shyly. She was a good artist.

  Mercer brightened. “Then we’re off to see the big bones.”

  Silas Winding spent one last moment, head bowed, his slouch hat in hand, at the scaffold and then began driving the horses before him. The blisters had scabbed over, but the horses were far from being useful.

  Skye took the caravan straight north, out of the intimate valley, over ridges dotted with pines and into brush-choked coulees. There were unnamed mountains to the west, clad darkly in pine, but he steered through open country as much as he could. They were on the move but defenseless against a host of troubles, most notably a cold downpour, and unless they could make peace with passing bands of Indians, they could find themselves in big trouble.

  Skye rode Jawbone, who seemed none the worse for wear, and stayed well ahead of the rest, scouting for trouble and hunting game. He shot an antelope and left it on the trail for the rest. The meat would be fine; the hide would make a new parfleche or a vest for someone else. The summer was waning, and leather clothing would be welcome.

  For days they toiled north through open country. Graves Mercer was growing restless again. He was an adventurer, and when no great adventure greeted him, he fell into distemper. This took the form of small complaints about food, or lack of shelter, or the slow progress.

  “Find me a tribe, Mister Skye. I wish to meet them.”

  “You won’t wish it if we run into Piegans, Mister Mercer.”

  “Piegans?”

  “The southernmost of the Blackfeet. And deadly enemies of Yanks in particular. But they buy their weapons from Hudson’s Bay, and suffer the British.”

  “What would make a good story about them? You know, for London readers? Do the chiefs have a dozen wives? Are they lecherous?”

  “I think, Mister Mercer, that no tribe has social arrangements that Europeans think are proper.”

  “That’s what I’m after! Find me some.”

  Skye laughed.

  The next day, while riding up a ridge well ahead of his party, he stopped suddenly. On the ridge were two mounted warriors, waiting for him to reach them.

  He did what he usually did in those circumstances, spurred his horse straight toward them, his hand high, palm forward, the peace and friendship posture of the plains.

  When he reached the ridge he found two young men, both with bows and nocked arrows, but these were pointed away from Skye.

  Gros Ventres, Big Bellies, or Atsina, allies of the Blackfeet, famous moochers, famous thieves, famous tricksters, famous for their endless visits. And maybe the killers of those Assiniboine youths back on the trail.

  twenty-six

  The young warriors were wreathed in smiles. They eyed Skye, studied Jawbone, who stood with his ears laid back, and then examined Skye’s party, visible a mile back from that ridge.

  “Come. Visit. Smoke. People that way,” one of the warriors signed. He pointed northwest.

  Skye would rather not, but saw little choice in it. All he could do was warn his people to keep an eye on their horses. There wasn’t much else that they could call property or that the Gros Ventres would prize.

  Skye nodded. His hands worked swiftly. He would return to his people and guide them to the village.

  The sign-talker’s hands responded. “We go with you.”

  Skye acknowledged it and turned Jawbone back to his party, trailing along behind.

  When he rode in, flanked by the Gros Ventres, his women watched warily, ready for trouble. But Skye possessed the only weapon among them, something the Gros Ventres swiftly realized.

  “Mister Mercer, these gents are Gros Ventres, a tribe allied with the Blackfeet. They want us to visit them,” Skye said.

  “Well, we’ll do it.”

  Skye studied the two warriors, who sat impassively on good ponies. They didn’t grasp English.

  “We’ll go. Not much choice. These people can be very friendly or not, as the mood strikes them. Watch your possessions. Especially the horses.”

  “Thieves are they?”

  Skye shrugged. He wouldn’t single out the Gros Ventres as being any more light-fingered than many others.

  But Winding knew these people. “They’ve a reputation as moochers.”

  “That’s a Yank word I’m not familiar with.”

  “They are known to overstay their welcome,” Skye said.

  Mercer chuckled. “Very like us all. Let’s go.”

  Escorted by the young Gros Ventres, the party topped the ridge, descended into a grassy bowl, and discovered the village camped along Box Elder Creek. They had obviously had a successful hunt. Buffalo hides were staked to the grass, jerky was drying on racks, and the women were busy fleshing hides, making pemmican, and cooking.

  The party was soon being scrutinized by the whole band, who crowded around, examining the blistered horses, the sole travois, the lack of weapons, and Mister Skye, the one person they knew.

  “Sonofabitch!” said Victoria, walking beside Skye. She didn’t like any people allied with the Blackfeet, and Skye guessed she despised these most of all for their sticky-fingered ways.

  “I feel like a rabbit in an eagle’s talons,” Winding said.

  Nonetheless, the throng seemed perfectly cheerful, and Skye spotted plenty of smiles along with rank curiosity as they all studied Skye’s harmless and near-desperate group.

  There would be the ritual visit to the chief or headman. He hardly needed to explain what had happened. The singed hair on horse and man, the soot-smeared clothing, the blistered backs of the horses, the makeshift tack, all told a story to anyone with eyes to see.

  “Is there anything I should know about these people?” Mercer asked. “Do they worship a dragon goddess? Eat sheep’s eyes? Sacrifice virgins to the sun god?”

  “They’re cannibals, mate. You’ll end up in their stewpot.”

  “Ho, ho. You make dangerous jokes, Mister Skye.”

  “Anything for a good story, Mister Mercer.”

&
nbsp; This was an ill-kempt camp. The lodges were scattered in random clumps. Latrine odors sifted through it. Middens of offal and bones lay everywhere. Mangy mutts circled the newcomers, some of them yapping or howling. The lodges sagged in the sun, many of them fashioned of ancient buffalo skins that had seen their day. This was a place of castaways. Still, this was not a permanent camp; it was a hunting camp, intended to serve its purpose for a few days. But Skye found himself aware of poverty here. These people had no wealth, unlike the proud Blackfeet to whom they were allied. He wondered if they were simply shiftless, or whether misfortune had afflicted them.

  But they seemed cheerful enough. The crowd throbbed along beside them, scampering children, the boys naked; bronze women in summer calico. Chestnut-tinted old men wrapped in grimy white and red and black trade blankets. Toothless grandmothers, built like barrels, smiling through wrinkles in their corduroy faces, their faded dresses hanging loose.

  The chief’s lodge proved to be no larger than the rest. The headman waited, dressed only in a loincloth and moccasins, some scars of battle puckering across his ribs and arms.

  Several elders flanked him. Clearly, they had received word and had arrayed themselves for guests.

  The chief held up a hand in welcome, his face crinkled in pleasure. These people plainly were enjoying the prospect of guests. Then he signaled a word, bear, and pointed at himself.

  There was no one who could translate, so Skye found himself using the time-honored sign language of the plains. Swiftly, he introduced his party. The Englishman, the Missouri man, the Snake woman and Absaroka woman who were his wives. He recounted the fire that had destroyed nearly everything. And told the chief he was glad to be welcomed among the Atsina. He used the name they gave themselves, not the French name trappers had bestowed on them.

  The chief rambled, barely accompanying his long talk with signs, so that Skye caught little of what was being said. Still, there were scraps of information. The great prairie fires had pushed the buffalo this way, and hunting was good here. The People had no enemies, only friends. The visitors would be welcome to share the meat. Everything the village possessed now belonged to the visitors for their use, and everything the visitors possessed now belonged to the Atsina for the People’s use.

  That gave Skye pause. Was it rhetoric? Was it something larger, a justification for copping some horses? Uneasily Skye worked his way through the welcoming ritual, and then the chief summoned a pipe-bearer to bring him the peace pipe. There would be a smoke, a sacred affirmation that no harm would be received or given, and then his party would be free to make camp.

  “And what have our visitors brought us?” the chief asked, his fingers filling in for words.

  Skye knew at once that a gift was required. A gift he and Mercer didn’t have.

  “Nothing. We are poor. The great fire took everything.”

  “That is a good horse.” The chief waved at Jawbone.

  “You would find him dangerous, Chief Bear.”

  “Then he would make good meat.”

  Victoria watched, horror in her face.

  “What’s he saying, Mister Skye?” Mercer asked.

  “He is expecting a gift and has his eye on Jawbone.”

  “Tell him I will give him the giant horse. Not the one bearing our travois, but the other.”

  Skye felt a flood of gratitude toward the explorer. “Chief Bear, grandfather,” he signaled. “It is our wish to give you the largest horse of all, that giant standing there. You will have the biggest horse you have ever seen. He is recovering from some wounds caused by fire, but in a short while, you will have a giant. He can pull twice as much as other horses.”

  “Ah! So it will be! Welcome. The Atsina welcome our friend Skye. Welcome. Be our guests!”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “He’s welcoming us. He accepts the draft horse. He wants us to be at home among the Atsina.”

  Skye felt momentary relief, but worries crowded his mind and he wanted nothing more than to escape gracefully, without arousing trouble that seemed to lurk in every corner. He wondered how many more horses this visit would cost.

  Mercer led the great animal to the chief, who waved a hand and one of the younger of his family took the line. They peered at it, stood beside it, marveled at its height, carefully scrutinized the crusted-over wounds, talked much among themselves, and seemed pleased. Now everything was smiles again.

  Some tension dissolved and Skye’s party was led to a place just outside the village where there was some grass remaining for their stock. Mercer and Winding picketed their remaining draft horse and saddle horses while Skye turned Jawbone loose. If an Atsina tried to catch him, he’d have his hands full. And they had all been warned. Jawbone was no horse to trifle with.

  Mercer seemed content to wander the village, study men, women, and children, his sharp eye missing nothing. Skye was plenty hungry, and so were they all, but so far they had not been invited to any feast.

  But at twilight all that changed. Chief Bear summoned them all to a feast of buffalo hump, the finest meat available on the plains, and soon Skye and his wives were gorging on well-done, succulent meat that was roasted in such plenitude that they all ate more than their fill.

  “Skye, this is the best boss rib I’ve ever sampled,” Mercer said.

  And so it was. It came without adornment, no prairie turnips, no greens, no berries, but it sufficed this pleasant evening, as the sun swept toward its bed behind the western hills, and a lavender darkness crept over the cheerful camp.

  He began to relax. Tomorrow, early, they would slip away, probably before any of these people stirred. They were not known for industry, or getting up at dawn to spend daylight at toil.

  “I say, Mister Skye, this is capital. But I haven’t a story. Can you think of something worth writing about?” Mercer asked, gnawing on a stem of grass.

  “You could write about the white men wandering these plains. You’ve met two unusual sorts,” Skye said.

  But Mercer dismissed the thought with a grunt.

  Then an emissary arrived from Chief Bear, summoning Skye once again to the headman’s lodge, where he sat upon a reed backrest, enjoying the company of half a dozen comely women.

  “Mister Skye,” the chief signaled. “Night comes, the owl flies. And at night we think of other things. I will give you a gift. Take one of my wives this night. Send your men here and take them all. Enjoy them. They are very beautiful.”

  Skye was afraid of that.

  “And, Mister Skye, send your wives to me. The younger one catches my eye.”

  twenty-seven

  Over many years, Skye had learned to cope with practices and beliefs of the native people of North America. Often they didn’t accord with his own. And now he was caught in a dilemma that instantly tortured him. Chief Bear was being hospitable. Lending an honored guest a wife or two was a mark of esteem. Offering the chief a wife or two was a mark of the visitor’s respect. All this was simply the commerce of the plains, ordinary except to a European like Skye whose instincts were utterly different.

  “Sonofabitch,” said Victoria.

  “What did he say, man?” Graves Mercer asked.

  Skye could hardly bring the words to his lips. “He’s offered us the pleasure of his wives and wants me to reciprocate.”

  “No! Really?”

  “Hell yes,” said Victoria.

  “Ah! At last! Something to write about! I’ve wandered over half of North America looking for a sensation, and finally I’ve found one!”

  “Mister Skye,” said Mary, “I am honored. I will be the one-night wife of this fine Atsina chief. I will bring smiles to him, and feel rewarded by his happiness.”

  “Dammit, Skye, tell him I am old and full of bad diseases,” Victoria said.

  Skye lifted his top hat and settled it on graying locks, for once not only wordless but with no plan rising to mind. Beside Chief Bear, a dozen women smiled broadly. They could read the chief’s sign langu
age as well as Victoria and Mary could. Skye spotted the sits-beside-him wife, older, stern, gray, with great authority in her demeanor. She showed no pleasure in the honor of sleeping with guests but the younger ladies trilled and cooed and smiled broadly.

  Skye surveyed them all and admitted to himself that Chief Bear had an eye for comely young women. In fact, most of these Atsina ladies were gorgeous, with flashing brown eyes, glossy jet hair in braids or hanging loose, golden flesh, and trim ankles. One in particular stared at him quietly, her young, golden face warm with anticipation, even as she stood higher and prouder that he might notice her. One glance at her, slim and sweet and eager, stirred him.

  Skye puckered his lips. He wished to speak, but all he could manage was some fierce puckering of lip.

  “By the Lord Harry, I hope you’ll spare me a pair of them,” Mercer said. “What a dainty dish to set before the king.”

  “Serially or at the same time?” Skye asked.

  “Ho, ho, ho,” Mercer retorted.

  Matters were getting out of hand.

  “You must realize, Mister Mercer, that some of these lovelies might be infected. The venereal is common among them, and white men are more vulnerable to it than they are.”

  “Trying to scare me off, are you, Skye?”

  “What you do is up to you, Mister Mercer.”

  “Will they expect anything from me, Mister Skye?”

  “A baby.”

  “Baby? Surely you don’t mean it.”

  “The Atsina would be enchanted if you were, ah, to father a child among them.”

  Mercer began to shuffle, one foot and another, contemplating that. “Do I have my choice of lovelies?”

  “You might offer another horse, seeing as how you don’t have a wife to bargain away.”

  “And Winding?”

  “I imagine a horse would do it.”

  “Absolutely delightful. How do I proceed? I can’t even signal them, unless I just point at the lady … maybe that one there, standing behind the rest. A slim beauty, solemn, not a bit of eagerness in her face.”

  “I’m afraid, Mister Mercer, that the object of your desire is the chief’s daughter. If you ask for her, you might get her for life.”