Beneath a Hunter's Moon

by Michael Zimmer

  “My heart is sad, McTavish!” Tall Cloud bellowed, after the expected amenities had been exchanged. “Very sad. Crow Horse has brought news that makes Tall Cloud’s eyes run many tears. He says that it was McTavish who killed my nephew from ambush. This is a bad thing, McTavish?”

  Big John answered in kind, with voice and hand, although Gabriel couldn’t make out all the words or see the signs.

  “Does McTavish fight for the Long Knives now?” Tall Cloud asked, referring to the sword-carrying American soldiers.

  Again, with his back to them, most of Big John’s reply was lost in the wind.

  “Is it not the way of the Ojibway to fight his enemy?” Tall Cloud returned philosophically, using his people’s own name for the tribe others called Chippewa. “Is it not true this Long Knife invaded our lands?”

  Big John’s shoulders rolled in response.

  “Always, the Ojibways have been friends to the white traders,” Tall Cloud continued. “Did we not leave the forests of our fathers’ land to hunt the beaver and muskrat for you here? Did we not venture boldly into the lands of the Sioux, who are our enemies, and take this land from them so that we might trap even more furs for your trader chiefs, and the white grandmother you call Queen? We were a people of the forests, McTavish, but we became buffalo hunters for you and Cammaron and Henry. Is that not true?”

  “God dammit,” Pike growled. “What’s he saying?”

  It was only then that Gabriel realized Pike didn’t understand Chippewa, and that he had been following the conversation only through Tall Cloud’s hands. But Tall Cloud had abandoned his sign about halfway through his last speech so that he could lift his old trade gun above his head and shake it vigorously to illustrate his sense of betrayal.

  “He is reminding Big John of how the Chippewas came to the Red River Valley to trap for the North West Company a long time ago, before I was born,” Gabriel translated. “He is making big talk about all that they have given up, but has said nothing yet of the many things they have gained.”

  Tall Cloud went on for quite a while, relating the numerous hardships the Chippewas had endured to come to this new land, in addition to the heartache of leaving so many of their friends and family members behind. He emphasized the cultural differences that had grown between the two bands since they’d abandoned their woodland homes, and how those differences precluded their ever returning.

  Most of it, Gabriel already knew. Only part of the Chippewa nation had left their traditional forest homelands to follow old Alexander Henry to the Red River Valley. In time, they’d drifted west from the Hair Hills to establish themselves in the Turtle Mountain region, a country not unlike that from which they had come, with tall trees and rolling hills, streams abundant with fish.

  It was true that in the process they had been forced to give up many of their old ways in order to embrace a lifestyle more suited to the open plains surrounding the Turtle Mountain region. They’d traded the canoe for the horse, the bark house for the buffalo-hide teepee, the flesh of the deer for the meat of the bison. But to Gabriel’s mind, they had gained far more than they’d lost. He didn’t know anyone among the Turtle Mountain people who had ever expressed a desire to return to the east side of the Red River, and the swampy, insect-infested forests that prevailed there. But of course, crafty old Tall Cloud wouldn’t mention that. He had come for restitution, not revenge.

  “My brother grieves for his lost son,” Tall Cloud continued, using sign language again. “He says McTavish must pay for this terrible crime against his family, and in that way erase the shame from his own name.”

  “Greasy old son-of-a-bitch,” Pike grated under his breath.

  “It is the way of the land,” Gabriel replied stoically. “Big John will pay, and if it is enough, if Tall Cloud is satisfied, then this thing between him and the Chippewas will be forgotten. It is best. Otherwise, there could be war.”

  “I know how it works, boy. I just don’t cotton to the extra debt, is all.”

  “It is Big John’s debt. It was he who killed Tall Cloud’s nephew.”

  “Did it saving my hide, too. It’ll be my debt, now.”

  Toussaint whirled his horse and galloped back to the main party. He hauled up in front of Gabriel. “Big John wants you to bring back a fusil, a horn of powder, five pounds of lead, a Sixty-Two-caliber bullet mold, two red blankets, ten knives, a packet of mirrors, and another of vermillion.”

  Gabriel jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Tell Alec. He will get it for you.”

  Toussaint made a face but didn’t push it. Gabriel knew he resented having to fetch what Big John told him to fetch. He had tried to pass off some of his irritation by doing the same to Gabriel, but Gabriel wouldn’t be manipulated so easily—not by Antoine Toussaint.

  The others had also followed the conversation between Big John and Tall Cloud, and, although they kept their fusils handy and their eyes on the Chippewas, they began to relax, talking among themselves, laughing a little. It was good, Gabriel thought, that it hadn’t come to a fight.

  Toussaint soon returned with the items Big John had requested. Tall Cloud had one of the braves beside him accept the gifts. It would be enough, perhaps, but not so much that others among the Chippewas would suddenly demand proportionate compensation for past wrongs. The way of the land, Gabriel had told Pike—bribery and honor walking hand-in-hand.

  Tall Cloud and Big John exchanged a few more words, quieter this time, and without sign, so that only those beside them heard. Then they parted, the Chippewas wheeling their ponies and riding off at a gallop, yipping victoriously. Big John and the others trotted back to the main party, and Gabriel saw that Big John’s face was pensive as he guided his roan toward Pike.

  Hauling up, he began without preamble: “Ye followed most of what was said, I’m guessin’?”

  The others had already turned away, riding back to the caravan at a walk. Only Gabriel remained behind with Big John and Pike.

  “Enough to know I’ll be owing you for a trade gun and blankets and such,” Pike said.

  “Naught that cannot be earned from the hunt,” Big John assured him. “’Tis what the old bugger said afterward that’s got me bothered.”

  “Tell it,” Pike said grimly.

  “It seems our friend Tall Cloud did not speak for the entire family, as a man might have expected, to hear him at the beginnin’ of his windy. The lad I shot was named Wolf Slayer. His brother is One Who Limps, who I’ve heard of. One Who Limps has counted coup against the Sioux and Cheyennes, and stolen many a pony from ’em, to boot. He’s just returned from a horse-stealin’ raid against the Cheyennes, and, accordin’ to Tall Cloud, he’s swearin’ revenge against me and the American he says led young Wolf Slayer into my trap.

  “The two of us, Mister Pike, against maybe a dozen Chippewas comin’ for our hides. They’re makin’ their medicine now, prayin’ to their gods and such for the magic that’ll make ’em immune to our rifles and knives. Give ’em a week, was Tall Cloud’s estimate. No more than that.”

  Pike’s eyes narrowed. “Six to one odds aren’t all that bad,” he said.

  Big John smiled without humor. “Well, it can be done, and I’ll not argue otherwise, but ’tis a sorry business we’ve gotten ourselves into, nonetheless. ’Tis the Métis I’m thinkin’ of now. A lot of ’em have kin among the Turtle Mountain people, and most of ’em have friends there, myself included.”

  “You saying the half-breeds won’t side with us, or is it just me they’ll throw to the dogs for bait?”

  Big John’s shoulders were slumped. “I’m not sure I could answer that right now, Mister Pike. I doubt if many of the mixed-bloods could. ’Tis a thing we’ll all need to sleep on a bit before anyone can come to a firm decision. I just thought ye ought to know the way things stand, for now, at least.”

  “The bois brûles will not turn their backs on you, Big John,” Gabriel said, but that old, sick-to-his-stomach feeling had returned. He’d hoped the animosity betw
een the Chippewas and the bois brûles might be pacified after today.

  “Well, lad, I’m not so sure. Was the Chippewas to attack the train, we’d fight as one, and boldly so, I’d wager. But if One Who Limps comes out demandin’ only me or Mister Pike, well, there could be some that would say blood’s a whole lot thicker than water. Still, I see no point in worryin’ the subject overmuch.” He glanced at Pike. “Of course, ye could head on back to the settlements, and none here as would think less of ye for it.”

  “Run?” Pike snorted his rejection of that proposal. “I’d sooner give up my rifle. Besides, I have business on the ranges.”

  “Well, I expected no less,” Big John admitted. “So ’tis enough for now that ye know what’s about, and that ye watch for the Chippewas as ye do the Sioux.” He lifted his reins, guiding the roan past Pike, heading for the caravan.

  When they were alone, Gabriel said tentatively: “I have also heard of One Who Limps. He is said to be a dangerous man who believes, as many of the more hot-tempered ones do, that it is the guns of the bois brûles that drive the buffalo farther and farther west. He will not show mercy.”

  Pike had turned his gaze to the retreating party of Chippewas, already small in the distance. Quietly he said: “I didn’t come here to fight the Chippewas, but I won’t quit a country because of ’em, either.” He turned his cold eyes on Gabriel. “Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  Chapter Ten

  LaBarge returned around midmorning, reining up at the head of the caravan to speak with Etienne Cyr, who led that day. Cyr shrugged and replied, but did not stop. While the caravan creaked slowly past, LaBarge filled his pipe and struck a light to it with flint and steel.

  Big John resisted the urge to ride ahead, to see what had brought LaBarge back from his position of forward scout. Turcotte—damn his timorous soul—still lollygagged beside his cart in conversation with his wife. Once again, Big John wondered if he had made a mistake in supporting René for captain. Had his own self-interests blinded him to what was best for them all? Some men were born to lead, he knew, while others were born to follow. Only a rare few truly gave a damn for neither. Pike was one. He would lead if leading served his purpose, or be led for the same reason. But if it came to it, Pike wouldn’t hesitate to cut loose and go his own way.

  The Métis had been that way themselves, before time and the slow-moving conveyances that bore the valley’s name had weakened their independence. Yet they still considered themselves freemen, courageously self-reliant. It was why LaBarge halted where he did, instead of reporting immediately to Turcotte, why Etienne Cyr took it upon himself to forge ahead without even a backward glance. It required strong will and an almost Herculean patience to lead the mixed-bloods, and Big John feared Turcotte lacked those qualities. René was proving to be a follower, intimidated by the responsibilities of his position, yet too stubborn in his belief that he was the equal of any man to acknowledge it.

  To a veteran of the old North West Company, the half-bloods’ lack of discipline was a hard pill to swallow, and Big John had to remind himself daily that impatience was his own Achilles’ heel, an enemy he had constantly to guard against.

  The caravan advanced sluggishly. When finally within hailing distance of LaBarge, Big John gave in and trotted his horse forward. “Baptiste, how do ye fare, old friend?”

  “Well, Big John, well.”

  “No trouble, then?”

  “Non. Charles still scouts, but there is not much to see. No sign of meat, though, while the stomachs of our young ones grow emptier every day. Sacre, but I think we should send our hunters farther out, even if it means they have to stay away overnight.”

  “Ye may be right. Mention it to René and see what he has to say of the idea.”

  LaBarge laughed without rancor. “He will say… ‘I do not know, Big John, what do you think I should think?’ That is what René will say.”

  Big John caught his lower lip between his teeth, but didn’t reply. It bothered him that others saw René’s weaknesses as clearly as he did.

  Almost as an afterthought, LaBarge added: “We found the trail of Paget’s hunters. They have come inland along the Salt River, and now they have turned southwest toward Lac du Diable.”

  “Here, man? ’Tis too soon.”

  “Maybe, but it is their trail, none other. Charles has gone ahead to catch up with their rear guard. We will know tonight why they abandoned the Ridge Trail so soon. Me, I think they did not find enough game there. It is the only reason that makes sense.”

  Hoof beats drummed the prairie behind them. Big John glanced back, expecting Turcotte, but it was Breland who slowed his black runner beside them. LaBarge quickly related his news to Joseph, who replied: “Damn such bad luck. Game is scarce enough as it is this year.”

  “It will be gone entirely now,” LaBarge added glumly.

  Others began to ride up then, Turcotte, finally, among them. LaBarge dutifully repeated what he had already told Big John and Breland. When he finished, he said: “Etienne says we will go on to the next valley and decide there what we should do.”

  Turcotte nodded fretfully. “Good, yes, we should do that.” He glanced questioningly at Big John, but Big John refused to meet his gaze. From the corner of his eye, he caught Breland’s humorless grin, but ignored that, too.

  LaBarge rode back the way he had come, passing Etienne Cyr with a shout and a wave. Most of the others, including Turcotte, returned to their carts. Only a few remained clustered together, wrapped in a grim silence.

  “There has been a mistake, Big John,” Breland began carefully. “René does not lead, and, if the Sioux attack, he will not lead then, either.”

  “He did well enough with the Chippewas, and thinkin’ they were Sioux, too,” Big John said.

  “He reacted as any bois brûle would, doing what we have all done a hundred times before. But it was you Tall Cloud parleyed with, not René. Tall Cloud did not even recognize René as our captain.”

  “’Twas me he talked to, right enough, and yeself there to be knowin’ the reasons for it, Joseph.” Big John’s expression hardened. “Are ye so bitter to have lost the election that ye’d cut another down so with ye words?”

  “You know better than that. But our hunts grow too large to be run in the same fashion as they once were. One man to captain is not enough now. We must all have our share.”

  The idea was a surprise to Big John, and he studied Breland closely. “And what do ye have in mind?”

  “A central captain, of course, but each man to govern the train for the day he leads. Today, Etienne Cyr should be captain. When the flag is raised on his cart at dawn, even René must heed his command. When it is lowered at nightfall, leadership reverts back to Turcotte. That way no man is chief for more than a few hours.”

  Big John was careful to keep his expression neutral. “And of the decisions that need to be made?”

  “For the big decisions, the same as always. All men must have an equal voice. For the smaller, daily decisions, the man who captains should make those.”

  It was Indian logic, pure and simple. Big John had learned to recognize it shortly after coming to the pays sauvage, many years before, but he still had to struggle with it, to fiddle his own way of thinking into an indigenous point of view.

  In practice, Breland’s idea wouldn’t be much different than the way the hunt was already conducted, yet it would unquestionably dilute a captain’s authority, spreading leadership more evenly among them all.

  Breland would find a lot of support for such a plan, Big John knew, although he personally didn’t think it was a smart move. The North West Company’s concept of a central government had been hammered firmly into him. Yet he knew he would never be able to convince the Métis of that. The bois brûles remembered all too well the spurs of Hudson’s Bay and the North West, and the control those two companies had tried to enforce in the valley. The freedom of the half-bloods had been too hard-won to give up so easily now, even to one of
their own.

  “We are Métis,” Breland asserted quietly when Big John didn’t immediately reply, as if that in itself was enough to clinch the proposition.

  Big John forced a crooked grin. “Aye, Joseph, and when was anything more ever needed?”

  A couple of hunters smiled, but Breland’s face remained impassive. “We must govern ourselves, Big John,” he said. “We must always listen to the wisdom of those who were first to the valley, but the time has come for the bois brûles to make their own decisions.”

  Big John knew immediately what Breland was referring to. He could hear the subtle stirring of anger in the man’s voice, like water just below a boil. He wanted to deny his influence in the election, but sensed that things had gone too far for that. “And of this trip, Joseph?” he asked mildly. “And René?”

  “I don’t know,” Breland admitted. “Not yet.”

  “If ye’re wrong, man, ’tis the bois brûles who will be payin’ for ye mistake.”

  Breland nodded soberly. “Your words ring true, Big John. We must hope that my ideas are sound. But I am bois brûle. I would not betray my people willingly.”

  So it wasn’t to be a bloodless coup, after all, Big John reflected angrily. He said: “I’m not of mixed blood meself, Joseph, as ye so clearly be hintin’ at, but the Métis are my people, as ye own father, a Scotsman such as meself, was Métis. ’Tis a kinship of the heart that I’m speakin’ of, and as real as if bred there. What might have been done in the past, mistakes included, was done for the good of those we called family.”

  “I remember my father worked for the North West Company, Big John, and that nothing stood in the way of that.”

  “Then ye’re rememberin’ a different man than I do, Joseph. The Albert Breland I knew quit the company to stay with his woman in the pays sauvage.”

  Breland’s green eyes glinted hotly. “Then it is a different man, McTavish, because the Albert Breland I knew is the same one who beat his Stony woman regularly, until she threw herself into the Assiniboine River to end her suffering. But I suppose that would be a familiar story to you, eh? Suicide is no stranger to the house of John McTavish.”