She was hell bound, Sister Bernice had assured her. Without redemption. Like your mother, she’d uttered in a reptilian hiss. Just like your mother.
It was true, God had confided later, the first time He came to her. They had stood together above Sister Bernice’s crumpled form, the red blood seeping through her white cowl, the stained axe-head lying across her legs.
“Hell bound, Celine,” God said. “Unless you cleave unto Me.”
* * * * *
With a final, satisfied grunt, the half-breed rolled off of her. On his back, he tilted his head around to grin broadly in her direction, releasing the foul hammer of his breath against her face. The shadows were too thick to see the yellow and black checkering of his teeth, but she remembered them well enough, those and the small, piggish eyes, a nose somewhat askew, shaded with blackheads and broken capillaries. He was at least fifty years old, with a fat Chippewa wife waiting for him back at camp and four lazy sons he was absurdly proud of.
“You liked that, eh?” the half-breed asked.
Celine didn’t reply. The putrid warmth of his breath continued to bathe the side of her face, the effect slightly nauseating.
“Me, I was god damn good, no?”
The breeze off the lake was cool on her bare thighs, and for some reason that made her think of Peter, blond and slim, his flesh in those places where the sun never touched him as white as freshly kneaded dough. But when she tried to picture his face, it was the half-breed’s ugliness she saw, and she cried out in revulsion and turned away.
Jumping to his feet, the Métis exclaimed: “You come to me, right? You remember that you come to me? You no tell Aggie, eh? God damn, she cut my balls off good for this. She would.”
Celine lay curled on her side, staring into the dark mat of grass.
“Sacre bleu,” the Métis groaned. He grabbed his fusil in one hand, his powder horn and shooting bag with the other. “You no tell McTavish, either. That son-bitch kill me good. Quicker than Aggie, I think.” He started to slink away, then paused. “Sacre,” he said softly. “You was good, really good, you know? Maybe we meet again?” He waited, then added: “I could bring you something maybe. Beads, or a good butcher knife? You would like a good butcher knife?”
Celine squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears seeped through her lids anyway. A sob broke from deep in her chest, startling in the quiet solitude under the trees.
“No,” the Métis groaned desperately. “Non, cherie, not so loud!”
But she couldn’t help it. The tears kept coming and her sobs grew fuller. Her shoulders trembled and her stomach heaved, as if attempting to purge herself of this disgrace.
She didn’t know when the half-breed—this brave Métis guardian who had forsaken his post for a coy smile and a flirtatious toss of hair—left her. After a time, her tears began to dry, her sobs to subside. Eventually she rose and straightened her dress, brushing as much grass from her hair and clothing as she could find with her fingers. Standing, she thought the breeze blowing out of the west seemed suddenly colder, and she shivered. Across the corner of the lake, the camp was growing dark, the fires dying down as the half-breeds turned in. Smiling hesitantly, Celine went in search of her own blankets.
Chapter Fourteen
“Les Sioux! Les Sioux!”
Panic gripped the hearts of the Métis as Pouliot’s warning rolled down the bare flank of the knoll behind them. Leaping to their feet, the mixed-bloods scrambled for their ponies, hobbled up and down the shallow coulée where they had camped since Big John’s duel with One Who Limps.
Big John ignored the pain that shot through his side as he struggled to stand. He watched Noel Pouliot slide down the steep knoll a couple of hundred yards away. At the bottom, a shaggy brown pony was jumping in fright, almost throwing itself in its hobbles. Pouliot stripped the rawhide restraints from the pony’s forelegs, then threw himself into the saddle.
Behind Big John, Pike was hauling his bay and the roan runner into camp. He tossed the lead ropes to Big John to hang onto while he began saddling the horses. “Are you up to riding?” he asked, snatching Big John’s quilled pad saddle from the grass.
“I am if it saves my scalp.” He kept his voice calm, but his pulse was racing.
Pouliot came pounding into camp just as Hallet, Patterson, and a couple of others swung onto their horses. Pike finished saddling the roan and turned to the bay, flinging his heavy Mexican rig over the pony’s back, grabbing for the cinch in one fluid motion.
“How many?” Hallet called as Pouliot brought his horse to a sliding halt at the edge of the camp.
“Just one,” Pouliot panted as if he’d made the run himself. “A wolf, I think, riding a dun horse.”
Big John paused with a handful of the roan’s mane in one hand, his foot half lifted for the stirrup. A wolf was a scout sent ahead of a war party to reconnoiter the enemy’s position, but he’d never known a wolf to ride a horse. It made him too easy to spot. Quite often, in fact, they would drape themselves with a wolf’s hide, then haunt the ridges around an enemy’s camp on hands and knees, their imitation of the wild canine so realistic that from a distance it was all but impossible to tell them from the real thing.
Hallet had also paused at mention of a horse. “A wolf, Noel?”
“Oui, I saw him. He came from the timber to the south and trotted…”—his words slowed—“toward us.”
Hallet’s shoulders sank with relief. “Not a wolf,” he said. “Not mounted.”
“But Sioux, I am sure.”
“From yon timber?” Patterson queried. “’Tis a league, a’ least, from where ee was sittin’.”
“I saw him,” Pouliot insisted.
“Sure, and none are arguin’ that,” Big John interjected. “Ye saw something, old friend, for ye eyes are sharp as a hawk’s. But I’m thinkin’ Charles is right, too. ’Twas not a Sioux.”
“An elk!” Hallet exclaimed.
“’Tis likely,” Big John agreed, aware of Pouliot’s defensiveness in the sullen darting of the half-blood’s eyes. “I’ve seen ’em that way myself, elk with racks large enough to be mistaken from a distance for a man.” He glanced at the circled hunters, most of them already mounted. “Is there one among ye who cannot say the same?”
Big John wasn’t surprised when no one answered. In the thin prairie air, it was an easy mistake to make.
“I could stand for some fresh meat,” Pike said into the silence following Big John’s query. “I’m getting tired of pemmican.”
“Aye to that,” Patterson emphatically agreed, bringing broad smiles to the faces of several men.
“Well, Noel,” Big John said to Pouliot, “’Twas ye what spotted the bugger. What say we be off, cautious-like just in case, and have us a look-see?”
Pouliot shrugged, although Big John could tell his humiliation had been eased considerably. “Oui,” the mixed-blood said. “I am hungry for fresh meat, too.”
“Will you ride with us, Big John?” Hallet asked.
“I think I will, Charles. I’m not ready to discount the possibility of Sioux just yet. I’ll keep to my saddle until I know for certain, though I’ll not join the chase, if ’tis an elk, after all.”
Hallet nodded, and Patterson shouted: “Let’s be after ’im, then!” He reined his pinto around to ride toward the low ridge over which Pouliot had spied the elk, although he kept his mount to a walk in consideration of Big John’s wounds.
The cut on Big John’s shoulder was already scabbing over, and he would suffer no permanent damage. It was the puncture wound to his side that worried him, for all that he tried to make light of it around the others. One Who Limps’s dagger had gone in several inches just under his ribs, then made a slashing exit. Big John had lost a lot of blood in the fight, and even more on the ride here, where they’d stopped. He’d burned with a high fever throughout the dark hours of that first night, and even now felt weak as a half-drowned kitten. Only the possibility that Pouliot might have actually spied a hostil
e could have coaxed him into the saddle at this early point in his recovery, although he knew that, if it came to a running fight, he wouldn’t last long. Just the act of mounting the roan, then holding the rambunctious stallion in check, was already making him dizzy.
They had camped in a broad, shallow vale, the land sloping up at gentle angles on either side. On top, the country returned to normal, rolling and dusty and short-grassed, mostly treeless save for sparse groves of cottonwoods that dotted the meandering, summer-dry streams.
Letting their excitement get the better of them, Patterson, Pouliot, and the others soon pulled ahead. Only Pike and Hallet remained behind with Big John. They rode to the edge of the valley, then climbed out using an old buffalo trail cut into the sod. On top, they found the others waiting for them, smiling and chattering happily.
“An elk, Big John,” Patterson confirmed, pointing to a larger river a couple of miles to the south, its banks thick with timber. “’E ran in there when ee saw us.”
“A big one,” Pouliot added, his embarrassment already vanished in anticipation of the chase.
Big John squinted toward the trees lining the river, but the elk had already faded into the trees.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed the meat of an elk,” Hallet said. He glanced at Big John. “Will you be all right, staying behind?”
“Aye, I will, Charles. Go on and get ye elk, then we’ll start back for the caravan.”
Hallet’s concern was genuine. “Can you make it that far, Big John?”
“Not straight through, no, but the day’s near gone already. An early camp tonight while I lay in my robes and let the rest of ye worry about the watches and I’ll be fit enough.”
Hallet grinned and Pouliot yipped shrilly.
“Sure’n be damned tae the bloody Chippewa what tried tae skewer our Mister McTavish!” Patterson cried. “I say ’twill take more’n a redskin’s dagger tae put Big John underground.” Then he whipped his horse around and raced down the long, gradual slope toward the distant river. The others followed. Only Big John and Pike remained behind.
“Ye’ll not be joinin’ the chase?” Big John asked.
“I’ve shot elk before. It doesn’t take nine men to do it.”
“Aye, but look at ’em, Mister Pike, scamperin’ for the chase like pups after a goose.” He shook his head, smiling. “’Tis the Indian blood that drives ’em so, that near makes the blood boil for the hunt or the fight, or so I’ve always believed.”
Pike shrugged noncommittally. They were riding slowly after the galloping hunters, paralleling the valley they’d just vacated, though keeping back from its rim to avoid the deeper gullies. Well ahead of them, the Métis were funneling into a coulée that would take them back to the valley they’d just left. From there they would ride to the river where the elk had disappeared, then fan out to make a slow sweep upstream, toward the big bull.
Halting his roan, Big John studied the river and the broad reach of rolling land to the west. “It occurs to me, Mister Pike, that there be too many to slip up on yon elk quiet-like, even with the wind in their favor. I’m bettin’ he’ll sniff ’em out before they get close and make a run for higher ground. ’Tis a prairie elk they’re chasin’, and he’ll feel safer in the wide open, where he can run.
“If he breaks to the south, we’ll never see ’im again, or taste a bite of his meat, but, if he comes north, there’s a chance he’ll cut up that smaller valley yonder.” He nodded toward the low height of ground that separated the valley where they’d camped and the smaller one where Big John and One Who Limps had battled.
“Be a long shot, even then,” Pike said.
“Aye, me own thinkin’, too, but ’tis that or naught, for the bugger did not get a rack large enough to fool a man into thinkin’ he was a Sioux by careless ways. We’d have to leave the horses behind, though not so far we couldn’t get to ’em in a hurry, was there need.”
Pike gave Big John a dubious glance. “You sure you’re up to it?”
“Well, and sure, ’tis true enough I’m a mite banged up, but I suppose I have a touch of the hunter’s blood in me own veins.” He flashed a grin. “Aye, Mister Pike. ’Tis meat we’ll be makin’ if my hunch proves correct, and nothing lost, if not.”
“Hell, let’s go.”
They hobbled their horses below the crest of the ridge and returned to the top on foot. Just over the far side, they came to an old, grassed-over buffalo wallow, and slipped into it, thrusting their rifles before them through the tall grass.
Big John didn’t know why buffalo would occasionally desert a wallow completely, but sometimes they did. The plains were dotted with such shallow depressions where the shaggy brutes had broken the sod with their short, curving horns to create bowls of mud or dust, depending on the season. In these low-lipped craters, the bison would roll and kick and paw, coating themselves with whatever was available to generate a thin shield of armor against the biting stings of insects. In the spring they would roll to loosen their scratchy, shedding winter coats.
When a wallow was abandoned, a different species of grass gradually took over—taller, greener, coarser than the short prairie growths that surrounded it. Sometimes it sprouted wildflowers in its center like a small garden. Big John had always assumed such verdant growth was made possible by the heavy deposits of manure and urine left behind, leaving these circular pieces of earth richer and more adaptable to less hardy species, more inviting to wind-blown seeds or pods carried inland on the pelts of wandering fauna. Some called these patches of green fairy rings, and claimed they were brought into existence by the tiny, dancing feet of pixies, but Big John knew the only truth to that was the ingenuity of a mother’s storytelling abilities to her children.
From the edge of the wallow, the two hunters had a clear view of the valley below them, and Big John saw immediately that Pike had been right to question their chances of a clean shot. The valley was wider than he remembered it, too broad for an accurate hit at much over halfway across. If the elk did come their way, it would have to climb the east side of the valley, or they wouldn’t get a chance at it at all.
“Wagh,” Pike exclaimed quietly, nodding toward the river. “You were right, McTavish. Here it comes.”
The elk broke from the timber and trotted into the open. Big John smiled at the animal’s cunning. The hunters had to be a long way off yet, but the wary old bull wasn’t waiting around to let them get any closer. It stood motionlessly for several minutes, staring back into the trees. Then it started forward at a nervous trot, although continuing to look over its shoulder from time to time as it came up the valley. Big John pulled a short brass telescope from his shooting bag and put it to his eye, whistling softly as the bull’s image sharpened. His gaze lingered on the mammoth, ivory-tipped rack, the muscular shoulders and broad, powerful chest. Handing the spyglass to Pike, he said: “Do they grow ’em that big in the Rocky Mountains, Mister Pike?”
The American adjusted the scope to follow the elk’s serpentine path up the valley, grunting admiringly when he had it sighted.
“Nope,” he admitted. “Not in the mountains. Not that big and with a rack that wide, although I’ve seen prairie elk nearly that size along the Yellowstone and Missouri Rivers.” He lowered the scope suddenly, squinting past the elk, then brought it back to his eye. “That sure as hell ain’t no elk,” he said after a moment, handing the glass to Big John. “Take a look on the far side of the river, just coming out of that broad-mouthed coulée opposite from here.”
Big John swept the distant escarpment with the telescope, pausing when he came to a trio of horses halted at the mouth of the coulée a league or more away. Two of the animals carried riders. He lowered the scope, brows creased skeptically. “Some of Paget’s bunch, perhaps. They’re not redskins, I’m fair certain of that.”
“Let’s see that far-looker again,” Pike said, pulling the glass away from Big John without waiting for him to hand it over. He was silent a long time whil
e he studied the distant horsemen. He lowered the scope with a curse. “That’s Duprée, and the other one’s gotta be Rubiette. I’d bet my traps on it.”
Big John felt a sudden heaviness in his breast. “The ones ye came to kill, are they?”
Nodding curtly, Pike slammed the telescope closed. His eyes were like ice when he turned to Big John. “I’ve come a long way for this, McTavish. I won’t stand for anyone getting in my way.”
“I’ll not stand in ye way, Mister Pike, nor will I try to talk ye out of it. I’ll only ask that ye remember what I said on the day we left me farm. Ye be one of us now, and proven in the eyes of the mixed-bloods, but they’ll hang ye tomorrow if ye kill the wrong man, or for the wrong reason. Be sure ye cause is just, that’s all I’ll ask.”
He took the glass from Pike. Below them, the big bull was still coming upvalley, although angling away from them now, out of reach of their rifles. The hunters were just visible within the trees along the river. He could imagine their frustration as they watched the elk draw steadily away. It was Charles Hallet who first ventured from the shelter of the trees. The others followed cautiously, and the elk broke into a running trot.
Pike pushed away from the wallow even as the Métis hunters kicked their horses into a futile chase. Across the river, the two unknowns were gesturing animatedly, no doubt having spotted the elk and wondering what had spooked it. From their lowered vantage point, they hadn’t spotted the hunters, but they would see Pike as soon as he got up. Big John kept the spyglass focused on the strangers, eager to see what their reaction would be.
Pike stood. The two horsemen remained motionless for only a moment, then made a dash for the river.
“They’re heading for timber!” Pike shouted, sprinting for the bay. He jumped into the saddle and raced away. Down on the flat across the river, the two strangers were already entering the trees.
Sitting up, Big John put a hand to the wound in his side, as if he could smother the pain that throbbed there. Down below, the Métis were sweeping up the valley after the elk, heels pounding, quirts rising and falling, though silent at this distance. The elk had already disappeared around a bend in the valley above him, and, a few minutes later, the hunters were gone as well, leaving him with only the sound of the breeze rustling the tall grasses of the fairy ring.
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