Beneath a Hunter's Moon

by Michael Zimmer

“Gabriel doesn’t like me.”

  “Oh, I think ye’re wrong about that, I surely do.”

  But Celine seemed certain. “He does not. Perhaps the American could accompany me?”

  “Pike?” Big John frowned. “I think I’d rather ye ride with Gabriel, if ye don’t mind so awful much. I’ll talk to the boy, ask him to do it.”

  She shrugged indifferently. “Why did you send me away?”

  Embarrassed, Big John lowered his eyes. “Well, I don’t rightly have an answer to that, although I wish I did, and that it was simple-like so that it made sense to the both of us.” In his mind he saw her again as she had been on that misty morning when he’d sent her East—a tiny wisp of a child, eyes big and sad, not understanding. He sighed heavily, his heart breaking. “I thought I was doin’ right by ye, girl, I’ll swear to that. I sent ye to ye ma’s people, thinkin’ they’d care for ye proper-like.” He looked up, meeting her gaze with effort. “I didn’t think they’d send ye on to a… to a convent. I’d hoped they’d keep ye and raise ye to be a fine young lass like they did ye ma.” He watched her closely but her face remained frighteningly unresponsive, her eyes fixed on his, yet distant and cold.

  “I wrote ye. Did ye get my letters?”

  She shook her head.

  He nodded with resignation. He’d written only twice after learning that Pierre had refused to accept his papally illegitimate granddaughter into his home. His first dispatch had gone to the old man, offering to pay for Celine’s board at the convent where Pierre had exiled her. The second he’d sent to Celine, telling her she could come home any time she wished. When he didn’t receive a reply, he had been content, perhaps even eager, to let it drop.

  “Aye, well, I did,” he said lamely. “Write ye, that is.”

  “But you still haven’t told me why.”

  Big John looked away. “I…” He shook his head.

  “I hated the convent. The sisters were cruel. They beat me regularly and made me eat horrible foods. They called me a bastard child of the wilderness, and told me my mama would spend eternity in hell for her sin. They locked me in a tiny room with no light or bed or blankets, and made me work like a slave to pay my way.” She paused, her face still maddeningly vacant, then added the coup de grâce with the finesse of an experienced swordsman. “Why did you send me there, Papa? Did you truly hate me that much?”

  He took a deep, ragged breath, then let it go. “I don’t know, child. I suppose I blamed ye, like a damnable fool. Blamed ye for what wasn’t ye fault, for sure.” He ducked his head, nearly smothering in shame, his voice hoarse with despair. “I failed ye, lass, the same way I failed ye ma. I don’t know how I’ll ever be makin’ that up to ye, but…”

  Abruptly Celine started to walk away. “I wish to be alone now,” she called. “I like it here, don’t you? It is so peaceful. It reminds me of Vermont.”

  Lifting his tear-streaked face, Big John could only watch her go.

  * * * * *

  Isabella had the doe quartered by the time he returned, and was slicing thin sheets of meat from the shoulder to jerk. She’d constructed her drying stage between the two meat carts, and was smoking the wide strips of venison over a low fire to keep the flies away.

  Big John unsaddled the roan, then picketed the stallion on grass outside the carts, where he could keep an eye on him. Coming back to camp, he sat down cross-legged beside a cart and plucked a blade of grass for chewing.

  “Did you find her?” Isabella asked.

  “Aye.”

  She set her knife aside and went to the hooped cart, returning a minute later with Big John’s stubby, thumb- and knuckle-polished dudeen and leather tobacco pouch. “Smoke,” she told him. “It will make you feel better.”

  Big John smiled appreciatively. “Ye’re a good woman, Isabella. Angus was a lucky man.”

  “Angus Gilray is dead,” Isabella said curtly, turning back to her work.

  “Well, sure,” Big John said hesitantly. “Killed by the Pawnees, or so his powder horn says.”

  “Angus Gilray is dead. Angelique is dead. Both are dead.”

  Big John eyed her uncertainly, waiting for her to go on. “Aye?” he ventured after a pause.

  Without looking up, she said: “Father Denning says we live in sin.”

  “Denning!” Big John’s lips curled in disdain. “And what would the good Father know of our life on the Tongue?”

  “He knows what he hears in confession. There I must hide nothing.”

  Big John’s face reddened. “Ye told him, then?”

  Isabella nodded.

  “By the Lord, woman, ’twas none of his business!”

  “It was confession,” she replied stubbornly.

  “Then did ye tell him a man needs to… and a woman, too, by God.”

  “Father says that is no excuse.”

  “Aye, and what would the good Father know of such deeds, him bein’ celibate and all?”

  “He represents the one true God,” she retorted. “His wisdom is guided by our Heavenly Father’s hand, and is not to be questioned by such as us.”

  “Bah! His wisdom is guided by narrow-minded men consumed with a passion for power. Denning needs to mind his own business, and ye need to curb ye confessions to true sins.”

  “I know what sin is, McTavish.” She straightened, clutching a foot-wide section of meat in one hand, her bloody knife in the other. “Crebassa was my first husband. He was killed when his pony stumbled in the middle of a hunt. Angus Gilray was my second husband. He did not return from the prairies.”

  Big John waited for her to say more, but she seemed content with the point she’d made. Taking the meat to the stage, she draped it over a length of rawhide rope, then returned to the doe to start another cut.

  In the silence that followed, Big John filled his pipe reflectively. What Isabella wanted came as no real surprise, he supposed. They had been nearly the same as man and wife for almost a decade now. He knew it wasn’t the legal recognition she craved so much as religious sanctification. Her faith had strengthened in the years since the permanent arrival of priests to the valley, and what had been easy to ignore ten years ago wasn’t as easy now.

  Still, he knew, as she did, that what she wanted was impossible. His own religion—or lack of religion—would stand in the way of that. The Church would never condone Isabella’s marriage to someone who so openly rejected its teachings, and his own feelings toward the Catholic faith ran too contrary to change. Yet it touched him deeply that she had voiced her desire, or came as close to it as she likely ever would.

  A group of horsemen appeared from the east, riding pell-mell toward the caravan. Recognizing the pinto among them, Big John stood and set his pipe and tobacco pouch aside.

  Laughing uproariously, the boys entered the camp with their ponies at a dead run, scattering dogs and children and scolding women. They pulled their horses down in a dirt-showering slide, then leisurely began to break apart. The broad smile on Alec’s face disappeared when he saw Big John.

  “Hello, Big John,” Alec said, drawing rein just out of reach. He looked ready to yank the pinto around and flee if he had to. “I did not have to help with the herd today, so I decided to hunt.”

  “So I see,” Big John replied. “And did ye have any luck at it?”

  Alec shook his head. “Isidore shot an eagle, but it fell in the lake and could not be retrieved.”

  Big John nodded carefully. He was angry enough to strike the boy, but knew he would only look like a fool if he attempted it and failed. Alec knew it, too, and a cocky smile crossed his face. “I think maybe I will hunt buffalo this year after all, Big John. The spotted pony is fast. Only Isidore’s sorrel is faster.”

  “Faster than me own roan, do ye think?”

  Alec’s face sobered. He shook his head.

  “Or Charlo’s white one?”

  Suspiciously he shook his head again.

  “Or Breland’s black runner?”

  This time the boy ma
de no reply at all.

  “Lad, unless ye’re willin’ to steal every horse in camp and leave the men to ride their oxen, ye’d best be gettin’ off yon pony, and be quick about it, too.”

  Cautiously Alec lifted his reins. “The spotted pony is mine, Big John.”

  “No, lad, the horse belongs to me. I traded old McBeth an ox harness and a cartload of firewood for him. Ye remember that, don’t ye?”

  “You said I could ride him.”

  “And now I’m sayin’ ye can’t. Get down, boy.”

  Alec just stared, his jaw thrusting out stubbornly.

  “’Tis best ye make this easy on yeself.”

  “I will buy him from you.”

  “He’s not for sale. Now get down.”

  Alec looked like he wanted to cry, but, before it could go any further, Isabella called—“McTavish!”—and pointed north with her chin.

  Following the direction of her nod, he saw Little John McKay riding toward the camp at a jarring gallop. Big John spun to the carts. “Get ye fusil, woman, and ye, too, Alec. Tie that spotted horse tight and be ready to fight if we have to.”

  Grabbing his rifle, Big John hurried to the gap in the carts where McKay was heading. His gaze skipped worriedly to the roan, the trees beyond, but he saw only children at play, and the stallion was picking leisurely at the tall grass. The handful of hunters who hadn’t gone out that day were also converging on the gap. With a twinge of annoyance, Big John saw Breland among them.

  McKay slowed when he reached the base of the hill where he’d been keeping guard. He was pointing to a trail that came out of some trees to the northeast. Just coming into sight was Charlo, bare-chested on his white runner. A man riding double behind him wore his shirt.

  “That’s Patterson he’s found,” Breland said, stopping beside Big John, then he laughed. “And nearly naked, too.”

  McKay and Charlo rode into camp together, but lanky Jim Patterson slid off the back of the white horse before they reached the carts, tugging embarrassedly at the hem of Charlo’s shirt.

  “Hello, Charlo!” Breland called, grinning. “What’s that you’ve found today?”

  Charlo smiled. “All kinds of prizes on the prairie this year, Joseph.”

  “Jim, are you considering a kilt like Big John’s fancy plaid one?” Charles Hallet asked innocently.

  “Nay tae that, Mister ’Allet, ’n’ I’d thank ’ee nae tae bring it oop ag’in, though ’tis tae Big John I owe me thanks for such a predicament, no doubt.” He turned an accusatory glare on Big John.

  Big John’s smile faded. “I usually know when I’ve caused a man any trouble, Jimmy.”

  “Ye’ve caused a barrelful this time, I’d say.”

  “’Tis best ye be spillin’ it, then.”

  “Spill it!” Patterson’s brogue turned thick as porridge. “’Tis naught left tae spill, I tell ’ee! Took it all, they did. Me ’orse ’n’ gun ’n’ the clothes offen me back!”

  “Who, man? Who caught ye and stripped ye like fowl for the spit?”

  “One Who Limps, Big John. The Chippewa that swore tae ’ave ye scalp. Ye ’n’ that American.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pike knew something was up as soon as he rode into camp, and reined in behind a cluster of half-breeds gathered around McTavish and a man wearing only a bright lavender shirt.

  Spying him above the heads of the crowd, McTavish offered a spiritless greeting. “Ye’ve returned at a fittin’ time, Mister Pike.” He inclined his head toward the half-breed standing beside him. “It seems Mister Patterson here has bumped into a friend of ours from the prairies. One Who Limps, brother to Wolf Slayer, who I shot the mornin’ ye joined us.”

  “’N’ others,” Patterson chimed in. “Crow Horse was with ’em, sure, ’n’ Otter Nose ’n’ Taon ’n’ Finds ’Is Lodge, plus some I did nae recognize. A baker’s dozen, tae number ’em plain.”

  “Thirteen, then, that’s wantin’ our hides, Mister Pike. What do ye say to that?”

  “Why, hell, I say we go see if they can take ’em,” Pike replied, leaning forward over the broad horn of his Mexican saddle.

  McTavish frowned. “Are ye suggestin’ we take the fight to them?”

  “I ain’t keen on sitting around here waiting for them to make the first move.”

  McTavish scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Well now, I have to say I like ye idea.” He smiled. “What is it Murphy says? The hair of the bear? ’Tis that, sure, ye’ve got, and aye to ye proposal, too. I came to hunt buffalo, not to watch me backside like a lad with a boil.”

  Scattered laughter greeted McTavish’s remark, but it was quickly terminated by Breland’s emphatic: “No!” He squared around to face the older man. “That is not your decision to make, Big John. A captain must call for a vote.” His green eyes sparked dangerously. “You know that, even if René doesn’t.”

  McTavish started to reply, but Breland cut him off with a slashing gesture of his hand.

  “It is true. René hunts when he is needed here, and the caravan sits unguarded. It was not René who sent Little John to the hills to watch. It was me.”

  McTavish looked stunned. “Are ye sayin’ the man left camp without assignin’ the watch?”

  Breland sneered. “Leadership frightens him like a rabbit under the shadow of a hawk. We must have another election. There is no other way.”

  McTavish was silent a moment, then he nodded. “Ye may be right, Joseph, but first I’ll talk to René. Tonight, when he gets in.”

  “Tonight is too late. We must have a captain today. A true captain.”

  Slowly McTavish lifted his gaze to meet Breland’s hard stare, and an uneasy silence fell over the crowd. The old Scotsman’s face had taken on a cast Pike had never seen before, and his dark eyes blazed. Yet his voice remained mellow, barely above a whisper. “Ye’ll be lettin’ it drop now, Joseph, and backin’ off a mite, too.”

  Pike eased his hand along his rifle. For perhaps a minute, Breland stood rigidly, fists balled. Then he swayed back and loudly let go of his breath. “All right, Big John. Talk to René. Lead him by the hand like a child if you have to. But never again will I follow an unfit captain onto the prairies.”

  A muscle twitched in McTavish’s cheek. Turning to Patterson, he said: “Ye’ll need a pony and gun to replace those that was stolen from ye, Jimmy. What do ye say to the spotted horse Alec rides, and a fusil from me own supplies? Would that set right with ye?”

  Patterson nodded swiftly. “’Twould be only fair.”

  McTavish fixed Alec with a hard look. “Fetch the man his horse, lad.”

  Alec opened his mouth as if to protest, but McTavish cut him off. “I’m givin’ the spotted horse to Patterson, Alec. Now go fetch it.”

  Mutely Alec turned to obey. Although several of the half-breeds began to drift away, Pike stayed, refusing to loosen his grip on his rifle.

  In a quieter tone than before, Breland said: “We will meet tonight, Big John. The bois brûles must decide together how this new threat is to be dealt with.”

  McTavish nodded curtly. “Ye’re right, of course, Joseph. Ye’ve been right more than once of late. Call the meetin’ and we’ll abide by whatever decision is made.” He gave Pike a lopsided grin. “À la façon du pays, Mister Pike. The way of the land. Can ye set for it?”

  Pike cursed softly but nodded. “I reckon so.”

  “Good. Now if ye’ll excuse me, I’d best be findin’ Mister Patterson a gun and some clothin’.” He headed for his carts, and the half-breeds who lingered behind stepped quickly out of his way.

  Breland followed as far as the edge of the crowd. Stopping at the bay’s side, he caught Pike off guard with his next words.

  “Big John McTavish is maybe the greatest man I have ever known. It is because of him, and a handful of others like him, that the bois brûles have become men to reckon with in the valley, the equal of any Montreal or English merchant. The young ones think we are better, and that it has always been that way
, but the older ones, myself included, remember when a half-breed was little better than a dog that belonged to neither the Indian or the white world. McTavish helped change that for us. He helped us understand that we belong to ourselves.”

  “Is that why you’re trying to knock him out of his saddle now?”

  Breland shook his head. “No one will ever forget what Big John has done for us. I will see to that to my dying day. But it is time once more for the bois brûles to move forward as a people. To do that, we must untangle ourselves from the influences of outsiders. Even from men like Big John, because we will never truly be free as long as one white man or one Indian remains to affect our every decision. For my people, Pike, I would destroy Big John, even though it would lay waste to my own heart to do so.”

  Watching McTavish drag a canvas-wrapped bundle from the rear of his hooped cart, Pike suddenly grinned. “Breland,” he said cheerfully, “I wouldn’t be too sure about destroying Big John McTavish any time soon. Might be you ought to consider just trying to bend him a mite.”

  Laughing, Breland conceded: “You may be right, my friend. You may well be right.”

  * * * * *

  Big John heaved into the saddle. Around the camp, others were doing the same, although many of them were lingering for a final word with their families, leaning from their skimpy pad saddles to kiss their wives and daughters good-bye, or to shake hands with sons and friends. Ten men would accompany Big John and Pike in search of the Chippewas who had surprised and robbed Jim Patterson the day before. Patterson had been among the first to volunteer. He sat the spotted horse now alongside Pike, waiting for the others to join them.

  Big John could tell it bothered Pike to have so many others dealing themselves in, but the Métis had voted overwhelmingly to face this problem as they faced all others—as a people. It didn’t matter that one of them was an American. Pike rode with them. For the Métis, that was enough.

  They’d discussed other things last night as well, and although René Turcotte still captained the hunt, a solid guard of twenty men would remain with the carts at all times, and no fewer than six would watch from the hills surrounding the camp. They would continue such vigilance until they left the broken country bordering the lakes and returned to the more familiar terrain of the open plains.