The Outcast w-60

by David Thompson

  Blue Water Woman set the woolen cap she was making him in her lap. “That was your idea of suggesting I go see her? To be or not to be?”

  “I thought it quite clever.”

  Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Blue Water Woman said, “I hear there are husbands who make sense when they talk. Husbands who use their own words and do not recite the words of a man who lived so long ago no one else remembers him.”

  Shakespeare slapped down the file. “Don’t remember him?” he sputtered. “I’ll have you know, woman, that he has been called the soul of his age. His writing is to words what flowers are to a mountain meadow.”

  “Perhaps it is best you recite him. Your own words make even less sense than his.”

  “ ‘Thou art so leaky, we must leave thee to thy sinking,’ ” Shakespeare countered.

  “I am a boat now?”

  Shakespeare smiled in anticipated triumph and declared, “If there is a purpose to women, I have yet to find it.”

  “Is that what you were doing with me last night in bed? Looking for my purpose?”

  Shakespeare felt his face redden and burst out laughing. “Oh, that was marvelous. Your best yet. I swear, jousting with you is the most fun I know.” He paused. “Next to what we were doing in bed, of course.”

  “You are male.”

  Coughing, Shakespeare changed the subject. “About Lou. She doesn’t know Zachary like I do. They’re apt to have an argument.”

  “I should think she knows her own husband.” Just as Blue Water Woman knew hers and his fondness for butting into the affairs of others. To his credit, he always did it with the best of intentions.

  “She’s known him a few years. I’ve known Zach since he popped out of his mother and was swaddled in a blanket. I predict he won’t take the news quite as merrily as Lou expects. So maybe you should go over and see if everything is all right. What with Nate and his other half gone, Lou has no one else to talk to.”

  “Wait a minute. Did you just say he popped out of Winona?”

  “That might have been the term I used, yes.”

  “Babies do not pop. They are born. Giving birth can be hard on a woman. She goes through much pain, and if the birth does not go as it should, she can die.”

  “All right. Popped was a poor choice. Would plunked be better?”

  “If I had a stick, I would beat you.”

  “Just so long as after you’re done, you go and visit Lou. I’m supposed to go hunting with Zach, and I’ll sound him out about his feelings.”

  Blue Water Woman picked up her knitting, but didn’t move the needles. “Do you ever regret that we have not had children?”

  “If we had gotten together when we were Zach and Lou’s age, then probably I would, yes.” Shakespeare sighed. He had courted her back when they were that age. Her father, who didn’t want any daughter of his taking up with a white man, forbade her to see him. Shakespeare had been crushed, but there was nothing he could do. They were forced apart, and later, both of them met and married someone else. Decades went by. Both their spouses died. They met again and discovered they still loved each other as passionately as ever. When he thought of all the years they could have had together but didn’t, it was enough to moisten his eyes.

  “Husband?”

  Shakespeare realized she had been talking while he was adrift in their past. “Eh? What’s that, my pretty?”

  “I said we could adopt a child if you wanted.”

  “Land’s sake. At our age?” Shakespeare chuckled, then shook his head. “As much as I might like to, this old coon’s bones and joints aren’t what they used to be. A two-year-old would waddle rings around me.”

  “I doubt that,” Blue Water Woman said tenderly. “You can waddle quite fast when you put your mind to it.”

  “If that was a compliment, I’m a goat.”

  “Only when you are looking for my purpose. And to set your mind at ease, tomorrow I will go see Louisa. I will pretend I am there to borrow sugar so she will not feel like I am prying.”

  “A marvelous idea. My pa used to say that the best way to deal with a problem is to nip it in the bud, before it becomes a problem.”

  “Wise advice.”

  Shakespeare nodded. “The only thing is, some problems you can’t nip in the bud. You never see them coming.”

  Under the cloak of night the Outcast came down the slope and stood at the edge of the trees. He stared across an open space at the wooden lodge. He had never been this close to a white lodge before; it intrigued him. There had been no sign of a dog, so he felt safe crouching and crossing the open space, but he went slowly and with a hand on the hilt of his knife. He paused often to listen.

  The horses in the corral were dozing. He stayed downwind to keep them from catching his scent. The small structure that housed the clucking birds was dark and quiet. He slipped past it and around to a square of glowing glass. Some sort of cloth had been hung over it on the inside, but there was a gap between the cloth.

  His nerves tingling, the Outcast crept forward until he could reach out and touch the lodge if he wanted. It was made of hewn logs, one on top of the other, the niches caulked with what appeared to be clay. He inched higher, until his eye was at a corner of the glass, and peered inside.

  The breed and the young woman were sitting on a strange wooden seat next to a large piece of wood on four wooden legs. The breed appeared to be upset. The young woman was weeping.

  It shocked the Outcast so much, he ducked back down. The last time he saw a woman cry had been the terrible day that changed his life. The day that got him banished from his tribe. He wondered what the breed had done to make her shed tears. Then he remembered that sometimes women did not need a reason. They just cried to cry.

  The Outcast cautiously took another peek. The breed was talking in low tones. The young woman had her head bowed. She answered him, but so softly, the Outcast barely heard her words.

  For some reason the Outcast could not take his eyes off them. He had not been this near to people, except for the three warriors who tried to kill him, in many moons. He had not been this near to a woman…he did not like to think how long that had been. He stared at her, at her sand-colored hair and slight frame and the tears trickling down her cheeks, and he felt a strange stirring. His throat constricted, and he almost made the mistake of coughing to clear it.

  The Outcast did not understand what was happening to him.

  The young woman looked up, and seldom had the Outcast seen such sadness. She was in the throes of torment. He wished he knew the white tongue. Maybe then he could make some sense of what she was saying. Whatever it was, it upset the breed even more. The breed suddenly stood and leaned on the table and said something almost savagely, then turned and moved away from the window.

  Too late, the Outcast heard the scrape of wood. The half-breed was coming out. Quickly, the Outcast retreated to the opposite corner and crouched. He drew his knife. He was ready to kill the breed if the man came close. He considered whether to stalk him and kill him anyway.

  Then a horse nickered and stamped.

  The Outcast had forgotten about the horses. His back was to the corral, and whirling, he saw that a sorrel had its head high and its ears pricked and was looking right at him. He had been careless. He figured the breed would investigate. Staying low, he ran toward the trees, but he went only a short way and dived flat. Hidden in the veil of darkness, he waited. But the breed still did not appear.

  Puzzled, the Outcast crawled in a wide loop. Finally he spotted a silhouette at the water’s edge. The breed was pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. The Outcast was surprised to hear him muttering to himself. Men should not mutter. Women, yes, but not warriors. He reminded himself that whites were not warriors and this breed was half white.

  The breed was so engrossed, it would be easy to crawl close and slay him. The Outcast was tempted. Then the rectangle of wood opened again and out came the young woman. She crossed to the breed an
d quietly addressed him.

  The Outcast wanted to see their expressions. He could tell more if he could see their faces. He had to gauge their feelings by the way they said their words. The young woman said them sadly. The breed responded angrily. Suddenly the young woman cried out, threw her arms wide, and embraced him, sobbing. He embraced her, and for a long while they stood still and were silent save for the young woman’s sniffling.

  Again the Outcast felt that strange constriction in his throat. It troubled him. He watched, and wondered why he did not rise up and rush them. He would be on them before they realized he was there. Two strokes of his blade and the deeds would be done. But he didn’t rise. He stayed flat on the ground.

  The pair moved slowly toward their lodge. They exchanged a few soft words. The breed dabbed at the young woman’s face with his sleeve, and she laughed.

  The Outcast remembered how another woman, in another time, once laughed as merrily, and his insides churned. I am a worm, the Outcast thought, and closed his eyes. He must not think about her. He must not think about her. He must never, ever think about her. The image faded, and the Outcast was relieved. It bothered him, this new weakness. The young white woman was to blame. Something about her was affecting him. But why that should be mystified him.

  The rasp of the wood flap closing brought the Outcast out of himself. The pair were back inside.

  The Outcast frowned and made for the woods. When he came to the pinto, he climbed on and rode around the west end of the lake, past a dark, quiet lodge.

  The south shore was bordered by the grassy valley. There was no cover except the grass, but that was enough for the Outcast. He left the pinto in the trees and crawled toward the other lodge with glowing glass. Once again he reached the lodge without being detected. Once again he put his eye to a corner of the glass. Inside was the old white man with hair the color of snow, and one other. That it was a woman did not surprise him; that she was an Indian, did.

  At first the Outcast took her for a Nez Perce, but as he studied her features and her hair and her dress, he changed his mind. She was a Flathead. His tribe had had few dealings with them, and those they had were always at the point of a lance or a knife. He guessed that she had seen at least fifty winters, but he never had been good at judging the age of women. This one was uncommonly attractive and possessed a grace and dignity that impressed him.

  The Outcast wondered if the white man had bought her. That happened sometimes among other tribes. The Crows, he had heard, made a habit of it. But then the Crows had their minds in a whirl. It was said that women ruled their tribe, which had made the men of his own tribe laugh. It was also claimed that Crow men used the women in common and that the Crows took their women by stealing them, which made no sense. Why steal a woman if you were going to let other men have her? Maybe it wasn’t true. Rumors about other tribes were not always based on fact.

  The white hair moved out of sight of the window, and the Outcast tensed, thinking he was coming outside. But no, the man reappeared holding something the Outcast had never seen before. He did not know what to make of it. It was square, and consisted of many white sheets with blacks marks on them. The white man opened it and then began talking in a loud voice, with much gesturing.

  The woman rolled her eyes. She sat in a marvelous thing that rocked back and forth. She was using long metal needles to weave a garment. She said something that caused the old man’s cheeks to grow red.

  Then both of them grinned.

  The Outcast realized they were very much in love, these two. He remembered the time he had been in love, and was mad at himself.

  He had seen enough.

  The Outcast ducked down and left. Apparently there were only the two men and the two women in the entire valley. Whoever lived in the other lodges must be gone, or the lodges would be aglow with light.

  The Outcast had gone a short way toward the trees when there was a tremendous splash in the lake. He looked, imagining it was a fish, but whatever it was had gone back under, leaving ripples.

  Once on the pinto, the Outcast reined to the west. He would spend the night deep in the timber. He must get plenty of sleep. Although he had been banished from his tribe, he had not stopped being a warrior. He still counted coup.

  And he had new enemies to slay.

  Chapter Four

  They came out of the heart of the darkness. There were seven of them—short, stocky warriors as different from other mountain and plains tribes as the night from the day.

  Their buckskins were crude and lacked whangs. The sleeves flared from the elbows to the wrists, and on the right hip of each legging were three concentric circles painted in black. They carried ash bows and had quivers filled with arrows fletched with raven feathers. The hilts of their knives were carved from antlers, and the blades were iron.

  Most remarkable of all were their faces: low foreheads, thick eyebrows, eyes like black pitch, jutting jaws, and scars. Scars in intricate patterns that covered every inch of skin on their face, deep scars that formed symbols. What they stood for, only the short men could say.

  The men moved at night and laid up during the day. Less chance of being seen that way.

  They were a secretive people. Bitter experience taught them the need for it. Once they lived far to the south along a great bay. Life had been good. They hunted and fished and ate the hearts of their enemies, as their forefathers had done for more winters than there were blades of grass.

  Then a new tribe came. A large tribe in the thousands, compared to their paltry hundreds. The warriors rode on fleet, giant dogs, which the Tunkua later learned were called horses, and did not like having their hearts eaten. They made fierce war on the Tunkua, or Heart Eaters, as they called themselves, and it became apparent that unless the Heart Eaters fled, they would be wiped out.

  Councils were held. They could not go south. There was nothing but water. They had canoes, but only a few, and they always stayed close to shore. They were not a seafaring people.

  They could not go east. That way lay vast swamps and bayous infested with alligators and snakes.

  The west did not appeal to them. The land was dry and hot, much of it desert, and claimed by a tribe they held in great dread, the Shis-Inday.

  The only way, then, was for the Heart Eaters to go north. They packed their possessions on travois drawn by dogs, and in the dead of night left the land they loved, bound for the unknown. They crossed a near-endless prairie of waving grass. The plain did not suit them, so they turned to the northwest, and after countless sleeps came to towering mountains capped by snow.

  The Heart Eaters marveled. They had never seen mountains so high. They explored and were amazed to discover that while a few tribes had laid claim to territory here and there, much of the mountains belonged to no one. They penetrated deep into the interior, deeper than anyone had ever gone, so deep that the valley they chose had never been trod by human feet. It became their new home. Here they would be safe.

  Or so they thought.

  Now, hiking briskly up a boulder-strewn slope, the lead warrior paused and looked back the way they had come. He could not see their valley or their village, but he looked anyway.

  “You keep doing that,” remarked Splashes Blood, the warrior behind him. “What is it you look for, Skin Shredder?’

  Skin Shredder was thinking of one of his wives and their new child, but he did not say that. “By the rising of the sun we will reach the pass.”

  Splashes Blood grunted. “They say we cannot get through. They say the Bear People blocked the pass with rocks and dirt.”

  “There will be another way.”

  “I hope so. We both lost brothers. I lost Ghost Walker and you lost Stands on Moon.”

  “The Bear People must be punished,” Skin Shredder declared. “Our brothers will look down from Mic-lan and be pleased with us for avenging them.” In their tongue, Mic-lan was Sky Land, where warriors went after they died. A place of beauty and plenty, with enough hearts to eat
for all. “They will honor us with a feast when we join them.”

  Splashes Blood had more on his mind. “It is said the Bear People have horses. It is said their women are almost as big as they are. It is said they have strange sticks that make a noise like thunder and can kill from far away. It is said they are—”

  “Who says all this?” Skin Shredder cut him off.

  “Spirit Walker spied on them before the pass was blocked. He saw many wonders.”

  “Are you a child, to be impressed by dogs and size? We are Tunkua. We are the Heart Eaters. We will capture these Bear People and take them back to our village so that all may take part in eating their hearts. Their medicine will be ours.” That was the part Skin Shredder looked forward to the most, the eating and the power that would come from it.

  “I would like to have one of their women.”

  “Have as in eat or have as in the other?”

  “The other.” Splashes Blood quickly added, “Before you say anything, yes, I know Tunkua are only to share their blankets with other Tunkua. But I have long wondered what it would be like to have a Bear Woman.”

  “The Bear People are huge and ugly and smell. Were you to lie with one of their females, she would crush you between her legs.”

  “I had not thought of that,” Splashes Blood admitted. “They do have big legs. My women have strong legs and theirs are not half as big.”

  Skin Shredder scanned the ridge above for the silhouette of a cliff. This talk of mating with a Bear Woman bothered him. It would be the same as mating with an animal. He reminded himself that his friend had always been woman hungry. Of all the Tunkua, only Splashes Blood had four wives. Skin Shredder had three, and there were times of the month when that was two too many.

  “It is good to hunt hearts again,” Splashes Blood said.