The Fire Arrow

by Richard S. Wheeler

  “Why are you out here with those wagons?”

  “Hides. We head out to the villages and trade. Operating out of Fort Laramie. We been over to the Flatheads.”

  Skye nodded. This was the new thing. Traders headed out to the villages during winters, armed with goods and hoping to make a good trade for buffalo hides. It was a more aggressive and successful form of the buffalo-hide trade than waiting passively in forts for Indians to show up with a load of skins to dicker for knives, powder, baubles, and blankets.

  Still, Skye was wary and intended to stay armed.

  “All right; here’s a fire. Warm up. We could use some meat.”

  “Make a camp here?”

  “Maybe down a piece,” Skye said. “Not much feed for horses.”

  “Saw that old plug. That’s all you got?”

  “Blackfeet,” Skye said.

  “Thieving bunch! We watch our topknots around them devils.”

  Victoria quietly emerged from the shadows.

  “Ah, so you ain’t alone,” Fitzgerald said, surveying her too closely.

  “This is my wife, Victoria. She took an arrow from the Blackfeet and is poorly. We’re going to be glad to get to her village.”

  Victoria barely acknowledged these two, a sure sign that she didn’t like their looks. She headed for the hut where she could oversee the cooking.

  The traders steered their wagons ahead a bit and unhooked the dray horses. Both wagons were loaded with stiff buffalo hides, stacked like playing cards and held in place with stakes anchored to the sides.

  What looked to be a deer hock hung from one, and this the son untied and brought to Victoria.

  “Hey, cookum some grub, eh?”

  Victoria rose and walked into the darkness.

  “Feisty little squaw, ain’t she?” Fitzgerald said.

  Skye was having second thoughts but didn’t know how to get rid of this pair. He didn’t like the way the younger one was eyeing his wife. If he tried to mess with her, he’d find a lead ball passing between his eyes.

  On the other hand, this pair was well armed and quick to act and dangerous. Skye settled down to a waiting game, and began sawing at the meat with his knife, gradually peeling away some steaks that could be cooked on a green stick.

  “There you are,” he said quietly. “Plenty of willow around; cut a stick and cook your meat.”

  Victoria had drifted toward the laden wagons and was floating around them, studying the contents. She was done with cooking, something he knew but the traders didn’t.

  “You done trading for this trip?” he asked.

  “Yep, we’ve got over eighty prime hides, heavy devils, stacked up in them wagons. Out of trade goods, so we’re heading for Sarpy to unload … You got something to trade?”

  Skye shook his head. “Blackfeet cleaned us out. You got anything left to trade?”

  “Nothing but our own kit.”

  “What did you start out with?”

  “The usual. Knives, some trade rifles, powder and ball, blankets, trade cloth, hide scrapers, flints and steels …”

  He left things unfinished.

  “And whiskey,” Skye said. “Where’d you trade?”

  “West of hyar, mostly. Some Mountain Crow winter villages, some Bannocks, one Flathead bunch come over for some buffalo hunting.”

  Talk did not go well around that fire. The Fitzgeralds cooked their meat until it was burnt and then let it cool, while Skye and Victoria sliced theirs into smaller pieces.

  “We’ve got a little sipping whiskey if you can give us something for it,” old man Fitzgerald said.

  “No.”

  “Cleaned out. We was going to have us a sip and maybe trade you for a few sips.”

  Skye sorrowed. If there was anything that would chase away the winter chill and ache, it would be a little sipping whiskey.

  “We might work a little deal, Skye,” said Fitzgerald, eyeing Victoria.

  “Nothing here, friend. We have nothing of value. Now make your camp, yonder, and we’ll settle ours. We’re pretty well worn out.”

  But Sam Fitzgerald ignored Skye, headed for the lead wagon, unearthed a pottery jug and a tin cup, and settled at the fire.

  “Ah, man, this here’s the medicine for a cold night,” he said, and poured an inch and added some creek water. He sipped, gave the cup to his son who sipped, and then the bearded young man handed it to Victoria.

  “Sonofabitch!” she said, and swallowed a couple of good jolts. “Ah!” She managed another jolt and handed the cup to Skye, who drained off the rest. He felt a good hot fire build in his belly. His old friends the Fitzgeralds smiled and refilled from the earthenware jug and added a splash. The cup made its rounds once again, warming up an icy night; warming up Skye’s cold belly. It would be a great evening.

  thirteen

  Never so cold. Skye stared into a gray dawn. He was numb. Coldness had gathered around his heart. Coldness in his belly. Limbs half frozen and not working. He didn’t want to get up but lay stiff and staring at the sky through the skeleton of Victoria’s domed hut.

  No robes covered it. No robes covered him. No robes covered Victoria. Nothing but deep cold and gray sky. One robe under them. The other robes were gone. He struggled to awaken himself. Now it was urgent. He didn’t want to get up. He rolled a little, forcing his body to move. He peered fearfully at Victoria, who lay in her buckskin dress and leggings, looking ashen, a blue pallor upon her.

  Get up! He made himself sit up. They were sleeping in open woods. No flame warmed them. The fire was only ash. He did not see his Hawken. So that was it. They saw a weapon they wanted and took it. Along with everything else.

  He had to move or perish. He stirred, tried to rise, fell back, and then made himself stand on aching legs. There was no heat in him. He made himself walk, one step, another, then a few. He pushed himself into a lumbering walk, faster and faster, knowing he needed to move before he could help her, if she was not beyond help. When he returned she was still inert. He rolled his half of the icy robe over her, tucked it down around her. She didn’t stir. He didn’t know if she was breathing. He shook her gently and was rewarded with a sigh. Alive, then. He pulled off his capote and spread that over her too. Anything to catch her in a cocoon.

  The Fitzgeralds had taken what they could. Robes, axe, Hawken. But they didn’t bother with his belaying pin, and he had his hatchet, which was lying beside him. They had missed it in the dark. His knife was still at his side.

  Fire. Flint and steel, still in their pouch at his waist.

  He stirred the ashes and found an ember buried under a heap of half-burned deadwood. One small ember. He blew softly, and it bloomed bright orange. He could not make his fingers dig out any tinder. His hands were useless. But he had breath so he blew and blew, worked his fingers, added a few dry sticks, and blew some more, because his flint and steel were worthless with hands that couldn’t hold a feather. Some smoke rose but the ember didn’t bloom into flame.

  He found a pocket of dry leaves caught in a knothole and placed them over the ember. They smoked but didn’t catch. He found some reeds and grasses but they didn’t ignite. Nothing but icy ground and a tiny column of smoke.

  He sat wearily, worn out by the struggle, and buried his head in his arms, hardly knowing what to do. Still, he was alive, and the living have a chance. He made his fingers work, opened and closed his hands, and found he could hold things. He fumbled his flint and steel out of their purse at his waist and began striking steadily, showering sparks upon the live coal and the bits of tinder above it. The sparks caught and glowed orange.

  He blew gently, and a tiny flame rose, barely an inch high, wavering but then holding as it bit into the tinder. There was no heat in it and wouldn’t be for a long time. Now he hunted for dry stuff, mostly mossy deadwood he snapped off of trees, and laid gently over the worthless little flame, careful not to demolish it. The new stuff caught. Now he had a three-inch flame that wavered wickedly with every freshet that
drifted through.

  “Burn!” he cried.

  There was no way to speed it up. He collected a heap of deadwood and added it, but it was icy and didn’t catch. What good was fire when it didn’t ignite anything?

  Then he remembered his powder horn, hanging from his chest all the while. He twisted off the cap and poured a few grains into his palm and tossed it. There was a satisfying flash. He did it again, and got another flash, and some deadwood caught. He did it over and over, a few grains at a time, not enough to blow the fire out, and saw his miserable little fire expand, eat wood, send up some smoke. But it didn’t heat. He held his hands to it, and scarcely felt any warmth.

  He turned to Victoria.

  She was staring.

  “Cold,” she said.

  Alive. He was gladdened. He stumbled to her, knelt beside her.

  “Got a fire started. They stole the outfit.”

  It was odd how she rolled out of the robe and stood, as if her body could laugh off the iciness. She absorbed the loss: no robes except the one they slept on. Rifle gone. Parfleche with pemmican gone. Cook pot and cup gone.

  “They didn’t even leave the jug,” she said.

  “Expensive night.”

  “I needed that,” she said. Strangely, she laughed. “That was pure spirits with a little river water. One sip kicked like a mule. Two sips, dammit, Skye, that was good stuff.”

  She plucked up the robe, wrapped herself in it, handed Skye’s blanket capote to him, and knelt beside the cold fire. He could still feel no heat from it but she was warming her hands over the flames. He wasn’t getting any benefit from the fire, so he rose, wrapped his capote about him, and walked.

  The old mare was not far, greedily gnawing bark from some saplings, and the colt was butting her bag, as usual. The colt saw him and barreled straight at Skye.

  “Avast!” he roared.

  The colt veered away and raced off again, enjoying a fine November morning.

  Skye settled beside the crackling fire, letting the heat work through his buckskins. He thought he would never be warm again, warm down inside, in his belly and chest, in his limbs, in his toes and fingers.

  He had a task. Go after them. He had a belaying pin and an old mare. They had rifles, good horses and wagons, and probably some revolvers and knives too. But he would do what he had to do.

  If they were heading for the Crow camp down the Musselshell, he would catch up with them. They would cough up what they stole or learn what a limey with a belaying pin could do to them.

  But not now. He was with Victoria, and she was weak and his one duty was to get her to the safety of her village as fast as he could. They were still more than a day from the Crows and didn’t have a thing to eat and only one robe to warm them. Vengeance would have to wait.

  No food, no rifle, and that meant speed. They had a long walk to reach the Crow winter camp and he would not stop until he got there. He would somehow do it in a day and a half.

  He sliced away some fringes from his buckskin shirt and tied them into a line, and made a string hackamore of it. Then he caught the mare, slipped the hackamore over her nose, and helped Victoria up. He wrapped the buffalo robe over her shoulders and she pulled it tight about her.

  Skye looked longingly at the fire: it finally was throwing some heat. The Crows often transported a live coal bedded in moss and kept from the air, and used it to light the next fire. But he had no container; he would have to take his chances.

  “Are you ready?” he asked her.

  “We will go. I will walk when I get cold. Or the mare gets tired.”

  “We’ll make it,” he said.

  She smiled. It was a beautiful smile that seemed like a blessing.

  He took one last look at this bitter camp and then started resolutely eastward in the valley of the Musselshell, leading Victoria’s mare while she clung to the mane.

  He had starve-walked before. It required a steely will. An overcast kept him from knowing the hour. He walked slowly at first, letting the last of the spirits burn out of his body, making his cold muscles function. He set a steady pace, with the northwesterly breeze mostly behind him, his battered top hat anchored tightly in his long locks. For a while he followed the tracks of the iron-tired Fitzgerald wagons, the hoofprints fresh in the glazed snow. If he came upon the traders he would give them a fight no matter the odds. And he would have the advantage of surprise.

  Maybe he and Victoria shouldn’t have touched a drop of the whiskey. Maybe they would still have pemmican, robes, a rifle, and a saddle. But all the maybes in the world did him no good. He and Victoria were bone-weary. The spirits had offered a moment’s refuge from cold and pain and trouble and they had imbibed the whiskey with delight. And it wasn’t the spirits that had betrayed him, but the Fitzgeralds.

  Just when he felt his first ebbing of energy, he redoubled his speed, leading the old mare eastward around river brush, along a natural road or animal trail on the north bank of the stream. He would not give in to tiredness. But he would rest the mare now and then, for Victoria’s life still depended on that old cayuse.

  The colt, Jawbone, trotted along beside, but sometimes ran ahead or fell behind. Maybe, Skye thought, he could make something of that boneheaded beast but he doubted it.

  He came to a place where the wagons turned right, crossed the stream at a gravelly ford, and headed due south for the Yellowstone country. So they weren’t going to Victoria’s Crow camp after all. That was smart. If they showed up with Skye’s Hawken in their arm, or with that parfleche, which had classical Crow geometric designs dyed upon it, they would not have walked out of the village alive.

  Skye knew what he would do: he would walk the remaining miles nonstop, through the night, until he reached safety. Only when Victoria was safe in her brother’s warm lodge would he himself rest.

  fourteen

  Skye walked. The mare carrying Victoria followed. He set a steady pace, letting his legs swing easily. If he was tired, what did it matter? He walked along a game trail that followed the Musselshell, thinking about nothing but making his legs work, step after step.

  He stayed warm but Victoria, riding the mare, was soon chilled. Then he had to stop and let her walk and stretch, and then hand her up again. She never complained.

  Skye had heard legends among the Indians of runners, of amazing young men who could run day and night for great distances carrying news. He had met some famous runners, lithe of body, able to jog along for prolonged periods. But he was not built that way. He was stocky and medium high. A man could walk if he set his mind to it; walk even when his feet began to torment him, his boots or moccasins chafed, his muscles hurt, and blood collected around his toes. Walk and not stop. Walk through twilight into night, walk through midnight and the small hours, walk into a dawn and keep on.

  So Skye walked, and kept walking even when hunger gnawed at him, even when he yearned to quit. There was no shelter at the end of this day, no place to quit, no food. There was water, but no more. He cupped his hands and lifted water to his lips sparingly, knowing it was too cold to sit well in him.

  The mare did not disappoint him, but settled into a rhythm that matched his own pace, neither hurried nor slow.

  Whenever he tired, he rested briefly. But if he didn’t walk too fast, he didn’t tire fast, so he moved steadily, sticking close to the river. The wind quartered in from the left, chilling him on that side, but he ignored it. He reached some rocky bluffs and rested in their lee for a while, and then started in again. Here in the bluffs were birds, including a pair of golden eagles, making a riverside living through the winter.

  He tried to think of other things, but the weariness of his thigh and calf muscles trapped his mind and focused it on his body. His hunger died away and in its place was a keen edginess, as if he were facing danger. But there was no danger in sight, only the November-quiet valley of the Musselshell with its latticework of tree branches and a gloomy sky.

  At twilight he rested in an undercut
cliff, not a bad place to camp if he needed to. He lifted Victoria off the old mare and set the horses to scrounging in the brush. Jawbone was learning to get his own feed, and he gnawed beside his mother, finding sustenance in twigs.

  “Are you cold?” he asked Victoria.

  “Keep going, Skye.”

  That was answer enough.

  He collected the old mare and hoisted Victoria aboard once again, and then set off into the deepening shadows as the November night fell. The next lap was going to be hardest of all. There was going to be no moon for the first half of the night, and when it did rise, it would be nothing more than a fat sliver. This night he would stumble through utter dark and hope he didn’t meet disaster, such as falling into the river, which would probably kill him.

  He chose open country this time, north of the dense riverbed brush and trees, believing he could make his way better back from the tangle of foliage. And that proved to be true. Nights with open heavens are not black, and the dome of heaven sheds its own faint light, so he walked on, the mare somehow keeping pace. He was never sure about Jawbone, but the little fellow managed to keep track and checked in now and then.

  Night travel was not new to Skye but he had rarely traveled in this sort of cold, nor had he ever attempted to cover so much ground. The wind picked up now and then, filtering through his blanket capote. But he kept on. Step by step, through the night. Then the moon rose and he had a little more light and could see the dark wall of timber guarding the river.

  He lost track of time. He could walk or he could try to hole up. The buffalo bull-hide moccasins Victoria had crafted for him were slowly opening along their inner seam and he wondered whether to stop for repairs. Some thong cut from the remaining robe might lace up the growing gaps. His feet ached but he would continue. Something in the rhythm of walking kept him going, even if every step shot pain through each foot.

  For brief periods Victoria dismounted and walked with him, but she had no strength for it and retreated to the back of the mare. He sensed the mare was slowing now, and he let it happen and slowed his own pace to hers. The goal was not speed but to keep on going.