Beneath a Hunter's Moon

by Michael Zimmer

  Big John’s face paled, and his voice turned thick. “By the Lord, man, I did not think I’d ever hear such as that, even from you.”

  “Joseph talks too much,” Jacques Leveille cut in sharply, glaring at Breland.

  Breland lowered his gaze. “Jacques is right. I did not mean to open old wounds, as I’m sure you did not. Life in the valley is hard, and sometimes we forget that others have also suffered. Forgive me.” Without waiting for a response, he reined his horse away.

  Big John stared silently after him, glad he didn’t have to make a reply, not sure that he could have without losing control of the rage that strummed through him.

  The others remained uncertainly behind, confused by the heat of the encounter they’d just witnessed.

  “And what of ye, my friends?” Big John managed after a while. “Do ye agree with Joseph?”

  It was Jacques Leveille who replied. “Joseph has been to school in Montreal, and that must make a man very smart. I feel his heart is true, and that a wise man would listen to his words. But I think also that Big John McTavish’s heart is true, and that his words are also wise and worthy of being listened to. So I say this… I know that each man speaks the truth, but I also know that the truth can be different things to different men and still be true. I don’t know yet which man speaks the truth for me, but I will consider carefully what each one says, because they are both my friends, as well as friends to the bois brûles.”

  The others nodded quick assent, although remaining somewhat subdued. Big John’s spirits plummeted as he realized that, once again, Angelique’s death had been thrown in his face as his ultimate failure. She was not the first woman in the valley to commit suicide—indeed, it was a fairly common occurrence in a land with such harsh winters—but she was a trader’s wife, and to the Indians and mixed-bloods, that made what she did seem worse. It was as if such frailties could be forgiven a squaw or a Métis, but Angelique had been French, her veins carrying the blood of civilized men and women, not savages.

  But they didn’t know, Big John told himself. They wouldn’t despise her so if they did. They couldn’t know, living their uncluttered lives on the far-flung frontier, what a burden of guilt Angelique had carried to her grave. “Damn them,” he whispered. “Damn them all, and her father, old Pierre Menard, most.” Big John balled a fist, but didn’t have the strength to strike anything with it. With effort, he forced his fingers to unclench, his palm to lie flat along his thigh.

  “Ce qui, Big John?” Leveille asked cautiously.

  Big John looked up. They were still there, prodding at him with their eyes the same way they sometimes prodded a crippled buffalo with their lances—with a kind of morbid and unrelenting child-like curiosity. He shook his head. “’Twas nothing, old friend. Talkin’ to meself is all.”

  Leveille glanced at the others, and Big John knew he’d given them one more piece of gossip to be passed back and forth around the fires that night, one more quirk accepted with a consolatory shrug.

  Aye, and was anything less expected from a muddled old man who was convinced the buffalo were disappearing? Lifting the roan’s reins, he said: “Well, I suppose we’d best be gettin’ back to our carts, wouldn’t ye say, gentlemen?”

  Most of the caravan had already creaked on past. The herd of spare stock was looming close, threatening to engulf them in dust and noise. As one, the half-bloods turned their ponies away without comment. Big John watched them break into a gallop, as if anxious to leave the cheerless old Scotsman behind. Saddened, he nudged the roan after them.

  * * * * *

  They nooned in the shade of cottonwoods bordering the Salt River, and turned their oxen and cart ponies loose to graze on the tall grass. The valley ran east and west like a shallow, half-mile wide trough scooped from the rolling surface of the prairie, the river meandering through it without rush, the water low but clear. Oaks and maples and box elders lined the banks, those in turn skirted by a fringe of brush and delicate, white-barked aspens, their leaves trembling like gold coins in the slightest breeze.

  The sky held high and pale blue, littered with a fleet of dreary gray clouds sailing rapidly eastward. It was still hot and their faces were beaded with sweat, but there was a feeling of change in the air now, a sense of something dark and ominous brewing out beyond the horizon. The women felt it most, and had scattered through the trees to collect firewood they would carry with them in the empty carts.

  The men were gathered downstream, smoking their pipes and talking. Their saddle horses grazed nearby on long rawhide or buffalo-hair picket ropes, or fettered with rawhide hobbles, hungrily cropping the rich meadow grass as if they, too, could sense changes coming in the weather.

  Turcotte shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat, squinted momentarily at the motionless Métis sentinels etched against the sky atop the higher hills to the north and south, then finally shrugged. “Maybe we should do as Big John and Joseph suggests. Go west to Chain of Lakes. It is closer.”

  But Antoine Toussaint, Noel Pouliot, Little John McKay, and others wanted to go to Devil’s Lake to hunt swans, and to hell with the Pembina hunters. Old Abrams, at the Hudson’s Bay post just north of the international boundary, below the mouth of the Pembina, had promised them good pay in beaver for quality swan skins this year. The Bay Company would ship them down to London for powder puffs, the quills to be turned into elegant pens favored among the wealthy.

  “We thought some of us might ride ahead,” Antoine Toussaint said. “Our women can bring the carts, and there are enough men here to watch over them.”

  Etienne Cyr chuckled crudely. “Oui, Antoine, I will watch your woman for you. Real close, eh?”

  Some of the men laughed, and a few supplied ribald comments of their own. Charles Hallet said: “Maybe you could stay behind, Antoine, and protect my woman while I ride ahead to hunt swans for Hudson’s Bay.”

  “No one rides ahead,” Breland said abruptly. “That we all agreed to before we left the valley. Only scouts and hunters leave the caravan.”

  “I’ve seen swans at Chain of Lakes,” Big John added. “Pelicans, too, although I know they won’t fetch the price of a good, clean white swan skin. Still, ’tis better to be first there than trot along after the Pembina hunters like a pack of dogs.”

  “Big John is right,” Hallet grumbled. “I’m tired of always bumping into the Pembina caravan, taking what they leave.”

  Leveille said: “I came to hunt buffalo, not swans. Lac du Diable is better than Chain of Lakes, but not if others are already there ahead of us. I also say we should go to Chain of Lakes. Maybe we will find buffalo there, as well as swans.”

  Big John looked at Turcotte. “What do ye say, René? Do we vote, or is there more ye want to discuss?”

  “No,” Turcotte said. “It is time to vote. Those who wish to go to Chain of Lakes must let it be known.”

  A clear majority voiced their assent. No one voted for Devil’s Lake. Not even those who declined to vote for Chain of Lakes.

  “Then it is settled,” Turcotte said, looking relieved. “We go to Chain of Lakes.”

  Breland smiled broadly. “At last, mes braves, we turn west for the hunt.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Chain of Lakes lay like a string of dull gray pearls dropped carelessly along the western rim of the tall-grass prairie, running north and south but with a slight westward bow. It was a land of steep, rolling hills and shaded parks, the dry, short-grass plains lying just beyond.

  The caravan arrived at one of the smaller lakes late on the second day after their halt along the Salt River. After circling their carts on a slightly tilted piece of land on the eastern shore, the men unharnessed the stock and ran them out to graze while the women gathered firewood for the evening meal.

  Most of the men remained with the carts after the stock had been cared for, but a few of them spread out in the hills to hunt. Pike went with them, though veering off on his own as soon as possible. He rode west, not so much looking for
game as just ambling along, enjoying the solitude. There was buffalo sign everywhere—old dung and rain-washed wool snagged in the bushes, and the bark on some of the trees had been buffed slick as polished stone from about three feet above the ground to nearly six feet up, where the huge, shaggy beasts had rubbed and scratched. But none of it was fresher than last spring, and most of it was older than that.

  It was nearly full dark before he started back. Pools of pitch-black shadows had collected under the trees, hiding stray limbs that slapped his face or tried to knock off his hat. A handful of stars were already sparkling in the east when he came out of the hills and saw the lights of the half-breeds’ fires glinting off the corrugated surface of the lake. He was skirting the northern shore when the bay jerked to a stop with a loud, deer-like snort.

  “You look so intense,” a woman said from the deeper shadows of a cottonwood.

  Pike’s thumb had curled instinctively over the rifle’s cock, easing it part way back. He relaxed it only slightly now.

  “You’re a long ways from camp,” he said. “Does McTavish know you’re out here?”

  “I am a grown woman,” Celine replied. “I answer to no one, not even to the great McTavish.”

  Pike returned the cock to the half, or safety, position. Celine stepped away from the tree, although staying well within its protective shadow, and Pike remembered that it had been dark when she approached him in the windmill, too. It made him wonder if she needed the anonymity of nightfall to bolster her courage. During the daylight hours, she always seemed shy and slightly distracted, her gaze usually on the ground.

  Except for the time the Chippewas had stopped them. On that day, going after the pinto with murder in her eyes, Celine McTavish had looked anything but retiring.

  “What did you shoot, Pike?” she asked, a trace of taunting in her words telling him she already knew.

  “Reckon we’ll be eating rubaboo again tonight, unless Gabriel made some meat.”

  “Gabriel is a boy. He could not shoot an ox unless it wandered in front of his gun.”

  Pike studied her vague shape thoughtfully. Her words amused him, for he had seen Gabriel and Celine together the night of the half-breeds’ election, walking together toward the river. He’d assumed then that they might be lovers, and that her passion at the windmill from the previous evening had been nothing more than retaliation for some spat between them. But apparently, the rift remained. Now one seldom spoke when the other was near, and each seemed to take great pains to avoid the other. Yet he’d also observed them glancing constantly at one another when they thought no one was watching, like a couple of lovesick puppies.

  “You are always so serious, yet so confident,” she said. “I feel safe when you are with the caravan. Safer even than with all the Métis. They are like children, don’t you think?”

  “They’re your people, aren’t they?”

  “Non! My blood is pure. I am French, and my papa was of nobility.”

  “I thought McTavish was your father.”

  That stopped her for a moment, but no longer. “I meant my grandfather,” she corrected. “He was of nobility.”

  The bay shifted restlessly. Pike was tempted to go, to leave this girl behind. But the memory of what she’d opened in him that night at the windmill was too strong. It stirred even now, like a snake deep in his belly.

  “Walk with me,” she said.

  He hesitated, considering the possibilities. There was Gabriel, who either loved her or was falling in love with her. Then there was McTavish, Celine’s father and his own friend—or at least as much a friend as anyone he’d known since Arch’s death. Making a snarling sound deep in his throat, he abruptly dismounted.

  They started together toward the camp, and from time to time Celine’s arm would brush lightly against his. Her scent came to him, powerfully feminine.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She gave him a quizzical look.

  “You’re not from here. You’re not a half-breed, a Métis.”

  She nodded, understanding. “Big John is my father,” she began hesitantly. “I was… raised… in a convent in Vermont, outside of Saint Albans. Big John sent for me because he missed me, and because he needed a woman to manage his house. The Indian woman steals.”

  Pike exhaled loudly. He knew the girl was lying. He could still remember McTavish’s stunned countenance when he learned of Celine’s presence in the valley. He suspected she was also lying about Big John’s feelings for the Cree woman. Pike had seen the expression in McTavish’s eyes when he gazed at Isabella. It wasn’t the look a man gave a thief.

  “You don’t believe me,” she accused in a pouty voice.

  “Does it matter?”

  Stopping, she grabbed his arm and pulled him around. “Do you like me?”

  “Yes.”

  She came closer, tipping her face toward his. Her breath caressed his throat. He wrapped his arms around her, pressed his lips to hers. She twisted her face away, gasping. “Do you love me, Pike?” she demanded breathlessly. “Would you kill for me?”

  “Damn you,” he said harshly, forcing her back, bending her knees until they tumbled to the ground together. His rifle fell in the grass beside them. The bay shook its head and backed off. He touched her hip, slid his hand up her ribs to her breast, then moved on to the polished bone button at her neck.

  “Pike.”

  The button came free, another followed.

  “Pike, no.” She pushed at his shoulder. “Please.”

  Gritting his teeth in frustration, he rolled off of her, onto his back. Celine stood. He half expected her to run, but instead she loosened another button, then a fourth. Struggling briefly, she tugged the dress over her head, then dropped it on top of his rifle.

  “Jesus, girl, you’re driving me crazy,” he said raggedly.

  “Is this not worth it?” she asked, side-stepping into a shaft of moonlight.

  Pike caught his breath. Her flesh had taken on a glint as coppery as any Indian’s, and her body looked lean and taut. She stood before him in knee-high leggings and moccasins, a heavy silver cross gleaming dully from the shadowy vale between her breasts.

  Breathing heavily, Pike scrambled to his feet. He removed his belt and dropped it beside the rifle, tossed his hat on top of that, followed it with his shirt and trousers. Naked, his body looked white and sickly compared to hers, a gaunt, caved-in wreck, hips like twin knobs, ribs a curved washboard. The hair on his chest was a sparse gray field, stiff as wire.

  Celine touched it, pressed her hand against it as if it were a bed of springs, then released it. She ran her fingers down his torso until they came to a ridge of scar tissue across his short ribs. She looked at him, her eyes big. “How did this happen?”

  “An Arapaho’s lance,” he replied huskily. “A long time ago.”

  Her fingers glided upward until they rested on a second scar above his collar bone. “And this?”

  “Blackfoot arrow. Three, four seasons back, on the Gros Ventre.”

  “You are a warrior,” she whispered. “As fierce as the hawk.” Her fingers drifted down again to touch a small, puckered crater on his upper thigh, a purpled blemish nearly a dozen years old.

  “Never really knew,” he said. “It was an ambush, but I got away. An Osage, likely. It was their territory, and I traded with ’em for a spell before going to the mountains.”

  “Take me with you when you leave.”

  “To the mountains?”

  She nodded, starlight skimming along the waves of her hair like silver. Her fingers moved up again, dancing lightly across his lower stomach, causing the muscles there to twitch in anticipation. Music from the Métis camp floated across the water. “Take me away from here, Pike. Take me to Philadelphia, or Boston.”

  “They ain’t nowhere near the mountains,” he said gently.

  “Please. I have to get away.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” She took a step back. “I do not understand yo
ur question.” Then her expression softened and she put both hands under her breasts, lifting them in offering. “Do you not want me, Pike? Am I not beautiful? I would be your wife and we could ride in carriages and go to balls together. Have you ever been to a ball, where everyone wears beautiful clothing and drinks wine from crystal goblets? I have, many times. Papa took me, and there were important people there. There was music and dancing all night, and the men coveted me.”

  Pike’s desire began to wilt. Celine’s cheeks glistened with tears, yet her voice had taken on a hard and chilling edge.

  “I hate it here,” she said. “I hate everything about it. Everything stinks. The land is flat and ugly and the people are stupid, even though they think they are better than everyone else. I have to get out of here, Pike. Please, you must take me with you.”

  “When I leave here, I’ll go back to the mountains. Down south, most likely, and trap out of the Spanish settlements. I doubt if you’d like that any better than here.”

  “Anything is better than here. Here is nowhere, close to nothing. I want to go to Philadelphia, to Boston and New York. I want to go to Paris and London. I want to see a play. Do you know what a play is?”

  He had attended a play in St. Louis once, a bawdy production featuring whores in scanty costumes. He didn’t remember the story, but he could still picture the bare, dough-colored thighs and flabby breasts of one of the actresses. Afterward, he’d paid $1 for a sweaty tumble with her on a lumpy, straw-tick mattress in her crib behind the stage, discovering, as he exited the blanket that served as a door, a line of four others awaiting their turn. Although the sex had been adequate, the experience had left him strangely dissatisfied. It wasn’t until several weeks later that it dawned on him that he’d paid to bed a character, a good-hearted but naïve shop clerk, instead of the hardened prostitute he’d followed backstage.